FLASH POINT

by PT Reade

  I grabbed the nearest man and shoved his head hard, towards the ground. It thumped with a dull thud from the carpet. Using the momentum, I pushed up and spun around, raised my hands ready to fight.

  Only then, did I realize my mistake. On my left, Joe was slowly climbing to his feet, on my right, another man, nearly identical was doing the same. Both were huge—at least three hundred pounds, both carried the same coffee complexion and tribal tattoos. And both were pissed at me.

  “Family day out huh?” I quipped, looking between the pair. “Wonderful.”

  Joe’s brother snarled at me and closed the distance, stomping forward. Joe himself clenched a fist and straightened his posture, cracking a knuckle. Shuffling in the opposite direction, I brought my fists up. In my periphery, movement. The businessmen and drunks at the bar edging away from the commotion. Even the staff, no doubt used to the rough environment, looked cautious. The dancer on stage stood awkwardly near her pole, uncertain of how to proceed.

  I felt the same.

  I cut my eyes quickly at the fire exit—a glowing salvation off to my right. Twenty feet away. Well out of reach.

  I shuffled back, as the two massive men charged at me.

  This was going to hurt.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  As I lay on the grimy concrete, body aching and head pounding, I glanced to the fire exit door that had just closed behind me where faint, cheesy rock music piped from inside.

  How had it come to this?

  I’d already stolen a motorcycle, visited a strip club and got into a fistfight. If this was my midlife crisis, it was ticking all the boxes.

  I was alone now. Sweaty, dirty and deserted. I rolled onto my back and for the briefest of moments considered not moving, just lying still forever, until all this was over and I could finally rest.

  But reality was whispering in my ear; this would never be over unless I did something about it. Lives depended on me.

  The bouncers had worked me over good. A solid beating, without any long-term damage. I almost had respect for the Samoan brothers. They had taught me a lesson, sent me swiftly from the rear exit and left me lying in the piss-soaked alleyway at the back of the strip club—all without breaking much of a sweat.

  Yes, I’d got a few good hits in myself, but the sheer size of my opponents made it impossible to do anything but cover up and take the beating. Losing my gun left few options. Only an instinctive guard—something left over from boxing practice when I was on the force—had saved my hide. When the punches are raining in many people try to protect every area of the body, but that is impossible. Instead, focusing on guarding firstly your head, secondly, your chest, will keep you alive. Bruised but alive.

  With a groan, I pushed up onto an elbow and winced as my bruised arm sent pain blooming through my body.

  I remembered the cell phone. Grasping into my pocket, I wrenched the plastic device free. It had survived the altercation but only just. A large crack spidered down the middle of the screen, and the corners were chipped and rough. The display showed no missed calls or messages. The clock read 2.05am

  I still had time, for now.

  “Making friends Tommy-boy?” A voice came from behind me.

  I turned with some effort and saw the slim outline of a woman leaning against the alley wall, copper hair tied back in a loose ponytail.

  “Donnie?”

  “Your eyes still work at least.”

  “How did—”

  “You’re not the only one who can tail people unnoticed. I honestly thought you’d have more taste than this dive though?”

  “Come to kick me when I’m down?”

  “Nah, that would be too easy. Dad told me about the bomb and all that shit. For some reason, he thinks you’re a good guy, and that’s good enough for me. Besides, I figured if it really was those SMC bastards you could use some help.”

  “You didn’t think to help when I was getting beaten up ten minutes ago?”

  “I’m not going in that place.”

  She stepped forward and offered a hand. I took it eagerly.

  Climbing to my feet, I stretched my aching body and tried to shake off the knots in my muscles.

  “You look like shit,” Donnie offered, helpfully.

  “You should see the other guys.”

  The scrap inside had been painful, but like most fights, it had been messy and chaotic. A broken desk, a smashed lamp. Walls dented, doors unhinged.

  Just what I needed.

