Third Host: Excerpt, Amitiel

April 3, 2008

Amitiel dove behind a set of crates and scrambled along the ground deeper into the warehouse. Shots and curses filled the warehouse. Amitiel sat back against a crate, watching up the isle. He pulled his snub-nosed revolver from under his trench coat and flicked open the chamber, dumping out the spent bullets. He tipped the gun back forward and pulled out a quick-loader from a pocket. He clicked the bullets into place and snapped it back closed in time to raise it and pulled the trigger, taking down the first man coming around the corner with a shot to the shoulder.

He slid to his feet, staying in a crouch and hurried further in, dodging between the stacks of crates. A voice in the distance demanded they be careful of the goods. The next corner ran him straight into a group of men. He clipped the first in the jaw with his pistol before the thug could react, sending him crashing to the others. Amitiel had lost his hat scrambling about earlier, but kept his coat for the extra ammo in its pockets. Beneath it he wore a blue shirt, a loose striped tie and slacks. His frame dwarfed most of the men scrambling to grab him, but his ash gray hair and bandaged hands made him look out of place amidst the guns and punches.

He managed to duck the first two swings and drive another man to his knees with a hard blow to the kidney. Another pair jumped into the mess to grab his arms, slowing him down enough for the hits to start raining down on him. His gun clattered to the ground and a hard blow to the side of the head pushed him to his knees. A man in an expensively cut white suit stepped up to the edge of the ring.

“Enough. Let’s see what he has to say.”

The men slowly drew back, the two staying at his side and holding Amitiel’s arms, dragging him back onto his feat. Blood drizzled down from a split lip and bruises were already blossoming across his face. Despite that, he manages a hard-toothed grin. “Well hell, if I knew you were willing to come out this easy, I would have let them take a few swings at me earlier”

The man shakes his head and motions slightly to one of the largest of the men nearby, a bald headed man with a shotgun. He stepped forward and drove the stock of his gun into Amitiel’s stomach, nearly doubling him over again. Amitiel coughs hard and groans.

“Take him out back. Shoot him, take his wallet and sink him. We’ll run down who he is later,” the man in white says flatly and turns, walking back off into the warehouse. The large man and most of the lackies followed after, leaving the two men holding him and two extras to drag Amitiel back through the warehouse and out a small side door into an alley. They shoved him back against a wall.

The smallest of the four stepped forward and shoved his gun against Amitiel’s forehead, holding it sideways. “Man, this guy’s hardly worth the bullet.”

That hard toothed grin crept back onto Amitiel’s face as the trash talking thug turned his head to seek agreement from his fellow thugs. He tucked his head slightly to the side while driving a knee hard into the trash-talkers gut. The resulting spasm caused him to fire a bullet into the wall, sending bits of concrete scattering about. Amitiel followed up by catching the back of the man’s head and slamming it into the wall once hard, then turned and threw the man into the gunfire of the other three. Before they could adjust he picked up the thugs fallen weapon and put a slug in each of them.

He quickly gathered extra weapons and moved to the door, waiting. Apparently no one noticed the commotion. He shook his head with a soft sigh. Bunch of bloody kids trying to be adults by shooting people. He’d have to try and take it easy on at least a few of them. Give them a chance to straighten up. He carefully pushed open the door and ducked back inside, quietly weaving his way toward a ladder up to catwalks.

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