Requiem For The Widowmaker

by Blackie Noir

  The suspect beat her to it. No warning. Not a twitch. Fast. Dude was quicksilver.

  Spinning, stepping, one foot hitting the top of the low concrete divider, and then he was over. Sprinting across four lanes of, miraculously traffic free, highway. Gone.

  Had the guy timed it? Followed the traffic flow, which tended to bunch up, with open spots between clusters, waiting for an ebb? Or, was the guy just that, balls to the wall, don’t give a shit, crazy. Didn’t matter. Nadine had lost him. Nadine would have to get him back.

  She began running. Her back to her Mustang, and the suspect’s Lexus, she ran ¾ speed along her side of the low concrete divider. Keeping track of her quarry was easy. When he made his move, the hovering copter had followed. The perp was still the star of the show, if being bathed in the glare of the copter’s spotlight meant anything.

  Nadine paid close attention to oncoming traffic knowing that, just as her prey had, she would soon get an opportunity to cross. Was she fast enough? Probably. Probably? Better change that to definitely. She was betting her life on it.

  While not as good as the New Balance shoes she ran 10Ks in, Nadine’s tactical boots, with their thick rubber soles, were more than adequate. As her stride smoothed out, Nadine calmed down. No longer scared, fear replaced by anger, Nadine felt a surge of confidence. This mutt wasn’t getting away.

  Was she fast enough to run this guy down? Absolutely. True, her prey had shown some major speed in making his break, but could he sustain it? Didn’t look like it. Nadine could see the dude plainly in the copter’s light, he was beginning to slow considerably. His stride faltering.

  Nadine wouldn’t be fast enough for this guy in, say, a 100, but this wasn’t a sprint. They were in this one for the long haul. The prize, freedom. Freedom from confinement for the suspect. Freedom from humiliation for Nadine.

  As she ran her eyes were continuously assaulted by the glare of oncoming headlights. Then, suddenly, nothing. Blackness. This was it. Window of opportunity.

  Not touching the divider, Nadine cleared it like a hurdler, never breaking stride. She caught an angle on her prey and was already sprinting across the third lane. One to go.

  Then, a car. No headlights. Motherfucker had no lights!

  Nadine hadn’t seen the lightless vehicle till it was on her. Seventy - five miles an hour on her. Too late. Almost. Luckily the driver had spotted her, hit his brakes and spun the wheel, sending his car into a 360. Simultaneously, Nadine dove, went airborne. No NFL running-back diving, stretching out, for the end-zone could’ve flown further. Or landed harder.

  Nadine hit the gravel shoulder of the freeway, the wind knocked out of her. It was OK. The immediate problem of gasping for air had driven out the sheer gut-wrenching terror of her close call on the freeway. Her Kevlar vest had saved her chest and belly from the roadside gravel. But her forearms, elbows, and one side of her face had lost some skin.

  Skin wasn’t the only thing Nadine had lost. She’d lost something else. Something far more crucial. Her Berretta.

  Fuck it. That was it. It was over.

  She struggled to her feet. Hurt, weary, drained, she wasn’t about to go after the asshole unarmed. Let the Highway Patrol take the motherfucker down. If they ever got here.

  By the time Nadine turned on her Mag-Lite, beginning a futile search for her Berretta, her strength, and wind had returned. Along with her fury. Fuck this prick. Where was he? Had he made it? Escaped? Looking up, re-oriented, she found the helicopters beam. Following the light, she saw the suspect, not much more than a 100 yards away, jogging slowly, limping.

  Shit. She had gotten one hell of an angle on the dude. Hadn’t of been for the mishap with the lightless vehicle, she’d have probably caught his ass soon after she crossed. The way the dipshit was moving now she still could. What would she do when she caught up? She was unarmed. Well, she did have her Mag-Lite. Nine cells, three pounds of aluminum encased mayhem. It would be enough. It would have to be.

  Nadine began to run.

  Chapter Four

  Bright yellow, sleek and gleaming, commanding attention, looking like some robotic alien creature crouched and ready to spring, the Viper sat in front of the three car garage.

  Commanding attention. Getting it.

  Two men, slowly, almost warily, circled the sport car. The younger man’s face alive, a mixture of awe and desire. His older companion’s visage bore, along with the obvious signs of a lifetime of harsh treatment, an expression of bewildered contempt.

