Presently, the door opens again, though this time the emerging person is a different man, leaner than the first, dark hair somewhat messy, hanging down over his forehead. He takes a few steps out, the door still open behind him, and he lights up a cigarette. He looks up at the dark sky, taking a deep drag, then exhaling, as though trying to send the smoke into orbit. The hiding figure watching him notes a bulge that indicates this man is armed similar to the other, though he wears a shoulder holster as opposed to it being at his waist.
The vigilante takes the small, black CEW in sure hands, raising it and taking aim. The shot is aborted, though, as a voice calls out from within. The man turns, peering, exchanging words, then steps back into the building. A few more, somewhat muted words are heard, then the man re-emerges, cigarette angled upward in clenched lips as he carries two large bags, both distended with what seems a good amount of waste.
He sets one near a trash can, unknowingly now but a scant few meters from the hidden, observant figure. The plastic lid is set aside, and he gets one bag in, both hands now raising the second, when he experiences a completely unexpected weight and pressure on his back, strong arms about his neck, and within seconds he is unconscious. The vigilante zip-ties the man’s wrists and ankles, then pulls forth a roll of duct tape, quickly wrapping it about the man’s head a few times, gagging him for when he inevitably regains awareness, and then heads for the building. The figure leaves the door open, pushing the remaining bag of trash against it, giving little more than cursory notice to the bulky, heavy contents of the sack.
The suppressed P90 is taken in hand, slow steps carrying the figure further inside, peering down the one hall that runs most of the length of the building here on this outer edge, though a perpendicular branch adds another avenue just inside, heading right. Music is heard through the walls, muted, the bass thumping incessantly, the music obviously techno. This route ends in a door, leading to a small room used by the operators, not the guests. The other hallway leads to two doors, one on the left that opens to the main interior, then continuing to the other, the pathway disappearing right. The general layout is known, having been provided to the intruder once the target had been chosen. Changes may have obviously taken place in some respects, but the basic information is still valid.
The lighting inside is dim, yellowish, bulbs behind translucent coverings spaced evenly in the ceiling. The vigilante’s goggles are perched atop the forehead. Finger held off the trigger, but near and ready, the infiltrator creeps down the hallway that affords more options.
A pause near the first door, leaning in to better hear, listening to the main room, the one that holds the bar, tables, chairs, stages for dancing girls. The music covers any potential sounds of those inside. An intrusion into this chamber seems a poor idea. A thought is given to whatever changing or ready room might be offered to the ‘entertainers’. The other passage may lead there. This holds better promise for further investigation.
A slow turn of the knob on this door proves that it is unlocked, and just as it seems opening it this carefully may give no notice, the man just inside turns to see who is coming through. The casual tones of curiosity on his face instantly go to confusion and alarm upon spying the infiltrator. The vigilante springs into action, a quick chop of the hand to the side of the man’s neck causing disruption and pain to the carotid artery.
He begins to collapse, even as he is reaching for the gun holstered at his waist. The P90 is released, its strap holding it close to the torso, one hand grabbing that wrist, applying force and twisting to keep the man from drawing his pistol, the other retrieving the stunner, going in and up, being pressed at the armpit. The noise is noticeable, though not overly loud, the man tenses, then slumps.
“Gregov?” bids a voice further in, and another guard steps into view, leaning forward, peering, some four meters distant.
He notes the situation, and he quickly snatches his own weapon from its holster, shouting out a challenging ”Hey!”, pointing the pistol and stepping nearer. He displays some training in how he holds the gun and in his movement, but not enough to have entirely avoided this method of approach.
The vigilante crouches quickly, nigh instinctively, bending the knees, body at an angle and now thusly lowered to provide less of a target and better stability. The P90 is raised, the approaching guard no doubt having difficulty discerning the situation, what with his colleague’s unconscious form in the way, providing some occlusion to the passageway as well as shielding the figure.
