The Angel of the Abyss

by Hank Schwaeble

  “As soon as the door opens, hug the floor. And whatever you do, don't look at me. As soon as you see someone come in, make eye contact, then look at that corner over there. Seriously, whatever you do, don't look at me.”

  “But—”

  “There's no time. You'll be helping me, believe me. So, let me know you understand. What do you do when someone comes in?”

  Amy huffed out a breath. “Make eye contact, then look at that corner.”

  “Perfect. Then what?”

  “Hug the floor.”

  “That's my girl.”

  Amy made a disapproving noise, but Hatcher had already turned his attention to the window above him. A few seconds ticked by. Finally, a shadow passed in front of the door, blocking the light.

  Some commotion on the other side, but very hard to make out anything distinct. The lock clanked and thudded. The door pushed open.

  Hatcher looked over at Amy. She was staring at the doorway, then she swung her gaze over to the corner opposite to where Hatcher was crouching.

  The first one through was Swollen guy. He had his expandable tonfa out, holding it by the side handle, aligning it with the side of his forearm. His other hand was on his sidearm. That meant the second guy would likely have his weapon drawn. That would be the preferred technique, since they knew no one in the room was armed. Rear guy provides the cover.

  Amy's glance proved just enough. Swollen guy snapped a look to the corner first, then immediately pivoted around to check behind the door. The delay was just enough to allow the second guy to have advanced past the threshold.

  The instant Swollen guy saw him, Hatcher exploded against the door. It was bulky and dense and slow to get moving, but with Hatcher putting all his weight into it, it was fast enough. It slammed against Short-and-Stocky, knocking him against the jamb. Hatcher even had time to give it an extra smash with his shoulder before Swollen guy pulled the tonfa back, spun it around in his hand to use like a club, and whipped it toward the side of Hatcher's head.

  But Hatcher stepped forward, inside of the arc, and thrust his arms up as his chest collided with Swollen guy's kevlar vest. He dropped his forearms onto the cop's shoulders, which put the length of shirt he was gripping behind the man's head. In one continuous motion he twisted his body and wrapped the shirt around the cop's bulky neck. He simultaneously yanked the shirt tight, pulled forward with his arms, and jammed his ass against the man's midsection, flexing his legs and bending forward, pitching his shoulders over and down with everything he had.

  Swollen guy didn't seem to move at first, but then Hatcher felt the man's weight on his back, toppling forward, his arms reaching around, hands trying to find something on Hatcher to grab.

  Hatcher kept the motion going, putting his legs into it and giving his body an extra twist. The man flipped over him, bouncing against the wall skidding down it, landing on his head.

  “Look out!”

  Hatcher spun to see Short-and-Stocky leveling his weapon. He looked about to fire, but his head unexpectedly jerked a bit and he stumbled forward, arms spreading to catch his balance. Hatcher stepped right at the gun arm, caught the wrist and hooked his forearm behind the man's elbow, barring it. The pain in his shoulder almost made his knees buckle, but he flexed his arm tight and pressed down with all his weight and strength until the gun fell and clattered onto the floor. He released the arm bar and smashed his own elbow against the man's face, once, twice, three times, each blow snapping the cop's head back. He saw the eyes roll back and he let go. The cop dropped without trying to break his fall.

  Amy was standing near where the cop had been standing, her shoulder still low from having crashed into the cop's back. But her eyes dropped to behind him and Hatcher spun as Swollen guy bounced up, scooping his tonfa off the floor and flicking it so that it snapped open with a sharp crack. There was some blood on the man’s forehead. One hand grabbed the shirt and ripped it off his neck. He used that same hand to rub his throat.

  Even in the slanted light from the doorway, Hatcher could see the rage burning in his eyes. Powerful, unfocused emotion. Raw.

  The cop rolled the tonfa in his hand, switching his grip. He held it like a baton now, a truncheon, the side handle sticking out from between his first two fingers. Hatcher had a guess as to what that meant he would do, but there were no guarantees. He hoped he guessed right.

