A Family Affair
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just playing around. Enjoy!
Chapter 37.
Sara put the well-stocked first-aid kit back in the trunk and then got behind the wheel of the SUV. She watched as Nottingham slowly and carefully folded his battered body into the passenger seat. He flinched, grimacing, when he reached to pull the car door closed, his gloved right hand going to his left ribcage.
"Let me get that," Sara said, getting out and going around the car to shut the door. "Sore ribs?" she observed, sliding behind the wheel once more.
"Yes," Ian said, pulling off his hat and rubbing his face tiredly. "Three, maybe four, cracked, possibly one or two fractured. Eventually, they will need to be taped." 'I wonder if she would think less of me if I were to start moaning?' he thought idly. 'Just a little whimpering instead of yelling like I really, really want to. Yelling would probably freak her out. No! No whimpering or yelling, Nottingham. You've got to hold it together for just a little while longer,' he told himself sternly.
Sara stared at him in concern, realizing that he must be in tremendous pain. But, to his credit, he had barely winced when she had popped his dislocated shoulder joint back in, something that would have incapacitated most people. She had no idea how he had managed to survive the six-story plummet to that alley, not to mention the rooftop battle with eight heavily armed men, relatively unscathed. Unless he was bleeding to death internally but putting on a brave front. He was awfully pale, except for those flushed cheeks, and his eyes had a faraway look in them that worried her.
Sara started the car and pulled out of the townhouse's garage. Putting it in park, she hopped out of the SUV and closed the garage door behind them.
"Where else are you hurt, Nottingham?" she asked him, getting back in the car. Two more police cars sped by, followed closely by a fire engine, lights flashing and sirens wailing. Sara turned the SUV in the opposite direction, staying within the speed limit as she headed toward the West Side.
"I also suffered a bullet graze to the upper right thigh. It is bleeding, but so far the blood loss is negligible. I doubt it will even require sutures, merely disinfecting and bandaging," he told her. "That is all, aside from assorted scrapes and contusions."
"That's more than enough, don't you think? I'd like to blow Irons off a freakin' building and see how he likes it," she muttered, scowling. "Call him, Nottingham. Now."
Ian sighed, dreading the forthcoming conversation. He fumbled for his cell phone, which was in the left pocket of his overcoat, finally extricating it.
"Yes, Ian?" Irons answered on the first ring.
"With the help of the joint DEA and narcotics task force, the Wielder successfully captured the Medina brothers, master. Her nephew is finally safe," Ian informed him.
"I see. Where are you now?"
"In my vehicle, sir."
"Where in your vehicle, Ian?" Irons asked, impatience coloring his cultured voice.
Nottingham looked out the window. "Ludlow Street, no, Orchard Street. Now, Eldridge Street."
"All right, that's enough of that. Where are you going, and what is the matter with you?"
"I do not know where I am going," he answered truthfully. "As for what is the matter with me, I am suffering from an extremely high fever as well as numerous injuries incurred during my battle with an attack force of Former Soviet Union mercenaries that you so thoughtfully arranged to have ambush me."
There was a long moment of silence on the other end of the line. "I am watching the aftermath of that conflict on the news as we speak," Irons murmured. "There are reports that a female homicide detective is missing at the scene. Tell me, Ian, do you happen to know anything about that?"
"Yes, sir. The Wielder came to my aid, breaking contact with the joint task force, which was in the process of finishing up the drug bust operation across the street from the warehouse when the Russians attacked me."
"And where is the Wielder now, Ian?"
Ian squinted out the window. "Chinatown. No, wait, the Financial District."
Sara had heard enough. She reached over and snatched the phone from Nottingham, who had a loopy grin on his face. "Have you clued into the fact that he needs that antidote yet, Irons? And you're gonna give it to him, you got that?" she snarled.
"Ah, Detective Pezzini! You've managed to cause quite a bit of excitement with your heroics," Kenneth Irons said. "I'm curious: how are you going to explain your disappearance to your commanding officer?"
"Let me worry about that, Kenny. You should be worrying about your bodyguard. He's gonna die unless he receives that antidote within the next few hours. As I understand it, the deal was he keeps me safe until I take down Angel and Joaquin Medina, with a little extracurricular activity thrown in courtesy of you and some majorly pissed off Russians. He kept up his end of the bargain. Now it's your turn, you conniving bastard."
"Temper, temper, Sara. It's truly touching how protective you are of my Ian. Very well, bring him to the estate, and I will have Dr. Immo administer the antidote."
The Witchblade flared to life, practically putting up a stop sign. "Um, I don't think that's such a good idea, Kenny. You see, there's no telling how many of those Russians are still on the loose, and I'm pretty sure they're coming after you next. Too bad you don't have your personal bodyguard there to protect you, hunh? Thanks to you, he's in no shape to fight anybody. In fact, it's a miracle he made it off the roof of that warehouse alive. By the way -- and I don't know why I'm telling you this since Nottingham wasn't given any advance warning -- these guys have shoulder-mounted missile launchers and aren't shy about using them. No, we're gonna have to meet someplace else."
"I'm afraid my security team is recommending that I avoid going out in public for the time being, Sara. But I will send Dr. Immo to retrieve Ian via helicopter. Meet him at the 33rd Street heliport in an hour." Irons hung up.
