The One-Two Point
"You okay, Faceguy?"
Face watched Murdock stride out of the shadows at the back of the bay to stand, feet apart, Ruger in hand, ten feet away. A wave of relief flooded through him, momentarily numbing the pain wracking his body. He had never been more relieved to see a psychiatric patient in all his life! In fact, outside of a botched mission in Cambodia, he'd never been so relieved to see anyone before.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine…sort of," Face replied, wiggling his aching jaw experimentally.
"Okay, hang in there buddy," Murdock said with a confident wink. "Alright you two, front and center." He continued, switching his attention to the backs facing him. "I wanna see your ugly mugs. Hands up, no funny business."
With slight uncertainty, both men lifted their hands away from their body. Face could almost feel the rage beginning to boil underneath the hard, clean, facial planes of the Asian enforcer standing in front of him. The man dropped the jumper cables to the floor, his teeth clenched. It was apparent he disliked being told what to do, a lot more than being held at a disadvantage. Stiles, on the other hand, just looked nervous. The tension in the air was nearly palpable, as the two men turned slowly around on request. Both moved warily, unsure of what they might find behind them.
"That's it, good boys" Murdock bated, once they were all looking at one another. "Now, I wanna see you put those pretty little pieces you got on the table, nice and easy. And if you so much as think about calling for the guards—" He paused dramatically, lifting the rifle from hip to shoulder. "I will drop you lower than your combined IQ. Ya got that? Jack." Murdock applied the name derogatorily to both the men, and took another threatening step forward.
The pose was convincing enough. On his right, Face caught Stiles movement out of the corner of his eye. The man was the first to acquiesce with the demand. Pulling a beat-up, duct taped, Beretta out of his waistband, he carefully laid it down on the tabletop beside the battery. When it was done, he backed away for good measure.
Murdock voiced his approval, imitating an Irish accent. "You be a right good lad there Jacky Boy, A-plus for listenin' in class. Now you—" He turned to the enforcer hesitating to comply. Closing the gap between them, Murdock planted himself a foot or two in front of the shorter man. Extending the weapon forward, he set the muzzle against the chest seething beneath the white tank top.
"Don't give me an excuse to make my life easier, Stiletto." He said in his regular drawl.
Face's split eyebrow lifted briefly. Stiletto? He repeated curiously to himself. Then he recalled the enforcer's pearl handled knife and understood, finding it too good to ignore. "You shouldn't name them Murdock. You become too attached that way."
"Ha!" Murdock snorted at the idea, "I've been fonder of garbage bags." He half growled, his eyes following Stiletto like a hawk. The man moved cautiously; producing the Glock from behind his back, before edging over to lay it on the table.
Face smirked at the memory.
Once Stiletto had discarded his weapon, Murdock summoned him close again and stuck his hand into the enforcer's right hip pocket. "That's quite a nice letter opener you got there." He said, pulling out the folded knife. "I bet you get a lot of mail, huh?"
Stiletto simply set his jaw, refusing to reply. Murdock stepped back and tossed the knife toward Stiles, being sure to keep the mouth of the Ruger against Stiletto's sternum.
"Here you go Jacky, help my friend out."
Face turned his head to watch Stiles approach, blade open. Letting his gaze follow the blade to his right wrist, he waited while the layer of duct tape was sliced through. The moment his arm was free, Face immediately snatched the knife away from Stiles clammy grip.
"I'll take that, thanks." He said smugly, going to work on the rest of his bindings himself. He couldn't stand to sit in the hard chair any longer, but he wasn't about to let Stiles linger near him with a sharp object.
"How the hell did you get in here?" Stiletto asked suddenly, speaking for the first time since he'd been caught.
Pausing in his struggle with the heavy tape, Face glanced up briefly. He'd had the same question rolling around inside his head since Murdock had appeared. It had come somewhere between 'there goes my date tonight' and 'hallelujah!' Noting the impassive expression his friend was wearing, Face had a funny feeling Stiletto wasn't going to get the answer he wanted.