  The air whistled as Swollen guy whipped the end a few times for effect. He pulled his arm back and cocked his wrist a few times, feinting, watching Hatcher's reaction. Hatcher studied his eyes, waited until he felt the real one coming.

  Now.

  It came in low, as he'd expected. He turned away from the blow and dropped onto it, catching the slashing end of the baton between his hamstring and calf, trapping it. It stung like hell, but his weight held it in place, allowing him to grab the shaft and yank. He turned his body as he pulled, spinning all his weight into it, and landed his fist square into Swollen guy's forearm. The man yelped, releasing the weapon and clutching his arm.

  He looked at his arm, then at Hatcher, then at his arm again. His breaths became loud and the lines around his mouth deepened as he showed his teeth, snarling. He charged.

  Hatcher grabbed the tonfa by the side handle and thrust his arm forward, just as Swollen guy was starting to lower his head for a bull rush. The long end punched into the man's mouth, standing him up on the spot. Both hands shot up and grabbed at it, jerking it from between his teeth. He dropped to his knees, coughing. Blood splattered onto the concrete, every cough delivering more of it. Hatcher kicked him as hard as he could in the face, knocking him back. The man choked and gagged on the floor, hands still on his throat. Hatcher took the cop's side arm, tucked it into his waistband.

  The other cop was moving, though still out of it. Hatcher went over to him, saw that he wasn't a threat yet, and checked his pockets. He found a folding knife. Smith & Wesson lock blade. He flicked it open using the thumb stud. Carbon steel. Sharp.

  He closed his eyes, took a breath. “Amy, don't look.”

  “Hatcher—”

  He peered down at the cop. “I'm serious. Look away.”

  “What I said before, I was angry... you don't have to—”

  “We don't have the luxury of debating this. If you're right, and I'm wrong, it's still just some scumbag dirty cops who were out there waiting for word so they could decide how to dispose of our bodies, and I guarantee you it wasn't the first time. But I'm not wrong, Amy. This has to be done. We'll be hunted down, arrested, and neither of us will survive long enough to see if our statements ever made the light of day.”

  “I meant it when I said you're a good man, Jake. But if you're determined to prove you're not, I can't stop you.”

  Hatcher sensed her turn around, felt her eyes look away. He stared at the knife, then at the cop. Why was she making this so hard? It wasn't even a close call. There was only one play. These guys were not the type to let it rest. The risk to them was too great. The risk to Leslie even greater. He would put the equivalent of a bounty on their heads. Hatcher knew he could stop that right here, right now. Before it even started.

  Goddamn it.

  He stood and dragged Short-and-Stocky away from the door. The cop grunted, his head lolling, eyes fluttering. Hatcher brought his fist down onto the man's nose, cracking his skull off the cement floor. He picked up the second pistol a few feet away and tucked the barrel in the front of his jeans. Then he walked over to Amy and cut her zip ties.

  She rubbed her wrists and smiled at him. “I love you, too.”

  Swollen guy was still coughing and making choking noises. He'd managed to roll onto his face, hands still clutching his throat. Hatcher thought about giving him another hard kick to the head, but decided it wasn't worth it.

  He handed one of the pistols to Amy. “Don't use this unless you have to. There's no sense in making it easy for th
em to manufacture a story, like they surprised us burglarizing the place and we managed to get one of their weapons away. Maybe we can FedEx them to a journalist or something.”

  She checked the weapon, nodded. Hatcher leaned through the doorway to peek down the hall, then gestured for her to follow and they left the room. He shut the door behind them, taking a few seconds to figure out how to lock it.

  “Where are the other two?” she asked, keeping the pistol in front of her, ready to raise it.

  “No clue. Maybe we'll get lucky.”

  She gave him a look like she didn't believe he believed that, which he didn't. They moved slowly down the hall, back the way they'd been led earlier. Hatcher moved ahead of her as they reached the end, near the door to the corner office overlooking the main facility. He held out a hand for her to stop.

