Dominic rounded another corner, dodged a cast-iron grease trap that sat about three feet high, jumped over a man sitting and shouting obscenities at the assassin’s disappearing form as he rounded another corner, increased his speed, took the corner too wide, his knee buckling as he saw the gun swing at his head, missing by a hair’s breadth. His feet went out from under him and he hit on his side rolling away from the killer as he heard the gunfire and felt the heat inches from his face. He continued the roll, knowing already that he was too late — that he was as good as dead — that a professional of this caliber only needed one mistake and that Dominic had given him just that. He thought of Sarah, of how he wanted to protect her and love her and spend his life with her. None of that would happen now. She would be on her own — maybe forever — and that hurt him in a way that nothing else ever had in his life. Finishing the roll he landed back on his feet in a crouch, surprised to still be alive, ready to launch forward, fully expecting to absorb at least one or two rounds but determined to take the killer with him. But what he saw stopped him dead in his tracks.
74
Chuck Creed
Enrico Da Vinci
Dominic Elkins
* * *
Sergeant Chuck Creed, AKA The Vigilante Clubber stood bent at the waist, hands on knees, sucking wind. The smoke had really done a job on his lungs. Now he knew what coal miners must feel like. He’d only made about nine blocks, twenty odd pounds of briefcase was a lot heavier than it sounded when running with a bad case of black lung.
He rested behind a Korean nail salon, the back door triple bolted, with two small, square windows boarded up and barred from the outside. He took a peek around the corner to the north to make sure he wasn’t being followed, when he saw a man; white male, early thirties, medium height and build, dark hair, wearing a gray, short sleeved, un-tucked Hawaiian shirt and black pants, standing flat against a wall as if waiting for someone to breach the corner from the alleyway. Suddenly Chuck saw Sarah’s rookie, the Elkin’s kid, skitter his way around the corner. The guy in the Hawaiian shirt swung and Chuck saw that he had somehow acquired a pistol which the kid managed to duck as the man fired, but fell and started rolling.
All thoughts of the money and the smoke in his lungs and being tired vanished. Chuck reacted, sprinting from his vantage point and hitting the guy full on in the chest as he drew down on the rising rookie. It was maybe his best hit since high school football decades before. Chuck drove him up and into the wall, feeling the guy’s ribs crack beneath the beefy muscle of his shoulder. The gun flew from the man’s hand, clattering to the alley somewhere in the shadows.
Chuck drew back for an uppercut, but before he could swing, the man moved and slipped an arm around his throat, trapping his right arm behind him. Suddenly the man had him in a carotid choke hold from behind and a three inch belt knife pressed into the side of his neck. The point dimpled his skin, drawing blood. Chuck automatically held his right arm out, palm forward in surrender.
Chuck’s gun sat holstered on his gun belt, beneath the sweatpants, but it was impossible to reach with his right arm trapped. This guy was smooth and fast, if he decided to kill Chuck, it would just be a quick thrust and slash and he’d bleed out before he could radio for paramedics.
“Easy,” he said, “easy, don’t do anything stupid here.”
The rookie stood maybe ten feet away, crouching in shadow, but a slice of light from a streetlamp made it between the buildings illuminating his face. Chuck saw dawning comprehension fill his eyes as he took in the hoodie and sweats and Chuck’s face.
Chuck felt a blush of shame heat his cheeks. He would have shrugged in apology but shrugging just now wasn’t a good idea.
“I’ll kill him,” said the man who held him in a death grip.
“Then I’ll kill you,” said the rook. “I can draw and put two in your right eye before he hits the pavement. I’m fast and an excellent shot. I’d hate to see a citizen get hurt, but then I don’t even know the guy.”
Chuck didn’t like the sound of this. He knew the kid was good, but it was plenty dark out here and an inch or two off target, a little over squeeze or over padding the trigger with his shooting finger and it would be Chuck’s eye that took the bullet. Not to mention the fact that having a knife plunged into his jugular wouldn’t exactly brighten his day either.
