Blood From A Shadow (2012)

by Gerard Cappa

  “I was supposed to meet my three friends,” I said. “Maybe they are already here, three military men, look like me.”

  She kept the smile going with her teeth, but her eyes were confused. She looked back over her shoulder, around the restaurant.

  “Which room number, please, sir?” she said.

  “You would know them, three guys like me. Not tourists, not business travellers,” I said.

  The internal phone behind the counter rang. She kept her smile, made way for me to join the diners, flourished a sweeping gesture with her open hand, as if I was an idiot, needed to be physically guided to my seat. I peeped around the door, took in most of the tables to the left of the room. The phone was still ringing. She sensed something off me, took a step back, looked at the ringing phone, half turned her body to reach it. I squinted over her shoulder to the right, not there either.

  “Maybe they have been and gone?” I said. “Three men, not Americans, three foreigners?”

  “Please excuse me for one moment, sir,” she said.

  She turned to lift the phone, I turned for the stairway at the end of the corridor, heard the start of her conversation, knew the concierge was on the line. Must be five hundred rooms in this place, Dart could have made this easier. I skipped down the stairs, caught the blinking CCTV, met the concierge on his way up, in front of the two, much younger, security guys.

  “There are three guests in here,” I said. “We need to find them, they aren’t who you think they are.”

  “Who do you want me to think you are?” he said, hardly out of breath.

  I shrugged.

  “I’m just an American,” I said. “A sergeant with the 69th. I was a big hero one time. Got the Silver Star to prove it.”

  He weighed me up, his head nodding, his big bellows chest filling the stairway.

  “Yeah?” he said. “I used to be a big hero myself, once upon a time.”

  He called it, dismissed the fit young security guys with the back of his hairy red hand.

  “It’s ok, boys,” he said. “I guess me and the Fightin’ 69th have got it from here.”

  “You sure, Lou?” one of them said.

  “Beat it,” Lou said.

  He took me down to a narrow office behind the main reception desk. More like his private den than an office, imprinted with his scent, like nobody else ever ventured in there. Photographs spanned across the wall, the young Lou in a Marine uniform, then most of his life in the NYPD, graduation, presentation with the Police Combat Cross, ending with the Commissioner at his retirement party. Lou looked proud in uniform, but happy in the family photographs, his wife always at his side, first on their own and then with their children, then with grandchildren. Then she wasn’t in any more, just him and more grandchildren. I looked closer at those photos, he was back to being proud, just not as happy anymore.

  I told him a slice of the story, not the whole thing, no need to spook him. He pulled the phone and spoke to reception, then to some other department, then the underground car park.

  “Your guys are on the move,” he said. “They are on their way down to the car park.”

  “They were supposed to have a car outside for 7.30am, that’s twenty minutes away,” I said.

  He rubbed his white skull with his thick fingers, like he had been on night duty and needed to scratch the tiredness away.

  “That’s right,” he said. “A car outside for 7.30, but one of them came in a Range Rover, it’s down below.”

  He was surprisingly agile, came out the door right behind me, stuffing a 38 revolver into his waistband, an old NY-1, pointed me across the lobby to a staff only door, leading down to the car park. I pulled the door, saw the steps leading down to another doorway, started down, Lou behind me, saw other heavy figures start to assemble at the main hotel entrance, no way I was waiting on them.

  “Is that the cavalry out there?” Lou said.

  “Nah, leave them to keep busy with the paperwork,” I said. “Let’s just go finish this ourselves, Lou, I’d kinda like to be a hero again, you know?”

  The twinkle that had been missing from Lou’s eyes in the later photographs sparkled again.

  “Yeah, son,” he said. “Let’s go make somebody proud of us.”

  * * *

  Lou moved easily, led the way down the steps, the 38 too small for his big Yeti hands, he slid the door to the car park a couple of inches.

  “The Range Rover is over on the other side, in space number 637,” he said.

