Omega Dog - 01

by Tim Stevens

  She peered at him through swollen eyes, as if trying to decide if he was insane as well as intimidating.

  ‘It’s something to do with Professor Lomax, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘When I phoned his home tonight... you were the one who answered.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Venn.

  And he began to explain.

  Chapter 24

  ‘God dammit!’ Gomez punched the brickwork of the nearest wall.

  Shelly Anderson was surprised. Despite his gruff demeanor, she’d never seen her partner lose his cool like this before.

  Around them the street brimmed with civilians, swarming around out of curiosity or simple fear. Gunfire in this Upper West Side neighborhood wasn’t common, nor did cars tend to explode. Already the uniformed cops were cordoning the street off, controlling the crowds.

  But for Anderson and Gomez it was too late. Their charge, Dr Colby, and the man who’d abducted her, were both gone. Swallowed up in the crowd, and probably several blocks away in a boosted car by now.

  Shelly was the first to act, hurrying back to their car and getting on the radio. She requested an APB on the fugitives. One woman in her late twenties. The other a man in his thirties.

  Tough-looking. Maybe ex-military.

  Armed and highly dangerous.

  Gomez was at the burning wreck of the car when Shelly got back. His face was sheened with sweat, and she knew it wasn’t just from the heat.

  ‘You okay?’ she said.

  He puffed out his cheeks. ‘What the hell was all that about?’

  ‘God knows.’

  A little distance away from the wreck, a couple of uniforms squatted by the man who’d leaped from the vehicle just before it had gone up. The man who’d driven up in the car, and with whom they’d exchanged gunfire. Shelly and Gomez hurried over.

  The man’s features were hard to make out, blackened as they were by smoke. His eyes had rolled up in his head, but he was breathing, his limbs twitching faintly.

  One of the uniformed cops had his gun out, and was touching the barrel to the injured man’s chin.

  ‘Officer,’ said Shelly, her tone warning.

  The cop looked round. His face was twisted with hate.

  ‘He shot Lou Harris,’ he said. ‘The cop-killing son of a bitch.’

  Gomez turned away, muttering, ‘Ah, God.’

  Shelly glanced over toward her car, where several of the uniformed cops had emerged from the lobby of the apartment block when the shooting had started. One of them had been hit. She saw several others huddled around his body, trying to do some half-assed form of CPR.

  To the cop with the gun, Shelly said: ‘He might not be dead.’

  ‘Sure, he’s dead,’ the cop snarled. ‘Shot damn near took his head off.’

  The first of the ambulances arrived in a scream of tires and sirens. The cops directed it toward their fallen comrade. As the paramedics began to pour out, Shelly beckoned one of them over.

  To the cop pointing the gun at the wounded man’s face, she said, ‘Look. I sympathize. I’d like to see this asshole with a bullet through his head too. But we need him alive. We need to find out from him what the hell this is all about. So don’t do it, okay? Put the gun down.’

  For a moment, she thought he was going to ignore her and pull the trigger. End the captive’s life, and end his own career at the same time. But at last he holstered his piece, muttering.

  The paramedic arrived and shouldered the cops out the way. He bent to the injured man, giving him a once-over, checking his vitals.

  ‘Well, he’s not hit as far as I can see,’ he said to nobody in particular. ‘No hemorrhage. But he’s out for the count.’ He yelled over to one of his colleagues in a second ambulance that had just pulled up.

  Shelly and Gomez stood back, watching, as the EMTs loaded the guy onto a gurney and trundled him toward the open rear doors of the ambulance.

  The cop who’d pointed the gun at him stepped forward. ‘I’m riding with him,’ he said. ‘Fuckin’ asshole tries anything, he’s dead.’

  Another uniform joined him. Shelly and her partner watched the ambulance as it tore away, its lights washing across them.

  ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Gomez said.

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Those guys were fighting each other.’

  ‘I know.’

  Shelly couldn’t figure it out, either. The man who’d snatched the woman, Beth, from them, the military-looking tough guy, had been kidnaping her. That was what it looked like.

