Joseph Rofal’s chamber was just ahead, two guards at the door, Molester-stache and Baldie, as Colt remembered them. He entered after they patted him down.
Rofal and Swank were having a heated conversation. Rofal ripped the glass lamp off his desk and threw it against the wall. “That money was for a seat at the table!” He saw Colt approaching. “You! This is your fault! You said you killed that asshole!”
Colt raised an eyebrow and looked at the swollen-faced Swank. “What asshole?”
“A guy in a mask showed up and stole seventy grand earlier tonight. Same guy I saw before.”
“How do you know it was the same guy?” Colt asked.
“Well, I guess I don’t, but he was definitely wearing the same welding mask. I saw the bullet hole that I put in it.”
“Bullet hole.” Colt thought back. “Yeah, I remember that, too. Bottom of the mask?”
“Yeah.”
“Couldn’t be the same guy, though. I definitely killed him.”
“I don’t know,” said Swank, rubbing his purple cheek. “That guy ain’t human. We must have shot him at least five times, stabbed him like six. He had knives sticking out of his fucking chest, man! Didn’t even slow him down. I have twenty men out of commission. Broken arms, legs, ribs. Fucker gave Rogers a concussion the other day.”
Rofal glared at him. “This is your responsibility, Colt.”
“What the fuck do you want me to do?” said Colt. “Do you even know where he is?”
Swank shook his head and looked at their boss. “He said he was coming for you. And no disrespect to Colt, but I’m not sure he’d stand much of a chance, anyhow. The guy took down, what, an eighth of all our muscle? In the span of a few days?”
A dark serial novel. Set in a modern fantasy world called Eleg. Mature language. Updates every night at midnight PST by ~400 words.