So far so good. Chuck did a radio check to make sure all his officers were in place. The hypo of Haldol rested comfortably in the front pocket of his pants.
Chuck told the bouncer he was going to see how things were proceeding and left to go become the Vigilante Clubber for the last time.
Cinnamon waited in the dark, the gun feeling heavy and cold in her hand. She was scared — so scared — she didn’t remember ever being so scared except maybe on that first night with the old man. But she’d survived then and she would survive now. If only they would kill each other, then she wouldn’t have to do anything, but if they didn’t, she would do what she had to do. That was the motto of her life, no matter what, she would survive.
Footsteps sounded down the hall; heavy footsteps — a man’s footsteps. That would be Enrico. It was time. She made the call to Sammy.
Sammy started to leave the closet when he noticed the small bundle of black clothes sitting on top of a trash can. Just enough light streamed in between the door’s cracks for Sammy to make out the form of a hoodie and sweatpants.
Things whip-snapped into place — colors, shapes, sounds — the Vigilante Clubber’s approximate size and weight, the times and locations of the crimes, the sap, the list of names, the lapses in the security plan, the man in charge of the plan, the hoodie and sweatpants here in this closet just down the hall from where the money would arrive — Creed — Sergeant Chuck Creed. Suddenly he remembered Chuck’s face as he sat across from him in the coffee shop when he showed him the sap inside the evidence bag. The look that came across Chuck’s face, the tension in his shoulders and neck, the tremor in his voice and then he knew — he knew that it had been Chuck all along and now Chuck was planning to steal the million dollars for himself.
His phone vibrated in his pocket; Cinnamon.
“Enrico found out! He’s coming down the hall for you now!”
His over fatigued brain instead of running down hummed at light speed. It snapped back to the danger at hand. He dropped the clothes, spinning back to the door — too late — the door swung open splashing the small dark room with blinding light. His hand went for his gun in movement too fast to be captured by the human eye and his finger pressed flat against the trigger.
Enrico watched the empty hallway on the computer screen, his heart crushed. Cinnamon did not love him. He picked up his rifle and scanned the parking lot. He made out each of the police cruisers and their occupants. The crosshairs bisected first one man’s head, then another’s. Chicago would seem like child’s play compared to the carnage he would wreak. Here he would kill hundreds. First the people inside the club, then any who were left in the parking lot, and finally the first responders coming to help; more police, firefighters, paramedics, bomb techs, curiosity seekers. They would all die.
Movement on the computer screen caught his attention. Someone approached the closet.
Chuck Creed jumped back, his hand instinctively going for his gun. Before him stood Sammy Rothstein, a gun in his hand and Chuck’s disguise lying on the floor before his feet. Chuck’s hand froze on the butt of his weapon. He knew all about Sammy’s incredible abilities with a gun. Chuck was no coward, but he wouldn’t stand a chance against him.
“Hey, Sammy,” he said, forcing a smile he didn’t feel. “What are you doing here?”
“I know,” said Sammy. Suddenly Chuck noticed how bad Sammy looked; like he’d been on a weeklong drinking binge.
“Know what?”
Sammy’s eyes dipped to the heap of clothes on the floor. “I know.” He looked back up into Chuck’s eyes. “The colors never lie.”
That took Chuck back. “What?”
“Is that a syringe in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”
And then Chuck understood. That whacky brain of Sammy’s had finally figured him out. He nodded, trying to think what to do.
“Take your hand off the gun,” said Sammy, a weird grin pasted to his taught lips.
Chuck left his hand in place, his mind racing. “And then what?” he asked. He knew he couldn’t beat him, even if Sammy didn’t already have his gun out. No one could out draw Sammy Rothstein. No, he couldn’t beat him, but still — still — it might be best to go for it anyway.
Sammy’s eyes were wild, bulging behind the glasses. “Then you take your clothes and go do what you have to do. But do it fast, you don’t have a lot of time. The sounds are smelling bad and logic might not win out.”
Chuck had no idea what he was talking about, wasn’t sure Sammy did either, but he understood a break when he heard one. He nodded his head, took his hand off his gun, picked up the clothes, pulled the hoodie on over his shirt, slipped the sweats up over his pants and gun belt.
He paused before leaving. “This — this is the last time. I promise,” he said.
“Yes,” said Sammy. “The very last time — for me too.”
Cinnamon felt her hand shaking. She tried to stop it, to control her fear, but she couldn’t, it was too strong, overpowering everything, even her iron will. What’s going on? Why is it taking so long? Why aren’t there gunshots? What’s happening?
She’d heard talking, too garbled to make anything out, then more footsteps, but no fighting, no shooting. She wanted to open the door, peek out, but she was too scared.
The door jerked open and she almost dropped the gun. Sammy stood before her. A terrible sense of loss stabbed at her heart and she didn’t know if it was for her or for him.
She saw his eyes trace down to her hand and only then realized she held the gun pointed up at his chest.
“Time to shoot or get off the pot,” said Sammy, and Cinnamon thought his voice held an edge of insanity.