  The other guy, the one in the car, had been trying to kill her.

  ‘Knew we should’ve left her at the station,’ Shelly sighed.

  Gomez gave her a sour look.

  They headed toward their Crown Vic. It was shot up a little, not much. Not enough to stop the engine from turning over.

  There’d be a rainforest’s worth of paperwork to complete on this little episode, Shelly though glumly, as she pulled away, Gomez in the passenger seat. But not yet.

  First, they needed to get to the hospital to be there when their prisoner woke up.

  Chapter 25

  In the end, Beth did make an effort to eat something. Mainly because it gave her a reason not to look at the man opposite her while he spoke.

  There was nothing inherently frightening about his appearance, she realized. He was a big man, tall and broad in the shoulder. His black leather jacket, jeans and cropped hair gave him a faintly thuggish air, and his face was grim. But it was a normal enough face, nonetheless. Everything was where it should be, in any case.

  His eyes, though. They were scary. So dark they were almost black, Beth found them unreadable. Found that by gazing into them, she could discern nothing of what was going on behind them. She hadn’t met many people like that before.

  Beth found it deeply unsettling.

  She had to admit, despite her initial revulsion at the thought of food, the meal was helping. She felt a little strength returning to her limbs, a degree of clarity appearing in her thoughts once more.

  Not that any of what had happened made any sense, though.

  And his story wasn’t much more comprehensible.

  He told her very little about his background. Just that he was an ex-cop, and now some kind of private investigator here in New York. He’d been framed just last night for murder, and some sort of mysterious government agent had offered him the chance to redeem himself by finding Professor Lomax.

  And had tagged his leg.

  Beth had spotted the tag when she’d been flung to the pavement, after the car had come speeding round the corner and the driver had opened fire on her and Venn. Even in her dazed, shocked condition, she’d taken in the metallic band round the man’s ankle as his trouser leg had ridden up when he’d leaped up onto the car’s hood. She was a doctor, and she was trained to notice details.

  The leg tag marked him out as a criminal.

  So did the fact that he’d taken her prisoner.

  And stolen not one but two cars, from blameless people, in the past hour.

  As if reading her mind, Venn put down his coffee cup – he was on his third or fourth refill – and said, ‘If I hadn’t taken those cars, you’d be dead now.’

  When Beth didn’t answer, he said, ‘I’ve memorized the license plates of those two cars. When this is over, I’ll find the owners. Recompense them.’

  The disbelief must have shown in her face, because he held her gaze for just a second before rolling his eyes.

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t expect thanks,’ he said gruffly. ‘You learn as a Marine and as a cop that nobody will ever thank you. It comes with the territory. You man up, and you suck it up. I saved your life tonight, not once but twice. But I don’t expect thanks.’

  ‘So?’ Beth noted the reference to the Marines. Interesting. He hadn’t said anything before. ‘I sense a but there.’

  He nodded in acknowledgement. ‘But, it’s this nitpicking I ca
n’t stand. This fussiness over something as trivial as a stolen car. When I’ve just saved your life.’

  ‘Saved my life? Maybe,’ Beth said, the words coming out in a rush. ‘But you also kidnapped me from the cops at gunpoint.’

  Even as she spoke, she realized she was being unfair. But suddenly she didn’t care. It had all become too much for her. The news of her friend Luisa’s death, then the attacks in her apartment and out on the street, all on the back of a thirty-hour shift at the hospital. Her nerves were frayed, the tension taut as a bowstring in her.

  Suddenly she wanted to be away from this city. Away from the death and violence and terror.

  Away from this frightening, intense man sitting opposite her, whom she associated with danger.

  Again it was as if Venn had read her thoughts. ‘You’d never make it,’ he said, staring into her eyes.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Never make it on your own,’ he went on. ‘Sure, you can take a hike. I won’t stop you. To be honest, your snotty attitude is getting a little tiring. But they’ll find you. Gun you down as soon as look at you. You won’t stand a chance. These people are professionals.’

  ‘They haven’t managed yet.’

