by Jonas Saul
The door opened from the inside. He peeked around the edge of the bin. Bright light poured from the building. A man stood there, a gun in his hand.
He turned back to someone and shouted, “I know, I know, I’m going. You just watch your ass.”
The man kicked something on the door near its bottom and then walked away from it. The door stayed propped open. Darwin got down on his hands and knees and looked under the bin to watch the man’s feet.
He walked to the other bin first with slow, cautious steps. Then, at the last second, the man leapt forward and stared into the bin. “Shit.”
He’s checking the bins. He thinks I’m hiding in the garbage bins.
Darwin watched the man’s feet as they drew nearer the bin he hid behind, and planned his next move.
The man was slow, using extra caution.
Damn it, hurry up. I don’t want to lose my nerve.
The feet paused. Darwin braced himself. The man leapt up and looked inside the bin. As soon as he said Shit, Darwin shoved the bin hard.
It rolled forward faster than he thought it would, and he almost lost his balance. It was only six feet to the brick wall of the building and, to the man’s credit, he stayed on his feet all the way.
The bin stopped, almost as fast as it had started, with a crunch and a shout.
Keeping low to avoid any wayward bullets, Darwin raised his fists and approached the man. The man’s gun lay on the ground two feet from him. Darwin picked it up, checked the safety and flicked it off right away. Thanks, Paul.
He pointed the weapon at the man. The time for niceties had ended.
But the man was already dead.
Darwin couldn’t believe it. How did he die? Wait, how many men am I going to kill in one day?
He eased the garbage bin off the wall. When the bin had pushed the man into the pile of wooden skids, at least six or seven rusty nails had made their home in the back of the man’s head. But that didn’t seem to be the killing blow.
A large, sharp piece of wood had sliced the man’s neck sideways as he fell across it, digging a few inches deep. Blood covered the man’s shoulder and dripped all the way down to the cement. He died quickly. The nails embedded into his skull had kept him quiet.
Darwin couldn’t believe his luck. Without wasting a moment, he turned and entered the building, the gun in his hand held high. He kicked the stopper on the door and shut it quietly behind him.
He was in. And there was light.
Rosina was here somewhere and he wouldn’t hesitate again. He wouldn’t try to intimidate these men again. They were hardened beyond that. He had been brought here like cattle to the abattoir and he didn’t even know it. The joke was on him, but now that he had the upper hand of surprise, nothing would stop him from getting his bride back.
He ran for the middle of the building where he supposed the elevators were. He knew what Paul said about the elevators being locked out of service was probably true, but no one ever thought of the service elevator. The one contractors used for equipment and supplies was almost never locked unless men were working on the building. But it was after nine in the evening. He doubted anyone was still working.
He rounded each corner with caution, his new weapon at the ready. He’d encountered no one by the time he found the elevators. Just to fuck around, he hit the buttons and ran away, looking for the freight one.
Two doors away from the elevators, someone stepped out behind him. Darwin spun around and squeezed the trigger to the point where the weapon almost fired. He held off and watched as the man tiptoed down the corridor, oblivious to Darwin in the middle of the hallway.
The man turned a corner without looking back. Darwin started breathing again. He may want to approach the bad guys without caution and show them who’s boss, but he didn’t want to start that by shooting one of them in the back.
He turned around and hustled down another corridor, his running shoes almost soundless on the tiled floor.
To his relief, the freight elevator was right where he thought it would be. He recognized the larger door right away.
He pushed the button and the cables and pulleys whirred into gear. As it came down, he kept his back to it and watched the hallway.
The amateur in the building with hired hit men was not the role he envisioned on his honeymoon, but nor did he think his new bride would be kidnapped. He had to do whatever he could. There was no turning back. He only wished he had Greg with him. Someone trained in this kind of thing.
The elevator motors slowed. He turned, prepared for anyone coming out.
The doors slid open to reveal an empty lift. He jumped in and pushed the top button, and then hit the close door button.
Immediately, the door began closing. He watched the hallway until the last second, but no one appeared.
He knew a certain number of the Fuccini men would file out of the building to look into the accident out front. He had a feeling that resistance would be at a minimum and for the ones inside still, they would fear him more than Paul did. They would think of Big John, then they would see Paul and think this was just the beginning.
What if a small army guarded the top floor? They would have heard the freight elevator and now, as he rode toward them, they would be flipping off their safeties.
At two floors away, as fast as he could, he jammed his thumb into the button below the top one. The freight elevator instantly slowed.
Darwin let out a sigh of relief and stood off to the side to see if anyone waited for him.
