X X X
Bravura
"The only time you can be courageous is when you're afraid."
X X X
Ross is in the middle of checking the plates of the car in front of them when a call comes over the radio.
"Units, we have a confirmed two-four-six at upstate east residence, code two. Respond."
Blake's reaching for the radio hooked next to the computer terminal even before the woman's voice is finished speaking. This is the first high level call they've received in months - Code 246, shooting at a residence. Blake's never happy to hear that people are being killed, that children are abused by the ones who are supposed to protect them. . .it tears him in half to think of the random acts of violence that happen and go unnoticed or unreported. But if he gets there in time tonight, and save anybody he can.
Blake holds down the speak button on the radio and replies, "Dispatch, this is one-echo-two-four responding, please advise address."
"One Echo Two Four, address is eleven-thirty-three east seventy-fifth street. What is your ETA?" The voice at dispatch crackles over the radio.
Blake exchanges a quick glance with his partner. While Blake grew up near old town and knows those neighborhoods like the back of his hand, Ross is more familiar with east side of the city.
"Three minutes, take the next right," Ross tells his partner without needing the question voiced.
Blake flashes a rare smirk, "Ten-four, dispatch. ETA in three."
He places the radio back on the stand and slams his boot on the gas pedal, muscle memory taking over as he maneuvers around a slow-moving sedan in front of them and flies through a newly-turned green light at the intersection.
Like an old friend, Blake feels the adrenaline creep up from his lower back to his neck as it courses through him with growing intensity. He cuts in between a few cars and takes the next right. Tonight, he gets to do his job and make a difference in Gotham. While peaceful times look good for the media and getting the mayor re-elected, it doesn't make Blake feel like he's earning the right to wear his badge and carry a firearm.
Despite the Dent Act nearly eradicating organized crime in the city, he can't seem to shake the feeling like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. The thought keeps him awake most nights during the few hours he should be sleeping, but instead he listens to his police scanner or browses the web for the latest on crime across the country.
"Hang a left here," Ross motions, breaking up his thoughts.
Blake doesn't bother with his turning signal as he changes lanes and cuts off an SUV in the far left lane. The signal at the upcoming intersection changes from green to yellow. A glance down at his odometer tells him he's topping fifty on a busy city street with multiple cars on the road.
"Blake. . ." Ross warns, nervous. His partner knows him too well, for better or for worse.
"Hang on, man," Blake tells him, pressing on the gas a little more and placing his hands at the upper right section of the steering wheel, preparing to turn. "We're gonna keep that promise to Grace."
X X X
Gwen's feet carry her out of her parents' condo and down the hallway as fast as they can. Her mind is racing with the horrible possibilities those gunshots could mean - a robbery, a massacre, a kidnapping. . .the guests in attendance at the party include some of Gotham's most influential: socialites, brokers, lawyers, CEOs. A lot of powerful people all gathered neatly in once place, the majority of whom are utterly incapable of defending themselves in their current inebriated state.
And the kids, Gwen's heart drops at the thought.
She runs to the emergency stairwell at the end of the hall, nearly slams into the door and takes the stairs two at a time. The smell of smoke and metal mixes in her senses; it almost makes her lose her dinner with how scared she feels at the moment. She jumps onto the first landing, and grabs onto the handrail to anchor herself as she swings onto the next flight of stairs.
The sound of more gunshots echo up to her, and she flinches.
No, no no no. . .she thinks of her mother with a champagne glass in her hand, her father with his cigar, the children playing hide and go seek in a sea of tuxedos and cocktail dresses. Against the odds she knows aren't in her favor, she clings to the hope that they'll look exactly the same when she sees them again.
If she sees them again.
Belatedly, she remembers the cell phone in her purse. She's halfway down the third flight when she grabs the phone from her purse, not missing a beat in her sprint down the stairs. '911' is already on the keypad from when she entered it earlier. She hits 'send' and tries to slow her ragged breathing as she slams into the landing of the second floor.
The sounds of more gunshots travel up the stairs, shaking Gwen to her core. She can hear screaming now that she's closer to the chaos.
"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?" A calm, male voice comes over the line.
"Someone's shooting inside my building," Gwen tells him in a rush, nearly breathless. "There's a huge party and there's kids-"
"Please, miss, stay calm. What's your location? Can you identify the shooters?" The man asks her.
Gwen stops halfway down the last set of the stairs, and closes her eyes, taking a few deep breaths. She won't do anyone any good if she can't answer these questions.
"Eleven thirty-three. . .east seventy-fifth," she replies shakily. "I can't see the shooters. The shots came from the first floor. There's a party in the foyer."
