Souls of Men

by A. R. Ashworth

  Fifteen minutes later, a familiar blue BMW turned the corner at the end of the street. What the fuck was Hope doing here? He watched as she cruised by and parked on the pavement near Goon’s car.

  FORTY-ONE

  Elaine sat in her car and assessed her situation. She had dialed 9-9-9 on her way, but the dispatcher told her that a gang fight had erupted, shots had been fired, and every armed response vehicle and authorized firearms officer in the district was busy. They would route the next closest ARV to her location, but it wouldn’t arrive for at least twenty minutes.

  From the driver’s seat, she could see clearly only in one direction. She would rather see what was around her and be able to move than be ambushed in her car. There was no point taking chances. She got out, found a deep shadow against a wall, and pushed the speed dial for Liz. She let the phone ring until it went to voice mail.

  “It’s Elaine. Call me.” Maybe Liz was on a call.

  She dialed Bull. His phone went to voice mail immediately, as if it were turned off. That was odd. Met detectives didn’t turn off their mobiles.

  Had Liz and Bull already arrived? If they had, one of them would have remained outside to wait for her—unless something had happened inside the house. This wasn’t good. Nilo may have returned early, and he was most likely armed. As she slid into a shadow closer to the house, she heard a high-pitched noise, like the cry of a bird. She heard it again, only this time louder. It was a woman’s scream. That could be Liz. Damn.

  She dialed 9-9-9 and identified herself as she moved to the house. “I’m entering a house to investigate two female screams. I suspect an officer has been attacked.” She gave the address. “I need backup immediately. Anyone you can send.” She put her mobile in her pocket, flicked her asp to its full length, and pushed open the front door.

  Elaine darted inside and pressed herself to the wall away from the door. She waited a moment, listening, picturing the interior from her previous visit. Stairs straight ahead, up one flight to a landing, then a second flight to the upper floor. Sitting room door three steps on the left, kitchen door two steps after. Check the sitting room first.

  Remember the layout. Sofa against the back wall, two wooden chairs facing it across a low table. Probably scattered magazines and newspapers, so take care with the footing. By now, her eyes had adjusted to the even dimmer light inside the house. She moved slowly forward along the wall to her left, asp in ready position, until she was nearly at the sitting room door.

  “Police! Bull? Liz?”

  Scuffling sounds and a muted woman’s cry came from the sitting room. Had Liz come here alone?

  “Nilo! Let her go and come out unarmed. Backup is on the way. You don’t have a chance.”

  No response. She waited, but the only reply was the same muted sounds. She knew he was probably armed, but there was no choice now. Elaine took a quick glance around the doorpost. A dim figure stood against the back wall. She moved to the door and through it. Yes, a woman was standing there, but the room was too dim for any detail.

  Nilo’s voice came from the darkness. “Stupid cow. I knew you’d come.”

  Elaine could vaguely discern a figure behind the woman. “My backup is on the way, Danilo. Let her go.”

  “Your backup? Who? Liz the Little Red Dragon? You think she’ll be here?” Nilo laughed. “We’ve got her in the boot of a car by now. I’ll be done with you in a few minutes. Then after we deal with her, we’re off to Mexico. Goran.”

  A lamp snicked on to her left, revealing a large man watching her. Across the room, she recognized Ximena standing in front of Nilo looking at Elaine with huge dark eyes. His hand was across her mouth, and he held a pistol to her head. She wasn’t struggling.

  “Mexico? You’ll never get . . .” Elaine didn’t have a chance to finish. With a sudden movement, Nilo slammed Ximena against the wall. The pistol cracked and Elaine felt a searing hot pain tear through her right leg. She cried out and grabbed her thigh, dropping the asp and toppling to the floor as her leg collapsed.

  * * *

  Jenkins watched as Elaine entered the house. The woman had more bollocks than sense, but he wasn’t surprised. She had flicked an asp, but she wouldn’t be armed otherwise. The Met didn’t like its detectives to carry weapons, even asps, but only an idiot would enter that house without more than a baton to rely on.

