by Eric Beetner
Four men in white chef’s jackets stared back at him. The elevator, a service-only lift to bring meals up to the office staff, was tucked in the far corner of the floor. Crates of vegetables and bags of linens waiting to go out the laundry nearly blocked the elevator door.
The men stared blankly. One heavyset man held a squash in his hand he was midway through peeling.
Dale called out to the men. “This elevator go all the way to the ground floor?”
Three of them shook their heads. Only the heavyset one answered. Must be the head chef. “Only up and down between here and four. Deliveries only.”
The doors began their automated close and Dale stepped forward, poking the gun in between the closing doors. They sprang open again and he stepped into the large kitchen area. Lauren followed.
“We thought we heard shooting.” The heavyset man seemed to be their spokesperson. Two more heads poked around a corner farther into the kitchen.
“We’re not looking for any trouble.” Dale seemed to have appointed himself spokesperson for his side of the conversation.
“Then you shouldn’t have come here.”
In each man’s hand a knife appeared. Except for the heavyset man. He held a cleaver.
Dale sighed and let his shoulders slump. “We don’t want to hurt anyone. We just want to leave.”
Lauren checked her grip on the gun in her hand, tightened her arm around the laptop. “He’s right. We don’t want to hurt you.”
The group looked to the heavyset man and he turned his head first left, then right. Behind Dale and Lauren, the elevator doors closed, sealing off any escape; though back up to the fourth floor would hardly be a safe zone.
The heavyset man screamed something in a language Dale didn’t understand and the fight was on. Six men in matching outfits came at them with knives meant for cutting meat, separating flesh from bone, cleaving ribs apart.
Dale dodged to the left, lining himself up with a long row of stovetops and ovens. Large pots boiled water ready to accept lobsters or corn cobs. Pans sautéed sauces, onions, and garlic. Two men were headed down the line toward him. Dale didn’t want to shoot. He didn’t want any more blood spilled by men who were just a part of the machine of Tat’s business.
He took aim at a large pot of boiling water. He fired a quick burst and the pot exploded off the stove, toppling over and sending scalding hot water and a dozen small, grenade-sized potatoes spilling out to land like hot little land mines in the path of the approaching chef assassins.
The front man veered off course to avoid the waterfall of boiling water. The man behind him stepped on a potato and slipped on the soft flesh, landing hard on his ass in a pool of still bubbling water. The front man was distracted enough that Dale could step forward and plant the butt of his machine gun on the man’s chin. His head spun, his neck rocketing around, and he was out cold before he hit the floor. Sorry about that, buddy. Better than being dead though, Dale thought.
Lauren faced down two chefs of her own, including the heavyset man and his cleaver. He charged and by instinct, she tried to block him using the only shield she had—the laptop. Holding it out in front of her, she felt the cleaver sink in and saw the sharp angle of the cleaver’s tip break through the casing. The chef yanked his arm back for another swing and took the computer with him, jerking it out of Lauren’s hands. She watched it go—all her evidence, the whole reason she was there. The lives lost because of it, Tyler and the others.
A searing rage rose inside of her. She noticed she stood next to a wire mesh supply rack. Four shelves of tools for cooking a meal for a whole building. Ignoring her gun, she reached over and picked up a small saucepan. She flung it at the heavyset man. He deflected it away with a swipe of his cleaver, now free from the destroyed laptop. It rang high pitched, like two swords coming together.
Lauren picked up another one, flung it, and saw it fly across the room as it got swatted away. She succeeded in slowing the progress of the men coming toward her, but eventually they would be close enough to swipe at her with those sharp objects. She didn’t want to shoot them. Didn’t want to kill anyone else after the torment she felt with Tyler. She searched the shelf for other potential weapons. She put a hand on a carrot peeler but lifted it off when she saw a small set of paring knives. Tiny knives in varying shapes with different color handles. They were miniatures compared to the eight- and ten-inch carving knives the chefs wielded, but they were better than nothing—and better than more saucepans.
