Free The Machinist: Making Time by Alexander Maisey, Doug Glassford Page A

“Open that up and carry me to the third floor. Kill anyone that screws with us.”
    The beast man nodded and smashed shoulder-first through the doorway.  The bodyguard dusted himself off as he strolled back down the three steps leading to the now-shattered entrance.  He cradled the old man in one arm like an infant and went up the creaking stairwell.  The minutes passed slowly.  A few of the stairs creaked and splintered beneath the men’s combined weight, causing Patton’s bodyguard to growl—but Patton egged his escort-slash-pack mule on, reminding the mutant of the many thousands of dollars waiting for him when the job was over.
    There were no surprises as the pair ascended the stairs—no attackers from the shadows and no walls crashing in disastrously to reveal a superhero in pursuit of them.  Patton briefly regretted offering his bodyguard as much as he had, before reminding himself that the final fate of his ill-gotten gains would mean nothing to him very soon.  He whispered to himself as they reached the third floor.  “Tonight’s the night, Scottie.”
    “Apartment B,” Patton instructed.  The massive brute set him down in front of the door in question with a grunt.  Patton tipped an imaginary hat at his escort.  “Keep the car.”
    The mutant trudged around the corner and back down the stairs.  Patton turned to the door and pushed it open.  He smiled at seeing the small box that waited for him in the center of the cobweb filled apartment.  The container sparkled in the splintered moonlight that shone through the wooden slats nailed over the room’s windows.  A cockroach skittered across the floor of the otherwise barren room and into a crack in the wall.
    The old man opened the box and gingerly removed its contents.  He chewed on his tongue as he connected cables to each other and assembled the strange machinery.  Something inside the box began to hum.
    ***
    The young man ran panting up 3 rd Avenue.  The weight of the messenger bag under his arm slowed his gait more than he had expected.  Cool raindrops splashed against his reddened face, sending a tingle down his spine.  Or maybe it was the adrenaline.
    He was pretty sure that he’d lost the cops when he peeled off on to East 20 th , but he turned his head over his shoulder to check anyway.  The fat fucks were huffing and puffing a few yards behind him.  Damn! He was going to have to scramble to make it back to the relative safety of Brotherhood turf.  He knew the mayor’s cronies wouldn’t come within a spitting distance of The Fortress.  Not if they wanted to keep their dicks.
    The young felon picked up his pace, laughing as he stamped over puddles on the pavement.  He could see the barber shop pole up ahead.  His goal was the red brick building next to it.  He heard one of the cops yell at his partner to stop, to back the fuck up.  The kid slowed his pace and turned so he was jogging backwards, facing the winded cops.
    “Annd… hee’s..,” He raised his middle finger at the officers and yelled, “Safe!  Scottie wins again, pigs!”
    One of t he cops waved him off and slunk away, defeated.  The second one followed the first, back up the narrow street.  Scottie took a moment to stare at the façade of his building, his home.  It was a pretty nice place that he’d scored, considering how close it was to the Brotherhood of Supervillains’ base of operations.
    “Hate to see you get fucked up in some super-fight,” Scottie told the building.  He whistled a cheerful tune while he went inside and made his way up the glistening hardwood stairs.  Reaching the building’s third floor, Scottie turned his key in the door of apartment B and stepped inside.  He slammed the door behind him and kicked off his Reeboks.
    “Hello,” an old man’s voice croaked from the apartment’s shadows.  Scottie jumped like a skittish dog, sending the bag he was carrying into the air.  When it hit the floor, dozens of fifty and