Free Lair of Killers by Will Molinar Page A

older man sound tired. “The level of genius demonstrated here is staggering. I don’t feel well.” Crocker groaned, and Becket stepped forward reaching out a steadying hand.
    “Then sit down, you old coot!”
    He grabbed Crocker’s trembling hand and felt the livered spotted flesh, cold and clammy. His bones were thin. Becket eased him to a seated position on the floor. He started to feel around on Crocker’s skull for a possible injury there that might have been giving him trouble, but the old man swatted his hand away.
    “I don’t need you probing me like some harlot. You are not a surgeon.”
    “Fine then,” Becket said. “Be that way and bleed to death for all I care.” He stood and faced the others. “Does anyone have a serious injury that needs tending?”
    There were minor scrapes and bruises, and almost all had bumps on their skulls. Others, however, were taken still awake.
    “I was surrounded ‘bout midnight,” Devin O’Grady said, and Becket could hear the man’s fleshy body quivering. “They did not strike me. They only said they were taking me somewhere, and if I resisted, they would kill me. I did what they asked.”
    “What did they look like?” Haller said.
    Becket could feel the man shrug. Everyone did it, this compulsion to move while in conversation, even when the person you were talking to could not see.
    “I could not see their faces as they were covered. But they wore the brown leather of our security forces.”
    “That would be easy enough to manufacture,” Becket said, thinking out loud.
    “There were other men with them,” someone else said in the darkness. “Others besides these. They wore black hoods, like executioners.”
    The group muttered together in the dark. A nervous, anxious trill rolled through them. Becket realized he was holding his breath, and he when let it out, his head felt light and dizzy.
    “Master Becket,” Haller said, “what do you suggest we do now?”
    Becket regretted volunteering to be leader. There was more murmuring. The general hubbub was directed towards him and his potential leadership. He was senior Dock Master, no matter who else was there. But it was questionable if that outranked the department of the treasury. “I think we should find a way out of here of course. Does anyone have any tools on them? Maybe we can get this door open.”
    “Oh brilliant,” Crocker said. “From Dock Master to master thief.”
    Becket fought the urge to grab the old man and throttle him.
    People shuffled around. More murmuring. A woman spoke up. “I’ve a hairpin. Those thugs took my broach. My beautiful broach! My grandmother gave it to me on her deathbed. Those bastards! It was made of the purest gold.”
    “Let’s see that pin,” Becket said before she could continue to ramble. These rich people and their trinkets. But then he was no different when it came to his art.
    She handed it over, and the flush of excitement over the potential for freedom was crushed by the discovery it was too small to do much of anything.
    “Anything else? Anyone?”
    A small figure stepped forward out of the darkness. There was a hovering aura of confidence about the man, despite his stature. When he spoke, everyone listened.
    “Got something here that might work. Keep it tucked in my boot for special occasions. Heh. Gotta stay prepared.”
    More murmuring, this time with a hopeful slant. Becket did not share their enthusiasm, feeling wary instead.
    “Who are you, friend? How did you get here?”
    “Well, see, got rounded up at The Prancing Pony with everyone else.”
    “What’s your name, sir?”
    “Name’s Zandor. I think we can get outta here, if you do what I say.”
    Becket was listening.

 
     
    Chapter Four
    The Arc Lector’s office was adorned with many beautiful objects: paintings, sculptures, and large tapestries that dominated each wall to either side. A beautiful stained glass window stood behind Morlin’s shining hardwood desk, and after an