“Okay, Doctor.”
We ate at the kitchen table, mostly in silence. Outside, sirens wailed as the police and fire department arrived on the scene. I ate only out of necessity—there was no joy in it. I can’t explain it, but confronting that blond cutter, I felt closer to death than I ever had. There was something in his crazy, iridescent eyes that frightened me to my core. Maybe it was his calm, even as the dog shredded his leg.
Fear is useful. Often, it’s what keeps us alive. But these cutters weren’t afraid of anything. And I realized that, in some ways, Walt Freeman had succeeded in creating the perfect soldier—one who would complete his mission, regardless of the odds against him. The only problem was, they got very hungry afterwards.
“You are nervous,” Sasha said, biting into an apple.
I met her blue-grey eyes and tried a smile. Though the Russian girl had been through bad experiences both here and in Moscow, there seemed to be an innocence about her. And I wished that I had that. But I felt old—much older than my twenty-four years.
“I was attacked,” I said.
She touched my hand. “Who?”
“I call them ‘cutters.’ Men who—”
“Eat flesh of others.” Her eyes were distant.
“You’ve seen them?”
“Yes. In the place they keep me.”
“How many?”
“Twenty or thirty.”
I told Sasha about the ones I’d encountered in the park and about the boy they had murdered. Then I described Roy, who I assumed was their leader. Though she had encountered some of these creatures at Hellborn, she had never met him.
“When you saw them,” I said, “were they restrained?” She looked puzzled. I held up my fists and crossed them. “You know, not free.”
“They were in, in . . . clear boxes. Many, ah, doctors were there. They test them.”
“What were they trying to do?”
“Watch them. They feed them only meat.”
“Where were you?”
“In a box.”
“Were there other girls?”
“Da.”
She got up from the table, took our glasses and refilled them at the counter. I knew she was hiding something—I wanted to find out what happened to her and the other girls.
“What did they do to you?” I said.
She kept her back to me. “Test us. Take blood and pee.”
“What else?”
“Nothing.”
I got up and stood next to her, gently turned her towards me. “Tell me what they did to you.”
She shook her head violently. “Test only.”
“Not just tests—they did something.”
I was angry and grabbed her by the shoulders. Then I realized what I was doing and backed off. She slipped away and began cleaning up. A buzzing noise reminded me that I’d purchased the burner. I took it from my pocket. It was Maritza—I recognized the number. Hesitating at first, I answered it, trying to hide my anger.
“Hello?”
“You give me an exclusive and you’re not even here for me to thank you?” she said. “I’m assuming this isn’t your permanent number.”
“Where are you?”
“Next to the park.”
I walked over to the window in the living room, pulled the curtain back and looked out. I couldn’t see as far as the park, but the traffic on the street was backed up. And helicopters were flying over our building.
“They’ve already taken away the body,” she said. “We’ve got plenty of footage in the can.” She was waiting for me to say something. “David?”
“Still here.”
“Why did you call me?”
“I thought you should have the story.”
“Very generous, but not good enough.”
“Why? Just because you bleed all over the sidewalk, you think I like you now?”
“You sound angry. Look, this is serious—we need to talk. I know you know what’s going on. Why don’t we work together? Please, can’t we meet for coffee?”
I really wanted to take her up on it. There was so much more I could tell her. But it would mean getting involved with someone besides Sasha. And my dance card was full. “I have to leave the area.”
“When can I see you?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“No cameras, I promise,” she said. “Listen, I know you think I’m this eager-beaver reporter looking for a story. But I’m really worried about you. I can tell you’re in some kind of trouble.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Please don’t go all macho on me, David. It doesn’t suit you.”
Talking to Maritza had calmed me, despite my best efforts to put her off. I wanted so much to believe that she wasn’t playing me, but it was in my nature to be suspicious. Also, I was genuinely worried about involving her any further.
I was pretty sure Walt Freeman would have no compunction about taking care of a suspicious reporter from the local news. Yet getting the media involved might be the only way to expose what was really going on. I needed guidance. If only I could talk to the angel.
“Maritza, listen to me very carefully,” I said. “What’s happening in LA is going to get worse very soon. More people are going to die and I don’t think I can stop it. But maybe you can. You and the police.”
“Are you saying this is bigger than serial killings?”
“I have to go.”
“David, don’t—”
I disconnected the call and turned to find Sasha standing next to me. My phone vibrated again—I ignored it.
“Is she friend?”
“A reporter,” I said.
“You like her.”
“She’s just a friend.”
“Sure. ‘Friend.’” She took my hand and squeezed it.
I didn’t know whether Sasha was jealous or sympathetic. I had to remind myself that although she was younger than me, she was a woman. And a strong-willed one at that. In my past life, I had learned two painful lessons about women—one with my late wife and the other with a she-demon who had almost succeeded in destroying me. Once they claim you, you have two choices. Stay or run. In my wife’s case I did the right thing. I was one for two.
“Go into the bedroom and open the closet,” I said. “There are two duffel bags on the floor. Take one and put your clothes in there. We’re leaving in the morning.”
“Where?”
“Highland Park.”
