CHAPTER SIX: MISFORTUNE
New York: 5:09pmAlec Womack and Bill Jackson stumbled drunkenly through the half empty apartment block. Despite their current state, it hadn't been hard to slink in past the building's landlord, a man decidedly more drunk than either of them. It had been a good week out on the scrounge, and some serious money had been coming their way. Hell, just yesterday they'd managed to net themselves twenty bucks and today they'd done almost as well by noon. If they'd kept at it through the afternoon they might even have hit forty.
Womack sucked happily on the cheap bottle of whiskey clutched in his hand, the liquid burning its way down into his chest, warming him to his toes. He let out a contented belch as Jackson swayed over to a nearby door. They knew the apartment block well; including all of the rooms that had been abandoned because of negligence by the buildings maintenance men (such as they were) and which of those rooms were safest to sleep in. It was quite a good set up they had, waiting for old Bryant to get drunk by the early evening so that they could sneak in and catch a decent night's sleep out of the cold of the approaching autumn.
Womack leaned against the crumbling plaster that coated the wall, trying in vain to read the graffiti scrawled in blue paint opposite him.
"C'mon ya old bastard." He said, his voice carrying an odd gurgling sound. "What's taking so long?"
"Door won't seem to open…" said Jackson, twisting the round door handle and straining hard against it. The doorframe creaked slightly under the pressure but otherwise refused to yield. "You reckon Bryant got wise to us? Changed the locks maybe?"
"Try turning the handle the other way." Said Womack, taking another swig from his rapidly diminishing bottle. Jackson gave him a look that seemed to suggest precisely where he could shove that handle, but complied all the same. The door swung inward silently.
"Ya see." Said Womack tapping at his temple with his index finger. "It's what's up here that counts more than what's in there." He pointed at Jackson's sweating arms with a broken toothed grin. Jackson gave a lighthearted growl and raised his middle finger.
"Nice." Chuckled Womack as he shuffled past, blinking slightly as he stepped across the threshold.
The room was unusually bright inside, a harsh green tinted light flooded across it's crumbling plaster walls. The light was emanating from a buzzing neon tube light mounted on a metal stand. The mattresses he and Jackson frequently slept on had been hauled upright to cover the room's only window, preventing any light from seeping through into to the outside world. In the very centre four Asian men were hunched over a foldout table that appeared to be covered in what looked like building plans, each appearing to be locked in a heated discussion. They began turning toward the door at the sound of Jackson's arrival.
"What the…" Jackson began as he caught sight of the strange men inside. For a moment the two groups stood in deathly silence, tension mounting rapidly. Eventually it fell to Jackson to break the deadlock.
"Hey shit heads!" he snapped, tottering drunkenly forward, his finger jabbing out at them accusingly. "This is our squat. You get me?" The strangers just stared back at him in silence, uncomfortable frowns flickering across their faces. Womack didn't like this. Something about these guys just didn't sit right. Why the hell were they in the middle of a decrepit old apartment building, pouring secretly over building plans? He could think of nicer places to do it. Nicer, but much more conspicuous.
He leaned forward, pulling nervously at Jackson's grubby sleeve.
"Hey, forget about it. We'll find somewhere else for the rest of the day." Jackson shot him a disbelieving look.
"No we fucking well won't!" He snapped angrily, shaking himself free of Womack's grasp as he turned back to the four men. "We always come here! This is our spot! Ours you hear me?" The furthest man from them gave Jackson a disdainful snort before looking back down to the plans, paying him no more attention.
"Hey!" Jackson's voice went up an octave, his fists balling up dangerously as he took another step closer.
"Hey, I'm talking to you motherfu…" He trailed off abruptly, eyes widening in surprise as three silenced guns were levelled at him.
"We don't have time for this." The man said, never once taking his eyes off the table. "Kill them both."
The first sounds of protest were barely out of Jackson's mouth when the muffled thud of a pistol shot reached Womack's ears. Warm blood erupted from the back of Jackson's head as the bullet tore cleanly through and out into one of the plaster walls. A second less well aimed shot clipped his jugular. A fine arterial spray arced through the air, painting both the nearby wall Womack's face with generous flecks of crimson.
He let out a croak of fear before bolting for the exit. He was out of the door and sprinting down the hallway before Jackson's body had even hit the floor. As he ran he barely heard the sound of third low thud as another gun was fired, the bullet lightly grazing his bicep. He winced as the pain shot up through his arm combining with his adrenaline to create a potent wakeup call for his senses that chased the drunken fog to the very corners of his mind. Behind him he heard shouts of alarm as the strangers gave pursuit, their feet pounding heavily over unevenly tiled floor. He reached out as he neared the corner of the stairs, his fingers wrapping tightly around the banister post to slingshot him into the stairwell. Half stumbling, half running, he pelted hell for leather down the square stairwell, dirt brown mack flapping madly behind him while all the while the sound of his pursuers drew ever nearer.
