Ambush

by Barbara Nickless

  One weapon, then the other, hit the wall.

  He stepped back, and I glimpsed a man’s form, tall and lean. A flash of moonlight revealed his face. The same face, minus the dreads and the beard, I’d seen on the RTD recordings.

  Mark Fadden. The Pushman.

  Clyde kept barking.

  I rolled to my side and scissored my legs, trying to catch Fadden’s ankles. But he sidestepped me and brought his hand up. He aimed a pistol at my head.

  The flashlight winked out.

  He said, “Be still.”

  I froze. I heard the man back off a few steps. Outside, Clyde’s barks turned to growls.

  “Where is Cohen?” I asked. “Let me see him.”

  A faint clank. A battery-powered lantern flared on, filling the room with cold white light. Fadden squatted just out of my reach, his gun now aimed at my chest. He cocked his head and studied me as if I were something that had stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

  I said, “If you hurt him any more, I will kill you.”

  The look in his eyes was an abyss—deep and empty. Then he grinned, the expression holding the same dark vortex that hollowed his eyes. “I know you. You’re the girl with the intel. You’ve walked right into my parlor, my sweet little fly.”

  I wondered how fast I could move, but decided he could shoot faster.

  “What, not familiar with the poem? Here’s the best part.” He moved the muzzle in a tiny circle, as if scratching a line around my heart. “Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast. He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den, within his little parlor—but she ne’er came out again!”

  I pulled up an image of Kane’s face just before Fadden shoved him in front of the train. Rage boiled and cleared my head. “You killed Jeremy Kane.”

  “It’s what I do.”

  Keep him talking. If he was talking to me, he wasn’t hurting Cohen. “Who gave the order?”

  “Who’s holding the gun? I get to ask the questions. Now, I’m going to look outside. Move an inch, and I’ll take out your left kneecap. It’s also what I do.”

  Keeping his gun on me, he rose from his squat and went to the window. Clyde threw himself against the glass, and Fadden jumped back.

  “Bet I could train that dog,” he said.

  “Let him in and see.”

  “Or . . .” He hawked up phlegm, then turned his head to spit. “I could shoot him.”

  I could see Fadden better now. He was tall and rangy in a way that suggested a rock climber or swimmer. His skull was shaved, his face all angles. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, and on his inner arm were the star and crescent and two lines of Arabic script that I recognized from the RTD recordings. Part of the star had been erased, and the script was smeared—the tattoo was only surface ink. He’d added it to throw off the investigators.

  Clyde disappeared from the window.

  “The police are onto you, Fadden,” I said. “They know you killed Kane. But what they really want is the man who hired you. Let me go. Let the cop go. Cut a deal while you can. You hurt us, you’ll lose that chance.”

  “Take off your jacket,” Fadden said, walking back. “Slowly.”

  “Your boss won’t want me hurt. Call him. He’ll tell you.”

  “Jacket. Or left kneecap. You decide.”

  I did as he ordered, sliding my left arm free and wondering if the tool kit in the pocket gave it enough weight that I could knock him off-balance.

  But as I swung the jacket around with my right arm, he lunged forward and propelled a foot into my stomach just below the Kevlar. Heat drilled through my gut, and I retched. He jerked the jacket free and stepped back, then went through the pockets. He found my phone, keys, and the tool kit. He slid the phone into his pants pocket and threw the rest in the same direction he’d kicked the guns.

  He sank back to a squat and gave me a dead smile, showing those clean white teeth I’d seen on the recordings. His eyes and face remained as devoid of emotion as a blank sheet of paper.

  “I don’t often get a lady caller,” he said. “Especially a hot one.” With his left hand, he tugged a pair of metal handcuffs from his pocket. “It’s a dilemma. Should I rape you first and then kill you? Or would you rather I did the shooting first? Or”—he flexed his free hand—“maybe I can change methods and give you both. Choking does heighten sexual pleasure.”

  I curled around the pain chewing through my stomach.

  “Let him go,” I managed. “I’ll stay. I’ll do what you want.”