  When my body had crashed into Vinny Horowitz’s desk-cum-coke surface, wood had splintered, papers had gone flying, and the room had been ruined. Lucky for me I had taken advantage of the moment, sensing Vinny’s deception.

  When I had pushed him on the RDX explosive, there had been a movement. Almost involuntary, but I saw it.

  Vinny pushed a piece of paper under a stack of other documents. I grabbed the handwritten note the moment I hit the desk. In the following chaos, no-one noticed it was missing. It would likely take Vinny days to figure it out.

  I straightened. My spine popped and creaked. I stepped from the side of the club and made it back into the street out front, with Donnie at my side.

  The nighttime heat was abating but sweat still prickled across my skin and my entire left side ached. Everything hurt, but it had been worth it.

  Reaching into my back pocket, I retrieved the crumpled piece of paper, flattened it in my palm and smiled darkly.

  “Hey, what’s that?” Donnie asked at my shoulder.

  “A clue, hopefully.”

  The handwriting was messy, and half of the note had been torn off, but there was enough left for me to make out the details. Hopefully, enough for me to find out who ordered the explosives. Hopefully, enough to track down the bomber.

  ****

  “Sanchez,” Rey barked from the other end of the phone line. His voice was strained, tired, but driven, like the man behind it.

  “Rey? I think I have something.”

  “Oh yeah? You should get down to the clinic.”

  “Real funny, asshole. No, I have something on the explosives.”

  “How?”

  I filled Rey in on my misadventures at the Pole Position and my subsequent run-in with its sibling security. I heard him chuckle at the other end. The son of a bitch was laughing. I had to laugh too, that or cry.

  “I’ve never known someone get beat-up as often as you, Blume. It’s a real skill.”

  “I’m just a people person.”

  “So, was it worth getting your ass handed to you? What did you find out?”

  “It’s not much, but I think it will give us a lead. Are you near a computer?”

  “Just got back to the precinct like, ten minutes ago. CSU have cordoned off the garage, but everyone is stretched thin here. Kinsey is even pulling in favors from across the river. It’s a shit-show here, but I think I can find a laptop. What do you need?”

  “Ok. Can you check the city records against a phone number and see what we get?”

  A series of thumps and clicks rattled down the other end as Rey moved the phone around. Faint voices in the background from the bustle of emergency crews and crisis meetings.

  “Shoot,” Rey spoke.

  “Number is 555-211-3456, or maybe that’s an eight on the end. Could be either.”

  “That’s it? Just a number?”

  “A-something 22. Apartment 22, maybe,” I replied hopefully. “That’s the only other thing I have. Could be the address of the supplier or a courier but I’m hoping it’s the man we need. If we get lucky, we can end this before anyone else is hurt.”

  “I’ll run the number and see what I can get, but …”

  “Yeah?”

  “Half the systems are down here, and backup generators keep cutting out. We have a relief shift coming so we can all get some shut-eye, but Blume?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We’re running on empty over here. This might take a few hours.”

  Damnit.

 
“Fine, just get a hold of me as soon as you have something.”

  I ended the call and began to step toward the curb when one of my legs buckled beneath me and I found myself on all fours. I placed a hand on my arm and found it came away bloody.

  Donnie stepped over and crouched next to me, looking at the dark stain on my t-shirt.

  “You need medical help Tommy-boy. Bruised ribs almost certainly. Minor lacerations, and when was the last time you slept?”

  “I’m fine,” I lied. “Besides, who made you Florence Nightingale?”

  Donnie put an arm under my shoulder and helped me up.

  “I know a few things.”

  “You are a woman of many talents, I—”

  I grunted as my chest erupted in pain, and I almost fell once more. Donnie kept me upright.

  “Come on, my apartment isn’t too far away,” she said. “I’ll get you fixed up.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  A metallic tinkling snapped me awake. I fumbled for my surroundings. Soft padding beneath me, a shabby couch, an unfamiliar room. Sunlight streaming through open window blinds.

