The Devil You Know

Action guy Nick Kismet
takes on...

The Devil You Know

An 8-Chapter Turbo-Charged Takedown!

What Has Gone Before: An immortal satanist named Negron possesses the Judas Rope which he is using to recruit the American crime syndicates for his dark lord. Having kidnapped Tecla, the daughter of a mob boss, he has instructed the father to swear allegiance at midnight or his daughter will die. Kismet interrupts the party, grabs Tecla and is about to make his getaway on an off-rode Enduro motorbike when goons started shooting through the door into the garage!

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Episode 7:
Flanking Maneuver

THE DOOR EXPLODED OPEN and instantly, in a flurry of snapping jaws, the dog pack rushed into the outer hallway. The gunman who had shot the lock open lingered cautiously out of view, but when the expected retort of gunfire did not occur, he edged beneath the lintel.

Kismet hit a switch and bathed the hallway in the glare of the Enduro’s headlight. He and Tecla had rolled the motorcycle into the hallway and hid behind the open door long enough to misdirect the Dobermans. Now, with Tecla’s arms around his waist and the Colombian transfixed in the blinding beam of light, Kismet stomped on the kick starter.

The engine sputtered weakly but did not engage.

No problem. Sometimes it takes a few tries to catch. He pushed the starter again… and again.

The gunman, still shading his eyes with one hand, raised the gun and fired blind. The concussion of the discharge thundered in the narrow confines of the hallway. Kismet reflexively ducked and in the same motion, flicked the lights off. After the harsh illumination, the darkness engulfing the small enclosure was all the more profound, punctuated only by the muzzle flash of the Colombian’s machine pistol. Kismet felt something slap his left arm, followed by a blossom of pain. He tried not to think about it.

Suddenly, the engine caught and the roar of the motorcycle drowned out the sound of weapon fire. Kismet squeezed the front brake and let the rear tire spin until the smell of burnt rubber overpowered the stench of cordite.

“Hang on!”

He let go of the brake and the Enduro shot forward. There was a sickening crunch as the bike struck something, then rolled up and over the object. Kismet didn’t need the light to know what he had hit, but once they were out in the open air, he switched it on anyway.

Sporadic gunfire was still echoing over the treetops, but the ferocity of the initial attack had faltered. The paved drive beckoned enticingly, a two-mile ribbon of smooth road that could deliver them to safety in a matter of minutes, but Kismet instead steered back toward the tree line. The driveway was well lit and would almost certainly be a focus for the Colombian gunmen as they mounted their counterattack. Navigating the horse trails through the forest might take a good while longer, but hopefully it would spare them a trip through the gauntlet.

A path, lined with wood chips, marked the way from the stables to an open field where a steeple chase course had been laid out, and continued around the perimeter to woods beyond. The exercise area was less well kept than the grounds around the house; evidently the current tenants’ hobbies did not extend to equestrian activities. Kismet opened up the throttle to make the crossing as quickly as possible; he knew he would have to proceed more slowly in the woods.

He winced when Tecla gripped his biceps, and only then did he realize that she had been shouting something. “What?”

“You’re hurt!” Her small voice was barely audible over the roar of the engine.

“It’s just a scratch! What’s wrong?”

“They’re coming!”

He risked a quick glance over his shoulder and saw two separate sets of bobbing headlights in the vicinity of the garage they had just exited – the quad ATVs. Less distinct were four smaller shapes, moving alongside the vehicles. Kismet bit off a curse as he swung his attention forward and geared down to enter the forest.

The trail started off straight and broad and dived quickly into the heart of the woods, but after a quarter of a mile, the path began to shrink and the canopy of branches drooped down like threatening tentacles.

After the first turn, they could no longer discern the glare of lights from the pursuing quads. That was the good news. The bad news was that the trail was deeply rutted, which not only forced him to further reduce his speed, but also revealed that the trail had been used extensively by off-road vehicles. The Colombians had been entertaining themselves during their stay by exploring the horse trails with the recreational vehicles, so there was a good chance that the men chasing them knew these trails well.

Before long, they began to descend along a trail that cut across a hillside which formed one wall of a deep ravine. It was a single track, barely wide enough to accommodate the motorcycle, leaving Kismet to wonder how the ATV riders would be able to follow. At the bottom of the slope, he glanced back to see if their pursuers were still on the hunt, but saw nothing. Somehow, the lack of activity was more troubling than if the Colombians had come charging down the hill. In the absence of any other option, he gunned the bike up the opposite side of the gully.