She pulled the trigger.
Enrico screamed at the computer screen, “NO!” This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen. He watched as the detective threw open the storage room door and confronted Cinnamon. He saw the gun and knew she wouldn’t have a chance against him. He couldn’t let him kill her — he wouldn’t.
Enrico snatched the detonator from the table.
Sammy hit her wrist and turned to the side as the gun fired. The bullet grazed the arm of his jacket, burning a hole through it and smacking the wall across the hall. He could easily have killed her instead he twisted the gun out of her grasp in a single smooth movement. He looked down at her and held the door open with an outstretched hand.
“Onions launched into space develop a retrograde orbit or in other words, after you.”
Before either of them could move, an explosion knocked them both to the floor. Smoke and debris billowed down the hallway from the back of the club, pattering the tiles and smashing holes in the walls.
Sammy saw a hand floating through the air and thought he was imagining John Doe’s hand until it smacked him hard and wet in the face, like some macabre mid-evil challenge to a joust. It splatted on the floor in front of him.
Chuck Creed’s ears screamed with a high-pitched whine that made him feel like throwing up. He kneeled on his hands and knees; how he got that way he didn’t know. Blood dribbled from his nose and mouth forming a puddle on the floor between his hands. Dust and smoke made him cough and stung his eyes. He blinked away tears and tried to focus his vision. He saw destruction all around him. The remains of the bouncer guarding the door to the room with the money lay a few feet away; parts were missing. The door to the room had vanished, as had most of the wall. Inside Chuck saw the second bouncer; also very dead. The briefcase lay partially buried under strewn rubble and chunks of wood and plaster.
Pushing himself to his feet, Chuck did a quick self-appraisal. He seemed relatively unhurt except for some cuts and scrapes and maybe a burst eardrum. His sense of balance wavered, but he managed to stagger over to the briefcase and pluck it from the wreckage. He dragged it over to what was left of the back door area. The ceiling and walls had partially collapsed, leaving only a small opening about the diameter of a basketball to the outside. He could see Officer Pearson flat on his
back unconscious. Blood dribbled from his ears and a cut on his forehead seeped, but his chest rose and fell evenly. Both the armed guards from the truck were lying on the asphalt, the driver’s side door hanging open. The windshield had been caved in by a big chunk of stone, and that was some thick glass.
Chuck took a couple of deep breaths, choking out dust, then started to work on clearing a way out.
67
Dominic Elkins
* * *
Diversion
* * *
A bomb. Dominic scanned the area through the telescopic night vision sight. Had he missed him? No. If the assassin had detonated a bomb he wouldn’t do it from inside. He’d be out here — somewhere safe — where he could watch and kill as people ran out. And people were running out — dozens of them; women in fantasy costumes, bartenders, bouncers, workmen, waitresses, men in tuxedos and women in full-length gowns, businessmen — a strange conglomerate of humanity that rushed the doors like a single entity — panic the uniting ingredient binding them together.
Sweeping the scope from left to right, up and down, he searched frantically around the parking area for any sign of the hit man. The scene was quickly turning to chaos. Already hundreds of people were filling the lot.
Diversion.
In Afghanistan Dominic often triggered just such a ploy to throw off troops before an assault. Throw in a grenade or a flashbang and then hit hard and fast while the enemy was still in shock. That had to be it. The assassin popped off a bomb, turning the people into a terrorized mob and then he would slip in and steal the money while everyone was panicking. Detective Rothstein would need help. Dominic had to get inside now,
He tossed the cumbersome rifle into the front seat of the patrol car and locked the doors. Then he started for the front entrance.
68
Sarah Hampton
* * *
Gatling Gams
* * *
Sarah handed the man back his driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance. He thanked her and she started backing to her car when the cloudless sky exploded in thunder. She ducked instinctively, felt silly for it and stood straight scanning for the source. An explosion — loud — very loud — from the southwest. Gatling Gams. A sick feeling formed in the pit of her stomach and as if to confirm her fears dispatch aired a disturbance with a possible bomb at the grand opening. Sirens started from all over the city and even farther, which meant Denver was sending cars too.
She rode solo tonight. Dominic had been put on a special detail she knew nothing about. She hit her lights and siren and peeled rubber.
Cats flooded the streets and sidewalks; hundreds of them, everywhere she looked. The car she’d stopped had been full of them, sitting in the back seat, riding shotgun, padding across the dashboard. They’d hopped up on the hood, slid down the trunk, laid on the roof.
They were taunting her.
She tried to hit as many of them as she could as she drove Code-3 to the disturbance at the club, but somehow they were able to evade her tires, darting out of the way just in time.
She was powerless. They were too strong for her. They’d almost won.
Coming up from the back of the business she threw the cruiser into a power slide, screeching the tires and billowing the air with smoke from the brake pads. The car came to a screeching stop and she jumped out, seeing fire leaping into the sky from the east side of the building. She looked around and saw the cats were standing back as if afraid to approach too close to the structure.
