by Blou Bryant
His hand free, he pressed down, his wound on hers and willed her to heal. There was no spark, no feeling of flow from her to him. “No,” he yelled out in frustration. The virus had taken over his life, taken away his freedom and now it was failing him in his moment of need.
He pressed down harder, his eyes closed, willing the virus to transmit, willing her to heal and only stopped when Ari moaned in pain. “Go on, get him,” she whispered hoarsely.
“It’ll work, it has to.”
“It won’t, go…” she said, her eyes tearing up.
“No, I can get Hannah. She can heal you.”
“Go…” she said. “Ira already knows, they’re coming. Get him.” Her eyes glimmered with tears, likely of pain. “Go get him,” she said and put a hand over his. “I got the bleeding. You get the guy who shot me.”
He ached with sympathetic pain, torn apart by the sight of blood pumping out from between her fingers. Her face was set in a grimace and she nodded to the right. “He went that way,” she said.
Wyatt was torn, but knew he had to finish this. His job was Criggs, to make him pay for the pain he’d caused. “Don’t you dare die on me,” he whispered. He wiped away his own tears and looked up. The backyard was empty. Where did he go? Wyatt wondered. Three directions available—a house to the side, one directly behind, and the street. He chose the street.
“No,” Ari said.
Wyatt looked down.
She said, “No,” again, but her lips didn’t move.
“What?”
An image appeared—not even an image, but an impression—of trees, houses, and a field in the distance. A soccer or baseball field, perhaps, dark now, and… misty, hard to make out. Wyatt was startled at its sudden appearance, and then, just as quickly, it vanished.
“Go,” Ari said… and this time, her lips moved.
“What that you?”
“Idiot. Go!”
A door opened inside the building, and the knowledge that help was on the way jolted him into action. Wyatt stood and looked around. The impression, the thought, whatever it was that she’d sent him—if she had—was east, the moon just over the horizon. With one last look down at her, he took off across the backyard. There was sufficient ambient light to allow him to reach a full pace and still avoid obstacles.
It only took seconds to cross the first and then the second yard. A security light went off as he ran up a driveway, blinding him momentarily. It the middle of the next street, he paused and looked left and right. The moon was now to his left, and he started in that direction.
A strong feeling of wrongness filled him, so he paused, shaking his head in confusion. Wyatt looked north and received… a feeling of rightness… so he turned, leapt a picket fence and made his way through another lawn. A back gate was locked, but he scaled it easily, and on landing saw a wide sports field. Without hesitation, he raced forward, looking in all directions, and quickly found his target three quarters of the way across the pitch.
There was a gate on each end, but he was at the middle of the fence, and was too far behind to lose any more time. Two old elms were yards away. At full speed, he jumped, one foot hitting the first. Rather than grab it, he pushed himself off, using the force of his movement to propel himself towards the other tree. His fingers just barely managed to grab a branch, and he swung himself up and over the fence. He rolled on landing to limit the impact, then jumped out of the roll and kept running.
Criggs was heading for a far gate. Wyatt could see a parking lot on the other side—he couldn’t let his target get there, get away. They were perhaps a hundred yards apart, but something must have alerted Criggs and he turned and saw Wyatt. He fired twice, then a third time, but Wyatt didn’t break stride and not one hit their mark. He didn’t like guns, but knew enough about them from Dog training to know that even an experienced marksman in good conditions wouldn’t be likely to hit him at that distance.
Fifty yards separated them now. Criggs stopped and leveled the gun directly at Wyatt. Under the lights from the parking lot, Wyatt could see a smirk on the frat boy’s face. A fourth and then a fifth shot also went wide and the smirk disappeared.
Twenty-five yards now, he’d covered the field in less than ten seconds and he’d been lucky, but now he wondered how many bullets were in Criggs’s clip. There was panic on the other man’s face now, and he pulled the trigger again and again. As Wyatt closed the last feet, there were no ringing bangs of bullets exploding, only the sound of the hammer clicking on an empty chamber.
