Almost.
Timmy launched like a furry torpedo, striking him high on the right bicep. His weight whipped up and around the suspect’s body, twisting Timmy’s neck and jaw. Flesh and clothing ripped and shredded, Timmy’s teeth tunneling deep furrows through the meat of the suspect’s arm. The impact combined with the wild variation of balancing weight dragged the suspect to the ground where he landed on his neck and head. He cried out as he rolled to his back, landing part way on the dog.
Timmy reacted by crushing down harder. Dominic thought he could actually hear bones popping beneath the devastating force. In the semi-darkness of the night Timmy’s eyes and teeth looked demonic and his growls and the sound of tearing and the begging of the suspect meshed together to create a nightmarish scene.
Dominic looked at Sarah. “Shouldn’t we…do something?”
“Nah, let Timmy have some fun.”
“Yeah,” said Rex. “Besides, I can’t see his hands yet. He might be armed. We’ll wait till he stops fighting Timmy.”
“Fighting Timmy?” It didn’t look like much of a fight to Dominic. More like mutilation.
“Suspect,” screamed Rex, “stop fighting the dog and let me see your hands!”
The bad guy rolled back and forth, swinging his arms and kicking his legs. “Help!” he screamed.
“Uh, guys?” said Dominic.
“Not till we see his hands,” said Sarah. “These scum-bags use Ketamine to dope up young girls so they can gang rape them and then dump them off like nothing ever happened. You think they give a rip about their victims? You think they care that they take a girl’s virginity from her, or make her pregnant, or give her Herpes or Gonorrhea or Syphilis or AIDS? These punks will probably get probation for the burg and be out raping high school and college kids before their last victims even remember what happened to them. A few puncture wounds are about all the justice these guys will get in our screwed up system.”
“Let me see those hands, suspect,” yelled Rex.
The bad guy continued to roll and scream and beg.
Sarah looked at Rex, took a deep breath. “All right, better stop there.” She hitched a thumb at Dominic. “I don’t want the rook to get sick on me; we’ve got to work together the rest of the night.”
Rex shrugged. “Platz!” he yelled. Timmy immediately released the suspect and lay down a few feet from him, coiled like a cobra and ready to strike.
Dominic flashed his Mini-Mag-Light on the suspect who still lay in a heap, blood staining his torn black shirt. He faced away from them, curled in a fetal ball. “Let me see your hands,” he said brusquely; miffed at Sarah’s comment about him getting sick. He started forward, brushing past Sarah and Rex, then hesitated, shifting his attention to K9 Timmy; remembering his calf, when suddenly the suspect spun around, pointing something at them.
Time slowed as adrenaline flooded Dominic’s system. He saw the gun as it swept out and around, the barrel swinging in line with Sarah’s face, the bore looking huge and deep and black. Without thought his own hand went for his gun. He knew just how fast he was, and it was fast, but on his best day it wouldn’t be fast enough. He couldn’t hope to draw and fire before the suspect got off at least one shot, maybe two or more, depending on his skill. He also knew that Sarah stood closest in line; and that thought — that knowledge — made him try and push it — to force his speed beyond his capabilities, and in so doing felt his hand fumble at the grip, costing him even more time. Time he needed to save Sarah. Time he didn’t have.
He would have jumped in front of her, taken the bullet, died for her if it had been possible, but his draw was far faster than his ability to shift his entire weight and engage the muscles of his legs, hips and torso, and there wasn’t even time for the draw. There was nothing he could do but continue to watch as the gun finally seated correctly in the grip of his hand, and the bad guy’s gun stopped its motion, pointing directly at Sarah’s beautiful face. How could he have ever thought her plain? What a fool he had been. And now she was lost to him — lost to him forever.
In this new place where time seemed to stand still; where he could see everything, hear everything, know everything, but was powerless to move any faster or stop the unrelenting events that were already irreversibly set into motion, he saw the suspect’s finger pull back on the trigger, heard the inner clock-work like mechanisms of the pistol’s machinery click into place, felt his heart burst in his chest at the reality that he couldn’t save her, knew that his own weapon had just cleared leather as the finale click of the trigger assembly slapped the firing pin forward so that it impacted the small blasting cap at the bottom of the shell’s casing igniting the explosive grains of gunpowder so that they could burst into the casing chamber and in turn ignite the larger housing of powder that would detonate — in a controlled explosion — sending the missile portion of the bullet spinning through the barrel on its way to its intended target.
His own gun lined up, the barrel passing the top of his holster as he tried for a shot from the hip, when he heard the suspect’s gunfire.
Time flashed back to normal.
Sarah’s head jerked back and she fell onto the sidewalk with a meaty thud.
Dominic’s flashlight hadn’t moved, but something very strange happened. The suspect’s face was suddenly enveloped by a dark shape. The man dropped the gun, grabbing at the dark.
Dominic stopped his shot an instant before it was too late, realizing that the suspect’s face wasn’t gone — not yet anyway — but that it had been literally swallowed by the massive jaws of Timmy. The dog had reacted faster than Dominic, lunging and grabbing the suspect by the face, his teeth crushing in on the man’s cheek and jaw. The suspect’s screams were muffled as they blew past the frothy folds of Timmy’s mouth.
