by Brent Pilkey
Jack landed on top, and they grappled for the gun, its barrel wavering dangerously between them. Jack seized Charles’s gun hand with his left then dropped an elbow down into that smirking face. The elbow landed square but pain flared from Jack’s shoulder, robbing the hit of any real power. It distracted Charles long enough for Jack to go for the gun. With his left hand still clamped around Charles’s wrist, Jack grabbed the gun hand with his right hand and pushed down, but again he lacked power. He dropped his chest on the back of Charles’s hand. It had to hurt.
Charles’s free hand went for Jack’s face, raking at his eyes. Jack twisted his face away and bore down on the gun hand until it popped open and the gun fell onto Charles’s chest. Charles bucked and heaved and flipped Jack off his chest. They scrambled to their feet and faced off over the fallen gun.
Charles darted for it and Jack rushed him, driving a knee into his chest. Charles fell back against the fireplace, knocking over the wrought iron implements. They clanged shrilly against the stone. Jack stumbled, caught his balance and swung a backhand, catching Charles flush in the side of the head. Jack’s shoulder screamed and his fist bounced impotently off Charles’s head.
Jack closed in, pinning Charles against the mantel. He snapped a quick head butt, but Charles took it on his cheek. Charles latched a hand onto Jack’s injured shoulder and dug his fingers into the wound. Jack tried to pull away from the shrieking pain, but Charles held him tightly and drove a fist into his ribs. The first punch doubled Jack over, the second buckled his knees. Charles knocked him back with a knee to the chest, and Jack sprawled on the carpet.
Karen was screaming for help when Charles knelt down and picked up the fireplace poker. He grinned maliciously as he swung it before him, testing its weight. “Shut the fuck up, bitch.” He whacked her across the back of her head with the poker, and her cries snapped off, her head lolling limply from her shoulders. “That’s better.” He turned his attention to Jack.
Where was the gun? Jack rolled onto his stomach and frantically searched for it, then spotted it just out of reach. He crawled for it, but Charles saw where he was going.
“Not so fast, motherfucker.”
Charles swung the poker and it thudded into Jack’s back just above his right hip. Jack ignored the pain and lunged for the gun. Metal smashed into his injured ribs, and he screamed.
Charles knelt beside him. “How’s that feel, you fuck? Bet it doesn’t hurt as much as it did for Sean when you shot his head off. But I’m going to fix that, you hear me?”
Jack reached for the gun. Charles let him wrap his left hand around the butt before stepping on it. He ground Jack’s hand beneath his boot. “What should I do, motherfucker? Kill you while she watches or kill her while you watch? After I fuck her, of course. Yeah, that’s it. I’m gonna fuck all her holes and let you watch.”
Charles bent over to pick up the gun and as soon as the pressure came off his hand Jack rolled to his left, ramming Charles’s shins with his back. Off balance, surprised, Charles crashed backward into the dining room table. Jack groped for the gun and came up with it at the same time Charles reared up with the poker held high for a skull-crushing strike.
Jack fired, and the recoil nearly tore the gun from his hand. The bullet punched Charles in the abdomen, and he grunted, staggering back a step. Surprised, he looked at the gun in Jack’s hand, then placed his own hand to his stomach. It came away bloody.
Jack was leaning on his left elbow, the gun propped on his thigh, pointed at Charles. In the sudden silence, Jack could hear distant sirens coming closer.
“Hear that, fuckhead? It’s over.”
“Then I guess you gotta arrest me, Mr. Policeman.” He let the poker tumble from his hand. “But this ain’t over between us. I still got payback coming to me.” He raised his hands and smiled.
“Like fuck,” Jack said and shot him twice in the chest.
Friday, 29 September
1000 hours
“There’s the man. Still in one piece, I see.”
“Hey, Rick. You didn’t have to drop by.” Jack propped himself up in his hospital bed carefully; broken ribs were a bitch.
“Are you kidding? They’re restricting the number of visitors you can have. Otherwise, the whole station would be down here. You’re quite the hero.”