She lifted one out of the small case. She thought of throwing darts with her nanny when she was younger. How much harder than that could it be?
Lauren held the knife like a dart from her youth and let it fly at the heavyset man. The tiny weapon landed soundlessly in the meat of his upper thigh. He screamed as the sting of a hundred wasps all bore into his leg at once. The heavyset man went down in front of his troops. They were blocked in the narrow aisle, but they also saw their captain down, and the only place more loyal to their commander than the army was the line in a kitchen. Two men were quickly at his side.
Dale limped past the stoves, heat from the blue gas flames of the burners warming one side of his body. He heard a cry of pain from the other side of the room, but it was male so he knew Lauren was still with him.
Another chef turned into his aisle. The man brandished a ten-inch butcher’s knife, freshly used and still dripping with meat juices. The chefs seemed undeterred by the machine gun in Dale’s hands. He charged and raised the knife over his head ready to slash down and cut Dale in two.
Dale’s finger brushed the trigger. It would be so easy to blow this guy away. Might even scare the others into giving up their knives. But with each body in his wake, his chances of leniency shrunk. Whether they wanted to believe him or not, Dale really was trying not to hurt anyone. Perhaps it was the cages of the sad-eyed whores, but he’d gone off killing if he could possibly avoid it. It was looking less likely he could and still ensure his and Lauren’s survival.
He had time to spin the gun in his hands and punch the butt into the chef’s gut. He gasped and blew out air. His arm, high up next to his right ear, froze in place and his finger slackened. The knife fell. Dale braced for the pain, but it never came; even after he heard the dull thunk of the knife tip burying itself in the rubber mat on the floor.
Dale looked down and saw the knife poised, tip down, in the space left vacant by his missing big toe. Had it been there still, he’d have lost it to a clean sever. Either way, it was still gone, and this time it saved him, rather than caused, a great deal of pain.
Lauren put the gun in her waistband and held four short knives in her hands now. One with a red handle was poised between her fingers like she was aiming for a bull’s eye in the local pub.
One of the chefs hovering over the heavyset man stood and focused a deep anger toward Lauren. She didn’t wait for an invitation, she flung the knife away from her. It landed in the tennis-ball-sized muscle of his triceps. He shrieked and went down.
Lauren almost smiled to herself. She had no idea she had a talent for knife throwing. She vowed that when she got out of this, she’d buy another dart board and start playing again.
She grabbed up two more knives in her hand and dashed forward. The one man still standing broke and ran away from her. She flung a knife at him while in stride and it nicked the back of the man’s neck, then fell harmlessly away. Lauren vaulted herself over the heavyset man and moved on past the prep stations and warming lamps.
Only one man remained in Dale’s way. The chef stood, recovering from the body blow, and filled the pathway to freedom on the other side. Dale drew back the butt of his gun to pound the man in the gut again in hopes he’d go down for good. The chef lifted a foot as if to block the gun, but instead brought it down on the handle of a pan sizzling on the stove. His foot levered the hot pan up and an arc of boiling hot oil and browning garlic flew through the air.
Dale barely had time to pu
ll his body back. He turned his shoulders and watched the hot oil curve through the air and land with a splash on the man who’d slipped on the potato. The man shrieked in pain as Dale felt his back grow hot and realized he’d put himself up against one of the stoves licking the air with blue flames. Dale pulled away, but the heat didn’t go down. His back got hotter.
He spun in half circles, trying to see his own back. He saw enough—a glow of orange and a rush of air and flickering flame whenever he spun his body. Dale was on fire.
Kindergarten lessons played in his head. Stop, drop, and roll. Dale hit the floor. He spun his body in a barrel roll and went up and over the man agonizing in pain after the hot oil spill. Dale rolled until he came to the feet of the man who flung the pan at him. Dale kept rolling and took the man’s knees out from under him. He fell in front of Dale, making a speed bump for him to get over.
