Tales of the Scarlet Knight Collection: The Wrath of Isis

by P. T. Dilloway

  “You have to see the Auditor in Barcelona for that. I doubt she’ll be very forthcoming.”

  “No, I don’t suppose she will. Why don’t you come with us? We could use you.”

  Hariana examined the puppy in her hands and then put it down. “No. I think it would be better if I disappear entirely for a while. Maybe we’ll meet again under better circumstances.”

  “I hope so.” They shook hands and then Hariana made her way past the frozen people, out the door. There was a chance she might go to the safe house to try to get reinforcements, but Cecelia doubted this. The organization had tried to kill her; they probably had orders to shoot her on sight. No, Hariana would go to ground and wait until it was safe to emerge again. What she might do then, Cecelia couldn’t be sure. From experience she knew how unpleasant it was to be an assassin with no one to kill. Maybe Hariana would find a Shelly of her own to help her through the rough times. Cecelia hoped so.

  In a flash, Aunt Agnes returned with two black vials. “Where did your friend go?”

  “She left.”

  “Is that wise?”

  “She won’t do anything. She’s marked now. Just like us.” Just like Renee, she thought but knew better than to say. Instead, she took one of the vials from Aunt Agnes and set to work on erasing the patron’s memories so they wouldn’t remember they’d seen a witch turn deadly assassins into adorable puppies. Cecelia envied them for that.

  Chapter 16

  Amanda was supposed to be on a leave of absence after Becky was shot. But since the leave was unofficial, there wasn’t anything Captain Donovan could do when Amanda decided to return to work the next night. It helped that crime had exploded around the city since the shooting as the remnants of the Vendetta organization fought over the crumbs.

  At least that was how Lieutenant Cielo had described the situation to everyone before Amanda went back out on patrol. She supposed that was a theory that made sense on the surface. She remembered what Captain Donovan had said when they’d found the assassin in front of the gates of Liberty Park, that it was likely someone who wanted to make it seem like the don’s people at work to put more pressure on them.

  Officially the murder of the assassin—identified as one Marlene Perkins of Parkdale—had been handed over to two of Donovan’s homicide detectives. As a lowly beat cop, Amanda could end up with a lengthy suspension or be fired altogether for investigating the case on her own. She would especially get into trouble for investigating the case while she was supposed to be on patrol.

  The first step of her plan had gone smoothly enough. She dropped her training officer at his favorite bar and given him twenty bucks. “I’ll come back for you later,” she said.

  He tossed her a mock salute and said, “Have fun saving the world, Supercop.”

  “Supercop” had become her nickname since she’d brought in Don Vendetta and Jimenez and been first on the scene at Liberty Park. She didn’t really mind it, though she would have preferred a nickname not taken from a shitty Jackie Chan movie. In her mind the nickname only made those who used it sound jealous and petty because she actually did her job while they cowered in their squad cars or bars. As a chronic underachiever most of her life, she also appreciated the irony that for the first time in her life someone was pissed about her overachieving. Maybe something had rubbed off on her from all that time around Megan and Dr. Earl with their type-A work habits.

  She gave her training officer the finger before she headed off into the night. She supposed it would be less conspicuous to leave her cruiser at the bar and take her personal vehicle, but she might need the radio—and the backseat for some criminals. While she didn’t have any illusions she would find those responsible for the hit that had injured Becky, she knew it should be easy enough to find some scumbags to toss in the backseat.

  Right on cue she saw a couple of scumbags dart across the road with armloads of electronics. She flashed her lights and watched with a tight smile as they dropped the electronics and ran. Small timers, she thought. They wouldn’t be of any use to her.

  What she needed was to find someone who worked for the don’s enemies. They wouldn’t be out here stealing plasma TVs and Blu-Ray players; they would be after those still loyal to Don Vendetta. Most of what Amanda knew about gangsters came from The Godfather and Goodfellas, but she figured the best place to start would be in the heart of the don’s turf.