She was elated and kissed me on the cheek. After she left me to pack, I looked out the window again and noticed a black Escalade on the opposite side of the street, cruising slowly past our building. I closed my eyes and prayed that it would keep going, but the driver pulled over without signaling. Five men got out—four grey-suits and the undertaker—and faced the building. As the grey-suits crossed the street, I moved away from the window.
They had found us.
I rushed into the bedroom where Sasha, wearing her sweater and hat, was laying out her clothes neatly on the bed. I grabbed a handful and stuffed them into one of the duffel bags.
“This is why men must not pack.”
“They’re here,” I said. She froze as I continued shoving her things in. “Put my clothes in the other one—we need to leave now.”
As she continued packing, I moved to the other side of the bed, reached under and pulled out a Kel-Tec shotgun—a bullpup. I checked both tubes to make sure the weapon was fully loaded. Then I retrieved a black tactical vest already bursting with ammo, put it on and jammed a handgun into the waist of my jeans. Sasha stared at me, her eyes huge, as I went to the bedroom window and peeked out. The grey-suits had split up—two approaching the front of the building. I assumed the other two would go behind into the alley. I walked over to Sasha and took her trembling hands in mine.
“Can you drive?” I said. She nodded quickly and I placed the car keys in her hands. “Take the bags and use the elevator.”
“But those men .
. .”
“They’ll use the stairs. Get to our car and drive out—don’t speed. There’s a man in a black suit on the street.”
“What if he recognize me?”
I pulled her hat down low, just above her eyes. “I don’t think they don’t know you’re with me. Turn left out of the building and drive about a mile. There’s a McDonalds on the corner. Wait for me there.”
“How long?”
“An hour.” I pulled out the cell phone, texted myself a phone number and handed it to her. “If I don’t make it, call Cuco and let him know you’re coming. That’s the number.” She looked at me, not wanting to leave. “Go!”
I walked Sasha to the door and, peeking out, watched her as she headed for the elevator, struggling with the duffel bags. As she got in, a young Latino couple with a squirmy toddler came out of their apartment and hurried towards her.
“Por favor!” the man said.
She let them in and the door slowly closed. I stepped back, begging God to protect the Russian girl. Then I locked the apartment door and went to the window to watch for the Tahoe. After a few minutes, a small Nissan pulled out of the building. I assumed that was the Latino family. Then I saw my vehicle pulling out after it and turning left. The undertaker was leaning against the Escalade, staring at his cell phone. As Sasha drove past, he didn’t bother looking up.
The emergency exit door on my floor had always squeaked badly. I had meant to tell Cuco about it but was now glad I hadn’t. Because once I heard the sound, I would know that the grey-suits had arrived. I tried to guess how they would know which apartment I lived in. Most likely, they would have obtained a list of tenants and focused on single men in the building.
Outside, I could hear the emergency door swinging open. Gripping the bullpup, I moved towards the windows. I thought of going down the fire escape. The undertaker would spot me and take me out. So I forced myself to wait. This wasn’t what I wanted—dying without having avenged my wife. Killing a few grey-suits would do nothing to satisfy the rage against those who had taken away everything good in my life.
I could hear footsteps approaching my door and moved behind the sofa. Crouching down, I aimed my weapon steadily. The footsteps ceased and all was silent.
An explosion of glass rained down on me. I turned to find one of the grey-suits lumbering through the window. I raised my weapon and fired at him point blank. The blast knocked him back but didn’t kill him—he was wearing body armor. Regrouping, I fired again. This time, his head exploded in a pastel of pink and red that coated the curtains and left the headless body falling backwards—arms windmilling—through the window and onto the fire escape where he lay twisted against the metal railing.
The apartment door burst open and another man stormed in, firing his weapon. As he drove forward, I shot his legs out from under him, sending him screaming and crashing to his knees. My heart racing, I got to my feet, kicked his weapon away and leaped over him. Grabbing my handgun, I put a bullet in his head and ran down the hallway towards the emergency stairs. I could hear frightened voices yelling in Spanish behind apartment doors as I passed and knew that the cops would arrive in minutes.
Banging the door open, I stood on the small landing and stared down. I didn’t know where the other grey-suits were, so I started down, keeping my weapon up, ready to fire. I made it all the way down to the garage. But when I came out, one of them was waiting for me and fired his weapon, striking me in the side.
Though my vest had slowed the bullet, I was hit. I barely felt any pain because of the adrenalin. Grimacing, I smacked him with the barrel of my bullpup, kicked him backwards and fired mercilessly at his raised hands, his fingers exploding in a blossom of bloody fish sticks. Then I killed him by crushing his skull with the butt of my weapon.
Clutching my bleeding side with one hand, I staggered towards the garage gate. The Escalade was still there, but the undertaker was gone. Though I didn’t know if I would have the strength to get to Sasha, I was determined to try. I limped back across the garage to a service entrance. Taking a painful breath, I opened the door and looked out. Rain was coming down in sheets. Slowly I stepped into the alley.
