Chapter Forty-Six
When the door flew open Doc was sitting on the bed, back against the far wall of the crib, with the girl naked in his lap, the derringer hidden behind her. He hoped this would mean that nobody would shoot for a second, that the sight of her would freeze them the way it had him. If they would all crowd together in the door he’d have the widest scatter for the shotgun pellets. Most dangerous weapon I’ve got is her body, Doc thought, and she doesn’t even need a permit to carry it concealed.
It worked perfectly. Three men came into the door at once, and for a second all lowered their guns, their heads almost bumping together as they stared at her spread open on a whore’s bed. And in that second Doc whipped the gun up and fired the .410 shell right into the three heads. They were all killed or blinded immediately and fell back out of the doorframe spurting blood and screams. Before they hit the floor Doc had tossed her off his lap and behind him, was on his feet with the gun in his hand. There was still a .45 cartridge in the other barrel, one bullet left for at least three men.
He lunged forward to grab a gun off the bodies, an exultant feeling surging through him: it would be over in seconds! Before he took a full step the feeling smashed into disappointment as he saw Ramos and Morales running up to the door, weapons ready but holding their fire. He spun towards Dancy–try another trump with the only card he held–but as soon the banditos hit the door they dropped their guns outside and jumped him. Under orders not to fire if the girl was around, Doc realized. His first break in the whole damn mess. He turned eagerly to face Ramos and Morales. But he didn’t make it.
Without even consciously thinking it over Dancy had run the odds and come up with better than even money Doc couldn’t handle Martillo and two other guys. More importantly, and just as instinctively, she saw she could do nothing about Martillo, who she could see through the door, moving towards the crib behind Ramos and Morales. But she could do something about Doc. And maybe save his life. As Ramos and Morales ran up to the door, she grabbed a large handbag from a hook, dropped the radio in it, and took her best swing at the back of Doc’s head. Doc went to his knees, the derringer falling out of his hands and under a wicker night stand as his vision swam and he almost went down.
But then Ramos was on him, kicking him in the chest, and everything snapped into clear focus; cold, crisp and slow. Morales took another kick at him but he and Ramos were getting in each other’s way in the crowded crib. Even so they could probably have had him, or held him for Martillo if Ramos hadn’t pulled out his knife. Doc was looking them over for pistols even as he surged up from his knees, his right hand exploding like a claw into Ramos’ face. The Mexican grunted in surprise and flinched away from the fingers in his eye sockets, but still brought the knife up towards Doc’s groin. Doc had his wrist in his left hand in a second, muffling Ramos right hand around the hilt as he jerked it up and cut a big rip up his stomach. The man’s eyes blurred in shock and Doc had the knife to himself as Ramos fumbled to contain the guts that were spilling out of him as the room filled with a gut-turning stench and a blast of wet heat. Morales backed up, gagging, terrified, and fumbling for his own knife; bumping into Martillo, who was struggling into the little room over the heap of big bodies in the little door. Doc suddenly spun around and, in the same fluid motion, backhanded Dancy along the jawbone, slamming her against the wall, unconscious. Seeing Doc’s back turned for a second, Morales had leaped forward with his knife, but Doc continued his rotation and met the charge by thrusting his hand straight out from the shoulder like a fencer, catching him right through the throat. Morales’ strike went harmlessly under Doc’s longer arm; he was already dead and falling. An overdose of adrenaline had made Doc strike too hard; the knife stuck in a vertebrae and he couldn’t pull it out in time.
Doc had already started to recoil and jump up on the bed, thinking he had time before Martillo was on him. He was wrong. The boxer was all over him before he started to move, flicking a right jab to the head that Doc never saw coming, but knocked him up against the wall with a painful thump. He realized that Martillo was faster than he’d thought, faster than he’d have thought possible. And that he could no longer get to the girl. He pushed off the wall and turned sideways to square off with El Martillo.
Other than skills and dirty tricks, Doc’s main advantages had always been speed, concentration, and the ability to take a punch. Now he was facing a man half his age who had more than he did off all those things, plus muscle, training and a visibly burning fury. He was used to giving away size, strength and age–he was not used to giving away skill, speed and sheer viciousness. A tiny voice inside him whispered, “I just HATE this shit.” A more mature voice answered from higher regions, “So what are you gonna do about it?” Out loud he said, “Whatever it freakin’ takes.”
There was no way to kick effectively in the close quarters of the crib, crowded even more with the bodies of Morales and Ramos. And Martillo was smart enough to see bone-breaking, Karate-style blows coming and flick them away. Karate doesn’t work very well against people with faster hands. It became obvious that Martillo would not let him get near the girl, would take any punch he could throw, and was going to beat him to death. He could keep punches out of his face, but not his body, and every hit felt like a horse had kicked him. He started rolling with the shots, trying for some movement in the tiny space.
He had almost no control, could only try to take his own tack under the impact of Martillo’s fists. He felt ribs cracking, a cheekbone snap from a left Martillo powered in right through his guard. He pulled it in tighter, crouching, almost huddling, bobbing around in the punches as he would in a series of violent waves. Fortunately, Martillo liked this, was obviously going to draw the thing out painfully, work out whatever he felt about seeing his men dead, and seeing him bounce Dancy’s naked body off the wall. Doc gave up on attacking, just tried to stretch the punishment out long enough and hope for a break.
When it came, he went for it so suddenly that even Martillo lost his rhythm for a half beat. Doc dropped his shoulder and braced himself for the right to the head he knew was coming. Even so it almost rocked him out, but he kept his vision clear by sheer concentration as he fell away to his right, twisting to snatch out the icepick. By the time he got it up, another piledriver punch was underway, but he managed to take it on his forehead as he stabbed the pick into Martillo’s tricep. The boxer howled, snarled and grabbed for him. Doc slammed the pick at his face, but he took in his right hand, right through the palm. Grunting under the pain of twisting his hand to jerk the slippery, bloody handle out of Doc’s grasp, Martillo fired another crushing combination, the pick sticking out of the back of his hand. But it gave Doc the time to make the last-stand move he’d been waiting for. He dived under the left, nudging the right up with his forearm as he slid under and past Martillo. He didn’t make it totally clean; an elbow fell on him, with the sound of another rib cracking. Attaway, Doc, he thought, go in for the kill. But his lunge carried him alongside the bed, his outflung left hand turning over the table and snatching up the derringer. Lying full-length on the floor, he had no time to turn and aim as he got folded around a powerful kick to the stomach. Then Martillo knee-dropped onto his broken ribs, grabbed his throat and pulled back the fist with the bloody pick protruding out of it. The fighter had a cool, glazed look, his mouth set in the tight grin learned from biting mouthguards. Doc had only time to cast his gun hand back as though shooting over his shoulder, the derringer upside-down, and fire the last barrel.