  ‘We got lucky,’ he said. ‘Plus, you had me with you. If I hadn’t been there you’d be on a morgue slab right now with a couple of 9 mm slugs in your head. You’re a doctor. You must have seen what those things do to a human cranium.’ And he stabbed the prongs of his fork into a plum tomato on his plate, bursting it in a spray of juice and seeds.

  Her appetite gone again, Beth put down her own fork. ‘So why are you helping me?’ she said, unwilling to give in and make nice. ‘What’s in it for you? If I’m a target, and such a liability, why don’t you just cut me loose?’

  ‘Believe it or not, lady,’ Venn said, ‘I don’t like seeing innocent people getting gunned down. I was a cop, remember. It offends my natural sense of justice.’

  The way he paused made her ask, ‘And? What else?’

  ‘And, you could be useful to me. You knew Professor Lomax. You worked with him.’

  ‘But I don’t know where he is now,’ said Beth.

  Venn studied her. ‘Maybe you do, and just don’t know it.’

  Beth said nothing.

  Venn went on, ‘So what do you say? You help me find the professor. In exchange, I keep you from getting killed.’

  She raised her eyes to his, defiant. ‘What makes you think I don’t want to find the professor as much as you do?’

  He shrugged. ‘Fair point. Though you’re not facing life in prison if he stays missing. I am.’

  Beth looked away. She had to admit, there was really no option. She had to go along with this man.

  ‘I wouldn’t know where to start,’ she said.

  ‘I would,’ said Venn. ‘Tell me about the work you and Professor Lomax were doing together.’

  Chapter 26

  The ambulance veered through the wet streets, its siren and flashers going even though there was little traffic to be navigated through.

  In the rear, Officer Clark sat beside one of the two EMTs. The other one crouched by the side of the prisoner, adjusting a cuff round his arm. Monitoring equipment beeped and hummed faintly.

  The EMTs wouldn’t allow more than one cop in back with them. Said it was too crowded, and that the extra body would get in the way of their work.

  Well, Andy Clark didn’t care. He could guard this bastard on his own.

  He itched to pull the plug on the guy. Rip out all the tubes and wires and watch him die. He wasn’t sure exactly what was wrong with the guy, or how badly injured he was, so if removing his IV didn’t do the trick, Clark was happy to help the process along by throttling the life out of the cop-killing asshole.

  Clark hadn’t known Lou Harris well. And what he had known of him, he hadn’t particularly liked. But a fellow cop was a fellow cop. And when some scumbag took one of your own down, you stepped up and avenged him.

  Clark sat with his gun drawn – the EMTs hadn’t liked that, but Clark had told them to go to hell – and studied the prisoner. He was middle-aged, maybe five years older than Clark himself. A full head of hair that probably normally looked quite elegant but was now mussed and caked with blood from the head wound he’d received. There was a gash on his scalp somewhere, but it didn’t seem to be bleeding actively anymore. His eyes were closed.

  At the other end of the gurney the man’s feet protruded. Clark couldn’t help noticing the shoes. They too were spattered with blood, and a little scuffed, but they were otherwise quality items. Good leather, two-tone. Kind of old-fashioned. Clark could imagine them on the feet of some cool-cat jazz musician or Sammy Davis Jr-type crooner.

  To one of the paramedics, Clark said, ‘He gonna make it?’

  The guy rocked a palm from side to side. ‘Hard to tell. No sign of injury to the body, but he’s had a bang on the head, and it doesn’t look promising. He’s not responding to pain stimuli. Could be comatose for a while. Or his brainstem might just shut down, in which case he’s gone forever.’

  ‘A coma?’ Clark fought to stay upright in his seat as the ambulance took another sharp turn. He didn’t want the guy to stay in a coma, maybe for years. If he died, Clark would be fine with that. If he woke up, even better, because Clark could find a way to beat the shit out of him and then kill him. But a coma? That would be like escaping justice, somehow.

  Clark glared at the prisoner’s face, hating him even more than before.

