I must have hit him harder than I thought because he's still out cold, even with all of my wrangling and hoisting. Given Chester’s size, I would have thought he could take a hit better than that. Of course, there’s the possibility that he was so doped up on his own stuff that it only took a little bit of a beating to really put him under, but it couldn’t be avoided.
I stand on the lowest landing of the aged apartment building's fire escape, the bottom rungs of the ladder pulled safely up and away from the sidewalk to make sure no Festers can climb to my position. Below me, Chester is lying unconscious on the wet pavement despite the chilling rain pounding down on us. The wind whistles down the narrow street punctuating the icy rain to add insult to injury. Heavy storm clouds obscure the sky, and in this part of Hell’s Kitchen, there are only a few working street lights struggling to hold back the hazy night.
I’m almost jealous of Chester. He’s blissfully unaware, while I’m getting to enjoy Mother Nature in all of her irritating glory.
Thankfully, no Festers have strayed this way yet, but as soon as he starts to move that's going to change.
Getting him here wasn't that hard. Neither was finding him.
There's a cheesy little club where daring rich kids hang out at night, dancing and getting wasted. It's a weird little place – half bar, half sleazy hotel. They have to keep rooms for the patrons, because once they're in for the night, only the gutsiest would risk going home before sunrise.
While researching Chester last year, I found out it was a place he often went to make deals or get high himself. Sure enough, it only took a few hours staking the place out before he came along. I met him in the alley and took him down before he even knew what hit him.
I took his keys, threw him in the trunk of his own car, and voilà. I'm not too excited about having to walk back to my motorcycle later, but I couldn't very well bring him here on the Hellcat with him flopping around like a piece of soggy bacon.
Movement catches my eye, and I follow the line of the rope looped through the railing of the fire escape down to Chester where it's tied securely around his chest like a harness. He raises his head a little and blinks stupidly in the rain splattering his face.
Showtime.
Reaching over to my backpack filled with the supplies I took from the Soho, I pull out a steel encased flashlight and begin banging hard on the metal railing. Two things happen. The noise helps cut through Chester's fogginess, and I hear the screeching call of Festers in the distance as they begin to close in on the sound.
I'm in luck, because they're close. Chester looks up with uncomprehending eyes fueled by fear. He sees me banging on the rail and hears the hunting cries of the on-comers, then stands quickly but shakily and runs in the opposite direction, still oblivious to the fact that he's tied up.
In a few steps he hits the end of his slack, the sudden stop nearly yanking him off of his feet. From here, I can hear his wheezing breath as he turns back to me, realizing for the first time the true horror of his situation.
He claws madly at the knot for several long seconds, then begins to whimper at the sickening knowledge that he'll never get it loose in time. Now he looks up again and runs directly underneath my fire escape.
“Are you crazy!? Please pull me up or cut me loose! What did I ever do to you?”
I stare, unmoving, unresponsive to his pleas, and he begins to scratch uselessly again at the knot, letting out a painful scream as one of his fingernails breaks off at the effort. Blood quickly covers the knot, and now it's both tight and even slicker than it was from the rain alone.
A terrible shriek rifles down the street, and Chester freezes in complete panic as a group of Festers rounds the corner at breakneck speed.
He starts wailing like a little girl and begins begging again.
“Please, let me up, please God, please!”
The Festers continue their mad romp towards him, and his cries become more and more desperate.
I make of show of considering his request and finally start to haul him up into the air a little at a time.
“Hurry, please hurry!”
“Alright, alright,” I say feigning unconcern. “Keep your shirt on.”
I continue to pull him up about ten feet, then let the rope jerk to a stop.
“That's about good enough for now,” I say, tying off my end of the rope.
“What?”
The crazy-mad-pleading look in his eyes intensifies. The Festers are right below him now, and they begin jumping up trying to grab his feet. A couple are successful in wrapping a couple of fingers around the toes of his shoes, but he's just high enough for them not to be able to get a grip.
Crossing my arms, I lean over the rail, oblivious to his cries for help.
“Ah, looks like I got that height just about perfect,” I say loudly over the Festers below.
Chester is still pleading for his life, and I'm suddenly tired of this game and just want the information I need.
“Why are you doing this?” he says again.
“Well, pal, I need money. It's really as simple as that. And I happen to know that you're a big-time dealer with connections keeping you off of the cops’ radar. The way I see it, I'll let you slide, provided you give me what I want.”
He's still writhing and whimpering, but I see a flicker of hope cross his features.
“Sure, sure,” he stammers. “Anything, just let me up, please.”
“That's a good chap. Very cooperative of you. I need forty grand.”
“What!? I don't have that kinda stash, man!”
I sigh deeply for show. “In that case...” I reach for the knot and start untying it, prompting another wail from the punk swinging at the other end. “You see, I think you do have it. But if you're unwilling to donate, I'm going to let your little friends down there eat you an inch at a time; although, I don't expect you to survive much past them munching on your feet. You know, blood loss and all that.”
“Wait, wait, wait, wait! I can get it, I swear. I can do it.”
Pausing, I lean over the railing. “Okay. I'm listening.”