They were waiting for him at the top.

The Colombians had killed their lights and set an ambush. Their intimate familiarity with the trails cris-crossing the forest had enabled them to circle around to lay the trap. With their engines at a low, quiet idle and no lights showing, all they had to do was wait for the dancing beam of Kismet’s head lamp to get a little closer.

The headlight speared up through the darkness like a searchlight as Kismet reached the crest of the hill and unknowingly entered the kill zone. He was just starting to accelerate when Tecla let out a shriek. He felt her hands clutching fiercely at his waist, but then she was gone, yanked backward off the Enduro’s seat.

Without thinking, he laid the bike on its side and rolled clear of its uncontrolled slide, just in time to see – barely visible in the impenetrable night – the last of the Dobermans closing on Tecla; one of them was already menacing her, with jaws locked around her forearm.

It was in that instant that the gunmen sprung their trap.

In a curious sort of serendipity, the attack of the silently trailing dog pack had stymied the careful planning of the human predators. Their weapons were trained on the place they expected the mounted pair to be, not where their encounter with the canines had placed them. When the guns thundered from out of the trees, the bullets came nowhere near Kismet and Tecla.

The kukuri flashed twice and the Doberman savaging Tecla’a arm released its victim in order to emit a tortured howl. Deprived of its forelegs, the wounded animal writhed away in a panic, but its brethren were quick to move in. Kismet grabbed Tecla’s hand, and slashed his way back toward the edge of the ravine, even as the two gunmen began to shift fire in their direction. A second Doberman went down, decapitated with a single swipe from the kukuri, and then they were gone, tumbling down the steep embankment.

Kismet knew they were a long way from being, both literally and figuratively, out of the woods, but when their downhill plummet ended in a tangle of bruise limbs, he risked a hasty question. “Are you all right?”

“No,” she replied, gritting her teeth against the pain. “But I guess I’ll have to manage.”

No sooner had she spoken than the sharp yelps of the remaining Dobermans, still doggedly chasing them, came rolling down the hill. A moment later, the roar of two separate engines drowned out the barking.

One thing at a time, thought Kismet, as he got in front of Tecla and brandished the knife.

He met the canine charge with a swing of his kukuri. The broad blade sliced into the skull of the foremost attacker, but as the mortally wounded beast scrambled violently away, the blood slicked haft of the Nepalese fighting knife was wrestled from Kismet’s grip. The last remaining Doberman launched at his throat an instant later.
He instinctively blocked with his forearm and felt the animal’s powerful jaws close like a vise, the needle sharp teeth sinking to the bone. The momentum of its charge bowled him over. With his free hand, he clawed blindly, searching for the dog’s eyes and ears, but found only its slippery coat.

High above, the ATVs crested the hill and began the headlong descent, illuminating the battle between man and beast with their headlights. The two riders veered in opposite directions, an obvious flanking maneuver against which Kismet had no defense; his hands were full anyway.

The dog’s teeth were savaging the flesh of his forearm, but no amount of punishment could persuade the animal to release its hold. Fiery agony spread from his fingertips to his elbow and only the narcotic effect of adrenaline kept him from taking refuge in unconsciousness. He was dimly aware of Tecla, pounding her fists impotently against the dog’s torso, unwittingly exacerbating the injury to his arm by causing the animal to thrash back and forth. Meanwhile, the Colombians had reached the bottom of the ravine and were closing in like pincers from either side.

With a heave, Kismet rolled over, pinning the twisting canine underneath his body. The abrupt move succeeded in loosening the Doberman’s grip on his arm, but that minor respite was incidental to what he had in mind. Reaching back with his left hand, he freed the Glock from its holster and shoved it against the beast’s rib cage.

Twin explosions thundered beneath him as the weapon discharged. It was a risky shot; at such close range, the pressure of gas escaping the muzzle would do almost as much damage as the projectile, and there was no telling what might happen if the rounds deflected off bone or the hard ground underneath. The Doberman yelped violently, all thought of fighting gone, and squirmed from beneath him. Blood gushed from ragged wounds on either side of its torso, and even though it retreated with almost supernatural haste, its death was imminent.

Kismet did not pause to savor the victory. He rolled over and fired from a prone position, emptying the automatic in the direction of the ATV approaching from the left. Behind the glare of the Bombardier’s twin headlights, he could distinguish random sparks and knew the driver was returning fire.

When the slide on his pistol blew back for the final time, Kismet grabbed Tecla’s arm and propelled her away from the point where the off-road vehicles would cross their path. He then stood erect at the exact midpoint between them, as of waiting for the axe to fall.

