Zero Hour (NUMA Files 11)

He turned around slowly as the intruders measured him up and gave Hayley the once-over.

“I assume you guys are here for the dishes,” Kurt said, pointing to the pile of flatware, cups, and glasses on the floor.

The two men looked down, their eyes instinctively drawn in the direction Kurt had pointed. It was an amateur response, but they were amateurs, local muscle hired to do someone else’s dirty work. In the fraction of a second before they corrected their mistake, Kurt moved. He pivoted on his left foot and fired his right leg toward the closest man’s gut.

The heel of his boot hit like a pile driver and knocked the man backward. He crumpled like a folding chair, sucking wind and grabbing his stomach as he hit the ground. The second thug lunged at Kurt, his huge pawlike hands going for Kurt’s neck.

Kurt blocked the effort, grabbing the man’s wrist and twisting it. Using the attacker’s considerable momentum against him, Kurt spun him off balance and body-slammed him to the ground. The man hit the floor with a thud, and Kurt dropped down and hammered him with a forearm smash to the face.

He would have slugged the guy again, but he knew the boss would be coming. He spun to his feet and turned.

It was too late.

The gaunt leader of the crew was already there with a black pistol in hand, holding it sideways, gangster style. He studied Hayley, nodded approvingly, and then turned back to Kurt.

“I don’t need you,” he said.

Kurt dove to the right as the man fired mercilessly. The first shell missed, the second grazed Kurt’s arm. The third bullet shattered the window behind him. Before the would-be killer could trigger a fourth shot, a different sound rang out. It was a sickly thud, like the sound of a broken-bat single being hit in a baseball game.

The gunman’s head snapped forward, and the pistol flew from his hand. He fell into the cabin, hitting the table and splaying on the ground like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

Behind him, Joe Zavala stood in the doorway with a piece of cabinetry in his hands.

Kurt snatched up the black pistol. “Way to make an entrance.”

Joe grinned. “What I do, I like to do in style.”

The leader was out cold, the other two assailants were moving but not interested in any more combat. They hadn’t expected to take a beating, and now that they were outnumbered and outgunned, they seemed more interested in surrender.

Kurt pulled the mask off the leader. “Anyone recognize this face?”

Joe shook his head, Hayley did likewise. “Never seen him before,” she said.

“I figure they’re not our friends from the flooded mine,” Kurt replied.

“What makes you say that?”

“The fact that we’re still conscious,” he said.

A radio began to squawk in the downed leader’s pocket. “What’s the delay? We heard shooting. Do you need assistance?”

This time, Kurt thought he recognized the accent. “Russians?”

“That’s what it sounded like to me,” Joe said.

“What are they doing mixed up in this?”

“No idea,” Joe said. “But I saw another group of them heading to the back, where the caboose would be if this train had one.”

“And at least two more outside,” Kurt said.

Kurt aimed the pistol at the man with the busted face. “How many friends did you bring to this party?”

The man answered slowly. “Eight or nine in the truck. I didn’t count ’em.”

Kurt pointed to the Russian. “How many like him, the guys who did the hiring?”

“There were four of them.”