"Sonofabitch!" Sara fumed. "He's trying to dictate where we're gonna meet. Well, I've got news for him!" She pressed redial, but the phone just rang and rang. "Shit! Goddamn him!" she swore.
"Where does he want us to meet him?" Ian asked, taking his phone from her.
"Like the spineless coward he is, he's not gonna risk showing his face while those Russians are still out for his blood. He's sending a Dr. Immo in a helicopter to pick you up. We're supposed to meet him at the 33rd Street heliport in an hour," she told him. She glanced at the assassin's haggard face. "I don't trust him, Nottingham. I'm gonna take you someplace safe, and then I'll go meet this Dr. Immo and get the antidote from him."
"I want to go with you, Sara," Ian told her. "It could be a trap."
"Yeah, well, you're in no condition to do anything about it even if it is. No, you're gonna lay low, and I'll go check it out. I promise that I'll be extremely cautious."
"I do not like the fact that you are putting yourself in danger for me, my Lady. Mr. Irons would love nothing more than to take the Witchblade from you. Saving my life is not worth the risk you are taking."
"Would you stop with the 'I am unworthy' crap, Nottingham? You're my Protector. Who better for me to look out for?" Sara told him impatiently.
'Some Protector I am,' Ian thought morosely. 'She is being forced to come to my aid yet again. Will I never be strong and, and . . . Protector-like in her eyes?'
Sara suddenly realized that it would take well over an hour for them to reach her intended destination and then for her to get to the heliport. Also, Nottingham needed medical attention for his ribs and bullet wound, but she couldn't risk taking him to a hospital because they were required by law to report any gunshot wounds. Then she had an idea.
"Slight change in plans, Nottingham," she murmured, taking a right turn and heading uptown. She fished out her cell phone, putting on the headset that she found between the two front seats, next to the thermos of peppermint tea, and plugging it into the phone before dialing the number.
"Hello?"
"Vicky, it's me, Sara."
"Hey, girlfriend! What's shaking? Ready for the blizzard?"
"I guess you haven't been watching the news," Sara murmured.
"What? Don't tell me they called off the blizzard? Darn! I was sorta looking forward to a couple of snow days."
"No, no, as far as I know we're still gonna get creamed by the storm. I was talking about the big brouhaha in Alphabet City. Turn on the TV and you'll see what I'm talking about. You're probably gonna hear that a female detective is missing at the scene. That would be yours truly."
"Funny, but you don't sound like you're missing," Vicky said. Sara heard the sound of a television in the background. "Wow, that's some fire! Ewww, looks like there's a bunch of fatalities, too. I sure hope they don't end up in our morgue. I hate autopsying crispy critters. Wait a sec, they're saying the warehouse fire is right across from the factory where the drug bust that Jake took part in went down earlier. You were there, too?"
"Yeah. Look, Vic, I need to ask you for another huge favor. I'm about ten minutes from your place. I'll explain everything when I get there, okay?"
"Sure. See you in a few minutes, Sara."
"Are you certain you can trust her?" Ian asked her when she hung up.
"Positive," Sara said without hesitation. "You need medical attention, and Vicky's a doctor. Plus, she won't alert the authorities about the GSW like a hospital emergency room would. While she's fixing you up, I'll head over to the heliport and get the antidote. She can administer it to you when I get back, then we'll head someplace safe where you can hole up for a few days."
"That is if you are not walking into a trap," Ian pointed out.
She shrugged. "'Trust in the Witchblade.' Isn't that what you're always telling me, Nottingham? Well, it's never steered me wrong before, so I'm gonna play it by ear, uh, bracelet. If something smells wrong, I won't go near that heliport."
"I am very glad to hear that you are beginning to work with the Witchblade, my Lady. You will become a far more formidable foe once you have fully accepted your destiny as a True Wielder."
"Yeah, well, I'm still not entirely convinced that it is my destiny, but I am beginning to realize that this thing has a mind of its own. The bloodlust nearly took over back there in that warehouse. And it scared me because I almost couldn't control it and because . . . it excited me," Sara admitted softly.
"Lust is a powerful thing," Nottingham said, and his feverish gaze met hers. "It has caused even the wisest and most civilized of men to commit atrocities and to wreak havoc on their fellow man."
"Why do I get the feeling you're not talking about bloodlust, Nottingham?" Sara muttered, feeling her face grow warm.
"'The expense of spirit in a waste of shame is lust in action; and till action, lust is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame, savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust; enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight; past reason hunted; and no sooner had, past reason hated, as a swallowed bait, on purpose laid to make the taker mad: mad in pursuit, and in possession so; had, having, and in quest to have, extreme; a bliss in proof, and proved a very woe; before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream. All this the world well knows; yet none knows well to shun the heaven that leads men to this hell,'" Nottingham quoted, biting back a groan as his groin suddenly tightened. 'Down boy!' he thought exasperatedly. 'I'm dying, and yet I still want her so badly, I ache!'
"Again with the gloomy Shakespeare? Don't you know any light, happy quotations?" Sara complained, frowning.
