by Holly Hart
But the heart-wrenching sound of the choking, guttural sob echoing through the house was enough to slap me out of my reverie. My eyes snapped open and I sprinted into the hallway and up the stairs. There were three rooms up there, a master bedroom, a spare, and a converted office. An office, that is, converted into a baby's bedroom. The desk now a changing station, littered with nappies, wipes, baby powder and the other detritus of the whirlwind of motherhood.
A wooden cot, painted a light, delicate baby blue, stood in the center of the room. Ellie stood there, staring at it in silent agony, her body racked with physical sobs that didn't make so much as a sound – and more powerful for it, her hands pressed tight against her mouth.
"What is it?" I said. I wanted to scream with her, to beat my palms against the wall and howl my pain to the skies. But I'd made a promise. And I was going to carry it out.
She pointed at the cot. "There," she croaked. "Inside."
I saw it, a glinting flash, something shiny. A DVD, mockingly tucked into the baby's bedclothes.
A message.
23
Ellie
It was a taunt.
I felt like crying. No, that's not true. I felt like I should be crying. In reality, I was numb, emotionless. Past pain, past hatred, past fear. Just numb, floating weightless on a wave of hurt, but taking none of it on board. I was already soaked, sodden with pain. There wasn't room for anymore.
I reached out for the DVD, stretching out arms that belonged to someone else, but Roman got there first. His eyes were pinched, brow lined. I wanted to hug him, assure him that it would be all right – but also to beg and cajole him to make it so.
No. That's not good enough.
"What does it say?" I asked. My voice sounded alien, other, like I was a puppet and there was someone above me, out of sight manipulating long marionette strings. I wished that that was true. At least then, none of this would be my responsibility. Someone else could take up the burden.
I clawed at myself, disgusted by the way I was thinking. It wasn't me, not the real me. I was a mother, not a passenger. It was no one else's responsibility to make this all better except mine. Mine, and the man standing in front of me.
"No writing," Roman grunted, sticking to short sentences, as if he didn't trust his voice to hold out for much more. I couldn't blame him. I knew the feeling. He moved towards a notebook computer pushed back against the wall on the desk that had been turned into the baby's changing station. As I watched, I was suddenly possessed with the desire to rip this place apart, to search for anything bearing my baby's name. To know that little scrap about him, so little – and yet everything. It must be somewhere, so close – yet so far. Yet another part of me, a stronger part, didn't want to find out. Not here, not now. I didn't know whether I wanted the power, no – the responsibility, of naming my child for the first time, yet all over again.
I didn't know whether I had the right.
The computer whirred to life, and I wanted to march toward it and will the information we needed out. The second the desktop flickered into life on the screen, Roman pushed the DVD in. The computer's mechanism pulled it in, accompanied by a gentle buzzing sound. The disc moved excruciatingly slowly, and I was gripped with the urge to ram it in. I clenched my fists together, digging long, unkempt nails into the soft, delicate flesh of my palms. I rode the pain, savored the way it bit through my numbness.
An electronic ping ripped through the air, all the more startling for its quietness.
A window appeared on the homepage. A video. There was no thumbnail. Roman's hand hovered over the mouse, agonizing over clicking it. I knew how he felt. Terrified of what he would find. "Do it," I said, surprised to hear my voice so calm. He pressed play.
A man appeared on the screen, in the little video box. At first we saw just blackness, yet a moving blackness, someone's head too close to the camera.
"Ellie," the man said, backing away to reveal his head, swathed in a black balaclava. I jumped. I never expected him to know my name. It pulled me in, made this even more personal than my own child's kidnapping already was. "You've caused my boss a lot of trouble, you stupid bitch," he spat. I wanted to see his face, to study his expression – the man who had stolen my kid. I wanted to know how he could bring himself to do something so heinous, something that went against every human commandment, and every aspect of human decency.