  We couldn’t see the Range Rover from there, slipped into the car park and crouched down behind a BMW that was close to the door. Silence. We were at row one, the Rover was on row six, we started to move across, aimed for row five. Lou was limber when standing straight but, as soon as he had to stoop low, age and gravity claimed him as theirs. My senses were primed for the slightest sound or movement in that echo chamber, ready to home in on a target, nail it to the floor, but he was wheezing behind me now, too loud, his age made him a liability, weighed me down.

  Then a bang at the far end, the door from the guest’s entrance, opened and banged closed, then opened again. I was straining almost to breaking point, my nerves pushing to spring out and unleash the fury. Lou saw me shaking, thought it was fear, at first, but then saw my eyes and understood.

  Shit! A child laughing, a baby crying, a man pushing a stroller, a woman steering the wheeled luggage. They were laughing and crying their way to the far side, past row four, heading for five or six. We crouched again and slid across the open space to row three, matched their progress, across the space again to rows four and five. They were at their vehicle, somewhere further down on row five. We were at space 521, lodged between a Ford SUV and a Chevrolet with the yellow ribbon “Honor” badge, I spread myself flat on the ground, inched my face forward to see around the tire, just enough to see ahead to space 637.

  The bastards were right there! Ankles at the end of a Range Rover, no movement, looked like they were waiting for the family to load up and move off. I signalled Lou, we had them, less than 100 feet away, let’s move up, get closer, let the family get out first and then take the motherfuckers cold. Lou wheezed ok, started to maneuver his bulk around, shuffled like a windjammer caught dead in the water in the tight space between Ford and Chevy, I rolled back to see if they had made him. No, still standing there—but hold on, fuck! Only two pairs of legs! What about the other one? Were there two or three of them there a minute ago? Already in the automobile? Shit, I didn’t know. Let’s go, Lou, we’ve got to hit them now!

  We came out at space 530, I engaged without warning, the 45 muzzle flash blasted like a Howitzer in the parking chamber, freezing the mindless reflexes of even these killer Israelis, just for a crucial moment, maybe two or three seconds before they snapped out of it. I had hit one, he was down, his partner fired at me and dragged him back by the collar at the same time. I dodged to the side, crouched down, the Range Rover shielded me, he would have to break cover to get a shot at me, but Lou would take him out, if the fucker tried it.

  Lou fanned around to the left, I was on the right, both at 45 degree angles to the target. No sign of the third one in the Range Rover, I checked behind me, just the family screaming, mother and father in terror, the children stupefied. Then a crack behind Lou, three quick shots merged to one roll of thunder in the enclosed space, he was hit, stumbled to one knee, then lumbered over on his left side, but still kept the 38 aimed at the Range Rover. I couldn’t make the shooter, the echo reverbed around my ears, but he was in front of me somewhere, the Brit that took Didar.

  I jumped for cover in row five, Lou used his right foot to push his body along like a snake, inching closer to the Range Rover. I pressed my face to the ground, looked under the lines of parked cars, searching for feet moving, a target. Still couldn’t see him, but Lou was almost there, somehow managed to drag that old heavy body forward, torpedoed into the gap beside the Range Rover, blasted two shots with the 38, couldn’t even lift his head to see h
is target.

  The Israeli fired back, the one I had hit was propped against the wall at the back of the Range Rover, the other one standing, using the back of the Range Rover for cover. Lou was hit again, I saw the freakish shudder from head to toe, thought he was finished but he still fired again, three shots striking sparks off the wall behind the Israeli heads, enough to make the shooter dodge, enough for me to leap to his side, take my shot and nail the wounded one good this time, between the eyes.

  The other one bobbed up, the three of us got shots off, the blast and flash and thunder all that there was in that split second when fate decides who dies. He went down, I stepped up to make sure. A hole in the middle of his chest, the gurgle of blood and air, tried to tell me something, a prayer, or somebody’s name. I took his gun, the Brit was out there, stalking me, but I wasn’t running anywhere this time.

  The door from the staff entrance burst open, the tactical unit ninjas fanned out behind me, I knelt beside Lou, the old man’s eyes stared into a distance only he could see.

  “Officer down! Officer down!” I screamed.