“I’m no hero. I just got lucky.”
Mason dropped into a chair beside the bed. “You don’t look so lucky, unless you compare yourself to the dead guy.” He pointed a finger at Jack, waving it up and down the length of his body. “What’s the official tally, anyway?”
“Two broken ribs, a fucking big dent behind my ear, I forget how many stitches in my shoulder and an assortment of cuts and bruises.”
“The bullet missed the bone?”
“Yeah. Like I said: I got lucky. It just tore a chunk out of the muscle. I won’t be doing shrugs in the gym anytime soon.”
“Well, you look like shit, wrapped up like a mummy like that. I didn’t know what gift to bring, so —”
“You didn’t have to bring me anything,” Jack protested.
Mason overrode his objections. “Don’t worry, we didn’t spend any money on you. I bring the gift of good news. Charles’s organization is already falling apart. If his lieutenants aren’t fighting each other for control, they’re heading out on their own, and the other dealers, the ones Charles forced out, are swarming back to 51.” He snickered derisively. “I never thought I’d be happy to see so many dealers back out on the streets.”
“What about the charges against Charles?”
“As far as Homicide is concerned, and I agree with them, Sy’s murder is solved and his killer is dead. They don’t give a fuck what the Crown says. They’re looking into his brother’s murder, but that list of suspects goes around the fucking corner.”
“They’re not looking at me?”
“Nah. They came around and chatted with me and it’s all good. They been in to see you yet?”
Jack groaned. “If I’m not being poked and prodded by the doctors, then it’s either our Homicide guys or Peel’s or the SIU. I wish someone would restrict their visits.”
Mason stood up and shook Jack’s left hand. “Don’t sweat it, Jack. You’re the hero and they’re just going through the motions. You take it easy.”
Jack waited until Mason was almost at the door before voicing the question that had been on his mind for the past two days. “Rick, did Charles kill Sy?”
Mason gave him a perplexed look. “Of course he did. Why are you asking that?”
Jack gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Just something that’s been bothering me. When I fought Charles, I was doing pretty well against him even though I was shot and banged up.”
“So? You’re tough, strong, and you were fighting for your life and your wife’s. You probably could have kicked Tank’s ass that night.”
“No, that’s not it. He wasn’t overly strong or skilled at fighting. How’d a guy like that get the drop on Sy and get him in that hold? It doesn’t seem possible.”
Something flashed across Mason’s eyes so quickly Jack wasn’t sure he really saw it. “This may sound harsh to Sy’s memory, Jack, but sometimes shit just happens. Maybe Charles got lucky. Maybe Sy got careless. It happens to guys with that much time on. They get complacent, overconfident. Maybe Charles just got the jump on him.”
“Yeah, I guess. Thanks for stopping by, Rick.”
“No sweat. Take it easy and rest up. I’ll see you when you get back to the station.”
Jack watched the door swing shut, thinking how wrong Mason was to say Sy could have been careless. Sy had watched his back when he’d gone to get a coffee. No way would he have been careless chasing an armed suspect.
Jack’s thoughts were pleasantly derailed when Manny burst into the room with Jenny right behind him. Manny had a giant bouquet of flowers and Jenny was carrying a tray of drinks from the Second Cup.
“Earl Grey with honey, right?”
“Thank
you, from the bottom of my stomach.” Jack took the offered cup and appreciatively breathed in its aroma. “The tea they give you here is like dishwater and the coffee’s worse.”
“Our pleasure. If no one’s told you, there’s a Second Cup downstairs.” Jenny settled onto the bed next to his legs. That wondrous mass of hair was hanging loose, draping her back and one side of her chest. He wondered what she would look like wearing nothing but the hair.
Manny intruded on that pleasant thought. “The tea’s from here, but these —” he produced a paper bag with a flourish “— are from Church and Wellesley. Chris sends his best and prayers for a speedy recovery.” Manny distributed the giant oatmeal cookies and plopped down in the chair. “They looking after you well?”
