by Dan Simmons
The man moved with real speed, coming around the side of the pile and sliding to floor level, weapon raised and braced in the approved style. There was a bulk to the upper body which suggested body armor.
Knowing that any movement would draw fire, but also knowing that he had to change his aim or miss, and thus die in a very few seconds, Kurtz shifted the snub-nosed.38 a bit to the left. Stones slid.
The man wheeled at the first sound and fired three times. One of the slugs hit a foot or so above Kurtz's right hand and threw stone chips into his face. The second bullet slammed into rock between Kurtz's buried right arm and his body. The third nicked Kurtz's left ear.
Kurtz fired twice, aiming for the man's groin and left leg.
The shooter went down.
Kurtz was up and running toward him, shaking off stones, sliding and almost falling in the resulting rock slide, reaching the shooter just as the groaning man started to raise his weapon again.
Kurtz kicked the 9mm Glock out of Detective Hathaway's right hand, and it went skittering away on cold stone. The cop was fumbling for something with his left hand, and Kurtz almost shot him in the head before he realized that Hathaway was holding up a leather wallet section with his badge catching the dim light A shield, the cops called it.
Hathaway moaned again and clutched at his left leg with his empty hand. Even in the darkness, Kurtz could see blood pumping from the wound. Must have nicked the femoral artery. If he'd hit it full on, Hathaway would be dead by now.
"A tourniquet… my belt… make a tourniquet," Hathaway was moaning.
Kurtz kept the.38 steady, set his foot on Hathaway's chest—knocking the wind out of him—and held the muzzle a foot from the cop's face. "Shut up!" Kurtz hissed. He was looking over his shoulder, listening.
No footsteps. No noise at all except for the two men's labored breathing.
"Tourniquet…" moaned Detective Hathaway, his gold shield still raised like a talisman. He was wearing heavy Kevlar body armor with porcelain plates, military style. It would have stopped an M-16 round, much less Kurtz's.38 slug. But Kurtz's bullet had gone into the cop's leg about four inches below the hem of the vest. "You can't… kill… a cop, Kurtz," gasped the homicide detective. "Even you aren't… that fucking… stupid. Tie off… my leg."
"All right," said Kurtz, putting more weight on his right foot on Hathaway's chest, but not enough to shut off all breathing. "Just tell me if you're alone."
"Tourniquet…" gasped the cop and then gasped again as Kurtz dug his heel in. "Yeah, fuck… fuck…yeah… alone. Let me tie this off. I'm fucking bleeding to death, you miserable fuck."
Kurtz nodded agreement. "I'll help you tie it off. As soon as you tell me why you're doing this. Who are you working for, and how did you know I'd be here?"
Hathaway shook his head. "The precinct knows… I'm here. This place will be crawling… with cops… five minutes. Give me your belt." He held his detective shield higher, his hand shaking.
Kurtz realized that he wasn't going to get an explanation from the wounded man. He took his foot off Hathaway's chest and took a step to the side, aiming the.38 at the detective's forehead.
Hathaway's mouth dropped open—he was breathing raggedly and loudly—and he swung the shield up in front of his face again, holding it in both hands the way someone would hold a crucifix to drive off a vampire. He was gasping, but his voice was very loud in the empty mill, as was the sound of Kurtz clicking the hammer back on the.38.
"Kurtz… you fucking don't kill a cop!"
"I've already had this discussion," said Kurtz.
In the end, the detective's gold shield was no shield at all.
CHAPTER 32
"Where the fuck is that detective motherfucker?" said Doo-Rag, sitting on the edge of Malcolm's huge desk. "It almost one a.m. Motherfucker should've called by now."
"Get the fuck off my desk," said Malcolm.
Doo-Rag got off, slowly, sullenly, and moved to the leather couch against the wall. He played with the Mac-10 in his hands, clicking the safety on and off repeatedly.
"You click that one more time, motherfucker, and I will have to ask Cutter to remonstrate with you, Doo," said Malcolm.
Doo-Rag glared but set the Mac-10 on the couch beside him. "So where is the honky cop motherfucker?"
Malcolm shrugged and put his Bally loafers up on the desk. "Maybe Kurtz killed his ass."
"Hathaway that much of a fuckup?" said Doo-Rag.
Malcolm shrugged again.