"'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, and summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, and often is his gold complexion dimm'd; and every fair from fair sometime declines, by chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd; but thy eternal summer shall not fade, nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, when in eternal lines to time thou grow'st: so long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, so long lives this, and gives life to thee,'" Ian replied.
"Better," she murmured, his low, husky voice making her quiver in response way down low. "I guess in between learning how to kill people a thousand different ways, you had time to study up on Shakespeare."
"Mr. Irons envisioned us as poet warriors. We were thoroughly schooled in all of the intellectual arts: literature, philosophy, art history."
"We?"
"The members of my former Special Forces unit, the Black Dragons. They were my master's brainchild. Vorschlag Industries underwrote the cost of the training and . . ."
"And?" she prompted when his words trailed off.
"We were subjected to experimental drug therapies, meant to enhance our intelligence, physical and psychological endurance, aggression, and, most important of all, obedience. Vorschlag supplied the psychotropic pharmaceuticals."
"I get the feeling the experiment wasn't a success."
Ian nodded, his drawn features taking on a look of profound sorrow. "Most of the Dragons became unstable. There were several violent outbursts and suicides. The project was scrapped, and the surviving members were given honorable discharges."
"Do you know what happened to them?"
He heaved a sigh filled with soul-deep weariness, and she saw that his flushed cheeks were wet. "I never saw any of them again. Before joining the Special Forces, I was never allowed to have any friends. But those men became like brothers to me. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was part of a family. There was nothing we would not do for each other. Then the drugs started to take hold, and their personalities began to change. Many of them started to exhibit signs of paranoid schizophrenia and other psychoses. After a while, they became like strangers." He shook his head, wiping the tears from his face. "After the Black Dragons were dismantled, I thought I had become incapable of forming friendships. Until recently, that is. A part of me that I was certain had been destroyed has come alive again. Thanks to you, my Lady."
'Oh, Kenny, you have an awful lot to answer for,' Sara thought angrily, regretting having made Nottingham dredge up what were obviously extremely painful memories for him.
"Here we are at Vicky's," she said, pulling into a parking space around the block from her friend's apartment. "I'll get the door for you." Sara hopped out and opened the passenger-side door for him, then went around to the back and opened the hatch, removing the first-aid kit.
"Is that you, Sara?" Vicky asked, moments after Sara pushed the button labeled 'V. Po' on the apartment building's intercom.
"Yeah, and I brought along a friend who needs your help."
"Come on up." A buzzer sounded, and Sara pushed open the door.
Nottingham leaned against the wall of the elevator, eyes closed, as they rode up to the 11th floor. When the doors opened, he straightened and followed her down the hallway, moving stiffly.
Vicky poked her head out her open door as they neared her apartment. "Hey, Sara."
"Hey, Vic. This is a friend of mine, Ian Nottingham. Nottingham, Vicky Po."
"Nice to meet you, Ian. Come on in," Vicky said, opening the door wide.
"Vicky, we need your medical expertise," Sara said the moment her friend closed the door behind them. "Nottingham tangled with some bad guys at that warehouse, and he's pretty banged up. He thinks he's got a couple of broken ribs and he's bleeding from a bullet wound to the thigh. I need you to fix him up while I run an errand. Think you can handle that?" she asked, eyeing the wineglass the other woman held.
"Apple juice," Vicky said, noticing the look. "I've been sober for nearly five months, thanks to you and that program you arranged for me to join without the job finding out. Let's take a look at those ribs, shall we, Ian? What's wrong with your arm?" she asked him.
"My shoulder was dislocated. Sara relocated the joint, but it is extremely sore," he told her, glancing around the cozy, neat apartment. Although Sara claimed the 11th Precinct's Medical Examiner could be trusted, he was reluctant to divulge the true extent of his injuries to her, so he neglected to mention his broken collarbone.
"Ouch! I'm afraid it's gonna hurt like the dickens to take off your coat and shirt so that I can tend to your ribs. Do you have any heavy-duty painkillers? I don't have anything stronger than aspirin and Tylenol in the house."
Sara set the first-aid kit on the kitchen countertop. "Everything you'll need is in here, Vic. I've got to get going. I'll be back in a little while."
"Sara, please be careful," Ian said, barely restraining himself from pleading with her not to go.
"I will. I'll be back before you know it. Thanks a ton for this, Vicky. I owe you."
"Sure. But you'd better call the job and let them know you're okay, Sara. They think you're still in that burning warehouse. There's firefighters risking their lives trying to find you and anyone else in there," Vicky said, glancing toward the small TV on the counter, which was on but had the sound muted. It showed a massive conflagration that was barely recognizable as the warehouse that Sara had been inside less than an hour ago.
"I'll do that on the way," she promised. "See you in about 20 minutes."
Once she was back in the SUV, Sara put the headset back on, and checked her voicemail. There were several increasingly frantic messages from Danny, Gabriel, and Jake, as well as a single irate one from Bruno Dante. She called Jake McCartey first.
"Hello?"
"Jake, it's me, Sara."
"Pez? Oh, thank God you're all right! Why the hell did you run off like that? Captain Phillips wouldn't let anybody go after you until backup arrived, and then we couldn't find any sign of you. We thought you were trapped inside the building! Are you hurt?" he said in a rush.
