Dark Angel Before the Dawn da-1

by Max Allan Collins

  “The world beyond will take note of our plight,” he would tell them. “We are not forgotten— be strong till help arrives.”

  And his kids believed him; if only Moody could believe himself…

  Right now, as he looked through the glass doors of the lobby, toward the nighttime street where those four bodies were still asprawl on the patio, pools of blood dried into terrible brown scabs on the cement, the bodies grotesquely attracting flies after fifty-some hours, the charismatic leader of the Chinese Clan feared help would never come.

  Outside, still unseen, their enemy had them paralyzed, as if the Clan were bluecoat soldiers in a frontier fort, facing endless Indian hordes. But as of yet their attackers hadn't shown the colors of their war paint. Attempts to send out heavily armed scouting teams— no matter which exit— had resulted in the groups getting gunned down within five feet.

  The enemy knew about the building's secret exits, too, the basement catacombs that led to the sewer system, and the tunnel under the block up into the adjacent building. Pairs of kids had been directed to slip out those passages, and were eliminated to a man. That is, to a boy…

  Moody knew who had to be doing this: the Brood, of course. He had expected retaliation for the theft of the museum plans, and for snatching the Heart of the Ocean from their Russian leader's fingers. Such a vicious, all-out assault, however, was a surprise… he would never had guessed the Brood would attempt a full-on siege…

  After all, despite their youth, the Chinese Clan had the Brood (whose members were admittedly older) outnumbered by perhaps a third, and they were possessed of superior firepower, chiefly handguns and rifles from that Orange County armory they'd looted last year; further, their rivals would probably not be aware that the awesome fighting machine, Max, was no longer a part of the Clan…

  But the kind of armament the Brood had deployed in the last two days— sniperscopes, automatic weapons— made Moody wonder… guns like that weren't easily come by…

  For all his tactical skills— commando training in his distant past had stayed with him— Moody simply did not know how to stop this slaughter.

  And as for the “help” he assured his kids would be on the way, Moody could gather from the lack of police response so far that the Brood had bribed the cops to keep their blue noses out of the conflict. Such was not uncommon in LA gang wars: the police collected money, sometimes from both sides, and let the “real” bad guys… the street gangs… fight it out. It was an old refrain: who the hell cared if this rabble killed each other?

  But what really struck Moody as disturbing, and dangerous beyond comprehension, was the lack of any federal response. In a case of carnage like this, uncontrolled by the local cops, the National Guard should be stepping in.

  How could the Brood have influence on a federal level? Such a thing took more bribe money… and better connections… than that Russian scumbag Kafelnikov would ever have access to. And unless the LAPD was directly involved— cordoning off the area for the Brood, effecting a press blackout, actively cooperating with the Russian— the feds

  had

  to be aware that blood was running on Hollywood Boulevard.

  What the

  hell

  was going on?

  In a gray T-shirt and chinos, the lanky yet lithely muscular Gabriel— an Uzi in his hands, an ammo belt around his waist— watched Moody's back as the Clan leader peered out into the street.

  Heavily armed Clan members— older, more seasoned ones, mostly male— took up their position to either side of the glass doors, as Moody nodded to Gabriel, motioning him to the concession stand, where they spoke quietly, so the nearby sentries would not hear.

  “Unless they plan to starve us out,” Moody told his second-in-command, “they'll strike in force— storm our battlements.”

  “We lost a few people,” Gabriel said, and shook his head. “I seen better morale.”

  “Our troops will come through for us, and themselves.”

  Moody glanced at the half a dozen kids— none older than eighteen— in T-shirts and jeans and tennies, caps on backward, semiautomatic weapons in hand. Freckle-faced Fresca, with the new girl Niner at his side, stood with the group nearest Moody and Gabe.

  “Even with the hits we've taken,” Moody said, a hand on Gabriel's shoulder, “we outnumber these bastards.”

  “Their average age is twenty-two— ours is sixteen.”

  “We still have the numbers. And that gives them only two choices— mount a commando raid, send in their best people, armed to the teeth… and hope to outfight us. Or… ”

  “Or,” Gabe finished, “they come in in force.”

