AN: Hi! Thank you for all your reviews - I appreciate every one of them. I'm sorry for the lack of updates. I thought with my school schedule (class Monday through Wednesday!) I'd have more time to write but I'm actually incredibly swamped with readings and assignments. Feels like I live at the library. This isn't quite the 'norm' for this story - but don't worry. It's going somewhere. Promise.
That winter was a long one, dragging wearily into a blustery and chill March. The drifting snows turned to slushy grey rain. But, still, there were signs that spring was at hand. The hard-packed sheets of ice that coated streets and sidewalks were quietly receding and the first hints of green peeked cautiously from beneath the thinning blankets of white.
Wordy and Shelley fell into a routine, spending most of their waking off-shift hours together. He liked hearing her sing as she flittered around the kitchen on those long legs, wrapped in one of his old shirts. He liked listening to her laugh – at something stupid on television, or the antics of the crazy squirrels, or when he'd spin her in quick dizzying loops when they'd go skating. She'd bought him a toothbrush that he left in the medicine cabinet, and his razer joined her bottle of moisturized on the countertop. She cleared out a drawer where he kept an ever-increasing pile of clothes. He spent most of the nights he wasn't patrolling the streets, burrowed up beside Shelley in her too-short bed. He loved coming home to her.
Someday maybe he'd convince her to make it official – move in together. He could probably convince her to get rid of her doll-sized mattress in favour of his comfortable oversized bed.
But, for now, that was just a wish.
Wordy glanced at the dashboard clock. Only two more hours on the clock and he'd be done for the day. It was a night shift – and a quiet one at that. The streets were nearly empty, the last of the evening's partiers retired. Even the late-night burger shacks and greasy spoons, catering to the drunken revelers, were closing their doors. It had been an almost eerily quiet shift – a couple intoxicated partiers stumbling into places they didn't belong and one lonely bar fight. A slow night, indeed.
He stifled a yawn.
"Falling asleep on me there?" Ed asked from the driver's side. They'd been paired for the shift, patrolling the streets of the city's seedier east end.
"You're not exactly scintillating company." Wordy cocked an eyebrow.
"You saying I'm boring?" Ed imitated shock and hurt. His face was was only partially illuminated in the harsh lights of the streetlamps their cruiser raced by.
"You're one to talk Wordy." The radio crackled as Marks' slow drawl piped through. He and his partner of the moment, Geddes, were no doubt every bit as bored and restless as they were. "Domestication's making you guys lose your edge. Next thing you know you'll be talking about recovering the sofa in the bullpen and redoing the trim in the men's locker room."
"Shut up Marks." Ed laughed. "Just because you can't get a woman..."
Marks swore ripely. "He lies! I get plenty of women. That's my problem. Can't just pick one."
"So you say." Wordy remarked under his breath. Ed grinned.
"All units in the Parliament and Queen area respond. We've got reports of gunshots at Trefann and Shuter. Shooters unknown, likely multiple subjects. I repeat – all units respond."
Wordy snatched up the communicator as Ed floored the gas pedal. The car jumped beneath them, surging forward along the empty street.
"All right boys. That area has a lot of alleys and a lot of civilian housing." Ed snapped into his radio. "Containment is going to be a bitch. We're going to need to come in hard, fast and undetected. No lights, no sirens. That's Generation Muerto territory and they don't play around."
"Generation M." Wordy repeated. "They were behind the slayings in Regent Park last year. Two of our own were caught in the crossfire."
Ed nodded. "Their head man – Hector Rodrigues – he's in Kingston Pen awaiting trial on those murders. Proceedings start sometime next month. Some of the other smaller gangs have been moving in on their territory – they can sense when one of their rivals is weak and go in for the kill. Control of drug distribution in that neighbourhood? Score you a lot of money and respect."
Wordy braced his hand against the door as Ed took a hairpin turn at heart-racing speeds. The man was a lunatic behind the wheel.
"Marks, Geddes – you're going to take the south part of Trefann off Queen. Work your way north towards Wordy and I. We'll be taking Dundas. Naismith, Michaels? You there?"
"Copy. We were down at Waterfront. Going to be about 10 maybe."
"Follow up on Marks and Geddes. There's an empty building off the parkade Generation M has been using as a storage and distribution depot. My money is that's where the shots are coming from. You're going to cover the back entrance when you arrive and contain the shooters as we flush them out."
The car slammed to a stop near the mouth of the street with Ed cranking the wheel. Wordy briefly saw the headlights of Marks' and Geddes' car only two blocks ahead before they flickered into pitch darkness.
He lept from the car, hand swinging to his holster for his gun. He braced the hilt in his hands. They only quivered a moment before he steeled his nerves. Breathe he told himself. Just breathe.
