by Richard Cain
He heard “Fuck, shit.” The voice was Morrison’s, it had to be.
Nastos lay still, only able to hope that Carscadden had not come around the wall yet. Christian struggled to breathe and left the world with a death rattle. Nastos remained alone in the room, except for the corpse and the killer.
He heard another whimper and took a chance. “Morrison?”
“Nastos?”
“Yeah. It’s me. Carscadden, you okay?”
His voice came from the hallway. “Yeah, coming in.”
Carscadden shuffled along the floor and landed next to him. Morrison crawled over too. Nastos was surprised when he felt the hot gun barrel jab into his hand. “Jesus Christ.”
“Sorry.”
“Give me that.”
Nastos dumped the mag and counted the bullets. “I shot that big Red fucker.”
Carscadden added, “I gave Red a few extra.”
Nastos continued, “And Morrison, you just shot Christian dead. That leaves Vince, Radix and the unknown.”
Carscadden asked, “Where is Radix?”
Morrison answered, “We were separated when the bullets flew. I have no idea where he went. Or who fired the first few rounds.”
Nastos hoped it had been Viktor shooting but didn’t think he could have possibly made it in time. “For all we know it’s more bikers.” He gulped. “We’re going to have to find the panel box and turn the lights on. The last thing we want to do is shoot Radix or another friendly.”
Morrison grunted. Nastos reloaded the counted rounds. They had eight.
They fell silent and Nastos took a moment to just listen. There was no sound of anyone creeping down the hallways and he figured out why. Vince had nothing to gain by coming to look for them, he was at home here. All he had to do was sit and wait like a spider waiting for something to get stuck in its web. Movement was suicidal even with the staircase so close. “We need a distraction.”
Carscadden asked, “Like what?”
“Like I don’t know what, but staying down here for the rest of my life while he may have backup coming, I’ll take my chances with the staircase.”
Nastos took a moment to ponder if Viktor would arrive in time, or even be able to help. Carscadden pushed down on Nastos’ shoulder as he rose to his feet. “Okay, how do you want to do this? Lead with the gun to the staircase? After that, you cover the back until we get up to the first landing, after that the gun goes to the front again.”
Nastos considered it. “Too complicated, you’re overthinking. We move fast, full speed. Once we get to the stairs the only threat is up. If any bullets come down, I’ll return fire.”
“Unless you get hit.”
“Right, unless I get hit. Then we’re all dead.”
They linked up, Morrison last with a grip on Carscadden’s belt and Carscadden with a grip on Nastos’ shoulder. They moved low and fast for the stairs. Nastos’ foot made it to the first step before he heard the gunfire behind him. He charged faster, reassured by the tightening grip that Carscadden had on his shoulder. There were loyalties to Carscadden bordering on brotherhood. With Morrison he had shared the badge.
After the second landing he realized that, although he had committed to memory the number of turns when he came down the stairs, now that information was gone, erased by adrenaline numbing the pain of exertion and fueling the drive upward.
After the turn on the staircase Nastos slowed. There was enough concrete between them and Vince, who he hoped was downstairs. Now he had to hope the door wasn’t locked.
Morrison huffed from below, “We there?”
“Soon.” He considered passing the gun back but only briefly. With a hand out he finally felt the touch of the cold metal. He stopped abruptly and Carscadden and Morrison plowed into him. “Easy, easy.”
“Sorry,” came two replies.
He pointed the gun skyward and felt for the door knob. “I’ve got the door. You guys ready?”
Morrison sounded terrified. “For what?”
“For anything. Low and fast, for the closest exit. Got it?”
Carscadden echoed. “Got it.”
The door opened to a surreal world. A wall of noise, dancing girls, men cheering in a dark place lit by neon lights and sports highlights played on big-screen TVs. Nastos turned his eyes to the stage. A woman slowly emerged from between the curtains, her measured pace in rhythm to the music. Waist-length black hair, pale, alabaster skin, exaggerated curves in a black bodice and a coy, seductive smirk.
It was unreal to see that nothing had changed from the last time he had stood there. He felt his arms go slack, the gun hanging weakly at his side. He wheeled around at the sound of a loud thump behind him. It was Morrison, slamming the steel door shut.
Morrison asked, “What happened to low and fast?”
Carscadden glanced at the girl. “I was just waiting for you.”
Nastos felt tears of joy well up and nearly smiled for what felt like the first time in his life. His joy was interrupted, though, when he glanced around the upper balcony and saw the attire of the men who were in control of the bar.
Vince charged up the stairs at full speed, firing off a few useless rounds. It was too much to hope for a direct hit but he had enough ammunition to spread some fear. All he could do was hope to cause some injury with fragmentation from the concrete walls. During a pause he heard the metal door sliding open and the rush of noise from the dance music reverberating down the walls.
When the door closed again he paused to consider his options. He could stay in the basement until the bar was closed and hope the entire upstairs wasn’t filled with the Hells Angels and their Big Red Machine. If they were up there he was trapped until they decided to come down and get him. No, the only option is to get out right now, while I can slip away in the crowd. Vince crept up the remaining stairs quietly. At the last landing, in total darkness, he listened again and confirmed that he was alone. He lowered his gun, slowly pressed against the door then pushed it open.
