Simon Rising

by Brian D Howard

  “What the fuck was that?” she asked everyone and no one. Her hands shook and her breath came in rapid pants.

  “Fuck is right,” Thorne panted, his age and weight showing.

  Uniformed men and women took charge of bringing order to the mess of traffic and bystanders outside. She stood uselessly, only peripherally aware of the activity surrounding her. The scene played over and over. She ducked away from the fire. She shot him. Thorne shot him. He might as well have been laughing as he left. Now she wasn’t sure he hadn’t been.

  Hearing about people like that in the news, reading about them on the Internet, they were easier to dismiss. Urban legends, almost. Things that other people saw. But now it was real. Now it didn’t matter whether some alien chemical spill or radiation was being covered up. A whole precinct of officers weren’t able to stop the man. No, not a man. People like that couldn’t be, so they couldn’t be people. Freak, mutant, she didnt have the right word. She wasn’t supposed to have to. She didn’t need a word for something impossible.

  “You okay?” an officer asked her, shaking her back to reality with a hand on her shoulder.

  “Yeah, um, yeah. I’m fine. Maybe a little singed, I don’t know.”

  CHAPTER 20 – THEY’RE DRUG DEALERS

  Distant thunder rumbled as Steven knelt near enough to the edge of the rooftop to watch the scene below him as it began.

  It started with the car, an older, boxy, burgundy sedan which had pulled up at the drug den. No other cars had stopped near it. Two men got out and strutted confidently, even arrogantly, to the door. Inside, they interacted with the bouncer and one other who had given them an object. One of them tucked it inside a jacket before they came back out. Steven realized immediately what he was seeing. The car had driven slowly enough for him to follow from rooftops.

  Now it had been dark for a couple of hours, although his motion sense was just as clear in day or night. His advantage. The two men in their car had stopped in this tenement neighborhood for fifteen or twenty minutes. The buildings around were three and four story brownstones where the few working streetlights cast ample deep shadows. He could imagine the shadows being menacing to those unable to know with his certainty those shadows were bereft of occupants.

  The neighborhood was quiet. Sounds of traffic seemed distant, and the occasional piercing wail of sirens made the rest seem preternaturally quiet in their wake. Edges of music came from a party in the building beneath him. Twenty or so people crowded the apartment. They stayed off the balcony, keeping their music—and probably drug smoke—inside. He saw it as a neighborhood where people tried to avoid notice. The streets were almost suspiciously empty.

  The lone person walking down the street towards the car was all the more noticeable for the contrast. He shuffled his feet with small steps which turned his hips in an exaggerated swagger. Now and then he pulled his pants up, but never enough.

  The man stopped at the passenger window. One small bundle exchanged for another after less than a minute of conversation. The man left the way he came, swinging his head side to side more than before.

  The car started up and crept away. Steven lifted himself to his feet and smiled. The car moved slowly, so following wasn't a problem, jumping from rooftop to rooftop, still not sure how far he could throw himself. He caught himself at the end of the jump to control his light landing, and cut across the roof of another building when the car rounded the corner. He could still track the car’s movement without line of sight, and the shortcut brought him closer. Again he wondered again whether he could fly if he maintained the right controlled momentum. Now was not the time to try.

  The second drug buy was already in progress when he got to the roof’s edge. This time he saw more clearly; the car waited in a rare pool of streetlight. Both men stood before the hood of the car. Both were taller than the two customers in hoodies. One handed a thick envelope to the driver who pulled money out and counted it twice while the customers fidgeted.

  The car’s passenger also seemed more nervous than the driver. He was the fitter of the pair, and he kept his arms crossed and fidgeted with his fingers at something under his jacket. Guns, Steven thought. That would warrant a plan, but he would make sure guns never ended up pointed at him. He took in the surroundings, dark and shadowed in all directions from the car. It would be easy enough for him to drop down next to either of them.