His heart in his throat, stomach in knots, the door slid open slowly. The room was cavernous. Dark, too. That sealed his decision. He would have to go one more level and take his chances.
But he couldn’t. Going to the next floor could mean walking into an ambush. Getting off the elevator now only meant he needed to deal with the dark. As much as it terrified him, the dark wouldn’t kill him like bullets could.
The door began to shut. He hit the door open button and waited. He knew the right thing to do would be to walk out now and find a way to get up one more floor, but he didn’t know how. It was dark.
He broke out in a clammy sweat. Adrenaline spread through his stomach. Fight or flight set in. He had to fight. For Rosina. This was the way.
The door started shutting. He hit the button. It stopped and slowly opened again.
“Shit.”
Darwin stepped off the freight elevator and into the darkness of a floor under construction and almost fainted.
The door slowly closed behind him. He felt the door was closing on his salvation. All chance of survival was dying with that door.
It took everything in his soul to take one step. At every second, he waited for a knife to prick him, a needle to jab him. He wanted to scream, to shout, to run, but all he could do was take one more step.
Paralysis threatened him. The only cure was chanting the word, Rosina.
Under his breath, he whispered her name and took a step. He whispered it again and took another step. Only the dim red exit signs provided any lights to the whole area.
He wanted to run to an exit and scream until his voice gave out, but he used every ounce of self-control to continue walking, one step at a time.
Three minutes later he made it to the door that led into a corridor. An exit sign illuminated the stairwell in red.
He stepped out, and touched the door handle, ready to twist it and leave the dark floor from hell.
He had no idea how he was still standing. The last time, many years ago, when he had been in a room this dark, he had killed his stepmother. That was so long ago, a distant memory. No one knew he did it, but one day he would tell his wife.
He heard a noise behind him. Darwin spun around and saw the light from the freight elevator as its door opened. Three men exited it, guns drawn, flashlights in their hands.
Shit.
He opened the door to the stairwell and closed it behind him as fast as he could. They were bound to have seen the light from
the stairwell. That meant they were on their way toward him now. He couldn’t just run aimlessly through a building he knew nothing about, chased by numerous men with guns. He would never have the time to find Rosina and get her out safely. Even if he ran right into her, the last thing he wanted was to be running from bullets with her at his side.
He had to take a stand.
He hustled up the stairwell to the half-level landing where the stairs turned. Eight more steps up was the door to the floor where they supposedly held his wife. He leaned into the corner so only his eyes could look down and see the top of the door to the dark floor.
He waited, breathing in and out in a controlled manner. He needed to focus, stay lucid.
The gun was heavy in his hand. He had no idea how many bullets it contained or how to fire it exactly. But its weight and knowing to just point and shoot provided Darwin some comfort.
This was it. Do or die. He had an accident and killed a man with his Ford Mustang. That’s something he would have to live with for the rest of his life. But now people were trying to kill him and his bride. And that he could not live with.
It was time to lower himself to their level. It was time to kill or be killed.
He raised his gun when feet scuffled on the other side of the door. Someone spoke muffled words into a radio.
He leaned forward until he could see the door handle. It slowly turned. Then the door moved an inch inwards.
He fell back against the wall to the point where he couldn’t see the door at all, and if they looked up, they’d not see him.
He waited. He breathed, softly, slowly. He waited.
At least two men stepped into the stairwell. He waited.
Then he pushed off the wall, stuck the gun through the metal bars of the railing and squeezed the trigger as hard and as fast as he could. The stairwell lit up with flashes and the sounds of cannon fire. He had never heard such ear-splitting sounds so close before. He tried to keep his weapon trained in the general direction of the three men standing at the open door, but the recoil thwarted him.
Something punched him in the left shoulder. Darwin twisted away from the railing and fell on the landing on his back. He shut his eyes, breathing in rapidly. The guns ceased firing. He heard moans from below. He knew he must have hit some of them. He tried to smile, but pain in his shoulder made him clench his face. He almost moaned himself, but then one of the men below spoke.
“We’re in the south stairwell. I think we hit him. Two men down. I’m not hit. And where the fuck did he get a gun?”
He listened for a reply. After a few seconds, one came, muffled a little through static.
“Approach with caution. He is extremely dangerous. But I warn you, do not come back into my presence if you don’t kill him. Go now and finish the job.”
“On my way.”
Shit.
Darwin kept his eyes closed. He focused on being as still as possible. The man was still at the level below him, so he took one large breath and held it. Then he waited.