  In the white light, his eyes glittered. “Can’t decide? Then I’ll make the call. Lift your wrists and hold them together.”

  “Can’t.”

  “You won’t like it if I do it for you.”

  I raised my arms.

  “Together,” he snarled.

  I did as he said.

  “If you so much as twitch, I’ll shoot you.”

  He rose and approached me from behind. His sneakered feet squeaked on the tiles. When I felt the first brush of metal against my skin, I grabbed the handcuffs and pulled, jerking him forward.

  As he toppled, I rolled, throwing myself clear. His gun went off, the bullet whizzing by so closely, I felt the mortal whisper of its passage.

  I kept going, pushing through on my momentum. I made it to my knees, got one foot planted.

  A blow on the left side of my skull made my brain catch fire. The room tipped sideways, and I hit the floor. Pain flared across my ribs as I landed. He outweighed me by at least fifty pounds. I couldn’t let him get on top of me. I put my palms on the floor and tried to regain my feet.

  Fadden’s shadow approached, followed by the man. His shoes stopped a few inches from my face. Then he kicked me in the ribs, hard, and I was on my back.

  “You’re a slow learner,” he said.

  The pain in my ribs was paralyzing. I couldn’t breathe. Dark spots blossomed in my vision, and my head felt like it was full of wet sand. I knew I should get up—There’s something bright and strong in you again—force my limbs to move—Haven’t seen it since before the war—to fight, but the floor rose around me, cool and inviting, and I drifted toward a promise of no fear, no pain, a promise I wanted more than anything to be real.

  Someone moaned. And I was back in the room, ribs on fire, something bright leaking back into my muscles.

  Fadden set the gun on the floor. I reached a hand toward it, and he laughed before he straddled me, then lowered himself to his knees.

  My fingers kept scrabbling for the gun.

  “It’s a foot beyond your reach,” he said. “Just so you know.”

  He grabbed my wrists, shoved my hands up above my head, and shoved a knee between mine. I bucked under him and jammed my trapped leg into his groin. He shifted his weight, forcing my leg back down, and his body came between me and the lantern.

  “Clyde!” I screamed. As if he could do something. As if he could come through reinforced glass.

  But Fadden jerked around in surprise, maybe thinking I’d seen something. His grip on my wrists eased, and I twisted free.

  He whirled back, his hands grabbing for mine.

  My thumbs found his eyes. Pushed.

  He let out a roar, his hands going to his face.

  I threw him off, scrambled to my feet. I sprinted for the door, sliding into the wall as the room tried to upend itself. The floor shook with footsteps. Something clamped around my ankle, and the floor rose and slammed into my face.

  My breath left my body.

  Fadden dragged me back into the room. Dropped his weight on me. Worked a knee between my thighs again.

  A breeze rushed into the room. The trash swirled along the walls.

  “Parnell?” Sarge’s voice.

  The weight lifted, and Fadden flew into the wall, propelled by a burst of tan and black as Clyde hit him like a wrecking ball and sank his teeth into Fadden’s flesh.

  Fadden shrieked.

  I rose to my knees. The working part of my brain rememb
ered the electric burner I’d spotted in Fadden’s makeshift kitchen. I started crawling.

  From somewhere, Sarge was yelling, swearing he’d shoot the dog if the dog didn’t get out of the way.

  I yanked the burner’s cord free and crawled back across the floor toward where Clyde had Fadden pinned down. I caught a glimpse of Sarge trying to get a bead on Fadden.

  Fadden’s right arm flailed free. He still had his gun. Clyde shook him like a doll, but Fadden kept working to bring the gun around.

  My scream tore through my guts. “No!”

  A bullet puffed into the drywall above Fadden’s head. Sarge taking a shot.

  “Out!” I shouted at Clyde. “Out!”

  With a furious growl, Clyde released Fadden. Fadden found his knees and brought up the gun, jerking it toward me.

  “Out of the way, Parnell!” Sarge yelled.

  But I’d gotten to my feet and was already stepping in. I used the cord to swing the burner in an arc, putting everything I had into the blow. It slammed into the side of Fadden’s head with a meaty crunch just as the room exploded with gunfire and the top of Fadden’s skull vanished.

