All the Way Down

by Eric Beetner

  Lewis provided enough chill for the double and the rest of the bottle. “What does looking into mean?”

  “I told you.” O’Brien took a swig, making Lewis wait. “I don’t know.”

  A condescending smile drew across Lewis’ lips. “Right. I guess that’s my job, to know. And when we don’t know something, to find it out.” He stood. “Guess I’ll go do my job.”

  O’Brien watched him go, drained the rest of the drink. He stared at the bottle but didn’t refill. He’d need to be sharp the rest of the day.

  12TH FLOOR

  “You handled yourself well back there.” Dale walked two steps behind Lauren as they descended the staircase away from Tat’s apartment.

  “That story wasn’t a lie. I really did take all kinds of self-defense classes. My dad made me.”

  “Daddy’s little girl, huh?”

  Lauren scoffed. “Yeah. Right.”

  They descended slowly, wary of predators. The stencil on the wall read 12th Floor. Dale noticed it as they passed. “What the hell?”

  Lauren went on high alert. “What is it?”

  “What happened to thirteen?”

  She exhaled. “There is no thirteen.”

  Dale stopped walking. “What, because of, like, superstitions?”

  “I guess so. The architect numbered the floors. A lot of buildings do that.”

  “Still? I thought they stopped with that crap. Everyone knows the deal. That means fourteen was really thirteen. Guess that explains all the bad luck up there.”

  “I hate to break it to you, every floor is bad luck in this building.”

  Feet hammered on the concrete steps. The echoes came from far below, but they were moving with purpose and the steady thrumming of impacts meant a lot of boots. Reinforcements.

  Lauren turned back up the steps. “Move, move.”

  “Sounds like a lot.”

  “More than us. I guess we’re going to twelve.”

  “Can’t be worse than thirteen.”

  Dale drew his stolen gun and pushed on the bar to open the door to the twelfth floor. No keypad. Not Tat’s private residence. Dale had no idea what to expect.

  They found themselves in a long, dark hallway like a row of apartments.

  “Where are we?” Dale asked.

  “Dorms for Tat’s men.”

  Dale pressed his back to the wall and dropped his voice to a whisper. “You mean the guys who want to kill us?”

  “Yes. But from the sounds of that stairwell, they’re on the job, so they’re not gonna be in their rooms.”

  The doors were identical, the walls a dark green, the doors black. The space was utilitarian, almost military in its absence of personality. These were sleeping quarters only, not places to get comfortable and forget who you worked for.

  Down the hall, a door opened. Lauren padded next to Dale and put her hand on the knob of the door closest to them. She turned it and motioned for Dale to go inside. The door opened silently as Dale watched a man exit a room ten doors up and on the right. He seemed to move with a purpose and didn’t take time to scan around the hallway and notice them.

  Dale slid into the open room and Lauren followed.

  The room was dim and devoid of character. Dale swept the small square with his gun before turning to Lauren to whisper, “All clear.”

  “Thank God.”

  “How did you know it would be open?”

  “None of the doors have locks. Tat’s policy. A way to keep the men more honest.”

  Dale let his gun hand drop by his waist. He looked around the room for another way out, a way to help them escape. And a phone. He found nothing.

  “So why were you doing so much research on Tat and this place?”

  “For my article.”

  “I thought the article was about your dad’s drug policy.”

  “It is, sort of.” Lauren inhaled, then let it out slowly. “I’m going to expose the connection between my dad and Tat’s operation.”

  Knotting his eyebrows, Dale looked at Lauren. “What connection?”

  “I think my dad has been part of a citywide conspiracy to give Tat a free pass. Well, not free. There are kickbacks, of course. And this new policy is the biggest giveaway of all. It’s set up to basically run everyone else out of town and leave Tat in place to run his trade unopposed.”

  Dale wondered if his name had come up in her research. He couldn’t be too surprised by her revelation. He knew the mayor’s office had a few on the take. He had no idea it went so high.

