Running Stupid: (Mystery Series) (33 page)

With only his left leg for balance, the hit man toppled to the floor. Laying on the floor, his right leg rendered useless, the fighter forced away the pain, gritted his teeth and pushed himself to his feet, careful to take the weight away from his injured leg.

Jester slid out from underneath the able and rose to his feet, shocked to see that the assassin had also risen and was now standing in front of him.

“
Shit
!”

Steven Henshaw wasted no time in expressing his violence. His right fist collided with Matthew’s jaw as soon as the curse had left his lips. The punch crushed a tooth at the back of his mouth, the impact so strong it reverberated rivers of pain through Matthew’s skull.

Stumbling backwards, his back stopping at the table edge, Matthew spat out the dislodged tooth.

The assassin swung again, his left fist this time. Matthew’s jaw was clattered from the other side. More vibrations of agony rocked his skull, and blue stars danced in the corners of his eyes, but he remained standing. Frustrated by Jester’s reluctance to fall over, Steven Henshaw delivered three powerful, successive punches. The first a simple jab to his face, his solid knuckles smashing against an already damaged nose. The second and third both hooks, a left and then a right.

Matthew danced both ways, completely shaken up, his head spinning like a turbo washing machine. He was leaning back, his body supported by the table, his legs turning to jelly, but managed to remain upright.

Bouncing off the table, he looked at his attacker who was now just a blur. “You know,” he slurred. “The last guy brought a chainsaw.”

Again Henshaw launched a series of punches, three hard jabs to Matthew’s stomach and then one sly elbow to the side of the head as he recoiled from the stomach shots. He dropped to his feet, his legs no longer capable of supporting him.

Breathing heavily, still gritting his teeth to disguise the agony pouring from his rubbery appendage, Knuckles hovered over Jester and drove two more punches downwards. They both made contact with his chest. Instantly Jester felt a rush of breath leave his body as a river of pain entered it.

Satisfied now that Jester was curled up on the floor, barely conscious, his body surely riddled with pain, Steven Henshaw pulled out a chair from underneath the table and sat down. He took one look at his foot and swore loudly. He moved a wary hand to the floppy ankle and touched a piece of bone that protruded through his lower shin, pushing against his skin but not breaking through.

When his finger touched the wound his eyes bulged, his face turned white and he quickly moved his hand away, suppressing a scream of anguish.

“You fucker,” he said breathlessly. “Look what you’ve done.”

At his feet, Jester mumbled, “If you think that’s bad, you should have seen the other guys.” He laughed and coughed, still dazed.

Knuckles stared at Matthew Jester, something resembling adoration in his eyes. He’d been through hell and he was still smiling.

Jester wriggled about on the floor, turning himself over so he lay on his back. He stared at the ceiling. Slowly but surely his eyesight was returning. Seeing his target move, the hit man rose with the aid of the table – pushing his left hand against the edge to propel himself upwards – and hopped over to Jester.

He reached out both hands and grabbed Matthew by the collar. Holding his head steady with his left arm, Henshaw brought his right arm back and the, threw it forward. The punch rattled Jester, but Henshaw’s hold on his collar kept his head stable. The prize-fighter drove three more punches into Matthew’s face and then released his grip.

Jester slumped to the floor, moaning softly.

Henshaw remained standing, his arm resting on the table to help with his balance. He closed his eyes, took in deep breaths, one after the other, trying in vain to disperse the agonising pain rushing from his dangling foot.

“You like to punch, huh,” Matthew spoke, his words slow and sluggish.

Henshaw immediately turned, shocked that he was still able to speak. Blood gushed from Matthew’s nose, running a river down his unshaven cleft and mixing with more wounds on his lips. He also donned cuts and marks on his chin and cheeks; blood had covered his features, turning his pale features red.

The prize-fighter remained where he was. “It’s what I do,” he said plainly.