Dominic stepped forward, kicked the gun from the man’s reach, saw Rex surge forward, gun drawn and pointed at the suspect. Dominic shouted; “Cover him,” and turned back to Sarah at the same time he toggled his shoulder mic. “Officer down! Officer down! Start medics. Get a chopper down here!”
Reaching her he saw the blood, so much blood. Her hair soaked and a puddle forming beneath her face and running off toward the grass in a thick stream.
“Medic! he screamed as his heart shriveled in his chest and panic raced through his mind. “MEDIC!” He was back in Afghanistan — in Khost — on that hot day, with no clouds and no hope. He was there — right there — in the thick of battle — in the thick of death; men screaming, men dying. Bullets and blood and bombs — and the heat — the terrible heat — and so much death — and it was his fault. He could have stopped it — should have stopped it. And now it was too late.
Sarah was dead.
Part VII
53
Cinnamon Twist
* * *
Plans in Motion
* * *
He lay next to her, asleep. He looked so peaceful; hard to believe him a mass murderer. That he assassinated people for a living. Amazing how gentle he could be, how caring of her feelings and needs.
What a pair. She stripped for men and he killed people. The Assassin and the Midget. Weird. Although now that she thought of it, no weirder than the Detective and the Midget. What had she gotten herself into?
No — no — not true. She hadn’t gotten herself into this. What had these men gotten her into? She had done nothing to bring this on herself. They had imposed themselves into her life. This wasn’t her fault, it was theirs and whatever happened was on their heads alone.
Well, to be honest with herself, and she always tried to be, she had brought Sammy into it, but it wasn’t her fault that he’d become infatuated with her. She’d needed information and protection and he’d provided it. If he would let it go at that everything would be fine. But she knew better. Sammy would never let her go and neither would Enrico.
So she would use them — she would use them both. Still though, she felt guilty about Sammy, but she could see no other way out. Both men stood in her
way.
She thought it might be possible to kill Enrico while he slept. He kept a gun under the bed, right beneath the hem of the bedspread in easy reach. It wouldn’t be hard to slip out of bed and go to the bathroom. She could do her business, turn off the light, quietly creep out the door to his side of the bed then take out the gun and shoot him in the head.
Having proved to be a very light sleeper he would be sure to wake when she first got out of bed, but she thought he trusted her enough so he’d instantly fall right back to sleep.
It would be the end of at least one problem, maybe both. She could claim Enrico held her hostage. That she killed him to get away. She doubted anyone would blame her. She was beautiful after all — and small — fragile. Besides, Enrico was an international killer and Sammy would certainly back her up, explaining about the obituaries and murders. It might very well also end the relationship between her and Sammy. She could tell him she had to leave, that there were just too many terrible memories. That she’d call him when she got settled and had put it all behind her. And that would be that.
Only she didn’t believe it.
Cinnamon had never shot anyone. She’d never physically hurt any living creature to her knowledge, not even an insect, besides she didn’t believe Sammy would let her go even then. He would find her no matter where she fled and even her three million dollars wouldn’t be able to hide her.
Her fingers stroked the strong arm that draped over her. He wasn’t all bumpy with muscles like some guys. More lean and taught, like a steel cable pulled until it vibrated, filled with suppressed energy just waiting to be released.
The idea of killing him seemed suddenly silly. He’d wake up and snap her neck.
No. She would have no chance against him or Sammy. Not physically, but she’d survived her whole life on her wits, and she knew men — knew them well. She knew their drives, their character traits, their lusts, their depravities, their perversions, their needs.
The two men were masters of their worlds. One was lawless, the other the law itself. Between them they could move mountains. They could take wealth, freedom even lives. They held the power to crush most men. But they would not crush her. She would beat them because of their strength, their power, their pride; because they were men and men could not imagine that a woman, especially a woman so tiny and helpless, could possibly be a threat to them.
Cinnamon Twist gently pushed Enrico’s arm from her naked body. She slid off the bed, a good-sized drop for her, and landed silently on the carpeted floor. She pulled a silk robe over her shoulders and padded from the room. She stopped at the low coffee table to pick up her cigarettes and phone before moving to the glass doors that fronted the balcony. Outside the air simmered with a heated breeze that lifted her hair and smelled fresh and fruity. Apples. A brace of trees fronted the foot of the building. She inhaled deeply, remembering delicious pies that her mother used to bake when she was still alive. Times had been happy back then.
Standing against the railing she looked out over the city toward the mountains. A sea of twinkling lights blinked at her as if to make up for the lack of stars overhead. Such a beautiful place Colorado; a little dry and not as green as back east, but not flat and boring either. There were the mountains, real mountains stabbing high into the sky, overlooking the bowl of Denver. Sand Dunes rose to the south and Red Rocks to the west. Cattle ranches roamed to the north and farms to the east. In every direction something different — something special; she would miss it. She’d really wanted to try her hand at snowboarding, but that would have to wait. Maybe one day far from now she might be able to come back — maybe — but for now…
Cinnamon lit up a cigarette and made the call. He answered it on the first ring.