  Come on, you son of a bitch, he told the guy silently. Either wake up, or goddamn well die.

  Then he rocked forward in his seat, his eyes wide.

  The prisoner’s lips had moved.

  ‘He said something,’ Clark blurted.

  The paramedics glanced at him, then at their patient.

  ‘Nope,’ said one of them. ‘He’s out for the count.’

  ‘I’m telling you,’ said Clark. ‘His lips moved.’

  One of the EMTs squatted close to the patient and peered into his face. With a thumb he lifted first one of the prone man’s eyelids, then the other.

  He looked back at Clark.

  ‘He’s still unconscious,’ he said. ‘You must have imagined it.’

  ‘I know what I saw,’ snarled Clark.

  The EMTs exchanged a look. Clark knew what they were thinking. Dumbass cop.

  And there it was again. The man on the gurney moved his mouth.

  ‘Look, for crying out loud,’ yelled Clark.

  ‘Officer, please keep your voice down,’ said one of the paramedics. They weren’t even looking at the prisoner now.

  Clark lunged forward before the EMTs could stop him. He came up close, his face inches from the prisoner’s.

  A whisper, faint as a memory, rose from between the man’s parted lips.

  One of the EMTs grabbed Clark’s arm, but he shook it free. He put his right ear up against the man’s mouth.

  ‘Come on, you bastard,’ he muttered. ‘What are you trying to say?’

  And that was when the man bit him.

  Clark felt pain of an order he’d never before experienced, never even conceived of, exploding in his ear as the teeth sunk into the cartilage.

  He screamed, jerking his head away.

  And felt an awful, excruciating, tearing sensation as his ear ripped free from the side of his head.

  Clark screamed again, distantly aware that the EMTs were shouting on either side of him. He put his right hand – his gun hand – up to his ear, the sickening wet pulpiness of mutilated flesh touching his fingers.

  It was a mistake, lifting his gun hand up to his head like that. A mistake Clark lived only a fraction of a second to regret.

  The prisoner jackknifed up from the gurney, his waist held down by a strap, and grabbed Clark, one hand at the back off his head, the other gripping Clark’s right wrist.

  Through the waves of agony Clark felt the man’s strong fingers bend his wrist until the hard steel of
his own gun pressed against his temple.

  Felt the man’s index finger slip through the trigger guard over his.

  Then a shocking white explosion ended it all.

  Chapter 27

  Royle averted his face at the last instant, grimacing as the policeman’s head erupted in a mist of red.

  He had no problem with blood. He’d spilt a lot of it in his time. But Royle didn’t especially care for getting it all over him if he could help it.

  Hurling the policeman’s body to one side, Royle shot first one of the paramedics, then the other. Clean kills, a single bullet each to the chest.

  Regrettable deaths, but necessary.

  Through the partition at his back he could hear shouting from the cab of the ambulance. The vehicle began to swerve even more violently than before.

  Royle unfastened the strap across his waist, then the one holding his legs down. Leaping off the stretcher he peered out through the glass in the rear doors.

  Two squad cars were following, their lights flashing.

  Royle slid back the bolt on the doors, then kicked the doors wide. He grabbed the nearer of the two paramedics’ bodies and heaved it out.

  The body bounced off the windshield of the cop car immediately behind. Royle heard the screech of tires and the thump and crack of flesh and bone meeting metal and glass, but he didn’t pause to admire his handiwork. Instead, he hauled the second body to the doors and rolled that out, too.

  The cop car braked hard, its front wheels bumping over the body on the tarmac. An instant later the car behind it smashed into its rear, spinning it side-on.

  Royle gripped the door frame to keep himself steady as the ambulance veered this way and that. The police cars receded into the distance, other vehicles thumping into the pile-up, becoming part of it.

  Shoving the cop’s gun into his pocket, Royle braced himself, then leaped onto the road. He hit the tarmac with his shoulder, immediately going into a roll to reduce the impact.

  Then he was up on his feet and running for the sidewalk, pain blazing in his shoulder and throbbing dully in his head.