PART ONE: THE SHADOW BEFORE
Chapter Four: Fight Fire With Fire
I rolled on to my back. Come on, old man. Just one chance to get out of this alive. You fight fire with fire, or you die. No way out. No compromises.
I yanked out my Beretta and slammed the trigger hard, aiming for the three hoodlums wandering into view. I didn't dare take my eyes off the targets. I didn't dare check the ammo. I just focussed and prayed.
The first goon took a shot to the head and fell to the floor wildly, pumping Kalashnikov bullets wildly into the air. Another, wiser thug slammed himself up against the wall, ducking out of the wall of fire as his comrade fell. The final thug pushed himself up against the opposite wall and took a shot at me with a Beretta. The bullet caught me hard in the chest, throwing me back against the step. I winced and cried out.
Ignore it. Just a flesh wound. Smoke rose up from the torn hole in my jacket. I returned fire. Three shots, all went wide. The goon took aim, and this time he wouldn't miss. He fell out of his cover, and made the mistake that would end his life. He fell into my sights.
I shot him, wincing at the pain as the recoil reverberated in my seared chest. The bullet caught him directly between the eyes and he slumped to the floor, his brains splattering against the wallpaper behind him.
One more left, and you can get out of here. Just take aim. Finish it.
He slid from behind the wall, his Kalashnikov held high. His vacant, cold eyes caught somewhere between shock, horror and dogged determination to end this. And a subtle hint of victory.
I pulled the trigger. A hollow clack.
It was over.
The goon wasn't taking any chances. He raised the Kalashnikov and took aim. I fumbled helplessly for extra ammunition in my inner pocket. None. No hope. Used up all my ammo, and used up all my hope.
A shot rang out. But not for me.
The goon slumped forward, clutching at his chest. Mona calmly stepped over his corpse, a smoking Desert Eagle held above her head. She tossed a magazine up at me. I caught it in mid-air, climbing to my feet. My chest screamed in agony as the torn muscles stretched. I winced and clutched at the wound.
"Head out through the window of the apartment behind you," she said calmly. "I'll meet you by your car."
"Mona, wait," I cried, steadying myself against the wall.
Footsteps. Coming from the corridor below.
"I've gotta run," Mona cried. She darted away down the corridor.
I turned away and staggered for the apartment door. Blood was trickling down my chest, beneath my shirt, down to my waist now. I needed something to keep me going. Anything.
I grabbed the apartment door. Locked.
No other choice. Ignore the pain. Lock it away. Put it in a small corner of your mind. Focus. I slammed my weight against the door. Fire burst up in my chest, hot and raw. The door creaked and budged slightly, but withstood the blow. Come on, damnit. You've been here before. This is amateur stuff for an NY cop.
Footsteps. On the stairs.
I took a step back and jumped, throwing as much as my weight at the door as I could. It gave.
I fell to the floor, grabbing for a small table the occupant had left nearby. It collapsed with me, throwing a vase to the ground. Hunks of brass and chips of wood fell to the dirty carpet.
I spun around and pushed the door shut, propping it closed with the small table. That would buy me a few more precious seconds.
And suddenly, left alone in the cold, dark corridor, I felt old urges rising up. I had to hold back the pain. I needed something to keep me in my feet. Just get me to the car. That's all I ask.
I stumbled into the bathroom, to a small medicinal cabinet. This bathroom had been empty for days. The air hung as thick as the air in a tomb. Everywhere, the smell of death. Not of fiery death under the bullet, not the cordite smell that accompanied me everywhere like a nightmare. It was the smell of sickness and of slow, painful death. Of weakness and frailty. Someone had died in this place, and it hadn't been quick and quiet.
I threw open the door of the cabinet. Hair products, toothpaste, digestive pills. I tossed them angrily to the floor. There. Shining like a gem. A small plastic vial labelled 'CLARITYN.' I unscrewed the lid and swallowed the pills greedily. The pain began to fade, replaced by a calming haze.
Outside, the goons were throwing themselves against the door. No time. Got to move. My senses were sharpened to a razor. Concentrate. Got to get out of here. I pocketed another load of painkillers and ran out into the den.
It really stunk in here. The blinds were drawn. Plates had been left on the coffee table, the streaks of long eaten meals gathering mould. But over it all was a cloying, sickly-sweet stench of forgotten death, rising from a half-open door. I didn't dare think of what lay within. Miasma had crept into this place and left behind it's calling card.
I stepped up to the window and hitched up the blinds. Past the dirty windows lay the fire escape, and my way out of this place.
I unlocked the French windows, just as the door burst open.
To be continued…