Floodgate

by Johnny Shaw

  “Ashley might have overestimated Robinson’s influence,” Rocco said. “If these are the cops loyal to Robinson, he’s got more support than I thought. And I got no idea what he’s trying to accomplish here, except maybe kill as many of his enemies as he can.”

  “If it looks for a second like Robinson is going to win this fight,” Andy said, “the cops sitting this out will turn on Ashley.”

  “But if they think Robinson will lose,” Rocco said, “they’ll turn. They ain’t got no loyalty.”

  “Except the Thorntons.”

  “Not much we can do,” Rocco said. “This will play out how it plays out. Hopewell is our concern. Five convicts down, one to go. We have to stop him from whatever he’s about to do. Or what he’s already done.”

  “How do we stop someone from doing what they’ve already done?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Whoa,” Andy said, reacting to a bald man in an Armani suit who leapt off a parked car and landed on two police officers, knocking them to the ground.

  “We can’t just sit here and watch,” Rocco said.

  “I don’t ever want to get used to killing people,” Andy said. “More people are going to die, aren’t they?”

  “God, I hope so,” Rocco said.

  Andy stopped the ice cream truck in the middle of the street. They stepped into the back. Rocco found a four-way lug wrench and handed it to Andy. He got a long piece of pipe for himself.

  “The front door to the Holt building is the only way in,” Rocco said. “Follow me.” He laughed to himself and flicked on the ice cream truck music.

  Without another word, father and son joined the fray to their own demented soundtrack.

  It took Andy a couple of tries to get used to his new weapon. The crosslike shape wasn’t great for swinging, but it was effective for poking. A jab in the eye dropped a rotten cop he used to know to his knees. It didn’t stop him completely, but enough for Andy to give him a kick to the face. Punishing bad cops could become addictive.

  He turned to find Rocco and get his father’s approval, only to get a punch to the side of the head from a gigantic fist. He kept his feet, but only just.

  “I was hoping I would see you,” the Thornton said. Andy had no idea which one. One of the younger ones.

  “You Thorntons are everywhere,” Andy said.

  “There’s a lot of love in my family,” he said.

  “Any daughters? Or just gorillas?”

  “You don’t want to mess with a Thornton lass. Even I’m scared of them.”

  “Are we going to do this?” Andy asked.

  The Thornton charged forward. Andy kicked his knee with a straight foot. The Thornton’s leg bent back in the wrong direction with a nauseating, meaty snap. The man fell. Andy threw up all over him. He felt worse for the vomit than the broken knee.

  Not sticking around to gloat, he caught sight of Rocco fifteen yards closer to the door, making quick work of some cop half his age. He didn’t bother to use the pipe, taking down the kid with one hand. What Rocco lacked in speed, he made up for in power. For an old guy, he still had some pop in his punch.

  As Andy ran to the front door, someone pushed him on the back, making him stumble forward and eat it on the sidewalk. He turned to see Brandon Carver, a cop with a reputation for taking advantage of women in custody. A real piece of shit.

  “Hey, ratfuck,” Carver said. “You’ve had a beating coming for a long time.”

  Then the man collapsed. A soup can rolled away from his prone form. Andy looked for Agnes, but he didn’t spot her in the crowd. He thanked the statue across the street. The church had a blackened hole from the explosion earlier in the day, but that scary angel still stood. Watching over him, protecting him.

  The vase in the center of the table had been broken, shards scattered over the back of a dead man. There had been a hell of a battle. The strewn bodies of men in suits and police decorated the room. Quiet as a tomb, the fighting was over for these men. Probably never knew what they were fighting for. Soldiers following orders. Paid to take a side.

  “All I care about is Champ,” Andy said.

  Rocco thought for a moment. He nodded. “I caught sight of Hopewell on the roof of the building next door.”

  “Kate took me to Champ’s before, but it was twisty and turny,” Andy said.

  “No time to write it down, so listen.”