  “In which case,” Moody said, “they can't have every exit pinned down to the degree we've been suffering these last two days. With a building this size, covering every way out would drain a third of their manpower.”

  “So,” Gabe said, thinking it through, “if we see a damn horde of these suckers stormin' in, we head for the exits.”

  “Fighting even as we retreat,” Moody said with a nod. “And we beat them at their own game.”

  “How's that?”

  Moody grinned wolfishly. “We head for the Cap… we'll trade headquarters with the sons of bitches!”

  Gabe grinned wide, head shaking on that ostrich neck. “The Moodman still has moves, I see.”

  “Always. Now— I'll help you spread the word.”

  In the auditorium, Moody and Gabriel did just that, and faces brightened, morale visibly lifting, and yet the fear remained. Though he felt his plan was a good one, Moody remained uneasy, still troubled by the absence of both the local and federal authorities. How he wished Max was still here… She alone might turn the tide for them, and certainly even up the fight.

  His bodyguard, Tippett, looked as stoic as ever in biker leathers, his tattooed arms bared as threats, but the hulking man had removed all his piercings— he never went into battle giving opponents anything to rip from his flesh.

  “You want me in the hall?” Tippett asked.

  “No— let them have the hall… they'll try my ‘office' door and that'll tell us what they're up to. You take the back exit, over there… ” Moody pointed. “They may still have somebody positioned, so serpentine your ass.”

  “No prob… I ain't had so much fun since the pigs ate my cousin Fred.”

  Moody found himself smiling at that. “We should have at

  least

  that much fun, this evening… ”

  His black robe trailing like a cape, Moody threaded through the auditorium, passing along the strategy, continuing to build morale. Then he went upstairs to the old projection booth, where Max had kept her quarters, and knocked.

  Freckle-faced Fresca answered. “Yes, sir? What can I do, sir?”

  “The girl Niner in there with you?”

  “Yes, sir. Just kinda… cooling her out, sir.”

  “I hope you haven't been doing anything I wouldn't do.”

  “Kinda doubt that, sir.” And Fresca grinned.

  Of all these kids, only Fres seemed unafraid under these siege circumstances— whether this was courage or naïveté, Moody would not hazard a guess.

  “You and Niner go down and block the doors.”

  “What with?”

  “Use those sandbags we stacked up against the wall, by the stairs, last night. I want them piled directly against the front entry.”

  “You got it!”

  Fifteen minutes later, when Moody was again moving through the lobby, he saw that the freckle-faced boy and his new girlfriend had set to work.

  “Don't worry, Niner,” the boy was saying. Though he was several years younger than the skinny-looking newbie, Fresca spoke with the authority of experience. “You'll see.”

  “You really think Max'll be back?” Niner asked.

  “Oh yeah— she's just off on some errand or something. She ride in on that bike of hers, and kick Brood ass!”

  Eavesdropping, Moody could only wish Fresca
were right.

  Gabriel seemed to materialize at his side. “Them knowin' about our secret exits,” Gabe said quietly, “you don't think Max sold us out, do ya?”

  “Don't let Fresca hear you say that.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think, no. No way in hell.”

  Moody walked Gabriel off to one side, to make even more sure this confidential conversation was not overheard.

  Gabriel, Uzi ready, was saying, “They could have grabbed her… tortured it out of her… ”

  Moody just looked at Gabe. “Do you really think they could get anything out of that girl?”

  Gabe's concerned expression dissolved into an embarrassed smirk. “Listen to the stupid shit's comin' outa me… Guess I'm getting stir crazy.”

  “You'll like it at the Cap,” Moody said. “End of the day, we'll come out of this with better digs… you'll see.”

  The explosion erupted through the doors in a belch of orange flame and gray smoke, hurling Fresca and his girlfriend across the room, slamming them into the concession stand in a shower of glass fragments. The girl, Niner, lay decapitated by one oversized glass shard, her head nowhere in sight, perhaps incinerated; and Fresca rested at her side, a twisted charred bloody husk with its guts trailing out, and the only mercy that neither had to witness the horror of what had taken the other from this life.

