Far away, the gunshot of a Diamondback revolver confirmed that Roche was on the move, having heard the shooter’s weapon go off. Allen snapped his head right to see what Roche was doing. His partner had blown out the north window of Shen’s office, allowing him to jump out and run across the intersection toward the building Allen was on.
The shooter leaped from the rooftop over to the next, urging Allen to follow, though the shooter had a significant lead. They threw themself at a fire escape ladder, flying over the iron railing, releasing their grip, and using gravity to their advantage. Seconds later, they arrived at the concrete ground. Roche had just reached the entrance to the alleyway, and he signalled for Allen to cut off the target farther down. The detective was huffing loud enough that Allen could hear him from the rooftop.
The metal man looked ahead to see that the buildings and, therefore, the alleyway ended at 82nd Street. He ran along the roofs, the thrill of the chase filling his heart with adrenalin, his movements a feat of gymnastics as he hopped from air conditioning units to adjacent surfaces, slid under water tanks, and dodged garbage and other debris littering the rooftops. Below, Roche was falling behind, using whatever oxygen he had to scream for the shooter to stop.
Allen made his way to the edge of the roof at the northern mouth of the alleyway, momentarily forgetting his fear of heights as he leaped down. He dug his shoes into the brick wall of the opposite building to slow his fall before hitting the concrete ground. His inhuman speed had given him a small lead on the shooter, and now that he was steady on two feet and standing in the path of his target, he levelled his weapon and fired a round at the ground to deter them from running past. The shooter stopped, skidding to a halt as they pulled their rifle around their shoulder and aimed it at Allen. Whether it was the adrenalin or his sense of duty, Allen remained as steadfast and resolute as a machine could be. Even as all four barrels stared him down.
Allen’s brow furrowed. Four barrels?
Roche caught up, winded and coughing, his hand clutching his wounded right side. Fresh red began to spread across the already stained white shirt.
“New York … Police …” he spat and heaved, sucking in air while aiming his Diamondback at the shooter. “Do not test me, asshole, I’ve killed too many people today. Put the gun down and come with us. Jesus, both of you jump a few stories, and you’re both fine. I do it, and my back … fuck …”
Allen looked at the shooter beyond the sights of his pistol. They were about the height he had predicted, though it looked like their strange platform shoes increased their height artificially. The shoes must also help in traversing rooftops by absorbing the shock of landing large jumps. Their quarry had to be in fantastic shape to be running and manoeuvring like this in such baggy clothing.
The four barrels were still pointed at Allen, and it looked like the shooter had no intention of lying down and putting cuffs on themself. Allen knew the rifle was down one round, but of the three that were left, only two of them were Lebel cartridges. Given the sheer diameter of the bottom barrel, there was no doubt it could fire a 15mm shell, enough to cut him in half.
During this standoff, Allen’s greatest strength and weakness was Roche. A second gun outnumbered the shooter’s, but Roche was still a source of human error, given his limited patience. Which, unfortunately, reared its ugly head.
“Okay, asshole, let’s tango,” Roche said, pumping himself up by beating his chest with his fist before running straight for the enemy. As he ran, he fired the Diamondback. The bullet skipped off the concrete between the shooter’s feet. They jumped and turned in the air, their body twisting like a gymnast’s to point the rifle at Roche. The rifle spewed out a Lebel round — the shot meant to dissuade, not kill — forcing the detective to flinch as he twisted his body and threw himself onto the floor, screaming, no doubt in pain from ripping his stitches.
Allen dodged the Diamondback’s wild round, feeling the heated bullet sear the air as it flew near his legs. He rushed to save Roche, switching the pistol from his right hand to his left, wielding it like a club and swinging it. The bottom of the grip connected with the shooter’s left shoulder, making them grunt in pain, their voice distorted by the synthetic vibrations of something hidden under the bandana. They turned to strike him with their rifle’s butt. They were fast but couldn’t compete with his fibre optic nerves. Allen dodged the combat manoeuvres easily. The shooter was using the kind of close-quarters combat techniques that were taught to military and police personnel, both of which Allen had trained with.
