by Jon F. Merz
I shot my left elbow into his solar plexus – heard a dull crack of shattered bone.
He staggered back.
I jammed the edge of my hand into the base of his neck.
Grabbed him around the nape – jerked him down to my lifting knee strike.
Another sick crack as his face bounced off my knee.
He slumped over to one side of the corridor, eyes open and head bent at an obscene angle.
I checked his pulse – nothing.
I turned my attention back to the first guy. He was dazed – I’d probably given him a concussion. I got behind him, grabbed his jaw and jerked his head up and to the side.
Veterbrae popped like bubble wrap as his neck broke.
Necessity dictated I kill them. I’d let them live earlier and it had almost cost me my life. I don’t like making the same mistakes twice.
I leaned back against the wall and sucked in some air, feeling the adrenaline wane.
But I couldn’t afford much rest.
With the two goons dead and out of the way, another series of problems immediately surfaced: where the hell was I and how the hell was I going to get out?
And just another small item plagued me as well: where was Petrov?
No time to waste, I came off the wall, frisked the goons but found nothing I could use as a weapon. That wasn’t really a
problem. I’m quite comfortable using my body to inflict damage.
I started back up the corridor.
Streaks of darkening blood scarred the coarse ground. I looked down at my chest and saw the dirt encrusted valleys scoring my upper torso.
How delightful.
I came to an intersection.
And a decision.
I didn’t remember making a turn when we came from the cell so I let me intuition guide me. I went left.
After two more minutes stealing along the corridor, I saw roughly hewn granite steps leading up. I stayed close to the wall as the staircase curved upward. Ahead of me, lights cast long shadows that I stayed in, trying to keep myself concealed as much as possible.
The stairs ended.
I made the landing.
Wherever I was being held, it was huge. I thought it might have been an old mansion, probably on the outskirts of the city. I wracked my brain trying to remember if I’d heard of any such places.
My brain told me to leave a message. It would get back to me later after a serious helping of aspirins and sleep.
Boston’s an old town. Mansions and vast estates come with the territory. hell, there are all sorts of nasties prowling the catacombs at Downtown Crossing.
I could be anywhere.
The floor that merged with the landing felt cool under my bare feet. I looked down at mauve terra cotta tiles and smiled. Tiles help keep things nice and quiet.
I moved into another corridor.
This must have been the basement proper. I’d been held in a subbasement. I kept moving. There had to be another set of steps leading up.
Sure enough, I found them at the other end of the hallway. This time, they were wooden.
I paused.
Wood is tricky.
Wood creaks.
Wood tells everyone that someone is coming.
I like arriving unannounced.
I don’t like wood.
Especially when I am walking on it in my bare feet. Cripes, I hoped there weren’t any splinters poking out or this was going to be the shortest escape in history.
There are plenty of techniques for ascending wooden stairs without making noise. All of them are difficult at best. The easiest method and one of the fastest is to stay close to the wall side of the stairs where your weight is least likely to produce creaks and squeals as the wood shifts under you.
I discarded that in favor of using an ancient technique I learned in the martial arts classes I take in Boston. The technique of yoko aruki is one of those many methods employed by the ninja intelligence operatives of feudal Japan. Sideways walking, as it translates, allows you to maintain better environmental awareness, balance, stability, and make less noise simultaneously.
I started up the steps, leading with my left side. My arms were out in a reverse hugging position, gripping the wall and acting as feelers.
I eased my feet up the stairs, shifting as fast as I could without making much noise.
I began to sweat.
Tiny light bulbs like what you see on Christmas trees helped bathe the staircase in deep shadow interspersed with small pockets of light.
I kept my breathing even.
I kept moving.
If I stopped and let my weight to settle, I’d make noise.
At the top, I paused.
A door barred my way.
It looked like an ordinary oak wooden door with elaborate molding. It even had a glass doorknob like the kind I have at my home in Jamaica Plain.
I stooped to examine the lock. There was a key sitting inside. Was the door itself locked? Who was beyond the door? Guards? Petrov?
Sweat oozed like salty grout, burning its way into the long lines of cuts marring my chest and stomach. I wiped my eyes with one grimy hand.
I knelt down on the landing and looked under the edge of the door jamb. There was just enough space for me to make out a carpeted hallway on the other side.
Otherwise, I couldn’t see anything.
No feet connected to guards.
No shadows.
I took a breath. Time to open the door.
Slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, I turned the knob.
And pushed.
The door didn’t budge.
Shit.
I stood there cursing in over a dozen languages until I noticed the molding around the door. Then I cursed myself in another dozen languages and tried the door again.
This time – I pulled.
The door clicked open.
I craned my head to check the hallway.
Empty.
I stepped onto the thick blue pile carpeting, feeling it cushion my battered feet. I looked left and right. More decisions.
The corridor led both ways with no windows in sight. In fact, aside from a lot of other doors, the place seemed vacant of detail. Old faded wall paper adorned the walls but that was it. No pictures, no paintings. Nothing.
