by R. A. McGee
The SUV narrowly fit into an alleyway between two multi-story buildings. Metal fire escapes clung to the outside of the old buildings, and the pavement in the alley was old and crumbling.
Clark parked the car and reached into the back seat, pulling out Hakagawa’s submachine gun. “It’s the building on the right?”
“Definitely.”
“You sure?”
“That depends,” Lucy said.
“On?”
“Whether or not you want a knife in your face for asking me if I’m sure.”
“Fair enough. Stay put, I’ll be back in a minute.”
Lucy’s hand darted out and she grabbed Clark’s arm. “Uh-uh. I’m coming with.”
“No way. You stay here. Stay safe.”
“Listen, I’m the one who knows which room it’s in.”
“You said it’s on the third floor?”
“Yeah, I counted when he dragged me up the stairs. I had a hood on, but it was almost threadbare and I could still see a little. I should be able to recognize the door again.”
“Lucy...”
“Lucy nothing. I have just as much right to go up there as you do. Besides, you can barely stand up. In case you haven't noticed, you aren’t doing too great. So let me come. I can help.”
Clark put his hand on top of hers. “You realize that whatever you saw or stuck your hands in back in the woods at my place is going to pale in comparison to actually seeing someone killed, right? You sure you want that in your mind?”
“Just give me a gun,” Lucy said.
Clark hesitated for a beat, then pulled out his pistol and handed it to the technical officer. “Okay. Just don’t shoot me, savvy?”
“I got it.”
The pair got out of the vehicle and Clark pointed to the building. “This one, right?”
Lucy walked up to the back door and pointed to the sign. A boxing gym. Not the type where overweight housewives went to get their daily cardio in, but an old-school place, where people sweated and fought and bled for their dreams.
“You did say it smelled like sweat and ammonia,” Clark said.
He twisted the long, metal handle; it was locked. He twisted again, to the point that the metal groaned underneath the strain, then shouldered through the door. The wooden jamb splintered and allowed the pair access.
Clark stepped in first, his borrowed subgun up and scanning the area. There was a backroom with deep plastic sinks, and further, the main area of the boxing gym. There were heavy bags held together with duct tape, mirrors that ran the length of the walls, and, elevated on a platform, a full-sized boxing ring.
The windows on the front of the building let the outside light through. In this case, the light was pulsating and shifting colors. It seemed to be tied in with the faint hint of a bassline, coming from speakers somewhere. Despite the light flashing and shifting, it wasn’t tough to see that the bottom floor was empty. Clark turned and looked for Lucy, who was turned around, looking at the splintered door behind them. She pointed her finger up expectantly, and Clark nodded.
Through the back room and past the sinks, there was a small door that led to a rusted set of metal stairs. Clark stepped lightly on the first, and there was a slight creak. Feet as far to the outside of the stairs as he could get them, where the stairs were supported the best, Clark methodically made his way to the bend of the first landing.
Lucy held her gun tightly at her side, and was so close to him that they were nearly sharing a stair. Clark turned and put his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t step on me,” he whispered.
“Sorry,” Lucy mouthed.
The next section was clear, and Clark moved quickly upstairs to the landing in front of the second-floor door. Clark raised his eyebrows and pointed to the door.
Lucy shook her head, held up three fingers, and pointed up. Clark nodded and repeated the process once more: working his way to the bend in the stairs, then up to the next floor.
Lucy bumped into him when he stopped outside the third-floor door. Clark looked back, exasperated look on his face.
“Sorry,” she mouthed again. She reached past Clark and put her finger on the peeling sticker of Andre the Giant. “This is it.”
Clark put his ear to the door, listening for anything. There were no voices, only the omnipresent bassline, thumping from the large set of speakers somewhere. He turned the handle, and it spun freely in place. Realizing the lock was broken, Clark pushed gently on the door and it swung open.