"How come the cop didn't tell us where this Kurtz motherfucker was going?"
Malcolm smiled. "He probably knew that I'd send you and Cutter and a dozen of the boys to make sure the job was done right and then Hathaway would be out the D-mosque ten Gs."
"But he told us where Kurtz work," said Doo Rag. "That basement under the porn shop. We should be there."
"Nobody there, middle of the night," said Malcolm. "Hold your water, Doo. The cop don't kill Kurtz tonight for some reason, you and your crew can go visit the porn-shop basement tomorrow."
Cutter quit looking out the window and sat on the corner of Malcolm's desk. Malcolm said nothing. Doo-Rag glared at Cutter, then at Malcolm, then at Cutter again. Both men ignored him.
"You really gonna let the honky cop collect the D-mosque's ten grand?" Doo-Rag said after a minute.
Malcolm shrugged. "That's why Hathaway ran the tap on some gun dealer we don't know and didn't tell his cop pals. That's why he went to bust a cap on Kurtz by himself tonight. Nothing I can do if he wants all the money."
Doo-Rag smirked. "You could pop a cap up Hathaway's ass."
Malcolm looked at Cutter and then frowned. "You don't kill a cop, Doo. Only a crazy man would do that."
The three of them were in Malcolm's rear second-floor office. Outside the closed door, in the upstairs pool hall, eight more Bloods were shooting pool or sleeping on couches. Downstairs, there were about twenty more, half of them awake. Everyone was armed.
Malcolm dropped his feet off the desk and walked over to the window. Doo-Rag left his Mac-10 on the couch and came over to stand near him. They were a study in contrasts: Malcolm elegantly dressed and preternaturally still, long fingers quiet, and Doo-Rag quivering and jiving and snapping his twitchy fingers silently. There was not much to see out back: Doo-Rag's red Camaro, Malcolm's Mercedes, a few other cars belonging to the senior Bloods, and a Dumpster. Malcolm had installed a high-output crime light on a pole since his SLK was out there most of the time, but that was a wasted expense. No one was going to steal Malcolm Kibunte's car from the Seneca Social Club.
At that second, Doo-Rag's Camaro burst into flame.
"What the fuck!??!" Doo-Rag screamed, achieving an amazing falsetto.
Cutter walked slowly to the window.
Doo-Rag's Camaro was burning steadily, flames leaping from the roof, hood, and trunk. It was obvious that the gas tank had been ignited; but rather than a gigantic, action-movie explosion, it just burned steadily.
"That my car, man. I mean, what the fuck is going on?" screamed Doo-Rag, hopping around. He ran to the couch and came back with his Mac-10, although no one was in sight in the parking area or alley beyond. "I mean, what the fuck?"
"Shut up," said Malcolm. He was poking at his molars with a silver toothpick. He checked out his Mercedes, but it was far from the flames at the opposite end of the lot from the burning Camaro—almost right at the back door—and no one was near it.
Cutter made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a growl. He pointed at the fire and made the sound again.
Malcolm thought a minute and shook his head. "Naww. We won't call nine-one-one yet. Let's see what happen next."
Malcolm's Mercedes exploded in a ball of flame. This time there was a movie-style explosion, rattling the caged windows on the second floor with a bone-shaking whuump.
"What the fuck?" shouted Malcolm Kibunte. "Some bastard fucking with my car?" Some of the first-floor Bloods were already out back, milling around with automatic w
eapons ready, but they were being driven back inside by the heat from the two burning automobiles. Malcolm wheeled on Cutter. "Call nine-one-one. Get the fucking fire trucks here." He pulled his Smith & Wesson Powerport.357 Magnum and ran down the back stairs.
Two fire engines and a fire chiefs car arrived less than two minutes later. The big pumper filled the alley, hoses were played out, and more men and hoses appeared down the walkway from the front of the Social Club. Firefighters shouted instructions at one another. The Bloods were also shouting, their weapons visible.
The firefighters backed off. The flames roared.
Malcolm gathered Cutter and a few others around him at the back door. The fire chief, a short, powerfully built man with the name badge HAYJYK on his bulky coat, came up to glare at Malcolm.
"You the asshole in charge here?" demanded Hayjyk.
Malcolm only glared back.