Five yards left and Wyatt—never a fan of football—launched himself through the air like a linebacker tackling an opponent. He connected directly with Criggs, his shoulder in the other man’s gut, his arms wrapping around and pulling Criggs down with him.
He was up before the other man, but his fast blow at the throat missed. A second one was equally ineffectual and Criggs managed to get one in from his prone position, connecting directly with Wyatt’s nose. Pain coursed through him, and he could feel blood flowing down his face. It was happening just like last time.
As he readied to jump on Criggs, a sense of calm—a feeling—filled him. Ari? He thought.
He received an impression of Rocky, Hannah and Ira, all over him—over her. She was all right.
Wyatt took a step back and a deep breath. He wanted to kill the man, but paused. She was right, if it was her, anger made him a worse fighter, not a better one. He counted down from five… four… three… two… one, and felt better immediately.
Criggs used the pause to get up, chuckling. “Do you remember the beating I laid on you?”
Wyatt ignored him. “You’re coming back with me. The police will deal with you.”
“I don’t think so. You should have stayed with your girlfriend. How’s she doing? That was a big bullet for a little girl.”
Wyatt felt himself flush with anger and he almost lost control at the taunt. He paused and took another breath. Five… four… three… two… You’re not worth my anger, he thought… one.
With a quick step forward, he aimed his right fist directly at Criggs’s face. When the other man moved his hands up, as expected, Wyatt pivoted and kicked out with all his strength. The blow landed solidly in his opponent’s midriff, cracking ribs and throwing him backwards. Wyatt didn’t advance. He wanted Criggs angry, even stupider than usual. He said, “Jessica is an ugly bitch.”
Criggs turned red and shook his head. “Don’t talk about her…”
Wyatt balanced on the ball of his right foot, ready. He noticed Criggs was keeping a hand around his chest. Definitely cracked ribs. With another quick move, he lunged again, this time not pulling the punch. It connected directly with Criggs’s throat. “She’s a dog, isn’t she?”
Despite the lack of breath, Criggs rushed forward, arms swinging. Just as Rocky had done to him days before, Wyatt easily avoided the swings and landed blow after blow. “She’s a loser…” Wyatt taunted in-between punches.
Criggs bellowed, a primal scream of anger and managed to land a punch, hard, into Wyatt’s injured shoulder. With a wince Wyatt stepped back. “I saw a hobo who looked like her, wonder...” he landed a punch of his own on Criggs’s side, “…if that was her mother.” Not a great insult, but any will do with this fool. Criggs landed another punch of his own, directly on Wyatt’s jaw. Still, he’s a fool who doesn’t feel pain. Time to end this.
As Criggs kept swinging, moving forward, Wyatt slowly backed up, no longer punching, just blocking and deflecting. Finally, the right moment appeared as his opponent pulled back for a roundhouse. As Criggs leaned in, Wyatt ducked left, letting the other man turn through his swing. With all his weight on his back foot, Wyatt punched out, deliberately—coldly, calmly—and hit Criggs at the base of the skull with a closed fist.
Criggs’s head snapped forward, and then back and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious. “That’s going to hurt tomorrow,” Wyatt said. The man would have one hell of a concussion. “Better than dead,” Wyatt said to
the empty field.
A sense of happiness washed over him. That would be Ari. How was she in his head? Wyatt wondered, but wasn’t perturbed. Somehow, her presence felt… right. He leaned over and picked Criggs up in a fireman’s carry. Five minutes later he was back at the frat house.
Chapter 32
When he got back, Wyatt dumped the still unconscious body of Criggs at Vincent’s feet. There were seven others lined up on the ground outside the house. Vincent had got plastic handcuffs from his car, and each had two on them.
The happiest moment for Wyatt was on entering the house and seeing twenty—or more—Dogs milling around. There were cheers when he arrived, smiles, hugs and handshakes as well.
“Found them in a room downstairs,” said Rocky. “A couple mattresses and a bucket, wasn’t the best vacation they’ve had, but everybody is fine. Dirty—nothing new there—and hungry, but safe and sound.”