Again he was hit with the wall of sound, red neon lights flashing, dark figures rushing around, the waitresses and a wall of men milling around the centre stage. The place was surprisingly busy. His eyes scanned the faces and he began to recognize some. Near the north wall were various hang-arounds, reprobates and prospects for the Hells Angels, maybe a dozen of them, and all the ones that were on the Devil Dogs hit list that he had given to Red. Stern faces, bathed in red light, demanding blood. On the south side were nearly equal numbers of his own people. Both sides were engaged in a stare-down. Scarred and ugly faces. Young and old, the proven warriors, the cowards alike. Two rival biker gangs, currently involved in open war, certainly all armed, in one bar. The atmosphere of the bar had changed. The men who had come to cheat on their wives or just to have some naked women show them some attention were trying to avoid eye contact with the bikers and nervously finishing their drinks.
Vince checked the exits and saw they were blocked. Each biker gang had a door controlled by a large man who had co-opted the responsibility of security. Vince checked the bar and saw a man, a Hells Angel, in a heated discussion with the owner, Jen. She was brushing her hair back, pursing her lips and cringing while he jabbed a finger at her. A feeling of dread washed over him. She wasn’t going to call the cops. All he wanted her to think about was getting out of here alive before the gunfire started.
Between the heavy beats and pulses of light, Vince saw Nastos, ducking down at a table. He moved and saw that he was with two other men, Morrison and the lawyer. They were trapped too. Someone bumped into him hard and when he turned around he saw that it was someone from his gang, who didn’t look happy.
It was Miles. Long black hair, facial hair so black he had the illusion of a full beard in two days of not shaving. A thick jaw and full lips. The guys call him Face. His good looks drew women’s attention almost as much a
s the Harley and gang tattoos. He was a man Vince both liked and respected. Miles growled, “Drop by for a cheese sandwich?”
“What?”
“Word is you’re a fucking rat, Vince. We got a text from Christian over an hour ago that he thought you were setting him up. You didn’t like him taking the top job. He told us to come here. We show up and two chapters of the fucking Angels are already inside. You tell me you’re not a rat?”
Vince shrugged.
“And where the hell in Christian?”
Vince considered his options. “Here. I’ll show ya.”
He pulled out his gun and fired two rounds into Miles’ perfect face. As Miles fell backward the dancer on the stage froze in place as gore from the dead man’s brains dribbled down her legs.
30
Karen was crouching behind a black SUV in the parking lot. The air had become cooler than the dew point and droplets of water were welling up like frigid tears on the hood of the vehicle. She had given Nastos the only chance she could and she hoped that it was enough. She pulled out her BlackBerry and checked for messages for what felt like the twentieth time. Nothing. She decided to keep it in her hand. At this point it was more useful than the gun she held, still loosely pointed at the front door of the Boom Boom Room. So far she had received no return message from Viktor, nor had she heard from Jacques since she had told him that it was all going down here and now.
Then a car, a black Chevy Impala, screeched to a halt in the parking lot. Jacques bolted from the driver’s seat but slowed after he had run a few paces. He must have been expecting a wild west shootout or dozens of shell-shocked people milling around. Instead there was no one except Karen hiding behind an SUV.
“Karen?”
She waved frantically and he reluctantly jogged over. “What the hell, Karen? I was expecting World War Three.”
“Trust me, it’s happening right now.”
“All I hear is stripper music. Aerosmith, I think.”
“Did you call the cops?”
He exhaled and turned a crinkled face to her. “Oh yeah, I called. Any minute now about forty cops, the Emergency Task Force, K9, you fucking name it, the entire Toronto Police Service is going to get here and take turns laughing in my face.” He shook his head and made a sound of disgust. He had a cigarette halfway out of a pack when he noticed her gun. “Jesus Christ, Karen, you might want to put that thing away before the cops get here.”
She twisted the gun sideways and jammed it up to his face. “Smell it.”
He recoiled, “Holy shit.” Inadvertently he did inhale and obviously smelled the burnt gunpowder.
“I fired rounds off for a reason, Jacques. Nastos is down there with the bikers. They are going to kill him. I was on a concrete staircase, a fatal funnel, or I would have charged. But with you —”
“With me?”
“Well, the two of us, maybe we can give it a try.”
“I’m not even supposed to be here. I was told to go to Windsor, remember? Good thing I was late leaving.”
“Intuition.”
“You can’t be a cop and not believe in it.”
“If this turns out to be bogus . . .”
“The worst they can do is put me in uniform and make me work nights. Big deal.” He shrugged. “The road is where the action is.”
They waited in silence until the first of the sirens could be heard. The rapid high-low pulse echoed from the buildings and the road itself.
To an officer in need of assistance, in a fight for one’s life, the directionless cry of sirens was the sound of angels, brothers and sisters in uniform. Karen had felt it before while in life-and-death struggles with crack addicts in Fifty-One Division. Those days felt like a century ago. Now, with the love of her life unarmed and trapped in a concrete cage by the Filthy Few, there could not be a more welcome sound.