"We've received several calls to this location. A unit is already en route, with back up on the way," the man tells her. "Can you get somewhere safe?"
Another scream cuts through the cement stairwell, ripping her attention away from the call taker. With one hand still holding the phone up to her ear, she takes the last few stairs to the first floor, and presses open the door a few inches. Her arm shakes as it bears the weight of the door.
"Miss? Are you still there? Please answer. Units are en route, stay where you are, stay out of sight. Help will be there soon," he says in her ear.
She ignores him as a sliver of the foyer comes in to view. She sees a woman's body laying haphazardly up against the wall by the farthest elevator. Blood is seeping out of her coral colored dress, head rolled to one side, eyes unseeing.
"Oh god. . ." she whispers, her voice hoarse. She squeezes her eyes shut as she feels her heart wrench inside her chest. A sob works its way up her throat, but she forces herself to stay quiet. She's never seen a dead body before and it's something she will never forget.
"Miss, are you still there? Stay out of sight-"
A figure comes into Gwen's narrow view of the space, tall and imposing: the large, lumbering form of a man wearing a black ski mask, gun in one hand, knife in the other. Unlike the cat earlier who held a slender, delicate knife to her ear, the knife the man is carrying is at least a foot long and has a serrated, rusted edge.
And, unlike the cat, Gwen sees true malice in the man's shaded eyes.
X X X
One minute out from the scene, Blake realizes he's gripping the wheel so hard that his knuckles are turning white from lack of blood flow. Ross notices too, and they exchange a look, but neither says a thing. Blake takes a few deep breaths as he turns on to 75th East, his heart beating so fast now he can hear his pulse in his ears.
One touchdown, two touchdown, three touchdown. . .he counts to himself, a technique recommended to him by his anger management counselor. When Blake was a kid, he loved to play flag football with the other boys at the orphanage. He was always the smallest but also the fastest. It was nearly impossible to catch him once he got the ball.
"Coming up on it," Ross says, eyes scanning both sides of the street. It's mostly deserted of cars, but the closer they approach, the more people they see running in all directions out of the entrance and onto the sidewalk.
In seconds, Blake pulls to the side, cuts the ignition and exits the car. He draws his gun, and glances at Ross as his partner does the same. The two jog silently along the facing of the buildings towards the few straggling people dashing from the address in question. One catches his eye - a large, older gentleman wearing a ridiculous blue bow tie - and Blake flicks his chin over towards the street, urging the man to keep running.
The man pauses for a moment, eyes darting this way and that like a caged animal. He holds up two shaking fingers, motions towards the entrance and then continues running down the street.
Two armed men, at least, Blake realizes.Possibly more.
Their surroundings become eerily quiet as he leans up against the edge of the double glass doors, Ross moving to cover the other side of the entrance. To his horror, Blake counts at least seven bodies in the foyer - some older, some young. When he spots the body of a little girl - maybe seven years old - on the floor, he loses it.
Teeth clenched, he shoves open the double door and leads with his gun, assessing all possible doorways, exits and vantage points for the shooters. The metallic smell of blood collides with his senses, making his insides roil with disgust.
Among the shambles of the foyer are overturned banquet tables, abandoned purses and handkerchiefs, champagne puddles marring the once pristine floors. . .and bodies. Blake and Ross immediately check their vitals; a man and woman are draped at the bottom of one staircase, another elderly woman off to the left near an alcove, two more men by the ornate, wood center table. . .blood stains all their clothes like spray on a few and ugly paint slashes on others. It drips down their evening attire, marring the perfect white floors. The little girl Blake spotted earlier is lying by one of the tables, her arm cast across her chest, as if she was thrown to the side after being shot.
It was a goddam ambush. Blake's thoughts immediately turn to a dark shade of crimson; so dark they're nearly black.
"John." He hears his partner's voice beside him. He has a hand on his shoulder, and squeezes gently. "We need to find the shooters, clear the building."
Grudgingly, Blake nods, takes a deep breath then returns his attention to pursuit. They each take one of the mirroring staircases that line the foyer, guns lowered but fingers on the trigger guard, ready to fire.
Honor the dead tomorrow, protect the living today, Blake tells himself. That's all he can do right now.
"Where the hell is back up?" Ross mutters as they reach the top of the stairs and eye the elevators warily. They'll be trapped like rats if they take that route. Blake spots an emergency stairwell off to the right, but that's no better than the elevators, if not worse. The shooters can hit them from above.