  “Jesus. You’re going to take down you own dad?”

  “He’s going to lose the election anyway.”

  “But, still.”

  “He’s corrupt. He’s taking money from a drug lord and telling his own police force to look the other way. If I can get the right documents to prove it, well, let’s just say it’ll be good for my career.”

  “Good luck finding those.”

  “If I find Tyler, I find what I need.”

  “Who’s Tyler?”

  “My boyfriend. Sort of.”

  “Sort of?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  Dale didn’t have time for complicated. He went to the sole window on the back wall, pushed open the shade covering it. Nothing. Bricked over. No view. “Look, I’m not gonna defend your dad, but a lot of those cops and everyone else on up may have had reasons for first getting in on the take. I’ve been out on the streets and working this racket for a long damn time, since you were in grade school. It’s not black and white.”

  “Yeah, well, it sells newspapers and wins Pulitzers.” Lauren put her ear to the door and listened to the hallway. “I think it’s clear.”

  “Okay.” Dale drew his weapon again. “Let’s get me to my wife and you to this Tyler so you can type this up and bring down your dad.” He shook his head. “Fuck. Just don’t make me look too bad in the article.”

  “Right now you’re the hero of my story.”

  “Just don’t do too much research on me when we get out of here.”

  The door swung open on silent hinges. Dale moved first, easing his way into the darkened hall. He turned to his left, a rudimentary check of his surroundings. Instinct. Training. Surely nothing would be there.

  Only there was. Six men, guns drawn, confused looks on their faces.

  Dale thought about reversing into the room again, but Lauren was right on his back. He used his forward momentum to propel himself across the hall and slam, back first, into the door opposite. The knob gave way, the lock broke and he fell inside as the first volley of shots hit the doorframe.

  They’d been expecting to see Tat, Dale figured. No one knew where their captured leader was. They only knew Dale was a foreign body in their biology. An organism that had to be killed.

  Dale found himself in an equally unadorned room. Same layout, same dorm room furniture. He’d tumbled to the ground when he went through the door and he scrambled for footing as more bullets hit the doorframe he’d just crashed through. Rough splinters caught the air as large caliber bullets pounded the wood. Dale knew the type behind the guns: Young. Inexperienced. Grew up on Scarface and Goodfellas. Haven’t spent much time on a gun range. He might have a chance against them—they both might. When he thought of Lauren, he realized she hadn’t followed him into the room.

  The first figure appeared in the open doorway. Dale fired. Man down. The sight of the first of their team crumpling with a gut shot would certainly slow the rest down, maybe give Dale a second to think. A second ticked by, then another, but nothing came to mind. Five more out there, only one of him in a room with no exit except the doorway five gun barrels were focused on.

  If he was lucky, a few of them would peel off and go after Lauren on the other side of the hall. Lucky for him, not for her.

  Lauren brought out her fake cry she usually only used when asking for extensions on college papers or pretending to be upset about b
reaking up with a guy she thought was a real shit.

  “He grabbed me, he shot Tat. Oh, thank God you’re here. I thought he was gonna kill me.”

  The two men standing in the room with her were confused. They still held their guns at the ready, but finding only a crying girl wasn’t even on the list of what to expect when they stormed into the room. They expected more of the team Dale must have brought with him, or maybe their captured leader waiting to give them a reward for his rescue.

  But they got Lauren, the mayor’s daughter. Everyone knew Tat had snatched her. And now here she was, hysterical and blathering about her ordeal.

  “Calm down. Where’s Tat?”

  “You said he’s shot?”

  “Yeah. Yes. Upstairs. In his apartment.” While holding her face in her hands to mask the fact no real tears were coming, Lauren had rubbed her fingers on her eyeballs to start them tearing up and turning red. By the time she met eyes with the two men, she looked like she’d watched the ending of The Notebook without a box of tissues handy.

