The lock presented no problems to someone with his skills and he entered her apartment with a sense of wonder. He could smell her. She was everywhere; Cinnamon, her name, her trademark, her scent. Enrico closed his eyes and breathed her in.
He secured listening devises to each land line as well as to two cell phones he found throughout the apartment. He knew she would have a cell phone on her as well and would bug that one when the opportunity presented itself.
Enrico walked to the bedroom, laid on the bed, stretched out his arms and legs, rolled over to his stomach and breathed her deep into his lungs. He read once that humans lose over a billion skin cells during each night of sleep. He breathed her in, her cells, her DNA, making her a part of him.
He removed his thin black gloves and let his bare flesh roam over the stark white sheets, feeling her essence touching his fingertips. He thought of stripping completely and draping his naked body across the exact spot she must sleep, but knew it would be too dangerous, too unprofessional. Still, it was hard to resist. He managed finally to hop down from the bed, but only because he understood that there would be another time—a time when he would be able to feel her actual body — to touch and be touched by the woman herself. To feel her warmth — her life — her breath — her weight — her soul.
Would he keep her, or would he kill her? He didn’t know himself, not yet. There were still things to consider, facets to work out, events to unfold. Could he allow the spirit of art itself to live apart from him? No — no, that he could not — he would not, do. But could he survive with her? Would her perfection destroy him? He thought it might. Yes, it very well might, but — it might also be worth it.
The dresser was tiny, a third normal scale. Inside he went through her bras and panties, touching each of them with his bare hands and fingers, purposely allowing his own DNA to rub off on the pieces. In this way, until he could physically touch her, he could be close to her — part of her.
After that he left, went back to his own room and fell asleep dreaming of her. When she returned to her apartment, early in the morning, he watched her as she looked out the window, listened as she called the detective, wondered at what game she might be playing. Obviously she was conning the cop, no one recognizes a con as good as another con. He felt a swelling of pride when she brought up the e-mails he’d sent her; a thrill when she told how scared she was. He could tell the cop was falling for her line. That he was practically drooling into the phone. It made Enrico smile to know that she could so affect a detective, a man trained to detect manipulation, even over the phone.
Still, the man would have to be looked into. He might pose a problem, get in the way, and Enrico could not allow that to happen.
Nothing could or would be allowed to get in the way of his plans for Cinnamon.
Sirens sounded below, followed by the hollow echo of gunshots. Enrico ignored them.
He zoomed in close on her face. In the eerie green glow of night vision she appeared just that — a vision.
Enrico brought the laptop to his bed. He lay down and slept, with her face next to his.
27
Sarah Hampton
* * *
Out of Sight
* * *
Sarah heard dispatch confirm that the suspect vehicle had just been involved in an armed robbery of a theater in the City of Littleton where two people were shot. She reached for the mic at the same time the suspect car shrieked to a stop. Dominic responded, slamming on the brakes. The move was so sudden Sarah almost smacked her nose against the dash — that’s all I need, another nose splint — but the rook did good, stopping with just enough time to avoid the crash.
She shoved one hand down to unfasten her seatbelt when suddenly there was a sharp snapping sound and the windshield starred. Glistening glass dust peppered her face and then another snap and a small hole punched through just below the first impact.
Gunfire — they’re shooting at us. Her brain screamed for her to get the belt off and get out of the car. She hit the release; ducking as low as she could and yelled for Dominic to get down, but he was already out of the car, wedged between the doorframe and the body. Shooting. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Through the milky carnage of the windshield she saw the back window of the suspect vehicle shatter. The driver gunned the engine and the blunt end of the old Chevy shot ahead, smashing into the police cruiser in front of it. The car’s heavy body shoved the cruiser several feet before the driver kicked it into reverse, canted the wheels and crashed into the police car on the right with his tail end. The car was quickly shifted back to drive and ploughed into the cruiser on the left and the cruiser in the front at the same time. This made almost enough room for the suspect vehicle to squeeze through, but three Gunwood officers started pouring lead into the car; tires, doors, windows.