Dale rolled up and over the man as he reached out for Dale but readjusted his arms to swat at the licking flames that moved from Dale’s back to the front of his shirt. Dale reached the other end of his roadblock and fell still, a burnt cotton smell coming off his back and the heat of an intense sunburn on his skin. The fire was out though and Dale stood.
He turned to see the three men in his wake. None of them stood to follow. They’d done their duty, enough was enough. Let the guys who get paid for security handle it from here. Dale turned to the far end of the kitchen, to the exit.
Lauren was waiting there for him. “Come on, hurry it up.”
Dale limped quickly along to her, a trail of smoke in his wake.
CHAPTER 30
The official car of the mayor’s office was American made, of course. O’Brien pushed the engine up to sixty. He knew the way to Tat’s compound, though he’d only set foot inside once. He was summoned as a candidate and was told the election could be his if he played ball with Tat. When he asked how Tat could deliver on such a promise, he was told, “I think it’s better if you don’t know.”
It was a philosophy that served him well for six years in office.
He never went to collect money from the drug lords and mafia types he accepted payments from. He barely knew names. He always found out so-and-so or what’s-his-name was dead months after it happened. Better that way. It kept the graft at a distance, made it unreal.
He’d never met Roy before, truly had no idea what other jobs he’d done on O’Brien’s behalf. But now, putting a face to the crimes, peeking behind the curtain made it all too real. And now that his daughter stood in the crosshairs…it became too much.
The not knowing was the worst. There was a chance Lauren was already free and in Chief Schuster’s custody and protection. No one had called to inform him, but there would be a debriefing with Lauren and the cop who went in to get her. And no way Schuster would let anyone else make the call. That guy loved all the credit he could get, deserved or not.
Or, O’Brien thought, he could have waffled just one minute too long. Could have been indecisive for the split second it took for Roy to fire a shot. She could be coming out of the building right then, and he’d be too late because he couldn’t make up his mind on such a stupid decision. You don’t order your own daughter killed. He saw it now the way any sane, rational person would. Temporary insanity, that’s what it was. The only explanation.
He urged the car up to sixty-five.
CHAPTER 31
The fourth floor was abuzz. Several of the managers wanted to follow the two intruders down the service elevator into the kitchen. The cooler heads of the secretaries prevailed.
“He had a machine gun.”
“They’ll handle them down there.”
“We followed protocol. Now we sit tight.”
Everyone agreed they never thought they’d have to use the guns provided to them. Some even confessed they forgot where the firearms were stashed in their offices. But everyone agreed they were glad to have had them. A small group gathered around Tyler’s office, shaking their heads and wondering what his connection to the woman had been.
The chatter stopped on one end of the floor and quickly spread like a fog oozing through the office to silence everything. Mr. Losopo was on the fourth floor.
The office workers stopped and stared as Tat walked point with six security guards fanned out in a V behind him. Everyone looked at his hand, which hung uncovered at his side, a messy hole in the center of it. He looked like a general who’d been through war, and the men following him were poised to march back into battle.
“He’s been here?” Tat asked the question to the room, not to anyone in particular.
Several people nodded. One woman spoke. “There was a girl, too.”
“Still with him, huh? Anyone hurt?”
Several people turned their heads to Tyler’s office. Tat nodded, seemed to think a casualty rate that low was acceptable. Tat surveyed the ceiling damage. “Lousy shot, huh?”
“I don’t think he was trying to shoot us.” The secretary behind the desk where Dale used the phone cast her eyes down, regretting speaking out.
Tat looked at her. “No?”
“I think it was just supposed to scare us.”
Tat looked around at the shattered glass and bullet casings on the floor. “And were you scared?”
“We all fought back. Just like it says in the book.”
“Good, good.” Tat didn’t smile. He couldn’t, didn’t think he was capable for the near future. “They went down?”
The secretary nodded.
