"A request?" the calm man in the expensive suit asks me. "Why whatever could that be, dear?"
Without saying a word, I ease my left foot down and slide out the Zero's kickstand so that it can remain upright as I dismount. Holding up a single finger at the man in the universal "wait one minute please" gesture, I swing my other leg up and over the bike so that I am standing next to it. Bringing my hand back down, I reach into my saddle bags and dig around for a quick moment until I locate the two objects I am searching for.
Keeping my hands in the saddlebags, I raise my voice so that I can be heard without turning my head and say, "When you get to Hell, tell the devil something for me, ok?"
"What?" He responds, although by the tone of his voice I'm guessing he's more surprised by my forwardness rather than requesting I finish my question.
Straightening up and pulling the two Glock pistols from my bag, I turn and extend both arms so that they are pointing at the man standing less than a dozen feet from me.
"Tell him he hasn't won, yet," I say and start pulling the triggers of the guns and watch as they spit lead across the short distance that separates us.
"Never mind," I continue and turn my body to face the others around the truck as the once confident man in the suit drops lifelessly to the ground. “I'll probably be there to tell him in person soon enough.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The chaos that erupts in front of me is as violent as it is short-lived.
Continuing to walk towards the parked pickup, I use just enough of my energy to keep my aim steady and my nerves calm as I use every last one of the thirty bullets of the Glocks' two loaded magazines on the men as they ineffectively attempt to unholster their own weapons. The half dozen men in front of me drop to the cold, hard concrete in less than ten seconds as I make sure to fire multiple rounds into each man before moving to the next target.
As the guns' hammers each smack home on empty space, I thumb the release lever on both guns dropping the spent magazines to the ground. The hollow tunking sound of the metallic magazines seems to reverberate around me and throughout the vast emptiness of the warehouse. I just executed seven men in roughly the same amount of time it takes to have a good sneezing fit, and I didn't even muster up an eye blink. That should bother me.
It should, but it doesn't. Before that thought can take root and let its tendrils of guilt dig into me, I remember the girl in the back of the truck. The thought of her and what they had planned for her dries up any sorrow that may have existed in me like a fat worm on a hot sidewalk in the middle of July.
Realizing I hadn't grabbed extra magazines from my saddlebags earlier, I toss the empty guns behind me and watch as they slide across the dirty gray floor and come to a rest next the Zero's back tire.
Turning my attention back to the pickup and the labored breathing I can hear coming from the open bed, I speak softly as I step toward it. "Are you alright in there? Still alive and everything? Because they aren't going to hurt you anymore tonight."
Getting close enough to see into the filthy truck bed, its occupant comes into view. A young girl with dark curly hair and the tanned mocha complexion of my heritage lies in the bed outstretched and resting her head on what appears to be a several-year-old, ripped and torn sand bag. Something that was probably left in there to give the vehicle traction in the winter months. The girl can't be much older than Leyna, only fourteen or fifteen years old, but the look of hatred and anger in her remaining eye gives her a depth that Leyna might never possess.
Never will possess, I correct myself. Leyna's dead, unlike this girl. Don't forget that.
She stares at me and lets the weight of her anger bubble in her expression as she responds to my question. "I'm alive," she tells me with a surprisingly strong voice considering her condition. "Are they?" She asks and nods her head to indicate the surrounding area.
"No, they're not," I say. "None of them."
She gives a short nod of acceptance and grunts. "Good," she tells me. "They deserved it." And just like that she dismisses their lives as quickly as I had extinguished them.
"So what are you going to do with me?" She asks turning her attention from the unseen death around her open vehicular tomb to me. "Finish what they started?" She says this with the same level of hatred she had just used when speaking of the dead men and their fate.
Her question catches me off guard.
"What? No! Why would I do that?"
"How would I know?" She says bitterly and spits the words at me. "I don't know who you are. Who they are. Why I'm here or even where 'here' is."
"Good point," I tell her. "That's fair. Unfortunately, I'm the reason you're here, but that's a long story. But I'm also the reason you're going to be getting out of here in just a moment...although I'm not really sure that makes up for the first part."
"OK," she tells me, and her voice is devoid of anything even approaching trust. "I appreciate the help, but you still didn't tell me who you are."
"Catarina," I say and step forward until I am right next to the truck and finally close enough to reach out and help her stand up if possible. "Catarina Perez, and let’s just leave it at that."
She stares at my outstretched hand without taking it, and then pushes herself into a sitting position before moving away from me and towards the far side of the truck bed. Her movement is slow and deliberate, but it isn't out of fear. She just doesn't want my help.
Reaching the edge of the truck, she pulls herself up and over it and I hear the heavy thud of her body hit the ground on the far side. It sounds painful, and I move quickly to get around the back of the truck so that I can help her, stubborn girl or not.
"Are you okay?" I ask as I round the back of the truck so that I can help her stand.
"Get down," she hisses at me, but her words only confuse me. If she didn't want my help before, then maybe the fall knocked some sense into her and now she's asking for me to bend down and grab her.
"I'm getting there," I tell her. "You could have just asked for my help in the truck and saved yourself a fall, you know. Be easier on your bones that way."
