Chapter 35
Still on the sidewalk, but hugging the walls of the buildings beside them, Steve and Wilson both reached into their windbreaker pockets and slipped out the small black department-issue flashlights.
Steve stepped forward slowly, feeling the ground with the sole of his foot before shifting his full weight onto it; he wanted to make sure he wasn't going to step on anything that would make noise and announce his presence. He knew Wilson was doing the same.
Every sense on the alert, the two detectives, their .38's and flashlights held at arm's length at eye level, made their way with wary deliberation into the almost pitch-black alley. Muted streetlamp spill dimly illuminated the high concrete walls on either side but straight ahead was an impenetrable inky black recess. Steve cocked his head slightly, an almost involuntary action that he hoped would increase his sense of hearing.
The clatter from the street behind him confirmed what he'd earlier acknowledged – that Vlad and Igor were using the natural cacophony of the city to mask whatever sounds might escape during their assaults. It was not a comforting thought. He glanced to his left; Wilson had no doubt come to the same conclusion.
He inhaled deeply, suddenly remembering to breathe, leaving his mouth open. It was then that he heard it, an indistinct scraping sound, like a shoe against asphalt. They both froze and looked at each other, eyebrows raised and eyes wide. Though it was too dark to see little more than the other's outline, they were in sync and they knew it.
They had discussed their prospective plan of attack earlier, based on what they had learned from the victims they had interviewed, as well as Irene's account of what had happened to her. From what they had learned, both men had been full participants in the assault at all times; the attack on Mike had been an aberration, initiated, they surmised, by Mike's calling of Irene's name and his entry into the alley.
This was what they were now counting on, that both Vlad and Igor would be entirely fixated on the violation and unprepared for their appearance. Steve's heart was pounding in his ears so loudly he could barely hear himself think.
Both detectives took another step forward. A muted, muffled, frightened moan floated out of the black depths before them, followed immediately by the sound of a blow, like a fist striking a face. The moaning stopped abruptly.
Steve knew they had to move and move fast. He glanced over at Wilson then took two quick steps forward, no longer caring about what he would step on or kick. The accidental disclosure of their presence was not an issue anymore.
With four quick steps they could just about discern the vague outline of writhing bodies; they dropped into shooting stances, both flashlights snapping on almost simultaneously. "Police! Freeze!" Wilson ordered at the top of his lungs and all movement stopped. There was a beat of stunned silence as the beams of light caught Vlad on top of their helpless, unmoving victim; Igor was kneeling above her head, pinning her arms down with his hands. His rictus, lust-filled grin disappeared in the harsh white light.
"Get up," Steve growled, taking a step closer. They knew they had to act fast before the Russian pair realized there were only two of them.
Staring unblinkingly into the blinding light, Vlad roughly pushed himself erect and was just about to stand when Steve commanded, "Lie on your stomach!"
Vlad froze mid-rise and continued to stare into the light. The two detectives couldn't be sure if he was just being belligerent or if he really didn't understand English, although the latter seemed inconceivable.
"Lie down and put your hands behind your back!" Steve ordered again. Up this close he realized that the Russian gangster was a lot bigger and thicker than he'd been expecting; he swallowed nervously, knowing he had to get the upper hand immediately or this could spiral out of control very quickly.
Wilson was concentrating on Igor, who had removed his hands from the victim's arms and sat back slightly but otherwise had not moved. He could sense a trace of tension in Steve's voice that he hoped the Russians wouldn't be able to discern.
With an almost silent grunt, Vlad dropped heavily to his knees then put his hands on the ground and began to lower himself onto his stomach. Unnervingly, he continued to stare into the flashlight beam.
Trying not to move the beam, Steve shifted the flashlight to his gun hand, keeping his finger on the trigger, and reached behind his back to snap the handcuffs off his belt. Vlad, seeing the light shift slightly, froze, and Wilson's eyes left Igor momentarily.
As if an imperceptible signal passed between them, both Russians made their move. They shot to their feet, Vlad diving straight towards Steve as Igor leapt to his right, out of Wilson's flashlight beam.
A deafening shot rang out, echoing loudly in the narrow concrete-lined space.
Steve, dropping his right hand in an attempt to keep the light and the barrel of the .38 on his quarry, felt the handcuffs slip from his left hand as the solid, muscle hard body of the Russian rapist slammed into him waist high. He felt himself flying backwards, landing hard on the pavement, the back of his head smacking solidly against the asphalt. He cried out in pain as something razor sharp penetrated the black windbreaker and dug into his back. Stunned, he felt the flashlight sail from his hand as the Russian repositioned himself to make a grab for the .38 that was somehow still in his grip.
Throwing his body on top of the smaller cop, Vlad reached up and grabbed Steve's right forearm, trying to bend his elbow to get closer to the gun. In pain, unable to take a deep breath, Steve threw a left-handed punch that hit only air. Desperately, he grabbed the Russian's coat and tried to pull him off; Vlad was definitely heavier and stronger. His right forearm was lifted into the air and slammed back down onto the pavement. Pain seared through the back of his hand but he held onto the gun, knowing that if he lost control, he was dead.
