CHAPTER FOUR
Angel's breath was purloined from her by means of a wheeze, as the chilly barrel pushed her flaxen hair away to reach her scalp, and as gnawed fingernails dug themselves roughly into her forearms. Her knees buckled from under her, yet the firm grasp held her erect.
She felt a nose touch the tip of her ear, and hot breath fill her ear canal. "Angel, it's me."
The sandy voice was recognized at once as none other than Flynn Finesse's and she released a low sob, bending her knees as much as his firm grip on her would allow. Her head sank forward, the barrel no longer pressed against it. "Oh, Flynn, it's you. It's you."
He raised her to her feet with a sharp jolt, turning her towards him sharply. His eyes caught the moonlight, glittering vehemently. He still had not lowered the weapon.
Angel tilted her engorged eyes to the black hole that was the barrel in front of her. She felt the same sense of grim irony. Is this how the late Flick of Brooklyn had felt just a few moments prior? Her eyes locked to Flynn's. "Flynn, put that thing down will you?" she asked in a low quivering voice, almost on the edge of hysterical laughter out of sheer wreckage of nerves. He still did not lower the revolver. "Flynn, I don't know what happened! I don't know what came over me…don't know why I couldn't do it! Oh, God, Flynn please!"
She released a low sound of relief as he lowered the weapon. Yet, it was a jagged and painful exhalation as his eyes shone with repulsion. He cocked a brow as his strong hands emancipated her and tucked his revolver within the bands of his trousers. "Have you taken to bartering for your life like your victims, Angel?" he asked, his voice affecting her like a dagger to the heart.
She stepped back, regarding him, astonished, as he fell to his haunches and rolled the corpse of the fallen Charley Cicatrice on its stomach. He studied with satisfaction the gun-wound that was in the middle of the forehead; his spectacular aim was something he prided himself greatly in. His gaze flickered upward, and he did a double take on the miserable wretch that was garbed in Angel Haddox's skin. She stared at him, her skin as pale as the waxing moon above, save for the drops of splattered blood courtesy of the corpses that sullied it here and there. She was slacked-jawed and wide-eyed, the deep charcoal that the whore had lined her eyes with smeared due to damned tears. And in the process of retrieving her murderous weapon, her skirt had entangled itself in the garter, showing the sheathed blade she also carried. He snorted and rose again, releasing Cicatrice's cold, lifeless arm from his clutch.
"If you weren't going to shoot them, Angel, were you going to dismember them with your blade there afterwards?" Flynn motioned to the blade, feeling a twinge in his heart as she winced at his caustic words. Yet, he could not keep the bitterness out of his statements. When they did not slay together it was always she that committed the murders, fearless and high with the lust at the grisly acts she committed. It almost broke his heart in two to see her like this, a great mess, unable to recognize who she was or why she had reacted as she had.
"Goddamn you, Flynn," she whispered breathlessly, stepping back from him.
Flynn closed his eyes tightly and ran his hands through his hair in an act that knocked his cap to the ground. When he opened them, he found her staring unbelievingly at the cadaver of the redhead, resembling some fragile thing that was want to crack and shatter into a million shards at a moment's notice.
Her eyes shifted to his. "What are we going to do now?" she inquired in a low voice.
He sighed deeply, casting a gaze in the direction of the lodging house over his shoulder. The silhouettes he had seen must have been a false alarm. But there was no way in hell he was about to take his good old time arranging a proper burial complete with priest and blessing for the two he had slain. He returned his eyes to Angel. "I'm going to dump these two into the river and you're going to go back to the lodging house-"
Her cupid-bowed lips fell open. "Go back to the lodging house?" she cried incredulously.
His glare in her direction incremented as he controlled his rising temper. "Yes, since you haven't blown either of their brains out you are sinless and innocent and in turn can return to the party of your brother's nemesis." His sharp words had made their purpose known to her. "Go there and stay until I come back. Hopefully it won't be too long."
Angel cast a glance at the fallen once more, a shutter on the heels on nausea ripping through her. She turned, avoiding Flynn's burning stare, as she made her way once again to the Brooklyn lodging house, strolling as though in a dream. Flynn's acid voice halted her. "Do clean yourself up before you go in there. What's Conlon going to think when you show up with blood staining you? He'll kill you without second thought."