  He dropped. His gun slid away, and I snatched it up in my left hand.

  The bottom half of Fadden’s face was white and empty. Most of the rest was gone.

  Clyde pressed against me.

  “Sydney.” Sarge’s voice. “Hey, you okay?”

  I ignored him, edging closer to Fadden, my chest heaving, gun up and ready should he twitch a muscle. His remaining eye glared at the ceiling while blood pooled beneath him.

  I nudged him with my foot.

  “He’s dead, Sydney. It’s okay. He’s about as dead as it’s possible to get.”

  I looked at the burner still dangling from my hand, my fingers in a death grip around the cord. The heating element was matted with hair and blood.

  I dropped it. It exploded when it hit the floor, springs and screws and shards of metal flying out. The sound echoed through the room like a cannon shot. Pieces rolled or bounced across the floor and eventually came to rest. All went quiet. The only sound was that of my heart, slamming blood through my ears like a jackhammer.

  Sarge gripped my shoulder.

  “We needed him,” I said. “Why did you shoot him? We needed him.”

  “Seemed like it was him or you. Although I have to say, I never seen anyone so handy with small appliances.”

  As I stood over Fadden, chest heaving, the images that rose in my mind, slotting into my brain like pinballs slamming home, were of Sherri Kane. And Haley, and the baby, Megan.

  And Jeremy Kane, walking his beat. Standing on the wall for all of us.

  “Let’s move,” Sarge said.

  I backed away from the corpse. I blinked and looked around the room. My brain stuttered, then connected a few wires.

  “Cohen,” I said.

  Sarge stopped. “Who?”

  Clyde was trotting back and forth near the doorway, agitated. I called his name, and as soon as his eyes were on mine, I raised an arm, then thrust it out.

  “Find him, boy. Seek!”

  Clyde thrust his nose into the air, taking scent. He raised his tail like a flag, and raced out of the room. His barks came back to us, echoing off the walls until it sounded like an entire pack of Belgian Malinois baying on the hunt.

  I grabbed the lantern and ran after him.

  CHAPTER 20

  Marines don’t cry.

  —Sydney Parnell. Personal journal.

  Clyde disappeared down the stairs.

  Sarge and I plunged down the stairwell after him. No need for silence. If there was anyone else in the building, they must already figure World War III had just played out over their heads. Either they’d been smart and run . . .

  Or they would go the way of Mark Fadden.

  Sarge said, “What friend of yours are we looking for?”

  My feet slipped. I grabbed the banister, which gave beneath my hand.

  Sarge grabbed me.

  “Cohen.” I got my balance.

  “The cop?” He whistled between his teeth. “Christ on a sandwich.”

  Ahead of us, Clyde reached the bottom. He paused to sample the air, then his back paws skittered on the tiles before he righted himself and sped left, toward the rear of the building. The lantern flared over walls scabrous with flaking paint and wires hanging in clots from the ceiling.

  Clyde disappeared. The stairs went on forever.

  Images clicked through my head with the speed of a shutter snapping.

  Angelo gasping out his last in a Mexican alley.

  Kane disappearing beneath the train.

  Haley’s shy smile as I pushed the muffin toward her.

  Cohen propped on his hands above me, his eyes languorous, afternoon sun spreading golden bars across our skin.

  I skipped the last few stairs, landed badly, and felt blood seep from the reopened wound in my side.

  “Mike!” I shouted.

  I raced down the hallway past closed doors and followed Clyde, who darted through a doorway. I set down the lantern so that the light spilled out ahead of us, and Sarge and I went in with shooter’s stances.

  No one waited for us.

  The room had been a kitchen. The countertops were pulling away from the walls; pale squares on greasy paint showed where appliances had been. An industrial-size double sink overflowed with empty food cans. A door directly across from us led to the outside.

  At the far end of the kitchen was another door. This one was closed and secured with a steel drop bar.

  Clyde trotted back and forth in front of this door, whining.

  “Mike!”