"Aside from a lump on my head, I'm fine. I, um, managed to find a way into the warehouse through the basement. It was pitch black down there, but I didn't want to risk turning on my flashlight and alerting somebody to my presence. Well, I must have tripped over something and hit my head, 'cause next thing I know, I woke up on the ground with a wicked headache, smelling smoke. I got out the same way I got in and tried to head back to the task force's position, but the way was blocked by the fire. I guess I wasn't thinking too clearly, because I ended up jumping in a cab and heading to Vicky's. She says I might have a mild concussion," Sara told him, hoping he would buy this rather implausible story.
"Well, I'll let Phillips and Dante know that you're okay. It's a good thing you had Vic check you out, but you should go to a hospital and let them look you over. Where are you now?"
"I'm heading home," she lied. "I'm exhausted. I'm sorry I worried you guys," she told him. "Vicky promised to call me every half an hour for the next few hours to make sure I didn't fall into a coma."
"Yeah, well, I gotta go tell them to call off the search for you. I don't know if you saw the news, but the warehouse is almost completely ablaze. The FBI thinks the shooters are Russian commandos. They managed to capture about a dozen of them, but they're not talking. Crazy, hunh? We still have no idea who or what they were shooting at, but they had some pretty major firepower with them. I'll talk to you tomorrow okay? I'm really glad you're okay, Pez."
"Yeah. Just don't expect me to answer the phone until tomorrow night at the earliest. I'll be dead to the world until then."
"Okay, but I can't promise you that the job won't try to reach you before then to hear your version of events. In fact, you'd better count on it. So far, they've managed to pull about half a dozen bodies out of the warehouse, Pez, and we were afraid one of them was yours. Most of them were burned beyond recognition."
"Well, all's well that ends well, I guess. Except for the crispy guys, that is. Speak to you later, Jake." Sara hung up and then dialed Danny's home number.
"Woo residence," her partner answered.
"Danny, it's me," Sara said.
"Shit, Pez! Are you okay? You really had me worried. I turn on the news and I hear that a female detective is missing at the scene of a firefight between unknown forces. When they said the action was taking place right across the street from where a drug bust had just gone down, I knew they were talking about you. What the hell happened? Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine," she assured him, and proceeded to tell him about Nottingham's battle with the Russians, glossing over her own part in it.
"Wow! Rooskies, hunh? Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yeah. It's Nottingham who's pretty banged up, but he should be fine. Vicky's patching him up as we speak. I told Jake a really tall tale about getting knocked unconscious, waking up dazed and confused, and hopping a cab to Vicky's house, where she diagnosed me with a mild concussion. Much to my surprise, he actually seemed to swallow it," Sara told him.
"Well, it is Jake we're talking about here. But just how are you gonna explain the fact that you fired your service weapon when you came to Nottingham's rescue -- which I know you did, so don't bother denying it, Pez. The coroner is bound to find police-issue bullets in those bodies when they're autopsied."
"I, uh, when I disarmed the sentry, I took his rifle and used it to take out the other soldiers. I never used my gun," she told him.
"Thank God. I'm really glad you're okay, Pez. Are you still planning on staying at your brother's house for the next couple of days?"
"Probably. Nottingham doesn't think it's safe to go to my place. He says Irons probably gave the Russians my address, that asshole."
"What is with that guy? Why would he sic those Russians on his own head of security?"
"You're asking me? Nottingham thinks it was some kind of test. Apparently, Irons likes his employees to prove that they're worthy of service in his employ from time to time."
"Freakin' rich people! If that's what having more money than God does to you, I'm glad I'm working poor. Call me when you decide where you're gonna be staying, partner. And try to stay out of trouble!"
"I'll try. Speak to you tomorrow, Danny."
Next, she called Gabriel. "Talismaniac. Talismans, totems, and neat stuff you can't find anywhere else."
"Hey, Gabriel, it's me."
"Sara! Are you okay? It's all over the news how you're missing and presumed burned to a crisp. Whoa, wait a sec. Now, they're saying you were found alive and safe." There was a pause as he apparently listened to the news bulletin. "Yeah, they're spinning it that you simply got lost in all of the confusion. Care to tell me what really happened?"
Sara told him exactly how events had transpired and about Nottingham being injured. By now, she had reached the vicinity of the heliport, and was driving around looking for a parking spot. Dr. Immo's helicopter was due to arrive in less than ten minutes.
"Poor Nottingham. Do you really think Irons is gonna come through? I can't say I'd trust anything he says at this point," Gabriel astutely observed.
"That's why I'm getting that antidote from this doctor guy by whatever means necessary and bringing it to Nottingham myself. Vicky can administer it."
"Good thinking. Let me know how - Uh-oh!" he interrupted himself, and there was a pause again as he listened to something on the television. "Bad news, Chief. A breaking news report just came on. It seems Irons' estate is under attack. Witnesses report that a helicopter that was either trying to land or take off from there was blown out of the sky. They're saying a missile took it out. I don't think the doc is going anywhere tonight or maybe ever again."
More to come! Thanks to you all for your encouraging feedback. My muse is very pleased, as you can tell. Keep it coming!
