Devil's Gate

As Kurt studied them, all he could see was a World Wrestling tag team ready to start body-slamming him and Joe if either of them made any false moves.

Now feeling safe, Ion spoke. “Standards must be dropping to allow someone like you in here, Austin. I must complain to the management.”

“No need for that,” Kurt said. “Give me a little bit of information and I’m gone like the wind.”

“Information costs,” Ion said. “With inflation the way it is, the price gets higher every day. But tell me, what are you after? And how much are you willing to pay?”

“You owe me,” Kurt said. “What I need will square us.”

“I owe you nothing,” Ion insisted.

Kurt had expected as much. “In that case, I offer you the right to keep your reputation. You’ll have to decide what that’s worth.”

“My reputation?” Ion said. “What are you babbling about, Austin? And make it quick, I have reservations.”

Kurt’s chest swelled, but he made no other outward move. “I explain the consequences that will face you once I wipe the floor with your bodyguards and pound the information out of your overly large, egg-shaped skull.”

He waved his hand around the room. “I can only imagine how that will damage your standing among these good people.”

Ion’s face showed the exact reaction Kurt had hoped for: anger, but coupled with a hint of fear and calculation. Maybe he would listen. And then again…

Ion took a hurried breath, puffed himself up for a few seconds, and spoke to his bodyguards.

“This man is a threat,” he said. “Deal with him.”

A wall of Samoan muscle flexed and began moving toward Kurt. One man pounded a fist into an open palm, and the other twisted his neck to the side, cracking it loudly and smiling. Apparently, they were ready for battle.

Kurt realized the one advantage he still had: both men were staring at him and only him. Ion had said, “This man is a threat,” not, “These men…” He hadn’t realized that Joe, in his sharp-looking clothes, had anything to do with Kurt.

Kurt’s hand found the coffee mug behind him. As the big brutes reached a distance of five feet, Kurt swung it toward them.

The piping hot liquid splashed across both men’s faces. The coffee was not hot enough to scald or scar, but the surprise and sting of it snapped the heads of both men to the side, eyes shut tight.

In that instant Kurt charged, lowering his shoulder and hammering it into the first guard’s torso just below the sternum. It felt like crashing headlong into a tree, except the man stumbled backward as Kurt drove through him, legs pumping hard. It was a perfect tackle that would have made any linebacker in the NFL proud, and it sent both men crashing into a table and onto the floor.

Even as Kurt attacked, Joe was springing into action. He hopped to his feet, grabbed a barstool, and slammed it across the shoulders of the other guard. The man crumpled and groggily began to crawl away. Joe let him go and turned to see if Kurt needed any assistance.

Kurt had landed on top of the bodyguard he’d tackled, but the man was far from out. Eyes half opened, he shoved a hand into Kurt’s face, catching him under the chin. It was a jarring blow, but Kurt shook it off and dropped an elbow hard between the man’s neck and shoulder, hitting the pressure point.

The man’s head tilted back in pain, offering a perfect shot at his jaw. Kurt fired a right cross with every ounce of strength and adrenaline in his body. It slammed the man in the chin, snapped his head sideways, and put him out like a light.

It all happened so fast, the patrons of the restaurant had only enough time to register shock; gawking; drawing back, and looking horrified. A couple had made it out of their chairs but still held their drinks. This wasn’t the kind of club that needed bouncers, so no one appeared ready to throw Kurt and Joe out, though the bartender now held a Louisville Slugger in his hands.

Kurt stood slowly, and the crowd began to relax. Some looked upset at having missed all the fun.

Kurt turned back to Ion, actually surprised at how well it had gone.

Ion’s gaze went from Kurt to Joe to each of his beaten men. He looked horrified at first, and then disappointed, and then he locked his gaze on Kurt and shrugged his shoulders as if to say “Oops.”

And then, just when Kurt thought the man would give in and talk, he spun like a cat and raced out the door.

“Damn,” Kurt said.

Caught off guard by Ion’s flight, Kurt scrambled over the unconscious Samoan and rushed outside. Joe was right behind him.

“There,” Joe said, pointing

Ion was on their right, racing down the street on foot. They took off after him, ru

Kurt might have expected Ion to go for a car, but most likely he didn’t drive himself here, the Samoans drove. And even if he had the keys, a man like Ion wouldn’t self-park, he’d use the valet. And not wanting to get caught and pummeled while the kid at the valet stand went looking for his Maserati or Mercedes, Ion had no choice but to hoof it to wherever he was going.

That suited Kurt just fine. Catching Ion in a footrace didn’t sound too hard. At least, that was, until it started to rain.

On the one hand, the rain cleared the sidewalks of the few remaining pedestrians; on the other hand, it reduced the visibility sharply. And when Ion cut to the right, dashing off the sidewalk and into an alley, Kurt almost missed him.

He whipped around the corner and saw Ion fifty yards ahead, passing under the veil of a streetlight. He and Joe raced on as the rain poured down harder.

“I can’t believe this little guy can run so fast,” Kurt shouted.

“He must know who’s chasing him,” Joe said.

Kurt guessed that adrenaline would play a part in it, but he doubted Ion could stay at full speed for as long as he and Joe. And all those laps, at home, in the gym, and on the Argo, were about to come in handy.

Ion glanced back at them and quickly turned in to another alley. Kurt and Joe chased. As Kurt made the turn, Joe slipped on the wet pavement and went down hard. He slid across the sidewalk and crashed into a large concrete planter. He bounced right back up, barely missing a step.

His shirt was torn and bloody at the elbow now, his slacks shredded at the knee, but he kept on ru

“Remember what I said about our next adventure being somewhere dry?” he shouted. “I mean it.”

Kurt tried not to laugh; he needed all his breath. At the end of the alley was a fence, which Ion scaled like an acrobat, dropping to the other side. Kurt went over first, and Joe landed on his feet a second or two later.

Now that they were in a park of some kind, the visibility was even lower. Hiding might have worked for their quarry, but the rabbit continued to run, and when Kurt spotted him he sensed Ion slowing.

After racing across the wet grass and past some manicured trees, Ion hopped another fence and went back out onto a narrow side street filled with shops.

Ion stumbled, and turned right on another street.

Kurt pressed harder, summoning every ounce of extra speed his body had in it. This was their chance. But when he reached the street, Ion was nowhere to be seen.

Kurt skidded to a stop, looking around. “Where’d he go?”

“He definitely came in here,” Joe said. “I saw him take the turn.”

Kurt blinked away the rain and looked around. There were crevices in this particular section of town. They came in the form of doorways and alcoves for the little row of shops. There were also a couple of parked cars, sitting stoically as the rain pelted them and made them shine. Despite a streetlight at each end of the row, the wet blacktop seemed to be absorbing all light.

“That little rat has to be hiding,” Kurt said. “You take that side of the street, and I’ll walk this side. Go slow. He’s here somewhere.”