  The younger man said, “Damn. Some ride.”

  The older man shook his head, scoffed, “Why?”

  The young guy, bemused, “Why what, Pop?”

  “Why the fuck would your brother go out and spring for ninety grand, to buy this damn toy when he’s got the ‘Vette,’ not three years old, sitting in the garage?”

  “Why? Shit Pop, I’ll tell you why. First . . .”

  “Whoa. Stop. I don’t want to hear it. The question was rhetorical.”

  “Rhetorical.”

  “Means it doesn’t need an answer Roy.”

  “I know rhetorical, Pop.”

  “Fine, then you can just shut the fuck up. You know, spare me all the boring details about twin overhead cams, triple and quadruple-valve cylinders, superchargers, aerodynamics and all that kind of shit.”

  Roy laughed, “See Pop, that’s why you’ll never understand why Bill’s replacing the ‘Vette’ with this Viper.”

  “Wrong. I got a much better understanding of why Bill got this here yellow ‘snake’ car than you do.”

  “No shit? Why?”

  “Cause he’s a fuckin irresponsible idiot.”

  Shaking his head, Roy said, “Pop, you’re out of line. Ain’t a thing irresponsible about Bill. He’s helped us out over the years, both of us. Besides, his last fight? Purse he pulled down was over a million. He can afford the Viper.”

  “Shit. Bill’s irresponsible but at least he ain’t stupid. Roy, you unfortunately are. What the fuck you think your brother got to keep out of that million? I’m talking about after taxes, manager, camp expenses, trainers, sparing partners, cut man, all the people he needs. Not to mention all the assorted leeches sucking around for whatever they can get.”

  Roy, irritated, “Go ahead genius, you tell me.”

  A hard look from Roy’s father, then, “Shit son, I’d say Bill’s lucky if he kept 500,000.”

  “Still a lot of dough.”

  “Hold on Roy. Now take the price tag on that Viper. Let’s round it off, make it an even 100,000. What’s left?”

  “All right, 400,000. You gonna tell me that’s chump change?”

  “Hey, look around you son. Look at this house. This here’s Palos Verdes, Roy. Ain’t no fuckin junk-yard in Wilmington, like where we live. You don’t honestly think Bill’s got this place paid off do you?”

  Roy, bored now, “Let’s drop it, huh? He made over a million on each of his other two title shots, so just add that to his last fight.”

  “Key word there son, ‘last.’”

  “Meaning?”

  “Bill’s had three title shots, and came up short every time. There ain’t gonna be another one.”

  “You’re crazy. He’s the toughest motherfucker out there. ‘Bad’ Bill Kozok. Shit, he’s blood, guts, and balls. He’s a banger, a KO artist, crowd pleaser. The fans love him.”

  “Roy, remember when you were still racing? Remember the fuckin hyenas used to come to the track? They’d see a good tactical race and be disappointed, but see a damn wreck and they’d be high for a month?”

  Roy shrugged, “Ghouls. Assholes.”

  “Right. Those are some of your brothers biggest fans. They come for the blood, and Bill delivers, big time. But, God help him, ain’t a fight he’s had in the last couple of years when there wasn’t a pint of ‘Bad’ Bill soaking into the canvas.”

  “You want him to quit.”

  “I do. I pray for it, every night son. Every night.”

 
“I’ll give it some thought. Maybe I’ll join you.”

  “Be your own man Roy. My point is, maybe Bill needs to tighten the purse strings a tad.”

  “Point made. Now, I’m not gonna hurt your feelings if I change the subject, and ask you to go for a little spin with me here?”

  “You got the keys Roy, or you planning on hot-wiring your brother’s vehicle?”

  Grinning, Roy dangled the keys. Sunlight flashed on the Viper fob. Roy swung the key ring on his finger, turned, inserted the key, opened the door. His father was walking around the Viper’s hood when his brother, Bill, came fast-walking out of the house. Halfway between the house and the Viper, he called out, “Vassily! Roy! Leave the car. Something you have to see in here, hurry up.”

  Vassily and Roy exchanged glances and shrugs, then Roy locked the car, started up the walkway. Hands on his hips, Vassily said, “What? What is it? What’s the rush?”

  Bill said, “It’s on TV. C’mon Pop, move. You got to see this.”

  “Shit. Ain’t never been, ain’t now, and never will be, anything I got to see on TV.”