The first cruiser lurched to a stop deep within the parking lot, making room for the others that soon followed. The first officer slowly climbed out of the car, a shorter stocky man with a shaved head and strong jaw. He had as much an expression of confusion as Jacques had had just a moment ago. Another false alarm, he must have been thinking.
Jacques jabbed a finger at Karen’s gun. “I said put that thing away. Now let me do the talking.”
Karen concealed the gun. It was just another in a long line of signs that she was divorced from the family.
Jacques approached the cop with his badge held up high. Karen followed, the gun feeling like an anchor in her pocket.
Jacques spoke first. “Detective Lapierre, I called this in.”
Karen stood back, watching as he took control, sacrificing his career on her say-so despite knowing her to be a sell-out. He waited until a group of half a dozen officers gathered around him. Most were too young for this sort of work. How could a twenty-five-year-old be prepared to shoot someone to death and have it not affect him forever? How could they be prepared to die when they had only begun to live?
Jacques turned sideways, keeping an eye on the bar. “There are plainclothes officers and armed private security officers in the basement in a gunfight with an outlaw motorcycle gang. It’s going to be hard to know who is who, but they need our help.”
The first officer asked, “What are you asking us to do?”
“It’s going to be a gunpoint takedown on everyone. And to be honest, our guys will drop their guns if we get in there and take control of the place. So we’re going to treat this as an active shooter and flood the rooms.”
Another officer, an older woman, pointed out, “Maybe we should just wait for Tac. They are on the way.”
Jacques ignored her. “You and you,” he pointed to two cops, “Take the back corners and arrest and search any male who leaves the place. No one leaves here without giving a statement. I want two guys at every exit. Double up, both on one side of the breach, and protect each other. I want the next cops coming in to shut down the roads and I’ll take command until the Duty Inspector gets here. I need one officer to record every licence plate in the parking lot then start up each street for three hundred metres.”
The young cops looked around at each other, trying to decide whether or not they were going to respect this stranger’s orders. The female cop asked, “If this is an active shooter, how come we don’t hear anything?”
“Yeah, that’s right. And we need more guys here before we go in anyways,” another said.
Karen turned sharply back to the bar. She thought she had heard something. Her eyes were drawn to the valance and its silhouettes of women with exaggerated curves and pouty lips, the polyester material pulsing in the wind. Maybe that was all it was. The contrast of the black women on the white screen was the last thing she remembered seeing before all hell broke loose. The front double doors of the Boom Boom Room burst open and there were men and naked women pouring out and the sounds of loud music, screams, breaking glass and gunfire.
Karen hit the deck behind a minivan and was joined by Jacques. She watched as the police vainly tried to stop the rushing crowd, then relented and also took positions of cover behind vehicles. The thunderous gunfire filled Karen with dread. She visualized the bullets ripping into Nastos’ body and knew in her heart that he could not survive in there. The last time she had heard that kind of continuous volley of fire was on a gun range. But here, outside the building, it reminded her of a Canada Day fireworks display. A gale of images whipped through her mind of bullets tearing into flesh, bones fragmenting and heads coming apart.
“Steve is in there,” she said.
“I know,” Jacques replied. She glanced down the road, hoping to see a Tac van. They’d have ballistic shields, an armoured truck. But she knew those options were useless. No Tac Team would go in there while this was going on. Nastos was on his own in there.
When the gunfire began Nastos hit the floor, pulling Carscadden and Mor
rison down with him. The floor was sticky, coated in god knew what mixed with stale beer and dirt. The table they had ducked under was made of a metal frame and cheap particleboard, providing neither cover nor concealment. The gunfire was deafening but surprisingly, the music was louder. He reached out toward the stage and saw that under it were massive subwoofers, base speakers that thumped so loud it felt like he was getting kicked in the chest. He saw that they were partially covered with a curtain. He pulled it back and saw space.
He turned back to Carscadden. “Follow me.” He crawled on his elbows under the stage, having to drop his ass down to stuff himself inside. Once behind the speakers it was quieter, but from underneath he could hear stray bullets blasting through the stage and ricocheting in every direction. The ground itself vibrated. He had no idea where he was going but Carscadden was following and that was all that mattered. If Morrison was back there, all the better. He aimed for what should be the back of the stage, scraping and banging his knees on framework and gouging his back on the splinters caused by the bullets that had come through the stage above.
He felt a hand grip his ankle and turned. “What?”
“Maybe we can wait it out in here.”
Nastos considered it. Then a few rounds split through the stage in front of him leaving beams of red light. “No, we keep moving until we get backstage.”
There were shouts of men from everywhere then a snapping bang-bang-bang as someone ran across the stage. The man’s foot sank through the stage, getting caught when he tried to pull it out. Nastos barely had time to enjoy the humour of it — the big, tough man dropping like a klutz. Stuck like that, he essentially became an easy target on the stage and his writhing body became a bullet magnet for the other side as he struggled to pull free. All Nastos could do was suck down near a speaker and wait for the bullets to find their target and shred him to pieces before he moved forward again. Eventually the body attached to the leg came crashing down on the stage and the foot popped back up. There was an awful crunch of the leg dislocating at the knee and drips of blood pooling on the floor below.