  She heard more shots across the hall. It was hard to hide her concern for Dale, but the two guns in front of her were a more pressing problem.

  Dale pushed the single dresser away from the wall and crouched behind it. He maintained a sliver of a view at the door from behind his barrier and saw when the second man tentatively stepped into the doorframe, an extended gun in both hands to lead the way. Tat’s men were all black clad, all muscular and buzz cut. This one moved differently from the others, more professional and with a tactical precision Dale recognized from the SWAT team. Former member or current, moonlighting on the squad? Dale would have to go uninformed, but he was different from the young guns so eager to pop off shots like a movie star. No time to indulge this one or let him get a shot.

  Dale took aim and blew out one of the man’s knees. With a yelp, he pitched forward and dropped both guns. As soon as he hit the floor he scrambled to get his guns back, recognizing his momentary weakness. With someone shooting at you, the last thing you want to be is unarmed.

  Dale knew it as well as the man on the ground, knew he held the upper hand. For a second, Dale was reluctant to shoot. What if this man was a member of the force? Even if he was doing work for Tat on the side as part of his death squad, it would come out that Dale had killed an officer, something he worked very hard to avoid in his years of service to Tat. Whatever good graces he could muster from this rescue mission, he would need.

  His second of doubt passed quickly and he shot the man in the top of the skull as he reached a bloody hand for one of his fallen Glock 9s. This man wouldn’t have hesitated to shoot Dale. He knew that.

  Paramount right now: survival. Worry later about the rest of your life later, in jail. Time to pay up for your sins. If that guy had to pay a little sooner than Dale, then so be it. He didn’t want Dahlia to pay for his own mistakes, or Lauren. So fight like hell, get out of here, and don’t think twice about it.

  The men were discussing whether to take Lauren in custody as a prisoner, or to treat her like a rescue and return her to the room Tat had made up for her. The posh guest suite on the top floor with the fifty-inch TV and Xbox system.

  Lauren watched them, deciding when to make a move or if it would be better to let them take her back and sit tight until a real rescue team showed up. This one-man band wasn’t quite cutting it so far. But they’d find Tat eventually. He’d tell them how she shot him in the hand. He’d get his pound of flesh. It’s what Tat did and he did it well.

  The shooting across the hall slowed and Lauren feared it meant Dale was dead. Some sort of action was needed. While they talked, facing each other, she reached around her back for the gun.

  Dale saw the barrel of the shotgun before he saw the person attached. That part didn’t matter much to him. The thin, Ikea barricade he’d made for himself was no match for a blaster like the one coming through the door.

  He bolted for the only other door in the room—the bathroom. A booming shot exploded the wall next to him as he dove inside. He landed on his back and kicked the door shut behind him. He recalled a protocol but couldn’t remember if he’d learned it in academy, or one-on-one from some cop mentor, or if he’d seen it in a movie once. He crawled for the bathtub.

  The bathroom door exploded into splinters behind him as another shotgun blast chased him into his corner of no escape. Dale flipped himself up into the tub, possibly the only thing that could withstand a blast and not leave him full of holes.

  Once inside he cursed himself or whatever son-of-a-bitch had suggested this as a hiding place. He’d stuffed himself in a coffin-sized ditch to await discovery with no escape plan and nowhere else to go. He started to wonder how thin the walls were. Obviously no one ever expected these office towers to house dorm rooms so chances were good these were thrown up quickly and shoddily. They certainly hadn’t gone in for any decorating. If he could punch through to the room next door, maybe he could buy himself a few seconds to escape. But time for a remodel was short.

  “Is he getting away?” Lauren pointed with her left hand out the open door.

  Both men turned, guns aimed away from her and into the dorm hall.

  She shot them both in the back of the head. When the bodies had fallen to the floor, a shudder ran through her. She’d taken aim and pulled the trigger fast so she wouldn’t have time to think about it. Her only thought during her brief debate of whether they needed to be killed was They’re going to kill me. Maybe not right now, but as soon as we get upstairs, I’m dead.

