Hunters Ch. 02

The Soldier was as busy as it usually was; it didn't matter what time of day you came in. There was never a cover charge, and it looked just like every bar did in Mexico. The Soldier had a red tile floor, huge oval bar in the center of the room with a mirror separating the two parts of the bar. The booze was always watered down and the beer was always warm. The tables that were randomly scattered about the place were as clean as they could be kept, while the booths went largely unbussed. Max wandered up and sat at the bar and sat on a stool. Nobody was at the bar. Nobody was ever sat at the bar except for Max in this place.

"I don't want any problems in here this time, cowboy," the bartender said suspiciously. A few of the men at the tables gave Max a sideways glance after hearing that. He gave a little chuckle. The tension in the entire bar rose like static electricity before an approaching storm.

"Don't mean to be any. Don't even have my gun on me this time," Max said a little louder than he had to. The bar seemed to ease a little bit.

"Doesn't much matter," grunted the bartender as he picked up a glass and wiped it out with an almost clean towel. "You're done when I say you're done, ya hear?"

Max nodded. "Glass of Scotch then, no ice," he said politely. He pulled his money out of his pocket and paid for the booze before the bartender poured. Max got the glass that the bartender had been "cleaning" and he drank the scotch slowly, savoring the flavor. "Thank God, for sparing Kentucky," he said softly with a grin and took another sip out of his glass. He wandered over to where the bar's popcorn machine was. Real popcorn with real butter. The Soldier was one of the last bars that Max knew of that one could still find such a thing. It was never stale, always fresh, always hot, and always swimming in butter. He filled a bowl and went back to his drink; shocked by the sight of another patron actually seated at the bar.

Max sat back down at his drink and the stranger nodded to him in a general acceptance of his presence. Max nodded back and took a few fingers of popcorn out of his bowl. The stuff was so salty and buttery it almost slid down his throat. Between the scotch and the butter, he was pretty sure it would be wise to wait until at least afternoon to fly anywhere tomorrow. Max stole a sideways glance at the new comer and there was something familiar about him, but Max just couldn't quite place it. He decided another scotch might help his memory and he flagged down the barkeep.

"Two more, Morgan, and that's it. I don't need you tearing the hell out of my place again," the bartender said as the glass filled with amber liquor. The man beside Max began to fidget and started looking at Max out of the corner of his eye.

"Now might be a good time to start remembering why this guy's familiar. Hope he's not a bounty hunter, or this could get real interesting," Max thought and took a good swig of his scotch. The second he started to swallow he saw the man beside him twitch. Not even Max's fast eyes saw the fist coming, however, and Max found himself on the ground with broken glass around his hand, a barstool skittered across the floor, and scotch all over his formerly clean shirt.

"Morgan? Maxwell Morgan?" the stranger and stood up, squaring off a fair distance from Max. For the first time Max got a good straight look at his face and his mind flashed a price under it; for almost a full second Max couldn't believe that he'd just been hit by Lelund Kromwell.

"That'd be me," Max said. "You owe me a scotch and an apology, buddy," Max added, almost laughing. Lelund responded by pulling a knife. Random expletives erupted from the patrons of the Soldier and some left. Some however, stayed to drink and watch the show.

"Morgan, goddamnit, I told you not to start problems!" the bartender yelled.

"Hey, fat man, he hit me!" Max fired back. He saw that Lelund's eyes moved to the bartender when he spoke and he snaked his leg over to the bar stool and started pulling it the three inches closer he needed to wrap his hand around it.

"I know, I saw that; that's why you're on the floor. But it stops here, Morgan, I mean it! It took me a month to get this place put back together after you were here last," the bartender spat. Lelund's eyes got wide and his gaze shifted back to Max.

"Yeah, but this different," Max said patronizingly. "This guy has a knife. The last three had guns. It won't be anything like last time."

"Wh-what was it like last time?" Lelund asked the bartender. Max shifted and got a leg of the barstool in hand and got ready to throw it. Lelund shifted nervously and Max's eyes caught the tip of the knife, trembling for an instant as his assailant processed the conversation.

