“Five or six,” I said.
“Seven,” Sarah corrected. “Plus the one in the bathroom.”
“We’re finished,” Weasel said. “Floor’s clear. Nobody else up here. We’re heading back to the stairway in case anyone above us heard anything.”
“Wise choice. Five minutes,” I said, returning my full focus to the man in the corner. “Push the gun along the floor in front of you.”
He complied. I walked over to him. He couldn’t see a thing. The room was windowless, dark as a bear’s den. I stopped a meter in front of him.
“Is your prisoner still alive?” It startled him, my voice so close, the unknown hovering over him.
“Suck me,” he said.
I pulled out my buck knife, not a huge blade, but at five inches, bigger than the clip knife on my belt. I reached out and laid the blade—cold, unforgiving steel—against his cheek. He tried to shrink back.
“Suck this,” I replied, placing the tip of the knife between his lips, pushing until his teeth parted to take the blade into the soft recesses of his mouth.
“Is your prisoner still alive?”
“Yeth,” he croaked around the blade. “Take i ou.”
“Where is he?”
“Theventeen.”
“How many men up there?” When he didn’t respond, I pushed the blade further back, triggering his gag reflex.
“Firry fi or forry,” he responded.
“How about on sixteen?”
“Pwenny.”
“Eighteen?”
“Mum.” I pushed the blade back again, exploring his tonsils. He gagged and tried to pull back. Nowhere to go.
“Eighteen?”
“Pwenny.”
“Nineteen?”
“Mum.”
“How many left on this floor?”
“Mum.”
“One more thing,” I said. “How long you been here?”
“Fibe dayth.”
I believed him, returned the knife to its scabbard.
• • • •
In the dim light of the reception area, James looked at the soldier who stood facing us. Devil’s head tattoo on his left forearm. Left sided jewelry. He spat at the man’s feet. “Messenger,” he said in disgust. “What you comin’ into the city for, boy?”
Turning to me, he asked what my plans for the invader were.
“Truss him up and gag him,” I said.
“I got a better idea,” he replied pulling his pistol. He put the silenced automatic to the man’s temple and pulled the trigger. The man’s head snapped back and for almost a second his legs didn’t know his brain was dead. Then he gracelessly toppled, splintering an end table and shattering a deco lamp. “None of them get out alive, McCall. Not if we can help it.”
Sarah and I shared a glance. Like anthropologists in the field, we understood.
A squawk of static came from somewhere in the room, followed by a tinny voice. “What the fuck you assholes doing down there?”
Silence. Then, “Johnnie, you there?”
The three of us searched the room frantically. We knew what it was. Walkie talkie. Long talker. Fairly uncommon because of the battery problem. The Messengers must have gone solar. We only had a few seconds to get back to the man on the other end.
“Over here, Mac,” Sarah said. She found it under one of the bodies. Tossed it over to me. Little grey-brown rectangle. Red thumb button on the side. Radio Shack. A 20th cen kid’s toy.
I depressed the send button, replied in a sandpaper voice. “Everything’s OK.”
“Who’s this? Where the fuck’s Johnnie at?”
The Dead Zone, you asshole. Like you’re gonna be soon. “To the can. Knocked over a lamp tryin’ to get the door open.”
“Who’m I talkin’ to?” the voice squawked back.
I searched for the name the man in the bathroom had called out. Reminded me of Duke. I made an association. Dog something. “Dog Boy,” I replied.
“You sound weird, man. You sure everything’s cool?”
I took a breath and held it. “Just took a hit. Don’t wanna waste it.”
A laugh came out of the little box. We all relaxed. “Watch that shit, Dog Boy. We may be getting visitors.”
“Doubt it,” I improvised.
“Yeah. Me too. Think they smelled us out. But keep it quiet anyway. Babe’ll have your ass if he hear’s any noise.”
I put the device in my jacket pocket, smiled at Sarah and James, spoke to everyone. “Fat man in the building. We could get lucky here.”
