Halon-Seven

by Xander Weaver

  Still, this wasn’t a good long-term plan. It had saved him from the initial hail of gunfire, but—

  Oh crap!

  He looked up to see that one of the wrought iron balusters had broken lose under his weight. It was bending outward as it gave way. If he was lucky, he had a few seconds before it snapped off entirely.

  He heard the sound of crunching glass and knew one of the gunmen was coming to confirm his demise. Two men had fired on him, and Reese was nowhere to be seen. That could indicate there was at least one more assailant in the apartment. He would need to make quick work of these two if he was going to get to Reese in time. The failing iron bar in his right hand had given him an idea. He adjusted the grip of his left hand. It would need to support all of his weight. He quickly worked the loose iron bar with his right hand. It snapped free of its corroded old weld.

  He freed the bar just in time. As he looked up, one of the gunmen leaned over the railing and glanced down. The man hadn’t expected to see Cyrus hanging from the base of the railing. His eyes went wide in surprise. He opened his mouth to say something, but never got the chance. Cyrus swung the iron bar at the man’s head with everything he had. The impact sounded like someone had kicked a ripe melon. The man’s body instantly sagged as he lost consciousness. Cyrus dropped the iron bar and used the opportunity to reach up and grab him by the collar. With a solid pull, the body came over the rail and plummeted to the sand ten stories below.

  One down, one to go. Only Cyrus realized that he had lost the iron bar in the process.

  Crap!

  So much for stealth. Now he could only hope that the other gunman would come to investigate what had happened to his friend. Cyrus reached into the small of his back and pulled the Springfield from its holster. There, hanging one-handed from a balcony ledge, he contemplated the good practice of keeping a round in the chamber. If he had needed to chamber the first round, he would’ve been hard pressed to do it with just one hand.

  Gnashing his teeth, he couldn’t hold on much longer. His left hand was starting to strain. He steadied the 9mm and waited. Sure enough, the second gunman neared the ledge. There was no sneaking up when the floor of the ledge was covered in shattered glass—Cyrus could hear it grinding under the man’s shoes as he approached.

  Not willing to waste time or give up any small element of surprise, Cyrus used the little strength remaining in his left arm to pull himself up to eye level with the balcony. The gunman was only a step away with his rifle at the ready. It took Cyrus only a fraction of a second to aim and squeeze the trigger. The single shot from his Springfield might as well have been a cannon in the stillness of the night. His ears rang from the discharge. He lowered himself back behind the protection of the ledge just as the gunman collapsed to the floor of the balcony.

  Cyrus slipped the gun into the holster behind his back and slapped his right hand around the nearest baluster. He tested this one carefully, ensuring it would carry his weight. The added support of his right hand eased a portion of weight from his aching left arm and shoulder. It felt like heaven. There was no time to waste. Moments later, he had scaled the railing. With relief, his feet once again touched the relative safety of the balcony.

  Drawing his gun once again, he ducked to the side of the shattered sliding glass door. He looked over at the body of the second gunman. The man was flat on his back with his head and shoulders inside the apartment, right where he’d landed after being shot. The bullet hole just below the thug’s left eye was unmistakable.

  Cyrus’s mind spun with the implications of what had just happened. He’d left this life behind years ago. He had walked away and made a fresh start. Was this really happening? What had Meade gotten him involved in? But it wasn’t entirely unexpected, was it? On some level he’d sensed something was off. He hadn’t carried a gun in years. Not until today. And he had already used it.

  Dammit!

  He heard a loud bang inside the apartment and he peeked around the corner of the shattered door frame. A man had just exited the front door with something over his shoulder. He had only caught a glimpse, but he was pretty sure he’d seen Reese thrown over the man’s shoulder. The sound Cyrus heard was the front door opening, slamming back against the wall. He started to round the corner of the door frame when a series of gunshots peppered the wall beside him. He ducked back and heard running footsteps. There was no choice, he had to hazard another look. A second man, armed with an automatic rifle, had just crossed the apartment and was ducking out the front door. He fired several additional shots at Cyrus before slipping out of sight.