Stepping through the doorway, Clark surveyed the area behind the sights of his gun. It was mostly open space. Industrial carpeting ran throughout, and there were several support pillars that dotted the area. At the end, two doors sat closed. There was a flat-screen TV, the cable running unrestrained over the floor, and a small pile of garbage next to several folding canvas camping chairs.
As on the ground floor, there were lights beaming through the window, strobing and twisting. It cast the area in a strange haze, like a morbid disco.
Clark paused, then confidently stepped through the entryway until he came to the first white pillar. Lucy remained in the doorway, waiting.
Leaning around the pillar, Clark saw nothing. He motioned for Lucy to follow him. His head spun for a moment and he leaned on the pillar, waiting for Lucy to catch up. He breathed deeply, steadying himself, and vowed that if he didn’t pass out, he’d drink a whole gallon of fluids when he got back to the car.
Lucy shook his shoulder and whispered, “You okay?”
“Fine, fine,” Clark said quietly.
His spins gone, Clark led Lucy down the room. There was a duffle bag on the floor next to the chair. Clark pointed at it to Lucy, but didn’t stop. He wanted to get to the end of the room and see what was behind the closed doors.
On his right, the same type and array of windows that illuminated the boxing gym let a pulsating light stream through. It cast a pattern of changing colors throughout the space.
Ten feet from the door, Clark turned to Lucy, to tell her to be ready.
He didn’t see the man crouched in the exposed rafters of the place, only taking note when the man dropped down on him and knocked him to the ground, sending his gun skittering out of his hands across the floor.
Sixty-Eight
Clark hit the floor and rolled, just in time to see the man backhand Lucy and send her sprawling to the floor. The man had a crooked nose and short blond hair, and walked with his chest puffed out. From Clark’s vantage point, the man seemed huge, like the professional wrestlers he’d watched as a child.
Blondie brought his foot up, stomping down toward Clark, who rolled out of the way at the last moment. He hopped to his feet, the look on his face not belying the fact that his head was spinning from the impact of being knocked down. “Where’s Keever?”
“You just missed him. Went out to kill some pussy,” Blondie said as he charged Clark.
Clark stepped out of the way, but not before eating a shot to the ribs.
Clark’s world came alive in a flash of pain, white-hot and in front of his eyes. The man had gotten him right where he’d been shot. Just a lucky punch, but as Clark winced, the man smiled. His face was illuminated by the colorful flashing lights.
“That hurt, huh?”
Clark clenched his teeth and bounced on the balls of his feet, creating a bit of distance between himself and the man. He needed the distance to stay alive and give himself time to solve the massive puzzle standing in front of him.
Blondie stepped in with three slow jabs. Clark blocked all three, grabbed the man’s shirt and fired a volley of knees into his midsection, doubling the man over.
The big man coughed and stepped back. Clark looked at his subgun, lying on the floor. He reached to his hip, for his pistol, but it was gone, dropped somewhere by Lucy as she fell. “Where’s Keever?”
“That moron’ll be back soon enough. Too bad you won’t get to see him.”
Clark took a step toward the subgun, but the man circled and st
ood between it and Clark. “If he isn’t here, and you don’t like him, why are we doing this? Let me get my friend and I’m out of here.”
“Hate Lester, but I like his money. He brought me on to handle a disavowed operator. I recognize your face from the briefing, so I might as well do this now. Save me the trouble of finding you later.” Blondie stepped toward Clark.
Clark’s ribs ached and his head was fuzzy; his mouth hung open, unable to breathe through his already broken nose. “Your call. Just remember you had a chance to leave.”
Clark stepped toward the advancing man and front-kicked him in the knee. It was a move that would have buckled the average man, but Blondie barely registered it. Stepping back, Clark kicked Blondie’s leg again, trying to destroy his kneecap and tear anything he could.
Blondie grunted and stepped back, putting his weight gingerly on his foot. “Quit kicking me.” As the man started to speak again, Clark kicked him a third time. This time Blondie buckled, stumbling backward and falling against a support beam.
