by Greg Curtis
He helped the still shaken and suddenly pale man to his feet and then slowly began to lead him to the bathroom. A trip that was more difficult than usual when he was still in a cast and bandaged up, and Edgar was clutching his nose and seeming a little shocked. And the obstacle course of boxes and yellow tape didn't help.
But the real difficulty was that he knew Edgar was right. This had gone on for far too long. It was time to bring Benedict to justice.
Chapter Twenty Seven
It was another week before Garrick finally got his cast off. By then he was nearly climbing the walls with impatience. The damned thing itched abominably.
But it was more than that. It was even more than the fact that the cast got in the way of everything he tried to do. It was that he wanted to see his leg. To see what it looked like.
It would be bad – he knew that. The damage the bullet had done would have left a scar. But he was certain the scars from the operation to reconstruct his bone would be worse.
Unfortunately he was right.
As he lay there in the orthopaedics ward of the hospital surrounded by other people dressed in plaster casts just like his, he stared at his newly released limb and was shocked. His leg was pasty white and far too thin. That was only to be expected after months in a cast he supposed. But the scars were huge, running all the way from his knee to his thigh. And they were shockingly vivid, dark red against the pale skin. He had seen the x-rays of course, and he knew that there was an entire superstructure of girders inside his thigh. But seeing the pair of scars brought that home to him in a way nothing else could.
“It looks good.”
The doctor startled Garrick with that. He apparently had a different definition of good to him he thought. One that clearly didn't involve any concept of aesthetics. But still, he was a doctor and Garrick had to listen to him. Especially while the doctor was busy palpitating his thigh muscle and pressing on the scar. That hurt. But on the other hand this was the surgeon who'd done the original surgery. He'd drilled and bolted and hammered those pieces of metal in his leg together. So no doubt he'd had some idea of how the leg would end up. Garrick had returned to him for the cast removal because he figured he was the one who would have the best assessment of how well things had gone. And this apparently was better than it could have been.
“The scars have healed over nicely. The x-rays show good bone knitting and the structure's holding quite well. In fact it's healed surprisingly well. Obviously you live a healthy life.”
“And you need to keep doing that. Lots of gentle exercise – and I do mean gentle. Swimming would be best and the physiotherapists will want to have you on a stationary bike I imagine. No running. We don't want the bone jarred too much for a while. Also, the leg will be stiff for a good few months. You'll need to do some stretches every day and slowly build up your muscle tone. The physiotherapy will help with that as well. But all going well I see no reason why you shouldn't be back on active duty again in a matter of months. Maybe three or four.”
He might not but the Choir did. They were still firm on that point. His days as an agent were numbered. Garrick was slowly adjusting to the idea. Very slowly.
“Now we've got your address as Olmstead for the present. So I'll make sure your notes are sent down to the hospital there. I don't know what they have in the way of facilities there, but I'm sure they'll be able to help you with most of what you need. So follow their advice, do the exercises and hopefully we won't have to see you again.”
“As long as you don't get shot any more!”
The doctor threw in the last with a smile, as if it was funny. Maybe it was to other people, but Garrick was fast becoming less than amused with the whole thing. He was saved from having to respond by his phone, which rang, startling everyone. Maybe he should have turned it off. It was probably protocol in a hospital. But he was an agent, and he never turned his phone off.
“Hello.”
“Garrick we know where he's going.”
Sally Anne's voice rang out over the earpiece, and Garrick instantly knew who she meant. She and Lucas had taken over the tracking of Benedict from him. The hunters had been working as a team ever since Cassie had told him what Benedict was and they'd realised that they too would be hunted by their prey. So the two worked together and apart. Each one hunting Benedict from a different angle. As such, each one would be able to warn the other the moment the thief came for them. But the strange thing was that he hadn't come after either of them. Except that it wasn't strange at all. Even as she began to tell him what they knew, Garrick knew the rest. It was the same reason that Benedict hadn't gone after either of them yet. He had always had another victim in mind.
“He's here isn't he?”
Of course he was. Garrick had been helping with the hunt only in a limited capacity since speaking with Cassie, but the thief's scent was still strong in his nose. He knew his quarry. And he knew he was close to the end. Desperate. Other men in his shoes would run or hide. Benedict wouldn't. He couldn't. He would always attack. It was a part of what defined him. He had to win. He had to know that feeling of victory. It was the only thing that kept his personal demons at bay. And killing Garrick would be the only thing that would make Benedict happy. It was the only thing that would drive the darkness away. Especially after he'd already tried and failed to kill him four times.
“He's on his way. He threatened a clerk to get your appointment time. Then he shot him.”
The lights went out in the ward, and there were a couple of startled yelps from the other patients. It told Garrick everything he needed to know.
“He's here now.”
Garrick abruptly hung up and turned to the doctor who was looking around, and no doubt wondering what had happened. He looked strange in the red glow of the emergency lights. Disturbing. Not like a doctor at all.
