Break

by Ty Patterson

  ‘He rigged it some way, boss. It wiped itself when I tried to unlock it. I’m working on recovering it. It’ll take time,’ he said apologetically.

  Sheller went to a hitter, who handed him a pair of gloves. He slipped his hands into them and flexed his fingers.

  ‘Tell me where the recording is. You were going to tell the NYPD everything. Those weren’t just words, were they?’

  ‘Let them go.’

  ‘There’s no deal to be done here, Grogan.’ Sheller shook his head pityingly. ‘Here’s what’s going to happen. I am going to beat you to death. Sure, I can shoot you, knife you, but what would be the fun in that? Then, my men are going to have some fun with these women. Cray, this FBI woman, she’s Chinese?’

  ‘Chinese-Hawaiian, boss.’

  ‘Any of you had such a woman?’

  His men shook their heads.

  ‘I might stop beating you and let you watch. But they’ll die, too. Stop—’ he thundered when Quindica made to speak. ‘Don’t say a word. I’ve been dead all these years. You think I can’t get away with this?’

  Cutter saw the punch coming, tried to evade it, but couldn’t escape it. He took it high on the chest and toppled when a second blow followed, in the neck.

  ‘You … never … beat … me … even … with … your … men … with … you,’ he panted.

  Each breath was labored, but he wasn’t hurt badly.

  ‘Free … me … then … we’ll … see … how … tough … you … are.’

  ‘This isn’t a Hollywood movie, Grogan,’ Sheller sneered as he picked him up. ‘The sooner you give me what I want, the quicker this will end for you.’

  I’ve got to make it last. I’ve got to buy time.

  The Task Force was probably aware Difiore and Quindica were missing. They would be searching. They’ll go to Rolando and Jamieson. NYPD and FBI will throw everything they have at finding them.

  All he had to do was survive as long as he could, and with that thought he let out a loud yell and heaved himself at Sheller.

  It was clumsy, graceless; he was hampered by the chair, but his body-charge took Sheller by surprise; he fell back under Cutter’s weight and his lips burst when Cutter head-butted him.

  The gangbanger roared furiously. He grabbed his attacker and tossed him away as if he weighed nothing.

  Cutter didn’t roll. That was impossible with the furniture attached to him. He slid and scraped on concrete, his skin burning.

  He felt himself being hauled back and turned his head just in time as a massive fist sailed past his neck. He reared forward and caught Sheller’s ear between his teeth and bit hard.

  The felon howled in pain and pounded Cutter with meaty, heavy blows, but there was no give in him, and the shout turned to a shriek when the thug’s flesh tore. He staggered back, his eyes widening in shock when he saw the ear in his attacker’s mouth. Cutter spat it away.

  The ex-convict charged with a curse, blood streaming down his face, killing rage in his eyes. He picked Cutter up bodily and threw him to the floor. The Fixer took the impact on his shoulder and slid several inches, a groan escaping from him as lights burst behind his tightly closed eyelids.

  The chair broke. Its back snapped free from the seat, freeing the chair’s arms and front legs from the frame.

  Cutter lay on the floor, his chest heaving, his eyes slitted. It felt like his whole body was on fire. That lancing pain in his side—that was probably a broken rib.

  But to an extent he was free. He could move his hands, which still had the chair-arms tied to them. The furniture legs were tied to his calves, but they felt loose; there was give in them.

  The animal in him gathered itself. He didn’t let on that he could move with relative ease. He had to use every little advantage he had.

  He lay to the front and left of Difiore and Quindica, whose harsh breathing he could hear. Beyond them, Darrell and his mom were sobbing and praying.

  Sheller’s men had gathered in a loose circle, fascinated by the fight. Even Cray had left his screen to join them.

  And that’s when Cutter spotted it.

  A red dot on the floor in front of him.

  Difiore breathed sharply as it moved almost lazily and climbed up one of the thugs. Just as Sheller shouted a warning, it centered on Cray.

  The bullet split his head like a melon.

  97

  The hitters watched in disbelief as Cray’s body fell. It took time for what had happened to register on them.