Too many if's, Blake thinks. He makes the decision, knowing time wasted can mean the difference between another victim or survivor. As he's about to make for the stairwell, he notices the illuminated number pad above each elevator. All of them are stationary except for one that's moving up from four, five, six, seven. . .
"Penthouse, that's their target," he surmises, the top floor. He glances at Ross. "It's where I would go."
"No exit on the top floor," Ross reminds him grimly. He lowers his gun slightly, heading towards the stairwell anyway. Blake follows as his partner shoves open the door, and leads with his gun, clearing the immediate landing and stairs just above them.
"We're cornered if they double back," Ross states reluctantly.
Blake agrees, but doesn't say the words aloud as they take the stairs as fast as they can. Ross is right on his heels, breathing a little heavier than Blake, whose legs are burning with the effort of climbing. By the seventh flight, he can feel the sweat start to form on his forehead, tightness in his quads and calves. The pain in his muscles quick turns to discomfort, but soon, he feels very little as the adrenaline takes full control of his limbs.
He's running over the scenarios in his head - two shooters, one look out, one grabbing; hostage situation; chase on foot; shooters gone, witnesses dead, damage done. The possibilities skitter across his mind in fragments, and he thinks of how to best handle each one - and all variations thereof.
They approach the ninth and final flight of stairs, Blake still in the lead. He shoves open the door, gun at the ready and his eyes take in the scene immediately:
Two figures, a male suspect, ski masked and imposing at well over six feet, and the other his hostage, a young woman. She's slight compared to the shooter who has his arm cinched under her chin, trapping her against him with a gun to her head. Her hands are clawing and grabbing at the arm that's pinning her, but she pauses when she sees them, and Blake recognizes the unmistakable fear in her eyes, and the realization that she's no longer a possible kidnap victim, but a hostage. Their arrival complicates everything.
"Police, put the gun down!" he hears Ross order from beside him.
The shooter doesn't react immediately to the command. Instead, he slowly begins to back up towards the open door at the end of the hallway. Blake counts three closed doors on each side of the hallway, and realizes a second shooter could be waiting behind any one of them, ready to take advantage of their turned backs.
"You know the drill, always the same drill," the shooter speaks in a rough voice, and Blake isn't quite certain who he's talking to - them or the girl.
The masked man presses the gun harder against the girl's head, but the only sign she gives of the increase in pressure is a slight tightening of her jaw. Blake's anger flares up again; he can't save the people downstairs, but the girl in front of him - he can save her, and if the shooter dies in the exchange, than oh fucking well. . .
Blake and Ross match each step the shooter takes back, the girl forced to follow her captor backwards on unsteady feet. Bare feet, Blake realizes just then. He wonders why she's shoeless, and hopes it isn't the worst thing he's thinking.
"Hostages complicate situations like this," Blake decides to tell the man. His voice is calm, despite his rapid heartbeat and boiling anger. "Can't imagine a judge is gonna look kindly on you taking this young woman here against her will."
Blake's eyes flick again to the girl in question - about five foot, slender build, long auburn hair. He figures she was a guest at the party - but why she ran upstairs instead of out the front doors puzzles him.
"You think this is going to end in one of your courtrooms?" The shooter scoffs. He laughs, the sound deep and gravelly.
To Blake's discomfort, the suspect leans in towards the girl, rubbing the side of his jaw along her hair the way a cat slinks along the hand that pets it. She visibly shudders, a sound of disgust escaping through her clenched teeth. Her eyes, however, remain resolutely open and focused on Blake and Ross.
"Where do you see this ending?" Ross asks, catering to the suspect.
He's trying to buy time, to draw out the other shooter - Blake knows this is standard procedure, but there's something about this situation that he doesn't like. First a robbery, now a kidnapping?
"It hasn't even started yet," the shooter replies darkly.
Everything happens at once then: the masked man unhooks the girl from his grasp and shoves her forward to the floor; she catches herself with her hands with an umph! Both Ross and Blake have their guns trained on the man as he takes a few quick steps back, mouth curving into a sickening smile that reveals crooked, yellowed teeth behind his mask.
And then puts the gun under his chin and pulls the trigger.
The sound reverberates through the hallway; the girl lets out a startled cry. Blake and Ross watch as the shooter's large, lumbering form collapses first to his knees, then forward to the ground with a thud. In the silence that follows, all Blake can hear is the distant sound of sirens and his own racing heartbeat. Blood is spattered across the ceiling and carpeting like morbidly abstract art, a stark contrast to the soft earth tones and fluer de lis that line the hallway.