Muscle memory took over, allowing him to grab the rifle with his right hand, his foot kicking the shooter’s knee to get them onto the ground. His left hand flipped the pistol into the air, grabbing it the proper way and pushing it against the shooter’s head. He flipped off their trilby to see what was underneath and found black fabric wound around their head to hide their hair. He could try and yank it off, but his hands were currently full. Roche, on the other hand …
“NYPD … You’re under arrest for the murder of … I think at least eight people, including Desmond Hartley, Davin McIntyre … among others,” Allen said, sucking in air to come down from his adrenalin rush, his grip unwavering as he pushed the gun harder against the shooter’s head. He could feel them trying to pull the rifle from his grip, but not trying anything too hasty yet. Allen felt his finger half pulling the trigger, his senses blinded in the moment.
“Fuck … ow …” Roche grabbed his side and pushed himself up, his gun level with the captive. “Tag ’im and bag ’im.”
“We can bring them to the 11th for processing.”
“No, not again … pull the trigger,” Roche said, putting his own gun against the shooter’s head. “Or I’ll do it.”
“Roche, we can’t just throw reason to the wind and kill a suspect!”
“This asshole has caused enough damage. He threatened a cop.”
“Threatened, but didn’t kill. I won’t allow you to jeopardize another investigation with rampant murder!”
“Excuse me, Allen? Hardly the time to argue about this.” Roche pulled the hammer back on the Diamondback.
The shooter had other ideas. Their elbow came up the moment the hammer clicked, smacking into Roche’s side and making him fire the gun into the air. He clutched his wound. Allen pulled his gun away in a panic, allowing the shooter to push the rifle’s front against the ground to rotate the barrel assembly 180 degrees. Allen froze, and the shooter charged past him, destabilizing him with their elbow. With the large barrel now sitting up top, they sprinted off as they turned to pull the trigger, the weapon aimed above him and Roche.
The scene played out in slow motion. Allen’s eyes tracked the bullet as it fired off. Roche, seeing the trigger pulled, put his arms up over his head. The Von Whisper round, Allen soon leaned, was aptly named. The noise it made as the projectile exited the barrel was as loud as a potato gun — basically silent, compared to any other rifle. When the explosive tip hit the brick wall above him, Allen was blown backward by the shockwave. His head slammed into the ground, dazing him. The world spun as bricks from both buildings fell on either side of him.
He lay on his back for several minutes. All he could hear was a shrill, piercing scream, and he had double vision. Everything was melding and solidifying as his brain gradually recovered.
He turned onto all fours, pushed himself up, and wandered over to where Roche had been, grabbing a garbage bin to steady himself. His centre of balance was askew from the explosion. He made out his partner trapped under a small pile of bricks and garbage, only his top half visible, and leaped forward, digging into the rubble to pull him out. Blood was pooling under the detective from his aggravated wound.
The rest of the precinct seemed to have gotten the picture. Sirens grew louder as patrol cars and ambulances converged on the area. Roche groaned. Allen pulled his partner up and helped him walk to the south end of the alley. Cops from the 11th ran over to see what had happened, and the sight of blood sent on
e of them running back to call for a medic.
Twenty minutes later, Roche was sitting in the back of an ambulance, hooked up to a blood bag, replacing what he’d lost. He was visibly in pain. A paramedic attempted to stitch up his wounds. Roche grunted with each stab of the needle. The paramedic told him to stay still, though Allen knew very well it wasn’t Roche’s fault the stitches hurt going in. Sinclair and Shen came to the scene to question civilians about what they’d witnessed before coming over to see him.
“Are you okay, Detective?” Allen asked.
“Peachy, Allen. Fuck!” Roche slapped the paramedic’s hand away. “Just patch it, I’ll get someone better to do the stitches.”