"We've already called the cops, but if you don't get those fucking guns out of here, you're all going to jail and we're going to let that fucking fire burn. And it's about ready to ignite these other four vehicles."
"I'm Malcolm Kibu—" began Malcolm.
"I don't give a fuck who you are. You're just another gang punk to me. But get those guns out of sight now." Hayjyk was leaning so close to Malcolm that the top of his fire helmet was brushing the taller man's chin.
Malcolm turned and waved his men back into the building. Three police cars pulled up behind the pumper in the alley, their red and white whirling lights adding to the pattern of lights already flickering on all the surrounding buildings.
"Wait a minute," yelled Malcolm, pointing to the four firefighters going in the back door after the Bloods. "They can't go in there."
Hayjyk just grinned without humor, stepped back, and gestured for Malcolm to join him. Malcolm did so, his hand on his.357 Magnum.
Hayjyk pointed up at the roof of the Seneca Social Club. "You're on fire, asshole!"
Malcolm began shoving his way past firefighters, trying to get to the rear staircase. It was locked from the inside. He pushed his way down the hall, Cutter and Doo-Rag shoving aside Bloods and firemen alike.
"You can't go back in there!" shouted Hayjyk.
"Gotta get some papers and shit," said Malcolm, loping up the stairs. The second-floor poolroom was already half-filled with smoke. Firefighters were standing on two of the green felt tables, smashing at the ceiling with their huge axes. The sight made Malcolm sick. Someone had smashed the glass of the rear window in his office, so the space was free of smoke. Malcolm gestured for Doo-Rag to close and lock the door. Then he began pawing papers, guns, and drugs out of the desk and throwing them into a black duffel bag. Luckily, the heroin, crack, yaba, dope, and other drugs were at the arms warehouse out near SUNY. Malcolm had never risked keeping the most incriminating shit anywhere near him. But he had to save his papers and records.
A fireman stepped out of the darkness of the rear stairway. He was carrying an ax backward in his right hand, his left hand was in his coat pocket, and he had a respirator with goggles over most of his face. "You'd be safer outside," said the fireman through his mask.
"Fuck you, man," said Doo-Rag.
The fireman shrugged, took a step forward and clubbed Malcolm over the head with the dull end of the ax. The big man went down heavily. There came two soft ph-uut sounds, and Doo-Rag slammed back against the closed office door and fell to the floor. He left a smear of blood on the door.
"Told you it was safer outside," said the firefighter.
Cutter began to move and then froze. A black polymer H&K USP.45 Tactical with a silencer was now visible in the firefighter's left hand.
CHAPTER 33
Suddenly someone began pounding on the locked door. A section of ceiling actually collapsed above Malcolm's desk.
Kurtz's gaze shifted for only a second, but the distraction gave Cutter time to flick open a switchblade and lunge for Kurtz's heart. Kurtz had to swing the pistol out of line of fire as he jumped back. Cutter leaped closer. Kurtz brought down the ax while he jumped away, but the ax was heavy and it was clumsy handling it with just one hand. It only deflected the blow. Cutter had the blade swinging again, and he came in fast.
Kurtz dropped the ax, tossed the pistol into his right hand, and tried to bring the H&K to bear, but Cutter had grabbed his right wrist. Kurtz kneed the stocky man in the balls—it didn't seem to have any effect—and then Cutter's blade was ripping through the left side of Kurtz's heavy coat.
Asbestos and metal fibers sewed into the coat slowed the blade and gave Kurtz a chance to bat away Cutter's right wrist before the knife cut through anything but shirt and skin. Cutter slashed again. Kurtz and Cutter staggered around the room in a clumsy dance, both men breathing hard, Kurtz's plastic mask fogging up. The blade rose and came up fast enough to slash Kurtz's face, but the heavy respirator plastic took the cut. Kurtz tried desperately to free his right hand and the pistol, but the simple truth was that Cutter was stronger than he was.
Cutter's feet came down on Doo-Rag's face; he just dug his boots in for traction. Kurtz slammed into the edge of Malcolm's desk, numbing his thigh. He couldn't see well through the respirator mask, and he didn't have any way to get it off with both hands engaged. Cutter was forcing him back over the desk.