Martha Stewart would shit herself twice and die of horror if she saw this place.
I pulled the door shut behind me and locked it. Better safe than sorry.
I pocketed the key and made my choice. Left was working for me so far. I’d stick with it. I headed down the corridor again using the yoko aruki walking and stayed close to the wall.
At the end of the hallway it opened to the left again. I started down it and almost bumped into a large floor plant that barred my path.
I sighed, boxed around the pot, and kept moving.
That’s when the entire place went crazy.
An alarm from somewhere deep inside the house began screaming. For the first time, I noticed small speakers nestled into corners of the ceilings. The entire joint was wired.
I abandoned my imminently stealthy demeanor in favor of something else that works well for me: running.
Ahead of me a single door beckoned and I yanked it open. I was in what looked like a coat closet. The damn house had secret passageways. Great. I didn’t need to get lost right now.
I pushed through a maze of coats, yanked the door in front of me open and stepped out into a reception hall. I’d emerged from under the stairs and was situated near two large doors.
Did they lead outside?
I heard shouts coming from behind me – in front of me. Foot steps trampled the stairs above, descending fast. The place was lousy with people.
I whirled around searching for a hiding place but there was nothing. With no choice left, I dove for the door and jerked it open.
Outside!
Cold night air whipped around me, stinging my skin, and shrinking my pores. I was hardly dressed for the Februa
ry night. But that seemed to be the least of my worries right now.
Now all the voices were behind me.
And they were growing louder.
I ran down the steps, ignored the paved, plowed driveway and ducked right, heading toward a mass of pine trees ahead of me. My bruised feet crunched snow and stones underfoot, ripping my soles open.
Nothing like leaving a blood trail.
Escape and evasion is one of those things you hope you never have to do. The advantage always goes to the hunters. They have more resources and strength to call upon. In most cases, like mine, they know the lay of the land. I didn’t. They knew where the exits were. I didn’t. They could coordinate a search. I had no clue what was around the next corner.
Great odds, huh?
I made the pine trees and scooted behind a trunk about forty feet in, poked my head out and tried to see what the hunter force looked like.
Five men spilled out of the house, hit the gravel circular drive and paused. All had guns out. One of them gave directions and they fanned out. Two of them headed toward my direction.
I ducked back. They’d seal off the driveway first since it probably led to a gate. It made sense. If they were dealing with someone else. Humans and animals always take the least path of resistance. Normally, it’s also the fastest.
But I’m neither animal nor human.
I’d go out another way.
I ran through the pine trees away from what I thought would be the location of the gate. The ground here was a mixture of melting snow, damp muddy soil, and soft pine needles. It would make tracking me harder. If I could find a fence, get over it, and to the streets beyond, I’d make it.
I hoped the fence wasn’t electrified. I had enough singed hair to last a lifetime.
I pushed through the thickening grove of trees. Pine needles
cloyed at my face and exposed skin while the cold burned my ears and made my sinuses run down my face. Snot froze on crusty blood and sweat on my chest. I was all set for my centerfold shoot tonight, no doubt.
Breathing was tougher out here and my adrenaline levels had spiked again for the umpteenth time tonight.
I heard some crunching a few hundred yards behind me.
My pursuers.
I paused and listened to their footfalls. They were cautious. Tentative. They weren’t on to me yet. They probably thought I’d head for the gate.
I considered taking them out, too, but decided against it. Killing them would waste valuable time and alert the others that I wasn’t where they thought I was. All I needed to do was get over the wall and I’d be home free.
Hopefully.
I edged my way through another two hundred yards pine trees and finally ran face first into a brick wall.
And another problem.
The damned wall was a good twelve feet high.
I looked back. No room to run and try some of that shotenjutsu vertical wall climbing I’d been itching to try out for some time. But there were thick branches that would get me closer to the wall.
I shimmied up the nearest tree.
Crunching footsteps suddenly sounded closer than they should have.
I stopped.
The whispered voices and bouncing flashlight beam came out of nowhere. I hugged the tree trunk about ten feet off the ground and slowed my breathing down.
"…already gone for crying out loud"
"…waste of damned time. It’s fucking freezing out here."
"Check the wall and we’ll make our way back to the gate. That way they can’t say we didn’t check."
The flashlight stopped at the base of the wall.
"See something?"
Two heads in knit caps poked out of the darkness below me. One of them stooped and looked at the ground. After a minute he stood.
"Nah, it’s nothing."
"Well, hurry up then and let’s go. My balls are gonna drop off if I stay out here much longer."
They pushed through the tree branches to my left and kept talking. I waited until they were gone and then climbed a few feet higher.
I could see over the wall.
Boston’s skyline sat in the distance.
Where the hell was I?
No time to lose, I reached out and grabbed the upper lip of the wall and pulled myself on top of it. Crouching, I looked down along the outside, checking to see if any of Petrov’s people were posted outside the property.
Nothing.