The weapon coughs four times, quickly, the aim almost imperceptibly changing throughout the short barrage. The first two hit the guard in leg and hip, causing sudden pain, partial collapse, loss of precise aiming. A follow-up shot striking the right arm in effort to further disappoint the man’s ability to shoot, or at least shoot well, the final hitting him in the right mid-torso, perhaps doing the most potential damage if it has not ricocheted off bone and been depleted of energy.
The figure goes in quickly, gun still poised, a fast walk, getting to the downed, cringing, bleeding man in mere seconds. The dropped pistol is stepped on, then slid away with the controlled movement of the leg, the P90 again released so both hands may be used to quickly drag the guard over to his comrade. Both are left zip-tied and muffled in similar fashion to the one outside by the garbage, their weapons unloaded, discarded. The infiltrator moves further in.
Another hallway is here, heading further left, the right quite short, ending at a nearby wall shared by the larger room in the rear of the building. There are many openings leading off either side, those passages covered by hanging fabric, and the vigilante feels fairly certain what will be found.
Peering cautiously inside reveals just what had been expected – bound women on minimal beds, all likely being fed drugs based on the presence and use of certain apparatuses. Some lull within the effects, some looking up with wide, frightened eyes, none acutely enough aware to do much else. One is found in the process of being used by a client, the portly man laboring with pummels of his hips between the slim legs of the girl.
He feels two sharp, insistent slaps on his back, and he turns, confusion in his voice and on his features, to see the figure pointing the P90 at him. The man’s eyes widen. The gun is moved in a way that gives obvious command to the man to get off the girl and step back, which he does, getting shakily to his feet, hands held out in surrender, his slick cock bobbing with reluctant detumescence, despite the fear of the situation. The gun is again moved, the barrel pointing intent, and the man gets to his knees, frowning somewhat, lips pressed together, flesh taut with fright. To his great relief, he is merely left zip-tied and muffled, though such is surely not pleasant in his situation.
The girl chained to the bed is partially sitting up now, obviously confused, dazed.
“Calm down,” says a whispered voice from behind the mask, “The police will be here soon.”
“You …?” she tries to speak, brow wrinkling some, voice weak, “You’re … you’re a-.”
“The police will be here soon,” the figure repeats, then turns and heads back to the hallway.
One direction leads to a door, which heads back into the main chamber by way of a small utility room and thence to the bar. That way is ignored, more checks made in the cubby holes to provide interruption to any ‘services’ being rendered. Despite it being a Friday night, business is somewhat slow at this time, and that is as the intruder wants it. The point is to disrupt the operation, not perform a sting on customers.
The two guards at the other door sit now revived, the shot one giving an angry glare, though his wounds had been field dressed by the vigilante to thwart bleeding. The other stares with eyes partially lidded, still somewhat hindered by having recently been shocked. The figure gives them little more than passing notice, moving back into the hallway, firearm at the ready.
This portion of the passage stretches to the end of the building, stopping there at the exterior wall, a door in its side leading to another r
oom. The intruder finds this portal also unlocked, and a sneaking peer inside shows no guard at the wait. Though unsecured, the door is insulated, a sealing gasket felt to release as the way is opened.
As tentative steps are taken inside, it is immediately noticed that this larger area is broken down into smaller chambers, the air is also stale, and there is a chemical stench upon it. Quick glances about in efforts of assessment notice mostly darkness, though the glow of light and the obvious noises indicate something going on further within.
Another careful glance into an adjoining room reveals a small space holding two gurneys bearing of shrouded forms. The vigilante moves in, going to the nearer shape, pulling back the covering to indeed find the corpse of one of the young ladies. The other holds a similar body. The crisp, off-white fabric over the two is not of respect, the obvious signs on the bodies removing any pitiful effort in that regard. They bear wounds and markings that tell tales of physical as well as drug abuse, death possibly caused by physical trauma or overdose.