“Take a look.” Jack used his head to gesture at the room while he transferred the tea to his immobile right hand and pried the lid free. The walls were covered with get-well cards. There were three giant-sized cards: one from 51 and another from 32, both crammed full of signatures and best wishes; the third one was from the rest of the service, signed by every officer who’d been able to get to headquarters since Thursday morning. The cards were taped to the walls because every horizontal surface was chock full of flowers. There were flowers on the floor, and Manny’s behemoth arrangement had taken over the window sill.
Jack dunked a piece of cookie in his tea and popped it into his mouth. His sigh sounded almost orgasmic. “You have no idea how good that tastes after two days of hospital food.”
“Dude, if I’d known that, I would’ve grabbed a pizza or something. Any idea how much longer they’re going to keep you?”
Jack shrugged his one working shoulder. “Day or two,” he mumbled around a mouthful of cookie. “Oh, man, that’s good. Now, if I could only get laid, another few days in here wouldn’t be so bad.”
“If you want, I can go stand guard at the door for a while.” Manny made to get up. “Give Jenny some time to help you out with that.”
“Very funny, smart guy.” She reached over and smacked Manny in the head. “Something tells me Jack’s wife might object.” She gave him a look that twisted his stomach into a wonderful knot.
She said Karen might object, not her. “Yeah, I don’t think that would go over too well with her.”
A silence, not uncomfortable, drifted in then, and they all took the opportunity to finish their cookies. Manny slam-dunked his coffee cup, then slapped his forehead. “I forgot. Dude, I’m supposed to pass on an unofficial compliment from the firearm instructors on your grouping. Three in centre mass.”
“Well, at that range, it was kind of hard to miss.”
“Although,” Manny pointed out, “I’m a little disappointed that your third shot dropped down into the stomach. Tsk, tsk.”
“Hey,” Jack objected, “I was shooting with a bad arm. Give me a break.”
“Okay . . . this time.”
“Enough of the macho crap,” Jenny complained. “Changing the subject, how is Karen?”
“Good. Bit of a concussion. They kept her just the one night.”
“I guess this means the end of your time with us?”
“What?” Manny gasped. “You’re not coming back?”
Jack shrugged again. He was getting good doing it one-shouldered. “I’d love to stay. I want to stay. The work is great and the people, those present definitely included, are amazing.”
“But?” Jenny prompted.
He sighed. “But . . . I think Karen would divorce me if I stayed. Seriously.”
“Dude, that sucks. Who am I going to work with?”
Jenny patted him on the head. “There, there, it’s all right. Maybe when I get out of the foot patrol I’ll let you work with me.”
Manny beamed at her. “Can I be Batman?”
She snorted. “In your dreams.”
Jack smiled at their banter, enjoying the camaraderie. It was just one of the things he would miss if he left 51, and in his gut he knew he had found his calling in being a 51 copper. He hoped he wasn’t finished with the division.
“Do you guys know anything about Mason?”
“I know he says hello to me now. He never used to.”
“I’m not sure what Jack had in mind,” Jenny told Manny, “but I’m pretty sure that’s not what he meant.”
“Nothing really. Sy once told me that everything from Mason comes with a price. He never elaborated on it and I’m just wondering what he meant.”
“Has Mason offered you a spot? That’d be cool, dude.”
Jack shook his head. “He did, sort of. But not right away.”
“All I know,” Jenny volunteered, “is that he’s very picky about who gets into his unit. And he has that inner circle who get to do all the real interesting stuff.”
“You mean Tank, Kris and Taftmore?”
She nodded. “Why the questions about Mason? He say something to you?”
Jack slowly shook his head, not sure why he was asking. “I feel like Sy was trying to warn me about him. Whether to be careful around him or stay away from him entirely, I don’t know.”
But it was too late for that, wasn’t it? He was already tied to the MCU boss by a rigged photo lineup. A thought hit him and his stomach clenched.
“Jack, are you all right?” Jenny leaned forward, concerned.
“Yeah; guess my stomach’s not used to decent food.”
Had Charles killed Sy? Or had Mason used Jack to settle an old score?