  With a disgusted wave of his arm, Bill turned walked back to the house. Reaching the door, he spun, yelled, “Goddamn it old man, it’s Nadine. She’s chasing down some asshole on the Riverside freeway.”

  ‘Bad’ Bill Kozok had to flatten himself against the doorjamb to avoid being bowled over as his father charged into the house.

  “Shit, Bill. Ain’t her.”

  Disgusted, Bill said, “It’s a Saleen Mustang. TV chick said ‘female officer,’ OK?”

  “You telling me LBPD got only one Saleen Mustang? One lady cop? Maybe it’s her, maybe not.”

  Bill said, “Roy, I can’t fuckin do this. I can’t handle the usual back and forth. Not with our sister out there in danger like that. Tell him.”

  Roy obliged, “It’s Nadine, Pop.

  Vassily licked his lips, hunched thick shoulders. He appeared ready to dive across the room and into the huge plasma TV screen. Squinting, breathing hard, he said, “I can’t see into the car. I mean they’re doing some great camera work there, but I can’t see who’s driving. How can you be so sure.”

  Roy said, “LBPD has three Saleen Mustangs. Nadine’s the only chick’s got one.”

  Vassily said, “How’d she swing that?”

  “They had a race, out at Willow Springs, Nadine beat out twenty other cops for the right to drive that Mustang.”

  Bill laughed, “OK, how’d she swing that?”

  Roy eyes left the TV, locked on Bill’s, “I fuckin trained her. That’s how she swung that.”

  “Figures. You know, I’m thinking beating out twenty other cops, and ending up with a prime ride like the Saleen, well, it probably didn’t do much for our sister’s popularity.”

  “Hell bro, Nadine’s like Pop, doesn’t give a fuck about popularity.”

  “That true Vassily? You train Nadine to be anti-social, like yourself?”

  “Boys, both of you, shut the fuck up. Your sister is on this asshole and he ain’t about to shake her. I’m hoping neither one of em does something dumb.”

  Roy said, “Don’t worry Pop. Nadine’s cool. She’s got it down. She’s doing every thing picture perfect. She’s too good a driver for this dude, she’s also got too much car for him. He’ll figure it out soon enough.”

  Vassily, shook his head, said, “That’s what I’m afraid of. What’s this skel gonna do when he realizes he can’t shake her?”

  “Looks like we’re gonna find out. They’re stopping.”

  Chapter Five

  The guy was fading, fast. Limping badly now, stumbling, occasionally staggering, the dude was about spent. Nadine? Shit, she was hard into it, just hitting her stride. Ten, fifteen yards and she’d be on his ass. Thing was, how was she gonna act when she caught up?

  Best thing to do, go into a hard kick and smack the mutt on the back of his skull with the heavy Maglite as she sprinted by. Tall, rangy, and strong as she was, Nadine wasn’t deluded into thinking she would be on even terms physically with a big, young guy, even a winded one, if she tried to tackle and overpower him.

  Maybe she could fake the guy out. He had no way of knowing she had lost her weapon. Acting against every rule of confrontation and survival, drummed into her over the years by her father, Vassily, Nadine decided to bluff.

  Five feet from the suspects shoulder, she screamed as loud as she could, “Freeze, motherfucker!”

  The guy slowed to a walk immediately. Even slower now, he turned his head, looked over his shoulder. Nadine, standing feet planted, had assumed a combat shooters stance. Holding her Maglite in a two-handed grip she had the butt end aimed at the perps back. She yelled, “Last warning. Stop, or I’ll blow your shit away.”

  This time the guy stopped. Raising his hands, shoulder high, he turned. Deadpan, he stared at Nadine. Shit, all she had to do now was get this dude down, on his belly, fast. She wouldn’t try to cuff the mutt, just hold him till the CHP got there. Then, she’d move quickly, get her cuffs on the carjacker. No way was she going to give up her collar to some ‘Johnnie-come-lately’ CHP dude. Not after what she’d been through chasing this prick down.

  Voice hard and loud, Nadine said, “Down. Now. On your belly. Move!”

  The guy went to his hands and knees, still staring at Nadine. Then, just as he seemed about to comply fully, he stopped, reversed his movement, and stood. Then he smiled. Beautiful teeth. Weird, the kind of shit one noticed in the stop-frame time of extreme duress.