  Cyrus stepped into the apartment with his gun up and ready. He had to be sure there were no more attackers lying in wait. A quick sweep assured him he was alone. There were two gunmen left, and they had taken Reese. What the hell is going on? He’d sort that out after he got her back.

  Not entirely sure it was his best plan—but lacking a better one—Cyrus took a deep breath and stepped out into the hallway. His gun was raised and searching for a target but he was alone. The pounding of footsteps echoed up the stairwell as the two gunmen took it downward. They would be heading for the main parking lot. An open air staircase, Cyrus thought. Stepping to the outer edge, he could see the parking area, ten floors below. A black van was idling at the nearest edge of the lot, about forty yards out from the base of the building. If the kidnappers got to the van, Reese would disappear.

  Cyrus realized he didn’t have to beat them to the van, he just needed to close the distance and maintain the element of surprise. Without a moment’s hesitation, he kicked off both hiking boots and went charging down the stairs.

  While the kidnapers made no end of noise tromping downward at full speed, one of them with an unconscious woman over his shoulder. Cyrus made good time, and silently, reduced to stocking-covered feet for the second time that same night.

  Round and round he circled, following the staircase down one story after the next. He was closing the gap, but they had a hell of a head start. His intent was to keep them from reaching the van, and he didn’t need to catch them for that.

  Reaching the fourth floor, Cyrus abandoned his pursuit. His heart was pounding, and his head was throbbing after bashing it against the concrete balcony. But his hands were steady—that was what mattered. That, and the full moon.

  He reached the railing of the open-air staircase and took a steadying breath. The two kidnapers emerged from the base of the stairwell and began their sprint for the waiting van, some forty yards out. One man had his rifle cradled in his hands while the other man, larger in build, had Reese over his shoulder and a handgun in his meaty grip. Both were running with a loping, winded gait.

  Cyrus took another steadying breath and bided his time. The big guy was the greater danger. He would start there—take him before the sight picture grew smaller and the distance grew. The further the man got, the greater the chance of hitting Reese. Cyrus raised his weapon and sighted for only a brief second. Then a gentle squeeze of the trigger and an instant response. The large man dropped to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut. Reese spilled to the sandy grass in an unconscious heap.

  The second kidnapper spun around at the sound of the gunshot and raised his rifle. He wasn’t sure where the shot had come from, but he knew he was in mortal danger. Jinking left and right, he searched for the shooter that had taken his partner. Even in the muted light of the full moon, he couldn’t see anything. He looked back at Reese before raising his weapon, obviously understanding she was his only defense against the invisible shooter.

  Cyrus couldn’t let the kidnaper use her as leverage. Would the man shoot Reese? Did he intend to use her as a human shield? It didn’t matter. The man never got the chance to attempt either one. Another round from Cyrus’s handgun dropped him where he stood.

  A voice called from the idling van and another man stuck his head out the window. He saw the pair of his compatriots lying on the crabgrass, halfway to the van. He grabbed a rifle and stepped from
the van to investigate. Cyrus convinced him this was a foolish idea by placing three rounds in the pavement at his feet. The man didn’t need any further instruction. He jumped back behind the wheel and tore off into the night.

  Cyrus took a few minutes to watch the scene from his perch at the rail of the fourth-floor. No more activity. Approaching sirens could be heard in the distance. Certainly, neighbors had already dialed 911. This would be a hell of a mess to explain. Especially since Cyrus wasn’t sure what had happened.

  Confident no more dangers were lying in wait, he dashed down the remaining stairs to retrieve Reese. She had taken a minor scrape to the forehead when the kidnapper dropped her. She was fine, though still unconscious. The man who had carried her was another matter. Cyrus’s shot had entered the top of his skull and blown out his jaw. It was a grisly mess. Cyrus had aimed high in an effort to keep the shot as far away from Reese as possible.