  Andy walked down the dark hallway and into the sixth sitting room. He pulled at the bookcase, realized that Rocco had said the fifth sitting room when he tweaked his back, and went into the right room. A dubious start to his journey. Andy moved the correct bookcase and headed down the passage into the basement and across into the building next door.

  Through hallways and passages, up and down staircases, behind fake walls. It didn’t take long for Andy to get lost. He retraced his steps and found a stairwell that looked familiar. The sounds of fighting played out in the distance. One flight up without incident. When he stopped to catch his breath, he heard a door close. Above him, footsteps descended the stairs.

  There was nowhere to go. No place to hide. Andy considered calling out. It could be an ally, one of the Trust bodyguards. Unfortunately, none of his supposed allies knew who the hell he was. He didn’t know the password or the secret handshake. And he looked like a cop, having not abandoned the cop look from his time as a cop. His flattop could get him killed.

  He felt hypocritical about the lecture that he had given Kate and Rocco regarding their slapdash operation. Every plan he had ever devised consisted of him running at a thing. Or waiting for a thing. Or hiding from a thing.

  He pulled his pistol and held it in front of him, ready for whatever appeared on the landing above him. He saw the red hair first.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Andy said. “Another one?”

  “Destra?” the Thornton said, surprised. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “You got to start wearing name tags,” Andy said. “Keep your hands away from your weapon.”

  The Thornton’s eyes fell to the pistol in Andy’s hand.

  “You are pointing a gun at an officer of the law,” the Thornton said, now angry.

  “I’m pointing a gun at a thug.”

  “You’re interfering with official police business. We have warrants. Charges. Taking down a major criminal conspiracy.” The Thornton took the first step down toward Andy.

  “I don’t want a fight. I need to get past you. That’s all,” Andy said. “You can go this way. I’ll go that way. Deal?”

  “Nope.” The Thornton pushed off the step and flew toward Andy, both hands in front of him like Superman. Andy fired, but that didn’t stop the Thornton from landing on top of him.

  Andy never went completely unconscious, but for a few seconds everything went swirly. The back of his head had plonked against the landing. He now knew how Rowdy Roddy Piper felt after Jimmy Snuka performed the Superfly Splash. That’s the image that filled his head. The Thornton’s head on Snuka’s body. The best finishing move in wrestling. The weirdest things popped into the mind of the semiconscious.

  Decreasingly less painful hooks to the midsection pulled him from his WWF daydream. The Thornton—under duress, Andy would have guessed Seamus—punched at him, but the flurry felt like a machine running out of batteries. In fifteen seconds, the Thornton stopped fighting.

  Andy rolled the man off him and stood. Andy’s clothes were covered in blood. He got immediately dizzy and fell on his ass. He counted to ten. Deep breathing slowed his heart rate. He tried and succeeded in standing. Seamus looked dead. He kicked the Thornton with a toe like you would to check if a dog was alive. This hound wasn’t.

  Andy limped up the stairs, using the bar for support. On the next floor, he found the fire pole he had slid down with Kate. It brought him to what he was pretty sure was Champ’s floor. The hallway was clear. No noise. No movement. No people. The faint smell of smoke, but that could have been in his nostrils from the s
treet.

  He found the door, luckily remembering the number. Although in this Escher-inspired series of structures, the apartment numbers were probably changed daily. He had to start somewhere. Andy thanked the air and tried the knob. Of course, it was locked.

  Andy gave the door a shave and a haircut and waited. Light-headed from the fight and his short journey, Andy took a knee to avoid passing out. The moment his knee hit the ground, the top of the door exploded, shards of wood flying into the hallway. Right where his head had been.

  Why couldn’t anything be easy?

  CHAPTER 35

  Mayhem will not be tolerated.

  —Hand-painted sign attributed to the vigilante group known as “Floodgate” (circa 1929)

  Andy sat on the ground, clutching his pistol in two hands. He waited a count of three for the next shot, but it didn’t come.

  “Sons of bitches shot Russell!” Champ yelled from inside.

  “Champ,” Andy shouted, “if that’s you shooting, it’s me. It’s Andy.”

