At the center he found some stairs that looked usable and began his ascent to the roof. Reaching the first landing, he caught sight of a movement out of the corner of his right eye. He turned and was confronted by an old man in rags, bathed in a shaft of light from the street. The man’s yellow-gray hair was matted and filthy. A cloud of glittering dust particles danced in the beam of light that illuminated his wild black eyes – eyes that blazed with pure madness.
The man let out a yelp when he saw Richard, and immediately began screaming, “This is my house! Get out of here! You don’t belong here!” The old man rushed toward him with his hands raised, but Richard stepped out of the way and hurried past him and up the stairs.
The man turned and followed, all the while screaming hysterically. Richard tried to open the distance between them, but his pursuer was surprisingly quick on his feet. Richard prayed that the screams wouldn’t draw the attention of the guards next door.
When he reached the top floor the old man was still in pursuit, but losing steam. Richard flew down a hallway, dodging debris, and at the end found a doorway with an intact door under an old sign-box. He guessed that the box had once pointed to an emergency exit. Rushing through the door he found himself on a landing full of broken up desks, chairs, and light fixtures. He jammed a chair against the stub of the door-handle and made for a staircase on the far side.
Seconds later a pair of fists pounded on the other side of the door. As he climbed the stairs he could still hear the fading screams of the old man, “I know you’re in there! Come out and take what’s coming to you!”
The stairway terminated in a small open space. There was only one tiny window, but he could dimly make out a steel ladder running up to the ceiling. He could no longer hear the old man, who must have given up and gone elsewhere. Richard climbed the ladder and soon reached a trap-door. Like the rest of the building, its latch was in bad repair; a couple of careful bashes with his shoulder were enough to break it open.
He lifted the hatch covering and emerged onto the roof, crawling across the moss-speckled gravel and peering over the edge. Both guards strolled around their respective sections of the complex with a bored, shuffling gait.
The hatch was about half-way from the front of the building. He crawled across the flat roof toward the back, and within a few minutes had reached the farthest corner.
At close range, he studied the prospect he’d identified from his perch on the other building. Solidly between the ledge where he now crouched and the wire fence surrounding the complex stood a huge chestnut tree. Some of its upper branches arched to within a few feet of the roof; others hung down over the wire fence to within easy jumping distance of the ground inside. The tree was almost totally cloaked in darkness.
He scanned the area below. There was the question of how he would escape, in the unlikely event that he actually achieved his goal and made it inside. His only option would be to scale the fence. There was an acceptable risk he could climb it and find a hiding place in a nearby abandoned building.
From his original vantage point, the nearest branch had appeared to be almost touching the roof. The distance was really more like two or three feet, and that branch was another foot or two below him. The good news was that the branches were massive, easily able to support his weight.
He located the best prospect, a massive, broad limb near the back, well obscured from the guards. It was close enough for him to reach, and bushy enough to provide a reasonable landing pad. He waited until the closest guard was a maximum distance away and had his back turned.
Crouching, teetering on the ledge, he said a silent prayer and launched himself into the air. As he landed, the ribs on his right side struck a projecting limb and the impact nearly knocked the wind out of him. He lay for several minutes, clinging to his perch, shaking and gasping for breath. With a sense of dread he peered through a gap in the intervening branches. To his relief, both guards continued undisturbed on their monotonous rounds.
He made his way down, using branches for a ladder, and found a suitable one for his descent – long and sturdy, passing well over the topmost wires. Its farthest extent hung close to the ground, hidden behind another tree and out of sight of the guards.
He crawled out, balancing on a narrow, slippery foundation still at least fifteen feet from the ground. There were no side-limbs for support, and the slightest shift in balance could send him plummeting to the ground.
About half-way along some branches finally appeared, but now there was a new problem. His weight caused the limb to bend and, even worse, bounce. Not only did the movement make it difficult to hold on, but it was likely to catch the attention of the guards. He was forced to move with painful slowness to minimize the effect. His muscles ached from the constant effort, and the pain was fast becoming unbearable. By the time he reached the end of the branch it was bowing severely, and he feared it would break. His final challenge was to make the leap to the pavement below.
He slid his body between two of the larger side-limbs until he hung by his arms. The branch bounced as he changed positions, and the pain in his muscles was excruciating. He guessed that his feet were dangling close to the ground, but couldn’t be sure.
Finally he just let go – he didn’t have the strength to hang on any longer. His feet touched the ground with what he dared to hope was a barely audible tap. He quickly caught the tip of the branch as it sprang back, slowly controlling its return to its original position.
He crawled into the shadows and lay there, getting his breath and studying the closest guard who, to his relief, showed no interest in his hiding place. He had broken into Crack’s lair – there was no turning back now. His muscles were on fire and his body shook as he considered what to do next.
From the darkness he surveyed the main building, which he assumed was his ultimate goal. The layout offered no cover. He would have to make for the doorway exposed not only to the guard by the gate, but anybody else who might be wandering around. He wished he’d spent more time studying the area. Where was the door, exactly? How many windows were there and what were their positions? It was too late now. Only fate and an incredible quantity of luck would help him now.
