As one, the remaining four men whipped up submachine guns. Shocked fingers clenching triggers, they opened fire.
The first barrage sliced Ronnie Marzano to ribbons. He slid to the floor in a bloody tangle.
The same bullets should have transformed the intruder into hamburger. They didn't.
Though they fired point-blank, the men were stunned to find their target still standing. Hot lead pounded into the man's chest. Still, he showed no visible reaction.
Bullet holes peppered the wall behind him. Already screams were audible from the bar beyond. Standing in front of the barrage, Mr. Gordons didn't flinch. While the men fired, he calmly raised his hands, still in the shapes of twin daggers.
The nearest drug dealer was only a few feet away. Like giant scissors, the blades snapped together. Unfortunately for the man, his neck was between them.
As the decapitated head thudded to the floor, the intense burst of gunfire burped to silence. The remaining three men quickly gauged the situation. Flinging down their guns, they ran screaming out into the bar.
Gordons followed.
He caught the last man just outside the door.
The blades that were Gordons's hands slashed right and left. The drug dealer surrendered arms and legs.
The other two men had already raced out the door, along with the other bar patrons. Gordons didn't pursue them.
It was unlikely now that the humans negotiating the purchase of the drugs would arrive with their currency. There was also a nearly hundred percent probability that the authorities would be arriving soon. Mr. Gordons had failed in his mission.
Feeling no disappointment, the android turned from the main bar floor back to the rear hallway.
He found a human blocking his way.
"You ruined my night," the man drawled. "Only fair I get to ruin yours, too."
The young man who stood before Gordons was exceptionally pale. The flesh around his soft cheeks was so white it was almost blue. A shock of white hair sprang up from his scalp. It had been short during a stint in the military. Much longer now, it jutted up like curling, demented horns.
Elizu Roote raised his hands shoulder high, his palms directed toward Mr. Gordons.
At first, the android ignored Roote. Knife blades shuddering as they re-formed into hands, he continued to stride back toward the exit. But when Roote's hands opened, revealing the tarnished gold pads that were buried at the tips of his fingers, the android stopped dead.
He tipped his head. "Are you biomechanical in nature?" Mr. Gordons asked with childlike curiosity. The question had barely passed his lips before an audible hum filled the air. The android's optical sensors detected ten distinct flashes at each of the young man's fingertips. Jumping forward, they formed a single white bolt. With a crackle the electrical arc surged across the space that separated Elizu Roote from Mr. Gordons.
The shock pounded the android hard in the chest. There was no way Gordons could avoid it. Indeed, his metallic frame made him a lightning rod. Gordons stumbled back into the bar, his face contorting into a parody of human shock. And as his joints seized and his body stiffened, a soft smile of demonic satisfaction kissed the pale white lips of Elizu Roote.
STEWART MCQUEEN was driving aimlessly through the streets of City Point when his police scanner squawked to life with news of the commotion at the Roadkill.
He had a street map taped to his dashboard. At a glance he saw he was only two blocks away. Thanking his lord and master the Prince of Darkness for his guidance, the world-famous novelist pressed down hard on the gas, tearing off in the direction of the bar.
CLARK BEEMER WATCHED With a sinking feeling as the people flooded out the front door of the Roadkill. Clark started the NASA van's engine, his weak eyes trained on the back door of the bar.
When Gordons failed to materialize, Beemer grew even more anxious. But when he heard the sound of approaching sirens, he panicked.
Knocking the van into drive, he twisted the wheel, flying across the lot. Frightened people scattered from his path as he goosed it out into the street.
Bouncing off the curb, Clark Beemer raced away from the bar. As the PR man tore off into the night, he hoped that Florida's famously strict laws were muddy on the punishment for being accessory to a killer mechanical space spider.
STEWART MCQUEEN ARRIVED at the Roadkill moments before the police. He screeched to a halt in front of the bar and bounded for the entrance.
The novelist didn't know what to expect when he flung open the battered door. In spite of all the strange, paranormal events he'd written about in his long career, he was ill prepared for what he found.
Toward the back of the dimly lit saloon a ghostly white young man appeared to be firing bolts of lightning from his fingertips. The arcing current was pounding against a figure that was sprawled back against the bar.
Despite the apparent amazing abilities of the first man, it was the second figure that shocked McQueen more.
The thing appeared to be half man, half spider. Twisted arachnid legs jutted from a sparking torso, thrashing as if in pain with every surging burst of power.
When Roote attacked, Gordons had tried to assume a shape that would frighten the man into retreat. With his circuits overloading, the transformation hadn't been fully successful.
As McQueen watched, the powerful hum that seemed to rise up from Roote slowed.
Confusion marred Elizu Roote's pale face.
His power charge was weakening. Cutting the juice, he wheeled from Gordons. Staggering slightly, the thin young man disappeared down the shadowy hallway and was gone.
Mr. Gordons reeled away from the bar. His face showed no emotion as his spider legs flailed in space. Pitching forward, he fell against a chair.
Extra furry arms kept him from falling. He pushed himself back to his feet, staggering for the door. Near the entrance to the Roadkill, Stewart McQueen shook his head, snapping himself from his trance. Racing over, he grabbed Gordons up under his human set of arms. The writer was relieved when he received no shock.
A soft word croaked up from the belly of the android.
"...survive, survive, survive, survive..."
Gordons didn't seem to be aware of where he even was.
Stewart McQueen nodded tightly, struggling to support the android. He was amazed by how heavy Gordons was.
"I can help you to survive," McQueen promised. "Just remember, one hand washes the other."
He hurried the android outside, dumping him into the back of his rental car. McQueen tumbled in behind the steering wheel.
With fresh images of New York Times bestsellerdom dancing in his head for the first time in months, Stewart McQueen thanked the prince of all that was unholy before tearing off into the night.
Chapter 17
Remo had to swerve a dozen times to avoid fleeing cars. They were barreling up the middle of the road away from the Roadkill Tavern and into oncoming traffic.
One of the vehicles in particular headed straight for him up the double yellow line. Twisting the wheel to one side, Remo scraped sparks from the sides of three parked cars. The menacing black shape tore past them.
"Wasn't that another one of those boohawdle vans?" Remo growled as he pulled back onto the road.
Chiun was carefully scrutinizing the escaping van in the side mirror. "One ugly American vehicle looks the same as the next to me."