  “Wh-where?”

  “Relax hot-shot; you were only out for a few hours. Looks like you needed it.”

  I bolted upright. Dull pain swelled in my chest. My arm throbbed.

  Across the small apartment, Donnie Lewis stood in the kitchen area, stirring a mug. “Take it easy,” she said.

  “A few hours?” I felt like I had been out for days. Wincing as my ribs caught fire, I grabbed for my cell phone.

  7.20am. The screen was otherwise blank. No calls.

  Donnie moved closer and offered me the steaming cup. “Coffee, black. I hope you take it black—I don’t have any milk anyway. My ex got me some fancy coffee machine, but I never figured out how to use the damned thing.”

  “It’s fine, thanks,” I said, sipping the brew as it slowly cleared the fuzz in my head. I recalled arriving at the apartment, a hot shower and crashing on the sofa. I must have passed out after that.

  “You need to be more careful, by the way. I cleaned your wounds, changed a couple of bandages and patched you up, but I wouldn’t recommend any more fist fights. Not today anyway.”

  I ran an eye over the professional-looking dressings. “Thanks. Seems like you know what you’re doing.”

  “When you grow up around bikers, you learn some basic first aid pretty quick. For example, you’ve bruised three ribs, lacerated your head and possibly fractured a finger.”

  “Just a regular day at the office,” I said, grimacing.

  “Either way, you can’t go running around like a kid anymore.”

  “Hey, just because I remember music on CD, doesn’t make me a coffin dodger just yet.”

  “C-what now?” Donnie smirked, dropping into a battered armchair opposite me with her own mug. At some point, she’d changed from the biker leathers into a Led Zeppelin t-shirt and a pair of running shorts that showed off her long legs now draped over the armrest. Unlike her arms, she had chosen to keep them ink-free. Or she just hadn’t got to that part yet.

  “Hey, time catches up with all of us,” I said, leaning back into the soft couch. “You’re probably only what ten, fifteen years younger than me?”

  “Something like that. I don’t like to think about it.”

  “What, you don’t want to get older?”

  “It’s not that,” Donnie said, staring into her mug. “It’s just the—”

  “Responsibility.”

  She nodded. “It’s a lot you know. Dad has done so much for the club. Basically built it from scratch, with Harlon’s help. All the guys respect him, and he’s always known what to do, but I-I just don’t know if I can live up to that.”

  “Lincoln thinks you’re up to the job; I can see it when he talks about you. He’s proud of you, and he believes in you.”

  “Yeah, the silly old bastard is crazy. It’s why he has me working at that crummy pizza place. Some bullshit about having a ‘normal life.’ Whatever that might be.”

  “Maybe Lincoln is crazy, but he knows people. Trusts you. It’s good to have people on your side.”

  Donnie nodded but said nothing. For a moment, we both sat in silence. I sipped at the coffee, gathering my thoughts, while she nursed her own brew, looking to the window. Outside, the morning sky blushed orange with the rising sun. A soft lullaby of traffic flowed through the hazy glass.

  “What about you,” Donnie said. “Is there someone on your side? A Mrs. Blume? A special lady in your life?”

  It is a curious thing, the death of a loved one. When you catch yourself remembering they are gone, the world stops for a moment. Like missing a step in the dark, there is a sickly moment of unwelcome surprise.

  I cast my eyes down. No matter how many times the question had been asked, or how innocently people approached the subject, it never gets comfortable. There is never a clean answer. I gave up on softening the topic long ago.

  “There was,” I replied. “She died some time ago.”

  “Oh shit, I’m sorry, man. I didn’t know. I just assumed, oh damn.”

  “It’s ok. It’s complicated, but I’m trying to move on. Make progress you know?”

  “Must be hard. But you’re seeing someone else now?”

  “No. Yes. Well, kinda. I don’t know.”

  Donnie laughed. “So, who would know?”