She turned slowly to find that Flynn had begun his habitual duties of preparing to feed the bodies to the hungry river. She then looked away, fighting wildly to suppress a sob, as she approached the lodging house. The hard and impenetrable façade of Oliver's hate that she had for so long relied on was beginning to crumble and crack, the tears slipping from the creases of her eyes and down her cheeks. Her clenched fingers rubbed relentlessly at her eyes, trying to rid of the infernal tears. The action only caused her vision to be blurred.
"What the hell just happened?" she whispered to herself as she raised her skirt, blindly cleansing the blood off her face as Flynn had instructed her to. Was she at this moment actually Angel Haddox? No, Angel Haddox would be down at the docks with Flynn, tossing the bodies into the lapping river and celebrating in the shadows afterwards while sharing a cheap bottle of gin with her accomplice. This was not Angel Haddox, an unrecognizable sobbing wreck taking commands from Flynn Finesse and actually swallowing them.
As the lodging house became closer, the drunken shouts became more audible and the glowing lights radiating from within brighter. She ran her hands through her pale hair, pressing her palms against her skull in disgust and trying to discern an answer to her insolent behavior. Alas, she could find none.
Angel felt light-headedness overcome her as she slowly climbed the steps to the porch, forgetting that just shy of an hour before hand the redhead had grasped her ankle there. Those that had been merrily participating in poker games or sex had now became too intoxicated by the flowing alcohol that they were either stone-cold unconscious or prattling and giggling gleefully.
She made her way past them and through the threshold, her breath shallow and erratic as she desperately brushed away the tears. Once inside the parlor, she halted and gazed about her. A lunatic notion crossed her mind a proposed a wild laugh from her lips. So, this was Brooklyn. Spot Conlon's world. Where the fearless leader and his terror-inducing newsies called home. Yet, how pathetic they all looked now. The table where the poker game had been taking place, the supposed reason for the throwing of this alcohol-drenched party, lay desolate and barren and strewn with cards. The makeshift band had long since broken up and, to Angel's slight amusement, the newsie who had been playing the clickers was passed out along with numerous others unconscious along the now-empty barrels that once contained the booze. How vulnerable the mighty
could be. It paralleled her current situation all too close for comfort.
She elicited a low sigh while gazing at the barrels. The sudden remembrance of her blade prompted her to fathom of slitting her own neck or other such limb to save her from the overwhelming sickness she felt at Oliver's discovery of what had happened to his most ruthless assassin.
Angel struggled brutally as not to disgorge the measly meal she had consumed at the Hideaway, and contented herself with the idea of getting beautifully drunk. That way, she would not have to face her brother or that little bastard Night tonight. That dark thought could wait until the next morning, when she would tango with her brother's fiery temper and pistol with a stunning hangover.
A grim smile danced on the corners of her lips at this notion, as she crossed the parlor and over to the barrels. She crouched down and tried one of the knobs, yet found that none of the sweet ambrosia ran from it. She cursed bitterly under her breath and looked around, finding most of the cups of the unconscious empty. Yet, a few feet away near the torso of a newsie deep in intoxicated slumber on his side, a glitter-shot bottle reflected the moonlight. Her eyes widened in delight as she fell to her hands and knees and crawled over the bodies, leaning over the newsie and grabbing the bottle. She pressed the tip to her lips and cocked her head back, allowing the liquor to flow down her dry throat and stream down her chin and onto her exposed flesh, though not nearly enough to quell her thirst. She brought the bottle down and released a belch, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
Though, the opening was soon to her lips once more.
Angel then rose to her feet, the bottle firmly in her clutches, and stole across the parlor, sifting through those of the conscious that still remained. It was the shadowed set of stairs across from the entrance to the lodging house that caught her attention. It was then that an incurable fit of curiosity overwhelmed her, and she was soon slowly making her way towards them, squinting her eyes in the darkness to discern what lie above. Perhaps it was the sheer amazement of being a native of Midtown and Oliver Haddox's sister at a party being thrown by Spot Conlon himself, and the actuality of being in Brooklyn headquarters, that she carefully ascended the stairs. The antediluvian boards creaked under her weight as though they were being diabolically murdered, and Angel eased her weight as she climbed, a rush of lusty excitement surging through her, akin to the lusty excitement that she experienced numerous times before taking the life of the ones her brother condemned.
