Daman's Angel (Crimson Romance)

by Charmaine Ross

  The angel silently regarded him. “Human emotion is a curiosity to us. We are not the same. We do not fully understand your motives or seek to experience more than our existence allows. I can see how much this means to you and as I said, we are here to help. On this occasion, I will endeavor to do so. There is one rule that cannot be broken. That is human will. I cannot intervene, even if death is imminent. That is not for us to decide.”

  Daman nodded, understanding immediately. Antimedus would help, but it would be only within his power. Still, help of this magnitude was more than he could hope for.

  “Pete, you in?”

  “Like I’ve never been before.”

  “Father?”

  “I am here to help before I embark on my next adventure.”

  “What’s the time, Pete?”

  Pete glanced at his watch. “Ten PM.”

  “We only have about four hours before Angel is stuck here forever.” Daman paced the space in front of the altar. “Time will be tight, but we have the element of surprise. You all are in. That’s good. Now listen carefully, this is what we’re going to do.”

  A plan formed in his mind, hasty, too spur-of-the-moment, etched only in black and white. There was no Plan B or C. They had one chance. There was no room for error; that was impossible to contemplate. He had the help of his partner, a dead priest, the power of angels and the element of surprise. And he would need all of them to pull what he had to do together.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “You sure this is the place?” Daman hid behind a large industrial trash bin. Pete was stuffed between him and the wall behind the hunk of metal. The angel and the priest stood in plain sight in the middle of the alley. They were visible to no one.

  The alley was only lit by the yellowing light from a flickering street lamp. It was silent, not even the sound of a lone car passed. This part of town wouldn’t wake to life until the sun touched the sky. At least it had stopped drizzling, although the tar underfoot was still damp. Their footsteps crackled on the loose stones on the tarmac. The sound seemed like an explosion, amplified by the silence, but he knew it was only loud enough to drift to his ears.

  He’d found himself at an unused warehouse on the outer limits of Thomastown, a large industrial suburb that was only peopled in business hours. It looked as though it hadn’t been in service for years. The paintwork had long ago split and cracked from years of neglect. The logo on the side of the building — a business Daman had never heard of — was half washed away. Weeds grew in cracks in the tarmac. A tow grate in the driveway leading to the loading dock was bent in the middle. The damage in the steel bar had actually rusted over.

  It was the type of lonely place Victor would know about. Although there was no sign of the gang, Daman trusted Antimedus that they were in the right place.

  Antimedus nodded. “I can see her light from here. She is on the other side of this brick wall.”

  “To always have such higher help would be fantastic,” Pete whispered.

  “It’d save a lot of hard work,” Daman admitted.

  Daman spotted the deeper shadows of a door in the wall and whispered in Pete’s ear, “We go in there. Ready?”

  Pete signaled and Daman slid from behind the relative safety of the trash bin. He pressed his back to the solid safety of the wall behind him. He tested the doorknob; it twisted, but the door didn’t open. Daman saw a slide-lock, with an open bolt. He lifted the lock away, slid open the slide, and stepped around the door to the opening side.

  As he moved, the heavy wood swung open and cracked his forehead. His head snapped back. His knees buckled, arms flailed. He fell, limbs numb, head in a thick, gray fog. Then black.

  • • •

  Cold water in the face. Down the throat. Mouth clogged. Breathe. Into the lungs. Retch. Spew back the water, now warm mixed with spit. Clear the vision.

  Another bucket of water full in the face. This time it brought him to the surface of consciousness. He rolled, went onto his elbows, shaking the last of the fog from his mind. He cracked open eyes to see the tip of a shoddy well-worn basketball shoe. His eyes traveled up the black denim-covered leg into the face of Haki.

  “You son of a bitch,” Daman murmured.

  Adrenaline punched his system. He bounced to his feet and smashed a fist into the Maori’s mouth. Haki staggered back, covered his mouth and a curse with his hands. When his hands came away, Daman saw with some satisfaction that there was blood from a torn lip before the Maori returned the favor and sent a meaty uppercut into Daman’s jaw. He wasn’t as fully recovered from being knocked unconscious as he thought and the hit sent him flying backward to the cold concrete.