  It didn’t look good. Jenkins pulled on latex gloves and slid his balaclava over his face. A half-minute later, a light appeared in the front window, followed by the distinctive flat crack of an FN Five-seveN. Damn! The situation and his job were turning to shit fast. He jumped from the car and dialed 9-9-9 as he moved along the pavement. He needed to get help on the way as fast as possible.

  “Code zero. Gunshots fired. Officer down. Ambulance is required.” The operator asked him to identify himself, but he ignored her and rattled off the street name. “Did you hear me? Officer down! DCI Hope has been shot. Officer down!”

  He ended the call and slid his Glock 26 from its holster under his arm.

  * * *

  Elaine tried to rise from the floor, but her right leg wouldn’t support her. As she pushed herself up, a force like the blunt end of a log struck her in the stomach, driving the breath from her. She collapsed on her back, her knees curled almost to her chest.

  Nilo grabbed her jacket, pulling her upright. She tried to punch, her fist glancing off his arm and scraping his ear, eliciting a curse. She gasped for breath.

  Get away from him. But she couldn’t. Her leg would not hold. He held her by the collar of her jacket. A fist smashed her mouth twice in rapid succession.

  Try to breathe. Stay up. Up. Can’t. A smash to her right eye. Another. Blood ran into her eyes. Whatever was holding her up let go and she collapsed on the floor.

  Try to get up. Move away. A boot in her stomach. She retched. Her world narrowed to a point of red light.

  Don’t pass out, dammit. Stay awake. A loud crack. Elaine jerked in surprise, but there was no more pain.

  He missed. She felt tugging at her waist, her feet.

  He’s stripped me. No. No. Nilo’s voice sounded far away, his words muffled and faint.

  “This one’s all mine. Get your car. I won’t be long.”

  Elaine felt a hand grab her hair and something slid down the side of her face. Her brain reeled with burning pain. She tasted the blood rolling into her mouth. Smashed teeth felt like gravel under her tongue.

  “Strawberries and cream, Auntie. Enjoy.” A face hovered over hers, separated only by the needle point of a large knife.

  She needed one more chance. Her eyes squinted of their own accord, blinking away the blood. A fit of coughing seized her as she struggled for breath, expelling blood and teeth into the face in front of her. She gasped.

  “Damn you whore!” The knife clattered to the floor as his hands grabbed her waist and flipped her facedown across the low coffee table. “Here’s what you deserve, bitch. Ready? The last thing you feel will be me. The last fucking thing.”

  Nilo grasped her hair in his hands and pulled her head back. A flare lit in her consciousness. Her mind screamed as Nilo’s weight shifted forward, his head next to hers.

  “Here it is, cunt.” He pressed into her.

  She kicked her legs and tried to lever her body upright, but her hand slipped in the blood, sliding off the edge of the table.

  Nilo grunted and pounded her ribs with his fist. “That’s good. Fight me. It’s so much better.”

  Elaine writhed under him. His head was next to hers; she felt him press deeper, his breath against her skin. She extended her arm, again trying to find some purchase to hold, to push against. Her hand touched something heavy, a hilt. The knife. She gripped it and curled her arm back over her shoulder, striking with all the strength she had left. It pierced something, and she pushed the blade until she could push it no more.

  Nilo’s heavy breathing became a gurgling howl.

  * * *

  The second shot cracked as
Jenkins moved toward the low stoop. Moments later, the front door began to open, and he dodged into shadow just as Goon emerged. Jenkins let him take a step, then swung the Glock squarely into the big man’s face. Goon toppled over, cracking his head against the brick. He lay stunned, unconscious. Jenkins kicked him once in the head, pulled a zip tie from his pocket, and secured Goon’s hands behind his back.

  Jenkins had tightened a second zip tie around Goon’s ankles when a high-pitched scream came from the house. Goon lay still. No more worries from him, but who—or what—screamed like that?