Returning the shrouds to their original places, the figure moves on. The final room proves the most horrific, and though the eyes and covered form of the infiltrator show no outward signs, much is stowed away for later reaction.
There is a single man at work in here, a covered lamp on a moveable, mechanical arm bent to provide the proper angle and illumination to his efforts. He wears scrubs of the typical blue often seen on such garments, his hair covered as well as his mouth and hands. Upon the operating table lies the form of another dead girl, and the doctor, if that is indeed his title, turns away from the use of a saw, removing a face shield baring of blood splatter, similar fluid staining the nearby area.
He then takes a scalpel, leaning over the exposed abdominal cavity, ribs splayed out and flesh held open by a series of clamps. Delicacy shows not his method as he digs in, his hands disappearing from view as his arms move with the motion of his efforts. The figure watches as the man finally comes up with what is obviously an organ, turning and dropping it in a nearby beaker, holding preservative liquid. It stands near others of various sizes, some of which are also occupied.
“Stop!” a voice finally calls out, the command delivered with force.
The doctor turns from having been about to continue the obvious harvesting, starting with shock and wide eyes, hands going up on bent arms.
“Wha-! Who are you?”
“Drop the scalpel,” the vigilante growls out the order.
“Oh my God,” the man quickly spurts, dropping the tool into the corpse’s cavity, “Y-y-you’re the one that has been causing all the trouble, aren’t you?”
The intruder’s response to this proves to be further steps taken inside, nearer the man, gun pointed unerringly.
“Oh my God, oh my God,” the man sobs weakly, then he jerkily reaches up, dragging down the mask from his mouth, then holding out his hands to indicate no further intent, “Don’t kill me, please don’t kill me. I’m just doing my job here. I didn’t kill these poor girls. I promise.”
“Turn around. Hands on your head. Get on your knees,” commands the voice.
The doctor moves to do so, his body shaking with fear. “I didn’t … I didn’t kill them. Don’t you understand?” he pleads, turning and dropping to his knees there amidst his trays, tools, and the collection from his recent work, “I hate my job, don’t you see? But if I don’t do it, they’ll kill me. You see how little respect they have for human life.” He moves his right hand toward the eviscerated corpse as if presenting undeniable evidence.
“Hands on your head,” reiterates the repeated command, the voice leaking its own evidence of the effect the scene is having upon its speaker, while at the same moment, the vigilante steps in, using the left hand to grasp the wrist of the man’s right, forcibly moving it back to his head.
In that moment, the doctor speedily reaches over with his left hand, the one in which he had lately held a scalpel, and he brings up a loaded syringe, turning his upper body and stabbing the large needle into the other’s thigh, the plunger depressed in that same instant.
The immediate response is the figure’s hand chopping down at the doctor’s, pushing away the attack, but the doctor has already relaxed his hold, doing his intended damage, springing up and away, crashing through the nearby metal trays and instruments. Two of the beakers baring organs spill to the floor, evacuating their contents with the same seeming cold lack of feeling evinced in this place.
The vigilante removes the syringe, throwing it aside, taking a few steps back, raising the P90 as the doctor turns with the electric bone saw in hand, flicking it to life and lunging. The trigger of the submachinegun is pulled in rapid succession, delivering a quick half-dozen shots, and the man stumbles back from the force, falling into the already upset trays, causing more clatter and mess as he drops to the floor, bleeding from multiple wounds in his torso, more than enough of which will prove mortal.
“What was in that?” the vigilante demands, rushing in to the fallen man, gun still pointed.
The doctor grins, chuckling, the sound turning to a wet cackle and sputtering cough, spitting up blood.
“I’m dead,” he diagnoses, his voice almost sounding singsong, “I’ll see you soon.”
“What was – shit!” comes the response as the doctor lapses into unconsciousness in the midst of the further question.
The figure rushes about, trying to find the thrown syringe but failing to do so within the chaos of the scene. A search is then conducted for bottles, perhaps being able to find the one holding whatever has been injected. And then comes the first spreading cloud of disorientation. The vigilante stumbles, vision blurring briefly, mostly resolved with a sharp shake of the head.