Sarah made it out the door just as three or four Denver cars slid, tires melting, onto the scene.
A quick visual scan confirmed her initial take on the scene — not good; they were in a cross fire and needed to leave the car and move up on the oblique, but the engine block of their cruiser was the only cover. No choice but to wait it out and hope they didn’t get nailed by friendly fire.
Sarah reached into the car and grabbed up the radio mic. A bullet ricocheted off the hood, slid up the already fractured windshield and soared into the heavens. She radioed they were under heavy fire and needed immediate back up. She pulled out her gun and pointed it toward the suspect car, afraid of shooting for fear of hitting her friends up front or the Denver officers that were running toward them.
Suddenly a fusillade of bullets rained down on the Chevy, plunking holes through the hood, doors, roof and windows, signaling Denver’s arrival on scene. All four tires exploded in a hail of shotgun and .223 blasts.
Three of the car’s riddled doors popped open and bodies started spilling out of the vehicle. Only the driver and one of the front seat passengers stayed inside, both slumped in their seats. Six men, five from the back and one from the front exited. The man from the front passenger side had blood soaked across the back of his white wife-beater shirt, whether his or someone else’s from inside the car Sarah couldn’t know, but he pulled up a sawed-off shotgun and was instantly obliterated from all sides.
Sarah heard the whiz of a bullet as it sailed close and the metallic clunk of another as it hit the front bumper of her car. There was so much lead flying she’d be amazed if fifty people didn’t get shot.
She saw three suspects running hard to the west with a couple of Denver officers in hot pursuit, but was distracted by a muscular guy that looked to be about twenty, wearing baggy black pants and no shirt. He held up his pants as he ran straight east, no gun in sight and protected from Denver’s bullets by the wrecked police cruiser on that side. Sarah considered running after him, but another hollow whunk sound striking the hood made her reconsider. The guy made it almost past the cruiser when Timmy hit him like an ICBM; the collision so hard it took the guy right out of his pants — just left them puddled there like something out of a cartoon. Timmy hit him high on the shoulder, buckling the suspect against the rear bumper and over the trunk. Timmy’s velocity catapulted his own body up and over the man, his teeth still firmly imbedded in flesh and muscle, until he impacted on the lid of the trunk with a sound like a bomb going off.
The muscular guy screamed.
Timmy growled.
The fight was on.
Not that it was much of a fight, mostly just screams and begging from the bad guy and horrendous growls and the sound of tearing flesh from Timmy.
From behind Sarah, Rex came running, completely oblivious to the bullets that continued to spang and thunk around them. “Don’t you hurt my dog!” he screamed. And when he made it to them he started thumping the muscular guy — who didn’t look muscular at all next to Rex — with big looping punches that knocked the man silly and then unconscious.
Sarah looked back to see how Dominic was doing and he wasn’t there. She did a doubl
e take and spotted him running after the Denver officers, who were running after the three fleeing suspects. She started to yell, but realized it would be useless with the gunfire, distance, sirens and general pandemonium. Instead she took off after him, just like Rex had taken after Timmy.
She was a pretty good runner, always had been, and so was shocked to see Dominic leave her in the dust and blaze past the Denver cops as well. Sarah buckled down and sprinted as fast as she could. She caught up to the Denver guys, two of which had pretty good-sized guts and the third looking to be in his sixties, but never even got close to him. And then it hit her — he was just a rook, a trainee — he was never supposed to be out of her sight. She screamed for him to stop, tried the radio, but it was taking too long — way too long and by the time she cleared the corner they were gone.
Frantic she plunged ahead, urging the Denver guys to follow. She ran full out to the next corner, the next and the next. But they were nowhere and they could have turned at any of a number of cross allies and then turned from there to any number of other ones.
She had lost him.
