by Skye Knizley
Ashley could see no sentries, but she couldn’t make out much through the overgrown foliage. By the lack of growth in the cracked driveway and pavement outside it looked as if someone was using the building and visiting it often.
She stowed the binoculars and chewed a thumbnail, still watching the building. The old cliché was true. It looked quiet. Too quiet. There was no way Rayne had gone in there alone. Whether she was still there or not, it was a safe bet someone was home and not expecting visitors.
She drew her pistol and stepped out of the building’s shadow, her walk casual as she crossed the open space, her weapon held at her side. Experience had hammered home that a person moving at a normal pace through an open area attracts less attention than someone moving ‘low and slow.’ Combat movement was reserved for combat.
She reached the hospital’s outer fence and used it as a guide, following it until she was opposite the emergency room entrance at the side of the building. Through the bars, she could see a group of men sitting around a makeshift table, swapping drinks and a hand-rolled cigarette. They were dressed in tee shirts and jeans, and each had what looked like an M4 carbine close to hand.
Ashley paused again. One guard would have been easy to slip past. Four, not so much, and killing them at a distance would make too much noise.
The driveway to the emergency room curved downwards behind a retaining wall, leaving a space of less than four feet where the wall came closest to a low fence encircling the second-floor patio. From where she stood, it looked as if most of the second-floor windows had been broken out, giving easy and quiet access to the rooms beyond.
Ashley holstered her pistol and ducked around the edge of the fence, sticking to the overgrowth as much as possible until she was out of sight of the men near the entrance. When she was out of their line of vision, she ducked her head and ran as fast as she could, using her momentum to carry her from the top of the retaining wall to the fence around the second-floor patio. She caught the railing and hoisted herself up, going head first over the fence.
She crouched on the other side and watched back the way she’d come, uncertain if she’d been heard. After eighty heartbeats, and no sign of movement, she turned and peered through the window next to her. Inside was what had once been a typical hospital room with two beds separated by a curtain, a shared bathroom and a single door. The beds were now gone, and the plastic curtain had been torn down and used for bedding, but whoever had been using the room was long departed.
She picked her way through the broken glass and crossed the room to the corridor, which was dark and smelled somewhat of old urine on top of decades of bleach. She wrinkled her nose in disgust and flicked on her flashlight, shining the red beam in both directions. The corridor to her left ended in a fire door that had been barred with an old piece of timber. The corridor to her right appeared to empty into a nurses’ station and a bank of elevators. There was no sign anyone was in any of the rooms, but the middle of the floor had been worn clean by a variety of shoes and boots.
Ashley frowned at the tracks and ducked back into the room she’d entered through to retrieve her tablet from her pack. It took a moment to connect to the satellite network, but when she did, the GPS signal from Rayne’s phone popped up on the screen. Based on the position it was either last located on this floor or the floor above and just a few doors down.
She put the tablet away and stepped back into the hallway, drawing her pistol as she walked. The next room was much like the one she’d just passed through, with torn curtains and shredded wallpaper. The strong smell of chloroquine and ether emanated from the third room, and Ashley slowed, peering into the room from the safety of the corridor.
Inside was either a glass blower’s worst nightmare or the world’s biggest chemistry set. Beakers and tubes had been set up on half a dozen tables, gas burners flickered in the gloom beneath a makeshift exhaust hood and several industrial sized white plastic jars containing a variety of chemicals had been placed near the shattered window. A man with red and black spiked hair hovered over the beakers, stirring several and smiling when they formed a hard crystalline substance.
Crystal heroin, Ashley thought. You son of a bitch.
She waited until the man had stepped away from his chemistry set and had his back to the door before she entered the room. She kicked him behind the knee, sending him tumbling to the cracked linoleum. A kick to the solar plexus ensured he uttered nothing more than a surprised squeak before she straddled him, her knees pinning his arms to the floor, the barrel of her pistol aimed at his nose.
“The only reason you’re still alive is I need information,” she said. “Rayne Nightingale, do you know her?”
The man gasped for breath and shook his head, his eyes crossing to stare at the Beretta aimed at his face.
Ashley pulled out her phone and showed her captive Rayne’s driver’s license photo. “Her. Are you sure?”
The man looked at the picture and nodded.
“Tell me what you know and talk slowly,” Ashley said.
He coughed and drooled out a glob of bloody phlegm before speaking.
“Trinity, she used to be one of Gregor’s couriers. She got out a few years ago, and I never saw her again.”
“Have you seen her recently?” Ashley pressed. “Maybe picking up a new shipment?”
“No way, lady, after the way she treated Gregor, coming back would have been a death sentence if she was lucky,” he said. “Come on, let me up, it feels like you broke something.”
Ashley’s knees pressed harder into his shoulders, and she leaned closer, trying to ignore the man’s popping joints. “You’re lucky it’s just broken. Where can I find Gregor?”
The man smiled, his teeth tinged with blood. “Right behind you, you stupid bitch.”
Ashley began to turn, but she knew it was too late. She never even saw the gun.
