The Collar and the Cavvarach

by Annie Douglass Lima

  Bensin didn’t even slow down. Cavvara shil didn’t involve this much running, but he could still imagine that he was in the ring, facing an opponent who wanted to gut him and go home in glory.

  And there was no way in the empire he was going to let him.

  His other opponent was still coming from behind, yelling and threatening. But surely he won’t shoot now, or he could hit his partner. The guy by the door crouched low, arms still open for the tackle as Bensin approached. Bensin drove straight toward him, at the last moment springing high with all his strength. His right foot shot out in one of the kicks he had practiced over and over with Coach, though he aimed higher than would have been legal in cavvara shil. He struck the man hard in the face, at the same time twisting in midair and rolling, avoiding those grabbing arms.

  Light and shadows shifted as the dropped lantern went spinning across the floor. Bensin hit the ground on his side, kept rolling, and leaped smoothly to his feet in the doorway, exactly as he had practiced a hundred times. Coach would be proud of me!

  But there was no time to think about that now. He leaped for the stairs and galloped down them into the darkness. Behind him came shouting and cursing and, after a quick scramble, a flare of pursuing light.

  Down half a flight, around the corner at the landing, down the next. Bensin was taking as many steps in each leap as he could, but again and again he lost his balance and had to clutch at the railing. The light, bobbing and bouncing in one of his pursuers’ hands, filled the stairwell with shifting shadows that made it even trickier to keep his footing.

  BANG! BANG! Two gunshots in quick succession echoed in the stairwell, blasting Bensin’s eardrums. Startled, he missed a step and tumbled forward. Grabbing ineffectually for the railing, he sprawled and slid belly-first down to the second-floor landing.

  By the sound of it, his pursuers were just one bend in the stairs behind him. They would spot him there and start shooting again at any second.

  Just before him a wide doorway opened into another large room. It was a couple of steps closer than the top of the next stairway, and Bensin didn’t hesitate. Scrambling on all fours, he spun through the doorway and plastered himself against the wall beside it, holding his breath. Had they seen him go in?

  No, apparently they hadn’t. The light and footsteps continued down the stairs, and Bensin dared to breathe again.

  Now what? When they got to the bottom they would realize that he was no longer ahead of them. Should he sneak down behind them and try to hide somewhere in the parking area until they returned to the fifth floor? Or should he sneak back up right now and try to free Ellie and the others?

  He wanted to go to his sister. But realistically, what could he do? Even if he somehow managed to free her and the other two, the men would probably catch them all on their way down. No, his best bet would be to warn Coach Steene and the Watch officers before the men could get their captives into the van and away.

  Bensin slipped out of hiding and crept down the rest of the stairs. He paused again at the bottom, peering around.

  The men were standing near the parking lot entrance, guns in hand. “He can’t have gotten out already,” DeSalle was saying. “He must still be in here. I’ll stay and guard the exit while you check behind the vehicles.”

  The shadows shifted position again as the man with the lantern made his way over to the parked car and van. Though light from street lamps outside was shining in, it was still pretty dim by the entrance. Bensin wondered if he had any chance of making a break for it and getting past DeSalle. No, probably not. The man had a gun, after all, and there was nothing to hide behind on the way.

  “He isn’t over here, boss,” the one with the light reported. “He must have stopped on the way down and hidden on one of the other floors. What do we do now? Go looking for him or just ship the merchandise out?”

  “We’re probably better off forgetting about him at this point,” DeSalle replied, and he sounded disgusted. “What can one little collar do, anyway? If he gets out, he must know he can’t go to the authorities without getting lashed as a runaway. We might as well just grab the others and get out of here ourselves. If we do catch him alive, we can always add him to our stock and see if we can find a last-minute buyer.”

  Bensin crept back up the steps as the two men approached the stairs once more. On the first floor, he darted around the corner and hid in the large room to wait until they had passed.

  But the footsteps paused after only a few steps. “Did you hear that?” exclaimed DeSalle. “Turn off the light.”

  The warehouse was plunged into darkness. Bensin froze, holding his breath. They heard me!