“Hey,” said Chuck, “let’s all just…”
“Shut up,” said the man with the knife, punctuating his words by nudging the point in a quarter inch and twisting slightly.
Chuck rose up on his tippy-toes, feeling something in his back pocket. The syringe. Very carefully he slid the fingers of his trapped hand beneath the sweat pants' band and took hold of it.
Enrico recognized a standoff when he saw one. The police officer before him was the one that had come from the nightclub with the detective. He’d just seen the detective perform the most incredible shot ever and was leery of taking the chance that the kid might be some sort of protégé.
Two problems confronted him. He couldn’t let this draw out. More police had to be on their way, and both of these men had seen his face. He couldn’t let either of them live.
The belt knife was perfectly balanced and he could hit anything within twenty feet. The smart course of action would be to slice the jogger’s throat, then aim for a face shot on the cop. Being only a three-inch blade the chances of killing him were slight, but once hit or even distracted, Enrico could close the distance and finish him off with hand-to-hand combat. However, if the police officer were anything close to the detective in skill set, Enrico would be dead before he could make the throw.
The other possibility would be to increase pressure on the jogger’s carotid, putting him to sleep, and dropping him as he threw the knife at the police officer. However, that left the same problem. If the police officer proved good enough, Enrico would be wounded or dead before he could finish them both.
Intriguing.
Dominic was bluffing of course. He had no gun. He remembered Sarah admonishing him on his first day with her about not having a backup. Another gun would be very useful right now. He did a fast mental checklist of his weapon’s systems; collapsible baton, Taser, pepper spray, six inch boot knife, two pair of handcuffs. He listed the handcuffs because as a last resort he could slip them over his fists and use them like brass knuckles; a trick Sarah had shown him. The distance was too far for the baton, the cuffs, or the knife; he was a lousy knife thrower. That left pepper spray and the Taser. The pepper spray shot out in a foam stream with about a fifteen-foot maximum range. The Taser was good for about twenty feet, but Dominic had to dismiss it as a viable option due to the fact that it fired out twin prongs, one of which angled down at a fifteen-degree angle. In order for the Taser to be effective both darts would have to penetrate the suspect. No way to hit the bad guy without pegging Sergeant Creed with the second dart. The pepper spray was also out. It would take between three and ten seconds of contact for the Oleoresin Capsicum to be effective and Sergeant Creed would be slashed and dying long before that.
If only Rothstein hadn’t shot off his gun, he felt certain he could draw and hit the assassin before he could cut Sergeant Creed. His fingers brushed the area his gun used to occupy and felt a slight bulge in his pocket. And then he remembered; but what help could it be? An image of Sarah going over traffic procedures hovered in his mind. She’d said something about command presence and how with it you could intimidate, get people to comply, even give up, and that without it you just weren’t going to make it as a cop. Well, he didn’t think he was going to get an international hit man to give up willingly, but he might just be able to pull a bluff.
Carefully he slipped the object from his pocket.
Chuck saw the rookie give him a look. The kind of look that let one guy know the other guy was going to try something. The kid’s going to go for it, thought Chuck. He didn’t know if he liked the idea or not, but didn’t have much choice. He’d managed to slip the hypo b
ack out of his pants and to get the plastic cover off. He didn’t know exactly how long it took for Haldol to take effect, but he was pretty sure it would be too long. Still, he might be able to poke the guy in the eye or something. He hoped things wouldn’t come to that. Maybe he could try and cool things down, see if they could wait for a hostage negotiator or something. But whatever this guy had done must have been pretty bad, he was way too cool under the circumstances. He was no pothead or doper or cheap crook. And then it hit him. He must be the guy that set off the bombs. Trying to steal the money, he thought. Too bad for him, Chuck had beat him to it. Ironic that the guy he’d cheated out of the money now had a knife at his throat and might kill him without ever knowing the money was thirty feet away around a corner. And that gave him an idea.