“Are you okay?” he asked, and she heard the tension in his voice.
“Yes, thank you, I am. I miss you.”
“Do you?”
And there it was. She knew from both his voice and the question itself that he’d figured it out. Maybe he’d even been spying on her. Good…good…easier this way.
“He’s here, Sammy.”
A pause. “I know. Are you in danger?”
“No, not now, he’s asleep. But…he wants to kill you I think.”
“Why would he want to kill me?”
“Because you slept with me and…and because he knows.”
Another pause. “What is it that he knows, Cinnamon?”
This time she paused. “He knows how I feel about you.” She took a pull on the cigarette, careful not to let the sound make it to the phone.
“And how is that?” he asked.
She thought of just how sad Sammy was; a nice man, a good man, gentle and kind to her; as inexperienced in bed as Enrico was experienced, but always so sad. She didn’t want to hurt him, but knew she would. The thought brought tears to her eyes and a catch to her throat.
“I love you,” she said, and it was breathy — full of emotion. “I love you so much.”
“Then why is he there — why is he in your bed?”
“I knew that he would come; that I couldn’t stop him and that if he found out about you, that he would kill you. I couldn’t let that happen — I just couldn’t. I thought that maybe, if I gave myself to him he would let you live. I could go away with him — I could do that — if it would keep you safe. But I don’t think it will. I think he’s too smart for me, that I’m not a good enough actor. He knew we’d been together, that you love me. I lied and told him I’m just using you, but…I don’t think he believes me.”
She heard a sigh, heavy, as though the weight of the world had been riding that single exhalation of breath. She sucked in smoke, exhaled slowly.
“It’s okay, Cinnamon. It’s okay. Everything will be all right.”
“Sammy I…I don’t think this can be a police thing. He’s too smart for that. They won’t be able to catch him and if he gets away he’ll kill us both. I know he will.”
Another pause, this one as heavy as the sigh. “I know, and you’re right. This won’t be a police thing. This will be final. He’ll never be able to bother you again.”
A breeze blew over her from the direction of the mountains. It carried the rich scent of the apples.
She smiled. “I have a plan.”
54
Sarah Hampton
* * *
Fighter
* * *
Back in the asylum, the doctors and nurses strapping her down; she fought — fought hard — hard as she could — but they were too many — too strong. The cloth bands secured her hands and feet to the gurney as they whisked her down the hallway, bars of light strobing along overhead. They said things to her, but she couldn’t make out their words over her screams and her panic.
She tried to bite them, to scratch them with her nails in the tight radius of her bound wrists, but they were too fast for her, too practiced. A strong hand pushed her forehead, shoving her head back into the pillow and held her. Next would come the rubber stopper to keep her from biting off her tongue, and then the electrodes.
“Nononononono,” she babbled as the terror rose. She bucked and kicked and jerked her head from side to side. Blood flew from her hair and face and she saw it dapple the neck and chin of the young doctor that held her forehead. She tried to spit, but her mouth was dry. She tried to lift her head, but he was too strong.
A terrible howl sounded and at first she thought it was the cat, but realized quickly that it was her and the sound of it frightened her even more. They were turning her into an animal, stealing her humanity, her very soul. The cold baths, the electric shocks, the stares and murmurings, and pointing fingers, whispers behind her back and the cats — always the cats. She’d loved cats once, their soft fur and the way they’d arch their back as she pet them, rubbing their chins and jaws against her palm; their beautiful eyes and perfect ears, the soft purr. But that was before — before John Doe and the cat that stole the evidence. He’d turned the other cats against her — all of them — and
now she hated them — hated and feared them.
They would shock her. They would send the white power through her. They would fry her brain and then stick her in the padded room, held tight in a straightjacket, while men looked in at her, mocked her, humiliated her. They would take her power; who she was, who she wanted to be with Dominic. They would steal everything.
A needle slid into her arm and she felt the mellow flow of Haldol slip into her system taking away her last refuge; that of fear and rage. She fought against it, redoubling her efforts to kick and buck, but it became harder to hold her eyes open, to keep up the fight. She could feel the sweat and blood on her forehead making her skin slick. She thought if she could just jerk hard enough she might be able to slip out from under the doctor’s grip and manage to sink her teeth into his latex gloved hand before he could recover. She saw them pull out another syringe full of clear liquid, but this time she kicked and fought so hard they couldn’t get it into her.
Dominic’s face came into view. He walked next to the doctor, looking down at her and trying to say something, but there was so much noise; growling and snarls and shrieks, that she couldn’t tell what he was trying to say. And then, through the haze of medication that misted over her brain, she realized again the screams and noise were coming from her and that she could stop it, she could stop all the fighting and just relax, so that she could hear what Dominic was saying. She found it hard to stop though, the fear grew so overwhelming, so daunting, so complete, but she had to; for Dominic she had to.
With all her will she clogged off her throat so that all that made it out were groans and ragged sounds of breathing, and forced her arms and legs to stay still. Her face shook with the effort but she kept back the screams, held them at bay while she tried to concentrate on Dominic’s words.
Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set Page 93