  I smiled. “It’s …. complicated. There’s a woman I work with sometimes, in London. Nicole. We work well together, but I don’t know. Maybe there’s something there, maybe not.”

  “So why don’t you ask her?

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “It could be. We’re not that complicated a species Blume. Good women—the ones worth it, I mean—don’t play games. Just ask her.”

  “I can’t, not right now anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  “I kinda screwed things up the last time we spoke, and now I think she probably doesn’t want to hear from me. It’s probably for the best, right? I mean, I have a lot of baggage. The stuff I’ve been through …” I let the words hang in the air. Donnie was thoughtful for a moment then her eyes met mine and briefly, she looked decades older.

  “We all have scars, Tommy-boy. You just have to decide whether you want to learn from them or hide them.”

  “I never pegged you as the philosophical type.”

  “I have my moments. Oh, by the way, I got something for you,” She said, putting her mug aside and jumping up to leave the room. Moments later she returned, dropping a shoebox on my lap. “Figured you might need it.”

  “And I didn’t get you anything.” Curious, I opened the container, and retrieved the heavy item inside; a snub-nosed revolver I recognized instantly. “A Model 66. Huh, I haven’t seen one of these in years.”

  “I thought you might need this more than I do, especially if what you say about this bomb-thing is true. Got some ammo somewhere, too.

  The .38 Smith and Wesson is the younger brother of the famous .357 Magnum. It lacks the stopping power of its bigger sibling but it’s compact size, and easy handling makes it a popular choice. This particular model was finished in polished stainless steel and accented with a walnut grip.

  I weighed the gun in my hand. Solid, reassuring, with a certain old-school charm.

  “Yeah, thanks. This will be useful. Another souvenir from your ex?”

  “Naw, this one was to keep the ex-boyfriend away.”

  Any further insights from the feisty redhead were cut off when my phone rang. I hit answer, and before he’d even finished talking, I knew Rey had good news.

  We had an address for the bomber.

  TWENTY-NINE

  The building itself was a squat apartment complex, six stories tall near Clinton Hill, Brooklyn. The surrounding brownstones needed repair, and the ramshackle stores across the street had seen better days. Still, it was a busy neighborhood, even given the early time of day. Store owners set up their wares, stereos boomed from passing
cars, and the excited chatter from a group of teenagers across the street carried high into the air.

  The day would be another scorcher, the heat already building as the sun climbed into the clear azure sky. Leaving my jacket behind would have been the preferred option, but the revolver, now secured underneath, needed to remain hidden.

  I craned up at the blocky construction matching our address. A dull shade of grey with lots of windows, there were a few cracks in the concrete, but nothing too serious. In short, it looked exactly as you might imagine an average New York City apartment building. It wasn’t exactly a slum, but there also wasn’t any risk of running into any A-list celebrities.

  “Ready?”

  “You sure we don’t need a warrant?” Rey said, securing his pistol, as we stood next to his car. Leaving the bike at Donnie’s was his idea—a way to stay slightly more inconspicuous.

  “Kinsey authorized us to do what needed to be done. We need to find out who placed that order with Vinny.”

  “Alright then,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”

  I opened the door to the lobby and waved my arm with exaggerated politeness, “After you.”

  “Wiseguy,” Rey responded, as he walked through, taking in the surroundings.

  The apartment we were looking for was probably on the second floor. I saw two options for getting there: the elevator and the stairs. Elevators are always a risk. The loud dings and floor numbers can give away your position. They are a poor choice if you want to catch someone unprepared. I’d also had enough confined spaces for one day, so I took a sharp left and headed towards the stairs, Rey followed close behind.

  In the stairwell we moved slowly, hands hovering near our weapons, watching our backs. We couldn’t afford to be careless. The lives of who-knew-how-many innocents lay in our hands. It was possible someone at this address purchased a significant amount of explosives. It was also possible we were about to walk in on a bomber, and it was unlikely that he’d be happy about it.