by Alex P. Berg
So that was how Topples had hit me so quickly after throwing a punch—because he hadn’t thrown the punch. His partner had. All of which flashed through my head as Biggie slammed me into a bookshelf.
Pain lashed across my back, the shelves digging into my muscle and pressing against my spine. My collection of Rex Winters hardbacks cascaded over me and Biggie, battering the pair of us as we each fought to gain an advantage. Biggie shot a forearm at my neck, the stench of sour meat and garlic heavy on his breath, but I refused to hold still to accommodate him. I drove a knee into his midsection, once, twice. He countered with a downward chop of his free arm and a pair of coordinated mini-hops away from me. I tried to hook his left leg with my right, but he anticipated that, too, shifting his weight to his right leg and bracing against my swipe.
Shockingly, Biggie knew what he was doing. I would’ve figured a three hundred pound half-orc bruiser like him would’ve been attacking me in my own home for shits and giggles.
I kept him off balance with another knee aimed at his groin and managed to get a grip on his collar. As he batted away my knee and came in with his forearm again, I countered, pulling him in and dipping my head.
His jaw cracked off the top of my skull, which seemed to hurt him more than me. He stumbled back. I didn’t hesitate, blasting my foot between his legs into his Mini Biggies as hard as I could. I would’ve followed it with a hard kick to the head if not for the fact that his partner had shaken off his mild concussion.
Topples rammed into me again with his shoulder, executing his signature move with the same grace as the first time. Luckily, he hadn’t learned his lesson. I hooked his leg again as he drove me into the kitchen, twisting him around and using our combined momentum to slam him into the counter.
Behind me, I heard a crash as the bookshelf tumbled to the ground, likely taking one of my side tables with it. Topples shrugged off the counter’s blast to his lower back and threw a weak, off-balance punch my way. I caught it with my arm and threw an elbow at his face, but gosh darn it if the thug didn’t use my own move on me. As soon I had his arm in my grip, he lurched off the cabinets and sent us flying across the kitchen.
The opposite counter introduced itself to my spine, thankfully in a spot that hadn’t already been savaged by the bookshelf. Topples snarled and slammed his body against mine, trying to free the arm that I held captive. His weight crushed into me, pressing against my already bruised spinal cord. It felt great.
I let go of him with my free hand, still trapping one of his arms in my pits. He took it as an invitation to choke me with his other hand. It would’ve been a poor choice on my part if I didn’t know what part of the kitchen I was in.
I fumbled around on the counter behind me as Topples’ fingers dug into the soft flesh at my throat, eventually finding the smooth glass neck I was searching for. A half-full bottle of Montvue special reserve whiskey. I’d had plans for it that didn’t involve shampooing a snaggle-toothed criminal’s hair, but such is life.
I brought the bottle crashing into Topples’ face, where it shattered into a hundred razor-sharp shards. Topples gasped and fell back, the whiskey soaking his shirt as a dozen cuts in his face started to ooze.
I grabbed another bottle, but I lost it as Biggie put me in a headlock from behind. The bottle fell to the ground, shattering with a crystalline ring, and I knew right away I was in trouble.
Biggie’s meaty arm wrapped around my neck, my windpipe right in the crook of his elbow. I reached up and clawed at his hand, but he’d secured it with his other. His fingers felt like iron, clasped together in a death grip.
I moved my fingers farther north, clawing at his face. Biggie chuckled. His teeth snapped and I felt his hot breath as he almost made a snack of my digits.
Topples stood, feeling the wetness on his face. He pulled his blood covered hand back and stared at it. “Son of a bitch.”
My lungs screamed for air. I couldn’t get more than a trickle through Biggie’s grip. As dark as my apartment had been a moment ago, it was notably darker now and spotted with red.
I heard Biggie’s heavy breath at my ear. “End this. Now.”
Topples nodded. He whipped a six inch blade from under his belt loop and lunged at my midsection.
It was about the dumbest move he could’ve made.