The alley was dark and littered with trash. Hunks of wood and overfilled plastic bags were strewn across the narrow street. Windows, long boarded over, were plastered with dark graffiti. Wordy could pick out a few gang tags. The light at the middle of the street was busted – he wondered how long it had been out of service. Wind scraped along the brick buildings and cement walls, whistling a faint and sad song. It was the only sound in the otherwise resounding silence.
His belly clenched and leaped as he crept forward, bracing the gun in both hands. He and Ed advanced, feet making no sound on the pavement.
He saw, immediately, the building Ed had described. The squat two-level building was entirely barred over. Thick metal pipes were wrapped around each shuttered window and the back door was held fast by three shiny silver locks.
"Front door is battered in – looks like somebody wanted in pretty badly. Could be a possible entry point." Marks suggested, as he and Geddes approached.
"Not a lot of options – they're well fortified. Stick with our original pairs." Ed said. "We're going to enter – Wordy and I will take the upstairs. You two cover downstairs. Be careful. Be quick. Watch each others back."
The men looked at each other minute, four shadowy figures in the too-quiet March night. Wordy swallowed hard – his throat was dry. His neck felt too hot, sweat beading at his collar. Together they mechanically worked their way back to the entrance, backs stiffly pressed against the brick wall.
The crippled door loomed ahead of them, splintered and beaten. The mangled locks looked like teeth, blackened by a rapid burst of gunfire.
Just breathe.
Ed yanked the door and it pivoted inward, crashing through into the dark room. All four guns were train on the inside, all four flashlights swept across the room.
"Got three bodies." Wordy registered Geddes' voice relaying the scene into his communicator.
"Need ambulances." He added. He tugged back on the instinct to move forward and check for a pulse. Secure the room first, he told himself, sweeping his light over the dark corners.
The walls were punctured by sprays of bullets, black rips and dents in the dirty white drywall. Blood spattered the walls in massive swatches, already turning from red to brown in the stale air.
"First room secure." Ed murmured. He stepped into the room, crouching over one of the young men. He rolled him to his side, fingers feeling for a pulse at the man's tattooed throat. He shook his head grimly.
Wordy did the same, scrambling towards the nearer of the two forms, crumpled against a wall riddled with bullets. Four bullet wounds to the chest and shoulders. There was no way he'd escaped that alive, Wordy though. With quivering hands he reached for his neck. He was right. Nothing.
The skin was still warm beneath his fingers. He yanked them back. Though the mouth had been caught in a snarl, the eyes were blank.
Wordy recoiled, his stomach lurching.
Floorboards creaked as Geddes and Marks pressed forward as well, picking their way across debris towards the far door. Faces grim they disappeared into the hull of the house.
Ed knelt over the other form. "Got a faint pulse. What's the ETA on the Paramedics?" He growled.
"Should be there any minute." The dispatcher replied immediately.
Michaels appeared in the doorway. His gloved hands clenched a white kit with a bright red cross – the field medical kit that every cruiser came equipped with. "I've got this Ed. You and Wordy, head upstairs."
He took the stairs, no longer caring about quiet – the sound of the door crunching inwards surely ruined the element of surprise. The treads seemed to screech beneath his feet. He hit the second floor only seconds before Ed.
Flashlight still swept, continually moving, down the dark hallway. He counted just one door, all the way at the end of the dim passage.
They moved together fluidly, like a machine, their steps perfectly in tune. Wordy could hear Ed's controlled and deep breaths. They were the only noise.
Reaching the door, Wordy braced himself against the wall, hand reaching for the knob. Ed positioned himself in front, prepared to surge forward into the room.
Ed counted down on his fingers.
3….
Wordys hand seized over the knob, gripping it impossibly tight. His heartbeat raced out of control, beating a fast tempo against his ribs.
2….
He started to turn the knob, crouching lower behind the protection of the wooden frame. His muscled bunched, like an animal in hunt.
1….
BOOM.
An explosion rocked the floor, sending Wordy grappling back towards the safety of the wall. Ed hurled himself to the ground, and rolling quickly out of distance. He pressed against the opposite wall, crouched low under the barrage of gunfire.
Round after round of bullets tore through the door, pulverizing the wood. The drywall around the door was shredded by a fresh volley of munitions. Dust flew up as they sprayed into to the walls beside him.
Wordy could hear the others downstairs calling their names and feet running on the treads. The dispatcher frantically called their names, asking if they were okay.
"We're okay. We're not hit." He hissed into his communicator. "Don't come up the stairs, guys. Subject has a high powered shotgun - you'd be putting yourself in range."
Geddes' response was a vicious curse.
"Wordy, how many bullets have you got?"
"Seven."
"Okay. The doors a goner any minute now - another bullet and it's going to come right off its hinges. We'll have no cover."
As if to emphasize his point the door shuttered under a fresh assault.
