The Book of Death (Bourbon Kid 4)

The
Book of Death, it’ll be beyond your control. They know your real name now. If
Gaius retrieves the book, you’re outta the game, son.’
    ‘The Book of Death, huh. Where
is it now? D’ya know?’
    ‘Last I heard it was back at the
city library in the Reference section, but that book don’t tend to stay in one
place for long. Make it a priority to find it and destroy it if you can.’
    ‘A priority? I don’t think so.’
    Elvis intervened. ‘Listen to
Rex, man. He’s tryin’ to help you get your woman back.’
    ‘Whadda you know about her?’
    ‘I know she’s still alive.’
    ‘You sure?’
    ‘Yeah man. For now anyway. But
you go in through the front door with all guns blazing and they’ll kill her
while you watch.’
    The Kid pondered what Elvis had
said. ‘You’d be surprised what I’m capable of when I’m in the mood.’
    Rex stood up from his stool.
‘Well, it’s your choice how you go about it. But whether you go in quiet or
loud, you’ve only got until midnight. Then your time is up. That’s when you
repay the man in red.’
    Berkley had finished refilling
the Kid’s glass and stashed the bottle of bourbon at the back of the bar. The
Kid picked up the drink and stared at his reflection in the glass for a second
before downing the contents. Then he reached into the guitar case for a weapon.
    ‘Yo, bartender,’ he called out.
‘What’s your favourite colour?’
    Berkley spun around and muttered
one word. ‘Shit.’
    The Kid pulled a gun from the
guitar case, a gold Desert Eagle with a red laser sighter on it. It felt heavy
in his hand, a good weight. He pointed it at the unfortunate bartender. The red
dot from the laser appeared in the centre of Berkley’s head.
    BANG!
    Berkley’s head exploded, his
brains flying out through the back of his skull and splashing against the wall
behind him. His body crumpled to the floor in a heap.
    Elvis peered over the bar at the
corpse. ‘Why did he say shit ? ’ he asked, a confused look on his face.
‘Shit’s not really a colour is it?’
    The Kid ignored him. ‘Silent
weapons my ass,’ he said admiring the gun. ‘Get me some ammo for this
muthafucker.’
    ‘Shoulda said brown,’ Elvis
said, shaking his head. ‘Brown’s a colour. Not shit. Shit’s an object. Or a
state of affairs.’
    Rex placed a small case of
bullets on the bar next to the Kid’s empty glass. ‘Fine, do it your way,’ he
said. ‘But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
    Elvis walked off around to the
back of the bar while The Kid rifled through the weapons in the guitar case,
grabbing everything that took his fancy. Rex chipped in by handing over any
ammo for each weapon. The guy had deep pockets filled with all kinds of stuff.
After five minutes the Kid had an array of weapons and ammo laid out on the
bar. Only problem was, how was he going to carry it all? He had a few pockets
in his leather jacket and he’d picked out a few holsters from the guitar case,
but concealing the weapons could prove tricky.
    Elvis reappeared with the answer
to the problem. He threw a long dark hooded robe over to the Kid. ‘There’s a
real shitstorm coming the way of Santa Mondega. You might wanna wear this.’
    The Kid caught the robe and laid
it down on the bartop. He slipped his arms out of the sleeves of his leather
jacket and tossed it over to Elvis. The new robe would be perfect for carrying
and concealing a small arsenal of weapons. He slid his arms into the new robe,
admiring its snug fit. Then he began strapping weapons and ammunition to
himself and utilising all the concealed pockets and holsters within the robe.
    When he was done he turned to
face Rex. ‘What now?’ he asked.
    Rex pointed at the saloon doors.
‘Head through there and you’ll be right back where you started. Good luck.’
    The Kid nodded at Rex and Elvis.
‘I won’t need luck,’ he said.
    He walked towards the saloon
doors. When he reached them he pushed them open and walked through, pulling the
hood on the robe up over his head as he went.

 
    Thirty-Three

 
    Rameses Gaius arrived
at the Santa Mondega City library in a murderous mood. He’d received no word
from the Santa Claus regarding the recovery of The Book of Death, and now the
fat child-killing freak wasn’t even answering his phone. It seemed he’d had the
good sense to leave town rather than face the wrath of the Lord of the Undead.
    Gaius strode up the
stairs two at a time and barged through the double doors at the top into