She wanted to run on, looking for him, but knew that to be both stupid and dangerous. Dominic was up against three armed robbers and he needed back up, and the fastest way to get him that back up was to call in the cavalry. So that’s what she did… even though it made her feel like a coward.
28
Dominic Elkins
* * *
Gun Battle
* * *
Dominic ran full out, leaving Sarah and all the Denver officers a long ways back. All around sirens wailed and lights blazed. Ahead he saw the last of the three suspects round a corner and disappear. They were fast, he’d give them that. Of course they were probably about eighteen years old and dressed in baggy shorts and sneakers and weren’t hampered by thirty-five pounds of gun belt and vest and spit shined boots.
He took the corner in time to see all of them scampering over a six-foot chain link fence. He’d gained maybe ten feet on them and thought he’d close the distance even faster with the fence because even though he wasn’t tall he could jump like a cat. From five feet back he sprung, the toe of his right boot punching the chain link at about the four-foot mark. He caught the top of the fence with both hands and vaulted over. He landed on the run, feeling the sweat sweep along his forehead. His radio sounded from his shoulder mic; Sarah asking — no — demanding his location and status, but he almost had them. They took another corner twenty yards ahead. Dominic kicked in the after-burners, surging with a burst of energy. He made the corner, smashed through a group of four rusted and dented trash cans, leaving them clattering and rolling in the ally.
It was dark, but there was a half-moon overhead that slashed here and there between the buildings granting just enough illumination for him to make them out. Three black males, two tall and skinny, the third short and skinny, short tight hair, all dressed in dark, baggy, hoodies and running for all they were worth.
He was breathing hard, not yet having gained his second wind, and all the summer time night smells of the city’s back allies rushed past him; exhaust, spoiled meat, sewage, rancid milk, sweat, rotted fruit and fish; all the good things in life.
Dominic jerked his collapsible baton from its holder, snapped it open on the run and threw it low and hard. It hit the last of the runners about mid-knee and he went down in a tangle of arms and legs. The other two didn’t stop
Neither did Dominic.
He just kicked the boy in the face as hard as he could as he ran by, snapping the boy’s head back and into the concrete of the ally street.
As he ran past Dominic saw something that made his blood run cold — a silver revolver — popping out of the boy’s hand to clatter across the street and under a dumpster.
And now it was too late to reach for his own gun because he was on them and he felt the impact as he crashed into their backs, wrapping them with his arms, tackling them both to the ground and landing hard, smashing on top and driving them in head first. There were grunts and screams and the meaty sound of flesh thudding and skidding along the pavement.
An elbow clipped Dominic’s cheek, sending sparks flashing behind his eyes. His shoulder smashed against the ground and he rolled by instinct, feeling his pants tear at the knees, and came back up to his feet, the sky and ally spinning as his mind tried to grasp hold of equilibrium.
One of the kids tried to gain his feet, his face raw and bloody and stitched with road rash. He staggered and fell back, moaning. The other kid, the short one, was already up and trying to pull something out of his shorts. For an instant, with his mind still whirling, Dominic thought it might be a piggy light, but then survival mode kicked in and he understood exactly what the kid was trying to do and it had nothing to do with a toy.
Before his conscious mind even knew it, his gun flashed out of the holster and came in line with Shorty’s chest, his eye focusing on the glowing green front site dot, everything else a blurry outline.
Three things happened simultaneously: Shorty tore the gun free of his pants, sweeping the barrel toward Dominic. A thousand thoughts fluttered through Dominic’s mind at the speed of light, chief of which was — how much trouble am I going to get into for this — and his right hand index finger moved back and forth a fraction of an inch twice, faster than a blur, cycling the slide of Dominic’s .45 and sending two bullets into the chest of the robber before he could get a single shot off.
Shorty took a step back, looked at his destroyed heart, tried to point the gun at Dominic again then crumpled to the street.
