| What Are The Odds? |
[12 Dec 2007|01:08am] |
After more than eight years, getting hit still hurt.
Rhiannon wiped her lip.
She should've gone on a regular patrol, maybe hit a graveyard or two, and broken her body back in easily. But this whole 'vampires on wheels' thing had been bothering her for weeks. A half hour before sunset, the Slayer walked to the industrialized area where railroad tracks intersected and trains dropped cargo or picked up new cars before heading out of town. It didn't take long to find a seemingly deserted car that, her senses told her, gave shelter to a couple of vamps during the daylight hours.
Her plan was simple enough on paper. Give the metal door a tug, flood the car with sunlight, and go from there.
Sneaking up was utterly impossible. She did a tight-wire on the side of the rail car and found the handle. But as soon as she inched the door, it let out a scrape that practically turned her ears inside out. Sound amplification guaranteed that the occupants were feeling it, too. Hearing a chorus of angry snarls, Rhiannon grunted and yanked on the door as hard as she could.
At halfway, she heard the first demon explode in a cloud of dust. But then pulling got harder. Suddenly she was in a tug of war for control of the door. One of the vamps got ballsy. Sunlight or not, it reached around and grabbed the Slayer's throat and pulled her inside. The door slammed shut behind her. First everything was orange, light cast by the burning vampire. Then he was dust and the car went pitch black. A fist hit her on the mouth. So much for simple on paper...
Whistler's idea, on paper, was perfect. Pound on the back door of the Chinese restaurant, flood the goon with his charm, and go from there. Faking his way into the poker game was pretty much impossible. High stakes meant high security. You needed guts. You needed a password. You needed a bankroll (which he had, courtesy of the last paycheck cashed from the Witching Hour). One out of three.
Whistler walked the tightrope when the six-foot bruiser answered the door. He stuffed a few dollars into the guy's breast pocket, hoping to impress, but the grunt from the front-line security indicated the hatted man was unwelcome. It was either brass balls or a death wish that found Whistler's foot thrust into the entrance and his hands against the solid metal door, where he engaged in a tug of war. The scrape of metal against concrete reverberated along the alley as the Whistler versus Goliath battle rode on.
He didn't see the extra pair of hands that grabbed him by the lapels, and lifted him six inches off the ground before yanking him inside the restaurant. The door slammed shut behind him...
( Rail Car )
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