I had to find a way to get to Sasha without being conspicuous. I would have to ditch the weapons and the vest. But there were two more men out there. Halfway down the alley, I heard a noise. I turned sharply and saw a dark figure standing in the shadows, facing me and pointing his weapon with both hands. It was the remaining grey-suit. I raised my weapon to fire at him when the approaching sound of “Bleed It Out” by Linkin Park startled me. Next, the sound of an engine and bright headlights.
A vehicle barreled towards the man from behind at high speed. Ignoring it, he fired at me, missing me by inches. As I returned fire, the vehicle bore down on him, hitting him with full force and knocking him flat onto the pavement with a sickening thud. The man screamed only for a moment as his arms and legs were crushed.
The black Tahoe screeched to a stop in front of me and Sasha peered at me through the wet windshield, her eyes wide and her hands on the steering wheel in a white-hot grip, as the wiper blades beat incessantly.
I looked back at the writhing figure, moaning and clawing at the asphalt. Walking back, I stared down at the fallen agent. Lifting his head, he spit blood and tried to say something. The back of his skull was crushed and I could see the rain washing away the gore to reveal the pulsing brain. He no longer had a nose and one eye was deflated. But as bad as he was, there was a chance he could talk, and I didn’t want to risk it.
I pulled out my handgun and put a bullet through his head. Everything was still now, except for the music. I looked up and saw the undertaker in the weak light of a flood lamp. I should’ve gone after him but I was weak from blood loss. Instead I returned to the SUV, tore off my vest with a painful grunt and placed it and the weapons in the backseat. Then I jumped into the passenger seat as Sasha maneuvered down the alley and onto the busy street. From the side mirror, I watched the undertaker kneel down and examine the dead grey-suit. Reaching over, I turned down the music.
“I thought I told you to wait for me,” I said, applying pressure to my side.
She noted the blood on my hands. “‘Thank you’ will be nice.”
“Thank you. That man in the black suit, have you seen him before?”
She knitted her brow. “Ugly one with scar? He is always with Walt Freeman. He is called Trower. Hospital now?”
“No. Drug store.”
Sirens wailed in the distance as we pulled into a CVS. I handed Sasha some cash and told her what to purchase. The parking lot was deserted. In a few minutes, she was back with the supplies. We drove down a lonely street towards an abandoned rail line. We pulled over and Sasha faced me.
“Tell me what to do,” she said.
I climbed out of the vehicle and she did the same, coming around to join me as I sank onto the ground against the car. I lifted up my shirt to look at the wound. Fortunately it wasn’t bleeding as much now—the bullet hadn’t gone in very far. I rinsed my hands with rubbing alcohol and used my index finger to probe the wound. A bolt of pain like a railroad spike shot through me and I bit down on a scream. Gritting my teeth, I felt for the bullet.
“Sterilize the tweezers and hand them to me,” I said.
Once she had done that, I carefully pulled the wound open with one hand while inserting the tweezers with the other. But the pain was overwhelming and I couldn’t keep my hand steady.
“Let me,” she said.
Like a pro, she gently inserted the tweezers and, ignoring my pathetic howling, calmly removed the bullet. Panting, I examined it and saw that it hadn’t fragmented—thank God. Using what she had, Sasha did her best to close me up. I wished I had had the foresight to bring QuikClot bandages with me for the bleeding. She handed me a bottle of Ibuprofen. I took four and swallowed, chasing them down with bottled water.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Nichevo strashnava.”
“Do I wa
nt to know what that means?”
She smiled. “‘No problem.’”
I had thought I would die back in the apartment building. But God had seen fit to let me live one more day.
“What now?” Sasha said.
“We get more weapons.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dark Refuge
An icy rain fell like boning knives, causing the temperature to drop. Sasha pulled up to the gate. Painfully I climbed out and approached a grey keypad attached to a post. After I punched in the code, a motor squealed to life and the gate rolled back. The storage facility was deserted. We drove down to the last aisle and pulled up to my space.
“Wait here,” I said, taking the keys.
Sasha nodded, wrapping herself in her arms and closing her eyes. In her hat and sweater, she looked like a tired refugee.
Walking around to the front of the vehicle, I knelt down to look at the bumper. The rain had washed away the blood and I could see the damage from where Sasha had run over the grey-suit.
I wished I had Cuco with me. While Sasha rested, I unlocked the huge padlock, closed my eyes and got ready for the pain. Then I raised the roll-up metal door and suppressed a scream as searing blades of agony tore at my side.
The inside was a void, except for the outlines of the four black plastic storage containers stacked neatly against the wall. I had packed my weapons carefully and knew which one I wanted. The Tahoe would only store the contents of a single container neatly. I stepped inside to get to work.
As I entered the darkness, a glimmer of light appeared in a corner and the angel stepped forward. Though she was far from human, I worried that she might be cold in her T-shirt. She smiled, but the concern in her eyes was evident. I glanced behind me and saw that Sasha was asleep in the SUV.
“Tell me what I’m supposed to do,” I said.
“You’re free to do what you want.”
“No. Every time I try that, something always happens—something I didn’t want. Like with the Russian girl.”
“She’s important.”
“How? She won’t tell me anything.” The angel gazed at the weapons without passing judgment. “Tell me, why didn’t I die back there?”
Even The Dead Will Bleed Page 6