The closest wall was blanketed in shadow. He studied the nearest guard, who clearly had a routine of patrolling – something else I should have worked out before I got into this, he thought.
For several minutes he studied the guard. An out-building stood at farthest right-hand corner of the complex, and the guard passed behind it and out of sight for several seconds as part of his patrol.
Richard began counting silently as soon as the guard disappeared – one, two three…, and stopped when the guard came into view. Twenty seconds, he thought. I’ve got twenty seconds to get to the wall, move to the front of the building, find the door, and get inside.
From his estimate of the distance to the building and what he could remember about the position of the doorway, he concluded that he could make it. The moment the guard disappeared, Richard took a deep breath, and sprinted for the wall and its comforting shadows. He moved along it, his body pressed flat against the concrete. Within fifteen seconds he was at the corner and ready to make a dash for the door.
He poked his head around and his heart stopped – no more than a couple of yards away a man stood smoking a cigarette. Incredibly, the man had his back turned and hadn’t heard him. Richard immediately drew back. In seconds the guard would emerge from behind the out-building. There was only one choice. He moved back along the wall the way he’d come and waited, frozen against it in the shadows, willing himself invisible.
Right on schedule, the guard moved back into view, and strolled casually to the center of the gate opening. Richard thought his heart would explode when the guard stopped and peered in his direction. For several terrifying seconds the guard stood staring. Finally he turned and continued on his way.
Now Richard was trapped. He couldn't move while the guard was in view. He was forced to wait until
the guard turned and passed again behind the out-building. Only then did he dare try again for the building’s door – and even then the smoking man might still be there.
The guard returned and passed without stopping. As soon as he was out of sight, Richard edged back to the corner. He listened for any sign of the smoking man, but heard nothing. In the end, he had no choice but to poke his head around again to check.
The man was gone. The door was a couple of yards away. His heart thumping against his rib-cage, Richard rushed around the corner, tested the handle of the door and exhaled deeply finding it unlocked. He plunged through it and into the building.
In the distance he heard echoing voices. He followed them down a dark hallway with doors on either side, probably offices back in the days when the building actually housed a business. The hallway angled to the left and the voices grew louder. It straightened again. The voices were very clear now.
He peeked around the corner. The hallway ran for about thirty feet before opening into an open expanse. Whoever was talking was there, but out of his sight. Near the end, on the left, was a single door. He made for it and, checking underneath, saw no light. He turned the handle and pushed it open. It didn’t make a sound. He slipped into the darkness and shut the door behind him.
When he turned he staggered back in shock. The wall separating him from the area where he’d heard the voices was made almost entirely of glass. He was a single step away from exposure to those in the next room. Shaking, he flattened himself against the wall. By chance he was hidden from whoever was on the other side, but one of them could move at any moment.
On the other hand, the window gave him an excellent view of his quarry. He’d never met Crack; the only way he could hope to identify the gangster was by watching his interaction with others around him. He listened to the conversation for a few minutes, and decided that the speakers were somewhere just beyond the right extent of the window.
The window stopped a few feet from the floor. He crawled to the far left corner, keeping below the glass. The only light in the room was a dim glow from the open area. His heart pounding, he backed into the shadows well away from the glass and slowly lifted his head above the bottom ledge. Trembling with fear and rage, he peered out of the darkness at the men he believed had kidnapped Danny.
The office where he sat had been designed to afford a view of a workspace for what was probably once a light-industrial business. The remains of work benches were still piled against one of the walls, and some machines, whose original function he could only guess, lay broken here and there.
The gang had fashioned a makeshift living room in the center of the floor. There were two old, beaten-up couches and two overstuffed armchairs gathered in a circle. A couple of scruffy looking men lounged on one of the couches. On the other sat the biggest human being Richard had ever laid eyes on – a mountain of a man who took up most of the space on the couch all by himself. In one of the armchairs sat another man, and yet another sat on the floor.
In the final armchair, clearly at the hub of the gathering, sat a man whose voice seemed to indicate he was in charge. The group continued to speak. Richard couldn’t make out their words, and was just considering moving when a new man entered the room from outside and yelled ‘Crack!’.
The man gestured to the apparent leader, who came over to join him looking at a piece of paper. After speaking to the newcomer for a few minutes, the leader waved his hand dismissively and returned to his original position.
Thank God, thought Richard – so that was Crack.
On the wall at Richard’s back was a door exactly opposite the one he’d entered. He crawled toward it, below the level of the window, reached up, and opened it a few inches. Sitting with his ear by the opening, he could sometimes make out what they were saying.
From the shadows, he took a good look at Crack. He was probably in his late twenties, with dirty blond hair. His skin was pale and mottled, and bore the scars of what had once been an acne problem. A sleeveless shirt exposed his numerous tattoos. His nose was too small for his face, and his teeth were yellow and crooked. The lower section of his left cheek and a large part of the left side of his neck were mutilated by a hideous burn scar.