  Speaking through his ever widening grin, the man said, “Woah. You gonna shoot me with your flashlight? You hot-shit sis. Wow. Somethin else, girl. Almost had me. You definitely somethin else.”

  Nadine was still standing, uselessly aiming the Maglite at the guy, when he backpedaled three quick steps away from her. As he moved, he pulled a small pistol from under his shirt.

  A jack-lighted deer frozen in danger’s paralyzing glare, Nadine could only stare as the guy worked the slide of his handgun. Small piece, semi-auto. A .25, maybe a .32. Whatever. She was fucked.

  A wave of utter hopelessness passed over her, taking her will along with it, leaving her in the grip of an overwhelming apathy. A very familiar ennui, one associated with a night long past. Compelling, yet forbidden to memory’s recall, much as the most hideous of nightmares are blocked upon awakening.

  When the, now triumphant, carjacker drew a bead on her chest Nadine lowered her arms to her sides. Laughing, the guy said, “This ain’t no flashlight, bitch.” Then he fired.

  The first round hit her in the sternum. The next, higher, below her collarbone. The Kevlar vest stopped the low velocity slugs from penetrating her flesh, but did little to contain their impact. Still, their force was minimal, comparable to punches she had taken while sparring in the gym. Staggered by the first two shots, Nadine stumbled, sideways, but didn’t go down.

  The stumble saved her life: the third shot missed her face and, with a buzzing snap, tore the top of her left ear off.

  Adrenaline chased its way through every nerve in her body; a blood maddened weasel loose in a hen-house. Nadine’s apathy fled like the last lonely chicken escaping the slaughter. Alive, aware, and angry, she faced her assailant. Moving, even as he continued to pull the trigger. Or tried to. The cheap Saturday Night Special had jammed.

  By the time the mutt got his wits about him, trying to clear the jammed piece by working the slide, Nadine was on him. Swinging the heavy Maglite, like Serena Williams going for match point, she batted the pistol from the perp’s hands, breaking a half dozen bones in the process.

  The would be cop killer let loose with a loud scream that was broken-off short, along with a few of his once beautiful teeth, when Nadine’s next swing caught him on the jaw. The guy went down; so fucking hard Nadine swore he bounced. Unbelievably, he rolled away from her and, somehow, made it to his feet. He didn’t come up empty handed.

  Nadine, her sweat-slippery hand gripping the Maglite as if it were the
throat of a rabid wolf, had already committed, making her move toward the seemingly unstoppable thug. She had already begun to swing when she saw the knife. A long, lean, toad-sticker, its skinny blade was making a low, upward arc, seeking a nesting place in the soft flesh someplace between Nadine’s crotch and her navel.

  Twisting in midair, she managed to get her leg up, getting her boot between the blade and her belly. The synergy of the blade’s extreme keenness, and her opponent’s psychosis fueled power, produced a devastating energy, enabling the knife to penetrate the thick sole of her tactical boot. It drove on through her foot, and pierced the top of the boot before its blade snapped off at the hilt. This time it was Nadine who went down screaming.

  Clawing his way up Nadine’s body, swinging the knife handle at her face, landing hard shots, the carjacker turned madman pressed his newly won advantage.

  Fuck him.

  Pain, morphed into fury. The same white- hot fury that had enabled her brother ‘Bad Bill’ to prevail in countless ring-wars. That same inherent fury, had enabled her father, Vassily, to emerge triumphant from many, epic, bloody back-alley encounters that at one point seemed all but lost. The Kozok fury, rising fast to the rescue, solidified Nadine’s will.

  As the forth punch, landed, jagged broken blade tearing a furrow in her cheek, Nadine jammed a thumb into her attackers eye. When he pulled his head back, she swung the Maglite into his jaw. If his jaw wasn’t broken before, it sure as shit was now. Rolling out from under, grasping the evil bastard’s knife hand at the wrist, Nadine figured she might get out of this alive.

  If, she wasted this prick first.

  A brief visionary bolt of lightening flashed across her psyche. An image, a woman: Bloodied, battered, and ravaged. Dead. Most definitely, dead. Nadine’s last lucid thought; she didn’t know who the woman was, but it wasn’t gonna be her.

  Grunting with effort, Nadine kept chopping at her assailants head with the Maglite, not stopping till two beefy Highway Patrol guys pulled her away. Strong as they were, the Chips had a hard time getting her off of the mutt.