"Well," Murdock started slowly, "You know how it goes, qiguai de shiqing fasheng zai yi liang ge dian."
Face's brow lifted in surprise. The sudden stream of Chinese, spoken with true American enunciation, forced him to suppress a chuckle. Murdock's talent was endless and highly amusing –even in the worst predicaments. With both arms free, Face bent to cut his legs loose. He smiled at the floor, despite his sore lips and cheeks. Although he had no idea what had just been said, he had a sneaking suspicion Stiletto wasn't going to appreciate it.
This could be fun.
"Wait, what?" Stiles piped up beside him, sounding confused.
Idiot, Face huffed inwardly rolling his eyes. Ripping the duct tape off his left pant cuff, he moved to the right leg –waiting to hear an explanation.
"Go on," Murdock said to Stiletto, gesturing with the rifle toward Stiles, "Why don't you educate your friend here?"
Stiletto's jaw flexed irritably, "It's a Go proverb," He gritted out. "'Strange things happen at the one-two point.'"
The answer didn't help. "And what does that mean?" Stiles inquired further.
Tearing the rest of the tape off, Face continued listening to the exchange. Closing the knife, he pocketed it for compensation, and attempted to stand up. It was difficult, but with a few grunts he managed to leave the uncomfortable chair behind and stretch his legs. Every move he made reminded him he was in dire need of an extra long bath, some aspirin, and a new suit.
"It means, sonny," Murdock said, annoyed, "That sometimes in a fight, the normal rules cease to apply. You cornered the A-Team and after you do that—"
He never finished.
Using the conversation as a distraction, Stiletto struck. His left hand flew up knocking the rifle away, cutting Murdock off mid-sentence. In the same instant the enforcer stepped forward, swinging with his right fist.
Stunned, Face watched the punch land hard. The force of the blow snapped Murdock's head back, splitting his lip and drawing blood. A second later Stiletto followed through with a side kick to the chest. Caught completely off guard, Murdock was shoved backward, the wind driven clean out of his body. Tripping over his own feet, he crashed heavily into a stack of old pallets behind him. The rotting wood gave beneath his weight with a loud crash, knocking him flat on his back. The Ruger broke from his grasp as he fell, clattering to the cement.
"Hey!" Face objected, alarmed. Swept up in surprise, he failed to realize Stiles had grabbed his left shoulder until it was too late. Before he could react, Face was yanked roughly backward by the jacket. Taking a step, he felt the drug dealer close in on him.
Stiles angled the muzzle of the retrieved Beretta over Face's chest, just above the heart. "Drop it! Or I'll waste him right here!" He cried, his words echoing around the bay. Climbing to his feet holding the rifle, Murdock looked up quickly at the sound of Stiles voice. Spotting Face he froze, his eyes going wide in dismay.
Just then, the loud screech of rollers flying against metal tracks punctuated the moment. On the right and left, both side doors slammed open simultaneously with a bang, forcing Face's heart into his throat. Glancing between the doors—careful not to move his head—he watched the entry of four, large, Triad guards who had been standing beyond. Alerted by the shout they came in weapons raised, two on each side.
"Xiatai!" Stiletto barked out, quickly lifting his hands, "Xiatai!" He repeated, ordering the men to stand down.
On command, the guards lowered their submachine guns and stood waiting. Face couldn't help but be reminded of obedient pit bulls –they certainly looked the part. Differing in height, but similar in mass, they were four of the heaviest individuals he'd ever seen –in more ways than one. All were completely bald, wearing a various array of street clothes and tattoo ink on every visible bicep and forearm. Two of the guards on the right possessed nasty scars. One had a crescent moon from eyebrow to cheek bone, and the other bore a puckered white line from shoulder to elbow. The remaining guards on the left had nothing significant about their person, aside from the thirty-two round, 9mm cartridge, mini-UZI they each held. All four shared the same weapon, along with similar Type-A personalities which was evident by their impossibly tough expressions.