“Doc, you need to get yourself and the other patients out of here. Now!”
“It's just a power cut. The lights will come back soon.” But even as he was trying to project confidence the doctor didn't sound completely convinced.
“No, it's Armando Benedict. He's come to kill me.”
And if the doctor didn't quite believe him, he believed the gun that Garrick pulled out and laid on the bed beside him, ready to be grabbed in a heartbeat even while he dressed. Garrick had had the sheriff issue him with a new weapon, and even though it was an old nine automatic taken from a gang banger during a routine traffic stop, he was suddenly very grateful for it. Unfortunately, it wasn't the Sig he was familiar with, it also had a hair trigger and a busted safety and it didn't fit well in his holster. But beggars couldn't be choosers as they said.
Garrick reached for his pants and started pulling them on. They might be ridiculously oversized, but there was no way he was going into a gun fight without his pants on.
“Ah Mr. Hamilton ...”
“That's Special Agent Hamilton Doctor, and I am ordering you to get yourself and everyone else out of this ward now! And if someone could call the police that would be a damned good idea as well!”
By the time he had pulled up his pants and was standing by the bed, the others were leaving. Some were walking, some were being wheeled, but all of them were going. A few of them were staring at him strangely – perhaps wondering if he'd gone crazy – but they weren't hanging around and when a killer was heading this way that was all that mattered. Which left him in the clinical ward, alone and thinking about how to defend it.
There were rules to gun fights, and one of the most basic was that if someone was coming after you and you could find a defensible position, that was your best bet. It carried less risk than running or hiding, and much less risk than going on the offensive. But those rules had never been devised with the thought that the one coming after you could read your mind. He could set traps, but Benedict would know them. He could plan out his fields of fire and prepare for Benedict's arrival, but again he would know. Best, he decided to simply find a sheltered position and wait.
No matter what Benedict knew of his plans, he could still do nothing about them unless he was a brilliant shot.
There was one other rule in a gun fight. It was best to be able to move quickly if you had to. So, slowly he starting to put weight on his newly freed leg, worried that he might hear a cracking sound. But he didn't and as soon as he was even moderately confident that it would hold he began looking for some cover.
Unfortunately the clinic was a wide open space. There were beds with curtains, and a nurses’ station, but not much more.
The best shelter in the fracture clinic he quickly decided was behind the gigantic pile of medical equipment that had been pushed into a corner. It was a jumbled mess but some of it at least looked quite solid, and nothing else in the room was. The nurses’ station certainly wasn't. It was built with thin plywood which bullets would scarcely even notice. It was also right out in the centre of the room. He would make a perfect target behind it.
Heart beating rapidly, Garrick quickly hobbled over to the equipment and began yanking out some of the devices and pushing them into the shape of a crude barricade – all the while wondering how much time he had. It wouldn't be a lot. He didn't know the layout of the hospital, but he was sure the electrics would be in the basement. The clinic was on the first floor. It wouldn't take Benedict long to travel from one to the other. And when he heard the sound of gunfire somewhere in the distance, he realised he was right. And given that the gunfire was automatic it was clear that Benedict had come prepared.
Worried, Garrick hastily pulled a couple of the wheeled beds over as well and then tipped them on their sides to add to his cover. They had steel frames and would obscure him if he kept low.
People outside were screaming by then and he could hear the drum beat of feet hammering on the concrete floor. But he paid that no mind as he worked. He couldn't help them. He was still crippled, poorly armed, and without even a vest. He didn't pay any attention to the pain in his leg either. This was about survival. So he concentrated on what he was doing and all the time listened for the sound of the double doors to the ward being flung open.
They weren't flung open. Instead, the first he knew his enemy had arrived was when he heard a small whoosh and then watched in disbelief as the doors simply exploded in a ball of fire and smoke. Benedict had apparently brought some sort of grenade launcher with him. Fortunately Garrick was on the other side of the clinic and far enough away and shielded by enough medical equipment that the shock wave from the blast and the shrapnel mostly missed him even though he was slow throwing himself to the ground.
But lying there on the floor, his ears ringing from the blast, he unexpectedly discovered that he'd found a vantage point between the legs of the machines from which he could cover the door. He waited.
He didn't have to wait long as Benedict came racing into the room, crossing his line of sight from left to right, no doubt thinking to reach cover before he could react. Unfortunately for him Benedict was running on sixty eight year old legs and loaded down with weapons. No matter how fit he kept himself, his age coupled with the weight he was carrying combined to slow him down. A little. It might not have mattered if his target had been a rookie. Unfortunately for Benedict not only was Garrick not a rookie, he was a hunter. He was also one of the best shots around. He knew how to bring down his prey – especially when it was running.
Garrick got three quick shots off at the thief as he ran, all at his legs, and one at least hit something.