  The second shooter was less gruesome, though the single shot had killed him just as instantly. He’d caught the bullet at the base of the skull, right where SWAT team snipers were taught to target armed hostage takers. Of course, SWAT snipers did it with the benefit of a rifle, a scope, and often a spotter helping to range the target. Making the shot with a handgun was tricky business, and it was why Cyrus hadn’t been willing to let either man get closer to the van. The further away they were, the more dangerous the shot would have become.

  In less than two minutes Cyrus had inventoried the contents of both men’s pockets. They both carried wallets and cell phones. He memorized the details from their driver’s licenses and put their wallets back in place. He pulled the batteries from both cell phones and removed their SIM cards. Without wasting a moment, he pulled off both of his socks and proceeded to stuff the disassembled phones into each. Using bare hands, he dug a hole in the sand under the nearby bench. Tucking both socks into the hole, he covered them over. The socks would keep sand out of the phones until he could retrieve them. He didn’t need the police recovering their potential treasure-trove of information. Once the phones became evidence, accessing their data would become significantly more complicated.

  Finally, Cyrus hefted Reese and carried her to the bench. He laid her down on the wooden surface with her head resting on his leg. He brushed the dark hair away from her face and tried to make her comfortable. She’d be hurting when she woke.

  He typed out a short message on his cell phone. Satisfied, he set it aside. All he could do was wait for the police to arrive. It was the fastest way to get medical attention for Reese. Besides, there was no hiding from this mess.

  Chapter 11

  Santa Barbara, California

  Wednesday, 5:33 am (6:33 am Colorado time)

  Reese opened her eyes to find an EMT leaning over her. She was laying on a wheeled gurney on the path to the parking lot outside her apartment building. Everything was blurry. A man beside the EMT was talking to her, but she couldn’t make out his words. She squinted against the pain in her head and tried to concentrate. After a moment, things came into focus, and the man became coherent.

  “Ma’am, I said, are you alright? Can you hear me?”

  She nodded and struggled to sit up. Speech was still beyond her grasp. She looked around. The sun had yet to peek over the horizon to the east. She could hear the sounds of the ocean to the west. There were squad cars and rescue vehicles, with lights flashing, scattered across the parking lot. And there were cops. There were cops everywhere.

  That’s when she saw Cyrus. Two dozen yards up the path, he sat on a park bench with his hands cuffed behind his back. A dour police officer stood on either side of him. What was going on? Why did her head hurt so badly? The last thing she remembered—Oh no! The man hiding in her closet! How had that turned into this?

  A commotion in the direction of the apartment building drew her attention. It was a pair of men in white lab coats wheeling a gurney from the bottom of the stairwell. A black body bag was strapped to the cart. She looked around, scanning the faces in the crowd, as if something she saw might explain what had happened. Her eyes met Cyrus’s. He looked exhausted but smiled when he saw her sitting upright. He looked relieved. Deeply relieved, she was sure of it. What the hell had happened?

  “Miss Knoland?” a voice from the other direction caught her off guard and gave her a start. She turned to find a tall black man in plain clothes. A detective, she would bet on it. He had that look. The cheap suit, the calming voice. “Miss Knoland, I’m Detective Franklin. Are you up to answering a few questions?”

  She only nodded, still unsure of her voice.

  “The EMT tells me that you’ve only just regained consciousness. I don’t want to rush you. You’ve clearly been through a lot. I just need your statement. I’m trying to put together what happened here tonight.”

  “I—” she cleared her throat. “Excuse me. I’m not sure I’ll be much help. The last thing I remember, I was in my apartment. I was changing clothes. We were going out for something to eat.”

  —————

  Detective Franklin was a twenty-two year veteran of the Santa Barbara Police Department. A homicide detective for fourteen of those years, he had a no-nonsense approach to the job and was proud of his work.