  “That’s enough, Haki. You’ll get your turn in a little while.”

  The dulcet tones set Daman’s blood on ice. Winded, he managed to fix his red-filled vision on the man in the neat black Italian designer suit standing a little away from him, lost in the shadows. “Why don’t you come a bit closer and I’ll greet you the same way,” Daman said. He sat, rubbing the hot pain from his jaw as he watched Vincent arrange his lean features in careful nonchalance. His hawk-features did little to hide the greed beneath the slim veneer of style.

  “At last, the leader comes out from behind his desk,” Daman snarled. “Glad to see you getting your hands dirty for once, Vincent.”

  “Better than them being dirty all the time. You cops tend to be a bit … filthy,” Vincent replied. He walked toward Daman, but was careful to stay away from arm’s reach. He lit a cigarette. The end glowed red.

  “Those things’ll kill you, you know. If I don’t get to you first.” Daman went to stand, muscles straining, ready.

  “I’ll ask you to stay seated.”

  Daman slowly sat, keeping his knees bent. He clasped his hands around his knees so he could rest his elbows. He took the time to study his surroundings, eyeing the muscle in the room as he settled himself. There were four men, including Haki. No sign of Pete, the angel or the priest. Excluding the two that were downed at the church, these men were the four that got away. The one that he shot held his arm, the flesh of his outer arm bloodied. Daman tallied his intended body count, calculating the order and how he would take each of them out. The injured man would be the first to go. Get to the weakest first and take them out of the game. They would be slower to react, but an injured man could wield a weapon and cause damage.

  Vincent glanced at the end of his cigarette “May I ask what you’re doing on my private property?”

  “Doing my job. May I ask what you’re doing here?” Daman arched a brow. Cockiness was sure to get under Vincent’s skin. Vincent craved order, power and obedience. It would annoy him to be challenged, tested. Vincent lived in his empire, his own created little world. Daman rarely saw him coming out of his house, let alone in a cold damp warehouse. This was well out of his comfort zone.

  Vincent flicked ash onto the floor. “I really need to thank you in advance. You’ve saved me a lot of trouble finding you.”

  “It’s always been my motto to make things as hard for you as I can. How’s life without good old dad?”

  Vincent turned cold, glittering eyes onto Daman. Vincent barred his teeth and he knew he’d hit a mark. It was a subconscious gesture and one he quickly concealed. A ghost of a smile replaced the toxic grimace.

  “Just about as well as life without a wife.”

  Adrenaline punched his system. Somehow Daman was on his feet and had his hands around Vincent’s neck. His fingers locked around the soft flesh and tore into Vincent’s throat. He felt for the thick hardness of the windpipe and crushed it, sinking his fingers in deep. He kept the charge, dragging Vincent’s body in motion. Vincent staggered backward, brought off balance by Daman’s unexpected charge. Daman positioned his foot, catching one of Vincent’s ankles. Vincent stumbled, his feet losing purchase and balance
. Daman maneuvered his body so that Vincent dropped. Daman used his body weight and the motion to drop Vincent to the floor, landing square on top of Vincent’s body. There was a satisfying crunch of bones and a hollow whoosh as the air emptied from his lungs.

  There were hands on Daman’s shoulders, fingers digging into his arms, lifting him clear of Vincent, but he would not let go. Vincent’s face was blue, his eyes bulged like ping-pong balls out of the sockets, slippery and wet. Red veins stood out, clinging against the crushing release the pressurized sockets needed. Through sheer force of will, Daman’s fingers remained around Vincent’s neck, squeezing, tightening, close to killing.

  A fist smashed into Daman’s side, sinking into ribs. The pain hardly registered. Daman kept his eyes trained on Vincent’s face. Willing death to come hard and fast, although it was not the death Daman had in mind for him, it would be the end of Vincent. His will was his world, there was nothing else but to kill Vincent.