  He moved carefully up the steps and into the house, his Glock in ready position. Light shone through a doorway on the left, and his training took over. Back against the wall. Weapon in low ready. Thumb the safety. Keep your breathing even. Take short, soft steps now. Two meters. One meter. At the door. Weapon up. Quick. Move in and across. Jesus Christ.

  The sensory shock broke his trained rhythm. Blood spattered across the walls and puddled on the floor. Its perverse metallic incense saturated the air. He swept the room with the Glock and his eyes.

  To his right, a young woman with only half of her head lay crumpled on the floor, her brains and blood staining the wall behind her. Across from her, Nilo sat on the floor against the sofa, his trousers around his ankles, his head skewed to the side. A Fairbairn-Sykes combat knife protruded from the base of his throat. Blood pumped weakly past the blade and pulsed down his chest in wide, soft waves. Nilo blinked and moved his hand. As Jenkins watched, the hand twitched, the blood stopped flowing, and Nilo’s eyes glassed over.

  Good work, Elaine. You saved me the trouble. Let’s see about you.

  Elaine was stretched facedown across the low table, her legs and arms hanging over the edges. She was naked below the waist. A jagged exit wound glared from the back of her right thigh. Her body was covered in sticky redness from her hair to her knees.

  Please don’t let it be hers, he thought. Not all of it.

  Jenkins pressed his gloved fingers against Elaine’s throat. He felt a pulse, not a strong one, but it was steady. Her breathing was shallow but regular. He adjusted her head to the side to prevent blood from pooling in her throat.

  A police siren screamed as flashing blue lights strobed past the window. Time to get out, Jenkins thought. His arrest would mean he would have to get his superiors involved, and his superiors did not like explaining themselves to mere police. Being caught would jeopardize three years of rotten, scummy work. Jenkins slipped through the kitchen and out the back door as officers rushed in through the front. He needed to make it to his car before they had a chance to set up a perimeter.

  As he ran down the alley, a cacophony of sirens wailed from every direction. More blue lights flashed and spun, around and around. The sound and glare ricocheted off the walls of the broken houses, filling the night.

  FORTY-TWO

  “How many fingers can you wiggle?” Peter watched as the young boy dutifully wiggled all five fingers poking out of the plastic brace on his lower arm. Peter smiled and scruffed the boy’s hair.

  “Looks good, champ. Next time, make sure the drain pipe is sturdy before you try to climb it. Even better, don’t try to climb it at all. Tottenham or Arsenal?”

  The boy sat up straighter. “I’m a Spur.”

  “Loud and proud, mate. Excellent.” Peter pulled a Tottenham sticker from a pocket and placed it prominently on the brace. “Now everyone will know.” He kept the Arsenal and West Ham stickers in different pockets.

  He turned to the boy’s mother. “The swelling should go down in about twenty-four hours, and we’ll be able to give him his cast. Make an appointment for the day after tomorrow. Be sure he keeps the brace on.” He looked at the beaming boy. “No climbing.” Peter strolled to the nursing station to complete the boy’s medical chart. He never made it.

  Sally Springfield hurried down the corridor, speaking quietly but intently. “Peter. We need you in the trauma room. Stat.”

  He dropped the chart on the counter and hustled up the corridor with her, listening to her summary of the case.

  “Female, approximately forty. Unconscious. Gunshot upper right leg. Pressure bandaged, appears to have missed the femoral artery but possibly clipped her femur. Laceration on face. Severely beaten about her head and torso. Multiple contusions. Probable broken ribs. Breath shallow but regular. Pulse 140 and rising, BP 90 over 50 and falling. O2 90. Saline drip begun in ambulance.”

  Hell, Peter thought. A gunshot wound didn’t sound right for a domestic. When they turned the corner, he saw a large man with his arm around a crying young woman standing in the corridor outside the trauma room.

  “What are they doing here?” Peter asked. “Have them wait out front.” Then he recognized the man as Bull. The woman’s face was buried in Bull’s huge chest, but the bright-red hair told Peter it was the female detective he had seen with Elaine in the interview room. He pulled up short.