Tat waved his guards to follow him. “Then we go down.”
STILL ON THE 3RD FLOOR
The elevator made no sound when it opened. Tat and his six men saw the carnage. Men in white chef’s jackets writhed on the floor, two had knives stuck in them. One held both hands over his face, crying and saying, “I’m burned. I’m burned.”
At least the trail was easy to follow with these two.
Tat looked up first and saw Dale and Lauren at the far end of the floor.
“Burnett! You bring her back to me.”
The six henchmen all came to attention, guns leapt to the ends of outstretched arms. They could barely hear from the far end of the space, but it sounded like Dale cursed. “Fuck me.”
A bunch of chefs and office drones they could handle—barely—but Tat’s right-hand men? Not a chance.
“Go down. Now.”
Dale shoved Lauren toward the elevator doors, the open shaft beyond them. She slapped both palms against them in a stance like she was about to be frisked. “Down?”
“It’s the only way. C’mon, help me open this.”
Dale began prying at the doors, Lauren slid her fingers between the two brushed aluminum doors and together they pried them open. The black pit of the elevator shaft welcomed them back.
Lauren looked at Dale, his foot, the smoke curling from his back. “Can you do this?”
“It’s this or die, and we’ve come too far.” He put a hand on her back. “You go first.”
“Why, so you can fall on me?”
“No, so I can—”
The first shots ripped into the walls beside them. Dale spun and raised the machine gun. He squeezed the trigger and a quick burst of shells sprayed in the direction of the kitchen. Bullets pinged off metal racks and counters. The men racing toward them dove for cover, buying a few seconds more.
“So I can do that. Now, go.”
Lauren knew there was no time for the slow climb from before. She also knew that Elton couldn’t keep his grip on the cables. The only thing giving her the courage to jump was that it wasn’t as far of a fall now. As the bullets began flying again, Lauren leaped and grabbed the cables in both fists. She gripped a bundle of three thick cables, wet with grease. She slid down immediately and had to pinch hard with her legs to slow her fall. She hoped that would be the only echo of Elton’s attempt at the cables.
She looked up and saw Dale backing into the shaft. He fired a fast bu
rst of cover fire, then turned and hesitated a second. Lauren slid down a few feet, giving him room enough to jump. She braced herself for him to slide down and land on her head. She made a quick glance down, hoping to see bottom, but saw only darkness.
“Do it, Dale. Go.”
Using his good foot to push off, he jumped. The machine gun was slung over his shoulder and he reached with both hands. While he was in the air, bullets cracked around the elevator doors, ricocheting off the metal and sending echoes up the shaft into the black.
Dale bear hugged the cluster of cables and hung on. He didn’t slip onto Lauren’s head.
“Okay, good, let’s go before they get here.”
Lauren started a semi-controlled slide down the cables. She’d slip four or five feet, have to pinch her whole body tight to stop herself, then repeat. Slowly the light around her disappeared and she slid into darkness.
Dale loosened his grip, then tightened back up a second later. He bobbed down in eight-inch increments. Not enough to be gone by the time they got to the open doors.
“I can’t see you. I don’t want to land on you.”
Lauren called from the darkness below. “You’re fine. Just keep coming down. If they shoot you, you’ll fall for sure.”
Motivation enough. Dale started sliding down a few feet at a time, then gripping the cables to stop. His clothes were getting slick with grease, his hands could barely grab hold. He knew exactly how Elton had died. He tried to hang on with one hand and wipe the palm of his other down the ungreased side of his pants, but it only helped for a moment.
Dale heard footsteps, then Tat’s voice. “You can’t get away from me, you fucks. You shot me. You stole my property.” Tat’s face appeared, leaning beyond the precipice of the third floor. “You hit my mother.”
A fierce-looking gun appeared in his hand and aimed at Dale who was ten feet down, but still lit up by the light spilling into the shaft. He had one option and he wasn’t sure it was a good one.