  My gaze fixed on the countertop next to the barricaded door, where someone had spread a white towel. Carefully arranged on the clean white space was a bottle, a syringe, and a bloody rag, neatly folded.

  Adrenaline hurled me across the room. I lifted the drop bar from its brackets, tossed it aside. The handle turned easily, and I yanked open the door.

  Clyde flew inside.

  I blinked. A hundred-watt bulb hung from the ceiling, an orange extension cord leading to wherever they’d tapped into the grid.

  A man sat in a wooden chair. His wrists were duct-taped tightly to the arms of the chair, his ankles bound by nylon rope. More tape covered his mouth.

  My heart jerked as if I’d been shot, and I gripped the doorframe to keep from falling.

  This was not Cohen.

  This man had thick blond hair and a shaggy beard that reached his collarbone. Familiar blue-green eyes set in a web of wrinkles. Face and neck and forearms tanned a deep desert brown, the veins prominent in a physique stripped of anything unnecessary. He was so still I couldn’t hear him breathe, yet even bound to the chair, he was a coil of energy. I sensed, deep inside him, a clock ticking invisibly, ready to trigger an explosion.

  His eyes met mine.

  My knees sagged, and my breath caught in my throat. This wasn’t possible. It wasn’t. He was dead. I knew he was dead. I’d seen his corpse.

  My mind hurtled into the past. I saw this same man sitting at a metal folding table in a grove of gum arabic trees, his long legs stretched in front of him, his left hand waving away the droning flies as he chatted with an old tribesman while Clyde and I kept watch. In my memory, dust rode languidly into the air and hung there, white as talcum in the desert light. The man twirled the old lion’s head ring he wore on braided leather around his neck.

  Sarge squeezed in next to me. “What the—?” he started. Then, “Holy fuck.”

  Clyde’s tail was wagging hard enough to take the rest of his body with it. He barked and circled the chair in a mad scramble, butting the man’s legs.

  The man never took his eyes from mine.

  Sarge pushed past me and ripped off the tape covering the man’s mouth.

  The man said, “Rosie.”

  Sarge produced a knife and went to work on the ropes.

  “No,” I murmured. “You’re
not real. You’re dead. I saw you.”

  He shook his head slowly, his eyes sleepy from whatever drug they’d been giving him. “It wasn’t me.”

  “I saw you. I have your ring. It was on your body.”

  “Rick Dalton. Not me.”

  “Get her out of here!” the Sir shouted.

  Gonzo took my arm. “Come on, Lady Hawk.”

  I shook him off, intending to go to Dougie’s corpse where it lay on the table, still in the body bag. His lion’s head ring caught the light and tossed it back. His face was covered with sand. I took a step, then collapsed to the floor. Dougie. I turned my head and vomited.

  “I’ll take her,” the Sir said.

  Clyde was whining now. I blinked. Sarge helped the man rise unsteadily to his feet. He was tall, over six feet, dressed in black fatigue pants and a sleeveless T-shirt. His legs shook, and Sarge braced himself beneath the man’s left arm.

  “Maybe you should sit back down,” Sarge said.

  “Not here,” the man answered.

  “I never saw your ghost,” I said. “Never. Not once. You never came to me.”

  “My dear, sweet Rosie.”

  I was drowning. I must have sounded crazy to him. But the dead were all right with crazy. “Why now?”

  He took two shaky steps and reached out to touch my face.

  I remembered those long fingers. The calluses. The white-blond hairs and the knuckles and veins and the scar on his right wrist where he’d snagged it on barbed wire when he was a kid.

  “No,” I choked. “It’s impossible.”

  He pulled me to him. His flesh was warm and solid against mine. His heartbeat echoed in my ears. His beard tickled my face before he pressed his forehead to mine.

  Doug Reynauld Ayers.

  Back from the dead.

  CHAPTER 21

  I’ve killed people. I’ve tortured people. Sometimes under orders. Sometimes to stay alive. I need to be clear on this, Sydney. So you know who I am.

  —Doug Ayers. Personal conversation.

  “Panic won’t help,” Sarge said to me from where he sat.