  The kids who'd been standing guard duty at either end, alongside those doors, had their own share of nicks from flying glass, though none seemed to have serious injuries. But it was a bit hard to tell, since before the smoke had even begun to clear they'd started running pell-mell toward the auditorium… until machine-gun fire cut them down like tall grass under a swinging scythe.

  Blasting away as they came, screaming unintelligible war cries, Broodsters charged up the patio toward where the doors had been, automatic weapons in hand, eyes wild, piling in over the broken glass and the small barrier of sandbags that Fresca and Niner had managed to pile there before they died…

  Moody and Gabriel stayed ahead of the invaders, and dashed into the auditorium. The Clan kids— with handguns, mostly, a few with rifles— had taken refuge behind their sandbag and theater-chair battlements. The two leaders circulated quickly, dispatching kids to sandbag the auditorium doors shut; then they sent small groups to try various exits, now that the Brood was attacking in full force, which would presumably open up some outlets for escape.

  Each group that headed for an exit, however, opened doors onto figures… soldiers… in black combat gear, heavily armed, blocking the way.

  Tippett was the first to discover this, and reported it to Moody.

  “That doesn't sound like the Brood,” Moody said.

  “Not hardly! Some kind of damn military SWAT team… ”

  “Any casualties?”

  “No— they didn't fire on us… We got back inside before they could… ”

  Four more older Clan kids scrambled up, and reported their exits similarly blocked.

  Gabriel said, “Bastards have the building surrounded! We're blocked in by these guys, while the Brood comes in to party!”

  It made an awful, crazy sense to Moody: this explained the siege, the suddenly superior Brood firepower… the Russian had high-level support in this effort, even federal government sanction…

  Moody looked toward the auditorium doors, where sandbags were piled waist-high. The enemy had breached the lobby maybe five minutes ago, and had not yet made a move to rush the theater itself.

  Where the hell were they?

  A nearby blast, separated from the auditorium by the left-side wall— accompanied by screams— provided an answer: the explosion came from the corridor along which Moody kept both his real office and the C4-rigged door to his nonoffice. This told him two things: the enemy was filtering into the building, to come at them not just through the main auditorium doors. But it also said that his booby trap had been sprung.

  He only hoped the C4 had taken a good number of them out.

  Even so, in that moment, it became crystal clear to Moody that there would be no escape. They would either win or lose, live or die, right here in this auditorium… and Moody didn't like the odds one little bit…

  Right now Gabriel was shouting orders, but these children seemed scared, barely listening. Hell was knocking at the door, and pep talks weren't going to cut it.

  Turning these kids into self-reliant thieves was one thing: turning them into soldiers was another. Moody had never tried to do the latter, really— kids weren't cut out for that.

  The harsh metallic rattle of machine-gun fire rained down on them from the balcony— that was where the Brood made their first appearance in the auditorium— And then the doors blew open with plastic explosive charges, and members of the Brood streamed into the room, up and over the sandbag barricades, automatic weapons blazing, eyes wild with speed, screaming like the murderous maniacs they'd become.

  Moody, in his way, loved his kids… but this was a lost cause. He now began to wonder if he himself could survive, and get to the Heart of the Ocean, in its hiding place, and somehow slip out into the night.

  Then Tippett aided him in this self-serving effort: the bodyguard threw himself on Moody and took them both down to the floor, shielding the leader with his own body. Wedged to the floor, like that, Moody bitterly watched the massacre unfold…

  All around him, bullets were shaking young bodies like rag dolls and then discarding them, flinging them dead to the floor. The Brood fanned out in murderous waves, gunning down anyone who moved, including those who had raised their hands in surrender. Over the gunfire, Moody could make out screams and pleas for mercy and, worst of all, crying. The acrid odor of cordite seemed to singe the air, the gun smoke creating a fog through which the Brood roamed like well-armed homicidal zombies.