"Hey buddy," Max said softly. Lelund's eyes slid to Max, still on the floor. He could see that they were wide and this Lelund was beginning to seriously reconsider hitting Max. "It started a little like this," Max said and threw the stool as hard as he could, rolling and nearly throwing himself into the oak bar to give the stool more momentum. The seat of the stool smashed into Lelund's hand and Max heard the knife hit the floor and slide. He stood up quickly and whirled around. Lelund was just standing there, looking stupid: not that that was different from his normal look as far as Max could tell.

"Um, I'm sorry," Lelund stammered to Max. Max took two steps closer and he was easily in striking distance. Lelund swallowed hard and looked Max up and down. Max simply stared into Lelund's eyes. Lelund moved; Max didn't think it was all that hostile, probably going for his wallet, but he didn't care. Max's arm shot forward and he grabbed Lelund's hair. He jerked his head down and his knee up, smashing it into Lelund's nose. Max let go of his victim's hair at the same time and the blow to his face carried him over backward, slamming his head onto the red tile floor of the bar.

"Morgan. Out," the bartender said gruffly. Max nodded and smiled to the bartender.

"He didn't pay for his beer. Here you go," Max said and threw some money on the table. It was ten times the cost of the beer alone, but a little friendly bribe to the bartender might make things better next time. Max liked the Soldier; it was his bar. Lelund seemed to wake up and started moaning and trying to cradle his face; most of which was painted in blood.

"Do basdard! Do boke my node!" Lelund shouted as he kept trying to cradle his face, each time pulling his hands away in pain.

"Yup, that I did. Come on, junior. Let's go get me paid," Max said and picked Lelund up by the hair, eliciting a very womanly scream from him as his skin pulled tight across his face. "Oh come on, none of that," Max said, dusting Lelund off a little. "Oops, bleeding out the back, too," Max said and slapped the back of Lelund's head. Lelund about fell forward onto the tile again, but Max caught him.

"Morgan," said the bartender in a warning tone. Morgan nodded and he pushed Lelund out the door while holding onto the back of his bloodstained jacket. They walked out the door of the Soldier and Max heard a bullet whiz by as it cut through the air. He was sober in an instant and he looked to his right and saw two men in black suits with black sunglasses. Both were in the crowded street nearly a block away; one was standing in front of the other, being used as an armrest for the man behind him who was shooting with a silenced pistol. People around them started to scream and Max bolted back inside the bar, leaving Lelund stand on the stoop of the Soldier.

"Now damnit, Morgan, I meant it!" the bartender hollered at the running cowboy. "Hey, what's the . . ." he started.

"Get Down!" Max yelled as he jumped and landed on the bar with his back. He looked out the door as he briefly slid across the bar and saw Lelund twitch to the beat of an automatic pistol. Max fell of the bar to the bartender's feet and landed hard on the tile floor. The bartender ducked just seconds before a blast from a submachine gun tore through his stock and the large mirror between that divided the bar.

"Morgan, Goddamnit, every time you're in here," hissed the bartender.

"I'll apologize if we survive. Still got my gun that you stole?" Morgan asked quietly. He heard not less than 4 men come into the bar, their dress shoes clacking loudly on the tile. It sounded like most of the patrons were either in the process of leaving or had already fled through the back door. The bartender pulled a pistol out from under the bar and Max looked at it lovingly. It was his pride and joy while he was in the Marines and he had it specially engraved. The main gun was gunmetal black, while the engraving was the glimmering silver of cut steel. "Dono misericordia duo unciae ad semel," gleamed in the low light of the bar just as the day it was freshly engraved. Max snapped back to reality by the resounding silence in the bar. He grabbed a bottle and threw it up in the air a few feet from where he was crouched with his gun. A single shot took out the bottle and Max knew about where that gunman was, but the others were going to be problems and he had to move fast. He checked to see if there was actually a round chambered and was very relieved that there was.

Max threw bar towel so it just barely cleared the bar but still looked like a dirty white shirt bounding up a little to high. Max heard an explosion of gunfire flare up at the rag and popped his head and gun up for a second and fired off two rounds, hitting two of the shooters in the elbow. He heard them swearing in Japanese and the clatter of their weapons on the floor. Max ran around to the other side of the bar, staying low. He got a glimpse of another gangster looking over the bar back as he rounded the corner and pulled the trigger twice as he moved. One shot fired and the other made a loud click as the firing pin slammed forward into the empty chamber. The one good shot he had hit his target in the forearm and his submachine gun dropped to the ground.