• • • •
The dead soldier told the truth about fifteen. There were no more soldiers. We sat by the stairway doors and conferred before moving on. “Seventy-five guys are stacked above us,” Weasel said, nodding his head toward the ceiling. “We got seven and a dog.”
“I got nearly forty more men on ground level,” James said. “Let me bring ‘em up.”
“Until we get Merlin out,” I responded, “we can’t have a fire fight.”
“Starve them out,” Stevie said. “Put them under siege.”
“They’d just drop the little guy out a fucking window,” James said. “Wet blob on the sidewalk. They don’t give a shit.”
“I got an idea,” Weasel said.
“Don’t forget we’ve only got a few hours before sunrise burns off our advantage,” I told him, referring to the night vision goggles.
“If it works, we’ll be done before the sun comes up.”
• • • •
From the stairwell we could see light from the seventeenth floor leeching out from under the door. Sarah was beside me, a hand resting on my shoulder. Behind her James and Duke sat, waiting for information. Behind them were five of James’ soldiers.
We were in the middle of their trap, the meat in the sandwich. But the Messengers didn’t know it. Twenty of them above us on eighteen, another twenty below on sixteen. Thirty or forty more just beyond the doors we sat behind in the stairwell on seventeen.
Five days of waiting had taken the edge off their vigilance. Boredom was their enemy now. They no longer expected us. No battle, no pussy. Just each other and whatever drugs they had brought with them.
This was the advantage that had gotten us this far. They had no women. Sleep had to be difficult. The place smelled like a sewer. The drugs were probably running out, and I knew the food had to be horrible. There motivation and vigilance were at low tide.
We had brought all of James’ Disciples up to take positions in the stairwells on sixteen, seventeen and eighteen. None of the Messengers had sensed our presence.
We were at full strength. Forty-two men, one woman and a dog. Between seventy-five and eighty of the Messengers were within a few feet of all of us.
We were now in The Babe’s trap. But he wasn’t expecting nearly forty of us. Nor did he expect that we would control the doors to the stairways. We had five or six men on each door of sixteen, seventeen and eighteen. Each man with two assault rifles and plenty of ordnance.
It was time to see just how sloppy they had become.
I oiled the door to seventeen and opened it enough to allow access for my head. I slipped James’ baseball cap into the gap. Nothing happened. I followed with my head at floor level. I spoke in a whisper. Everyone with the comm gear on would hear. “Listen up. Hallway’s empty. One lantern to the left by the elevators. More light coming from the side hallway on the right. More lanterns. If there’s forty men on this floor, they’re keeping it secret.”
“That’s what you do in an ambush,” Stevie said.
He was in the other stairwell, adjacent Sarah, James, Duke and me. He had Angel and four more Disciples with him. Sarah had given up her comm set. James retained his to keep in contact with his men, make sure they stayed out of it until we got Merlin. With our spares, we had eight total. Two sets were in the ears of Disciples in the two stairwells of sixteen; the other two, on eighteen.
Weasel was alone. In a very special spot, a highly preca
rious spot. He needed his comm set. Stevie, James and I wore the remaining three comm sets. We had distributed the NVG’s in the same way.
“You OK Weasel?” I asked.
“Used one of the rifle straps to belt me on,” he replied. “Very fucking spooky in here. Let’s get it on.”
“Hallway’s clear. Try to get the doors open.”
I could hear his exertions, the heavy breathing, grunts, in my ear. It was a tough job, awkward angle, bad leverage, doors that hadn’t moved in 35 years or so. Drop into oblivion if he fell off. “Can’t do it,” he finally said, “without makin’ a whole bunch of noise.”
“It’s all right. Back off. We’ll go to step two. Open it up when the noise starts.”
I pulled the Radio Shack walkie talkie from my pocket. Before I pressed the button to send, I reminded everyone not to fire unless ordered to or fired upon. I waited a second so they could pass the reminder on to James’ troops, then jumped into the Messenger’s loop. “Yo, fat man. You there?”
A slight pause, then a voice jumped out of the little box, gravelly, baritone, pissed. “Who the fuck is that?” The voice hesitated, then came back, lower volume, farther away. I pictured him holding the walkie talkie away from him, screaming at his lieutenants.