  As he suspected, one of the cops was in the office. Hatcher could see him in the reflection of a round, convex mirror mounted high on the corner of the opposite wall. The distorted image was barely visible, but the cop's movement gave him away. Arms stretching, hand massaging his scalp. He was sitting in a swiveling chair, facing the other way, watching television. The other two hadn't told him about the light turning off, or had only mentioned they were going to check it out and didn't make it seem like a big deal. Either that, or he was the most incompetent dirty cop ever.

  Hatcher signaled for Amy to stay put and slid along the wall to the door. He gently turned the knob. The mechanism clicked and the door swayed inward of its own weight.

  “Am I the only one who's hungry?” The cop scratched his pate and swung his feet off the counter, spinning the chair around. “When Driscoll gets back—”

  It was the bald buy with the paunch. He stared at Hatcher with yellow, droopy eyes. His focus bounced to the barrel of the Sig-Sauer pointed at him.

  “How this turns out is totally up to you,” Hatcher said.

  Something seemed to harden in the man's face. His wet, saggy eyes settled down. His mouth curved into something like a sneer.

  “If you think—”

  Hatcher fired three times before the man could move. All three shots were center of mass. The chair knocked back an inch or so with each hit, and the cop's head bobbed like he was taking hammer blows to the gut.

  The cop clenched his arms tight, grimacing. Hatcher lunged forward as Amy flashed through the door, her pistol extended, her features stretched and tense. He slugged the cop across the jaw, then transferred the pistol back to his right hand and clubbed him with it until the man started to slide off the chair, limp.

  Blood sluiced down the man's bald head. Hatcher took retrieved the cop's gun from its holster. When he looked up, Amy was staring at him uncertainly.

  “He's wearing kevlar,” Hatcher said. “He was about to have a testosterone moment or something. I needed to short-circuit it. If you're going to give me a hard time about him being an old man who'll probably need years of therapy now, I don't want to hear it. Because I honestly don't care.”

  “What happened to all that stuff about not shooting?

  Hatcher shrugged. “Like any battle plan, it didn't survive contact with the enemy.” He knelt next to the cop and rifled his pockets.

  “Looking for these?”

  Amy held up a set of keys she snagged off the counter. Hatcher let out a breath and stood, taking them and giving her hand a squeeze before letting go.

  “Since we’re not being shot at, the other one must have left and we have to assume he’ll probably be back any moment, so we need to get the hell out of Dodge. Now.”

  She followed him out of the office and they hurried to the back of the warehouse. They stopped at the door and Hatcher thrust himself out, pistol leveled, sweeping the barrel. He waved Amy through and she ran to the stairs. He was right behind her and bumped into her when she stopped short.

  “Don't... move.”

  The voice was calm and stern and loud. Standing right in front of Amy, perhaps ten feet away, was Athletic guy. He was in a solid firing position, gun hand pressed into an opposing palm, pistol in a direct line toward Amy's head.

  “Drop your weapons. If either of you so much as flinch, one of you dies.”

  Check mate, Hatcher thought, pondering his options. There was no move to make. Amy was, quite literally, in the line of fire. His weapon was too low to get off a shot first, and he couldn't do it smoothly with her so close, regardless. Her position wasn't much better. Ten, maybe twelve feet wasn't point blank, but it may as well have been with the way this cop was bearing down. Guys with marksmanship skills shared certain qualities. Steadiness, visual discipline, good form. This one was like a poster child for all of them. Even his breathing was flawless in terms of shooting technique.

  “The next time I speak, it won't be with my voice.”

  Hatcher felt the world shrink into the moment, each thought marching to the drumbeat of his pulse. I try to take a shot, she's dead. We drop our weapons, we're both dead.

  “What do I do?” Amy whispered, managing to throw her voice over her shoulder without moving her head.

  Hatcher knew the question wasn't a plea for guidance. She understood the situation completely. She was leaving it up to him. One of them had to take the shot, and she was fine with it being either of them. Even as his mind raced for an answer, he couldn't help but acknowledge what a rare woman she was. None of his training, none of his combat experience, but still holding her own and keeping her head.