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just playing around. Enjoy!
Chapter 37.
Sara put the well-stocked first-aid kit back in the trunk and then got behind the wheel of the SUV. She watched as Nottingham slowly and carefully folded his battered body into the passenger seat. He flinched, grimacing, when he reached to pull the car door closed, his gloved right hand going to his left ribcage.
"Let me get that," Sara said, getting out and going around the car to shut the door. "Sore ribs?" she observed, sliding behind the wheel once more.
"Yes," Ian said, pulling off his hat and rubbing his face tiredly. "Three, maybe four, cracked, possibly one or two fractured. Eventually, they will need to be taped." 'I wonder if she would think less of me if I were to start moaning?' he thought idly. 'Just a little whimpering instead of yelling like I really, really want to. Yelling would probably freak her out. No! No whimpering or yelling, Nottingham. You've got to hold it together for just a little while longer,' he told himself sternly.
Sara stared at him in concern, realizing that he must be in tremendous pain. But, to his credit, he had barely winced when she had popped his dislocated shoulder joint back in, something that would have incapacitated most people. She had no idea how he had managed to survive the six-story plummet to that alley, not to mention the rooftop battle with eight heavily armed men, relatively unscathed. Unless he was bleeding to death internally but putting on a brave front. He was awfully pale, except for those flushed cheeks, and his eyes had a faraway look in them that worried her.
Sara started the car and pulled out of the townhouse's garage. Putting it in park, she hopped out of the SUV and closed the garage door behind them.
"Where else are you hurt, Nottingham?" she asked him, getting back in the car. Two more police cars sped by, followed closely by a fire engine, lights flashing and sirens wailing. Sara turned the SUV in the opposite direction, staying within the speed limit as she headed toward the West Side.
"I also suffered a bullet graze to the upper right thigh. It is bleeding, but so far the blood loss is negligible. I doubt it will even require sutures, merely disinfecting and bandaging," he told her. "That is all, aside from assorted scrapes and contusions."
"That's more than enough, don't you think? I'd like to blow Irons off a freakin' building and see how he likes it," she muttered, scowling. "Call him, Nottingham. Now."
Ian sighed, dreading the forthcoming conversation. He fumbled for his cell phone, which was in the left pocket of his overcoat, finally extricating it.
"Yes, Ian?" Irons answered on the first ring.
"With the help of the joint DEA and narcotics task force, the Wielder successfully captured the Medina brothers, master. Her nephew is finally safe," Ian informed him.
"I see. Where are you now?"
"In my vehicle, sir."
"Where in your vehicle, Ian?" Irons asked, impatience coloring his cultured voice.
Nottingham looked out the window. "Ludlow Street, no, Orchard Street. Now, Eldridge Street."
"All right, that's enough of that. Where are you going, and what is the matter with you?"
"I do not know where I am going," he answered truthfully. "As for what is the matter with me, I am suffering from an extremely high fever as well as numerous injuries incurred during my battle with an attack force of Former Soviet Union mercenaries that you so thoughtfully arranged to have ambush me."
There was a long moment of silence on the other end of the line. "I am watching the aftermath of that conflict on the news as we speak," Irons murmured. "There are reports that a female homicide detective is missing at the scene. Tell me, Ian, do you happen to know anything about that?"
"Yes, sir. The Wielder came to my aid, breaking contact with the joint task force, which was in the process of finishing up the drug bust operation across the street from the warehouse when the Russians attacked me."
"And where is the Wielder now, Ian?"
Ian squinted out the window. "Chinatown. No, wait, the Financial District."
Sara had heard enough. She reached over and snatched the phone from Nottingham, who had a loopy grin on his face. "Have you clued into the fact that he needs that antidote yet, Irons? And you're gonna give it to him, you got that?" she snarled.
"Ah, Detective Pezzini! You've managed to cause quite a bit of excitement with your heroics," Kenneth Irons said. "I'm curious: how are you going to explain your disappearance to your commanding officer?"
"Let me worry about that, Kenny. You should be worrying about your bodyguard. He's gonna die unless he receives that antidote within the next few hours. As I understand it, the deal was he keeps me safe until I take down Angel and Joaquin Medina, with a little extracurricular activity thrown in courtesy of you and some majorly pissed off Russians. He kept up his end of the bargain. Now it's your turn, you conniving bastard."
"Temper, temper, Sara. It's truly touching how protective you are of my Ian. Very well, bring him to the estate, and I will have Dr. Immo administer the antidote."
The Witchblade flared to life, practically putting up a stop sign. "Um, I don't think that's such a good idea, Kenny. You see, there's no telling how many of those Russians are still on the loose, and I'm pretty sure they're coming after you next. Too bad you don't have your personal bodyguard there to protect you, hunh? Thanks to you, he's in no shape to fight anybody. In fact, it's a miracle he made it off the roof of that warehouse alive. By the way -- and I don't know why I'm telling you this since Nottingham wasn't given any advance warning -- these guys have shoulder-mounted missile launchers and aren't shy about using them. No, we're gonna have to meet someplace else."
"I'm afraid my security team is recommending that I avoid going out in public for the time being, Sara. But I will send Dr. Immo to retrieve Ian via helicopter. Meet him at the 33rd Street heliport in an hour." Irons hung up.