  “Who’s there?” Champ asked. “Is someone out there?”

  “It’s Andy. You know me.”

  She fired again. The new hole exploded below the previous one. Champ appeared to be attempting to draw a snowman on the door with a shotgun.

  “You have to remember me. You have to try. I know it’s hard,” Andy said. “I’m going to stand up. Don’t shoot me. I want you to see my face. Once you see me, you’ll know who I am.”

  Andy holstered his pistol and took a deep breath. He didn’t want to give himself enough time to realize how stupid this move was. He stood and stuck his face in the upper hole in the door.

  “It’s me,” he said. “Try to remember.”

  “Andy,” Champ said nonchalantly. She pointed a shotgun from a defensive position behind the sofa. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to make sure you’re okay.”

  “Couldn’t be better,” she said. “Did you bring any food? I’ve been hankering for a slice.”

  “Can I come in?” Andy asked.

  “You don’t have to ask. You know that,” she said. “We’re family. Do you want some tea?”

  Andy reached through the shotgun-forged breach in the door and let himself inside.

  “Thorntons running around all flibbertigibbety,” Champ said. “One of them shot Russell. I drove the bastard off with my persuader here.”

  “How hurt is Russell? Where is he?”

  “Not too bad. Tried to call an ambulance. Phone is dead. I field-dressed the wound. He’s napping in the bedroom.”

  “Who gave you a shotgun?” Andy asked.

  “There were four of them in the closet when I moved in. I suppose for mice.”

  “Do you mind if I take it?” Andy asked, approaching with his hand out.

  Champ clutched it to her body. “I might be losing my mind—don’t mean I shouldn’t be armed.”

  From Champ’s living room window, Andy caught a bird’s-eye view of the chaos on the street. From that height, it was impossible to tell who was fighting whom. A blur of bodies moving in waves, the uniformed police the only identifiable team. He wished the others had worn jerseys or very large name tags. Fighting in shirts and skins would have really helped out Andy.

  Champ sat on the couch with the shotgun between her knees. She thumbed through the TV Guide. “Probably something good on Channel 6. Maybe an old movie? Or Rockford Files? Can’t beat Rockfish.”

  Gunfire erupted from the hallway. Andy looked to the ridiculously ineffective front door. Nothing more than a hinged wooden hole.

  “Get back behind here, Champ.” Andy led her behind the couch. “Stay down.”

  “Tell whoever it is to make it snappy. The answering machine message at the beginning is the best part,” she said.

  Andy had his pistol out as he walked slowly toward the door. This wasn’t the kind of battle that he could hide from. More gunfire stopped him halfway to the door. Footsteps approached. He crouched and aimed his weapon. The door flew open. Andy came within a breath of shooting Agnes and Cardinal Macklin.

  Agnes pulled Macklin behind her, practically dragging him into the apartment. She closed the door, looked at it, and started moving an armoire.

  “Help me,” she said.

  The archbishop held a small derringer on Andy but lowered it when he recognized him. Andy helped Agnes block the door with the armoire and get a table behind it for support. It wasn’t going to stop anyone who really wanted to get inside, but it would be enough of a hassle to make entry dangerous.

  “Are you hurt? Are either of you hurt?” Andy asked.

  Agnes shrugged and moved to the window.

  “What’s happening out there?” Andy asked.

  “That Hopewell is one determined bastard,” Macklin said. “I don’t know what Gray promised him, but he’s playing this out to the end. The man raided our meeting. Came through the ceiling, for Christ’s sake. The chandelier hit the ground with him and an army of Thorntons right behind. Guns a-blazin’. It got worse from there. Agnes pulled me out.”

  “Leader of the Trust fell,” Agnes said. “Some 893 soldiers. Hopewell has little fear, fights well.”

  “Who are these people?” Champ said, waving the shotgun wildly between Agnes and Macklin.

  Macklin turned, frightened, his small gun aimed at Champ.

  “No, no, no,” Andy said. “Stress confuses her. Just be nice, and she’ll be nice to you. We’re all friends here.”