Max rolled into a crouch, using the now wounded and swearing man as a shield to check for more men in this half of the bar. Max caught the falling submachine gun and spun up from his crouch to punch the wounded man. His fist drove solidly into his eye, shattering the black sunglasses and sending him into an elaborate unconscious spin. Two machineguns opened up as Max dropped back down, and he heard the bullets sink into the man he just hit and watched as streamers of blood erupted from his body and the mirror shattered in a hail of lead. Max checked the clip of his new submachine gun and set his pistol behind the bar. It had a full 30 rounds in it, and Max noted with some dismay that they were using RK-10's: the lowest of the low quality street submachine guns. They had the firing pattern the size of a refrigerator and he would more likely scare someone to death than kill them with it. Max slammed the clip back in and grabbed his gun, tucking it into his pants and decided it was time to move again. He rounded the bar and headed back to the front where the bartender was busily loading a shotgun, looking around nervously for a head or a gun to pop up over the counter. His face actually lightened up when he saw Morgan come back around.

"Give me that!" hissed in a whisper. He slid his pistol and the RK-10 over to the bartender. "Reload this!" he whispered again as they slid. The bartender tossed Max the shotgun and Max bolted up and fired at the closest thing he saw that wasn't a table, stool, or chair. He clipped one of his hunters in the leg, and he fell down cursing loudly. There was a smell that Max couldn't identify in the air; it wasn't normal steel or lead shot in the gun. He cocked it and looked at the bartender. A big smile flew across his face.

"Rock salt," he mouthed to Morgan. Morgan smiled back at him and whipped back around the corner of the bar, firing and cocking twice a mid the sounding of the RK-10's firing. The shotgun sounded like a canon over the noise of the small 9mm SMG's and their burst of fire was silenced by two more men screaming. Max wasn't as careful now; the rock salt was only lethal at close range. Most of it pulverized before it left the barrel so it was like getting shot with really chunky sand that burned like hell fire when it lodged in the skin. Max shot both of them in their guts, aiming so he wouldn't accidentally hit them in the neck. They didn't' seem ready for him to come running back so soon, either, and they paid dearly for it Max stood up and looked through the shards of shattered mirror and fired another two blasts with the shot gun. Five men down, one to go. They didn't even return fire before Max ducked back down and what was left of the mirror shattered in another blast of lead.

Max ran around to the front again, running toward the bartender. He tossed him the shotgun and held out his hand for his gun. The bartender threw it to Max as he jumped up on the bar. The gun was in his hand and it moved to point at the last man standing as he opened up with his RK-10. Max fired twice in a flying leap off the bar and twice more in mid air. He'd have fired more, but at least one bullet slammed into him and took his breath away. He involuntarily curled up in mid air and hit the ground in a heap, feeling his shoulder crunch as he slid into a table. Max pulled it down with his quickly diminishing strength and took shelter behind it, for what little it would provide.

He looked down and his shirt had turned half red from a flesh wound in his side. He knew the bullet had passed right through but it still burned like hell and he'd need to be stitched back up. Max forced himself into a crouch and he couldn't hear the man moving over the moans and screams of the other men on the ground. What Max did hear was the thunder of the shotgun blasting the room quiet for a second and the sound of one less man moaning in pain. Small pieces of salt bounced off the stone floor and the table Max was behind and scattered into booths and all about the room.

"Morgan, you're clear. These bastards aint' gonna tear you up anymore," the bar tender said and cocked the shotgun. Max stood up unsteadily, held his gun out, trying to cover as many of the men on the floor as he could at once. He limped over to one of the more coherent men on the floor and pointed his gun at the man's head. He didn't say a word but pulled the hammer back on his pistol. The man didn't say anything, but tried to back away, using his hands and his good leg to push himself back. Max looked at the man's left hand and saw that his pinky had the tip cut off at the last knuckle.

"Black Dragons, I should have known. Tracer in the case," Max stated, all emotion gone from his voice. His eyes narrowed. "And the old man?" Max asked, his left eye twitching.