But as I get closer to her and extend my hand again, I notice her eyes aren't on me. They're wide and staring past me and back towards the entrance of the warehouse. The entrance where I came in.
And then it hits me. Viktor!
Turning and looking over my shoulder, I see the traffic cop I had dismissed earlier standing in the doorway and pointing his rifle at the two of us. He's over half a football field away and sighting us across a wide open area with no cover between us, but that isn't what makes my blood go cold.
No. It's the sight of him moving towards the edge of the doorway so that he can get behind cover while at the same time I can see his free hand holding a small, black rectangular object to this face. A radio. And I'd bet the last of my ammunition that he's just called for backup from somewhere nearby. That means our little party is about to get a lot more crowded.
Viktor isn't shooting at us, and I take that as a positive sign that we might live long enough to find a way out of here. Most likely he is either waiting for orders from someone else or waiting for others to arrive and give him some backup. Viktor may have been relegated to a simple job, but he's isn't a dummy. I have to respect him for that even as it frustrates me.
Suddenly I regret tossing my guns back over towards my bike after emptying them. I might not be able fire at Viktor, but just having something heavy to throw at him and scare him away would be nice. Searching the ground around me, I realize there is nothing handy within reaching distance and the bodies of all the men I had shot earlier are too far away for me to reach easily.
Curses, I mentally yell at myself. Figure out Viktor later. Let's get this girl out of here first.
"We have to get you out of here," I tell the girl on the ground as I turn back to face her. "He's radioing for help right now so time is limited. Can you walk?"
It's really just a perfunctory question as I can just throw
her over my shoulder and run if need be, but I want to at least give her the option to be polite. As angry as she was at me before, I'm not sure how well she'd react to me going Full Neanderthal on her and throwing her over my shoulder to have her scream and pound on my back as I run. Plus, if we do get shot at, that would only serve her up as a prime target for their fire. But if worse comes to worst...
"How do you know he's..." she begins and then shakes her head instead of finishing the thought. "Yes, I can walk, but I'd prefer to just get in the driver's seat. It'd be faster for me."
"You can drive?" I ask a bit stunned. She doesn't look old enough. By several years.
Her scowl assumes the tinge of scorn she had regarded me with earlier as she says, "Yes, I can drive. It's my truck. These creeps carjacked me on the way home from work."
She shakes her head at me as she pulls herself to a standing position, "Get judgmental much?" She scoffs and slowly pulls herself along the side of the truck and towards the open driver's side door.
Her comment again catches me off guard. She's so angry. And mean. It puts my meager surly attitude to shame. "No, I just didn't think you were old enough. I didn't mean anything by it."
She isn't paying any attention to me as she crawls up into the truck's cab and slams the heavy door behind her. Moments later I hear her turning the engine over and working the clutch before she kicks it into gear.
"Some people," I mutter. "Sheesh."
"She isn't old enough," a voice says softly into my ear, and I recognize Ren's voice. "And it isn't her truck. She lied about both."
"What?" I’m both startled at his sudden intrusion into my thoughts and his update on what the girl was telling me.
"I ran her face through the database while you were talking to her. She's a runaway. Been gone for about a month now and most likely has been living on the streets. Her name is Gabrielle Lopez. She turned fifteen three months ago."
"Oh," I say and watch as the girl I just found out was Tarea, smoothly accelerates the truck into a wide turn and then guns it towards the large, open metal garage door that I had pulled through previously.
"She drives pretty well for fifteen," is all I say as I watch her close the distance to the open doorway.
And then it hits me what's wrong with what I'm seeing. Gabrielle is driving straight towards Viktor and where he was hiding. It may be the only way out of here by vehicle that doesn't involve going through a wall, but it's also being guarded by the only person around here with a large gun.
As I watch the doorway and the truck approach it, I see Viktor the Traffic Cop's arms breach the doorway just enough so that his gun comes into sight and then the end of it blooms into an orange flame and bursts forth with burning hot seeds of death. He unleashes three short bursts, but it's enough. The first burst tears through the small truck's engine block releasing an angry hiss of steam. The next two torrents of bullets tear through the front windscreen and the thin side door of the truck with alarming ease.
The perforation of the vehicle causes it to swerve madly for a moment and then it decelerates and rolls slowly into a side wall of the warehouse causing the horn to begin blaring relentlessly. Even from here I can see the blooms of blood popped against the inside back window of the cab. Blood that is a clear indicator of what just happened to the girl who was driving it moments before.
"He just killed her," I say quietly, and whether it is just to myself so that I can hear the words or for Ren's benefit, I don't know. "Everything I just did to free her, and he killed her. Just like that."
"What a waste," I say tonelessly and try to shrug off the wave of blackness I feel tugging at me. The Blackness that is the first hints of the Darkness letting me know I’m not done here. There is more work to do.
Staring at the red cloud of misty death still hanging on the once clear rear window glass of the truck, I realize I don't want to push the Darkness away. No. It's time I gave it a good home.
Reaching into the pocket of my cargo pants, I pull out one of the Lampreys I had filled earlier.
