Shadowfires. By: Dean R. Koontz

“I didn’t hate him,” she said. “I pity him. Especially now. Vincent,

did you know he’d broken the cardinal rule?”

Vincent shook his head. “Not until . . tonight. It was a mad thing to

do.”

Intently watching the bald man, Ben reluctantly decided that the guy was

experienced with the Combat Magnum and would not be startled by its

recoil.

His grip on it was not at all casual, his right hand was clenched

tightly. His aim was not casual, either, his right arm was extended,

stiff and straight, elbow locked, with the muzzle lined up between

Rachael and Ben. He would only have to swing it a couple of inches in

either direction to blow one or both of them away.

Unaware that Ben could be of more use in such a situation than he’d ever

given her reason to believe, Rachael said, “Forget the damn gun,

Vincent. We don’t need guns. We’re all in this together now.

“No,” Vincent said. “No, as far as the rest of us are concerned, you’re

not in this. Never should’ve been.

We simpl,y, don’t trust you, Rachael. And this friend of yours…

The dirty-gray eyes shifted focus from Rachael to Ben.

His gaze was piercing, disconcerting. Although his eyes lingered on Ben

only a second or two, there was an iciness in them that was transmitted

to Ben, sending a chill along his spine.

Then, having failed to detect that he was dealing with someoue far less

innocent than appearances indicated, Vincent looked away from Ben, back

at Rachael, and said, “He’s a complete outsider. If we don’t want you

in this, then we certainly aren’t about to make room for him.”

To Ben, that statement sounded ominously like a death sentence, and at

last he moved with a sinuosity and lightning speed worthy of a striking

snake.

Taking a big chance that the second command to the voice-activated

switch would be as simple as the first, he said, “Lights off?” The room

instantly went dark as he simultaneously threw the flashlight at

Vincent’s head, but, Jesus, the guy was already turning to fire at him,

and Rachael was screaming-Ben hoped she was diving for the floor-and the

sudden darkness was cast into confusion by the whipping beam of the

tumbling Eveready, which he hoped would be enough to give him the edge,

an edge he badly needed because, just a fraction of a second after the

lights went out and the flashlight left his hand, he was already

pitching forward, onto the malachite desk in a sliding belly flop that

ought to carry him across and into Vincent, committed to action, no

turning back now, all of this like a film run at twice its normal speed,

yet with an eerie objective time sense so slowed down that each second

seemed like a minute, which was just the old program taking control of

his brain, the fighting animal taking charge of the body.

In the next single second a hell of a lot happened all at once, Rachael

was still screaming shrilly, and Ben was sliding, and the flashlight was

tumbling, and the muzzle of the Magnum flashed blue-white, and Ben

sensed a slug passing over him so close it might have singed his hair,

heard the whine of its passage even above the thunderous roar of the

shot itself-skeeeeeeeenfelt the coldness of the polished malachite

through his shirt, and the flashlight struck Vincent as the shot

exploded and as Ben was crossing the desk, Vincent grunted from the

blow, the flash rebounded and fell to the floor, its lance of light

coming to rest on a six-foot piece of abstract bronze sculpture, and Ben

was off the desk by then, colliding with his adversary, both of them

going down hard. The gun fired again. The shot went into the ceiling.

Ben was sprawled on top of Vincent in the darkness, but with a perfect

intuitive sense of the relationship of their bodies, which made it

possible for him to bring a knee up between the man’s thighs, smashing

it into the unprotected crotch, and Vincent screamed louder than

Rachael, so Ben rammed his knee up again, showing no mercy, daring no

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