  She passed a couple other cruisers on her way to the Plastic Hippo; each time she tightened her grip on the wheel and hoped her fellow RCPD officers didn’t realize she was miles off her route. They didn’t bother her; they were probably too busy worrying about their own asses. She parked the cruiser a block away from the club, took off her uniform cap, and then put on the army jacket that had belonged to her brother Peter. With the jacket zipped up and without the cap, she could pass as a civilian, at least once she got rid of the gun belt too. She tucked her pistol into the waistband of her pants in case she needed it.

  From what she’d heard around the locker room, the Plastic Hippo had once been the center of Don Vendetta’s empire. That was until someone—presumably the Scarlet Knight—busted the place up and took out several of the don’s top lieutenants. The strip club was still in operation, but no longer did it have the dozens of goons around as her fellow cops had described.

  There was still at least one goon; he had the broken nose of someone who’d probably been a heavyweight boxer in his previous life. That or he’d gone a few rounds with the Scarlet Knight. In either case, Amanda doubted he had the intelligence to pull off any sort of caper on his own. She walked right past the bouncer with hands in pockets and head down; he didn’t so much as grunt at her as she passed.

  She tried to look nonchalant and waited until the last moment to step into the alley. While not a trained undercover agent, she’d spent most of her teens trying to avoid police and security guards. She mentally traced her path along the shadows, over to the dumpster. From behind there, she could keep an eye on the side door, where anyone who wanted trouble would be sure to go.

  The only problem was another bouncer in front of that side door. From what she could see, he wasn’t paying much attention to his job at the moment; he looked down at his cell phone and texted someone instead. No one had seen or heard from the Scarlet Knight in days and it had been more than two years since she’d last hit the Plastic Hippo; the bouncer probably thought he was safe.

  She made sure not to kick any cans or bottles or otherwise make any noise as she crept along the alley. The bouncer continued to play with his phone; he laughed at something one of his buddies sent him. From the cartoon sound effects it was probably a stupid YouTube clip. Amanda resisted the urge to sneak up on the dolt to knock some sense into him. Instead, she crouched down beside the dumpster to wait.

  She remained in that position for an hour, long enough to wonder why the hell she was doing this. There were plenty of other locations in town where the people behind the assassination could strike to put the screws to the don’s people. Still, her gut told her the Plastic Hippo was the place to be. It was good strategy. There could be no more symbolic gesture than to wreck up the place most closely associated with Don Vendetta. Since the don’s meager forces were already spread out, the club would be ripe for the picking right now.

  Even as she thought this, she heard the growl of a diesel engine. A moment later, a cargo truck rumbled down the alley. Amanda pressed herself tighter against the dumpster; one hand went to the pistol that pressed against the small of her back. The truck passed her by and pulled up in front of the bouncer at the side door.

  “Deliveries go in the back,” the bouncer said. The truck blocked Amanda’s view, but she needed only to hear the silenced gunshot to know what had happened.

  The rear gate of the truck lifted and a group of men in black paramilitary uniforms armed with Uzis jumped out.

  ***

  Ever since she was four years old, people had told Amanda she was reckless. After she tri
ed to jump her tricycle over Mom’s rose bushes and in the process sprained a wrist and suffered numerous cuts from the thorns, her mother said it for the first time. “You mustn’t act so reckless, young lady. It isn’t proper.”

  The latter sentence reflected Mom’s main concern. When Amanda’s brothers pulled a half-assed stunt like that—such as the time they jumped their bikes over the pool, which had given Amanda the idea for the rose bush jump—Mom would scold them, but always let them off the hook two hours later. In her mind, boys were supposed to act like that. Girls were supposed to play with dolls and bake cookies in their Easy-Bake ovens. That was why Mom didn’t bat an eyelash when both boys enlisted in the army while she went on a two-hour rant when Amanda wanted to enroll in the ROTC program at Rampart State.