We are so completely screwed. Face thought, breaking his study of the guards to glance down at the semi-automatic pistol against his chest. His pulse pounded in his ears at an increased rate and he swallowed hard. Why is it always me? He half begged, half wondered. It might have seemed selfish at a time like this, but he couldn't help feeling utterly sorry for himself. Life wasn't fair, at least not where he was concerned. Even his new shirt had been ruined!
"I said drop it!" Stiles shouted again, pushing harder on the muzzle. Face knew it was going to leave a bruise.
Looking up, an indelible pout forming on his lips, his heart in his mouth, he met Murdock's distressed gaze. Tipping his head cautiously Face nodded, letting his friend know it was best to obey. Understanding the message, Murdock returned the nod and sank back down to set the rifle easily on the floor. His eyes never left Stiles or the gun. Standing up, he lifted his hands in a nonthreatening posture and kicked the weapon away with one foot.
Stiletto smiled triumphantly at the submission. Stepping forward, he took the opportunity to drive his fist into Murdock's unprotected stomach. Issuing a strangled cry, Murdock doubled over in pain. His hands clasping his midsection. Much to Stiletto's pleasure, he groaned, trying to catch his breath. Face tensed in anger, suppressing the urge to break free of Stiles and help. He reminded himself of the pistol pressed to the breast pocket on his dress shirt, and tried to keep his emotions in check. The last thing he wanted was to do something he'd regret. Despite the odds, Face knew the fight wasn't over yet.
Stiletto waited till Murdock had straightened to his full six-foot-one height, before reaching out and grabbing a fistful of open jacket, jerking him closer. "Let's try something different," Stiletto growled in Murdock's left ear, "How about you answer my questions or…" He gestured with his head toward Face, "He's gonna die."
Face was released on cue, his stiff body thrust harshly forward in emphasis. With both hands free, Stiles supported the Beretta, leveling the gun higher. Bristling, Face kept himself in check, fully aware of the muzzle now pointed at the side of his head. Staring at the floor, he clenched his fists to stop them from shaking with anger. A heavy dread settled in the pit of his stomach. He knew the psychological edge Stiletto presently held over Murdock. After all, it was harder to watch your friends suffer than it was to endure pain yourself.
Lifting his chin Face studied Murdock, looking for a reaction. What he saw instead, made his heart beat faster. Murdock's face was completely locked in concentration; a deep frown creased his brow, overshadowed by his hat brim. He was staring straight ahead, but one look into the pilot's dark eyes revealed he was miles away. Whatever it was Murdock was seeing, it wasn't him, it wasn't the bay, and it certainly wasn't the guns surrounding them.
Not now Murdock! Face wanted to shout, his worst fears confirmed. He'd been fretting about this moment since the Captain Cab persona several months back. He'd even had nightmares. It was the moment, between life and death, where Murdock's brain completely flaked out leaving him high and dry –and dead. He remembered expressing his worry to Hannibal, only to be refuted with, 'I'd risk my life with Murdock any day. He's solid. He's just a little different.'
Just a little different? Face gritted his teeth at the thought. He's completely flipped! Desperate, he ignored his better judgment and opened his mouth, "Murdock!" He cried, hoping to return his friend to reality.
Stiles kicked him cruelly in the leg for his trouble, sending him to both knees with a grunt of protest. Face felt the muzzle of the Beretta set against the back of his skull. He held his breath, waiting for the fatal end.
"He's gonna die." Stiletto repeated, seeing the silence as a refusal to cooperate.
"Not. This. Time." Murdock replied, his gaze hard but clear. Drawing the hidden .45 from behind his back, he lifted the weapon in one quick motion. Without so much as a blink, he fired point-blank.
TBC, Thanks so much for reading/reviewing!