After what seemed like a heart pounding eternity, but what had in fact been little more than twenty seconds, he reached the apartment foyer, arms and legs flailing wildly as he dashed headlong for the front doors. The sound of his attackers pursuit fading away as he emerged into the busy early evening streets but that didn't slow him one bit. He ran for almost a full city block before the adrenaline began to fade and the pain in his arm dropped to a low throbbing pulse and even then he slowed only to a brisk walk. His breath was rattling hollowly in his chest, a lifetimes smoking taking its toll on his lungs, and at thoughts of Jackson just beginning to topple backward, he could feel bile rising in his throat.
He shuffled hurriedly through the crowd in a daze, never really noticing the alarmed looks being cast his way at the sight of his blood soaked face. What was he supposed to do now? Three men had just killed his only real friend and now here he was tramping forlornly through the streets with nowhere to go and no one to help. Womack had always hated his life and the way it had turned out, but never before had he realised just how isolated from the world around him he had become. With Jackson gone, he literally had no one beyond the other faceless men and women he saw day in day out in the queue for the charity soup kitchens and he seriously doubted any aid lay among them. He had no one; only Jackson and those bastards had killed him for absolutely no good reason.
He stumbled awkwardly into the mouth of an alleyway, his body doubling over as he wretched uncontrollably. The nervy adrenaline high he'd been riding was already fading, and now he could feel the biting mid evening air piercing all the way down to his bones.
He slumped uncomfortably against the wall, his thoughts moving in circles while the occasional shiver wracked his body. It took the arrival of the two police officers to stir him from his malaise. The moment they appeared at the mouth of the alley, he knew they'd come for him.
"Sir." The lead officer called out in as placating a manner as possible. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to come with us." Womack groaned. Why him he hadn't done anything wrong? All he wanted to do now was to crawl away into some dark corner and disappear. It wouldn't be hard. No one would miss a guy like him. But no, that would be too easy. Well he wasn't going to let them have him. If you're out in the open, then you're open to attack and he wasn't going to let those bastards catch him.
He scrambled hurriedly to his feet and bolted for the back of the alley. He never made it. The second policeman hit with perfect shoulder tackle, bundling him to the ground with almost no real effort. He gave a sharp hiss as he felt the man's knew crunching painfully into the small of his back.
"Get off me!" he yelled, his head whipping madly from side to side. "I didn't do anything!"
"You have the right to remain silent." The officer began as he fumbled for his cuffs.
"If you choose to waive that right then… Jesus!" the officer gasped as he caught sight of Womack's blood smeared face.
"Hey Carl!" he yelled over his shoulder "Check this out! Look's like the girl was right. We've got ourselves a live one here and no mistake."
"You don't understand!" Womack was almost whimpering as he felt the cold steel of the cuffs close around his wrists. "I didn't do anything! It wasn't me! Wasn't me at all!"
New York: 5:28pmKazimir slammed the phone angrily back onto it's cradle. If he had learned one thing from his days in the KGB it had been to never associate with amateurs. All right so the pay had been good this time and God knew he needed the extra capital right now, but he was finding it increasingly hard to believe that this Kadeem had any kind of military training, especially not special forces as he claimed! The man had botched his move from New Dehli to New York and lost one of his men in the process and now this latest disaster!
He clambered out of his chair and crossed to the drinks cabinet on the other side of his somewhat ramshackle office. He hadn't been operating in New York long, and it showed. Half his stuff remained in boxes littered untidily across the room, while his documents were piled haphazardly across his desk.
He opened the drinks cabinet and snatched up a bottle of Jack Daniels. No matter what his fellow countrymen might think, Kazimir couldn't abide the taste of vodka. It made him want to wretch. He poured himself a double, downing it in one go with a frustrated grunt. All the effort he'd gone through to secure them those resources, that equipment, and then the moment his back was turned they managed to go and get themselves seen by a pair of no good hobos! Now he had a body to dispose of and a wild eyed homeless man on the loose, all of which could spell big trouble were any of it traced to him.
Without thinking, he poured himself another double whiskey and crossed to the window that overlooked the club below him. The houselights were on as the preparations were made for what would probably be a rather profitable night. The thought of legitimate cash ringing in the registers did little to calm him though. The more he thought about it, the more worried he became. This screw up could unravel the whole agreement he'd made, but he couldn't risk not calling them. If they found out without him telling them… well it wouldn't be overly pretty that was for sure.
He downed the drink with a slightly more sombre sigh this time, then, with the look of a condemned man hanging across his face, he turned back to his desk and reached for the phone once again.