“Find out who the fuck this is. Bring me his goddam tongue.” Then full volume. “Get off the air, dumb shit. You’re fucking up the plan.”
“Your plan is flawed,” I said.
“Who the hell are you, telling me that shit?”
“Karma. Bad Karma.”
Slight pause. “There ain’t no Carmen in the Messengers. Ever hear of the Messengers? You’re dead, Carmen.”
“You got something I want.”
“I’m gonna eat your liver,” he said.
“I want Merlin. I’m willing to trade.”
“Mother fuck,” he said, registering more surprise now than animosity. “The man with the dog. That you McCall?”
“I want Merlin.”
“You’re close, aren’t you?” he breathed. It made him feel good to know that I was nearby. “These things don’t carry too far.”
“Way above you,” I lied, not mentioning a floor. It would keep him from springing his trap, bringing forth the men on sixteen and eighteen, sandwiching us on seventeen. We weren’t ready for that yet.
“Unless you got the balls to bring him yourself,” I continued, “send Merlin up to me with one of your men. I’ll give you the dog in return. You want the dog, don’t you, asshole? I’m not sure if his head will fit in a bird cage, but you can give it a try.”
No response. Only his inner circle knew about the bird cage. He had had someone inside the Cobras for at least a year, reporting Roberto’s thoughts and plans back to him. Now he was feeling those same little prickly feelings of betrayal that Roberto had been subjected to, the beginnings of doubt. I possessed knowledge that was supposedly confined to the inner circle of the Messengers.
I planted a seed of paranoia.
• • • •
Real time it was probably a couple of minutes, but it felt like an hour before he came back on. “McCall? We should talk. Work something out about getting your friend back. All this chasing after you makes me tired. Whatta you say I walk up to twenty-three? Meet you there. Just the two of us. We talk. Settle our differences.”
“Give me five minutes to think about it,” I responded. “I’ll get back to you.” I put the little communicator in my pocket, leaving it on “receive” to monitor any of his commands.
“What’s he going to do?” I asked anyone who was listening.
“He’s coming after you,” Weasel said. “Up above. Where he thinks you’re at.”
“Definitely,” James replied. “He’ll try to get some men upstairs.”
“We got movement up here on eighteen.” It was one of James’ men, Wind Chill, one floor above us. “They’re headin’ for these fucking stairway doors. Tell me what you want, James, man. Do it quick.”
“How the hell did he get those men into action without this thing?” I asked, tapping the walkie talkie.
“Good question,” Sarah said.
“Weasel,” I said, “something’s about to start. When you hear the shooting, use the noise to cover you getting those doors open. We need you to have access to seventeen.”
“Do it,” he said.
“You tell me quick, James,” came Wind Chill’s voice came from eighteen, panic at the edge. “They’re bunchin’ up.”
I nodded to James. He smiled. This was what they were there for. “Wind Chill,” he said, “don’t let the bastards out. Take them down. But don’t be going in after them. Everybody else, you men on sixteen and seventeen, maintain your positions. Keep quiet.”
“Oh, shit, they’re comin’ at us,” came Wind Chill’s voice from the eighteenth floor stairwell. “Fuck ‘em up, boys!”
The firing started immediately. The rattle of M 16s, the distinctive pops of the old Russian AKs, the deceptively harmless sounding blats of the Uzis and Skorpions. Thousands of rounds were bouncing off the walls and shredding flesh above us. It wouldn’t last for long. The Messengers were in an untenable position. Only two ways out—the two doors that opened to the stairwells.
The Messengers were in a funnel, and James’ Disciples had the hole plugged. Even outnumbered two to one, we were at a distinct advantage. Their trap had folded in upon itself. Only if we went in after them would the odds begin to favor The Babe’s men.
In about three minutes, the firing began to taper off to sporadic single shots, occasional bursts. I heard spent shell casings pinging on the concrete above us. Then it stopped. “Report, Wind Chill,” James said.