  Her own survival instinct had kicked in and now two men were headless on the floor. She felt bad. But not too bad. She had, after all, nailed both shots on the first try. But taking a second to admire her marksmanship was a mistake. As she looked down at the men, her gut seized and she had to turn away. An unfamiliar smell consumed her. Fresh blood, brain matter. Death. She braced a hand against the window frame and held a hand over her stomach, anticipating the sickness.

  Again the barrel of the shotgun led the way. Like a probe seeking heat or other signs of life, the gun showed through the hole in the door like it was testing the air. Dale fired three shots at the hole. Three shots and then click.

  Out of ammo.

  The shotgun pulled back and retreated into the outside room, but the question had been answered. He was still alive. For now. Dale knew he had only a few seconds before the blasting started again. He flung himself over the edge of the tub and onto the white tile floor of the bathroom. He shimmied his body across the shrapnel of wood chips and buckshot to the toilet and put one hand up high enough to lift off the tank lid. One hand wasn’t enough to hold it for long and it fell and slapped him on the chest. He fought to not lose all his air and wondered if any ribs had cracked.

  He didn’t get long to wonder as another blast came through the door. He’d made a guess and come out right. Dale figured no one ever shoots at the ground. He stayed as low to the tile as he could as another shot filled the room with pellets and smoke. The mirror above the sink shattered and then shattered smaller when the long shards of glass hit the porcelain sink. Dale waited.

  The barrel reappeared, tentative at first, then pushing deeper through the ruined door and above Dale as he lay flat on his back. When he saw the knuckles of the shooter’s hand on the slide, he swung upward with the toilet lid in both hands and let it go. The heavy porcelain rectangle cracked against the metal of the barrel and thrust it upward. Dale rolled to his right and got up on his knees. Next to him the lid came crashing down on the tile and Dale was up to his feet. He put a hand on the barrel of the gun as it came down into firing position again, it sent a hot stab of pain up his arm as if he’d put his palm down on a hot stove. He shoved forward to get the hot metal out of his hand, driving the gun and the shooter back into the room and off balance.

  After all three shots, the hole in the door was big enough for Dale to move through. His torso broke apart the rest of the door as he followed the fallin
g shooter. The bottom of the door held and Dale’s knees clipped the wood and tipped him forward. He fell on top of the man and pushed the barrel up so it was pointing away and lay against the man’s head. He felt the air rush out of the shooter’s lungs as they landed.

  Dale slid his other hand on top of the shooter’s hand and pulled the trigger. Another blast erupted and the barrel coughed smoke and buckshot while the long tube lay parallel to the man’s head. It was painfully loud for Dale; he knew the other man had to be hurting. Plus, the barrel was hot, and the shot had exited about two inches above his head and left a black mark on the man’s scalp that started bleeding immediately.

  Dale pushed up to his elbows, straddling the man and watching the agony on his face as he jerked his head away from the gun sitting upside it. Dale drove a fist down into his nose and scanned the debris strewn floor for the two fallen Glocks his second victim had dropped.

  A loud blast sounded above him, but not another shotgun shot. Dale lifted his eyes from the ground to see Lauren standing in the doorway and the sixth shooter falling through the air on his way to the floor.

  The man’s face was a mixture of surprise and exposed bone. The shot had torn through him from behind and entered at the base of his skull and left through his mouth. What was left of his jaw hung slack in a silent scream as he fell.

  Dale scratched at the wood floor and kicked away from the shotgun shooter as he clawed forward to retrieve a Glock. He grabbed it, spun, and shot the last man twice in the chest. Not as dramatic as Lauren’s shots, but dead is dead.

  Dale flopped onto his back and tried to breathe deep. The room reeked of blood and the gun powder from blast caps. He looked up at Lauren in the doorway. “Thanks.”