With Biggie’s arms locked on my throat, that left the rest of me free to squirm, and squirm I did. Engaging the abdominal muscles I’d gained after months of cross training classes, I brought my knees up and twisted to the side. Fabric tore as Topples’ knife sliced through the side of my suit jacket, followed by a pained grunt and the sweet taste of fresh air as Biggie’s grip loosened.
Even in the darkness I could see the whites of Topples’ eyes. “Shit…”
I took advantage of the split second of confusion. I swung my arm down as fast as I could, chopping at Topples’ grip on the knife. His fingers broke from the handle like chaff from wheat, and before either he or his partner could stop me, I slammed the knife further into Biggie’s abdomen.
Biggie cried out and released me, clutching at his stomach, but Topples didn’t panic. He slammed into me for a third time. My ribs groaned in protest, and when I went to hook his leg he twisted his body away from me. He reeked of my best whiskey, with blood coating half his face and his eyes showing a wild determination.
Together we careened across the room, both of us scrabbling for purchase. With my fingers wrapped around his soaked shirt, I managed to twist just before we slammed into the wall. It kept me from taking another full strength blow to my back, but my positioning lacked precision. Instead of hitting the wall, my shoulder plowed into the face of the grandfather clock I’d ironically inherited from my grandmother. Shards of glass pricked me through my coat, but my muscles didn’t scream.
Topples, however, did. He emitted a guttural yell and swung a wild fist at me. I danced back as it cut the air a bare inch from my nose.
I was ready for the second one. As his right hook came flying in, I threw open the door to the grandfather clock’s innards. His fist punched through the thin board, his arm caught to the elbow. As he tried to pull it out, I leveraged the clock off the wall. Both it and Topples toppled.
The pair slammed to the floor with a deafening crash. If no one had heard the commotion before, they’d be hard pressed to feign ignorance now. Topples lay face down with his arm trapped under the clock, groaning as he desperately tried to pull it out.
I stomped on the back of his humerus. Bone cracked. Topples screamed. Turns out having two nameless thugs try to murder me brought out the worst in me.
I ripped Topples from the shattered clock and drug him, half stumbling, toward the windows, hoping to get a good look at him. The light from outside barely illuminated the floor, much less his face, but there it was. Bloodied, ugly, and crisscrossed with faded scars. I’d never seen him before in my life.
The breeze picked up outside, rattling my windows in their frames. “Who are you?” I growled, my heart beating like a drum. “Who sent you?”
Topples cursed and threw himself at me, ignoring his shoulder as we slammed into the glass together.
It cracked but didn’t give. I gripped Topples’ upper arm in my fist and squeezed. He screamed.
“Tell me,” I said.
Maybe I underestimated the guy. Maybe more strength remained in his legs than I gave him credit for, and more strength of spirit in his core than his wild eyes gave credence to. Maybe he really did slam me through the shattered window, sending us careening into the cool breeze outside at the tail end of twilight. But it sure didn’t feel like it. It felt like an explosion sent us both flying out the window, or an abnormally strong gust of wind had blown us out from the inside.
I didn’t have time to ponder it. I simply twisted in midair, trying to keep Topples under me as I aimed for the awning of Mitch’s coffee cart.
5
My world was pain. Everything hurt, but I guess
that meant I wasn’t dead. My ears rang, but beyond that I heard voices. Many of them. They sounded concerned. One of them even sounded familiar.
“Detective? Are you okay? Is anyone here a medic?”
Over the tingling numbness, I felt pressure at my neck. Fingers. Someone was taking my pulse.
I groaned and cracked my eyes. A good dozen faces swam within my field of view, lit by a lantern someone had procured from somewhere. Only one of the faces sparked my memory.
Mitch leaned over me, a look of concern showing through his thick mustache. “Detective Daggers? Can you hear me? Are you alright?”
I craned my neck to the side. It turned out to be a bad idea. My muscles ached, and my spine lodged a formal protest. It did give me a view of the aftermath, though. The remnants of Mitch’s coffee cart lay splintered and broken around me, and around Topples’ corpse besides me. Admittedly, he might’ve still been alive, but if so he wouldn’t be for long. The broken wooden pole that stuck through his chest and protruded two inches out the other side would make sure of that.