  A hand under his chin had his head snap back. He growled, pulling against the strength of the arm. A punch to his head. A second. His fingers stayed locked. He snarled with animalistic rage. The sound of something heavy and metallic grinding on the floor registered, before an unbending force cracked into the back of his head.

  His vision became pinpricks of light, flying toward him like fine, white stars. His limbs went limp and he was lifted from his feet and thrown backward to the ground. A foot slammed into his side, another into his jaw. He curled into a ball, riding the hail of fists and feet.

  A gunshot ricocheted through the dark warehouse, scattering the men. They shuffled backward, leaving Daman curled on the floor, gasping. He put his forehead to the floor, drawing the cold from the ground to keep himself conscious. He cracked open his eyelids. Vincent knelt before him. One hand held a gun and was aimed straight at his head, the other clutched his neck.

  “You’d be dead now, Quade, if I didn’t have another use for you,” Vincent said. To Daman’s satisfaction, his voice was a mere rasp.

  “You are a gutless wonder, Lepski,” Daman choked.

  “I’m a man who will stop at nothing to get what he wants. Haki, bring her out.”

  Haki exited through an old wooden office door, with a broken window cut into the top half of the door. A moment later he came back out, his meaty fist wrapped around Angel’s delicate upper arm. Haki pulled her into the room, and her blue eyes immediately sought his. They snapped and locked, the horror on her face riding through their intimate connection.

  “Daman!” In the depths of the warehouse, her voice sounded small and frail.

  “You bastard. Get your stinking hands off her,” Daman snarled.

  “Angel, you will do what I want you to do, otherwise your boyfriend will pay,” Vincent spoke to her, but had his eyes and gun trained on Daman.

  Daman’s attention snapped back to Vincent. “What do you want her to do, asshole,” Daman said.

  “I’m simply asking her to do for me, what she did for Haki.” Vincent’s voice steeled. “I want my father back, and she will bring him back to me.”

  “That’s impossible, Lepski. Your father’s been dead for years.”

  “She can do it.”

  “What makes you think he wants to come back to a scumbag son like you?”

  “Don’t provoke me, Quade. It will only mean more pain for you.”

  Daman turned his attention to Angel. “You don’t have to do anything he asks you do to, Angel. Do you understand? No matter what, you don’t have to do it.”

  Angel nodded. Her eyes were open wide, wild. Lost.

  Innocent.

  This was hard going for the toughened cop he was, let alone an angel who’d been on earth for only three days. She shouldn’t have to make decisions based on his pain, shouldn’t be subjected to these baser human actions. She shouldn’t be asked what she was being asked to do.

  “Let her go, Lepski. I’ll stay. Do to me what you want, just let her go,” Daman said between clenched teeth.

  From the shadows, a large figure barreled toward Vincent. Daman squinted to see Pete’s red-blond hair lightening the darkness. Daman shook his head. Now was not the time. By revealing his presence, he had placed himself in danger. Pete dodged from the shadows and rounded his gun on Vincent. “Put the gun down,” he said.

  Vincent turned. “Ahhh. The trusty partner, I see. Shame I don’t have a use for you.” Vincent indicated to someone that Daman couldn’t see. There was an explosion, a shot of red fire spitting in the shadows. Pete hit the ground and didn’t move.

  “Pete!” Daman shouted. He went to move, but Vincent’s gun held him back.

  “Now, back to business. No more interruptions. I’ll ask one more time. Angel?”

  Angel shook her head. “It cannot be done.” Her hair cascaded around her face like streams of silver-gold sunlight.

  Without emotion, Vincent pressed the trigger. The blast cut through the air, smoke stung his nostrils. White-hot fire plunged into his leg. He screamed involuntarily, his body rising from the ground as he rode the first impact of pain. Not wanting Angel to know how much it hurt he bit his bottom lip hard so he tasted blood. He pressed his hand to his thigh. Wet heat oozed between his fingers. He flopped back to the ground, panting, trying to block the burning spasms that tore through his body.

  “I’m … I’m okay Angel. Don’t … don’t do it.” He clung to the image of Angel. Saw past the horror on her face. If this were the last image he’d see through human eyes, it would last him the Eternity.

