door. 'Can you pinpoint him?'
'Yes,' Jordan's anxious whisper came back. 'He's down in the basement where they keep their personal vehicles. But he's moving in your direction. He is coming for you, Harry!'
Yes, but A.C. isn't a Necroscope, (Harry kept that thought to himself). And he hasn't got the foggiest idea what's coming for him! Neither had Jordan known it until he saw it in Harry's mind, and then he recoiled as if slapped in the face! However, Harry went on, if A. C. Doyle knows where I am, then it's probably a good idea not to be here.
Going on foot this time, using the repair bays as cover, he made his way back along the central aisle into the heart of the garage. But half-way back to the single source of electric light. . . suddenly it was snuffed! There came the soft tinkle of fragile glass breaking.
Harry froze. Whoever had smashed the light, it wouldn't be George Jakes. Because light or dark it would make no difference to him. Jakes was governed by ... whatever he was governed by! Love of the Necroscope, mainly; or Harry's power over the dead, whichever way one chose to think of it. So, it could only have been A.C. or Skippy - or one other?
One other, Jordan told him. But I can't read him ... or her! This one has a funny mind. I've met the like before. You can't scan them any too easily. They sort of deflect telepathic probes. Like mindsmog, you know? I don't think it's a conscious thing, but -
I get the idea, Harry cut him off, and made to release the safety on his 9mm Browning. But even as he did so, chains rattled almost directly overhead!
The Necroscope's gaze jerked upwards. He saw eyes glaring down on him from the gloom of the gantry walkway. And sliding down the greasy chains, a lithe, black-clad male figure kicked the gun from his hand, not only disarming him but numbing his arm at the same time.
Shocked, caught completely off guard, Harry's thoughts flew in every direction. Fumbling, he made to conjure a Mobius door, tripped and went sprawling over an open box of tools into a pile of fresh swarf. He felt a leg of his trousers rip, felt his hands sliced as he scrambled to untangle himself. But suddenly the black-clad figure was standing over him, eyes burning in a black stocking-mask, and a dark gash grimacing where the mouth would be. Then the mouth formed words, and snarled:
'Just one more motherfucking copper who won't come snooping anymore!' A Geordie voice - Skippy - and the Necroscope could picture the writhing of the scorpion tattoo on his wrist as he drew back his arm for the killing stroke; but no need to imagine his weapon. Harry could see that well enough: the long ugly curve of a silver-glinting machete!
The blade went up, commenced its arcing sweep forward and down -
- And something struck out of the darkness, making first a vibrating thrum, then the vicious whuuup sound of cleft air! But it didn't cleave the Necroscope.
The machete flew out of Skippy's hand; his black silhouette was straightened forcefully from its killing, feet-apart stance, jerked upright and tossed back like a carelessly discarded puppet. He tugged at something sticking out of his chest, coughed a spray of black that Harry knew must be red, and went down into darkness without another sound. And stayed down.
A shadow moved sinuously close by. Harry heard a straining sound -like something being stretched under pressure - and the sharp click as a catch engaged. And being no stranger to crossbows, he knew what had hit Skippy. A moment later:
The bright beam of a pocket torch shone directly into his eyes. He was stil tangled in cutting swarf, and dripped blood where he put up a hand to shield his eyes. But before the light snapped off he saw the Browning lying in the swarf and reached for it. This time, before freeing himself, he prepared the gun for firing. As he did so, he saw the shadow - a female shape, surely? and one that he'd seen before? but he couldn't be sure because his eyes were still dazzled - slipping away along the central aisle.
Think straight, can't you! Trevor Jordan snapped in his mind. And as Harry finaly got to his feet, in a softer, more anxious tone: How bad is it? Are you okay?
I'll live, the Necroscope answered,