Matthew nodded and squirmed about on the floor. He rolled onto his front, lifted his head and coughed out a sputter of blood and saliva. “Is it worth it?” Matthew asked, his voice weighed down.

The assassin turned and looked down at him, almost sombrely. He didn’t answer.

“What are you?” Jester spun around again, lying on his back. “A killer or a boxer?”

Again, Steven didn’t answer.

“If this were Hollywood,” Matthew began, “you’d be feeling a moral dilemma right about now. Fair enough, you’ve probably killed before, but have you ever killed an innocent man? I broke your leg, fair enough, but I didn’t start this. I’m here to survive. If this were Hollywood, you’d be the saviour, heroically escorting the wounded hero – which would be me, of course – away from the bad guys.”

Steven Henshaw didn’t reply.

“But this isn’t Hollywood, is it?” Matthew said, relaxed.

Henshaw slowly shook his head.

Matthew smiled at the prize-fighter. “You’re going to kill me and walk away with the prize money,” he clarified.

Knuckles smiled and nodded.

“Good luck.” Matthew twisted on the floor and swung his lower body. His legs clattered into Steven Henshaw’s stable leg. He immediately toppled over, his elbow smacking off the edge of the table as he fell.

Jester rose and quickly made his way over to the fallen prize-fighter. He searched his leg for the wound – the protruding bone – and stamped down hard when he found it.

This time Henshaw couldn’t control his pain. He unleashed a scream of extreme distress, his upper body bolting upright, reacting to the pain. With his free foot, Matthew kicked the boxer square in the jaw, and he returned to the ground.

Wiping the blood from his face onto his sleeve, Jester struggled to blink away the blurs and the dizzying stars. “Does that hurt?” he called down to the distraught fighter.

He received a series of curses and blasphemous shouts that gave him his answer.

“Good!” Jester bellowed. “Coz my face feels like it’s been hit with a spade!” He pressed down harder on the wound, the jutting bone pushing its way back into his leg.

With his foot still firmly pressed on the wound, Matthew leaned over and grabbed Henshaw’s head, grasping a clump of his hair and roughly pulling his upper body upright.

Taking his leg from the wound, he turned to pick up the fire extinguisher. Henshaw acted out of pure relief that the pressure on his leg had been released. He instantly reached out his hands and wrapped them around his ankle in a futile effort to comfort his torture.

Jester returned with the fire extinguisher and pressed his foot down on the wound again. “Give me your hand,” he ordered.

“What?” the hit man shouted, confused.

“Give me your fucking hand!” Jester shouted, reaching out for Henshaw’s hand, the extinguisher cradled loosely on his left side.

The prize-fighter pulled his arm away, his hand out of reach.

Matthew pressed down harder on the wound. Something punctured the skin and blood oozed out of the wound, dribbling into his sock.

“Okay. Okay!” Henshaw pleaded, offering his hand to Matthew.

Jester took the hand gladly, smiling as he did so. He rested it on the table, “You have strong hands,” he said. “Clench your fist.”

Henshaw clenched his fist. When he saw Matthew’s intentions, he tried to resist, but Jester managed to pin his hand to the table. The fire extinguisher came crashing down, angled acutely so that the base of the solid object fell on top of his knuckles. His whole hand caved in instantly, his knuckles crushed under the weight. Two dislodged, two were sucked into his hand.

He screamed as absolute agony soared through his body.

Without even blinking, Matthew reached out and grabbed Henshaw’s other hand. The boxer was useless to resist. He’d already damaged his elbow when he fell; that, along with the pain coursing through his body, forced him to yield to Jester’s force.

The hand was placed on the table and instantly crushed.

Sitting on the floor, his upper body still upright – his hands in his lap, his eyes horrified – Steven Henshaw was lost in a world of pain. He paid Matthew Jester no more heed. He didn’t even look up when the fire extinguisher came hurtling towards him. His eyes never caught sight of the red object as it flashed across his face, clipping the side of his skull and instantly rendering him unconscious.