  Champ squinted at Macklin. “You dirty son of a bitch.”

  “It’s okay, Champ,” Andy said. “That’s Cardinal Macklin.”

  She kept the shotgun trained on Macklin. “I know who he is. He owes me money.”

  “You have him mixed up with someone else,” Andy said. “His Holiness is the archbishop of Auction.”

  “Champ Destra? It is you.” Macklin laughed and lowered his derringer. “She’s not mistaken. The lady is right. I do believe I owe her. Fourteen dollars, wasn’t it?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Andy said.

  “It was years ago,” Macklin said. “But a momentous evening. Dick’s Dock, if memory serves me. Champ challenged me to some form of drinking competition. Right in my wheelhouse. I was overconfident.”

  “You welched.”

  “Not entirely my fault, my dear. If I recall, a doozie of a brawl broke out, and I became embroiled in ministering to some heathens with my fists.” Macklin reached into a hidden pocket, found a money clip, and peeled off a couple of twenties. “With interest.”

  Champ lowered the shotgun and took the money.

  “Okay,” Champ said. “We’re square.”

  Macklin shook his head. “Dick’s had the best degenerates. So many souls to save.”

  “We need to get the two of you into the safe room,” Agnes said. “Away from the windows and the doors.”

  “There’s a safe room?” Andy asked.

  “Why do you think I came here?” Agnes said. “They’re scattered throughout the complex.”

  “Russell, her nurse, is in the back. He’s hurt. I don’t know how bad.”

  “I’ll take care of this young lady and her nurse.” Macklin held out his elbow to Champ, as if asking her to the dance floor. “Shall we?”

  She took his elbow, still clutching the shotgun.

  “Keep her safe, Mac,” Andy said.

  “The big sissy has always been a sentimental sap,” Champ said.

  “You can see why she’s so special to me,” Andy said.

  They went into the back bedroom, closing the door behind them.

  Agnes grabbed Andy’s arm, her fingers digging into his bicep. She walked him to the armoire.

  “Hopewell and the Thorntons,” Agnes said. “They are the most dangerous. They are the active threats. They need to be stopped.”

  “What about the other police, Robinson, all the fighting in the street?”

  “If you know another way for a good end, then by all means,” she s
aid, “but I am lost for a different strategy.”

  “There were supposed to be all sorts of backroom dealings. Ashley was taking over the police.” Andy found himself yelling. “I thought you people had a plan. Or at least knew what was going on.”

  “I’ve never tried to understood what happens between those that are really in charge. I am a soldier.”

  “So I got to see behind the curtain, but apparently there’s just another curtain behind that one. And we have no idea what’s going on back there?”

  “Hopewell and the Thorntons are making Gray’s loyalists—now Robinson’s loyalists—brave. We take away their champions, we make them rethink their alliances—that will benefit our efforts.”

  “So all that fighting on the street? That’s what? A distraction?”

  “Essentially. We take care of our side of things,” Agnes said. “I have already facilitated three journeys to the afterlife in my efforts to keep the Cardinal alive.”

  “So what do we do?” Andy said. “And don’t sugarcoat it.”

  “We find Hopewell, the remaining Thorntons, and we kill them,” Agnes said and handed him a pistol machine gun. “We kill them all.”

  “I was kidding. I wanted you to sugarcoat it.”

  The two of them pulled the armoire crashing to the ground. Agnes opened the door and looked down the hall. She waved Andy to follow.

  “I am going to find Pilar and her girls,” she said. “Are you going to be okay on your own?”

  Apparently that was a rhetorical question, as Agnes was gone before Andy had a chance to answer. He considered turning around and joining Champ and Macklin in the safe room. He headed down the hall instead.

  Andy had no idea where he was headed and not a strong idea of what he was going to do when he got there. At this point it was easier for Andy to react to whatever happened than plan for something that would never happen. The equivalent of running blindly with his hands over his ears and no sense of smell. Standard operating procedure for Andy.