It was, strangely enough, the safest place he could have chosen. Neither gunman dared fire on him, for fear of shooting his comrade; likewise, if either driver shifted course to run him down, they would risk a head-on collision. It was a classic game of chicken, and Kismet wasn’t about to blink.

With less than twenty yards between them, the man Kismet had shot at, and possibly wounded, suddenly veered away from the impact zone. As if reacting to a telepathic signal, the other driver swung the front end of his Bombardier toward Kismet, but the latter was already moving; as soon as the first driver had relented, Kismet had sprinted after him, maintaining his position between the two.

As the ATV cruised by, he leaped at the driver and snared the collar of the man’s shirt as he hurtled over the speeding machine. The Colombian was wrenched off his seat, and he and Kismet went tumbling in a tangle of limbs. The ATV, equipped with a safety tether brake, stopped abruptly to form an impromptu barrier between the two men and the remaining vehicle.

Because he was prepared for the impact, Kismet recovered from the bruising crash faster that his antagonist and quickly wrestled control of his machine pistol. The man’s struggles were halted when Kismet clubbed him on the temple with the captured weapon. Just as quickly, he scrambled closer to the abandoned Bombardier and took aim at the remaining assailant. A burst from the Skorpion knocked the rider backward off his mount, and when the ATV stalled a moment later, the night was plunged once more into silence.

Tecla came to his side. Her carefully manicured exterior was gone, replaced by a costume of blood and dirt, and her wide-eyed gaze was fixed on the carnage all around. Kismet knelt to retrieve his kukuri, then took her arm. “Come on.”

Disdaining the ATVs, he led her back up the hill to the motorcycle. As the climbed, he made a cursory examination of his wounds, then turned his attention to his companion. Her suit had borne the brunt of the Doberman’s furry. Beneath the shredded fabric, her wounds amounted to nothing more than bruises and a few abrasions. Kismet’s injuries were a little more severe – there were deep puncture wounds on his forearm that would require medical attention to prevent serious infection – but he had been through worse. The bullet wound to his shoulder was barely a graze, for which he was thankful.

Without the constant threat of pursuit, he was able to pay more attention to the trail and oriented himself toward the edge of the property. As they closed on the wood line however, the sound of gunfire was once more audible in the distance. He put the bike in neutral and coasted to a stop at the edge of the forest. They found themselves on a short hill overlooking the paved driveway. The battlefield below was surreal in the orange glow of the overhead street lamps.

Turino’s limousine had almost escaped the property, but had been forced to stop by an impromptu barricade of two vans which were now parked where the wrought iron gate had stood. One of the cars Turino’s wiseguys had used to storm those gates had careened off the road and slammed into one of the light posts; there was no sign of the other. A trail of bodies – some mafia, some cartel – led from the wrecked vehicle to the gate house.

Turino and his two bodyguards were still standing, and as Kismet watched, he saw them exchange fire with the two remaining Colombians. Negron’s men, perhaps overconfident in their superior firepower, wasted their ammunition, while their opponents directed their single shots with more care and precision. One of them went down with a gaping hole between his eyes, and his sole remaining comrade scrambled behind the vans.

From their vantage, Kismet and Tecla could see both sides of battle. The lone Colombian hugged the corner of the van, obviously looking for help that would never come, while the Don began gesturing decisively, directing one of his men to circle around and take the enemy from behind. It was a classic infantry assault drill, and as that one man headed for the trees, Turino and the other bodyguard began a steady barrage of gun fire to keep their foe pinned down.

“This will be over soon,” observed Kismet, speaking over his shoulder. If Tecla was troubled by watching her grandfather in a life and death struggle, she gave no indication.

Then something changed. It felt as if all light and warmth had suddenly drained out of the world, or at least everything in close proximity to the gun battle. Kismet suddenly felt very heavy, and for some reason, no matter how he directed his eyes, he found himself looking at a spot just behind the blockade. It was like staring a black hole in space. There was a crackle like electricity, then Turino’s man was flung backward, past the limousine, to crash into trees beyond.

The two mafiosi gaped at their stricken comrade, but were likewise unable to divert their attention from the dark entity that glided out from behind the vans. It was Negron, and the Judas Rope at his waist was a vortex, devouring the light...

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On to Episode 8:Fight the Devil!

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The Devil You Know and the character of Nick Kismet are copyright by Sean Ellis. It may not be copied without permission of the author except for purposes of reviews. (Though you can print it out to read it, natch.)