“You need to rest,” Allen said. “You don’t have very much blood left in you, and that wound —”
“I recommend you shut your mouth. If you’d just let me do my job, this would be over, and I wouldn’t be lying here with a pint of blood missing! Do we need to have that discussion again, the same one we had when you chained me to my goddamn fridge?”
“No, but maybe if you’d thought ahead and stopped acting like an animal for once, we wouldn’t be in this goddamn mess!”
Roche shut up. Sinclair’s head turned sharply. Allen realized they were both shocked that he had sworn. He cleared his throat before speaking again.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
“No, you’re right. As always.” Roche sighed irritably. “Paddy, make a call to Nightingale. Tell her I need stitches. Proper stitches. Shen, do you want to make a statement about what happened?”
The commissioner nodded. “I already did.”
“You didn’t tell me,” Roche grumbled.
“I received an anonymous letter in the early hours of the morning. It said that if I or any of my officers investigated any crimes occurring at approximately three in the morning, they and I would be killed. You were around for the rest.”
“You were in your office for four hours waiting for us?” Roche asked. Shen grunted in affirmation. “How long was he on that rooftop watching you?”
“He showed up thirty minutes before you got to the precinct.”
“Odd. I wonder how he knew we were coming,” Roche said. Shen shrugged before walking off. Roche turned back to Allen. “Shen really was in a bind. Robins would have done the same. I’m sure he’ll be fine, but I’m not too sure about us.”
“Should I remain here and —”
“No, Allen, go home and get some rest. I’ll catch up with you later.”
“I don’t think leaving you would be a wise decision.”
“Just listen to me for once, okay? I need you to … Aw, hell …”
Allen turned to see what Roche was staring at: Simone, wearing a fur coat, followed by several men carrying newfangled cameras and numerous microphones on their backs. She had sweat on her brow, probably overheated by the coat despite the cold weather. Allen got between the reporters and Roche, providing a half-decent buffer for both parties. He didn’t mind Simone’s close proximity as she tried to speak to Roche, but he felt stripped by the thought of the powerful camera lenses capturing his likeness.
“Detectives Roche and Erzly, any comment on what happened in this usually crime-free area? I’m sure many of our listeners recognized the sound of an explosion and are curious as to whether the New York Police Department is capable of maintaining peace, what with this incident.”
Roche groaned again, and Allen stayed steadfast. “I’m sorry, but Detective Roche is in no shape to be answering questions. I would be happy to —”
“A comment for WAR Radio, Detective?”
Allen felt a stab in his heart. He remained rigidly protective of Roche, but his insides twisted at having been ignored. Roche grabbed his side and stood, leaning on Allen.
“What the hell do you want from me, lady?”
“Language!” one of the men warned, indicating the recording equipment.
“This is not the best time,” Roche continued. “I have a hole the size of the fucking Grotto in my side …”
“Language!”
“Can you just give me a few hours before you bombard me?”
“Gladly.” Simone pulled a card out of her pocket and stabbed it into Roche’s hand. “I’ll be waiting for you to call. Don’t try to avoid me, either. We know where you live, and we’ve had long stakeouts before. The first card was a courtesy, this one is not. Good day, Detective.”
She smiled and backed away from Allen, leaving with her crew to interview anyone else willing to give an official statement. Roche looked at the card, turning it over, and put it inside his blood-free pocket.
“Are you going to call her?” Allen asked with a feeling he realized was envy.
“I’d rather not drag this out longer than necessary.” Roche looked into traffic as though waiting for someone. As if on cue, a black hearse pulled up. A woman exited the back and leaned against the car. She regarded Roche with an expression of utter disappointment. “I’m going to get cleaned up and then try to fix this PR nightmare,” Roche said. “I need you to do something much more important.”
“Yes?”
“Find out what kind of weapon that was. I need to know, because it sure ain’t military issue.”