  Cutter acted in that moment.

  He heaved off the floor, the chair’s frame clacking against his back. He lunged forward, a large step. Another to gain speed. It was ungainly, but grace wasn’t what he was going for. On the third step he leapt high and stretched his left leg forward in a balletic move, hooked his right behind it and toed the chair’s leg as hard as he could, getting its shattered edge to project beyond his heel.

  Sheller sensed his approach and spun around, his yell becoming a scream when the makeshift spear pierced high on his right side, just beneath the shoulder. He staggered back from the momentum and swung a beefy arm as he was falling, to send Cutter crashing to the floor with a clacking of wood.

  ‘KILL THE WOMEN!’ The Lions’ founder roared as he rolled on the floor, clutching his shoulder.

  His shout, Cutter’s attack, snapped the thugs out of their shock. Several grabbed their AR-15s and brought them up, but before anyone could trigger, the mystery sniper shot off another head. A third hitter’s chest turned into blotches of red as two shots sent him reeling to the floor.

  ‘WE’RE EXPOSED!’ someone cried.

  Cutter crawled, got to his feet, blinked furiously to shake off sweat, was aware of his loud, harsh breathing, felt a large mass approaching but didn’t turn from his mission, which was to break Difiore’s chair leg with a savage blow using the wood still tied to his right hand.

  She shouted a warning as she fell, but it was unneeded as he felt a vise-like grip clamp on his shoulder, turning him around. The approaching fist crashed into his chest with the force of a sledge-hammer.

  Sheller—bloodied, swaying but still appearing indomitable, rage and fury working his face—was snarling.

  He smashed Cutter repeatedly in the chest, belly and neck, hitting so fast that the Fixer couldn’t counter-attack, holding him so tight that he couldn’t escape, even as the mystery shooter kept up the deadly fire, seeking out and cutting down the thugs, who had given up on shooting the prisoners.

  Cutter brought his right hand up defensively, and it was more by luck than design that the chair’s arm still tied to it blocked a blow from Sheller, who yowled as his knuckles met hard wood.

  Another slash of his hand and the shaft crashed into the felon’s head; he roared and flung his captive away.

  Cutter stumbled back. Every breath was like taking in fire. He knew he couldn’t last long. He was dimly aware of shouting and yelling as Difiore had managed to free herself and Quindica and the two had overpowered one hitter. The sniper seemed to be helping them by taking out gangbangers.

  He wheezed and looked down when the chair arms slipped out of their binding and fell to the floor. He grabbed them and brought them up just as Sheller charged with a ferocious yell. His kata moves came to him instinctively, improvised from years of training and practice.

  The left shaft deflected Sheller’s haymaker as he ducked beneath it and jammed the right staff right against his mouth. Two of the felon’s teeth cut through his flesh and fell to the floor. He howled and retreated, brought his hands to his mouth and stared at the blood on them. Uttered a blood-curdling yell and charged again.

  Cutter, running on adrenaline fumes, separated his mind from his body, which was one big hurt. He jabbed, parried and thrust, each blow striking the ex-convict wickedly, drawing grunts and groans, raising welts and drawing blood. But still Sheller came charging.

  Can’t retreat. Darrell’s behind me.

  There was no room to evade, and then the felon�
�s massive arms were around him, lifting him effortlessly, his breath on his face, his eyes glittering in triumph as he squeezed.

  The chair’s back, still attached, was an impediment. It cracked, which momentarily loosened the hold, which gave room for Cutter to smash the shafts on Sheller’s temples, who groaned but kept on tightening his hold.

  Can’t breathe!

  Cutter sucked air painfully as he kept hitting the ex-con. Sweat poured down his face. Someone yelled, faintly in his ears. His vision swam as he took in the detective, who was at a distance, shouting at him, waving an AR-15 and then the fury was rising in him, too. If Sheller could withstand his blows, he could take punishment too and that spike of adrenaline drove him to bite the felon’s shoulder so hard that his jaws felt like they might dislocate, even as he kept up a metronomic beating with his improvised clubs.