“Holy crap…” I said, turning my head back toward Mitch. Thankfully the motion didn’t hurt as badly in reverse.
“What the hell happened?” asked Mitch.
I cleared my throat. “I hurtled through my window and crash landed on your coffee cart. It seems to have broken my fall. That and the other guy.” I tried to nod in Topples’ direction, but my neck hurt too much.
The amassed onlookers continued to talk amongst themselves. An old lady even uttered a “My word!” Maybe she was an aristocrat.
“Are you okay?” asked Mitch. “Is anything broken?”
“Won’t know until I try to stand. Not sure I want to try yet. How about you?”
Mitch blinked. “Me?”
“Yeah. I’m going to take a wild guess we didn’t land on you. I promise I’ll reimburse you for the cart. Either me or the department.”
“I’m fine, Detective. Don’t worry about me. It’s a cart. I’ll replace it.”
I heard a whistle in the distance. Mitch looked over his shoulder at the sound, as did most of the other gawkers. The whistle blasted twice more, closer this time, followed by a stern voice.
“Alright, that’s it. Back it up. Everyone. Make way.”
A uniformed bluecoat burst through the crowd, a young man with blonde hair, a smooth jaw, and with a greater air of confidence than the last time I’d seen him.
His mouth opened as he recognized me. “Detective Daggers…?”
“Phillips,” I said, grimacing. “Don’t tell me you walk the beat around my apartment now? Are you ever not working?”
“Holy…” He trailed off as he took in the rest of the scene. “What the hell—”
“I fell out of my apartment,” I said. “That guy helped me. That’s the gist, anyway. You going to help me up, or what?”
“You sure that’s a wise idea?”
I ran a mental check of my organs and extremities. They still hurt. “Not really, but I need to give it a shot sooner or later. Mitch?”
Phillips and the barista each took one of my arms and helped me into a sitting position. My head swam, but I didn’t lose consciousness. No important body parts fell off, either.
I patted my ribs. They felt like a heavyweight champion had given them a once-over—hell, maybe a twice-over—but when I pressed harder, they didn’t scream. I could also breathe without bursting into tears. Could I have gotten off that easy?
“Any broken ribs?” asked Phillips.
“I don’t think so.”
“And your neck?”
I rubbed it. “I sat up, didn’t I?”
He whistled—the regular way, not with the pea whistle that hung from his neck. “You believe in miracles?”
“Maybe I should,” I said. “Maybe I should also pick a church and start attending. Of course, if the gods favored me, they wouldn’t have sent two hitmen after me in the first place.”
Phillips glanced at Topples. “He tried to kill you?”
“Him and his buddy. Attacked me outside my apartment. Then inside my apartment. Made me spill my coffee. I’m still angry about that. I could use some right about now.”
“Wait,” said Phillips. “There’s another? He’s still up there?”
“Relax,” I said. “I got him in the gut pretty good with the other guy’s blade. He won’t go far if he goes anywhere at all. We can follow the blood trail. Hell, I almost hope he tries to get away. Might lead us somewhere useful.”
“You think someone sent them?”
“I sure didn’t recognize either of them.”
Phillips stood and pulled his nightstick. “I should check it out.”
“Hold your horses. I may be alive, but I could use some back support. Can you find me a seat?”
“Right. Sorry.”
Phillips and Mitch helped me to my feet. The crowd had swelled despite Phillips’ orders, but it nonetheless parted as we stumbled toward the exterior wall of my apartment. My ankle hurt as I walked, as did every other part of me, and though I felt as if I’d spontaneously aged forty years, I could still move. A miracle, indeed.
Lacking a chair, Phillips and Mitch helped me sit with my back against the bricks.
Phillips gave me a nod. “I’ll be back in a minute. Send backup if I’m not down in two.”
“I don’t have any backup to send, Phillips.”
“Right. Well, I’ll, ah...try not to die then.” He disappeared into my building.