"But Victor's a… forgiving man," the Russian-accented voice said, cloying in an unexpected, out of place calmness after the bile of the moment before. "And he wants to make deal." The man indicated off screen, and my heart jumped to my mouth. I bit down, piercing the tender flesh of my tongue, and the metallic, coppery taste of blood filled my mouth.
"You know what we have," he said, reaching out. For a second, the camera's view was blocked, and I wanted to dive in and grab it, fix the view. He backed up, and a sleeping child swathed in a light blue came into shot. I stumbled, my knees turning to jelly, my legs weakening, and I would have fallen over in shock if Roman hadn't called me. Still, my gut felt as though it was being wrenched out, grabbed by some powerful metal hooks and pulled.
"Oh my God," I whispered, grabbing the side of Roman's thick torso and squeezing. He didn't complain, didn't even seem to register the pain. His eyes were haunted, black with a mixture of rage and apologetic sadness. But the video didn't stop spewing its evil message just to give us a chance to recover from the emotional turmoil it had plunged us into. It plowed on regardless, grinding my heart into the dust and not even bothering to stop to crow.
The man rocked my child, my baby boy, or so it seemed, in his arms. It was a gentle, caring action, but I knew that it was a sick parody of real-life. It should have been me, with him, holding him, and rocking him to sleep – not this gangster. A growling sound seemed to bounce off the little office bedroom's walls, like the throaty prelude to a big dog's bark. I glanced my side, and saw that Roman was positively bristling with anger, his fists bundled, and every vein on his powerful neck popping.
I would have felt sorry for whoever he was gunning for, but I knew who they were. And what they had done. What they are still doing…
"You see the kind of leverage we have," the masked man said, his voice dripping with barely disguised threat. "Me, I have no problem with kids. Your boy here, he's a great kid. Never weeps, never cries. You know, maybe I like him more than my own."
He looked down, and I wanted to rip that mask off his face, throw it to the floor and rake his face with my nails until his eyes bled. I'd never felt such rage, such desire to hurt another human being.
"Maybe I take him," the eerie, calm voice threatened. He looked up, and flinty gray eyes stared directly into the camera.
"My boss, he no like kids." He paused, allowing just enough time for the message to sink in. The meaning was clear. If we didn't do exactly as he said, then our son's life was forfeit.
"You hand over everything you have on Victor. No copies. Tomorrow, noon, at the Memorial. Don't be late." He turned away from the camera, and seemed about to turn it off. I couldn't pry my eyes away from the screen. Before he left, he turned back. "Oh, and Victor sends his regards."
The video window winked out. I sagged against Roman.
"He's dead," Roman growled. "Dead. I'm going to rip his cowardly little arms right off his body, see how he likes that. His wife and kids are going to find out exactly what kind of man their father is." His body vibrated with anger, his deep voice radiating through his barrel -like chest and trembling against my soft, tear-streaked cheek. He pulled me gently off him, cupped my cheek and stroked away a tear. Even in the depths of his anger, he had a place for me.
"What did he mean, turn over everything you have?" He asked. "You had a look on your face, earlier. You know what he’s talking about, don't you?"
I straightened myself and nodded, drawing support from the grip Roman still had on my shoulder, but not needing it. I knew what I had to do now. I remembered who I was.
"Yes," I no
dded again, like my head was stuck on a spring. "I was, am, a reporter. But I knew that earlier, I saw my stories on the Herald's website. But I didn't know why Victor put a hit out on me. I do now."
Roman leaned forward, his often-expressionless face narrowed with curiosity.
"When Rick put me in the hospital, I was researching a story on Victor Antonov. The kind of story that would have put him away for a long, long time. He was involved with a city counselor – bribed him to swing contracts his way. Made hundreds of thousands of dollars from it, and that was just the ones I could directly link. I had more. Offshore bank accounts, evidence that he killed to cover up his crimes. I guess he found out." I said, tailing off stupidly as I realized that for all my innocent belief that I'd kept things secret, Victor had outmaneuvered me.
Roman nodded impatiently. "But proof – you have it?"
I nodded, my head moving hesitantly. "Yes. Maybe. I was carrying it when Rick attacked me. If it still exists, it's in police custody."
