![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Novel Excerpt
Dec. 8th, 2008 12:42 pmFrom a fantasy story, set in 1937.
Meanwhile, far below the carnage in the penthouse, a custom touring car emerged from the underground garage onto the dark, empty street.
"Gun it!" yelled Brock, whacking his driver on the shoulder as he stared back at the building.
The big car lurched forward, the supercharger whining as the V12 strained to accelerate the mass of metal, glass and rubber. Wisps of fog were rent by its passage as the vehicle raced away from the scene.
The occasional streetlights cast dim, yellow light on small portions of the street, sidewalks and buildings; the crime lord squinted for several nervous seconds, watching for pursuit.
Brock, finally satisfied they had gotten away, laughed in relief and triumph. He twisted around to sit properly on the elegant leather upholstery of the rear seat, a large briefcase secure across his lap. The laugh died as a small figure stepped from the shadows out into the street two blocks ahead.
The Dragon's Hand calmly watched the approaching vehicle for a moment, masked face expressionless. Then she stepped back into her load position, held for a moment, as if preparing. Then she lunged forward into the strike. Nothing visible crossed the distance between her fist and the grill of the car, but the vehicle might as well have been hit with a battering ram. The ghostly blow smashed the radiator and shoved the fan back against the engine block. Steam erupted from the violated cooling system, and the rear wheels skidded as the engine locked, then freewheeled when the axle snapped loose. Sparks sprayed from underneath the car, violating the shadows as metal dragged on pavement. The driver lost control. The touring car swerved drunkenly. Like a blinded juggernaut, the massive machine uprooted a fire hydrant, snapped a utility pole and finally crashed to a halt against the corner of a brownstone.
For several long moments there was relative quiet, with only the hissing and clicking of the car and the rush of water to be heard. Then Brock staggered out, blood pouring from a gash in his forehead. He didn't even think about the two men left in the car, but pushed himself away and ran crookedly into the street, the vital briefcase clasped in one hand, a pistol in the other. A figure intruded into his blurred vision. It was small and colorful and unhurried, wearing flowing Oriental clothes and a golden dragon mask. Brock swore, and raised the Colt. The figure seemed unworried. The gun spat fire and lead several times, then clicked impotently. The gangster knew he had hit at least twice, but the bullets had no apparent effect.
The Dragon's Hand calmly took the automatic from Brock and tossed it aside, then drew back her hand and slapped him across the face. The sharp sound of the strike split the night, and the impact nearly his cheek. The blow sent him reeling, almost downing him. But Big Eddie was no ordinary man; even that inhumanly strong blow did not finish him. He turned toward his attacker, determined to fight back, as he always had. He straightened himself just in time to receive another devastating slap. Twice more those hard, sharp blows landed. The Dragon's Hand was preparing yet another one, when Big Eddy sank to the pavement, out. The Dragon's Hand lowered her hand, then looked around as she heard someone approaching. The Night Master and Dutch stopped beside her, breathing hard from their dash, looking at the wreckage with a touch of awe.
Meanwhile, far below the carnage in the penthouse, a custom touring car emerged from the underground garage onto the dark, empty street.
"Gun it!" yelled Brock, whacking his driver on the shoulder as he stared back at the building.
The big car lurched forward, the supercharger whining as the V12 strained to accelerate the mass of metal, glass and rubber. Wisps of fog were rent by its passage as the vehicle raced away from the scene.
The occasional streetlights cast dim, yellow light on small portions of the street, sidewalks and buildings; the crime lord squinted for several nervous seconds, watching for pursuit.
Brock, finally satisfied they had gotten away, laughed in relief and triumph. He twisted around to sit properly on the elegant leather upholstery of the rear seat, a large briefcase secure across his lap. The laugh died as a small figure stepped from the shadows out into the street two blocks ahead.
The Dragon's Hand calmly watched the approaching vehicle for a moment, masked face expressionless. Then she stepped back into her load position, held for a moment, as if preparing. Then she lunged forward into the strike. Nothing visible crossed the distance between her fist and the grill of the car, but the vehicle might as well have been hit with a battering ram. The ghostly blow smashed the radiator and shoved the fan back against the engine block. Steam erupted from the violated cooling system, and the rear wheels skidded as the engine locked, then freewheeled when the axle snapped loose. Sparks sprayed from underneath the car, violating the shadows as metal dragged on pavement. The driver lost control. The touring car swerved drunkenly. Like a blinded juggernaut, the massive machine uprooted a fire hydrant, snapped a utility pole and finally crashed to a halt against the corner of a brownstone.
For several long moments there was relative quiet, with only the hissing and clicking of the car and the rush of water to be heard. Then Brock staggered out, blood pouring from a gash in his forehead. He didn't even think about the two men left in the car, but pushed himself away and ran crookedly into the street, the vital briefcase clasped in one hand, a pistol in the other. A figure intruded into his blurred vision. It was small and colorful and unhurried, wearing flowing Oriental clothes and a golden dragon mask. Brock swore, and raised the Colt. The figure seemed unworried. The gun spat fire and lead several times, then clicked impotently. The gangster knew he had hit at least twice, but the bullets had no apparent effect.
The Dragon's Hand calmly took the automatic from Brock and tossed it aside, then drew back her hand and slapped him across the face. The sharp sound of the strike split the night, and the impact nearly his cheek. The blow sent him reeling, almost downing him. But Big Eddie was no ordinary man; even that inhumanly strong blow did not finish him. He turned toward his attacker, determined to fight back, as he always had. He straightened himself just in time to receive another devastating slap. Twice more those hard, sharp blows landed. The Dragon's Hand was preparing yet another one, when Big Eddy sank to the pavement, out. The Dragon's Hand lowered her hand, then looked around as she heard someone approaching. The Night Master and Dutch stopped beside her, breathing hard from their dash, looking at the wreckage with a touch of awe.