“I think it’s everyone,” said Sandra. “We’re getting out of here before the cops arrive. Well, more cops…” she said with a glance at Vincent.
“One room left to check, we were just going down,” said Quince. “Wanna come?”
“Sec,” said Wyatt, noticing Ira and Hannah in the living room. How could he have forgotten? He brushed past everyone and ran to them. As expected, Ari was on a couch between them. The pained smile on her face was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “You’re alive, good.”
Ari laughed, then grimaced. “Don’t make…”
“… her laugh,” said Ira.
“It hurts.”
“Why’d you laugh? I didn’t make a joke,” he said, kneeling next to her.
“Cause…”
“You’re so restrained, unemotional, it’s funny,” said Hannah with a wink at Ari.
Ari nodded, but still smiled. “Go on, finish up. I’m fine.”
“Good,” Wyatt said and then after a brief thought, added, “I’m really happy you’re still alive.” He could talk to her later about the… visions she’d sent him. “Rocky, I hear we got a room left to look at.”
“I think so,” the big man said and they joined Quince in the basement. She was standing in front of a door he hadn’t noticed before. It appeared to be steel, a large keyed padlock hanging off of it.
“We need a crowbar or something,” Wyatt said. “Look around.”
Rocky ignored him and grabbed the lock. Bracing one foot on the door, he grunted and gave a mighty tug. The lock was too strong, but the plate wasn’t, and ripped out of the wall, the lock attached.
“You were saying?” Rocky said, and gave the door a kick. It swung open.
Wyatt glanced in, it was pitch black. He reached around the inside, found a switch and flicked on the light. Nobody. Two big tables, however. One with a machine on it and piles of pills. The second table had a machine as well, and piles of money.
Quince thumbed through the cash. “Wow.” Wyatt didn’t care about that and took a moment to inspect the small machine, similar in appearance to a printer. Next to it were several bottles filled with powders and liquids. This was how they made the drugs, he assumed. Good to know.
“Leave it all alone,” he said to the others, who were crowding in. “Let the police deal with this.” Quince had a disappointed look on her face as she considered the money one last time.
A large TV in the corner flickered to life. Jessica’s face filled it. She appeared strangely impassive. “Well done,” she said. “But not fast enough. I’ve sent people. You can’t get out in time.”
“Sure we can. And you’ll pull your people back,” Wyatt said.
Automatic gunfire from outside intruded – it sounded closer. Wyatt didn’t want a gun battle, he wanted this to end. It had to be her decision, however. “We found your drug machine,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond otherwise.
“Any idea what company makes that?” Wyatt asked, guessing that it was hers, or something she was connected to. It was time to leave, he thought and motioned for Rocky and Quince to follow him out of the room.
The TV in the main basement room flickered to life. Jessica appeared. “It’ll be gone by the time the police find it.”
“The police? You mean your police?”
“I have my resources,” she replied.
“Joe, are you there?” he asked and walked up the stairs to the main floor. Wyatt was sure she’d follow him.
He was proved right when the living room screen flickered to life. Joe appeared.
“Joe, check the police database. There were arrests tonight at a HUC.”
“Confirmed…”
Jessica reappeared. “Stop that, you can’t play us against each other,” she said.
Wyatt smiled. “They will testify that your cop murdered someone. It’s already been entered in the system.”
“So?” she asked.
“So, it’s your machine, your drugs, your cop. Joe, do an analysis, how does this play out?”
Joe reappeared briefly and was replaced with a headline on the Detroit Daily. “Heiress Implicated in Murder.” Another appeared, “New Drug Epidemic.”
“Play it out, Joe,” Wyatt asked. “What’s she going to do?”
Jessica replaced Joe, and then he her. The screen flickered several times, and she took control.
“I’m he and she’s me. Don’t play us against each other.”
Wyatt shook his head, “That’s not my intent. I’m helping you out.”
New headlines appeared across the screen. “Industrialist Condemns Drug Abuse.” Another, “CEO Implements New Controls.” Finally, “Golde Cleared.”
“Your guy shows up, gets implicated, he’s likely to turn on you. He’s dirty, he’s a scumbag with no loyalty other than to money. Joe, predict the outcome if he arrives.”