Clouds had rolled in during the early afternoon, turning the bright morning into an afternoon that was stark, grey and shot through with lightning. Smoak could hear the low rumble of thunder not far away when she parked her bike, and she glanced at the clouds in annoyance. If it rained, she would have to take the truck. She hated the truck.
The apartment she shared with Ashley was vacant, dark, and somehow felt like an empty grave. The sensation made Smoak’s skin crawl, and she checked both Ashley’s room and the spare bedroom that passed for their office for any sign of her friend. It was a while before she satisfied herself that Ashley had taken her gear with her and was probably following up on a lead.
She returned to the office, got a spare phone from the safe and plugged it into the computer. It would duplicate the phone that had been killed by dunking it in the Atlantic while she took a shower and put on something a little more her speed. Blaze’s shorts were cute, but a little too revealing to be hunting kidnappers.
She returned to the office half an hour later, dressed in her leather work pants and a form-fitting tee shirt with a fluffy white towel around her hair. She wasn’t surprised to see her new phone flashing with messages, but the sheer number made her heart pound in her chest. Twelve voicemails and sixty-three texts awaited her attention, most from Rock.
She pressed the redial button and started pulling equipment from shelves. Her longbow and quiver went across her back, her knives went on her thighs and her custom belt went around her hips, all before Rock picked up.
“Miss Kamryn? Thank God you called. Where are you?” Rock said.
“Forget where I am, where’s Ash?”
“We’re in the barrens outside an abandoned hospital just off the 923,” Rock replied, talking fast. “Ashley went inside and hasn’t come back yet.”
Smoak felt her blood turn to ice water. “How long?”
“Almost two hours… Miss Kamryn?”
Smoak was already on her way out the door. Minutes later, she was on the highway, pushing herself and her bike to the limit, burying the speedometer’s needle so far below the gauge, it refused to co
me back up. Several times, she traded chrome for paint, not realizing or even caring how close she came to injury. Her mind was on one thing—Ashley.
The bike skidded to a steaming halt next to the Cadillac less than fifteen minutes after she’d left the apartment. She left it idling and walked to where Rock was standing at the back of the truck, his rifle in his hands.
“Tell me,” she said.
“She gave me instructions not to follow—” he started.
“I know. She wouldn’t want to put you in danger. Tell me,” Smoak said.
“She went over the fence, and I think she had no trouble crossing the lawn and climbing up to the second floor,” he said. “I lost sight of her when she entered through the corner window and haven’t heard from her since. When she didn’t come back, and I couldn’t reach you, I called General Chandler, but he isn’t available. Noah took a message, for all the good it will do.”
Smoak frowned. “Not much, Rock, we’re on our own with this. Plausible deniability and all that shit.”
She unslung her bow and turned toward the fence.
“Where are you going?” Rock asked.
“To get Ashley back,” Smoak replied.
“And if she’s gone?”
Smoak turned and lowered her sunglasses. “I’ll kill every last motherfucker who had anything to do with it.”
She pushed her glasses back up her nose and climbed the fence in two easy moves that left her hanging by one hand on the far side. She dropped into a crouch and then was up and running toward the hospital, not bothering to check for sentries. If they were there, she would deal with them.
When she reached the wrought iron barrier that circled the hospital, she followed it toward the emergency entrance. There was a guard standing at the end of the fence, a pistol clasped in his hand and a smoke dangling from his lips. Smoak put an arrow through his neck without slowing and continued down the driveway at a trot, leaving him to choke on his own blood on the hot pavement.
The remaining three gun thugs were standing at the bottom of the drive, taking shelter from the oncoming storm. It did no good. This storm was looking for blood.
Smoak drew back her bow and let fly. The arrow hit her target in the left eye, sending him into oblivion in a spray of viscous blood. His partner next to him had but a heartbeat to grunt in surprise before Smoak slammed into him, her flying side kick snapping his neck and almost taking his head clean off his shoulders. She landed and spun, slapping the remaining guard across the face with the limb of her bow. The impact cut off his cry of warning, and she was on him before he could try again, the string of her bow across his throat. He gagged and struggled, trying to free himself and push the smaller woman away. Her left fist powered into his stomach, and she pressed on the bow harder, making his eyes bulge out of their sockets.
“You have one chance to walk out of here,” she said. “A tall woman with brown hair that hangs to her ass was here. You would know her if you saw her. Is she alive? Nod once if she is.”
The man was still gagging beneath the pressure of the bow on his windpipe, but he managed to nod an affirmative. Smoak eased up on the pressure and let him take a rasping breath. He was useless if he died before telling her what she wanted to know.
“That just saved your life. What floor is she on?”
“The fifth, she’s on the fifth floor if Gregor hasn’t had her killed,” he said. “I don’t have anything to do with that, I’m just a dealer—”
“I don’t care what you do. I care about my friend. Who is Gregor, and how many thugs does he have on his leash?”
The man’s eyes widened. “Gregor. Gregor Utkin. He handles all of the Russian heroin distribution for the southeast. If you don’t know that, you’re not a cop or a dealer, who are you?”
Smoak ignored the question. “How many men does he have?”
“I don’t know for sure, ten, maybe fifteen.”
Smoak retrieved a capsule from one of the cartridges on her belt. “Fine. Open your mouth.”