"When it comes open I'm going in. I need you to cover me. One bullet every two or three seconds – enough to keep him looking for cover. Just need enough time to get in there. Aim high – I'll be pissed if you hit me"
Wordy nodded. They didn't have many options.
He thought of Shelley – her laugh and that slow smile. The way she'd thread her legs through his while she slept, securing herself against him. The smell of violet in her hair.
Shelley.
He waited. One heartbeat two. The door held, even as more bullets pounded into it.
And then it gave. He saw the wood waver and then give, toppling backwards into the room. He leveled his gun and squeezed the trigger. Ed launched himself into the room with the agility and speed of a cheetah. He heard a man's screamed curse. He squeezed the trigger again. Twice more.
Glass shattered – one of his bullets must have caught a window, he guessed. Shards burst, smashing against the floor.
"Put the gun down!" He heard Ed yell. He eased forward at the doorframe until the man came into sight. They were in the middle of a small, shabby apartment. Roseprint wallpaper from song long-gone tenant was peeling off the walls. The man had dragged a small and tattered couch into the middle of the room, propping it up like a barricade. He held a long black and silver gun in front of him. Sweat poured down of his brown. The stomach of his shirt – a white hoodie – was stained a rusty red. Blood seeped out of some unseen wound, dropping against the floor in loud plops. His eyes darted between the two men.
"I can't go to jail." He panted, his breaths uneven.
"Put down the gun." Wordy repeated. "Put it down."
"Can't. Can't." The man screamed. One hand left the gun to rub away the rivulets of sweat running down his blanched face. The collar of his shirt was stained dark by his perspiration. He wasn't much more than boy, really. Maybe only sixteen. His face was still rounded with baby fat, shoulders thin and scraggly.
The gun shot up another inch
"Don't make me shoot you." Ed threatened.
"They're the ones who got all up in here! They're the ones! They fucking shot them! I saw them. They shot them all."
"You need to calm down." Wordy said, easing forward slowly to flank Ed.
"I don't need to calm down! I need you to get outta my face!" The boy yowled.
"Sorry, kid, we can't do that. We're not going anywhere." Ed replied.
The gun jumped up another inch in the boy's hand. Wordy's heart lurched in his chest. Fucking Hell.
"Tell us what happened. Maybe we can help." Wordy suggested eagerly. "Just tell us what went down and we'll see what we can do."
"Cops always say that shit." The boy sniveled. He dragged a sleeve across his damn face, leaving a streak of blood across his cheek.
"This time's different." Ed responded. "You haven't got a lot of options. You need a hospital, kid, before you bleed out."
Stomach wounds were always problematic. There was a high chance of the bullet ricocheting up into the chest and an even higher probability that you'd hit an organ.
The boy seemed to pause for a second, considering his options.
"The R-Town Boyz – they've been on us for weeks. They've been getting on our turf, stealing business. So Johnny T sent them a message."
"What kind of message?" Ed asked.
"I don't know! Just that he sent him as message and he wouldn't bother us no more!" He screamed. "But it didn't work. They busted in our place shooting and shit."
"How did it go down?" Wordy asked. He kept his voice calm, by some miracle.
"We were just there, minding our own. Johnny T and Christian were dealing out the week's stashes. Cutting the shit, you know? Kicks was guarding the door. Me and Lo were just there. We weren't doing nothing – T called and said he wanted to see us but we just got there. We didn't see nothing in the street but we just got in the door when the shooting started."
The boys chest heaved with his increasingly pants. The effort it took to breathe was clearly enormous. Wordy eased forward a few steps.
"Kicks went down first, he copped one to the chest. He was screaming. T and Chris dove for their guns. I tried to get to Lo but he was already bleeding I couldn't stop it – it was fucking everywhere. Then they were inside – they were emptying their clips. They fucking shot me. I was covered in Lo's blood so I just lay there pretending I was dead like Kicks. He wasn't breathing no more."
The boy started to cry, tears welling over and down that childish face.
"Chris copped one next – saw him go down. They cornered T. I could hear them tearing shit up – turning over tables. They took the coke and patted us down. Didn't find anything on me, but I saw them take Kicks' pistol and Chris' stash. Then then shot T. Point blank, execution style. I ain't seen nobody shot like that before."
"Kid it's going to be fine. We need to get some medical help. But the R-Town Boyz are gone."
"You don't get it!" He reached up, yanking at his hair. Wordy was uncomfortably aware of the wavering gun. He inched closer. He just needed a few more feet until he could grab the barrel. The kid looked like he'd bowl over with a gust of wind – it wouldn't take much to disarm him.
"Ambulances at the ready." Marks' voice came through the radio.
"Imma go to prison and they'll kill me! Only survivor! The others' gonna think I snitched to the Boyz. I won't make it two weeks on the inside."