Benedict went down in a screaming heap, sliding across the floor, and had to watch helplessly as several of his weapons went sliding away into the distance. Unfortunately the grenade launcher was still in his hand as he fell, and in his confusion he pulled the trigger. The resultant explosion took down half the ceiling and buried the thief under a pile of rubble. Even thirty yards away and hidden behind his makeshift barricade Garrick was covered in dust and plaster.
After that there was silence. That was, other than for the ringing in his ears. But he knew Benedict was alive. He'd seen the pile of rubble shift as the thief had crawled away. But at least he'd been crawling, not running. He was injured.
“You thought this would be easy Benedict?”
Garrick called out to his enemy, taunting him, trying to provoke him into making a mistake. Perhaps he could get him to give away his position. But Garrick knew it was a thin hope. Benedict would know what he was doing. He was a little surprised then when he got an answer.
“I thought I'd finally kill you freak! You and all your kind! You've been trying to stop me releasing all the stuff I stole from Diogenes. Don't even try and deny it. You've been trying to outwit me. But you lose. I released it all! All of it!”
Of course he had. Garrick had always known he would. And this was the end. Benedict knew it. So he had released everything, not to cover his tracks, not to destabilise the world, not even to destroy the nephilim. But purely to win. He had to win, no matter the cost. And even if he died here he would die happy believing that he had won. But Garrick couldn't worry about that then. He had to hope that Diogenes' work had been completed. Leave his trust with them. And he had to break Benedict.
“You mean you lose. You just exposed yourself as well. After all you're one of us. And you have the nerve to call me a freak when you're the same?”
It was partly true which was why he used it. But mainly he said it because he knew the thief wouldn't want to hear it. And Garrick wanted him off balance. He needed him not thinking clearly.
“Liar!”
Benedict screamed at him, losing control and Garrick used the sound to track him as he lay behind the rubble of the ceiling and broken beds.
“Me a liar? You're one of us. Or hadn't you guessed that that was how you knew what everyone was thinking?”
Maybe he shouldn't have said it. He didn't actually know. But the ageing thief's scream was music to his ears. Or it was until Benedict fired the grenade launcher again and much more of the ceiling came down between them. And this time as well as the ceiling, some of the floor above came down with it. Big things like chunks of wall and beds. That was the thief's plan. He couldn't see Garrick to aim at him, so he was going to just try and bring the entire floor above down on top of him. Fortunately he was a bad shot and he didn't know quite where Garrick was. Unfortunately it didn't matter. If Benedict were to keep firing upwards, sooner or later they’d both be buried alive.
“Why won't you just die!”
It was some time before Garrick was able to hear Benedict screaming that at him. The damage to his hearing from all the blasts was terrible. But he couldn't imagine that Benedict was any better. In fact, since he was just as close to the blasts and less well barricaded he had to be in even worse shape. But it was his mind that counted and Garrick knew that it was breaking. There was a touch of hysteria in the thief's screaming. More than a touch. He was on the edge. He had probably been going there for some time. His repeated failures to kill him had been robbing Benedict of his sense of accomplishment, and he'd been losing faith in himself. Without that he was vulnerable to the darkness within him. And at some point it had no longer been about the money. It had only been about killing him. Grimly, Garrick knew it was time to complete the job. He also knew how to do it.
“So….. What made you decide to fuck an angel?”
There was a time for polite and a time for direct and this was the time for direct. He had to bring the act firmly into the thief's thoughts. He had to make him remember that moment. Relive the act. And relearn the darkness that he kept trying to hide from. The answer he got was a wordless scream. But it was also the answer he'd wanted.
Then Benedict fired the grenade launcher again and the world exploded.
More of the ceiling came down on their heads. More of the floor above as well. Dust and rubble was everywhere, blinding him. There was screaming too, and some of it was coming from Garrick as he realised he'd been hit by something. Something that had sliced through an arm. His shooting arm. He could feel wa
rm blood trickling down and knew there was too much of it to be good. But if he was this bad, how bad did the ageing thief have to be? He was practically bringing the building down on top of himself. And he kept doing it.
Benedict fired three more shots into the ceiling between them, and piece by piece the second floor started becoming the first. And the only thing Garrick could do as Benedict went mad was try to find shelter against the back wall of the clinic and hope that it held as his barricade was slowly covered in rubble.
Eventually the explosions stopped. The dust settled and even the ringing in his ears eased a little. Garrick poked his head up cautiously. Could it be that Benedict was out of grenades? Or that he'd injured himself too badly to continue? Or was the thief laying a trap?
“You still alive thief?”
“Die!”
Benedict shrieked at him, his voice high pitched and shrill, the madness clearly having taken hold. His angry yell was immediately followed by the sound of a machine pistol firing. But the shots were wild. He wasn't aiming at all. He'd just raised the weapon above the rubble and squeezed the trigger. He held it down until the entire clip had been fired.