Clark darted forward and palmed Blondie’s face, slamming his head straight into the concrete pole.
Before Clark could do it again, Blondie grunted and cracked two punches into Clark’s side. The injured side. Unable to suppress his growl of pain, Clark stepped back, arms tight to his body.
“Bad ribs, huh?” Blondie said, shaking his head as he lurched upright from the support column.
Clark spat, trying to hide what his opponent already knew.
Blondie faked left, then caught Clark with a massive hook as he darted right.
Clark stumbled against the back wall of the room. His balance was already bad, and since it hurt to breathe too deeply, he was lightheaded. The hook from Blondie brought a flash of lightning to his head.
Crushed against the wall, Clark felt the room close in around him. He struggled, but Blondie’s grip was firm. He kicked out, a last-ditch effort, and was lucky to hit Blondie in the balls. Despite the big man’s groans, he didn’t let go. So Clark pushed forward, tripping Blondie and sending the man’s bulk crashing to the floor.
Blondie’s grip stayed strong, and he pulled Clark down with him. Clark scrambled to end up on top, his best chance to survive, but as he did, he was hit with another wave of pain. And another, and another. Blondie was slamming right hands into Clark.
His weakness had been exposed, and the ruthless man he fought was exploiting it.
Clark’s head swam, and he felt something crack under the onslaught. He rolled off the man, trying to get away and get some distance. Instead, Blondie grabbed him and pulled him back, scooting on top of Clark, pinning him to the floor.
Blondie rained punches down on Clark’s upper torso.
Despite having the enormous man on top of him, Clark gave as good as he got, slipping punches from the bottom, dropping elbows into Blondie’s thighs and groin.
When the man leaned over, Clark grabbed both sides of his shirt collar and crossed his hands in front of the man’s neck.
Basic jiu-jitsu. Clark pulled with all his rapidly waning strength, trying to cut off the blood flow to Blondie’s head.
Just as Clark felt the man’s struggles starting to falter, Blondie found his ribs again. It was too much for Clark, and he involuntarily released his chokehold, elbow dropping protectively to his side. The big man pushed up and, at his full height above Clark, raised his fist to drop it down.
There was a loud bang and a warm, wet mist blanketed Clark. Blondie recoiled, hands reaching for his back. “What the fuc—”
He was cut off by another shot, this time tearing through his shoulder. Blondie rolled off Clark, trying to escape the flying bullets. Clark looked over and saw Lucy, on her knees, gun leveled in one hand shooting at Blondie.
“Here,” Clark screamed, holding his hand out toward the girl. She tossed Clark his Glock. He caught it by the slide, flipped the gun around in his hand, stretched it toward Blondie, and pulled the trigger.
The man’s head exploded, leaving nothing but an empty shell. Clark dropped back to the floor, breathing deeply, trying to stop the world from spinning.
He felt someone crawl up next to him and put their head on his arm. Lucy lay there, legs sprawled underneath her. “I thought you were supposed to be good at this.”
“Eh. Who asked you?”
Sixty-Nine
After what seemed like hours, Clark rolled over on his knees and pushed himself to his feet, extending his hand to help Lucy up. He made it a point to keep her facing away from the newly headless Blondie.
“You okay here for a minute?”
Lucy nodded and Clark leveled his pistol at the end of the room. He believed Blondie when he’d said that Keever wasn’t there, but he needed to be sure.
The areas beyond both doors were empty.
Clark lowered his pistol and shuffled back to Lucy, who was looking out the window.
“We gotta go,” Clark said.
“But what about Keever?”
“Keever isn’t here.”
“But his hostage?”
“I don’t think there is one,” Clark said. “You heard him talk about killing something? Meathead over here said Keever told him he was going to ‘kill some pussy.’ That does seem like the kind of ignorant shit he’d say. Think maybe you overheard him out of context?”
Lucy nodded. “You’re probably right. I guess I should be happy there isn’t anyone else that sicko is trying to kill. But I’m not.”