"Sonofabitch!" Sara fumed. "He's trying to dictate where we're gonna meet. Well, I've got news for him!" She pressed redial, but the phone just rang and rang. "Shit! Goddamn him!" she swore.
"Where does he want us to meet him?" Ian asked, taking his phone from her.
"Like the spineless coward he is, he's not gonna risk showing his face while those Russians are still out for his blood. He's sending a Dr. Immo in a helicopter to pick you up. We're supposed to meet him at the 33rd Street heliport in an hour," she told him. She glanced at the assassin's haggard face. "I don't trust him, Nottingham. I'm gonna take you someplace safe, and then I'll go meet this Dr. Immo and get the antidote from him."
"I want to go with you, Sara," Ian told her. "It could be a trap."
"Yeah, well, you're in no condition to do anything about it even if it is. No, you're gonna lay low, and I'll go check it out. I promise that I'll be extremely cautious."
"I do not like the fact that you are putting yourself in danger for me, my Lady. Mr. Irons would love nothing more than to take the Witchblade from you. Saving my life is not worth the risk you are taking."
"Would you stop with the 'I am unworthy' crap, Nottingham? You're my Protector. Who better for me to look out for?" Sara told him impatiently.
'Some Protector I am,' Ian thought morosely. 'She is being forced to come to my aid yet again. Will I never be strong and, and . . . Protector-like in her eyes?'
Sara suddenly realized that it would take well over an hour for them to reach her intended destination and then for her to get to the heliport. Also, Nottingham needed medical attention for his ribs and bullet wound, but she couldn't risk taking him to a hospital because they were required by law to report any gunshot wounds. Then she had an idea.
"Slight change in plans, Nottingham," she murmured, taking a right turn and heading uptown. She fished out her cell phone, putting on the headset that she found between the two front seats, next to the thermos of peppermint tea, and plugging it into the phone before dialing the number.
"Hello?"
"Vicky, it's me, Sara."
"Hey, girlfriend! What's shaking? Ready for the blizzard?"
"I guess you haven't been watching the news," Sara murmured.
"What? Don't tell me they called off the blizzard? Darn! I was sorta looking forward to a couple of snow days."
"No, no, as far as I know we're still gonna get creamed by the storm. I was talking about the big brouhaha in Alphabet City. Turn on the TV and you'll see what I'm talking about. You're probably gonna hear that a female detective is missing at the scene. That would be yours truly."
"Funny, but you don't sound like you're missing," Vicky said. Sara heard the sound of a television in the background. "Wow, that's some fire! Ewww, looks like there's a bunch of fatalities, too. I sure hope they don't end up in our morgue. I hate autopsying crispy critters. Wait a sec, they're saying the warehouse fire is right across from the factory where the drug bust that Jake took part in went down earlier. You were there, too?"
"Yeah. Look, Vic, I need to ask you for another huge favor. I'm about ten minutes from your place. I'll explain everything when I get there, okay?"
"Sure. See you in a few minutes, Sara."
"Are you certain you can trust her?" Ian asked her when she hung up.
"Positive," Sara said without hesitation. "You need medical attention, and Vicky's a doctor. Plus, she won't alert the authorities about the GSW like a hospital emergency room would. While she's fixing you up, I'll head over to the heliport and get the antidote. She can administer it to you when I get back, then we'll head someplace safe where you can hole up for a few days."
"That is if you are not walking into a trap," Ian pointed out.
She shrugged. "'Trust in the Witchblade.' Isn't that what you're always telling me, Nottingham? Well, it's never steered me wrong before, so I'm gonna play it by ear, uh, bracelet. If something smells wrong, I won't go near that heliport."
"I am very glad to hear that you are beginning to work with the Witchblade, my Lady. You will become a far more formidable foe once you have fully accepted your destiny as a True Wielder."
"Yeah, well, I'm still not entirely convinced that it is my destiny, but I am beginning to realize that this thing has a mind of its own. The bloodlust nearly took over back there in that warehouse. And it scared me because I almost couldn't control it and because . . . it excited me," Sara admitted softly.
"Lust is a powerful thing," Nottingham said, and his feverish gaze met hers. "It has caused even the wisest and most civilized of men to commit atrocities and to wreak havoc on their fellow man."
"Why do I get the feeling you're not talking about bloodlust, Nottingham?" Sara muttered, feeling her face grow warm.
"'The expense of spirit in a waste of shame is lust in action; and till action, lust is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame, savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust; enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight; past reason hunted; and no sooner had, past reason hated, as a swallowed bait, on purpose laid to make the taker mad: mad in pursuit, and in possession so; had, having, and in quest to have, extreme; a bliss in proof, and proved a very woe; before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream. All this the world well knows; yet none knows well to shun the heaven that leads men to this hell,'" Nottingham quoted, biting back a groan as his groin suddenly tightened. 'Down boy!' he thought exasperatedly. 'I'm dying, and yet I still want her so badly, I ache!'
"Again with the gloomy Shakespeare? Don't you know any light, happy quotations?" Sara complained, frowning.