Roman's shoulders sagged. "That makes things… More difficult."
I felt myself vibrating with an energy I'd never felt before. I had a purpose, one singular role in life. To save my child. And I was going to accomplish it, no matter who tried to get in my way.
"No," I purred. "Just more challenging. Promise me something."
Roman looked up. "What is it? Anything."
"Promise me, that when we find these guys, you put a bullet in them. All of them, except one."
"Who?"
I spat out his name. "Victor Antonov. He’s mine."
24
Roman
The streets of the Industrial District reflected my mood – grim, strewn with rubble and barely lit by a sky thunderous with black cloud. I'd been outmaneuvered. Worse, out thought, and by an enemy I had never expected to make.
Victor Antonov.
His brother Mikhail had been bad enough, but he was gone. Dead. I wouldn't have thought it possible, but Victor was the worse of the two. By far. Victor was unhinged, a mob boss hated in equal measure by his followers and those whose lives he ruled by fear. The murder rate had spiked in Alexandria since Mikhail died, not fallen. And while, for once, I had nothing to do with it – I knew who did. Victor was ripping this city apart, sacrificing an entire community on the altar of his own ego and desire for power.
People were leaving.
Shopkeepers were closing up.
His enemies were fleeing.
Ellie walked along beside me, nestled into the crease between the arm I had draped across her shoulders and my hip. She too was lost in silence, no doubt exploring much of the same guilt and depression that I was experiencing.
I broke the silence, anything to get out of the. "How you doing?"
I was surprised by Ellie's reply. Her voice was firm, unwavering, and also slightly distant – as if the majority of her brain was struggling to tackle another problem. "Tell me what happened when I was," she paused, searching for the right word. "Asleep."
"What do you mean?"
She flung her arms up, exasperated, and gestured around the city. "I mean everything – all of this. Mikhail Antonov, you can start with him. He's dead, I've figured that much out. How did it happen? Why? What happened next?"
I didn't take offense to her tone. I admired it. Her honesty, her straightforward devotion to solving the crisis that swamped us. "It's not exactly clear," I admitted. "How he died. It happened about, I guess, five months ago? Some Irish guy came to town, a fighter. People in the streets say he started sleeping with Mikhail's daughter –."
Ellie interrupted. "Maya."
I raised my eyebrow. "Yeah, that's right, how did you know?"
She mustered a weak grin, but her heart clearly wasn't in it. "Reporter, remember?"
I nodded. "Of course. Anyway, I guess they had an affair, or something. I guess that asshole Mikhail didn't like that very much, and this Irish guy, he ended up killing him, and blasting away half of his men, too." I smiled, reveling with professional pride in the pain that this mysterious man, practically a guardian angel, had meted out on the Antonov clan. I just hoped that one day I'd be able to do the same. "Since then the city's been at war. Half a dozen different groups vying for control. The Mexicans, the Italians, Victor, you name it. This Maya lady, I guess she took over what was left of her father's organization, but most of the survivors ran off."
"Maya did what?" Ellie asked, tearing away from me and stopping dead. Her face was screwed up with concentration. Her little puckered-up nose was the cutest thing I'd seen all day, but I figured that now wasn't the right time to mention it. "No, that doesn't fit."
"Hey!" I said with pretend annoyance that seemed to wash right over Ellie's head. "What doesn't?"
"I wish I had my notes!" She groaned, biting down on her lip and ignoring the question. "She's no gangster," Ellie said, her face shining bright with conviction. "I've seen her in her father's box at the Arena, on TV. She always looked like there were ten million places she'd rather be. Like prison, for one."
I shrugged, and a sound like a gunshot echoed distantly off the hard brick walls of the nearby factories. My mind filed it away as nothing more than a poorly maintained engine backfiring. "I dunno. I heard she's trying to set up some kind of ethical mob outfit," I laughed, though without any real feeling either way. "Good luck with that."
"Ethical –?"