“Lucy, maybe we should—”
“No. I’m not leaving. He tied me up. Tried to kill me.”
“I understand,” Clark said, leaning against a pole to steady himself. “And if I could, I’d make him pay for every bit of it. But he’s not here.”
“Won’t he come back here? We could just wait for him.”
“Why would he come back? To pay this big idiot?” Clark gestured with his head. “No chance. This guy would have sat here forever, waiting for Keever to come back. Face it, dude is gone.”
Clark watched as Lucy subtly bobbed her head to the far-off music. He looked down from the third-floor space and saw the source of the music and lights that filtered into the room.
Across the street was a nightclub. The flashing lights grew in intensity closer to their source, and the music was thumping and driving from big speakers near the doorway. People were lined up outside the club despite the weather, and all appeared to be wearing strange costumes.
A large banner hung on the side of the building that read The Gala—Voted Best Fetish Nightclub 3 Years Running. It was the kind of place Clark would pay to stay away from.
“You said Keever was a freak, right?”
“You tell me. How are your toes?”
“Do you think there’s any chance he’s in that club?”
“Doubtful. I think he’s in the wind.”
“What if he isn’t? What if he’s just hanging out, looking for women? Can we go check?”
“Lucy, I don’t think we should—”
“Please?”
Clark sighed. He turned around and looked at the room. There was nothing left for him to do here. In fact, the only thing waiting for him was McHenry. He’d gotten so sidetracked, what with the Keever situation and Miri and Lucy, that he’d taken his eyes off the prize.
McHenry’s phone had rung, and that was what ultimately mattered.
Still, he didn't have the heart to tell his friend no. She’d been tied up, creeped out by Keever, almost blown up. If she wanted to try to find him, how could he deny her?
“Fine. But I’m not wearing those chaps,” he said, pointing at the crowd below him.
Ensuring they left nothing behind, the pair went downstairs. Clark stopped in the boxing gym’s washing space and cleaned his face off. Blondie’s blood had stained Clark’s shirt and he peeled it off, pulling a clean shirt off the gym’s counter. It was black, form-fitting, and long-sleeved, the type of getup people trained in.
They exited the gym into the alley and w
alked around the building. The line for the fetish club seemed miles long. Clark had no clue there were that many half-dressed fetish enthusiasts willing to brave a cold night.
Some of the people had skimpy costumes on, made of leather with brass rings. Others were dressed like stuffed animals, while others appeared to be totally normal. It was the average ones that unnerved Clark the most.
Lucy tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the front of the line. “Follow my lead.”
The pair bypassed the line, making their way up the concrete sidewalk. As they went, the lights from inside the club spilled out and the bass from the huge speakers inside thumped in Clark’s chest. Lucy walked straight up to the doorman. He was dressed classy, wearing a big black peacoat and a small mask, like Kato from The Green Lantern.
“Hey, I’m a blogger,” Lucy said, loud enough to be heard over the thumping music. “I’ve heard this is the spot. If you let me and my guy in, I’ll give you guys a shout-out. I get three million hits a month.”
The bouncer looked them both up and down. “I can comp a few people a night. What’s your thing?”
“He’s my sub,” Lucy said.
“You did that to his face?” the doorman said.
With his busted nose and various other injuries, from both Mexico and since he’d been back in the States, Clark knew he looked like stir-fried shit.
Lucy turned around and full-on slapped Clark in the face. “What do you think?”
The man smiled and opened the rope, allowing Clark and Lucy to enter. Lucy walked straight in, and the man grabbed Clark’s elbow as he passed. “She looking for new clients?”
Clark shook his head and followed the small woman through a brick alcove and into a building. It was pitch-dark, punctuated by flashes that temporarily bathed the club in light. The effect could be creepy, and if someone was moving slow, left the appearance of a herky-jerky stop-motion process.
“Sorry I slapped you. I had to sell it.”
“Next time, let’s work out a story that doesn’t involve me getting bitch-slapped.”