"Kid, you're going to be fine. You're going to be okay. We're not going to send you to the big house." Ed assure him. "You're, what, 16? That's Juvie at worst."
The kid swayed on his feet. Wordy could see the white-knuckled grip on the gun go slack before the kids' eyes rolled into the back of his head. He lept forward, grabbing the kid under his arms to keep him from falling on his face. Ed seized the gun, yanking it by its metal barrel. It skittered across the ground harmlessly.
"Send up the paramedics." Wordy called into the radio. With a grunt he eased the kid to the ground. He yanked down the zipper of the kids hoodie and pulled up the orange shirt beneath it. Blood pumped out of a vicious looking wound the size of his fist.
"Shit."
He yanked off his jacket, pressing it to the gunshot to try to staunch the bleeding. Keep pressure on the wound, he told himself.
"Wordy." Ed said slowly, surveying the room. "He said four names. Only three bodies downstairs."
"I know." He said. All his attention was focused on the boy. They had to keep him alive. He heard the jarring off footsteps on the stairs. The paramedics seemed to be taking a lifetime to get there. "I know. Maybe one of them was only injured – wandered off."
Blood soaked through the dense fabric of his coat, soaking his hands. They were slick with it.
Hands covered his, pulling his away.
"We got this." The paramedics had finally arrived. They knelt at his head. "When did he lose consciousness."
"Maybe a minute or two ago. He's losing a lot of blood." Wordy said, rocking back on his heels. He couldn't take his eyes off the kids' face – frozen in perpetual fear.
"Alright. Gunshot wound to the abdomen. Looks severe." The two men worked quickly, hands running the length of that scraggly body looking for injuries. A stretch materialized beside the kid and together they hefted his limp form onto the it. Buckles were fastened over his chest and legs and a blanket draped over his form. To protect him from shock and keep his body warm, Wordy knew.
"Wordy." Ed's grave voice snapped him back to attention.
He turned and saw what had grabbed Ed's attention. One small ankle poked out from behind the couch.
No. His mind seemed to shout. NO.
His worst fears were confirmed when they rounded the couch, pulling it back across the floor with a hideous scrape. The body of a boy, even younger than their gunman, lay motionless on the floor. His legs were mangled, bone crushed beneath the force of bullets. The legs of his jeans were shredded and completely covered in blood. But it was the face that struck Wordy. That perfect child like face staring up at him with those dead and lifeless eyes. The pupils were fully dilated, only a small ring of brown iris showing beneath those pools of black. Dead.
Shit. He stumbled back. His stomach heaved.
"Outside." Ed ordered. Wordy scrambled down the hall, past Marks and Geddes and their backup. The floorboards raced beneath his feet until he hit the front door. The cool air was welcome on his feverish skin. He fell to one knee, vomiting until his stomach was empty and his belly could do more than clench in agonizing wretches.
"You're okay Wordy." Ed said, patting him on the shoulder. Wordy hadn't heard him approach and jumped at his voice. "It was a bad scene. Your first DOS?"
"Dead on Scene?" Wordy asked, voice cracking. He staggered to his feet. "Yeah. My first."
"They stick. Come on. Lets get back to the car. The others are going to have to handle the crime scene til the techs get here. The chief is going to want to debrief with us at the station."
"He was just a kid."
"I know." Ed's voice was sympathetic. He'd been on the job nearly half a decade longer than Wordy – he'd seen a lot of things. This was pretty bad. It was always harder with kids.
Marks approached cautiously. "Got IDs on the two boys. Enrique and Angelo Rodrigues."
"He called him Lo." Wordy murmured. "They were brothers."
"Yeah. After the Boyz left, Enrique must have hauled him upstairs. I guess he thought he needed to protect them - must have been a gun cache in the apartment. Didn't want to leave him behind if they came back, I'd wager. Looks like he tried to tourniquet the legs but that kind of bleeding – he'd have been dead within seconds."
"Rodrigues." Ed repeated, slowly catching on. "Related to Hector." It wasn't a question so much as a statement.
"His two younger brothers." Marks said grimly.
"This is going to be war when he finds out." Wordy muttered. The wind, ripping through his shirt, chilled him to the bone. He suppressed a shiver.
"It's going to be ugly." Ed agreed. "Come on buddy. We've got to go. Chief is going to need to speak with us." He nodded to the mouth of the alley where they'd abandoned their cruiser.
Wordy nodded and with heavy feet began to walk towards it.
He only made it a few steps before turning. "Marks?" He called uncertainly.
"Yeah."
"How old was Angelo?"
"Thirteen. Almost Fourteen. His birthday was next weekend."
Anger shot through him like a bullet to the chest. Pity for a boy who'd never really know what life swamped him. Rage at the men who'd riddled that body with bullets and left to him to bleed to death. And misery knowing he'd been helpless to stop them.
AN: Hope you enjoyed!