  The door from the guest entrance banged closed in front of me. That was him. After him, ignored the commands to stop, ignored the bullet strikes slamming into the wall around my head, made the door, got into the stairwell, heard his boots on the steps above. I remembered his ju jitsu shit on the stairs in the Orkatoy house, he wouldn’t get that chance again. Ran up the stairs, ankle solid, ribs sound, the Kimber 45 in one hand, the Israeli’s Beretta in the other. I had to nail this son of a bitch. Then it would be over.

  Another door banged, the floor above, I dived up the last steps and pulled the handle, too reckless, didn’t see him coiled in the shadows behind me, the bastard pounced, swept my legs, I fell heavily, face down, my arms pinned up my back. His weight pressed me into the floor, his fighting knife pierced my neck, a red bubble of blood skewed across my cheek, licked my lips.

  “I said I would cut your throat, didn’t I?” he leered.

  I tried to twist away but he deftly angled the point of his blade, played it against the carotid artery, laughed in my ear, sprayed his hot stink breath in my face.

  “I’m going to do you,” he said. “Just like I did your dirty little whore in Turkey, remember her? Didn’t you hear her screaming for mercy that time? When you ran away and left her with us? Well, never mind, mate. She enjoyed it in the end, know what I mean?”

  He laughed, but it wasn’t laughter, not a noise a human could make. It came from some stenched lair that is so far in schism from John Q. Public’s mundane life dimension that sophisticated John Q. cannot allow it to be real. But it was real. This was the raw sound of evil. This was a devil.

  “Like I did your fucking Belfast rent boy,” he blood sucked into my ear.

  “Like I’ll do your fucking whore wife and your cute assed little boy when you are gone,” he cackled.

  I strained against him, but his deadweight held hard, the knife probed deeper.

  “I’ll come for them, make no mistake,” he said. “They won’t know when, but I’ll be coming. Just like your fucking Yank cops will be coming up these stairs in a minute. But they will be too late for you, asshole. As soon as we hear them, I’ll slaughter you like a squealing pig,” he pig squealed in my ear. “The best part is that I’ll walk away from this. Yeah, I’ll be living the good life in Florida from now on,” another pig grunt, “because they can’t touch me for any of this. I know too much, have it all carefully recorded and ready for publication.”

  I was paralysed, but it wasn’t his brute force alone that held me in submission, it was the oppressive shroud of his malevolence, that violated me, dissolved my will to live and breathe the same air as this filth.

  “Funny thing is, your mate McErlane warned me about you. He said you were one of us. It doesn’t look like it now, does it?” he said.

  One of us? What was this thing, this “us”? Was that all McErlane thought I was? Like this pig squealing sadist? Is that the memorial he would carve for me? But he knew I was a child once. Ferdy had shared my love and kindness, laughter, joy, friendship. Was all that wiped, so I could be condensed into only a thing that can kill and destroy? Who did that to me, decided that’s what I would become, one of “us”. I twisted my arm from under his stinking flesh. Faugh a Ballagh. They were wrong, all these ghosts and shadows, so fuck them, I wouldn’t submit to them, I would decide what I was, who I would be. And this piece of shit on top of me wasn’t going to steal my humanity.

  I levered against him, he pressed the knife, but he desperately wanted to prolong my torture, relished my suffering. No movement from down the stairs yet. Maybe Dart and McAnespie were on this payroll too. He should have just killed me, the professional in him knew that, but he couldn’t resist the thrill of tantalising me with death, addicted to his ecstasy, didn’t want the power frenzy to finish. I cranked my arm and caught the wrist of his knife hand, strained against him, blood spurting across my face, into my eyes and mouth. That aroused him even more, he could tongue my blood but craved to taste my fear, needed a victory to celebrate.

  “Come on then, you fucking wanker!” he shouted. “Fucking waste of space you are, aren’t you? Wasting your time, mate.”

  But his voice wavered, I was strong, the knife shook in the air now, an inch from my throat. Still no movement below, but this was it, if he got control again, he would kill me. No threats or boasts now, just gulping breaths as we fused together. He shifted his weight and balance, free arm slipped my shoulder, forearm against my neck, he had me, he gloated. Difficult to breathe now, darkness creeping into my skull, but I wasn’t submitting to this pigman, kept pushing, holding on, the blade missing its soft spot. Still no cops coming from below, what the fuck were they doing down there? Screen shots filtered through the darkness fringing my brain. Drowning under the black peat bog, Marching thru Georgia, up to our necks in Fenian blood, no surrender. My father, waiting. He would have to wait, I wouldn’t surrender.