  So even as common sense—in Mom’s voice—told her to stop, Amanda couldn’t hold back from jumping into the back of the cargo truck. The saboteurs had all gone into the club, probably to wreck the place and shake down the employees. As a cop she probably should have gone in to try to stop them, but she decided the public good would be better served if she got to the root of the problem. If she stowed away in the truck, she might be able to find out where these guys were based. Then she could get on her radio to call in for backup.

  Her luck held up as the thugs had left a few wooden crates in the rear of the truck. The stench of fish came from these crates. She peeked inside one and saw that indeed there were fish inside. Big silver ones. That was the extent of her knowledge of fish as she’d never much enjoyed seafood.

  The fish stench was more powerful once she squatted down in a corner behind one of the crates. Her mother’s voice again chided her for being reckless. Not to mention stupid. All the mystery goons had to do was move the crate to see her. Then she’d face a half-dozen Uzis. But what else could she do? It wasn’t like she could tail them in her cruiser and there probably wouldn’t be time to steal another car.

  She did find a tarp to help conceal herself better. With the tarp over her body, she heard the clunk of heavy boots on the metal deck of the truck’s compartment. Male voices began to talk, but not in a language she understood. It wasn’t Spanish either, which she’d learned bits of during her time as a cop, or French, which she’d taken in school. This sounded more Eastern European. When one of the men said, “Da,” she knew they spoke in Russian.

  The Russian mob. That made sense in a horrific way. She’d heard of the Russian mob moving into other cities in Europe and America. Don Vendetta and the Scarlet Knight, while sworn enemies, had always managed to keep other crime syndicates out of the city, or at least to a minimal presence. With the don in jail, the Russians must be planning to pick up the slack.

  This thought, combined with the fish and diesel fumes, were enough to make her as green as her jacket. She felt her dinner rise up to her throat and threaten to spill out onto the truck. This is what you get for being careless, her mother’s voice gloated. As she always told Megan in these circumstances, she tried to relax and focus on breathing—in this case through her nose instead of her mouth. This didn’t help as the air she breathed in only made the situation worse.

  The vomit had worked its way into the back of her throat when the truck mercifully came to a stop. She heard the sound of the gate lift and the Russian voices became more distant as they climbed out. She waited until she couldn’t hear anyone nearby to finally puke on the deck of the truck. She stayed down on her knees for a couple of minutes until the last bit of yellowy bile came out.

  Only then did she lift the tarp to look around. Through the open gate of the truck, she saw only an anonymous red brick building. There were far too many of these in the city for that to tell her anything. She would have to get out and explore a little.

  At the edge of the gate, she looked around to make sure no one was around before she hopped down. Around her she saw another truck, this one with a fish painted on the side like the ones in the crates. Russian characters surrounded the fish. She had no idea what they said, but there was a phone number on the side. She recited this number to herself a few times until she was certain she had it memorized. With any luck, she could trace the phone number back to an address to give her an idea of where she was.

  Again making sure no one saw her, she bolted from the truck and raced over to a stack of wooden pallets that also smelled like fish. If she hadn’t already thrown up the contents of her stomach she most certainly would have then. She reached inside her jacket for the radio on her shoulder.

  “This is Officer Amanda Murdoch. I am requesting immediate backup. I have visual on six men, all heavily armed. They knocked over the Plastic Hippo club. I need assistance ASAP.” She gave the phone number off the truck and then waited.

  A female voice hissed, “Officer Murdoch, backup is not available at this time.”

  “Not available? Look—” She didn’t have a chance to say anything else as she heard voices come from around the truck.

  Before she could turn the radio off, the dispatcher said, “Officer Murdoch, advise you maintain observation of suspects until backup is available. Over.”

  It was over for Amanda, as three of the men from the truck looked her direction. She knew she could try to shoot it out with them, but there were at least six of them with submachine guns while she was alone with a standard pistol. Reckless as she might be, she wasn’t that stupid.

  She stood up and held up her arms. “Hello boys,” she said. “Take me to your leader.”