"'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, and summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, and often is his gold complexion dimm'd; and every fair from fair sometime declines, by chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd; but thy eternal summer shall not fade, nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, when in eternal lines to time thou grow'st: so long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, so long lives this, and gives life to thee,'" Ian replied.
"Better," she murmured, his low, husky voice making her quiver in response way down low. "I guess in between learning how to kill people a thousand different ways, you had time to study up on Shakespeare."
"Mr. Irons envisioned us as poet warriors. We were thoroughly schooled in all of the intellectual arts: literature, philosophy, art history."
"We?"
"The members of my former Special Forces unit, the Black Dragons. They were my master's brainchild. Vorschlag Industries underwrote the cost of the training and . . ."
"And?" she prompted when his words trailed off.
"We were subjected to experimental drug therapies, meant to enhance our intelligence, physical and psychological endurance, aggression, and, most important of all, obedience. Vorschlag supplied the psychotropic pharmaceuticals."
"I get the feeling the experiment wasn't a success."
Ian nodded, his drawn features taking on a look of profound sorrow. "Most of the Dragons became unstable. There were several violent outbursts and suicides. The project was scrapped, and the surviving members were given honorable discharges."
"Do you know what happened to them?"
He heaved a sigh filled with soul-deep weariness, and she saw that his flushed cheeks were wet. "I never saw any of them again. Before joining the Special Forces, I was never allowed to have any friends. But those men became like brothers to me. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was part of a family. There was nothing we would not do for each other. Then the drugs started to take hold, and their personalities began to change. Many of them started to exhibit signs of paranoid schizophrenia and other psychoses. After a while, they became like strangers." He shook his head, wiping the tears from his face. "After the Black Dragons were dismantled, I thought I had become incapable of forming friendships. Until recently, that is. A part of me that I was certain had been destroyed has come alive again. Thanks to you, my Lady."
'Oh, Kenny, you have an awful lot to answer for,' Sara thought angrily, regretting having made Nottingham dredge up what were obviously extremely painful memories for him.
"Here we are at Vicky's," she said, pulling into a parking space around the block from her friend's apartment. "I'll get the door for you." Sara hopped out and opened the passenger-side door for him, then went around to the back and opened the hatch, removing the first-aid kit.
"Is that you, Sara?" Vicky asked, moments after Sara pushed the button labeled 'V. Po' on the apartment building's intercom.
"Yeah, and I brought along a friend who needs your help."
"Come on up." A buzzer sounded, and Sara pushed open the door.
Nottingham leaned against the wall of the elevator, eyes closed, as they rode up to the 11th floor. When the doors opened, he straightened and followed her down the hallway, moving stiffly.
Vicky poked her head out her open door as they neared her apartment. "Hey, Sara."
"Hey, Vic. This is a friend of mine, Ian Nottingham. Nottingham, Vicky Po."
"Nice to meet you, Ian. Come on in," Vicky said, opening the door wide.
"Vicky, we need your medical expertise," Sara said the moment her friend closed the door behind them. "Nottingham tangled with some bad guys at that warehouse, and he's pretty banged up. He thinks he's got a couple of broken ribs and he's bleeding from a bullet wound to the thigh. I need you to fix him up while I run an errand. Think you can handle that?" she asked, eyeing the wineglass the other woman held.
"Apple juice," Vicky said, noticing the look. "I've been sober for nearly five months, thanks to you and that program you arranged for me to join without the job finding out. Let's take a look at those ribs, shall we, Ian? What's wrong with your arm?" she asked him.
"My shoulder was dislocated. Sara relocated the joint, but it is extremely sore," he told her, glancing around the cozy, neat apartment. Although Sara claimed the 11th Precinct's Medical Examiner could be trusted, he was reluctant to divulge the true extent of his injuries to her, so he neglected to mention his broken collarbone.
"Ouch! I'm afraid it's gonna hurt like the dickens to take off your coat and shirt so that I can tend to your ribs. Do you have any heavy-duty painkillers? I don't have anything stronger than aspirin and Tylenol in the house."
Sara set the first-aid kit on the kitchen countertop. "Everything you'll need is in here, Vic. I've got to get going. I'll be back in a little while."
"Sara, please be careful," Ian said, barely restraining himself from pleading with her not to go.
"I will. I'll be back before you know it. Thanks a ton for this, Vicky. I owe you."
"Sure. But you'd better call the job and let them know you're okay, Sara. They think you're still in that burning warehouse. There's firefighters risking their lives trying to find you and anyone else in there," Vicky said, glancing toward the small TV on the counter, which was on but had the sound muted. It showed a massive conflagration that was barely recognizable as the warehouse that Sara had been inside less than an hour ago.
"I'll do that on the way," she promised. "See you in about 20 minutes."
Once she was back in the SUV, Sara put the headset back on, and checked her voicemail. There were several increasingly frantic messages from Danny, Gabriel, and Jake, as well as a single irate one from Bruno Dante. She called Jake McCartey first.
"Hello?"
"Jake, it's me, Sara."
"Pez? Oh, thank God you're all right! Why the hell did you run off like that? Captain Phillips wouldn't let anybody go after you until backup arrived, and then we couldn't find any sign of you. We thought you were trapped inside the building! Are you hurt?" he said in a rush.