Wind Chill’s breathing was heavy, his voice too loud for our earpieces. “Fucking river of blood in the hallways,” he said, pumped from the action. “Lots of them down. Rest retreated. We slaughtered ‘em, James. Fuckin’ Messengers down all over the place. At least a dozen.”
“What about us?” James asked his soldier.
“Nothin’, James. Not even a scratch. Hold on a minute… something’s going down.” Pause. “They turned out all the fucking lamps. Darker than a whore’s heart in here. Shit. Holy shit…”
“What? What the fuck’s going down, Wind Chill?” James asked, concern for his men straining his voice.
“Weird shit. Bunch of red dots comin’ out of the dark. Movin’ toward our position.”
“Same thing on this left side.” It was another of James’ soldiers, the man in charge of the men on the other stairway on eighteen. “Never seen anything like this, James. Like eyes of the devil. About ten or fifteen drifting in the air. Gives me the fuckin’ willies. I’m blastin’ em, man.”
A harsh whisper came onto the line, commanding attention. Weasel. “Shut the fuck up and listen. You don’t have much time. Keep your goggles off. Switch your rifles to single shot. Swing the doors all the way open and get as many rifles as you can pointing into those halls. Aim at those red dots. Use ‘em like targets. Keep it up ‘til they go out or stop moving. Then put your night goggles on and check it out. Do it…now.”
We heard the shots from upstairs. Directly above us, the retorts were harsh and hollow, echoing through the stairwell. Answering fire from the Messengers came on full auto. In less than a minute it was finished.
Angel’s voice came on line. “Shit. More bodies. Fucking blood looks black with these glasses on. Dead Messengers layin’ in black water. Some of them got huge buggy things on their eyes. What the hell’s goin’ on?”
“Tell ya later,” Weasel said. “Thing is, there’s only eight pairs of night goggles for the thirty-seven of us. You tell all your men, that if the Messengers turn out the lights, that means any red dot they see is a fucking target. Tell ‘em all. Could save their lives.”
• • • •
We heard nothing from The Messengers for ten minutes. The walkie talkie in my pocket remained silent. No shots, no sounds of movement on sixteen, seventeen or eighteen.
Three of James’ Disciples on eighteen had been wounded in the second charge by the Messengers. The Babe lost seven more warriors in the second assault. We calculated they were down to around three or four men left alive on the eighteenth floor. But we weren’t willing to send any of the men in to check.
The Messengers on sixteen and seventeen had made no moves.
The numbers were evening up.
We still had the strategic advantage.
They still had Merlin.
We used the time to plan the next step—the rescue of Merlin.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Weasel was hanging in the coal dark vertical tube of an elevator shaft. Before we brought all of James’ soldiers up to help even out the huge number discrepancy, we found a custodian’s closet and took a crow bar; then used it to pry open the elevator doors on the fourteenth floor. Weasel stuck his head into the pit, first looking up, then down, seeing nothing in the near perfect blackness, even with the aid of the night vision goggles. He gave us a little farewell wave and a weak smile and disappeared into the maw, climbing up the steel rungs that marched up the wall of the shaft.
First time I had ever seen a hint of fear.
He was on seventeen now and had used the noise from the two battles on eighteen to pry open the elevator doors. They were closed again, but, he assured us, they could be easily reopened, allowing him access to the floor where we believed Merlin was being held. We had a plan of sorts, and his location in the elevator shaft, smack in the middle of the seventeenth floor, hidden from the Messengers, was a crucial component in our efforts to extricate Merlin—if he were still alive.
The plan was a teeter-totter. The fulcrum it rested upon was getting Merlin out into the center of the corridor, near enough to the elevators that Weasel, creating some type of distraction which we had yet to conceive, could haul himself out and take whoever was holding Merlin from behind. If we got lucky, The Babe himself would bring him out. If that happened, we all reminded ourselves that the primary goal was to liberate Merlin, not destroy The Babe. Merlin’s safe return was top on the list.
To get Merlin out into the hallway, we needed bait.
I was the bait.
Blood of the Dogs_Book I_Annihilation Page 34