She reached the second floor of the lodging house and stepped off of the stairs, now finding herself in a darkened hallway. Glancing down the directions of that of her left and right, the hallway was darkened, with only a dim light at the end to her left. Cautiously turning over her shoulder and down the hallway, she espied not a soul, and turned towards the queer light, her steps light against the floorboards.
Before reaching the termination of the hallway, she had passed a series of doors, some open and some shut, yet saw no one. The light radiated out of a small room at the end of the hall to the left. Angel pressed her back against the wall and cocked her head inside. Seeing the room deserted, she crept inside.
The quarters were quite small, not more than twelve paces in each direction. An ancient bunk bed was shoved into the right corner of the wall facing away from her. The upper bunk appeared to have been hastily made by the inhabitant, yet the measly bedding of the lower bunk was strewn about, the moth-worn sheets touching the dusty floor. A warped vanity containing a cracked mirror and too-large drawers was adjacent to the bunks and a grime- coated trunk sat at the foot of them. Across from the vanity and companion to the beds was a bowed desk that sat tilted on four legs, a small kerosene lamp positioned upon it illuminating the room. To complete the furniture, a rickety chair was pushed out from the desk.
Her eyes scanned the unusual grouping of possessions as she strolled listlessly around the room. It was when the fingers of her left hand were sliding across the back of the dust-laced chair as her others held the alcohol bottle to her lips, that she heard the voices.
"Yeah, and what the hell is that supposed to mean, Whitie?"
"Nothing, Boss, it's that do you really want to start something up if you don't know for certain if it was them?"
"You speak insolence, Wilson. I know it was the work of those dirty bastards. I know it was Haddox. You don't have to be a genius to figure that one out."
Angel felt her blood run cold within her veins. The voices were that of males, one of passion and the other of reason, and accompanied by heavy footsteps resonating from the hallway. She did not know what notion terrified her more: being caught by Brooklyn or the utterance of her brother's name.
Her pulse raced, as did her breathing, as she turned this way and that, her eyes darting about the room, trying to find a place to conceal herself. She hastily decided upon the trunk, and threw herself behind it, the splinters of the floorboards digging into her palms and causing her to clench a growl of pain. She contorted herself against the side of the trunk, her back ridged against one of the posts of the bunk bed.
Just as she had settled in her position, the thundering footsteps entered the room, stopping near the vanity.
"Just listen to me," the reasonable voice pleaded from the doorway. "We've been on a truce. Do you really want to get things started up again?"
Angel flinched as the male in the room brutally kicked the vanity, causing some of the cracked mirror shards to fall from where they had been set.
"You can't honestly look me in the face and tell me the shit he has been pulling is part of a truce. He sends assassins after my boys for Christ's sake! I've never done that unless provoked. So look me straight in the eye, Whitie Wilson, and tell me that Midtown and Brooklyn are on a truce."
The impassioned voice left the atmosphere heavy, and the second voice did not reply for some time. In this epoch of silence, Angel moved her backbone away from the bunk post to alleviate the jarring pain it resulted in, causing the dust around her to unsettle itself.
The voice in the doorway finally drew in a deep sigh. "No, but-"
As she was holding her breath, willing herself not to sneeze and give her concealment away, the door slammed suddenly shut with an audible bang, causing her to jump as a bolt of fright crossed over her. As her heart raced, she heard the scraping the chair's legs against the ground as the one with the passionate voice occupied it. Though, as she released her breath, she had tragically forgotten about the dust particles, and she soon found herself uttering the noises of an oncoming sneeze. Though try as she might to prevent it, she knew she could not contain it, and her mind issued forth blue curses to her as her audible sternutation ruptured the air.
Angel's eyes instinctively closed shut and her teeth clamped together as she awaited her inevitable discovery. The legs of the chair released a horrid noise once more, as they were scraped against the ground. She was waiting for some type of shout or exclamation, and was not prepared for the loud crash as the trunk was kicked away. Even before she could open her eyes and release a scream, the wind was knocked out of her as she was thrown against the wall, her body sprawled on the floor, and as a firm pressure was applied to her trachea.
She began to wheeze and gasp pathetically as her intake of air was murdered. The heavy pressure on her throat only became more dramatic.
"Who the hell are you and what the hell are you doing in my room?" the voice hissed, any trace of mercy or compassion absent.
Another choke escaped her lips as light-headedness began to consume her due to the lack of air supply to the brain. The base of her head now touching the meeting place of the wall and the floor, Angel wrenched open her eyes and what she viewed before caused her blood to curdle with the utmost fear.