"Aside from a lump on my head, I'm fine. I, um, managed to find a way into the warehouse through the basement. It was pitch black down there, but I didn't want to risk turning on my flashlight and alerting somebody to my presence. Well, I must have tripped over something and hit my head, 'cause next thing I know, I woke up on the ground with a wicked headache, smelling smoke. I got out the same way I got in and tried to head back to the task force's position, but the way was blocked by the fire. I guess I wasn't thinking too clearly, because I ended up jumping in a cab and heading to Vicky's. She says I might have a mild concussion," Sara told him, hoping he would buy this rather implausible story.
"Well, I'll let Phillips and Dante know that you're okay. It's a good thing you had Vic check you out, but you should go to a hospital and let them look you over. Where are you now?"
"I'm heading home," she lied. "I'm exhausted. I'm sorry I worried you guys," she told him. "Vicky promised to call me every half an hour for the next few hours to make sure I didn't fall into a coma."
"Yeah, well, I gotta go tell them to call off the search for you. I don't know if you saw the news, but the warehouse is almost completely ablaze. The FBI thinks the shooters are Russian commandos. They managed to capture about a dozen of them, but they're not talking. Crazy, hunh? We still have no idea who or what they were shooting at, but they had some pretty major firepower with them. I'll talk to you tomorrow okay? I'm really glad you're okay, Pez."
"Yeah. Just don't expect me to answer the phone until tomorrow night at the earliest. I'll be dead to the world until then."
"Okay, but I can't promise you that the job won't try to reach you before then to hear your version of events. In fact, you'd better count on it. So far, they've managed to pull about half a dozen bodies out of the warehouse, Pez, and we were afraid one of them was yours. Most of them were burned beyond recognition."
"Well, all's well that ends well, I guess. Except for the crispy guys, that is. Speak to you later, Jake." Sara hung up and then dialed Danny's home number.
"Woo residence," her partner answered.
"Danny, it's me," Sara said.
"Shit, Pez! Are you okay? You really had me worried. I turn on the news and I hear that a female detective is missing at the scene of a firefight between unknown forces. When they said the action was taking place right across the street from where a drug bust had just gone down, I knew they were talking about you. What the hell happened? Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine," she assured him, and proceeded to tell him about Nottingham's battle with the Russians, glossing over her own part in it.
"Wow! Rooskies, hunh? Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yeah. It's Nottingham who's pretty banged up, but he should be fine. Vicky's patching him up as we speak. I told Jake a really tall tale about getting knocked unconscious, waking up dazed and confused, and hopping a cab to Vicky's house, where she diagnosed me with a mild concussion. Much to my surprise, he actually seemed to swallow it," Sara told him.
"Well, it is Jake we're talking about here. But just how are you gonna explain the fact that you fired your service weapon when you came to Nottingham's rescue -- which I know you did, so don't bother denying it, Pez. The coroner is bound to find police-issue bullets in those bodies when they're autopsied."
"I, uh, when I disarmed the sentry, I took his rifle and used it to take out the other soldiers. I never used my gun," she told him.
"Thank God. I'm really glad you're okay, Pez. Are you still planning on staying at your brother's house for the next couple of days?"
"Probably. Nottingham doesn't think it's safe to go to my place. He says Irons probably gave the Russians my address, that asshole."
"What is with that guy? Why would he sic those Russians on his own head of security?"
"You're asking me? Nottingham thinks it was some kind of test. Apparently, Irons likes his employees to prove that they're worthy of service in his employ from time to time."
"Freakin' rich people! If that's what having more money than God does to you, I'm glad I'm working poor. Call me when you decide where you're gonna be staying, partner. And try to stay out of trouble!"
"I'll try. Speak to you tomorrow, Danny."
Next, she called Gabriel. "Talismaniac. Talismans, totems, and neat stuff you can't find anywhere else."
"Hey, Gabriel, it's me."
"Sara! Are you okay? It's all over the news how you're missing and presumed burned to a crisp. Whoa, wait a sec. Now, they're saying you were found alive and safe." There was a pause as he apparently listened to the news bulletin. "Yeah, they're spinning it that you simply got lost in all of the confusion. Care to tell me what really happened?"
Sara told him exactly how events had transpired and about Nottingham being injured. By now, she had reached the vicinity of the heliport, and was driving around looking for a parking spot. Dr. Immo's helicopter was due to arrive in less than ten minutes.
"Poor Nottingham. Do you really think Irons is gonna come through? I can't say I'd trust anything he says at this point," Gabriel astutely observed.
"That's why I'm getting that antidote from this doctor guy by whatever means necessary and bringing it to Nottingham myself. Vicky can administer it."
"Good thinking. Let me know how - Uh-oh!" he interrupted himself, and there was a pause again as he listened to something on the television. "Bad news, Chief. A breaking news report just came on. It seems Irons' estate is under attack. Witnesses report that a helicopter that was either trying to land or take off from there was blown out of the sky. They're saying a missile took it out. I don't think the doc is going anywhere tonight or maybe ever again."
More to come! Thanks to you all for your encouraging feedback. My muse is very pleased, as you can tell. Keep it coming!