I reacted more out of instinct than conscious thought. On any other day, in any other place, the sound wouldn't have startled me. Then again, on any other day I hadn't found a couple's bodies peppered with bullet wounds and lying in pools of their own congealing blood. That was the kind of image that would stick with anyone for a lifetime, and the kind that reminded me to sharpen up my senses.
I pushed Ellie behind the rusting, abandoned shell of a car, cutting her off mid-sentence. The buzzing, hacking sound of a dirt bike echoed up the street, and I pulled my handgun out from where I'd sandwiched it, between the waistband of my jeans and my back. The metal was warm to the touch.
"Stay down," I barked, not even looking at her. My only job now was to keep her safe, not happy. That I could deal with later.
I turned into the street, planting my legs firmly to help my body withstand the recoil, and prepared to fire. I blinked. If this was an attack, it wasn't well thought through. There was only one rider, dressed in black leathers and a matching helmet – visor down, moving fast but already slowing, desperately yanking at the handlebars at the sight of my loaded and aimed weapon. The Mitsubishi bike's thick tires, designed for screaming up and down the hills, kicked up a cloud of dust and debris in their wake, and made short work of the factory district's rutted roads.
A distraction?
I glanced around the street, eyes moving in a well practiced grid.
Shooters on the roofs? No.
In the windows? No.
A pincer movement? No.
"Back the hell up, buddy," I shouted, my voice seeming to crack through the air like a whip. "Before I put a bullet in you." I didn't bother to think about whether I was overreacting. If the guy was innocent, then the worst that would happen to him was a nasty fright. Moments like this were neither the time nor the place for recrimination and self-doubt. Not that I typically bothered with either emotion. Inaction kills, but action saves lives. And right now, I only cared about saving two.
The bike screeched to a halt, and for a second the scene reminded me of an old school Western – two gunslingers meeting in a desolate, empty town that's seen better days.
"Unless you've got a problem with me," I called out, my voice the only sound around. "Then I suggest you keep moving, friend."
"Yer the Russian lad?" The man said in a cocky Irish accent that proclaimed he was entirely unafraid. "And that's yer missus?" He whistled, impressed. "Ain't no big surprise half the town's looking for the pair of you."
"You know who I am?" I said, phrasing it is a question. It wasn't. My finger caressed the trigger. I was looking for a
reason, any reason, to put a bullet through the man's helmet. He was a threat to the woman I loved. That was reason enough. He was walking a very fine line.
"Whoa there, friend," he said, copying my earlier use of the word, though in a far less threatening manner. "Massey here's no threat, no threat at all. I'm here to help, you could say. Here," he said, unzipping his leather jacket and spinning on the bike's seat. "I'm not armed. No word of a lie."
"What do you want?" I growled. I wasn't used to talking much of the best of times, and the last few days had left my vocal chords hoarse and exhausted – at least by my standards.
The rider nudged the bike's kickstand and hopped off nimbly. "Me?" He said, flicking his visor up to reveal a tiny shock of ginger hair, and a lightly-freckled face. "A good job, a pension – you know, the usual. But what do I get? Running around town for my cousin's wife." He shrugged and sighed. "At least the pay's good."
I cleared my throat. "Okay, enough, funny guy. What are you doing here?"
The rider reached into an inner pocket on his black leather jacket. Slowly – just slowly enough not to startle me. The lad knew what he was doing.
"Like I said, just bringing you two a message." He pulled his hand from his pocket, and with it a cream colored envelope. I snatched it from his hand, still eyeing him warily. He shrugged insouciantly, turned and jumped back on his bike. "Here. I'd best be going, now." The bike's engine roared to life, and he departed in front of a hail of tire-swept stones.
I held the letter in one hand, and tracked him with my weapon until the sound of his aged bike's coughing engine stopped echoing off the nearby factory's tiled roofs. Ellie crept out from behind car.
"Don't do that again," she said, elbowing me in the ribs, but the tremble in her voice betrayed her. "The last thing I need is you getting yourself hurt."