"Died with honor," the man said quietly. Max's face went slack, but his eyes blazed. He slid his aim from the man's forehead to his abdomen and fired. For the second after the shot, the only noise in the whole bar was the jingling of the shell casing on the red tile floor. The Syndicate man tried in vain to hold in his pain and a scream forced itself from him, but he fought it the whole way out. Max limped out in to the street, still holding his side. He could feel blood ooze slowly between his fingers, and he forced his crunched knee to work better with each step, no matter how hard it hurt. Police sirens roared behind him and Max started cutting through back alleys to get back to Bernie's. The back alley dwellers were used to seeing violence more often than the tourists on the streets. There were no cops and no screams, just the occasional mother herding her children to the relative safety of indoors when Max moved through their neighborhood.

He was getting light headed by the time he made it to the back door of Bernie's. The city had begun to light up and the sun had set. "Always a good sunset in TJ. Wish I could see it," Max thought dreamily. He pushed open Bernie's back door and saw that the shop was nowhere near as bad as he thought it would be. He didn't know what he expected, but it almost looked like nothing at all had happened. He heard the old man cough from the front of the shop and heard someone else shush him.

He limped forward, the world beginning to close around him. He made it to the counter top in the front of the small store and he fell against it, his gun clattering across the glass and falling to the floor. Max barely registered that someone was helping Bernie, maybe bandaging him up, he couldn't tell as his vision faded to black.

"Got me worse than I thought," Max said and the world crashed into darkness around him.

The first thing he heard was the striking of a lighter, a deep inhale, a pregnant pause, and then a deep exhale. The perfectly timed ticking of clocks in the background came to him and Max forced his eyes open; it felt like his eyelids were made of lead and weighed a ton each. His eyes slowly focused and he knew that he'd been brought to Meg. She was sitting there watching him.

"It's only midnight, don't even ask. You've only been out about 3 hours. I got you stitched up and you're good to go, but no rough stuff for a while, tiger," she said and took another drag on her cigarette. Max began to speak but his tongue felt both swollen with dryness and like someone had glued it to the roof of his mouth. Meg nodded to the side of the bed and Max slowly turned his head and saw a glass of water. He pushed himself up as best he could and a symphony of discordant pain shot through his abdomen. Max still managed to prop himself up and he took the glass of water.

Meg looked on, smiling, her green eyes almost glittering and her brown curls were pulled back in a ponytail. Max could see that her fingers were stained with blood. "My blood," Max thought in silence. The water rose to his lips and she stood up.

"You're gonna be just fine. Just rest here tonight and I'll check on you in the morning. If you're nice I'll even bring you some juice and cookies after I take care of the rest of the kids," she said, turning to wink as she swayed out of the room. Max's tongue had loosened up just enough to laugh a little. The water was finished and so was Max; he was out before he even set the empty glass back on the nightstand.

Max awoke to the sounds of children laughing and to the busy sounds of Tijuana traffic. His eyes opened easier this time, though still reluctantly. He forced his body to roll up and sit on the bed and the pain in his side thundered, but not nearly as badly as yesterday. His feet touched wood floorboards and he suddenly remembered not taking off any of his clothes, but they were sitting there, folded and stacked on a chair, next to his boots.

Max stood up painfully and dressed himself, but not before enjoying the feeling of real air on his chest and legs, not that recycled crap in the ships or even from the climate centers on Mars or at Robinson's.

He limped down stairs and saw Meg down there, reading to the kids that she was caring for. Most of them had bandages wrapped around an arm or a leg, and all of them were urchins. Meg took care of all manner of strays that wandered into her clinic, even grown ones that should know better. Meg kept reading her story but winked to Max as he came down the stairs quietly. Max smiled and blew a kiss to her and walked out the door.

The walk to Bernie's was short, only about a block. He walked in and the old man was behind the counter, tinkering with something. He didn't even look up as far as Max noticed, but he knew that Bernie knew he was there.

"Yer shirt's torn, kid," he said softly as he pried on what looked like half the works from an old clock. He grunted, sucked his breath in and something gave way. There was a metallic ping and something shot out of the clock works. Max snatched it from the air and set it back on the counter top. Bernie nodded and grunted a thank you. Max just stood in silence.