  Flipping a page in his notepad, he prepared to take her statement. This crime scene was a mess. But the way the evidence was shaping up, it might not be a homicide after all. It was starting to look like an attempted kidnapping. He didn’t like that. There were four dead bodies, and someone would be called to pay. It didn’t matter that those gang-bangers were street trash or that the city was better off without them. There were bodies, and it was his job to get to the bottom of it.

  “Were you meeting someone tonight?” he asked in a calm, professional voice. He did his best to start the interview with a clinical detachment. This woman had suffered a trauma. But as of yet, he didn’t know if she was a victim or part of the crime.

  “Yes—well, no. I’m sorry. I’m still a little scrambled. Cyrus and I had just come back to my apartment. I was changing in the bedroom when something happened.” She got a far away look in her eyes as she struggled with a memory that seemed lost in fog. “Someone was hiding in the closet. As soon as I saw him, he jumped out and hit me with something. I—I don’t know what it was…”

  “Yes, we think he used a stun baton. The EMT found a wound on your side consistent with a high voltage shock. It would’ve incapacitated you. We found the device among one of the dead men’s possessions.”

  “Dead men?” She looked sincerely stunned. After a moment, she started to speak but stopped short. Rubbing her forehead, she took a moment. She shook her head in frustration, clearly no more able to make any more sense of things than he. “I don’t understand. What happened here?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to determine, ma’am.” He looked around the crime scene trying to decide on his next line of questioning. “Ma’am, could you tell me about Cyrus Cooper?”

  She nodded. “Cyrus is a friend. We met up earlier tonight. We were just making a quick stop here before going our for a bite. The man in my closet—did he hurt Cyrus?”

  “Hurt him?” Franklin lowered his notebook and nearly laughed. “No, he didn’t hurt Cyrus. But I think a couple of his friends gave it a shot. The good news is that Cyrus is fine. The bad news is that I have four dead gang-bangers and a whole lot of questions.”

  Reese looked confused by the explanation, but she didn’t ask for clarification. She shook her head as if the confusion hurt physically. Based on the EMT’s report, he was sure that it did.

  “Look, Detective?” she said finally. “I think there’s a good chance that even the medic knows more than me about what happened here tonight. Could you stop skirting around the issue, and tell me what’s going on?”

  Franklin ground his teeth. He looked around. What had happened? As much as it galled him, everything about Mister Cooper’s story had checked out. The deadbolt on the front door showed signs of tampering. The perp
who picked it must’ve had just enough skills to pop the lock but not enough to do it without making a mess of the lock’s finish. Crime scene techs had found a mess inside the apartment, indicating several assailants had laid in wait for an indeterminate amount of time—at least several hours. They had either raided the victim’s junk food stash or brought a copious supply of their own.

  Franklin had interviewed the two neighbors who called 911 following the outbreak of gunfire. One of them reported seeing two of the deceased wandering the halls of the tenth floor around noon the previous day. Brawny Hispanics were not common to the neighborhood, so they had stood out.

  Then there was the evidence that bothered him most of all. Crime scene tech and medical examiner’s preliminary findings corroborated Cooper’s story. A body found on the beach beneath the balcony had its head smashed in, and the corpse in the apartment had suffered a single gunshot at close range. The ME concluded that the shot had been fired from an extreme low angle, consistent with the shooter hanging from the balcony edge. Gunshot residue was swabbed from the edge of the concrete near the broken rung of the railing. Unless the crime scene techs came up with something inconsistent with Cooper’s story, these two deaths were a clear case of self-defense.

  The other two shootings were even more troubling. Cooper’s statement indicated he had pursued the remaining two gunmen in an effort to retrieve Miss Knoland. Who did something like that? He had just narrowly escaped his own death when two men opened fire on him with automatic weapons. To avoid being shot, Cooper had jumped over the railing of a tenth floor balcony. And he still managed to take out the two men attempting to kill him without falling to his death? And after all that—after climbing back to safety—he didn’t stop to dial 911. He’d gone after the pair of remaining armed kidnappers instead.