  The driver handed over a bag of white powder. Just how much money did they have? He ran through what seemed like the best plan one more time, but they got back in their car before he was quite ready. The car drove off right away, so he followed it, leaping over them as they rounded another corner.

  The jumping was almost as exciting as the idea of robbing these two drug dealers. Robbing them didn't seem like a bad thing to be doing. He needed cash, which they clearly had. He could disable them without even hurting them badly. They’re drug dealers, he rationalized as he pursued them. They drove faster now though and weren't as easy to keep up with.

  He caught up to them behind a brick shopping strip with pawn and tattoo shops closed for the night. Small dumpsters lurked outside each shop’s back door. One of three lights along the back worked, at the far end from the dimmer end the car was parked at.

  He looked down at them from his rooftop perch just five or six feet above them. Both men were still in the car. Two men and a woman gathered around the passenger window. The woman was nervous, but otherwise all the men seemed more relaxed than he had seen during the other exchanges. Thumping music sounded like it was speaking and screaming rather than singing and was loud enough to obscure their conversations.

  He moved to the end of the building and lowered himself to the street around the corner. The smell of stale beer loitered with nowhere better to be. He rounded the corner and walked into the yellow light as the threesome walked away. The car began to move, but the driver hesitated, apparently seeing him walking towards them, well lit by the car’s rectangular headlights.

  He picked up his pace to get closer to the car before the driver might decide to leave after all. The passenger side window was still down. The car idled and the pair seemed less relaxed than they had a moment ago. He walked directly to the passenger window.

  “What’re you lookin’ at, eh?” the Hispanic passenger asked.

  “I know you guys have what I need,” Steven explained.

  “Not for you, old man,” the driver said.

  “Get lost,” the passenger warned.

  “No,” Steven said, “I’m not leaving without getting what I need.”

  “All you gonna get is trouble here, geezer,” the driver threatened.

  “Just hand over the cash so nobody has to get hurt,” Steven suggested.

  The driver jerked his head in an amusing double-take. “What the...? Did he say...? Are you serious? You think you’re robbin’ us? Oh, that’s rich!”

  Steven visualized the little glow on the handle to open the door and a much brighter one to jerk the door open. The door flew off with a ripping sound and spun across the alley, slamming into the cinder block wall hard enough to crack and dent it.

  “Fuck did you do?” the driver demanded, yelling. He pulled a gun and pointed it at Steven while the passenger hesitated.

  A quick visualization of the gun banging against the driver’s forehead, and the gun obeyed, ignoring whatever the driver’s wishes were. It made a loud smack followed by a louder crack as the gun went off. Split skin on the driver’s forehead and his broken nose both bled conspicuously. He seemed stunned and deafened by the noise. He put both hands to his ears, still clutching the smoking gun.

  “Step away from the vehicle,” the passenger commanded as he drew his own gun.

  Steven shifted his attention and flung the man out of the car. The man sailed across the alley and slammed against the wall, hitting it with his shoulder and back and head. He fell in a heap to the pavement near the car door. Thunder rumbled in the distance again.

  Steven saw
a paper bag rolled shut and tucked between the seats, and he pulled it to him without having to lean inside the car. Rolls of cash filled the bag. He took it and soared to the rooftop before the driver had regained his senses. At some point he should practice running, Steven told himself as he crossed the rooftop to finish vanishing from the scene.

  He smiled. For the moment, things were good in the world. While perhaps more violent than he would have liked, he had done something good.

  CHAPTER 21 – THE INFORMANT

  Carl leaned against the bus shelter wall and drummed his fingers idly against it. It was times like these he missed smoking. It would have been a good way to pass the time. He was a patient man, out of necessity. That didn't mean he couldn't get bored waiting.

  He had spent more than his share of long days, or long nights, waiting for a target to come home, or to leave work, or to drive past the right point. He once spent three full days in thick bushes watching who came and went from a house, eating snack bars and pissing off to the side. His was not always a glamorous life.