The alarm will surely be raised soon, if it has not been already. Giving up on the desperate search, the figure turns to the door, falling over feet when almost there, a sharply extended right arm all that stops a total collapse. Struggling, fighting, a physical and mental battle, willing muscles to work, willing vision to remain sharp. Once again to the feet, and fumbling fingers produce a cylindrical, plastic delivery device, an EpiPen, swinging it down and firmly pressing the tip against the mid region of the outer thigh, holding it there as best as possible for several seconds. The adrenalin disperses a quick stimulation, a small measure of time taken to massage the area after dropping the autoinjector, helping the drug to better absorb and be diffused into the blood stream, and there is hope that it will not make things worse.
Turning into the hallway, and no guards prove visible. A shuffling jog allows to nearly gain the turn when another wave hits, reaching hands on outstretched arms, one, at least, finding the wall, balance is tentatively held, breath coming short, sharp. Stumbling further, turning and the final length of hallway appears much longer than before, vision pinpointing to its end. It seems that now even the most meager of resistance would result in kill or capture. Have to get out and get to safety.
Have to get out …
*****
“Inspector Duilio,” Quain announces as he and his partner approach the man seated at the outdoor table in the raised, brick-lined courtyard of the fine café.
“Ah, you must be Detectives Sladky and Contee,” the man says, rising from his seat after a quick wipe of his mouth with a cloth napkin, and though his eyes are shrouded from the late morning sun by a pair of dark sunglasses, it is obvious he has correctly deduced which is which based on the suggested ethnicity of their surnames, peering just over the top of the spectacles at each as he speaks.
The man is of average height and build, if not shorter than both of the others, the gray at his hair and goatee showing something of his more than middle-aged years, though he wears his suit well and carries himself with an obvious ease and surety. After quick handshakes, he gestures to the three available chairs at his table, and the men sit.
“Would you like something?” he asks, “I have quite an expense account at Interpol, though do not order the so-called Sfogliatella,
it is a cheap counterfeit, but at least the coffee is strong, if not somewhat terrible tasting.”
“I’m fine, thank you,” Quain says.
The Inspector sets his eyes over to the other, “Detective?” he invites.
“No, I’m fine, too,” Alec finally says after a momentary pause.
“Ah, suit yourselves.” He shows the palms of his hands in a sort of a shrug, lips pursed out, brow furrowed, then gets back to his food and drink, looking at the two after a moment, “So, all business, then, no?”
“Sure,” Quain eventually agrees.
Duilio looks at the darker man, eyebrows raised, then he picks up his demitasse, sipping noisily before setting the cream-colored, ceramic cup back on its matching saucer.
“Alright then, to business,” he announces, giving another generous wipe of his mouth with the cloth before leaning back, crossing his legs, perusing the men. “You have heard of the attack last night?”
“Yeah, we heard,” Alec says, squinting at the man, the sun mostly affecting him.
“Terrible, terrible,” the inspector shakes his head, somewhat melodramatically, then retrieving a pack of cigarettes from inside his jacket pocket, but only holding it in his gesturing hand as though he has just as quickly forgotten why he produced the cellophane wrapped item, “It seems this time the vigilante has murdered a reputable doctor when the man botched some vile surgery he was being forced to do.”
“What?” Alec inquires, incredulous, head rising up and back, spine straightening at his neck.
Duilio nods slowly, assuredly, “Yes, yes, a terrible thing. We think the vigilante may actually be an enforcer in a rival crime ring, if not someone even higher up in the organization.”
“And what makes you think that?” Quain asks.
“The evidence is being gathered,” the man cryptically informs, “We have vast resources at our disposal which your department, though in this glorious city, may lack, hmm?”
“Right,” Quain responds. “Thanks for the ‘cooperation’.”
Dance of the Butterfly Page 11
