Programmed for Peril

Next-day repair service commanded a premium fee. A small fish thrown toward the gaping jaws of impending PC-Pros’ bankruptcy. Such a waste of energy, money, and emotion when all she had to do was capitulate to Carson’s demands that she go away with him and be his love. How, how had she been so stubborn and foolish over all these months? When in the end Carson’s will would be done. Amen!
    Why then Champ’s sense of... faltering?
    Cautious Tran Lo Dinh locked the van before departing with dolly. Champ’s rubber-gloved hands were quick with the Tumbler Tickler. In a mini-moment he was inside, crouching on the rugged floor, waiting for the slant. In his hand, a friend spawned in the armories of Middle Europe, an automatic pistol—Bad Czech. To heighten the mood he hummed the last movement theme from Dvorák’s From the New World symphony. “Going home, going home,” he crooned softly. He hefted Bad Czech, looked again to make sure there was a round in the chamber.
    Hark! The rattle of dolly wheels on concrete. Champ positioned himself by the doors. He heard the slant’s key. The right door swung open. Champ and Bad Czech filled it “Get in!”
    Tran Lo Dinh hesitated a moment that nearly cost him his life right then. Champ saw the surprise on the badly scarred face. But no fear. This one had started out in Nam. How could you really scare any one of them with just a Bad Czech? Tran began to climb in. Champ seized his thin arm above the elbow and jerked him forward. The top of his head struck the back of the seat. He lay briefly stunned Champ rolled him face up and shoved Bad Czech’s barrel into his loose mouth. “We’re going for a one-way ride!” he growled in his best gangster argot. Edward G., R.I.P!
    They got underway, Tran at the wheel, Champ riding shotgun, or was it automatic? This was all going smoother than a baby’s bottom. He gave directions, the slant followed them. Champ found his eyes returning again and again to the scar that curved out from beneath his captive’s white jumpsuit collar and up the side of his face. The man’s throat had once been cut. Somehow he had survived. He could talk, but didn’t—at least not to Champ. Who knew what was going on behind the bowl-cut black hair and almond eyes? All these Asians were different.
    Soon there would be one less.
    Their destination: a road construction area. The day of rain had sent the workers off to vacation. He ordered Tran onto an earthy gouge that would one day be new road. He motioned him to pull up behind a trailer. It would screen the van from any passing traffic.
    Champ put Bad Czech’s barrel to Tran’s temple. “You know who I am?” he asked.
    Tran nodded.
    “No, you don’t!”
    Carson’s orders had been to pull the trigger at that point. But increasingly of late he felt the sprouting seeds of rebellion. He felt like a slave defying an all-powerful plantation owner. No matter the hopelessness of it. “Tell me about Quee—Tell me about Trish Morley.”
    Tran shook his head.
    “Tell me something!” He nudged the yellow temple vigorously with Bad Czech.
    Tran said nothing.
    “Aren’t you afraid of dying?”
    Tran touched his scar. “Died once, not afraid now.”
    Champ wanted words about Queen of My Heart. On them he would drape his desires like strung popcorn around a Christmas tree. “Talk about Trish, or I’ll open up your head like a soft-cooked egg!”
    Tran turned impassive eyes toward him. “You crazy man,” he said.
    No! Not crazy! Cunning, sly, odd, a loner—those! But not mad, not by any stretch. He served Carson. He adored Queen of My Heart. Between those poles turned the earth of his sanity. Not even close to mad! “Watch your mouth!” he bellowed. Whence this stirring fit of Earthquake Anger, then? Never had it arisen beyond the walls of his rooms. But here it came, roaring into his brain like an eighteen-wheeler. He felt the rictus grip his face, twisting it. His eyes widened and bulged. He threw down Bad Czech and seized the silent slant’s face in both hands. He slid them to the smother position.
    Complicated weapons were overrated.
    Champ heaved against the slant, half pinning the small, wiry body with his bulk. Earthquake Anger gave him Hulk strength. He stared into the annoyingly untroubled almond-shaped eyes through the red wash of rage.
    The little man squirmed. His arms thrashed and twitched ineffectively. Champ felt the small jaw trembling. The slant was trying to open his mouth and