  But no, they couldn’t have. It was been something else, or they would be shooting at him once more.

  “Someone’s down there,” DeSalle whispered. “Musta just come in.”

  The second man cursed softly. “What is it with everyone coming in tonight?”

  “It’s your fault. I told you to make sure the place looked locked up. Well, we can’t risk anyone finding out what we’re doing. You go up and find your gun and get the cargo ready, and I’ll go down and take care of whoever it is.”

  One set of footsteps made their way softly up past Bensin’s hiding place. He waited a moment to make sure they weren’t coming back and then tiptoed down again. If it was Coach Steene the men had heard, he had to warn him.

  It was Coach. Bensin was sure of it, even in the dim light. His owner was proceeding cautiously around the garage, staying close to the wall while he let his eyes adjust, peering around with every step. He didn’t have a flashlight, but he did seem to be holding something; Bensin couldn’t quite tell what.

  DeSalle had seen him too. Concealed in the shadows by the stairwell, he knelt just in front of Bensin. He was gripping the Stinger 700 in both hands, tracking Coach’s progress around the room.

  Bensin licked his dry lips. He’s going to shoot Coach! What should I do?

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Stinger 700

  Perhaps the criminal was waiting till his quarry came a little closer so as to be sure not to miss. So intent was he that he didn’t notice Bensin standing in the dimness just a few yards behind him.

  What should I do? What should I do? His heart pounding, Bensin ran through his options. He could attack the man from behind and try to knock the gun out of his hand, but if he failed, he would certainly be shot. He could yell and try to warn Coach, but then the man would turn and shoot him anyway, and perhaps still shoot Coach as well.

  How many shots does he have left? DeSalle had shot at him — what? Ten times so far, if he remembered correctly. How long would it take to reload the gun, and did the man have more bullets with him? If I can distract him and get him to waste six more shots — But that would be too dangerous. No one was likely to miss a target this close. If his enemy turned around and saw him at all, Bensin would probably be dead.

  But DeSalle hadn’t noticed him yet, and Coach was coming closer in his circuit of the garage. He paused to examine the vehicles, one at a time, peering into the windows. He disappeared into the shadows behind them as he crouched down, perhaps checking to see if anyone was hiding underneath. After a moment, apparently satisfied that no one was there, he rose and continued his tour of the garage.

  As his owner drew close, Bensin saw that the object he was carrying was a cavvarach. Had he brought it from home? No, the duffel bag with the cavvara shil equipment had probably still been in the rental car. Even though the blade wasn’t sharp, Bensin didn’t blame Coach for wanting to hold some kind of weapon, just in case. He sure would have felt better with a cavvarach in his hand, as worthless as he knew it would be against a firearm.

  Finally the man in front of him raised his gun again in both hands, taking careful aim. I’ve got to do something! It’s now or never.

  “Look out!” Bensin shouted. At the same time, he lunged forward, throwing himself onto the man.

  The gun went off and he heard Coach yell — in surprise,
not pain, he hoped. Bensin locked one arm around DeSalle’s neck, grabbing for the weapon with his other hand. Swearing, the criminal lunged to his feet, jerking around to try to fling Bensin off. He backed into the wall, slamming Bensin into its hard surface. After the first painful wham, Bensin bent his knees and took the next impact on the soles of his feet, pushing off again like a spring.

  Then Coach Steene was there, roaring like a charging bull, brandishing the cavvarach as though he were in a duel. He leaped forward with a diagonal slash across the enemy’s chest and gut, not that the dull blade would do much more than perhaps raise a welt. But the crook bellowed in pain and anger, yanked his arm out of Bensin’s slipping grip, and brought the gun around, clasping both hands around it once more. Still clinging to his neck with one arm, Bensin slammed his other fist into the side of the man’s face, trying to throw off his aim again.

  But there was another deafening BANG! and the Stinger jumped in DeSalle’s hands, almost as though it were startled by its own voice. At the same moment, Coach’s body jerked and fell backward.