Cutter lunged, trying to gain more leverage for the blade. Instead of fighting the attack, Kurtz went with it. Both men went sprawling, the heavy oxygen tank on Kurtz's back ringing hollowly. The H&K.45 went bouncing across the floor, ending up against Malcolm's arm. Malcolm groaned but did not stir. Smoke was beginning to fill the room and firefighters were shouting in the room next door. The pounding had stopped but someone was chopping at the reinforced door with an ax.
Cutter pivoted the switchblade and slashed the blade across Kurtz's left wrist through the jacket, sending blood spraying.
Kurtz gritted his teeth and threw himself on his back, the oxygen tank ripping at his spine. Cutter lunged, blade swinging.
Kurtz let his heavy firefighter boots take the blows. Cutter pulled the blade back just as Kurtz kicked out once—hard—catching Cutter on the chest and sending him tumbling down the rear stairway and slamming into the door at the bottom. Kurtz had locked the door behind him as he came up the stairs.
Kurtz ripped the mask off. Instead of lunging after the gun and turning his back on the stairway, he pulled the half-liter bottle of gasoline from his coat pocket and lit the short fuse with the cheap Bic lighter. Cutter was already pounding back up the steps.
The Molotov cocktail exploded against Cutter's chest, filling me enclosed stairway with flame and driving Kurtz back from the heat. The office door splintered and gave way. A firefighter's arm appeared, the hand releasing the bolt and turning the knob.
Cutter screamed and tumbled down the steps again, battering at the closed door, trying to get out, but men began climbing the steps again, slowly, inexorably. When the flaming human figure reached the top of the stairs, Kurtz tugged the heavy oxygen tank off his back, handed it to Cutter, and kicked him back down the stairs. Kurtz stepped aside a second before the explosion.
Kurtz picked up the.45, stuck it in his pocket, set his old.38 snub-nose into Doo-Rag's dead hand—it wouldn't pass a paraffin test, but fuck it—swung Malcolm up over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, and got to the doorway just as a real firefighter came into the smoke and confusion. Kurtz pulled the useless respirator back up over his face as more firefighters and cops rushed into the little room.
"Two men down!" Kurtz shouted, pointing to Doo-Rag's corpse and to the flaming rear stairway. The firefighters rushed toward the flame while the two cops knelt next to Doo-Rag.
Kurtz carried Malcolm through the smoky outer room, down the stairs against a tide of shouting firefighters coming up, through the poolroom, out the front door, and past the fire engines and gawking crowd. He avoided the ambulance and the clumps of Bloods being corralled by cops and went down the alley on the opposite side of the street. When he got to the Buick�
��its trunk already open and waiting—he dropped Malcolm in, took the man's Magnum, and frisked him quickly.
Kurtz slammed the trunk shut and looked around. The Seneca Social Club was in full blaze now, and all attention was focused on it. Kurtz found his.45 and tossed it onto the front seat and then threw the respirator, coat, boots, 357 Magnum, and coveralls into the bushes. Then he got into Arlene's car and drove the opposite way down the alley, coming out on the next boulevard and swinging north.
They had probably already discovered that Doo-Rag had been shot. They would eventually discover one of the responding firefighters tied up and unconscious in the shrubbery near the back alley. It had been Kurtz, of course, who had called 911 a few minutes before he lit the gas-doused rags running into the two cars' fuel tanks.
Kurtz noted that despite his dislike of German guns, polymer guns, and silencers, the H&K.45 had worked just fine. It had taken Kurtz just a few minutes after dealing with Hathaway to return to Doc's back room, shoot the lock off, and help himself to the weapons he knew were untraceable.
Kurtz had not gotten the idea for the diversion from The Iliad. But Pruno's suggestion of referring to books had reminded Kurtz of a trashy espionage paperback that had made the cellblock rounds at Attica. Something about Ernest Hemingway running around playing spy in Cuba during World War II. There had been a false-alarm fire ploy in that book. Kurtz wasn't proud. He'd steal from the classics some other day.
Wrapping a rag around the bloody but shallow cut on the back of his left wrist, Kurtz drove north.
CHAPTER 34
Niagara Falls is most beautiful in the winter, at night, in a snowstorm. All of these criteria were met as Kurtz parked the Buick—on a side street a few hundred feet away from the American Falls parking lot—retrieved the twenty-five-foot length of clothesline and Malcolm from the trunk, and carried him through a forest of ice-limned trees and snowy fields.