The owner of the feverish voice had the sole of his right shoe pressed on her neck, pushing her chin up in a ridiculously painful position. Past the sullied tip of his black footwear was the unmistakable Y of a wooden slingshot, the elastic past pulled back to reveal a glimmering ebony marble positioned in between the eyes of the wielder. They glittered, cold and hard, as though alive with a blue fire. And as Angel studied his visage, it only took a matter of a moment to deem whom the possessor of those eyes was. The fair countenance that was twisted in rage, the strands of dirty blond hair that fell in front of the blue orbs, the lips twisted into a sneer. It had been a few years since she had actually laid eyes upon him, yet she could never forget his namesake.
Spot Conlon. The fearless leader of Brooklyn. The one her brother had taught his hatred of to her. And now here he stood, bent at the waist, a murderous gleam in his eyes and arms taut with a weapon that was meant to shatter her skull.
He reprised his query once more, yet Angel was strangled with fear so utterly intense that no sounds could will themselves from her lips. She could only ponder if those eyes would be the last sight she saw before the fires of hell consumed her soul.
In spite of her silence, he raised the tip of his shoe slightly, giving her leeway for speech. Angel took this gift by raising her head from the ground and issuing a string of coughs.
"I'm only going to ask you this one last time. Who in the hell are you?" he growled, pulling further back upon the slingshot.
Her steel-shaded eyes waxed as she shook her head as best possible. She was trying to form the words that jumbled themselves like a train wreck in her brain, not knowing what to parley to him. Pondering if he knew who she truly was. As the coughing fit subsided, words of Flynn entered her mind:
Just stick to what I told you, Haddox, and you'll be fine. If you get asked who you are, lie through your teeth and make up some bullshit story. Say nothing about Midtown and nothing about me. And no matter what you do, stay away from Spot Conlon. Even though you may fool his boys, you won't be able to fool him.
So, she lied through her teeth and made up a bullshit story. "I-I'm new to town. My cousin Flick invited me. Thought I could meet some new people. I had gone outside for a moment and when I came back, he was gone. I was looking for him."
"You were looking for him behind my trunk?" he inquired, pulling back further on his weapon.
Angel released a sharp noise as his heel dug further into the flesh of her throat. "I had a couple of drinks. Do you really expect me to be thinking straight?"
He regarded her suspiciously for a moment, one eyebrow cocked, as she held her breath and silently prayed that he would buy her concocted tale. His features relaxed, and he reluctantly straightened, allowing the slingshot to fall lax to his side in his grasp. Though his eyes still burned and he did not alleviate his heel from her throat.
"What's your name?" he brusquely implored, raising her chin with the tip of his shoe.
Angel's gaze could now only stare skyward and she found it excruciating to swallow. "Are you this way with all girls?" she asked, her voice coming out broken from the sole upon her trachea.
His mouth twisted into a grim sneer. "You must have caught me on a bad day. And I'm careful these days. Don't know who the hell's working for who."
Don't know who the hell's working for who. His words resounded in her head. If only he knew who he had under his shoe, she thought ironically.
"Well, I can assure you that I am not working for anyone. And if you'll remove your damn foot from me I can continue to search for Flick."
His scowl deepened. "I thought you said you were drunk."
"What does it matter to you?" she hissed in an indignant voice, expertly disguising the fear and anticipation that coursed through her. It did not take much time to dispose of corpses by means of the river. Flynn would be waiting for her in the parlor, even more infuriated with her than he had been prior to her current situation. Or perhaps in his rage he had already sojourned once more to Midtown, only to fatally whisper in Oliver's ear of her traitorous ways. The notion made her violently ill. She now resorted to pleading. "Please, let me go, I have to find my cousin."
His crystalline eyes searched her once more before darkening. He sharply removed his heel from the flesh of her neck, and Angel quickly drew herself into a sitting position, her back against the wall. She bent over, her forehead touching the grimy floorboards and her hair falling around her as she huskily drew in the precious air that she had been deprived of. Only when the life force had been replenished, that she raised her head to find Conlon had moved over to the warped vanity. A spread palm resting upon its surface, his head hung and he released a deep exhalation as he absentmindedly ran a hand through his hair. His eyes were closed and he wore a troubled expression.