That secret glint in Mason’s eyes.
Jack suddenly knew, regardless of what he wanted, 51 wasn’t finished with him yet.
Here’s a look at the next book in Brent Pilkey’s Rage series:
Monday, 12 March
0230 hours
The wind had teeth.
Icy fangs tore at his exposed flesh, yet he smiled. The skin on his bare arms bristled at the wind’s hostile caress, yet he stayed his ground, wrapped within the doorway’s cold shadows. The hood of his sleeveless sweatshirt was pulled low over his brow, concealing his hunter’s eyes beneath a second layer of darkness. The shirt’s deep blue hue merged with the shadows, enveloping him in stillness.
He had learned the value of patience over the past four years. Confined and surrounded by enemies, those jealous or fearful of his status, he had learned to hunt. When to wait and when to strike. When to kill.
Now he was free and the city was his to hunt. So now he waited. And watched.
His prey, oblivious to the danger poised across the street, huddled against the wall of the community centre, seeking what refuge he could from the bitter wind. The building’s south end and small parking lot were brushed by the yellow-orange hue cast from old and failing lights, and skeletal trees laid down sickly shadows in the flickering illumination. Beyond the community centre and its frozen playfields, a park lay encased in icy darkness.
His prey had been busy tonight despite the cold, busy selling. But now as the hour reached the heart of night, business was slowing. Only the most desperate of crackheads would be out at this time, in this cold. And a desperate crackhead was a moneyless crackhead. His prey would soon be heading home.
The hunter’s lips pulled back in a grinning snarl. The wait was almost over.
Marvin Gaye was cold. Fucking cold. Every time that bitching wind blew across the soccer field behind the community centre it cut through his jacket, shrivelling up his nuts as if he was standing balls naked. He couldn’t stop shivering and when he stomped his feet they felt like clumps of ice shoved inside his Nikes. And his fingers burned. How could they be burning when it was so fucking cold?
He reluctantly freed his hands from what little comfort there was in his pockets to check his watch. Three o’clock. Fuck this, it was time to go home. Six hours standing out here was enough. Cold or not, it had been a good night. He had started the night with pockets empty of cash but filled with an eight-ball of crack to sell. He was down to the last of his crack — so little that he had it all stuffed down his crotch inste
ad of hidden nearby — and had hundreds of dollars, mostly tens and twenties, squirrelled away in pockets, socks and underwear.
Marvin glanced at his watch again. Definitely time to go. Even the cops had stopped cruising by and scaring off his customers. Fucking pigs. But the cold had also worked in his favour, keeping the pigs inside their warm cars and off his back. The last thing he needed was another trip to the cells on a trafficking charge.
Marvin was a small-time dealer, just a step or two above a crackhead himself. He had been on the streets of downtown Toronto since he was fourteen, selling rock since he was seventeen and using since he was nineteen. At twenty-four, he was a burned-out old man, a wasted scarecrow of the boy named after his mother’s favourite singer. If Marvin had ever known who his namesake was, the knowledge had long ago been burned away in the acrid smoke of his crack pipe.
Marvin was about to pack it in when he spotted a final sale coming his way. How did he know? With some, it was a familiar face. Others, a deep-set need in the eyes. But this one. . . .
“He must be hurting for a fix bad,” Marvin laughed to himself, watching the fool cross Queen Street, his arms startlingly bare. “Or he’s one crazy-ass mother.”
He waited impatiently, shivering inside his parka. How this fool could be out like that. . . . Marvin wrapped his hand around the knife tucked inside his coat pocket. If this fucker was crazy enough to let himself freeze to death, there was no telling what he would do.
“Hey, man, you looking?” he called out when the crackhead drew close, raising his voice to be heard over a gust of wind. The wind grabbed the crackhead’s hood and snapped it off his head, revealing a scalp shaved clean on the sides, leaving only a band of short dark hair.
The man raised his head. Marvin saw eyes as cold as the wind and realized two things simultaneously: this was no crackhead and he was in deep shit.