“But their skills were,” Allen interjected. “They are military trained, or at least police trained. They used the same techniques I was trained with. This fact alone will narrow down the possible suspects, and we can refine that even further by finding out which weapon they used.”
“Agreed.”
“The shooter also left a briefcase up on the rooftop when I began chasing them. I should go get that. It might help us narrow down our search.”
“Yeah, you do that. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”
Roche stood up, eyeing the crowd warily as another person made a rush for him. While Simone’s very presence had parted the sea of people, the man clamouring for Roche’s attention was more frantic. He was intercepted by two officers guarding the scene.
“Is that the man you saw at the gala?” Allen asked.
“Can’t tell. Get him away from me before I shoot him.” Roche pulled the blood bag from the ambulance, holding it above his head as he walked to the hearse and away from the growing crowd. “I swear, Allen, I ain’t dying.”
“You’d better not be,” Allen said.
CHAPTER 13
THE ONE GOOD THING THAT came out of this wound was that it made me sit down and read a book. After showering and suffering through the discomfort of hot water on my fresh stitches, I was able to get on some half-decent clothes, lie in bed, and catch up on some of the reading I’d been putting off. It was preferable to listening to the radio. Turning that on might blast my radio program at me and send me spiralling into anger. I don’t even want to think about how badly they butchered it.
The business card Simone had given me drilled a hole in my pocket the entire time I was reading, though. I’d have to call sooner or later. Sooner was better, if I wanted to avoid being pestered by the press. She might be bluffing about knowing where I lived. But was I willing to take that chance? I wasn’t a gambling man; I’d learned my lesson from casinos.
I made the call and set up something for tomorrow afternoon. I needed a meal, a quiet night, and sleep. It was rare for me to get to bed at a decent time, so I might as well take advantage.
The next day, December 23, I awoke late in the morning feeling … not terrible. I had been so high-strung chasing this killer that I’d had a constant throbbing tension in my neck, setting me off whenever some inconvenience crossed my path. When my feet hit the floor, I was strangely lucid, like I had been living in the clouds for the past few months, the gas tank never really topped up. But standing and getting ready now, I felt more complete than I had in a while.
Slacks, a fancy polo, and my old leather jacket. It was roughed up and patched from dozens of fights, but it worked well to offset the white shirt. Slinging my holster on before the jacket, I was pre
pared for anything the day could throw at me. The interview with Simone wasn’t until one, and I needed a police tool to help me collect information on the persistent journalist. This time, my gun wouldn’t cut it.
Stepping into the 5th without hearing anyone greet me was odd. Usually Sinclair was at his desk when I wandered in here, so seeing his chair empty — along with most of the chairs in the station — was a strange sight. I went to his desk and found what I was looking for in one of the drawers: a pen and a notepad for taking notes.
“Never a break, huh, Roche?”
Robins leaned against an adjacent desk, sipping coffee. I was surprised. He’d been much quieter than usual in his approach. I closed Sinclair’s desk drawer and prepared to take my leave.
“Do you ever take a day off?” I asked.
“I do. Sundays. I go water the plants outside my window overlooking Central Park, I listen to the radio, I write in my journal.”
“You have a journal?”
“Yes, I do. It helps me deal with things. I can’t talk to my wife anymore, so I have to make do.”
Poor bastard. It wasn’t just me who had problems. It was always so much easier to imagine that everyone’s life was better than mine. But it was getting harder to believe that anymore. Had I missed this realization because I’d been so sleep-deprived and withdrawn?
Robins pointed with his mug at the notepad in my hands. “You never write anything down.”
“I know, but this is a special case. I need to get down all the information about her that I can.”
“Oh, a date?”
I groaned. “No, Robins. Business. It isn’t a date.”
“Is it Morane, the reporter? You know, for the past two weeks she’s been climbing all over this place trying to find you. I’ve been married long enough to know when a woman is going above and beyond her job to see someone.”
I stared at him. “And you didn’t tell me?”
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