The man balked and tried to pull away. “What is that?”
“It’s a tracker,” Smoak replied. “If they’ve harmed a hair on her head, after I kill them, I’m coming for you. Open.”
He closed his mouth and struggled again, trying to push Smoak away. She punched him in the stomach and then kicked his feet out from under him with one long leg. He fell in a heap on the pavement, and she put a foot on his throat.
“Last chance,” she said. “I can crush your windpipe and leave you choking on your own vomit, or you can swallow the tracker. I don’t care which.”
He glared up at Smoak with a mixture of fear and anger in his dark eyes but opened his mouth. Smoak dropped the transmitter capsule into his mouth and let up on his throat. The thug swallowed the radio and rolled onto his side, curling around the bundle of pain in his midsection.
“Good boy,” Smoak said. “The capsule is coated with rohypnol. You’re going to take a little nap now, but don’t worry. If you lied to me, I’ll make sure you’re awake when I kill you.”
“Fuck you,” the thug choked. “Gregor will have your heart on a platter, and I will spit on your grave.”
Smoak knelt and lowered her glasses, her blank, purple eyes boring into the thug’s. “Better men have tried and I’m still here. Don’t get your hopes up.”
She clipped her glasses to her shirt and straightened, her gaze falling on the broken doors that led into the hospital. Someone had made an effort to remove the broken glass from the entrance, instead piling it to either side, leaving only one clear path into the gloom. The ER waiting room had once been located beyond, and most of the furniture remained pushed against the wall or arranged into an office-like space, complete with a plastic table for a desk.
Doors led from the waiting area, but both were closed, hiding whatever lay deeper within. One of the doors was marked Emergency, while the sign on the other had fallen off and laid face down on the floor. Smoak stepped through the wrecked entrance and walked straight through the office to the door with the missing sign. She listened for any hint of movement then pushed it open with one hand. Electric lanterns cast long shadows across the hallway, illuminating a floor littered with glass and debris. Russian gang signs and slogans covered the walls and side doors, and a stylized human heart had been painted on the elevator doors at the end of the corridor. Noises, most sounding almost inhuman, echoed from deeper within the building, and a small part of Smoak wanted to see what was making the eerie sounds. The rest of her didn’t care.
She strode down the hall to the stairs and slipped through the open door without a sound. She took the stairs two at a time, slowing when she reached the landing for the second floor. The fire door was closed, but she could see light through the reinforced window and hear voices. Her Russian was rusty, but she made out the words ‘heroin’ and ‘shipment’ in the babble. The thug hadn’t been lying.
She ducked beneath the door’s window and continued up the stairs. The third and fourth floors seemed empty, with locked fire doors that were pitted and scarred by the efforts of people trying to get through. She didn’t bother to peek through the windows; she had a higher priority.
Smoak turned at the fifth-floor landing and slowed, controlling her breathing and listening for sounds from above. At least two men were speaking in Russian. By the proximity of their voices, she guessed they were on the landing directly above her. One of them would have to be facing her direction, which meant they would be able to cry out before she silenced them if she tried to take them head on.
She chewed the inside of her lip and crept forward in the shadows until she could see some of the landing above. Like the ones below, there was a fire extinguisher tucked into a cubbyhole next to the door. Unlike the others, there were two lanterns hanging from hooks rammed into the walls, lighting both the up and down staircases and making stealth an almost impossible tactic. She would be visible once she set foot on the stairs in either direction.
Going anot
her way would slow her down, but getting killed would slow her even more. She backed away until she was back on the fourth floor and retraced her steps to the second, where the two men were still having a heated argument beyond the locked door. She drew her other knife and knocked on the door, just loud enough for the men to hear over their raised voices. She saw a face appear in the window and heard bolts being drawn before the door opened a crack. A large man with a shaved head and Fu Manchu mustache stood in the gap.
“What do you want?” he asked.
Smoak’s blade sliced through his throat, and she kicked his dying body into the man behind him. The second man, a skinny kid with red and black hair, staggered under the weight and fell into the table behind him. Smoak spun and kicked him in the side of the head with the heel of her boot, crushing his temple. He sagged with the blank-eyed stare of a rag doll, and Smoak stood in the sudden stillness, blood dripping from her blade.
The second-floor lobby included a small waiting room, and she could see the outlines where soda and coffee machines had once stood pressed against the wall. On the other side of the room was the nurses’ station, now ransacked and filthy. Corridors ran at right angles to the lobby and led to the patient rooms. Smoak chose the hallway to her right and jogged along it, counting paces until she was satisfied she was far enough from the guards on the landing above that she could enter unseen. She passed into an empty room and looked out the shattered window. The sun had vanished entirely behind the storm clouds and rain was falling, making the street outside look cold and oily.
She used her knife to knock out the rest of the window and climbed through onto the ledge outside. Cold rain spilled over her shoulders and ran down her back, soaking through her shirt in the seconds it took her to find her footing and look up at the building above. There were ledges every ten feet that were just a hand-span out of reach under the best of conditions, but there were decorative stones placed in the wall in a pattern that was supposed to make the form of a cross in the right light. The stones would serve as handholds if one was crazy enough to try.