Chapter 10
Chester didn't disappoint. He has a sale tonight in an old warehouse – a large buy going down worth sixty thousand in cash. It didn't take too much for me to convince him not to show up. I just told him if he did, he would never make it inside the building alive. I also told him if his clients didn't show and I suspected he tipped them off, or if he ever mentioned me to anyone, I would hunt him down and kill him slowly.
Despite what I had just put him through, he looked a little doubtful at first, as if perhaps he wasn't fully convinced of my hunting abilities. So I reminded him of our meeting in the Chrysler building and helped him remember that I am the Sweeper who “tried to kill” Cedric Archer.
He seemed pretty convinced after that. In fact, I think he wet his pants, but it was hard to tell because of the rain. Of course, I wouldn't really kill him, but there was no need for him to know I'm such a softy.
I was true to my word once he divulged all of the particulars about this deal. I pulled him up a little higher out of reach of the Festers and left him dangling in safety. I’m sure someone’s found him by now. Maybe.
Now I crouch like a stone gargoyle in the rafters of an old warehouse. The concrete floor twenty feet below is nearly indistinguishable from the surrounding darkness, but my eyes have adjusted enough that it shouldn’t be a problem.
At exactly ten o'clock, I hear a rhythmic thumping on the east wall of the building, the prearranged code Chester gave to his buyers to identify themselves and let him know the coast is clear from their vantage point. A moment later, the side door opens, and five men slink into the room wearing thick clothes, surely concealing weapons. The man in the rear is carrying a large gym bag, presumably the money.
One of the mean wears a balaclava. He whispers something indistinct, even for my hearing, and the front three thugs fan out, pulling out guns and flashlights and sweeping the int
erior of the building. After a minute they return, no longer bothering to be quiet.
“All clear,” one of them says.
The man in the balaclava speaks again. “Chester ain't here yet. That little twerp best not have skipped out on us.”
“No way man. He's good. He's always come through before. He's good to his word.
Balaclava harrumphs. “Fine, but I still don't like it.”
They meander farther into the building, and I wait. It takes a while, but finally they're right under me, and I calculate my moves in a fraction of a second.
In my right hand, I squeeze the carbon grip of a Wynchel Two-One. It's more a less a glorified taser, but unlike the ones that fire darts with wires connected to them, the Wynchel fires thimble sized metallic projectiles that give off a powerful charge upon impact. They don't fly fast enough to penetrate skin, but you'd have to be faster than a cobra to dodge one. I took it from the armory at the Soho just in case I needed a non-lethal weapon along with the real firepower I took.
I used to mock the small gun because all I was concerned about at the time was killing Festers, and the Wynchel would barely even stun them. But now I’m glad I brought it along.
In my other hand, I hold three of the most important items in a Sweeper's arsenal. Ball bearings. Since Festers are attracted by sound, ball bearings are a great tool for distraction, and I think they're going to work just as well on the morons below me.
I launch them towards the back of the warehouse, and they clang loudly against the metal walls. The five men spin in that direction, cursing wildly, flashlights and guns coming up.
I leap from the rafter, my brain going into overdrive, and everything in my perception slows to a snail’s pace.
I swing the Wynchel in a sweeping arc, three men hit with the electrified slugs by the time I'm halfway to the ground. In the next fraction of a second, my knee slams between the shoulder blades of the man carrying the gym bag, his body crashing hard to the ground beneath my weight and providing me a relatively comfortable landing.
Four down and one to go.
The last man spins my way, a Glock 36 fanning in my direction, but my actions are still ramped, and he doesn't even make it all the way through his turn before my left hand blocks his gun arm and I put a shot into his gut. He shakes madly as the voltage courses through him, his eyes frozen in a terrified stare, and then he's down.
I put the Wynchel back in the holster strapped to my thigh, quickly look into the gym bag to verify the money is there, and walk out without looking back.
It's time to meet the Raven.
I walk into the confessional booth, shut the door, and the screen slides open from the other side. I can see a vague, hooded figure through it, definitely not priestly garb. I can’t help myself and say, “Bless me father, for I have sinned.” No response and apparently no sense of humor. I suppose it’s up to me to talk first. “I’m guessing you’re not a priest?”
“Hardly,” the voice in the next booth says– a woman’s voice.
“Raven?”
“Yes." She pauses. "I’m very careful in my line of work. I don’t trust easily. You should know I have a gun pointing at you right now in case you try anything stupid.” She speaks softly, not quite a whisper, but she has an accent that sounds Asian in origin.
“Fair enough. I wouldn't expect anything less from a professional.”
Raven just grunts. “You know my price,” she says. It’s not a question.
“I do. And I’m willing to double it in assurance for your silence once the job is done.”
“I don't betray my clients,” she says sounding miffed, the reaction of a true professional.
“My apologies,” I say. “I don't know you. But you're rep seems solid.”
She ignores my comment. “Thirty thousand? That’s very generous of you. Just what is it that you want me to do?”
“I’ll tell you, but if you refuse the job, silence will still be of the utmost importance. If things go south, I’ll blame you, and I promise you won’t be able to hide. Am I making myself clear?"