Murdock wrung his hands together. “Uh…is there anything else I can do for you, Detective?”
“You’ve already done plenty, Mitch. But you made the mistake to ask, so yes.” I gestured toward the crowd. “I saw young faces among those gathered. I’d bet crowns to croissants there are runners among them. If not, find some. Send one to the Fifth Street Precinct. Another to the Empress of Welwic downtown, and yet one more to Shay’s place. She’s at four fifteen west Sixth. Apartment three-oh-five. Have the runners tell them more or less what happened and to get their asses here as fast as they can. All of them. Captain Knox, Quinto, Rodgers, Shay, obviously, and as many men as they want to send. Oh, and a medic, too. I feel like death warmed over.”
“You got it, Detective. Whatever you need.”
He hustled back toward the crowd, where he promptly started rounding up the youngsters. They all shot concerned glances my way, as did most of the adults. Not that I blamed them. People don’t come flying out of third story windows often around these parts. Fewer still survive. Still not sure how I’d managed that.
The breeze, which had quieted since I’d regained consciousness, once again picked up. I closed my eyes, leaned back against the brick, and took a deep breath—or at least as deep as I could without my ribs screaming in protest.
I sighed as I opened my eyes back up. I had a feeling it was going to be a long night.
6
A half hour later, I still sat outside my apartment building. At least someone had found a folding chair for me to sit in, nothing more than a few sheets of canvas held together by wooden sticks. It felt like heaven.
“Very good, Detective. Now, could you follow my finger. First with your right eye.”
The medic knelt in front of me, a young dark elven woman wearing a white smock and with her black as night hair in a tight braid.
“Am I supposed to be able to do that independently of my left eye?” I asked. “I don’t think I could do that even before I fell out a third story window.”
“Do your best, Detective. That’s it. Good. Now your left.”
I tried to do what she asked, sure that I was moving both eyes, but maybe that was her goal. She hadn’t exactly told me what she was looking for as she performed her tests.
“Very nice,” she said. “Now tilt your head back. Good. Forward. Excellent. And side to side? Nice. How does that feel?”
“Terrible,” I said.
She didn�
��t smile. “Please be honest, Detective. I can’t help you if you’re not. And if you’re feeling pain, I need to know specifics. What motion caused the aches?”
I sighed. “It’s worse when I move my head side to side than front to back. But it’s more of a dull ache, not shooting pains. And the dull ache is everywhere. I think I’ve made that clear by now.”
“Exceedingly.” The medic stood and started plucking at my hair, like a monkey looking for lice to eat. “You said you head butted one of your assailants? His chin impacted the top of your skull?”
“That’s right.”
She kept inspecting my hair follicles. “Well, I don’t see any lacerations. No external bleeding. Moderate bruising, but nothing significant. Unless you have any other concerns…?”
“I told you, my left arm hurts when I try to lift it over my head.”
“I suspect it’s a contusion, Detective, but we’ll keep an eye on it. Make sure it doesn’t get any worse. Now all that’s left is to administer the concussion protocols. If you could—”
“Later, Thalia.” Captain Knox stepped forward into the lantern light, Rodgers at her side.
The medic nodded. “Very well. He’s all yours, Captain.”
The Captain and Rodgers had been the first to arrive. The former stood there, wearing her green dress from our night at the Empress. To be fair, Rodgers still wore his suit, too, as I did mine. Of course, mine was torn, spattered with blood, and smelled of whisky, sour meat breath, and death. I wondered if the department would reimburse me for the expense of getting it cleaned and repaired.
The Captain watched the medic leave, her eyes slits and her jaw muscles tight. Her look didn’t soften when she turned it onto me. “How are you?”
“Hurt, but apparently not injured. I’ll live.”
“You’re lucky to be alive.”
“I know.”
The Captain chewed on her lip, the muscles in her jaw still bulging. She gazed at the coffee cart wreckage that had been cordoned off. “We’re going to get these sons of bitches, Daggers. Whoever’s behind it. You can bet your ass we will.”