  His sight was fading. No, it wasn’t. The lights were going out, being shot out by the sniper until the last one remained. Just as Cutter thought he couldn’t bite any harder or longer and couldn’t club Sheller any more, the man groaned, stepped back and his arms fell away.

  Cutter sobbed when his feet hit the floor. The clubs fell from his limp fingers. He was ready to give up, but then his eyes took in the felon, who was breathing stertorously, his hands clasping and unclasping unconsciously, his head bowed.

  That brought back the memory of Gruber dying in his arms. Dark fury flooded him just as the last light went out, and under the cover of the cold night, Cutter leapt forward, got his arm around Sheller’s neck, and dragged him to the edge of the floor where the building ended and the rest of the city began.

  ‘GROGAN, STOP!’ Difiore yelled.

  He was beyond listening. The ex-con had blood on his hands. Gruber and Horstman were just two of his victims. He remembered the man’s taunting voice, urging his men to rape the women. Lin Shun’s torn shirt.

  With that sneering laugh echoing in his mind, Cutter Grogan, the Fixer, pushed Jeff Sheller with all his strength and sent him windmilling into the night.

  98

  It seemed like an eternity but must have just been a few minutes before Difiore trained a flashlight on him.

  Where did she get that? he thought drunkenly.

  ‘Are you alright?’ She leaned over him and touched his shoulder gently.

  He nodded and winced. Every move hurt. Even drawing breath felt like walking on hot coals. He was on his knees, his hands braced on the floor.

  ‘I told you to stop.’

  ‘I did. I slipped and fell. Why? Where’s Sheller?’ The way he was feeling, he didn’t need to make an exaggerated show of looking behind him. The grimace, the sharp breath, the clutching of his ribs, came naturally.

  ‘You threw him out of the building,’ she accused him.

  ‘I did not,’ he defended himself stoutly. ‘I fell. I must have blacked out for a moment. Next thing I know you’re prodding at me. He must have fallen off the edge. He was in bad shape. Judgment’s gone at that stage.’

  ‘You expect me to believe that?’

  ‘You saw it yourself?’

  ‘Saw?’ she sneered. ‘It was dark. No lights. We saw nothing.’

  ‘I’m on the verge of dying here,’ he said, forcing some spirit into his voice. ‘Anyone else would have tried to help me and shown some sympathy.’

  ‘Dying!’ she snorted but knelt over him and helped him up gently and brought him to the center of the floor, where it was warmer. She uncapped a bottle of water. ‘Gang’s,’ she explained, and held it to his mouth. He drank deeply and sighed gratefully when he had finished.

  He settled to the floor wearily and squinted beyond the glare of the light. Saw Carmel Ward to the side, hugging Darrell tightly. Quindica on a phone. Three thugs on the floor, their hands behind them, their feet bound. A pile of weapons on the floor. Bodies of the dead hitters where they had fallen.

  ‘How did all that happen?’ he whispered.

  ‘You don’t remember?’

  ‘I was occupied.’ His chuckle turned into a groan.

  ‘You broke my chair. That helped me get free. That shooter helped. We got—who was that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he wheezed.

  ‘Grogan. You can’t hold back anymore. Not after what’s happened.’

  ‘I swear,’ he insisted. ‘I don’t know who that was.’

  It was true. He could make a good guess, but he wasn’t certain.

  ‘You should search that other building,’ he bobbed his head at the night. ‘You might get him. Or her.’

  ‘You’re telling me how to do my job?’

  The first wail of a siren sounded as Quindica came over to them.

  ‘He looks bad. How’s he?’

  ‘Grogan will live,’ Difiore said unsympathetically.

  ‘I’m right here,’ Cutter sighed, but they didn’t pay him any attention.

  * * *

  Difiore’s Task Force burst onto the floor. Several ESU members and armed cops followed. Paramedics rushed in and hovered over Cutter at the detective’s command.

  He didn’t resist their help. His consciousness was slipping. Events were blurring, and when he heard Difiore instruct the medics to take care of him and felt her squeeze his forearm, he knew he was dying.

  99

  Cutter woke to a soft, fluffy pillow, a firm bed and the whir of machines.