# # # # #
Mike gasped and caught his breath.
Irene's head snapped up and she stared at his profile in the dark, listening to his suddenly ragged breathing, knowing his eyes were open and his heart was pounding. She pulled her arm away from around his chest and laid her hand over his again, squeezing warmly.
She pushed herself higher on the bed until her lips were close to his ear. "He's a great cop… he has wonderful instincts… And you taught him well…" She kissed his cheek and laid her head on his shoulder. "He'll be okay."
She felt the deep, unsteady breath that shook his entire body.
# # # # #
Igor had disappeared into the inky blackness but Wilson heard him scrambling away. The shot had come from his .38, intending to scare; it worked. From the corner of his eye, he tried to keep track of what was Steve was encountering with Vlad; the Russian had the upper hand, he knew, and he held his breath, waiting for another shot, the one that would mean Steve Keller was dead.
In desperation, he stepped deeper into the alley, his flashlight and gun sweeping the discarded crates, boxes and tarpaulins the filled the cavernous space. He took another step forward; he could hear the struggle behind him, hear Steve groaning as he fought to maintain possession of his .38. He felt helpless.
An indistinct sound reached his ears from his immediate left. Instinctively he ducked; he could feel the rush of air past his ear and above his head as something heavy swished by so close it touched his hair. Launching himself in the direction of the attack, he felt his shoulder smash into an unsuspecting torso and the sudden stunned exhalation of air as Igor doubled over, the weapon dropping from his hands to clang onto the pavement. The Russian slammed back into the wall and Wilson turned towards him, his right elbow raised, striking the side of Igor's head, snapping it back against the wall. Even in the blackness, Wilson could see the Russian's eyes roll back as he slumped to the garbage-strewn ground.
# # # # #
Ignoring the pain in his hand, head, and back, Steve continued to struggle in the dark for possession of the gun, holding it above his head. Unable to gain ground, Vlad scrambled to his knees and, with all the strength he could gather, raised his left hand and backhanded the cop across the face.
Stars shot through Steve's vision and his head swam; he tasted blood immediately. Stunned, he felt Vlad scramble over him, reaching for the gun. Unable to tighten his fist on the grip of the .38, he felt the strong fingers of his assailant tighten on his arm as he reached for the gun.
Suddenly there was a rush of movement and Vlad's body was propelled violently sideways as he screamed in pain.
The heavy weight no longer pinning him down but with almost every part of his body, it seemed, screaming in pain, Steve knew he had to subdue the Russian, but he couldn't move. From somewhere in the fog that muffled the sounds trying to penetrate his brain, he could hear Wilson frantically calling his name.
He raised his head slowly, trying to make out something, anything, in the murky darkness. Someone was standing over him; he knew it wasn't Wilson or Vlad. He narrowed his eyes, blinking slowly, trying to focus.
Wilson called his name again. With a groan, he pushed himself up on one elbow, still trying to make sense of what had just happened. His hearing started to clear and he could hear a soft moaning… a feminine moaning. His eyes finally began to clear and his vision coalesced.
The young brunette prostitute was standing over him, her clothes torn, her hair disheveled. Blood was visible at the corner of her mouth and her lips were swollen. There was a cut over her left eye. In her hands was one of her stiletto shoes, blood on the heel.
# # # # #
"How are you doing?" Wilson asked with a dry chuckle as he entered the Emergency cubicle.
Steve was sitting on the gurney, trying to pull his bloody shirt on with his bandaged right hand. There was a small gauze bandage on his right cheek. He looked up and frowned good-naturedly.
"How come I look like hell and you haven't got a scratch on you?"
Wilson crossed closer to the gurney and picked up the shirt, helping the younger man slip it on. Steve moaned and closed his eyes as he arched his back to slip his right arm through the sleeve. "That's because you decided to take on Vlad. Igor, it turned out, is more of a follower…"
"You know they pulled a chunk of glass out of my back too? A piece of a broken beer bottle. Five stitches, and I ruined Mike's windbreaker."
Wilson pulled the plackets of the shirt together and was starting to do up the buttons. The move reminded Steve too much of his partner and he gently slapped Wilson's hands away with a chuckle. "Hey, I can do this. I didn't break my hand, you know, just cracked a… a metacarpal bone. I'll be okay in a couple of days."
"Yeah," Wilson said softly. "Listen, ah, I know it's been a hell of a night already, but they really need us back at the Hall. There's still a hell of a lot to get started on tonight. You good to go?"
Steve nodded, ducking his head slightly as the dull headache he'd been experiencing since his skull connected with the pavement made its presence felt once again.
Wilson took a step back and looked at him. "How are you going to explain all this to Mike?"
As he slid off the gurney, Steve looked down, smiling warmly. "Are you kidding? Compared to what he's going through, this is child's play." He looked up and met Wilson's stare. "We got lucky."