“Wait-wait-wait,” he said, still on his tippy-toes. “You want the money, right? The million from Gatling Gams. I know where it is. You can have it, you can have it all, and the three of us can just part ways, okay? Think about it now. Think about the money and all the work you went through to get it. Think.”
Enrico felt nervous, and he never felt nervous, but there were too many variables. This was taking too long, but he didn’t know how good the police officer might be. He needed to see his hands, but it was too dark, the shadows too deep.
The stupid man he held kept babbling about money — the money from the club — the money Cinnamon had wanted. The money meant nothing to Enrico, it never had…but…how did this jogger know about it; this man that had come out of nowhere from the opposite direction?
Enrico’s senses came alive and he began to notice things he hadn’t noticed before. Beneath his arm the clothing felt thick — dense — heavy. And against his belly and hip he felt strange shaped bulges pressing against him. A gun belt — a gun belt and bullet resistant vest. He jerked down the front of the hoodie and saw the blue shirt and badge.
“A fellow officer,” said Enrico. “Not just some citizen you don’t even know. I think this changes things, don’t you? Drop the gun now or he bleeds to death while you watch.”
Dominic had given the Sarge the signal, but that was before the killer figured out he was a cop. He’d just have to hope Creed realized it was coming because now he had no choice. Command presence and a bluff, all he had.
“Okay, you’re right, he is a cop. A sergeant — my sergeant. And you’re also right about it changing things.” He glared a look straight into Creed’s eyes, praying he’d get the message. “I never did like him.” At the same time he said it he jerked his arm up and fired.
Creed saw the look and realized the rook was going for it. The kid slapped leather and Creed reached up, grabbing the guy’s knife hand, digging his fingers around the meaty thumb portion and twisting out. At the same time he jabbed the syringe into the man’s stomach as far as it would go and slammed home the plunger.
A pain ripped into the flesh of his throat as the knifepoint slid in and Chuck saw the red flash of the kid’s gun at the same time.
And then he was falling.
Enrico saw the movement, the words registering too late. The police officer didn’t care about his hostage; he was going to shoot anyway. He felt his hand pulled out and away from the hostage’s throat and instinctively jerked it back in, thrusting the knife forward. Something stuck him in the stomach, just below the sternum, knocking out his air, and he saw the muzzle flash from the police officer’s gun. The light stabbed his eyes making him flinch, and he heard the crack of the shot. He was dead — Enrico the assassin — Death himself — descendant of the great Leonardo — killed by a couple of bumpkin American cops.
Involuntarily he jerked to the side, dropping the hostage. An intense wave of dizziness washed over him and he felt surprised that he hadn’t even registered the bullet’s impact.
Dominic moved even before he snapped on the light, closing the distance between them in two strides.
It worked.
The man instinctively flinched at the flash, and Creed made good his escape, dropping fast.
Dominic slugged the man square in the right eye, the silly piggy laser light still clutched in his fist. The impact shattered the plastic housing, but Dominic ignored it, following the first punch with a left hook that caught the assassin on the side of the jaw. The man went down, struggled to rise. Dominic went to kick him in the face but his sprained knee buckled and he fell hard on his side, smacking his head on the asphalt. The force of the hit almost put him out, but his warrior’s combat sense recognized the danger and pushed him to stay conscious.
Reaching out, he caught hold of the killer’s ankle. The man kicked at him, but it was a clumsy, unsteady attempt and he missed, falling to the ground again.
Dominic forced himself to his knees, the alley spinning weirdly. He felt like he’d just been hit with the concussive blast of a quarter pound of TNT. He looked over and saw Chuck Creed on his back, blood pouring from his throat. He turned to the other side and saw the assassin trying to stand up. The man looked drunk as he staggered to his knees and then to his feet, swaying as he ran off to the north.