  Like a crazed Davy Crockett in his last Alamo moments, Gabriel swung a chair back and forth; but furniture was no match for machine guns, and Moody watched helplessly as at least thirty slugs slammed into Gabe, making him do a terrible dance, lifting him off the floor to deposit him in a bloody heap not far from Moody's face.

  Gabe's blank eyes stared at Moody accusingly…

  The gunfire was subsiding, only an occasional

  pop

  now, as an occasional living Clan member was spotted, like the last few firecrackers on the Fourth of July.

  In his knee-length brown leather coat and snakeskin boots, Mikhail Kafelnikov— his high-cheekboned features looking carved and cruel— seemed to glide down the incline of the auditorium floor, a wraith in a yellow silk shirt emerging from the gun-smoke fog. He surveyed the carnage— they were all dead now, the Chinese Clan… almost all, anyway…

  One of the Brood, a skinny clear-eyed lieutenant, came up to their leader, who batted the snout of the automatic weapon away.

  “Sorry,” the lieutenant said. “No sign of the girl.”

  “Check all the corpses— careful! If she's alive, and playing dead, you'll have a wildcat on your hands. Remember the briefing!”

  The mention of Max inspiring him, Moody suddenly revealed himself, by pushing his bodyguard off and getting to his feet, (while surreptitiously slipping a knife from his boot, keeping it tucked in his palm and half up his sleeve).

  Several Broodsters, eyes glittering with gore and drugs, moved in quickly, raising their guns, but Kafelnikov shouted, “No! You were told!”

  Two burly Brood boys latched onto Tippett's arms and hauled him to his feet. The big former linebacker had no fight left in him— his eyes were on the floor… the sight of the slaughtered kids, all 'round, appeared too much for him.

  Slowly, Moody approached the Russian, planted himself a few feet away, folded his arms, the knife out of sight. He said, “You told them not to kill me. I'm not surprised.”

  “And why is that, Moody?”

  The Clan leader ignored the question, saying, “I always suspected you were a barbarian.” He glanced around the room at the dozens of dead k
ids, their blood streaming down the slope of the theater floor like spilled soft drinks. “You've confirmed it.”

  The Brood leader let out a small chuckle. “Bravado to the last… I appreciate that, Moody. I'd almost say you've earned a quick death.”

  A bitter smile etched itself on the well-grooved face. “You're not about to kill me, Mikhail… not yet.”

  An eyebrow arched, an amused half smile formed. “You're right. After all… we have business.”

  Looking around at his slaughtered family, Moody asked, “Really? And why would I bother doing business with a butcher?”

  “Because you are at heart a man of self-interest, Moody… despite the the ‘loyalty' drivel you fed your ‘family.' And you have two things that interest me.”

  “The necklace,” Moody said.

  “Yes, and… ”

  “The girl. Max. I heard… why?” Moody's eyes narrowed and he studied the Russian's narrow, handsome face. “Revenge? Did she embarrass you on your home turf? How sad for you.”

  Kafelnikov snapped his fingers. A circle of Broodsters formed around them— automatic weapons everywhere Moody looked. Not much he could do with the knife… perhaps slash the Russian's throat, and maybe try to claim leadership…

  Somehow he didn't think that would play, even in a movie theater.

  “Where,” the Russian asked, “is the necklace?”

  “I'm sorry to disappoint you… but I've already sold it. That deal is done. And the money is not on the premises. It was a Swiss bank transfer, and—”

  Kafelnikov nodded once and the two burly Broodsters holding on to Tippett released him, stepping away from the bodyguard. Moody frowned, wondering what that was about…

  The Russian's hand came up and an automatic was in it; he fired, to the left of Moody, where Tippett stood.

  The bodyguard's scream echoed even as the shot rang in the auditorium, as Tippett grabbed for his leg, a red flower blossoming between the fingers that clutched at his right knee.

  Moody's fingers tightened, now white around the handle of the hidden knife. He took a tentative step but froze when he heard several guns cock. Tippett was quiet now, his hands still holding his shattered joint.

  “I'm okay, Moody,” the bodyguard managed. “Don't you worry 'bout me.”