Waiting with bated breath, he thought and had to suppress a giggle. Really, in this moment I’m about to laugh. Have I lost my mind?
He knew it had more to do with a coping mechanism. This was like a big game. The smarter one would win. The one who stayed calm, thought things through and looked for a hole, a way in. He was that guy. Being irrational and crazy could work too, but this moment didn’t call for it.
He stayed completely immobile, his weapon in his right hand, his left shoulder screaming in pain now, and focused on the sounds the man’s shoes made as he neared.
As far as he could tell, the man was at or near the top stair. He waited for one more sound. It came, but it almost made him jump and scream.
It was the clicking of metal. The guy had readied his gun.
One, two, three.
Darwin opened his eyes, lifted his gun, screamed and squeezed the trigger, aimed directly at the man’s face.
But his gun didn’t fire. It was empty.
He looked at it, eyes wild. The man smiled and lowered his weapon until he aimed at Darwin’s chest.
As fast as he could move, Darwin lifted up off his back, supported by his elbows and kicked at the gun hand. It made direct contact as the weapon fired. He felt, as much as heard, the bullet race by his right ear. A solid thunk told him the bullet made a home in the wall behind his head.
The guy didn’t lose his grip on the gun.
When Darwin lifted his leg to kick again, it wasn’t aimed at the gun. He twisted his waist and kicked at the man’s chest. He made solid contact as the guy’s gun was coming around for him again.
The guy fell backwards, rolling down the stairs, at a weird, inverted angle.
Darwin used the railing to get to his feet, wailing at the pain in his shoulder. He had no time to inspect the injury. However bad it was, it was exactly that—bad. But it was something to deal with after he stayed alive.
He ran down the stairs, two at a time and jumped in the air, knees extended, toward the man struggling to get to his feet.
Darwin’s knees connected high in the man’s chest, part of his left knee jamming into the man’s throat. Darwin continued forward and bumped the wall with his good shoulder like he’d body checked another hockey player. He stayed upright, all his weight on the man below him.
The guy’s eyes widened. His hands came up and tried to push Darwin off. He couldn’t breathe. His hands flailed, his eyes wide, like a fish flapping on a dock after being pulled from water, mouth agape.
His face turned red and then a darker red, blood vessels in his eyes bursting.
Two weeks ago, Darwin would have been appalled at the violence. But today, something inside him felt good as the man under him succumbed.
“One less piece of shit,” Darwin whispered. He leaned closer and said, “I just made the world a better place and I’m going to keep doing it, one of you at a time.”
He turned and ripped the radio off the guy’s belt and grabbed his gun. He slipped it into the back of his pants and grabbed another gun off the floor.
He looked up the stairs to make sure there were no other surprises and then took a close look at his shoulder. The wound was exterior only. As far as he could tell, the bullet hadn’t entered his body.
He moved his jacket up off the wound and saw a gouge in his skin about the thickness of his finger. It was already clotting, but blood still seeped from the center of the wound. It was big enough to hurt like a bitch, but not big enough to stop him or kill him. Not by a long shot.
“Missed,” he said.
He slipped his jacket gently over his shoulder again and started up the stairs, the gun in his right hand aimed in front of him. At the top of the stairs, he put his ear to the door.
Nothing.
He clicked the radio and couple of times to see if he’d get a response.
Nothing.
Shit, open the door and have a group of men offering me a welcome under a hail of bullets, or do I find another way in?
There was no other way in. He was out of time. They knew he was here. He had no element of surprise. All he had were two guns, one of their radios and a love for Rosina that gave him more willpower than any man loyal to Fuccini.
Sure, they’d use deadly force, but so would he. The nice Canadian image was over. No more mister nice Canadian.
He twisted the knob, ripped open the door and dropped back down two steps to avoid being hit by anything coming through at him.
The door opened to its farthest point, and then slowly came back to shut.
No bullets hailed down on him. No men standing, waiting. Just dead silence, and Darwin in a stairwell opening doors.
He opened it a crack and peeked in at the corridor. Lights filled the hall. Darwin smiled at life’s little pleasures.
He opened the door even more. The hall was empty all the way to the end.
His gun was ready, the safety off. As carefully as he could, he edged around and looked down the hallw
ay the other way.
No one.
Weren’t they expecting me?
He stepped into the hall, having no idea which way to go.
“In here,” someone said.
He jumped and fired his weapon, the bullet shot through a ceiling tile, bits of dust falling.
“Shit. My fucking nerves.”
“There’s no need for that. I’m unarmed,” the voice said.