  Finally the man he was waiting for strolled into a puddle of light under a streetlight down the sidewalk. Carl waited in the shadows of the bus shelter and let the man come to him. Litter tumbled across the street in the wind at a faster pace than the approaching man. Carl had a few men in the police department he paid for information. Only one of them was anywhere close to the investigation chasing after Ambrose. Officer Terry Vega was that man. That only made the man useful, not likeable.

  “Yo, man,” Vega said, stepping under the bus shelter roof.

  “Yo,” Carl echoed, a sour taste in his mouth. Every time he interacted with the dirty cop he felt like his brain needed a bath. Sometimes those involved whiskey. How Vega had gotten as far as he had Carl had never figured out. He was sure the short little Italian, getting a little chubby around the middle, would have been the type with his pants half down his legs if he wasn’t a cop. But no, his off-duty jeans were just basic baggy, even belted.

  Once, Vega has been undercover in what he still referred to as, “the ‘hood.” Habits picked up there had burned themselves deep into the man’s brain. To Carl it was too reminiscent of people in the Bronx he wanted left behind.

  “We had two more briefings with that Fed bitch today,” Vega offered, pulling out a pack of smokes. Crappy menthol ones. “Shit’s been kinda crazy. Had some freak dude brought in that shot fire out of his hands. Huge mess. You should see my desk.”

  “I’m sure.” Probably covered more with takeout bags and burger wrappers than casework. “Briefings. And...,” Carl prodded a little impatiently as the shorter man lit a cigarette with a shiny chrome Zippo.

  “Seems Ambrose’s stayin’ kinda close to the hospital. Looks like he broke into some apartments, like three in one building. Couple nights ago. Stole some clothes and food and shit. But they think it was him.” The Italian dragged on the cigarette hard between each sentence.

  “Last night he hit a warehouse store at Cicero and 85th,” Vega added, knocking ash off the cigarette to fall to the cement. “Went in through a roof skylight. The dumbshit set off the alarm though. We don’t know what he took off with, but he got away. Camera inside caught him, got full-on facial, so we know it was him. He took off like a pansy when a couple uh squads showed up to check it out, right? You sure this guy’s all that? I mean, Ms. Fed keeps tellin’ us not to underestimate him, but....”

  “I just know what people say about him, Terry. I also know he was behind a slew of bank jobs and knows his shit. Or maybe he used to. I don’t care. He’s got somebody helping him, because you can’t trick doctors into buying you being a quadriplegic if you aren’t. People do seem to keep underestimating him.”

  “The Fed and the Lieutenant went to BCJ and chatted up one of his gang. Didn’t hear what about though.”

  Going back and covering the bases from the start. That could mean they had nothing else, or it could mean they were going back and looking for something specific. He didn’t have contacts in the jail anymore, so it wouldn’t be an easy road for him to follow.

  “You hear more about that you signal right away.”

  “Sure. What do you want with him, anyway?” Vega still held the Zippo in his hand, and fidgeted with the lid, snicking it open and closed.

  “Somebody wants to know where he is. How ‘bout we leave it at that?” He left out his thoughts about the police handling this poorly from day one, about that fitting well with his, admittedly biased, unfavorable view of their general competence. But he remained careful. Even the worst police could get lucky sometimes, and these weren't the worst, just not the cities “finest.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know,” Vega grumbled, dropping the last bit of cigarette to the sidewalk and grinding it with his sneaker.

  “Let me know if you hear anything else,” Carl said, passing Vega an envelope of cash.

  “You tryin’ to bribe a cop,” Vega joked snidely. Carl knew his type all too well, lazy bullies, the kind who only went after the easy targets because they didn’t have the cajones to intimidate anyone bigger. Far too well he knew the type. If only he could have left them all behind, but no, they were everywhere. Some of them had badges. All just as shitty either way.