  A rare woman that deserved his trust. He would let her take the shot. She was in the better position.

  Hatcher let his pistol dangle from a finger by the trigger guard. He extended his arm to the side to let it drop over the handrail. He wanted to make a show of it. Hope the man broke discipline for just a split second to let his eyes track the motion, giving Amy a chance.

  “Good call,” the cop said. “But your girlfriend here better just let go—”

  It happened so fast, Hatcher couldn't quite understand what he saw. A brief flicker of an image registered, but that was it. A hand, cupping the cop's chin. Then an instant later the cop's face disappeared, replaced by the back of his head, where a reverse image of the hand facing the other way was cupping the upper portion of the scalp on the opposite side. The man's body hadn't moved, weapon still level and steady. The single crunching snap of several things breaking at once reaching Hatcher's ears was the only indication it was anything other than a trick being played on his eyes.

  The cop stood there like that, head turned in the wrong direction, for a full second or more. Then his limbs all gave out at once and his body collapsed straight down. Standing directly behind the heap was Deborah.

  She dusted her hands against each other and looked down at the body near her feet, shaking her head. “Now, tell me I'm not a woman who can turn a man's head after that.”

  The chilled air hung quiet as no one spoke. Distant city sounds, blips of traffic, of boats in the harbor, of vague urban breaths being taken, crept by like whispers.

  Amy snapped her pistol up and leveled it. She took the added step of cocking it.

  Deborah's cheeks dimpled as she frowned. “I must have missed the chapter of Emily Post that suggested brandishing a pistol as a show of gratitude. Was that before or after the bit on thank you cards?”

  “Gratitude? We wouldn't even be—”

  Hatcher laid a hand gently on her arm. He pressed down just enough to make the point. She looked at him and he gave a single shake to his head.

  The glint in her eye was not a good sign, and neither was the set to her jaw. But after glaring at Deborah one more time, she lowered her arms.

  “I don't even think it would do much,” he said, the words meant as an explanation but sounding more like an apology.

  “Oh, come now,” Deborah said. “I'm still flesh and blood. But, look, sweetie, if it makes you feel any better, he is mor
e or less right. You could definitely get me upset, no doubt about that. But it would likely take more than what you have there to put me down. A lot more. And boy, when the bitchy side of me rears its head... well—” she glanced down at the cop, “things have been going along swimmingly so far, let’s not ruin it all with talk of unpleasantries.”

  Hatcher let his gaze settle on the cop's body. It formed a grotesque mound, legs curled beneath it, chest forward on the ground, face staring straight up.

  “Why did you come back?” he said.

  “To save your bacon. Why else?”

  “But why?”

  “Can't you just accept that I have a soft spot for you?” Her eyes shifted to Amy. “And you can retract the claws. I saved your bacon, too.”

  “Posing your own question isn't the same as answering his.”

  “My, aren't we clever! Little Miss Police Officer, acting her part. I remember how carefully you tried to project the image of the tough-but-professional cop when I first met you, conducting your investigation as if you had any clue as to what you were dealing with, playing at it with all the earnestness of a junior high ingénue in drama class with dreams of making it to the silver screen.”

  “We're leaving, Deborah,” Hatcher said, jumping in before Amy could respond and coaxing her down the steps. “If there's something you want to tell me, now's the time. You're the one who's starting to bore.”

  “Ouch! Jake Hatcher, that was low!” She stepped over the body.

  Hatcher physically moved Amy toward the cars as they reached the bottom of the stairs, keeping her from getting too close. But Deborah stepped back toward the loading dock and leaned against it, giving them a wide berth. She produced a cigarette and a lighter, though from exactly where he wasn't quite sure. She took a puff and blew out, tucking her elbow against her side and crossing her other arm over to saucer it.

  “I told you to go home, to leave it all alone. You wouldn't listen.”