  He was alone in a hospital room. Plain walls framed with art, a cartoon drawing, a flower vase on a table, beside which was a jug of water and a glass.

  It looked like he was still alive.

  He grunted when he leaned over and poured himself a glass. Drank deeply and replaced it. Checked himself out. He was bare-chested. Shorts. Tape around his ribs. Angry red bruises on his shoulders. Knuckles red and scratched. His legs felt like he had run a marathon. He found more bandages when he fingered his neck and temple.

  He was alive, however, and if he ignored the way his body felt, he seemed functional.

  He lay back and closed his eyes. Promised himself it would be just for a few seconds.

  * * *

  He felt much better the second time he woke. His body still hurt, but instead of the lancing pain, it was a dull ache.

  He climbed out of bed and stood up gingerly. He didn’t sway or feel like blacking out. His clothes were neatly folded on a chair. He grimaced at the tears and blood and dirt on them but slipped them on quickly. Went to the bathroom and looked away quickly at the sight of the blue-ish bruises on his face. Washed and slipped into his shoes. He didn’t find anything else. His phone was missing, as were his wallet and watch.

  It didn’t matter. He peered out cautiously into a busy hallway. Nurses and doctors going about their business. A uniformed cop helping himself at a coffee machine.

  He snuck out before the officer returned and went down the stairs. No one stopped him when he walked out, though he got a few stares.

  Montefiore Medical Center in the Bronx, a signboard said. He flagged a cab and gave his Lafayette address.

  ‘I don’t have money on me,’ he told the Middle Eastern–looking driver, who looked at him suspiciously. ‘But I’ll pay you when we get there.’

  ‘You sure, buddy? I just had my lunch. I’m feeling good. I don’t want you to ruin my day.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You don’t look so good.’

  ‘I don’t feel so good. Can you drive?’

  ‘Maybe you should see a doc?’

  ‘I’ve been to one,’ Cutter sighed. Why did every New Yorker have to have an attitude? ‘He said I should rest at home.’

  That seemed to remind the cab driver that he had a job to do.

  Cutter fiddled with the entertainment screen at the back and brought up a news channel.

  Shootout in Melrose. FBI and NYPD Task Force take out a gang.

  The details were sketchy. All the journalist could report was that a few gang members had been killed and that the commish would make a formal statement in due course. It’s still an ac
tive investigation, the reporter said in signing off.

  They didn’t mention anything about the Lions or white supremacy.

  He wondered why. The answer came to him when the cab drove up to his building.

  Difiore and Quindica don’t want to tip off Sheller’s network.

  He went to his apartment and returned with cash, tipped the driver generously and returned. Climbed into bed with a sigh and was asleep in an instant.

  * * *

  Cutter woke to stillness. The soreness and pain in his body were a reminder of the punishment he had taken. He lay motionless, wondering what it was that had woken him up. Nothing, don’t get paranoid.

  The sounds of the kitchen tap dripping in the sink, a faint honk coming from the street. Nothing else.

  The tap! His eyes flared open. He was particular about turning those off, since he hated the metronomic sound of water leaking.

  There was someone else in the apartment.

  100

  He pressed his palm against the wall at the foot of his bed. A concealed safe door sprang open and a tray slid out noiselessly. Cutter grabbed the Glock and spare magazine and rolled out of bed silently.

  He padded barefoot out of the bedroom. No one in the kitchen or in the spare bedrooms.

  Down the hallway, his gun held high, alert. Shoot first, ask questions later, since he wasn’t wearing armor.

  Living room. Couches empty—

  ‘Don’t shoot,’ Quindica called out from the dining table.

  She and Difiore at their screens, both of them turning at his stealthy approach.

  ‘That can get you killed,’ he growled as he lowered his gun. ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘You’re not the only one with fancy tricks,’ the detective smirked but offered no explanation. ‘Why don’t you get changed?’

  He took the hint and hit the shower. Took his time underneath the spray, letting it wash him down. A wry grin twisted his lips at the way the two women had intruded into his apartment. They helped themselves to my coffee, too.