The shadow of the Raven next to me sits a little straighter and I can almost hear her teeth grinding in anger.
“Save your foolish threats,” she says annoyed. “I’m not afraid of you, and I have friends in very high places.”
She’s speaking a little louder now, and I can hear her natural tone a bit better. There’s something about the timbre of her voice, the cadence of her speech. It’s familiar to me. I think hard for a moment to recall where I’ve heard it before. Realization pours in, and I recognize it as the voice of a ghost.
“Ming?”
That’s all it takes. In an instant she’s up with the barrel of her gun pointing through the screen at my head.
“Who are you? How do you know my name? You have two seconds before I give you another eye hole!”
I raise my hands where she can see them. “Easy,” I say. “It’s me. It’s Cray.”
“Cray?” A long moment of stunned silence passes as she processes the information. She leans closer to the screen to try to see me better. “What on earth are you doing here?” Thankfully, she lowers the gun.
“I could ask you the same question. You’re supposed to be dead.” More silence.
“Not here,” she says. “Just to be extra safe. There’s a stairwell in the back left corner of the church. A short hall at the top leads to a doorway to the roof. Meet me there in ten minutes.”
“You’re not going to bolt are you?”
“You’ll see in ten minutes,” she says and leaves without waiting for me to reply.
I set my mind on autopilot to time ten minutes and sit there thinking, swearing under my breath. Ming is Raven! I can’t believe it. She's a Sweeper, or rather, she was.
Up until a couple of years ago, she swept for Atlanta. Very talented young lady, excellent fighter, and as it so happens, an excellent hacker. But that was all before she went missing. One night she went out on patrol and never came back. The only thing they ever found was some of her clothing, mangled and covered in blood, her tracking device still attached.
Archer took it hard. Ming was one of his favorites, a second prodigy of sorts, after me. Or at least, that’s how he acted at the time. He’s since proved he doesn’t care much about anybody as long as he gets what he wants.
After seven minutes, I rise and exit the tiny confessional booth. There is no one else in the church to be seen, not surprising given the late hour, and I make my way to the stairwell she described and find the door to the roof just as promised. I take the steps two at a time and emerge into the night air. The shadows atop the old church are deep. If she's up here, I can't see her.
I close my eyes and concentrate on listening. It only takes a moment before I hear the footsteps, almost imperceptible. They would be to anyone but me, but even so, she’s not trying to hide and walks right up beside me and leans against the rail that runs the length of the rooftop on this side.
“Well this is awkward,” she says and laughs lightly. “I’m supposed to be dead, and you’re a wanted criminal.” If she’s nervous, she doesn’t show it. I notice again the sing-song lilt of her voice. Her dad came to the States not long before The Virus hit, and she managed to hang on to a little of her accent.
Ming was the daughter of a single dad. I don't know anything about her mother, but he emigrated from China when she was still a child. He was some kind of military contractor, and that's how she got hooked up with Archer from what I understand. She's a couple of years older than me, but we went through part of Sweeper training together before going our separate ways, me to New York and her to Atlanta.
I look her over. Her hair is as black as her namesake, darker even than Mira's. Unlike Mira, she stands almost as tall as me, her frame more muscularly built than most girls. Ming was always an attractive girl, but now her face sports several small scars, evidence of the job she used to have. She wears a dark leather trench coat, buttoned once. Underneat
h, I see multiple bulges in various places. Weapons. Combat boots peek out from under the hem of the coat.
A hundred questions rattle around in my mind, but I settle on the most relevant one first. "Now that you know it's me, do you still want the job?"
"I couldn't turn it down now if I wanted to. Call it morbid curiosity," she says. She shifts to the side, an unconsciously defensive gesture. Or maybe not unconscious. If I was in her shoes, I probably wouldn't trust me either. I take a step back to give her more space.
"Don't be too sure. It hits close to home."
That gives her pause.
"And," I say, "If you walk away, I'll still have to kill you if you mention it to anyone else."
She laughs. I don't, and her smile quickly disappears, but then I smile and we laugh together. The tension in her body relaxes a little.
"Cray, what have you got yourself into? I've got no love for The Organization anymore, but you tried to kill Archer."
"And you really believe that?"
"I don't know what to believe," she says.
I'm not in the mood for small talk. Old reunion or not, I have more important things looming.
"I'll tell you my story if you tell me yours," I say.
She thinks it over for a minute, her gaze drifting from me out over the city's skyline. Her eyes dart here and there, and I recognize the precision of the Sweeper still lurking inside of her, the constant scanning of the shadows for the things we used to hunt.
She finally seems to make up her mind and speaks without turning.
"I couldn't take it anymore."
"Sweeping?"
She starts to say something, then stops. I see the internal struggle in her eyes and I can tell whatever she's thinking isn't something she likes to talk about. I wait. I don't want to push her. I still need her help, but more than that, she was, is, a friend. I mean, I know I hardly ever talked to her because I was scared of all the girls, but we were comrades. We had something in common.
The Night Sweeper: Assassin: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 2) Page 8