  Bull croaked. “It’s you. Jesus and Mary, it’s you! You’ve got to help her, Doc.” He looked at Liz, then back at Peter. “I know you can. I was there, when you saved Benford. For God’s sake, help her.”

  No. Oh God, no. Peter entered the trauma room, pulling on gloves as he went. The sight froze him. They’d made love not four hours earlier and had agreed to make a go of it. Now Elaine was lying on the trolley, bloody and beaten. He wanted to scream out and rush to her. What had happened?

  He sensed the young house officer and nurses watching him, waiting for instructions. He needed to get a grip on his emotions. It didn’t matter what had happened earlier in the evening; he was the A&E surgeon, and the patient’s injuries would not wait. But he would need help.

  Peter asked Sally to call in a thoracic surgeon and then snapped into the protocols. Elaine already had an IV, so he called for vital signs and instructed the house officer to insert a tracheal tube and connect a respirator. Her right leg was wrapped in a fairly clean pressure bandage with no sign of heavy bleeding. It looked to be through and through. It could wait. Good paramedics.

  The contusions on her chest and abdomen suggested that broken ribs were likely. The racing pulse and dropping blood pressure indicated serious internal bleeding. He checked her pupils and decided to focus first on her abdomen. She would need blood, maybe a lot of it. He told Sally to reserve it. It would be a long night.

  * * *

  Six hours later, Peter was out of the operating theater. He and another surgeon had repaired Elaine’s lacerated liver but had removed her spleen. They had cleaned the bullet wound, closed the slash on her face, and stabilized her mouth and jaw. Sally had performed the rape protocols.

  Peter washed and changed out of his bloody scrubs. Despite the ungodly hour, he called two friends—one who could fix the slash on her face and another who specialized in maxillofacial reconstruction. He went upstairs for one more check on her, then ventured out to give a status.

  The waiting room was filled with police officers talking among themselves. Voices trailed off and faces turned as he entered. Bull and Liz sat to the side. Her face was badly bruised.

  “Has anyone seen to your injuries?” he asked Liz.

  “Yes, thanks.” She didn’t look up.

  Peter recognized the thin, middle-aged man as DCS Cranwell. He was probably the person to speak to for the sake of protocol.

  “Things are still a bit touch-and-go, but the outlook is much better than it was a few hours ago,” Peter said. “DCI Hope’s out of surgery and stable. She’ll be under sedation for three or four days. We’ll bring her out of it slowly. That’s the best way for trauma this serious. Has anyone notified her mother and sisters?”

  Cranwell stood. “That’s excellent, Dr. Willend. We will notify them as soon as possible. But we need to talk with DCI Hope to find out what happened. How soon . . .”

  Peter held up his hand. “I realize you need to interview her, but like I just said, we can’t rush it. Even if she were conscious, which she is not, her jaw is broken, so I do
ubt she could answer you. She’s strong and healthy. I have every reason to believe that she’ll recover, given time and rest. But it will be at least several days before you can speak with her.” He looked from face to face. God, he was tired.

  Cranwell cleared his throat. “Yes, I understand, of course.” He looked around the room as if he wanted another officer to speak. None did, so he turned back to Peter. “I want to say thank you from all of us who work with Elaine. You saved her life. You have allowed us to keep two people who are dear to us. First DCI Benford and now Elaine. The Metropolitan Police Service owes you a debt of gratitude, Dr. Willend.”

  Peter wondered if that little speech was spontaneous or if Cranwell had rehearsed it. Either way, it must have been difficult for the officer to say. He didn’t respond.

  Liz started to speak, but her voice cracked. Bull put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. He whispered something in her ear that Peter didn’t catch, and she nodded. She finally gathered herself. “What about her face? How will the . . . the cut heal?”

  “It’s a clean slice, so we were able to close it nicely. Two of my friends will contact the Met about performing the reconstructive surgery to her face and mouth. Is there anything else you need to know right now? If not, I suggest you go home. If there’s any change to her condition, we’ll let Mr. Cranwell know.”

  Within a minute, all the officers had filed out except for Bull and Liz, who sat quietly on the sofa, holding hands.