Another police car came up, stopping fast. Quinn Taylor got out.
“What’s going on?” he shouted.
“No idea,” she yelled back.
Sarah saw the back end of an armored truck jutting from the north alley, its front and back doors hanging open.
People were flooding in a screaming hoard from the front of the club. Panic had set in and the mob rushed out trampling any who fell beneath the onslaught.
“We’ve got to get to the front; stop those people from crushing each other,” yelled Sarah.
Quinn nodded and started that way. Sarah followed, kicking cats as she ran. She made it to the front and stopped cold. Memories flooded in on her like a tsunami swamping rational thought. People swarmed around her, jostling past as they coughed and hacked and stumbled on by. Sarah was suddenly completely unaware of their passing. Forgotten were the cats, the explosion, the fire, the injuries, the danger. Thrown back to her own world on that terrible day. She saw it all; the severed penis, the cat, the hand, the chainsaw, the blood.
Her jaw went slack, her eyes wide and unseeing. She felt dull, stupid.
A man in an expensive suit stumbled into her and she just gave way as though she wasn’t even there. He fell on his side and rolled around, coughing and throwing up, but Sarah didn’t see him, she didn’t hear him, she hardly knew he existed. Sarah saw and heard and smelled John Doe as he sat on the floor, scarlet pouring from his gashed throat, the coppery stench of blood and urine and defecation filling her nostrils, the sound of the blood bubbles popping from his lips as he tried to smile and speak to her assaulting her ears. She stood there — alone with him. She had failed — failed to save John Doe by finding out who had done this to him — failed to kill his attacker — failed to find the cat or the evidence — failed to save herself — and this — this would be her punishment — to stay here in this moment for all eternity. Just her and the mutilated dead man that wanted to speak to her but could only blow gruesome pink bubbles and smile with bloody teeth. The two of them married for all time in a macabre embrace that could never be disentangled.
But then something broke through to her, a voice — Dominic’s voice — sounding so far away, but then close and closer until she blinked her eyes and the pandemonium around her brought her fully back to reality. She saw him, at the entrance to the nightclub, pushing people out of the way and then disappearing inside.
Dominic ran inside the club. What was he doing? He should be trying to get people out, not going inside himself. What if there was another explosion?
As if in answer a flash of light blew out at her and a hand of hot air swatted her aside as though she were weightless. Bits of rock and glass and fire slapped at her like thrown sand until she hit the side of a car, knocking the air from her lungs. She crumpled to the parking lot as the roar and the incredible heat of the explosion washed over and through her. She blinked her eyes, tried to take in a breath, struggled to hear through the wet cotton stuffed deep inside her ears. Nausea bubbled through her intestines and she puked hard and long until she thought she would suffocate. She still couldn’t breathe and she tore at her shirt buttons and zipper, tearing it open and then ripping off the Velcro straps that snugged her vest to her breasts and stomach. A wheeze of air made it down her throat, she couldn’t hear it through the cotton, but she felt it and the lightness and dizziness were pushed back so that she could start to think beyond raw animal self-preservation.
Sarah pushed herself away from her vomit and sat up against the same car she’d smashed into a few seconds before. The front of the club was gone, replaced with a dribbling wall of rocks and dust and bodies and parts of bodies. There were several small fires, and cries and wails and screams.
Dominic…where was Dominic?
She staggered to her feet, her balance gone and her hearing just starting to come back into focus.
Dominic. Dominic had gone in there — into that destruction.
She had to find him. She pushed away from the car, ignoring the cries of those around her. All that mattered was Dominic. She understood that now.
A cat ran from behind her and stood before the rubble that had been the entrance to Gatling Gams. Fat and black it stared at her with horribly huge yellow eyes. It was joined by another and another and another, until there were dozens, maybe hundreds; a living wall that writhed and seethed and bristled; an impregnable obstacle that would destroy her if she tried to get through. They stared at her, their hollow, glowing e
yes burning to her soul, and she knew that if she touched them she would be lost forever in that private Hell that awaited her failure. That she would be locked away again and this time she would never go free. That the cats would win and that John Doe would go forever un-avenged.
“DOMINIC!” she screamed and the cats hissed in unison at the sound of her voice. She fell to her knees and buried her face in her hands. “Dominic,” but this time only a whisper and Sarah knew that all was lost.
69
Dominic Elkins
* * *
Quick Draw
* * *
Dominic pulled his legs from the rubble and made it to his feet. A fine line of blood ran from his left ear. His lip was cut and both nostrils bled. Dust coated him from head to foot and he’d tweaked his left knee. He could stand on it but running would be hard. He felt dizzy and nauseous but combat had made him an old hand at dealing with the effects of concussive blasts and so he was able to function where others couldn’t.
People were littered around him, many dead, others moaning or crawling or begging for help. Dominic checked the entranceway. A small fire burned and electrical wires sputtered sparks. The front trellis had collapsed as well as the arched doorways. Smoke billowed across the ceiling. No getting out that way, besides his mission remained; to help Detective Rothstein.
Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set Page 98