One of the men got up and crossed the floor no more than twenty feet from Richard’s position. Terrified, Richard backed further into the shadows, and the man didn’t notice him. The one who’d been sitting on the floor, an extraordinarily ugly man with a massive gut and a week’s growth of beard, got up and sat in the absent man’s chair.
Several minutes later the man who had left returned with a glass of clear liquid in his hand. He began a shouting match with the ugly one, apparently called ‘Pig’, who had taken his seat. Crack watched but did nothing. Richard thought he could make out the hint of a smile on gang-leader’s face.
The argument got more and more heated. Finally the man whose chair had been stolen tossed the liquid from his glass at Pig, smashed the glass against a nearby cement pillar, and dove at him wielding the jagged shard. The two locked in combat, Pig holding back the attacker’s glass weapon, each man with a hand on the other’s throat. They crashed to the ground, then jumped up and locked again, careening across the floor in Richard’s direction.
It happened so fast Richard was completely unprepared. The two battling men staggered backwards and crashed into the glass wall of his hiding place. It bowed in frighteningly but didn’t break. Instinctively Richard jumped back. He collided with the partially open door, which flung open and smashed against the wall. The two fighters were still jammed against the glass, Pig facing in Richard’s direction. Pig glanced up at the sound of the crashing door and spotted Richard.
“Hey, there’s somebody in there,” he yelled. He pushed his opponent away and both turned to stare at Richard. Suddenly their battle was forgotten.
“Who the fuck are you!” shouted Pig.
Richard dove for the open door and tore down the hall. He was in an unfamiliar corridor with no connection to the one he’d first entered; he had no idea where he was going. The two fighters chased after him. He flew around a corner, struggling to pull out the gun shoved in his belt, but the men quickly caught up. One of them tackled him and he crashed to the floor. There was an explosion at the back of his head and everything went black.
A Revelation
When he regained consciousness, Richard had a splitting headache and his vision was blurred. He lay face down on a filthy concrete floor. As soon as he showed some movement a foot jammed down on his neck.
About twenty feet to his left stood a young man with many tattoos and spiked black hair, cowering in absolute terror. Directly in front of the youth sat Crack, lounging on an overstuffed chair, a leg draped over one of the arms, swinging casually. Crack turned and eyed Richard with an amused expression.
“So you’re awake,” he said. “I’m glad Pig didn’t kill you. It’s actually really lucky you’re here. Believe it or not I’ve been looking for you.”
Crack looked past Richard at the man whose foot rested on his neck.
“Chuckles…” Crack made a lifting motion with his upturned hand. The foot was removed, and a giant hand hauled Richard to his feet like a rag doll, as another clutched both his hands behind his back in an iron grip. Richard twisted his neck painfully to look behind him. He was being held by the human mountain he’d seen earlier.
From closer in Richard saw that Crack was decorated with one of the most extraordinary tattoos he’d ever seen. A series of tapering bands spiraled down Crack’s right arm, ending in dull points near his right wrist. When Richard followed the bands upward, it became clear that the image was a giant octopus, its bulbous head wrapping around the back of Crack’s shoulder and disappearing under his sleeveless shirt – its eight tentacles coiling ominously around his arm.
The tentacles seemed to squirm with the flexing and un-flexing of Crack’s sinewy arm muscles.
Crack turned away and seemed to forget about him. He had apparently
been talking to the man on Richard’s left. Richard recognized him as the guard who had been watching the entrance when he snuck into the compound.
“Now – Mikey,” said Crack in a businesslike tone, “there’s something we need to clear up.”
The man, Mikey, was shaking, and there was a wet spot around his crotch. Crack swung his leg down from the arm of the chair and casually got to his feet. He strolled toward the terrified guard.
“Know who this man is?” Crack said, gesturing in Richard’s direction. He spoke in an affable, matter-of-fact tone.
Mikey shook his head.
“Well,” said Crack, “what would you guess?” He moved slowly toward the cowering Mikey.
“You must have an opinion – look at him.” Crack continued. Mikey glanced at Richard, but said nothing.
“Come on,” Crack said. “I’m curious. I’d really like to know. Would you say that he’s – say – a crack army commando with years of intensive training in stealth techniques and infiltration behind enemy lines?”
Mikey simply stared at him.
Crack continued, “Or maybe he’s a top soldier from one of the other militias – ‘a cold-blooded killer’” Crack put on a mock TV announcer tone, “‘with a lifetime of street-smarts’. What do you think?”
Again Mikey didn’t dare to speak. Crack strode to within a few feet of the guard, and his right hand fingered a gun tucked into his belt. Mikey’s bulging eyes followed his hand movements intently.
“Well?” Crack pressed him, “What would be your expert analysis?”
“I don’t know…” mumbled Mikey.
“You don’t know…” echoed Crack sarcastically. “You don’t know…”
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