Dominic let him go; Sergeant Creed had to be his main focus now. He crawled over to him, shook his head trying to clear the cobwebs, and considered the wound. It was hook shaped and fairly deep with a thick flap of skin and fat pushed up by the blood that was pouring out.
Applying direct pressure with one hand, he keyed his radio microphone with the other. Dominic had seen plenty of arterial wounds — spurtters they called them; this didn’t look like one. Still, the internal bleeding could be worse, he couldn’t take the chance. He hated to let the assassin go, but saving Creed took priority.
It took several tries before he could make it through the clutter of radio traffic, but remembering the emergency button from last time he hit it and finally made contact. Within a few minutes he could hear sirens heading his way.
Creed’s eyes fluttered then opened. He gripped Dominic’s wrist.
“Help me get out of this,” he whispered, looking down at the hoodie and sweats.
“I can’t,” said Dominic. “You’re bleeding too bad. I have to keep pressure on the wound.”
“No — no. Help me, please.”
Dominic looked into his eyes, shaking his head. “You might die.”
“Don’t care. Can’t let Sarah or the others know. Please.”
At the mention of Sarah’s name Dominic remembered how she thought of the sergeant. She idolized him. He was her hero, almost a father figure. If she found out he was the Vigilante Clubber she would be crushed.
Still shaking his head he released his hold on the cut, grabbed Creed’s left hand and shoved it onto the wound. “Push hard here,” he said and jerked the hoodie up and over Creed’s head. Then he scuttled around to the Sergeant’s feet, grabbed the bottom cuffs of the sweats and pulled them free. He took both items and tossed them into a dumpster, then hobbled back to Creed; still conscious, but not by much. Dominic pulled the Sergeant’s hand away and clapped his own back over the cut.
“The money,” croaked Creed. “It’s in a briefcase, over there around the corner. Hide it.”
“I’m not doing that,” said Dominic.
“You have to.”
“No.
Creed tried to say something else, but his head lolled back and he passed out.
Dominic waited until the ambulance and police cars arrived. He gave the description of the killer, and told them his direction of travel. But there was just too much going on, with all available manpower already allocated, to set up a decent perimeter. The chances of catching him tonight were slim to none.
Once the ambulance rolled away, Dominic retrieved the briefcase and hitched a ride with a Denver cop back to the destroyed nightclub and Sarah.
75
Enrico Da Vinci
* * *
Escape
* * *
Enrico pushed himself like never before in his life. Something was wrong with him. The cop had hit him a couple of goo
d shots — his ribs ached as did his eye and jaw, but Enrico had taken plenty of punches and never been affected like this. He felt drugged, woozy; found it hard to concentrate, hard even to run in a straight line. He was in excellent shape, capable of running five-minute miles for extended periods of time, but now he felt confused and his muscles weren’t responding like they should; every movement sluggish and slow and floppy.
His getaway car had been to the south, the direction he’d started in, but he was so messed up that when he ran from the police officer he’d headed to the north, and now he couldn’t focus well enough to know what direction he traveled. He was terribly lost, and he knew he didn’t have much time. The police would be setting up a perimeter and then roadblocks. Maybe even helicopters with night vision capabilities. He had to get out of the area quickly and that meant a car. Enrico learned hot wiring as a skill early in his criminal career. He could boost a car in less time than it took most people to find their keys.
Passing the side of a building he came to some bushes that rested above a ten-foot retaining wall. There was a parking lot with a single car about fifty yards in. It looked new and decked out, a red Dodge. Perfect; just what I need, he thought. He sat down at the top of the wall, dangled his legs over, made it to his belly and lowered himself till his arms were fully extended. Usually he could have dropped the ten feet without effort, but his dizzy, sluggish brain could barely keep him upright, let alone navigate a successful jump without breaking an ankle or worse. He let go and hit flat on his feet, but his leg muscles had turned to jelly and he fell, skinning both knees. What is wrong with me? Had the young police officer’s punches given him a concussion?
Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set Page 101