Hugh Hamilton
Upon entering the building, Ben noticed two things. The first was the faintly familiar scent of male sweat. It was only faintly familiar because both he and his partner were incapable of generating the stuff, and, as a rule, tended to avoid locations where perspiring men were known to gather. The other, more pressing thing he noticed was the presence of several sweat-producing males, each of whom appeared to possess an ammunitions truck worth of firepower. Indeed, so comprehensively armed was the group that apparently indispensable machetes had to be kept between their clenched teeth. Admittedly there was nothing preventing the blades from simply being sheathed or otherwise affixed to their belts, but these alternatives would have assuredly been less cool. A few feet behind the intimidating men (whose teeth would surely be gnashing if it weren't for the machetes), the two Germans looked on, enjoying the impunity afforded by opaque sunglasses and a room full of armed subordinates.
"Dit zal goed zijn," said one, in flawless Dutch.
"Whoops, wrong house," said Ben, pulling Hugh towards the door. Somehow anticipating this, one of the Germans had already positioned himself between them and freedom.
"Nicht so fast," said the German, in not-flawless English.
Ben, as was customary, looked at Hugh, not for wisdom or ideas, but rather to share in a moment of defeat. Hugh was not looking back. Instead, he had adopted a purposeful stance, his eyes fixed straight ahead. He stepped forward. Ben was impressed, up until the moment he noticed Hugh had soiled himself. Then he was impressed in a different kind of way.
"Catch me if you can," said Hugh, immediately wishing he had thought of something cleverer. The men looked at one another and would have shared a smirk of some description had the machetes allowed. One of them attempted to say something to the effect of "Allow me" and stepped forward. The actual remark was understood by no one, owing, once again, to the whole machete business, but the stepping-forward part seemed to do the trick.
"No," said Hugh. "All of you." The provocation had the intended effect. The mass of muscles and firepower was now concentrated solely on him, awaiting the merest of flinches. Some time later Hugh remembered to breathe. Then he remembered to run. Whether by design or luck, this did not initially prompt his antagonists to unload several rounds of bullets into him. In fact, the impotent, pitiable attempt at a diversion endeared them to the idea of protracted torture. Death would come later.
Hugh looked behind him. He was glad they had taken the bait, but he was simultaneously despairing that he had not really planned beyond this point. Not really. He looked up. The room appeared to be midway through construction. Nearby, a paint-splattered support structure led up to a chaotic ceiling of rafters and struts. Two more seconds and the men would be upon him. He could hear them readying to pounce. One. With a spastic beauty, he leapt. For a moment there was silence. Then there was something decidedly louder as he arced into the support structure. It collapsed immediately. A scattershot of handyman debris hit everywhere except the approximate locations of his pursuers, who at this point had generated far too much momentum to change course. But as they hurtled towards the wreckage, a series of steel struts cascaded down from the ceiling, bluntly interrupting their strides. Those who didn't trip from the struts tripped from the tripping men in front of them. It was at this moment that the wisdom of keeping an extra-broad machete between one's teeth truly came into question. Each of the men came to the same conclusion, as each, in turn, had his head severed from the mouth up.
Back at the entrance, Ben gagged discreetly. Having witnessed part of a head bounce bloodily past him, the further German failed to be quite so discreet.
"Now shall we talk?" said Ben. He was smiling. Hugh had a point after all.
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