Time to top off the tanks, I think and squeeze the satisfyingly salty, red liquid into my mouth and swallow it down. The rush that it brings is exhilarating.
Savoring the electric tingle of adrenaline as it surges through my body, I walk over to the dead men near my bike and quickly search them for weapons. Less than thirty seconds of clothes patting reveals four handguns, one large revolver and two heavy machine guns that I don't recognize with twin banana-shaped clips duct taped together.
"Let's dance," I say to no one in particular and jump on the Zero and gun the throttle hard enough to cause the bike to spin in a donut for a brief moment.
Racing towards the open garage door and Viktor, my only thought is a simple one: Only one person is going to be walking away from this building tonight. I'll bet my life on it.
CHAPTER NINE
With the heavy revolver clutched in my left hand and aimed at the open doorway as I drive towards it, I twist the bike's accelerator with my right hand. Not being able to shift gears while moving keeps my speed lower than I want, but I can’t sacrifice my weapon for the benefit of speed.
As the distance to the garage door shrinks, I keep waiting for Viktor to pop his head out again to fire at me like he did Tarea. He doesn't. After her truck smashed into the wall, he had stepped back out of sight, and I haven't seen him since.
Is he scared? I wonder. Of me? Of what he did to the girl? Of the situation? Or is he just biding his time until friends show up?
Then it hits me. Why he hasn't popped out to shoot me. He has no idea what I'm doing. He can't hear me. With the echoing reverberations of his gun still ringing in his ears and the quietness of the Zero's electric motor humming away beneath me in a low gear, I might as well be traveling in complete silence. My approach is making about as much noise as a mouse farting in a tornado.
The thought gives me a smile, and I grip the solid steel revolver a bit tighter. Tarea's death will be vindicated. I will have served a purpose here tonight!
Clearing the opening, I keep my left arm extended and aimed in the direction that I had last seen Viktor. As soon as he appears, I plan to end him.
I see him before he even realizes I exist. He is facing away from the warehouse with the offending gun gripped limply in his near hand. His other is holding the small black radio up close to his face and he's saying something in to it. I should probably listen to his conversation to get an idea of what I am about to be up against, but I don't. I just raise the muzzle of the silver handgun slightly to adjust my aim, and I squeeze the trigger.
One moment Viktor is talking on the radio attempting to bring in reinforcements to end my life and the next moment he isn't. What was once Viktor is simply removed from this world. Snuffed out. Gone. By my hand. Gabrielle has been vindicated.
The kick from the small revolver is impressive for its size, and I wonder how large its bullets must be. Without my strength, firing this one handed would have resulted in it flying from my fingers like an angry bird taking to the sky. As it is, there is barely any jump at all, a movement more akin to a skittish hamster being petted by a small child. Sudden but easily handled.
The resulting BOOM from the thunder that removed what was once Viktor's skull, echoes around me and I am again thankful for the dampening effects of Ren's helmet. I can hear and feel the shockwave created by the gleaming cannon in my hand, but it doesn't incapacitate me. It barely even registers for me. Just another sound in a world full of them right now.
Turning my attention away from the falling Viktor, I observe the dwindling line of cars that are still waiting entrance to the warehouse. It has been less than a minute since shots were fired into the building by the man out here, and nearly five minutes since my initial attack that felled the well-dressed leader of this farce of justice. That has given the people out here enough time to reconsider their choices and the wisdom of being a part of such a criminal undertaking.
Most of the inhabitants
of the line are making one of three choices as far as I can tell. Some are turning around and attempting to flee the area. Others are digging in and pulling out weapons of their own so that they can jump into the fray. And a few appear to be mentally overwhelmed to the point that they are curled up and hoping the whole event will pass them by unscathed.
They are wrong, of course. They are all wrong. None shall flee tonight, and no one will leave this slaughterhouse alive. No one but me, that is.
Stopping the bike so that my right hand is as free as my left, I pull out one of the pistols I had liberated from the men inside and take aim at the tires of as many fleeing vehicles as possible. Using the Darkness to both steady my aim and guide me, I pull the trigger, and hear the pop and hiss of an exploded tire. Quickly moving my arm and resetting my aim on another vehicle, I continue to repeat the action until the gun clicks dry.
Six cars had been attempting to flee the scene, and each is now the owner of at least one or more flattened tires preventing that initial impulse of theirs. They are part of this fight now whether they like it or not.
With the most pressing worry nullified, I move on to the next one: the men disgorging themselves from their cars and getting behind cover so they can fire at me.
Setting the revolver in my left hand down momentarily on the bike's metal frame, I release the pistol's now empty magazine and catch it as it falls free. I wish I had more bullets with me so that I could reload and reuse the weapon, but I don't. So that means it is time to improvise. With the hollow metal tube removed from the main weight of the gun, I now have two moderately useable weapons as opposed to one.
Pulling on the knowledge that innumerable past prison movies have given me, I look for the biggest, toughest thug staring me down so that I can drop him first as a lesson to the others. "Remove the leader and remove the fight" or something like that if I can remember the phrase well enough. At the least, it gives me a place to start.
Catharsis (Book 3): Catastrophe Page 5