  “I fucking have you,” Pigman squealed. “Don’t matter if the cops get up here, I have you. Nothing they can do about it. They can’t afford to burn me, ever, no matter who takes control, I can’t lose, I’m the winner!”

  I knew he was wrong, he would only win if I submitted to his will. And that would never happen now. I glimpsed the tip of her shoe first, the cream perforated brogue gently touched on the third step above us, while Pigman snouted for his last morsel of strength, his red eyes blind with hate. She moved slowly, silently, like an angel phantom from above, two shoes now, her ankles, gently on to the second step, paused, ghosted forward, a gun against his head. He froze, looked at me, no fear yet, just irritated with himself, should have finished it. He started to release me, turned his head.

  “Ok, take it easy,” Pigman said. “You know you can’t touch me. Speak to your superiors. I was never here, I can’t be in any reports, you have to get me out of here now! Call your superiors!”

  The back of his head erupted in the stark muzzle flash and red plumed against the wall, comet globules ricocheted, sprinkled the toes of her cream brogues. She wiped her shoes on him, I struggled with the deadweight still pinning me to the floor. She gripped his collar and dragged him off me.

  “Faugh a Ballagh, sir,” Cora said.

  CHAPTER FORTY ONE

  Cora trailed me into a hotel corridor, down stairs to the main lobby, mayhem everywhere, NYPD and hotel staff shepherding guests out into the cold December morning. A maelstrom of confusion and panic. There was a device in the Range Rover, encased in white yellow powder, the bomb squad were in control, a ring of blue steel and lights closing down the streets.

  And no way Cora was just a messenger. She flashed her badge and spoke quietly to the Deputy Chief, he stepped aside from his team to listen to her, even amidst all the urgent clamor, he listened to her. He barked instructions to a Captain, a patrol car was dispatched to clear our way. Gallogly pulled up in the SUV, on his own, no grunge, no Conroy. We took off, tailgated t
he patrol car, through the roadblocks, on to West Street, Gallogly gunned the V8 engine for maximum roar. I sat behind him, dripping blood through my fingers, Cora was to my right, I knew she held the Beretta under her jacket.

  “So, Cora,” I said. “You were loyal to Duffin all along, after all.”

  “No, sir,” she answered. “I am loyal to the Constitution of the United States.”

  She was cool, like she had just collared a serial parking ticket offender, hadn’t just executed an assassin intent on gutting me and choking Manhattan in a death cloud.

  “What about Conroy? Where did she go?” I said.

  Still uber cool, nothing was a problem to this woman.

  “Miss Conroy departed the scene,” Conroy said. “It is my intention to convince her to come in. I believe she may be in a position to help the proper authorities clarify the sequence of events. It is a security matter.”

  Fucking right it was a security matter!

  “Do you always speak like you are delivering a report, Cora?” I asked.

  She shrugged her shoulders and eyebrows.

  “I am at work right now,” she said. “That is how we speak at work.”

  I guessed she was always at work, but I had no idea what she was thinking, what she would do next. I did know that Gallogly and I were unimportant, she had a reason for sticking with us.

  “Are there any more of them?” I asked. “Two Iranian Quds Force, plus the Israelis and Brit as back up. McErlane was the link man, setting it all up. Anyone else out there we need to worry about?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I believe we have accounted for the foot soldiers. Mr Lutterall has gone missing. I believe Miss Conroy offers our best opportunity for identifying the leaders.”

  At least she had stopped calling me “sir”.

  “Rose and young Con will be ok,” Gallogly said. “If Ferdy stashed them away somewhere, it was only to keep them safe. Those fuckers didn’t have them, anyway.”

  I searched Cora’s face for some clue that she knew anything about Rose and Con, but she was a beautiful mask, the risk to my family just another variable to be juggled and calculated.