The neighborhood was dotted with similarly elaborate mansions on both sides of the street. Petrov might not want to call too much attention by posting people outside the perimeter.
My luck.
I took a breath and dropped down to the ground on the other side. Twelve foot drops don’t take any wind out of me, but I exhaled on contact anyway out of instinct – felt the sting on the undersides of my feet, and rolled to compensate.
A damned good thing I did too – the bullet that splanged off the wall close to my head barely missed me.
I ran before I knew I was running. My bare feet clawing up sidewalk made me wince from the pain. I kept my head low as another round zoomed past me.
Someone had apparently decided I was better off dead than alive. I wondered if Petrov had sanctioned it.
I zigzagged through some parked cars.
Footsteps behind me. Maybe three sets.
This was not good. I hadn’t had any juice in almost eighteen hours and my energy level was sapped. A prolonged fight or race for my life would leave me dying if I wasn’t careful.
I flew into another yard, down a winding side pathway, heard a dog start barking and then hit another fence that was fortunately only about eight feet high.
This time I’d had enough space to build momentum and used that to basically run right up the wall and over the other side.
I landed on brown grass and snow which felt better to my feet than cement. I was suddenly in a busier section of town.
My lungs felt like fire.
My vision blurred.
I bent over trying to catch my breath.
And came back up ready to run some more.
Ahead of me, I caught sight of a convenience store. If I could get there-
Voices behind me sent more adrenaline surging into my bloodstream. It’d take me a while to recoup all that I’d used tonight.
I ran for the store.
My legs felt like wet noodles dragging me down to the sidewalk. And then, there in front of me with its white light on-
a taxi.
I fell for the door, fumbling with the latch
Why wouldn’t it open?
Voices-
-shots
Splang!
-too close
-a click
the door unlocking.
I fell inside, jerking the door shut behind me.
"Where to, buddy?"
"Drive! Just drive!" I ducked down as the cabbie put the pedal to the floor and we screeched away from the sidewalk.
Away from my pursuers.
Away from Petrov.
I leaned back into the vinyl bench seat and gulped air like a newborn suckling his first breast.
Alive.
Still.
Chapter Sixteen
It took the taxi twenty minutes to drive into Boston.
As we passed some familiar streets, I finally knew where I’d been held: on the Newton/Chestnut Hill line, an area with lots of big houses, tree-lined streets, and money.
I tried memorizing the details of the area as we drove. I’d need them later on when I went back to discuss things with Petrov – on my terms.
The cabbie kept stealing glances in the rearview mirror at me. "You, uh…okay there, Mac?"
I looked down at my chest and stomach. I was covered in dirt, blood, sweat, and oozing wounds. I must have looked like hell.
"I’m all right. I’ll be better when I can get cleaned up."
He nodded. "No shit."
I directed him to Wirek’s place. Ordinarily
, that goes against pretty much all of trade craft rules. But the fact of the matter was that I was half-naked, cold, wounded, and had no cash with me. Petrov still had my wallet. That wasn’t so much of a problem as it was a temporary inconvenience. I had doubles of everything back at my place.
But I’d need to pay the cabbie. After all, he’d pretty much saved my life.
We rolled off of Storrow Drive down by Mass General Hospital and under the Red Line station. We swerved into the circle by the liquor store and I told him to stop.
He looked back over the seat. "Lemme guess: you ain’t got your money with you."
"Good guess. You wait here, I’ll get you some."
He frowned. "Yeah, sure…"
"I’m not lying. My friend lives around here. Just give me a minute to get some cash off him."
He eyed me some more. "I’ll wait. You don’t come back down, I call the cops."
I almost smiled. After the night I’d had, there wasn’t much Boston’s boys in blue could do that would scare me.
I stepped out of the cab into a grimy puddle by the curb. I shook my foot loose of the junk and leaned on Wirek’s buzzer. The cold February night swirled around me. I hoped Wirek was awake.
Thankfully, he was quick on the door release.
I shot upstairs. Wirek met me at the door.
"What the hell-?"
"I need twenty bucks."
He frowned. "Looks like you need more than that, pal." He vanished back inside the apartment and came back in a few seconds. He tossed me a T-shirt. "Try that on for starters."
I pulled the shirt on. "The money?"
He handed me a twenty. "Get a receipt."
I laughed, went back downstairs and paid the cabbie. "Tell your dispatch you dropped me off a few blocks away, all right?"
By the time I got back upstairs, Wirek had already drawn a bath. Steam poured out of the bathroom. And despite the dirty grout, a tub never looked so inviting.
Wirek came out. "Get yourself cleaned up. And pay attention to those wounds. Jesus, what the hell," he stopped. "Never mind. Get cleaned up first. We can talk afterward."
I slid my stinking pants off along with my jockey shorts and Wirek’s T-shirt. Stepping into the hot bath felt real good. And then it hurt like hell as soon as the water touched my fresh wounds.
I grimaced but sank into the tub just the same, closing my eyes, inhaling the steam and trying hard to put tonight out of my mind – just for a little bit.