  “I prefer that to blackmailing them,” Carl deadpanned. So easy to put a bullet in his stupid skull as he walked away. A few seconds of screwing on the silencer, ten or fifteen yards. Easy shot. It’d be a community service. Probably doing the BCPD a favor in the process. This scumwad was more curdled than he was cream.

  “Um, yeah,” Vega replied, rubbing the envelope with nervous fingers. “We’re setting up a blanket in the area. He’ll turn up eventually.”

  “Good,” Carl said as he stepped out of the bus shelter, suspecting he had overpaid for the information. He started off down the street and heard Vega’s footsteps, and clicking lighter, receding in the other direction.

  So Ambrose wasn’t going far from the hospital. He must have a place to hole up in, but that didn't narrow the search enough for him to feel good about. The most likely reason he could think of was someone set him up with a place nearby, except that didn't make sense. If someone set him up a bolt-hole, why would he be stealing food and clothes? A safe house ought to have basics already set up. Giving him a place to hide and then letting him run around on his own did not go together.

  He needed meds he wasn’t getting black market, or he was getting them somewhere not local. He had been thinking that pointed to Barton, who could get medications a lot more directly. But Barton didn’t have him or he wouldn’t be raiding apartments and bulk stores. He was either on his own or with a friend. His crew was all accounted for, dead or in lockup. Best bet, then, was he was on his own somewhere, with limited resources.

  Too much of this didn't add up for Carl. He didn't like it. He just wanted this job done with, and imagined that must be how Müller felt as well. He rounded a corner and waited a few minutes before circling back to where he had parked his car. Caution and attention to details were keys to keeping things tidy. Since things had already gotten messy, he wanted to make damned sure he did not make mistakes to compound anything. Especially when corrupt cops were involved. He knew better than to trust them.

  In his car he got an idea and pulled into a gas station to think it through, parking in front of a big lottery sign. Not what he needed to win right now, and he hoped his odds were better than that.

  He thought about the pieces he had. Ambrose was probably on his own. He was staying in a relatively small area, which the cops had probably been through somewhat thoroughly by now. If they didn’t find him soon, and another clue kept them in the area, they might start door-to-doors. He wasn’t staying with someone helping him, or that person would be getting him clothes and such.

  Small area, alone, needing meds.

  He drove to the hospital and parked on the street. On his phone he mapped out the warehouse store compared to his current location. That done, he searched for pharmacies
nearby. The hospital had one, but he’d avoid that. There were two others nearby. Six blocks from the warehouse store. Across the street from each other.

  He craved a smoke on the twenty-minute drive there. Traffic was light but construction could make even light traffic shitty. It tried his patience. He diverted a block, which was faster.

  He parked a couple buildings down at a video rental shop long closed up. Three taller buildings offered vantage points to watch both pharmacies at once. One looked like it had a better view than the others. That wasn’t the one he wanted though. He wanted the one with the best view of that building. Ambrose would start there if he hadn’t already.

  Ambrose was a planner. He’d spend a little time watching his target before moving in. He’d watch the main entrance and the back exit, observing traffic patterns in and out, noticing security measures at the back. Then he’d make his plan and his move. It’s what Carl would do, too.

  One of them was open twenty-four hours. That meant the other one would be the better target unless he was going to hold it up at gunpoint. No, not that. So he knew the target. That changed the building watch point a little, which changed his as well.

  At the open one he picked up snacks and drinks. Maybe the police liked doing stakeouts in their cars, but that wasn't going to work for this. He moved his car and grabbed the rest of what he would need from his trunk.

  A CO2 cartridge launched a hook five stories to the rooftop. Rifle case went on his back with his pack over that. A little rope climbing and he was on a rooftop with a clear vantage point to the rooftop Ambrose would watch from. If he had already done that, Carl also had clear shot lines to both entrances, although the front entrance wasn’t a perfect shot. About two hundred yards was a shot he was comfortable with either way. His phone was fully charged in case some other clue came up first.