Deathstalker 08 - Deathstalker Coda

we?” said Douglas.
    “Times are hard. Now, you’ve made a good showing, honor is satisfied, so stand aside.”
    “The old protection racket,” said Stuart, and there was something in his calm, quiet voice that made Sewell look at him sharply. “A loathsome little scam, when all is said and done. Based on terror and intimidation, and a façade of invulnerability. Unfortunately for de Rack, and you, my partner and I don’t intimidate that easily. We’ve faced much worse than you, in our time.”
    “We’re here to protect the hotel from scumbags like you, Sewell,” said Douglas. “And we take a real pride in our work. So walk on. Or we’ll step on you.”
    Sewell looked at them for a long moment, apparently unable to believe what he was hearing. He wasn’t smiling anymore. “Listen, leather faces—this is de Rack’s territory. He owns it, and everyone in it. You only live here because he allows you to, and if you annoy him, you don’t get to live here anymore. And an insult to me is an insult to him.”
    “What a marvelously time-saving scheme,” said Stuart.
    “That’s it,” said Sewell. “You just can’t help some people. Drop your weapons on the ground, kneel down and say you’re sorry, and we’ll let you off with a beating. Make us work for this, and we’ll cut you open and see what color your guts really are.”
    “We don’t do kneeling either,” said Douglas. “Bad for the reputation, and the trousers. Makes the knees go all baggy. Now push off, fart face.”
    Sewell’s face darkened, and he turned to his men. “Kill them. And make it messy.”
    He was about to say something more when Douglas drew his concealed disrupter and shot Sewell in the chest. The energy beam punched right through the man, throwing his dead body back into his men. They scattered with cries of alarm, like startled birds, and Sewell measured his length in the gutter. The front of his leather coat was on fire. The thugs finally thought to draw their own weapons, but by then Douglas and Stuart were among them, swords in hands. The bullyboys tried to make a fight of it, but it had been a long time since they’d had to deal with anything but frightened and dispirited people. They didn’t stand a chance against two ex-Paragons. Douglas and Stuart cut their way through the pack with vicious skill, moving fluidly and easily and protecting each other’s backs at all times. They worked well together. Their swords flashed brightly in the gloom, like rays of hope, and blood pooled on the ground, hardly dispersed at all by the slow drizzle. Bodies fell with cut throats and gaping wounds, and did not rise again. And quicker than anyone had thought possible, it was all over. Douglas and Stuart stood together, blood dripping thickly from their blades, hardly even breathing hard. The sole surviving thug stood with his back to a wall, looking at the two bravos with wide, horrified eyes. Douglas and Stuart turned to look at him, and he quickly dropped his sword on the ground and raised his shaking hands in the air.
    “ Who are you? What are you? No one fights like that!”
    “We are Douglas and Stuart, bravos for hire, and that’s all anyone needs to know,” said Douglas. (He and Stuart had tried using false names when they first arrived in the Rookery, but they kept forgetting them, or confusing who was supposed to be which, so they gave them up. Douglas and Stuart were common enough names.) “In case you’re wondering, we let you live because you’re going to carry a message to de Rack, and the message is: Leave us alone. Leave the Lantern Lodge alone. Pretend this unpleasantness never happened. That way we can all hope to live long and profitable lives. Be persuasive, because de Rack wouldn’t like the alternative. Really he wouldn’t. Now go away, and don’t come back.”
    The thug was off and running the moment he was sure he’d got all of the message. A muffled chorus of boos and jeers followed him from behind the shuttered windows. Stuart gave a cheerful bow, and then he and Douglas went through the pockets of all the men they’d killed. Hard times bred hard ways, and credit had no provenance in the Rookery. When they were sure they’d got everything worth the having, Douglas and Stuart returned to their post at the front door and counted it up. There wasn’t much. People slowly emerged onto the street again, to steal the dead bodies’ clothing. Douglas sighed heavily.
    “I hate this place. People