Stepping back, Matthew Jester dropped the extinguisher and allowed himself to collapse on the floor. There he sat, breathless, watching the unconscious body of Steven Henshaw and a slow, small river of red running down from a minor cut above and around his right eye.

He sat and watched for five minutes, maybe more, maybe less. He had no sense of time. By the time he regained his breath and stopped seeing stars, the river of blood leaking from the head of the prize-fighter had formed a small pool.

Jester searched the room. In a chest of drawers, amongst a collection of linen, towels, and various accessories, he found a small mailing kit, still in its plastic cover. It contained a small pair of scissors, parcel paper, notepaper, sticky labels for names and addresses, a small pen and a small roll of string.

He removed the string and the scissors and tossed the rest of the package to one side before returning to the drawers. He removed two pillow cases and returned to the unconscious body of the boxing hit man. Using the pillow cases, the string and the three rolls of surgical tape he had found in the medical closet earlier, he tied up Steven Henshaw.

Knuckles looked like a badly wrapped Christmas present. Covered in surgical tape, his legs had been slipped into one of the pillow cases which had been tied at the top with some of the string. The rest of the string had been used to tie his hands together. The second pillow case had been placed over his head and tied at the neck. Fresh blood seeped from the wound in his skull through the fresh cream linen before joining the pool on the floor.

The atmosphere inside the control room was palpable. An air of apprehension hung over Ahmad Fadel and Dennis Maloney. Both pairs of eyes were watching Matthew Jester who had returned to the stairwell now.

“Four down,” Fadel said lightly. “One more.” He turned to Dennis Maloney when he spoke.

Maloney nodded, transfixed by Matthew Jester.

“How is the betting?”

Dennis Maloney answered without looking at Fadel or checking the computer. “Still in the favour of the hitters,” he said calmly. “I don’t think anyone believes he can do this.”

“He’s already killed four.”

Maloney nodded.

“Are you sure you want to go ahead with this?” Fadel asked.

Maloney nodded again, turned and walked to the back of the room. He emerged in front of the screens ten minutes later, a smile on his face as he watched Matthew Jester resting on the sofa on the second floor.

“All the bets have been placed,” Maloney said. “I’ve closed the market.”

Fadel nodded sombrely.

“More people are starting to believe he can do this,” Maloney added. “We will make a lot of money if the kid is taken down.” Maloney walked to a cabinet at the back of the room, a wooden frame, bolted and secured with steel locks.

“
If
? Don’t you mean
when
?” Fadel wondered.

Maloney laughed softly. He unlocked the cabinet and opened the doors to expose a vast array of knives and swords, all neatly nailed onto the velvet lining.

He reached for a combat knife with a serrated, ten-inch blade and a camouflaged, rubber handle. Lifting up his jacket, he exposed two weapon straps. One around his waist, with holsters and sheaves on the back, front and right-side; the other was a shoulder holster that wrapped around his upper body, making a diagonal line across his chest.

He slid the combat knife into the shoulder holster.

“Take a gun,” Fadel called.

Maloney shook the comment off. “We’ve already discussed this. There are to be no guns or explosives. That’s what we told the punters anyway, and if they find out I’m packing, they won’t be too happy.”

Fadel nodded in acknowledgment. “But we agreed you could carry one gun, holding one bullet, just in case.”

“One bullet is not going to make a difference.” Maloney shrugged off the comment and pulled a Smith and Wesson boot knife from the cupboard. Its blade was black, half the size of the combat knife and not serrated. He shoved the knife into the holster around his waist. “We’ve tried chainsaws, machetes and cut throats. We’ve pitted some of the toughest, most ruthless killers in the country against him.” Removing another slick silver boot knife, he turned to Fadel. “One bullet isn’t going to stop him.”

For the first time since the beginning of the game, Ahmad Fadel rose to his feet. He slowly walked over to a desk next to the exit. On top of the desk was a briefcase and a mobile phone. He picked up the phone.