"Jesus Christ," Ross mutters beside him, lowering and holstering his gun. He looks at Blake, and just shakes his head. After a beat, he pulls the radio from the clip on his vest and says, "Ninth floor clear, one suspect down. Whereabouts unknown of other possible shooters."
"Second shooter's long gone by now," Blake tells his partner, who nods in agreement.
He holsters his weapon, and glances at the girl then, who's moved to sit up against the wall with her head in her hands, elbows resting on her knees. While Ross goes to clear the other rooms in the hallway, Blake walks over and kneels in front of her.
"Hey," he says quietly, reaching out to place a hand on her shoulder.
To her credit, she doesn't flinch. When she looks up at him, he can see the outline of the barrel of the gun against the pale skin of her temple, and the lingering shock in her eyes. The red mark of the gun upsets him - what had she even been doing on the top floor of the building? The foyer was clearly the point of entrance for the shooters - or shooter, Blake's not certain. He figures she must've already been there on the top floor when the suspect fled upstairs.
Her brown eyes begin to glass over and, for a second, Blake thinks she's going to cry. He knows it's common for hostage victims to break down once the shock of their situation wears off, even if they held it together while in immediate danger. He prepares himself for the hysterics, runs over the comforting things he should say to her, but instead she surprises him.
"What happens now?" She asks softly, as if almost to herself. Her eyes are on the body of the dead shooter.
He tilts his head to the side, and tries to emulate his most calm and reassuring voice. "We get you patched up, and figure out what exactly happened here."
Blake glances over his shoulder as Ross walks by them, radioing for medical assistance and the coroner unit to officially pronounce the bodies dead. When he turns his attention back to the girl, her gaze has drifted to some unknown spot beyond him, and he takes a moment to study her. She must be in her twenties, but with her hair styled in curls and pins for the formerly jovial party and wearing a cocktail dress he's only seen on billboards, she looks a little older. Her long hair is tangled and mussed, make up smudged and smeared.
But - she's alive and, underneath all the mess, she looks like a sweet girl, almost innocent. It's always a bonus when he saves somebody who's not a scumbag. It's not always something he gets to choose in his line of work.
"Was anybody else hurt?" She asks suddenly, dragging him from his thoughts.
A hostage with a heart, Blake sighs, breaking eye contact for a moment. She will definitely break down if he tells her everything he saw in the foyer, so he decides not to at the moment.
His practice in the mirror fails him, though, because some latent anger at seeing the bodies - the little girl, her blonde hair strewn across her face - lying dead must pass over his face, and the girl in front of him catches it, realizes what that dark look of his means.
Guess he needs to practice more often.
"Shit," she whispers, hugging her arms tighter to herself.
Other cops, detectives and the coroner's unit are filing into the narrow hallway now. It's getting too crowded for Blake's liking, and he needs to get the girl to the hospital for clearance anyway.
"Come on," he says gently, holding out his hand to her.
She looks at him for a moment, then takes his hand. Blake can't help but notice that her fingers feel ice cold, nails bitten down to the quick. As he slowly pulls her to her feet, she sways slightly in an effort to catch her balance. She looks at him quickly and then away again, and Blake gets it.
Don't like people seeing you weak, he realizes. Never thought he'd have something in common with a hostage victim.
When he sees her hands shaking at her sides, he slips off his jacket. "Here," he says, holding it out for her to put on.
She looks confused for a moment, but slips her bare arms through the sleeves and pulls the jacket closed over her strapless dress.
"Thank you," she says, looking up at him and then to the multitude of commotion that is quickly developing around them.
"Let's go," he tells her, hoping to keep her nerves to a minimum. "I'll take you to the hospital and we'll go from there."
"I should call my parents," she says, almost numbly, as they're walking to the elevator. "They're going to wonder where I am. They were down there when it started."
"We'll find them and let them know you're okay," Blake tells her, even though he knows it could very well be a lie. A few of the bodies he saw in the foyer are old enough to be the girl's parents.
Blake tries to think of something more comforting to say, but comes up short. He's naturally a very empathetic person - it's almost his undoing, and always the reason he has trouble with his anger. But, when it comes down to voicing his feelings to victims, he stumbles. He'd rather show them he cared through his actions rather than his words. Anybody can talk out of their ass, but very few will take a bullet for a stranger, not knowing if that stranger is a good or bad person, or somewhere in between.
"Right," she says quietly. "I guess that's what you're supposed to tell the victim, right?" She looks up at him, just as the elevator doors slide open, ready to escort them down to the first floor.
Blake doesn't know what to say, only follows her into the elevator. He watches her out of the corner of his eye while he does, and decides not to leave the girl until the glazed look of fear leaves her eyes.