  “No!” Bensin screamed. He felt his grip slacken, and he forgot to brace with his feet when the man slammed him against the wall once more.

  He slipped to the ground, staggered, regained his balance, and lunged for the Stinger as DeSalle whirled to face him. It went off again with another little jump as Bensin clutched at his enemy’s wrist with both hands. With his free hand, the man seized the back of Bensin’s collar and yanked.

  That was an illegal move in cavvara shil and every other sport Bensin knew, and for good reason. Choking, he was forced to let go, clawing at his throat for air.

  “Here,” Coach gasped from behind him.

  He’s alive! Bensin turned, off balance and staggering once more. Coach was lying sprawled on the ground, his left sleeve dark with blood. With his other hand, he held out the cavvarach.

  The moment Bensin’s fingers closed around its hilt, everything changed.

  The familiar give of the foam rubber under his fingers, the familiar weight as he swung the weapon, brought a rush of satisfaction coursing through him. His panic faded as he felt himself slip automatically into his Zone. Even the criminal with murder in his eyes seemed to be moving in slow motion as he brought his gun to bear.

  The Stinger seemed to have changed shape, but Bensin didn’t have time to wonder about that. Without pausing to think, he swung the cavvarach into an instinctive parry. The move wasn’t quite right for the angle and hold the man had on the gun, but it served its purpose. Striking DeSalle’s forearm, his blow threw off the man’s aim before he could fire again. Bensin’s next blow struck him across the other arm, where it would probably leave a painful bruise.

  The man snarled, jumping aside and whipping the gun around once more. “Back away or you’re dead!” he ordered. “Now!”

  Bensin measured the distance with his eyes and then froze. Out of my reach. He could do a lot with a cavvarach, but he couldn’t stop a bullet.

  “Drop the weapon,” the man ordered. “And you, get your hand away from your pocket,” he added to Steene.

  In the dimness, Bensin stared at the Stinger pointing from one to the other of them, ready to end their lives. It was almost unreal, seeing the features that Nate had admired in the picture so solid and deadly just a few feet away. Though it was too dark to spot the silvery S700, he glimpsed the polished wood of the handgrip, both the man’s hands clenched around it, and the pattern of decorative cuts in the metal higher up.

  But wait. Was that the same pattern he remembered from the picture? No, he didn’t think so. Maybe this isn’t actually a Stinger 700.

  Something else was definitely different about the gun now, too. The top part seemed to have adjusted itself into two layers, and the upper section with the cuts — the slide, Nate had called it — had slid a few inches to the rear. Light from the garage’s entrance gleamed through the horizontal crack between the layers.

  Why had the Stinger changed shape after DeSalle fired that last shot?

  Because it was his last shot. Bensin couldn’t think of any other reason. Something must happen to a gun when it’s empty. Parts of it change position, maybe to let a person load more bullets in. He didn’t know for sure if that was the case, but it was all he could think of that made sense. And it would fit with his suspicion that this wasn’t a 700.

  His eyes widened as the realization sank in. Most of the Stingers in Nate’s booklet had looked pretty similar. He recalled that there had been a few with cut slides, a few with wooden handgrips. Had there been any besides the 700 that featured both?

  He wasn’t sure. But he was certain about one thing. He could still hear Nate’s voice saying, “they all hold twelve rounds in the magazine plus one in the chamber, but the Stinger 700 holds fifteen plus one.” If this Stinger isn’t a 700, he can only fire thirteen times. Assuming Bensin had understood correctly, of course. And he knew that DeSalle had fired exactly thirteen times.

  “Don’t think I won’t shoot you, Collar,” the crook warned, seeing Bensin’s fingers tighten around the hilt of the cavvarach. “I’ll kill you and it wouldn’t even be murder. Drop your weapon and back away.”

  But Bensin thought DeSalle looked more anxious than he had earlier. Why would a man with a loaded gun be anxious about facing a boy with a blunt blade who couldn’t even reach him from here?

  “You’re bluffing,” he said aloud. “You can’t shoot anymore until you reload.” If I’m wrong, I’m dead. Consciously gathering his Zone about him, Bensin leaped forward, cavvarach brandished.