Jessica returned to the screen. “He doesn’t need to. He’s me. I’m she and I, we know you’re right. Congratulations, you’ve won one battle. Don’t expect to win another.”
Wyatt noticed that it was silent outside. The gunfire had stopped. “Vincent, get your backup in now.”
Vincent had been watching the screen from the door, a toothpick between his teeth. “You didn’t mention her, did you? What’s gonna happen if I’m on her bad side?” he said, pointing at the big image of Jessica.
“Are you going after her?”
The man shrugged. “Meh, on what evidence?”
“Exactly. You’ve got dealer and killers. Why would she go after you and link herself even more to the people you’ve arrested? She’s a psychopath, and he’s a computer. They’ll only attack you if it’s in their interest. Revenge isn’t, right Jess?”
“He’s a what?”
Jossica ignored the officer and said, “It’s only one battle.”
Sure, but it’s one you lost, he thought, angry at the smirk on her perfectly fake face. “Emm, can you turn that off?” he asked.
“With pleasure, boss,” the gangly teen said and reached out to the alarm box on the wall. She closed her eyes and said, “Everything’s connected.” The house went dark. “And now it’s not.”
“Okay everybody,” Wyatt said. “We only got a few minutes, do a full search of the house, information only, don’t take any money…” he said, with a sideways glance at Quince, who scowled. “Papers, computers, phones, grab it and let’s get out of here.”
Only five minutes later, they were gathered outside, and Wyatt was suddenly faced with the realization that he had twenty plus people and enough transport for six. Several cars pulled up, and before he could worry about what now, Dally climbed out of the lead vehicle. He walked to the house with a large group behind him wearing the colors of all of Detroit’s major gangs. “We showed them!” he yelled. “They’re on the run.”
“Who?” asked Rocky.
“Bunch of guys in black showed up, started shooting. Ten minutes later, they get in their vans and head for the hills. Two cop cars still out on Smythe Street, but they ain’t shooting.”
<
br /> The fight ended because Jessica pulled back, he thought but didn’t say it. He appreciated the support, it amazed him, in fact.
A group of the youths broke away from the pack and approached him. “You Wyatt?” one asked.
“Damned right it is,” said Dally.
The leader of the group put out a hand. “Awesome, man. I heard you took em out.”
Another came up and clapped Wyatt on the back. “All of them. Kicked in the front door. He’s unkillable.”
A girl with a shaved head pushed her way in. “I saw it, he owned them, like some super ninja.”
“You’re kidding,” whispered Hannah from behind him.
“Let him have his moment,” scolded Sandra.
Wyatt shook hands, took high fives and chest bumps, one after the other. After three years in basements, this was almost too much to handle. Almost. His face hurt from smiling. “I need someone to take a friend of mine to the hospital.”
Several of the gang members immediately volunteered. Ari had joined them out front, and argued, but Wyatt wouldn’t listen. No matter how good a healer Hannah was, Ari was going to a hospital, and that was that. With the help of Ira, she was convinced and left in the front seat of a jacked up truck filled with men and woman in the various colors of Detroit’s gangs.
“The rest of us need to get out of here,” he said to Vincent. “Are you good?”
“I’ll be fine… for now. You got some ‘splaining to do, don’t you?”
Wyatt gave a half smile, “Another day?”
Vincent nodded. “Hey,” he said to Dally, “the guys on Smythe are mine, let them through, will you?”
Dally agreed and Wyatt grabbed him by the arm. “We don’t want to be here when they get here. Can we get a ride? We’re leaving… bring us to the HUC.” Dally and the others were more than happy to help out, and five minutes later, in a chain of pimped out vehicles, they left the scene.
Chapter 33
The next morning, he found himself hardly able to remember or believe the events of the night before. Trix had given them new rooms at the centre—away from everyone else. He’d shared one with Rocky, but didn’t notice or mind the company. He fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. At eight in the morning, Sandra woke him for breakfast with a change of clothing in hand. His bunkmate was already gone.