  ***

  One of them took her gun. A second stayed back, his Uzi trained on her. The third grabbed her by her ponytail to drag her from behind the crates. “You are cop,” the man with her gun said.

  The one who dragged her nearly tore off her ponytail when he threw her down to the ground beside the truck. “Yeah, I’m a cop,” she said. She shrugged back her jacket so they could see her uniform. “But I’m not a good cop.”

  Apparently news of the Rampart City Police Department’s corruption had reached Russia, as the man with her gun only nodded at this. Amanda took this as a good sign. “I saw you guys knocking over the Plastic Hippo. Seemed to me like with the don down for the count, you boys are going to be the ones in charge. I want in on the ground floor.”

  “We not need cop.”

  “Hey, come on, you can always use a friend in high places.”

  To her chagrin, the man snorted at this. “You not in high places. You flatfoot.”

  She figured he must have picked that up from an American movie, probably some old film noir. “Yeah, but I’m connected with people who are in high places. A captain has taken me under her wing as her little protégé. You have any idea how useful that could be?”

  “Who is this captain?”

  “Captain Donovan, homicide division. I’m sure guys like you have committed a few of those in your time. I could pass you some secrets about the investigation, let you know what they’re looking at so you can cover your asses.”

  “What you want?”

  “First, I’d like to live. Second, a small gratuity.”

  “What is this ‘gratuity?’”

  “Just a little spare change. Let’s say two thousand a month to keep the flies off you.”

  “Two thousand?”

  “Dollars, not rubles.”

  “We buy half your office for that much.”

  “Does that half include a captain’s secret files?”

  The man turned to his comrades and exchanged some words in Russian. He turned back to her. “Five hundred.”

  “Are you fucking with me? Five hundred doesn’t even pay my rent.”

  “You take it or bullet.” The man held up Amanda’s gun and aimed it at her head.

  “Hey, come on, I thought were negotiating here.”

  “We are.” The man smiled at her; a gold tooth twinkled at her. “We make new deal. You give us information and we let you live. You work for us or you die.”

  Once again her mother’s voice told her the smart thing to
do would be to accept their offer and slink away from here with her life. She told that voice to shut the fuck up and shot to her feet. “Listen, asshole, I don’t do charity. You want my help, you got to pay for it.” She took a step towards them and tapped her chest. “You want to shoot, go ahead. It’s better than being a slave to you borscht-loving motherfuckers.”

  The man shrugged. “OK. We shoot.” His finger tightened on the trigger and Amanda closed her eyes. She heard a gunshot, but it took Amanda a few moments to realize she hadn’t been shot.

  She opened her eyes and saw the man facedown on the ground; blood oozed from his body. The other two looked around to find the source of the gunshot. Amanda took this opportunity to take a few running steps and then leap behind the wooden pallets. As she landed, she heard two more shots echo in the night.

  Amanda waited behind the pallets until she heard a familiar voice say, “You can come out now, Officer.”

  Amanda stood up to see Donovan by the truck, a cigarette in her mouth as she studied the scene. SWAT team members poured into the rear of the building in search of any other Russians. Amidst this chaos, Amanda saw that the other two Russians lay dead behind their comrade. She reached down to take her pistol from the man’s hand and wipe it on his sleeve before she tucked it back into her waistband.

  Captain Donovan shook her head as muffled shots came from inside the building. “I’m not sure whether to give you a commendation or a kick in the ass.”

  “Neither would be fine.”

  “You should save the stupid heroics for crackpots in red armor.”

  “Yeah, well, she wasn’t around so someone had to fill in.”

  Donovan nodded to her and then motioned for Amanda to follow her. They went down an alley, around to the front of what Amanda saw was a fish market. Donovan’s unmarked car was parked across the street; the captain indicated Amanda should sit in the passenger’s seat.

  Captain Donovan waited until she closed the doors to ask, “What did you find out?”

  “Not much. We were haggling over the price of my cooperation when you showed up. They’re definitely Russian though.”