PART ONE: The Shadow Before
Chapter Six: The Shadow Before
We hit the road and soon the lights of New York, flickering into life in the dull purple sky, were flashing past us in a steady stream. A gentle, cooling breeze rustled through my hair. I peered through the broken holes in the windshield.
"We have to ditch the car," I told Mona. "It's riddled with bullets. Quickest way to get pulled over, and we won't be leaving the city through a cell."
Mona nodded. She was resting her head on her arm now, against the passenger window. Her eyes looked dark and heavy. In the brilliant fluorescent lights she looked horribly pale and old. A chill slithered down my spine.
"Mona," I said. "Mona, are you okay?"
"I'm fine," she grunted. "Please… please, let's just get out of here."
I didn't like it. These days when people got pale and ill, it was less of a case of worry and more a case of counting down the hours. Especially when they looked as pale as Mona. Those shadows under her eyes were the shadow before. God knows I'd seen enough of it over the past few weeks.
I slammed hard on the brakes and swerved up on to the sidewalk.
She peered up at me, and her eyes looked as helpless as those of a doomed doe. I sighed and turned on her.
"Either you tell me what the hell is going on here, or I'm going to have to ask you to get out," I snapped. "You know about those cops. You knew we had to leave. Why won't you speak to me?"
She began to rub her temples. "Call the precinct," she groaned. Her voice sounded like broken glass and crackled like smoke. "There's your damn answer."
"The precinct?" I asked. "My precinct?"
She said nothing. I sighed and climbed out of the car.
We had pulled up outside a small dark park, an oasis of night in the never-ending glitter and brilliant fluorescents of the city. All except for a small pool of white light at one end, pooling on an old graffiti-stained basketball court in which a few teenagers shot some hoops and occasionally smoked in the shadow of an old oak. The roar of traffic seemed distant. Somewhere out in the night a dog balked.
I walked a short way down the sidewalk and into the light of a public telephone. As I grabbed the phone, I took a quick glance back at Mona. Her arms were folded tightly and she glared determinedly at me.
Swallowing my pride, I slammed a few dimes into the phone and dialled Jim Bravura's office. Four long rings dragged out. I tapped my foot on the buckling asphalt. Five rings. Six rings.
On the seventh someone picked up and an unfamiliar voice said, "Hello?"
I swallowed hard. "Who is this?" I croaked.
"This is Agent Troy Novak, FBI," the voice replied. "And who the devil is this?"
I had gone numb. "This is Detective Max Payne. Where's Bravura?"
Agent Novak sighed. I fought the urge to scream at him to hurry. "I take it you haven't seen the news this evening, Detective?" he said grimly. "Bravura's dead. Along with fourteen other officers. Shooting. We reckon it had something to do with gang warfare…" There was a short pause, and in the background I could hear distant whispers, concerned talk, urges for someone to trace the call. "… I'm sorry, Mr Payne. I understand these people were your colleagues."
I let out a long sigh. His words had faded out. Around me reality seemed to collapse, the walls weakened. The night seemed to drag out forever. I felt nauseous and disorientated. Bravura, dead? He'd kept me sane over the past few years, filled the void left by the death of my old partner. Kept me off the bottle. Suddenly I'd never needed a whisky more than now. I didn't dare look at Mona.
"Listen, Detective…" Novak said.
"What leads do you have?" I snapped. "Who's your suspects?"
Novak sighed. "If you'd just like to give us your position, Mr Payne, I can send some agents out to pick you up for questioning…"
I hung up. No way was I about to give our position away. Not now.
As I stepped away from the phone the world began to swirl around me. I could feel the sting of vomit at the back of my throat. The bullet wound in my chest throbbed violently. I choked back a handful of painkillers and walked, as if in a daze, to a newspaper vending machine across the street.
The headlines screamed out at me. FIFTEEN OFFICERS SLAIN. NEW YORK IN CRISIS TONIGHT AS NYPD COPS ARE GUNNED DOWN. MAYOR DECLARES OUR CITY 'A DISASTER ZONE' AS CRIME CRISIS WORSENS. The words were as potent as bullets. I swayed and walked back to the car, almost unaware of my own actions. As I sat back in my seat, the last thing I needed was Mona's knowing stare. And god, she looked so ill….
"You knew," I snarled. "How did you know?"
"You're next, Max," she said, almost nonchalantly. "Those bullets were meant for you. You got too close, Max."
"To what?" But even as the words left my mouth, I could guess her response. And dreaded it just as much. Surely not.
Instead of answering me she handed me a single sheet of A4 paper, with a few typed letters at the top, neatly formatted. An address. Not an instantly familiar address, but I knew the area. There seemed nothing special about it. Nothing to suggest what the darkest corners of my mind were hinting at.
BLOCKS 12 – 16
EAST COAST WAREHOUSE COMPLEX
EVERGREEN AVENUE
MANHATTAN
A warehouse in an industrial district.
"What does this mean?" I asked, folding it up and pocketing it.
"You want to know, go there yourself," Mona replied. "But if I were you, I'd put it out of your mind and get ready to leave."
The car was lit up by the blinding flash of headlights on the road ahead, and the screech of tyres. As the engine died, I felt a flash of panic at the occupants as they exited the ancient car.
"It's them," Mona gasped.
"Come on!" I cried, swinging open the door and grabbing Mona by the arm. We ducked down behind the car, trying to keep to the shade. Doors slammed. Men mumbled, angrily.
I glanced over the surroundings.
"Come on," I whispered, clutching Mona's cold wrist. "We'll cut across the park. To the old theatre."
We swept past a bush and into the shadows…
To be continued…