Dominic covered the dead man with his Glock, moved up, stepped on his wrist with his full weight and kicked the gun, a piece of junk .380, out of his hand. The second suspect moaned, still trying to get to his feet and Dominic drew a bead on him. He was about to order him to stay down when something hot slashed across the back of his neck followed by the massive boom of a heavy caliber gunshot.
The sudden realization that he was under fire struck him — an instant of panic — his heart shifting to trip-hammer speed. Then his instincts and training took over. He ducked, spun and saw the first suspect; the guy he’d kicked in the face, pointing a .357 Magnum at him with one hand. The gun flashed and boomed, and sparks started spitting off the asphalt all around Dominic. The distance was about thirty yards. Dominic fired five hollow point slugs at center mass. The first hit the suspect in his gun hand, disintegrating three of his fingers and mangling the trigger guard. The second took him in the belly, just below the ribcage destroying the boy’s six-pack abs and tearing through his spinal column. The third hit low, mushrooming, shredding his large intestines, taking out his left kidney and plowing a silver dollar sized hole out his back. The last two shots landed beneath his right armpit, traversed laterally punching through both lungs, and his heart. One of the two got caught up in the lung tissue and stopped there, but the second continued on until the last of its energy was spent channeling through meat and muscle, and came to a stop against a sturdy rib bone on the opposite side of its entry.
Movement to the side made Dominic spin to his right; his ears were blanked from all the shooting making everything sound tinny and faraway. It was the last suspect, the one with the road rash on his face. He had finally made it to his feet and was staggering around, his eyes blinking rapidly, trying to clear his vision.
Dominic was on him in two steps, screaming for him to get on his face. He could barely hear his own voice. The kid was either too stunned or too stupid to comprehend. He tried to shove Dominic in the chest. Dominic almost hit him in the face with his pistol, but a dim memory of Sgt. Creed reaming him for hitting Kid Kong in the head with the nightstick came to mind. Instead he kneed the kid as hard as he could in the testicles and when he doubled over caught him again with the same knee in the face. The kid went down and stayed down. Dominic performed a quick frisk, his hearing still muted but punctuated now by a high pitched tone that felt like a needle slicing through his eardrums. He found a snub
-nosed revolver in the kid’s back waistband and a pocketknife in his back pocket. He cuffed him and left him on his belly. He heard muffled yelling and looked all around, but couldn’t tell where it was coming from. He shook his head and smacked above both ears trying to clear them. He could still hear someone calling and after a few seconds realized it was coming from his radio. In all the action he’d reverted to military training and forgot he had friends close by and needed to let them know what had happened and where he was.
He keyed the mic but couldn’t get through because of all the radio traffic, which he still couldn’t make out as anything other than broken chatter and static. He pulled his radio out of its holder on his belt and saw the red emergency button. He pushed it. The button was designed to cut out all other radio traffic for approximately ten seconds leaving only his open to transmit. He gave his call sign, stated that there had been shots fired, that he was okay, but that he needed rescue for several suspects. He started to give his location, but then realized he had no idea where he was. In his mind he tried to retrace his path as he had chased the kids from the car, but at the time he’d been busy trying to keep track of them and hadn’t paid much attention to his surroundings. Finally he just said he was in an alley between several buildings and that he saw a white brick apartment building to the south.
Not knowing if he got through or not, he waited, still holding his gun on all three downed suspects. He thought the first two were both dead, having killed enough men in the war to know the limp look that men assumed as they fell once the ghost had been given up. But he wasn’t going to take any chances, not after thinking he’d taken care of the one kid with the kick in the face and then almost getting killed by him. That reminded him and he felt the back of his neck. It stung and his fingers came away wet with blood. He reached back again, feeling for flow and quantity. Torn skin, but it didn’t feel like a lot of blood. Most likely the bullet just skimmed him, but he couldn’t be sure — bullets did weird things — and people sometimes reacted just as weirdly to wounds in battle. He’d seen guys that didn’t even know they were hit suddenly drop over dead from a fatal shot that hadn’t registered during the heat of combat.
Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set Page 81