  “Daman, I can’t … ”

  “Second time. Will you do it?” Vincent drawled.

  “No!” Daman yelled. He groaned into the ground.

  “Daman … !” Angel gasped.

  A crack. An explosion of pain stabbed his shoulder. He rolled to his back, writhing with the burning agony that consumed his body. Behind his eyes, the darkness was comforting. Here there was no pain, no desperation, no anger. Here was freedom. He let himself sunk deeper, where it was warm. He could let himself slip away, turn his back on the world, and rest a little bit. Just for a short time, forget about the world, about himself. There was luxury in the nothingness.

  He frowned. There was someone crying, cutting through the quietness of his world. A scream. Angel crying, calling his name. He listened carefully, concentrated on Vincent’s rasping voice shouting orders. He perched on the edge of the voices and the warm, black void of nothingness that was so appealing. He tilted forward, started to fall.

  A dose of freezing water in his face raised him from the soft, cushioning layers of unconsciousness. He rose upwards through the gray fog, clawed his way into the present where he was drenched, freezing, in pain.

  Vincent’s voice floated to him, disjointed, as though coming from thin air. “We have all night. After the limbs, I’ll go for the joints. One by one. I’m told the kneecaps are the most painful area of the body if punctured by a bullet. This will be a science experiment. We’ll see if this is true or not.”

  Victor aimed the gun. Daman gritted his teeth. Muscles clenched. Expecting.

  “Angel?” Vincent rasped.

  Daman leveraged himself from the ground, ignoring the pain that ripped through his body. “No!”

  Angel’s eyes were trained on him, her face pale and worn. “No more shooting. No more pain.”

  “You don’t know what you’re agreeing to, Angel,” Daman said. “There’s more to this than just me.”

  “I can’t stand to see you get hurt. I’ll do it.”

  Victor lit a cigarette and strolled over to Angel. He walked around her, staring at her as he paced. Intimidating. Stating his authority over her. “She has the good sense to know what’s good for her.” His voice grated. “Start now, or else he gets a bullet in his knee.”

  Angel sent Victor a sideways glare. Anger
burnt a path with that searing look.

  “Hurry. I’m out of patience,” Vincent said.

  “Angel,” Daman whispered, shaking his head, willing her not to do what Vincent asked of her. They wouldn’t be leaving here. As soon as Vincent got what he wanted from Angel, Daman would have a bullet in his head and Angel would be lost here forever.

  She looked at Daman, he fell into the bottomless depths of her eyes and he traveled the path of their connection. He felt it. The love. It hit him in the chest with the force of a freight train. He knew without a doubt she loved him with every fiber of her being. It snapped along every nerve, fired every synapse in his brain. Made him want to rise from the ground, wrap her soft, warm body in his arms and never let her go. It made him want to live. To hope. To give back to her what she gave to him. She gave him meaning. She was the reason to keep living, to struggle and fight and find a way for them both to share of each other.

  Forever, the words whispered in his mind.

  But it wouldn’t be forever. It would never end like that.

  She lowered her head. Closed her eyes.

  Withdrew.

  He instinctively knew she’d gone in search of Vincent’s father. Here, she remained as her body only. Her hair fell as a long silken curtain, covering her face. Her slender form unmoving. Only Vincent’s stride around her, stirred her hair, her clothes.

  He couldn’t bear to just lie on the ground, but he was helpless. There was no stopping her. Even if he could get up and move, he wouldn’t get far with four of Vincent’s men ready to kill him without a second thought. He wondered what Vincent had over them to make them so obedient. Maybe they were just as evil as Vincent and did what they did because they liked it.

  His life seemed so insignificant in the face of the realization. Even with Michelle gone, in the back of his mind he’d thought he was doing the right thing by bringing these kinds of men down. But he’d missed the biggest point of all. He could take down a thousand Vincents, but there would always be another ready to fill his shoes. He’d killed Vincent’s father, and Vincent had stepped up to the mark and taken the position as the head of the Lepski gang.