  The crook swore and dodged, changing his grip on his own weapon. Swinging it one-handed like a miniature club, he lunged forward too, reaching to grab Bensin’s blade.

  But Bensin knew exactly how to foil that plan. He ducked, spun, switched hands, and leaped forward into the slash-and-kick disarm-and-disable move that Coach had drilled into him. Right leg, swing out low behind the knees to yank him off balance. Cavvarach, slash up and to the left toward where his weapon hand is going to be as he starts to fall backward. The man’s grip on the gun was tighter and lower than how an opponent would hold a cavvarach, so Bensin aimed lower this time and hit harder.

  The empty gun flew through the air, landing somewhere in the darkness of the parking garage. The crook toppled backward and Bensin flung himself onto him, dropping the cavvarach to pin him to the floor exactly as he would have pinned an opponent in the ring.

  “Keep him down!” Coach gritted out. “Don’t let him move!”

  No different than at the end of a match. Of course, Bensin had disarmed his opponent, so technically he should have won already. But that doesn’t count now unless I can keep him pinned.

  The man snarled and swore again, writhing and thrashing more violently than any of Bensin’s opponents ever had. Behind him, he heard a faint musical beeping as Coach punched in buttons on his phone. “Keep him down!” Coach repeated as the man tried to roll, nearly dislodging Bensin. “Do it for Ellie!”

  For Ellie. She would be whisked away, taken from him forever, if he let this man get up. Bensin clenched his jaw and gripped tighter, legs braced against the floor.

  “Get over here!” he heard Coach say from behind him. “Bensin’s fighting an armed criminal, and there’s — hang on — Bensin, how many more?”

  “One,” Bensin managed. “And three kids.”

  “One more, and three prisoners,” Coach repeated into the phone. “Yeah, and I’ve been shot. I’m losing blood. We’re in the parking garage by the stairwell.”

  From outside, Bensin heard a siren’s wail start up. The man beneath him cursed again and flailed wildly.

  Coach crawled over and seized the cavvarach that Bensin had dropped. Though its blade had never actually been sharpened, the tip was pointy, and he jabbed it against the man’s throat. “Hold still or you’re going to be losing more blood than I am.” He pressed just hard enough to drive his threat home without actually breaking the skin.

 
The sirens were a deafening echo, the flashing lights a startling but welcome burst of brilliance, in the parking basement. In seconds, officers were sprinting toward them, weapons pointed. Bensin finally released his grip as two of them hauled the swearing man to his feet, forced his hands behind his back, and cuffed them.

  “Where’s the other one?” an officer demanded of Bensin.

  “On the fifth floor,” he told her. “He went back up to bring the kids down. They’re tied up with duct tape.”

  “And he’s armed too?”

  “Yeah.” Surely the man had found his gun by now.

  Flashlights probing the darkness and weapons at the ready, two officers charged up the stairs.

  Officer Shigo knelt beside Coach Steene, tying a tourniquet around his bleeding arm just like emergency crews did on T.V. Meanwhile, the others dragged DeSalle to one of the Watch cars. It was profoundly satisfying to see him shoved into the back seat where Bensin had sat just a few hours earlier and to hear the door slam shut behind him.

  “Are you okay, Coach?” Bensin took in the blood that was dripping down Coach Steene’s arm, realizing how pale his usually dark face was as he sagged against the wall.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be fine. I guess.”

  “You will,” Officer Shigo confirmed as the other officers hurried past them and pounded up the stairs to join the first two. “It’s just a flesh wound. We’ll take you to the emergency room to get it cleaned and stitched up as soon as we’re done here.”

  “So you found Ellie?” Coach questioned Bensin. “Is she all right?”

  “I think so. She looked pretty scared, but I don’t think she was hurt.” Bensin glanced at Officer Shigo. “Do you think the other officers will be able to get the kids out safely, sir?”

  “Well, we haven’t heard any gunshots yet, so that’s a good thing. But if Steene feels up to moving, we should get out of the stairwell.”