It only then donned upon Angel Haddox that she was in the quarters of the lord of the Brooklyn newsies, he himself standing before her. It took her breath away that she had not acquired a bullet in her head yet. The conversation that had occurred while she had hidden behind the trunk replayed itself in her mind as her steel eyes regarded him unblinkingly. The other that Conlon had been speaking heatedly with had inquired if he had really wanted to get things started up again.
Get things started up again-Angel had not an ounce of reasoning of what that meant. She had attained the knowledge that Conlon certainly assumed that the truce between them was now and void on Oliver's side. Yet, what work that he had been referring to, she could only but guess. Ever since the battle between the two districts to rival the Armageddon that had occurred some two years ago, both sides had begrudgingly called a truce after scores on their sides had perished and both leaders sent to the House of Refuge. Brooklyn had held up their side of the bargain, yet from the time that Oliver had been released from the juvenile imprisonment, under his command she and Flynn had been stealing to Brooklyn in the night hours and slaying Spot Conlon's newsies.
Angel slowly rose to her feet, careful to pull her skirts down to that her sheathed blade did not make its appearance known to the Brooklyn leader. Brushing the dust that had settled upon the vermilion dress, she made her way across the room, her eyes never leaving him. She knew the only sensible and reasonable act would have been to steal out of the door and to Flynn where she would most likely receive a tongue-lashing as they returned to Midtown while the new day began. She knew she should be scared witless of him. Midtown's hatred of Brooklyn ran deep, and the rivalry could be terminated once and for all if Brooklyn were to fall-
The light caught her eye in the form of a sadistic gleam. He had now brought three of his fingers to the bridge of his nose, his brow furrowed and jaw clenched. She approached him, slowly, contemplating the ludicrous notion that reverberated in her brain. Dare she try and slay him for the glory of Midtown?
Her better judgment had been shattered long before, the alcohol and ambition was now in control of her mind. She had failed Flynn earlier and did not want to fail her brother. Would it not be delectable if he were to hear the news the next morn that Spot Conlon's throat had been slashed the previous night?
A feverish high coursed through Angel's veins, a thrill she experienced only while downing a bottle of booze with Flynn and their latest kill at their feet. She approached Conlon and stood only a whisper away from him, taking in gleefully that he was oblivious to her presence.
She lowered her mouth slowly to his ear, staying in that position for sometime as he continued to display the signs of what were a fantastic ache in his head. "Does it hurt?" she inquired in a soft voice, her hot breath filling his ear canal.
Conlon jumped at this, his eyes opening wide and his side slamming into the vanity, causing it to clatter. "What in the hell are you still doing here?"
She watched him, taking her time in replying. "A thought had crossed my mind." She pressed her body against him, pushing his lower back against the edge of the vanity. "You don't look like you're having any fun at your own party."
His countenance darkened considerably as he broke out of her grip with a flourish of disgust. He strode across the room to the desk, inclining and placing his palms on the warped desk. He observed the dancing flame of the kerosene lamp, the crevices of his visage highlighted by the blaze, as he wrathfully responded. "How can I explain to you? Why would I explain? You said you were from out of town and it wouldn't concern you."
Angel joined him, her steps deliberate and dark gray eyes waxed hungrily. She sat on the edge of the desk, pushing herself so she sat in the center of it, mere inches away from his face. A smile danced upon her lips like the light. "Oh, I may be from out of town, but I've heard of you." She moved her face closer to his, and he abruptly raised his head, their noses nearly touching as the crackling fire reflected on their features. "And these are not your normal traits."
Conlon's eyes narrowed as he cocked his head. "And I suppose your cousin told you this?"
She shrugged slightly as she brought her legs around so that they now hung over the edge of the desk, between his taunt arms. The sheath of her blade pressed against her flesh. "Why did you ask who I was working for?"
He pushed off the desk with an exhalation of disgust, standing erect. "Get out of my room."
A smile crossed her lips as she straightened her legs, the soles of Dominiquette's heels pressing against his lower abdomen. As she thrust herself off of the desk and into a standing position, he lost his balance and fell back into the bowed chair. The chair released a howling shutter as it caught his weight. His eyes were on fire as he watched her, slouched in the seat and his legs partly a gap. Angel then lowered herself into the chair, her bent legs on either side of his. Her skirts spread out, covering the gray slacks he wore. "What is plaguing you?"
An expression of sorrow washed over his face as he shook his head, resting his brow in his hand, his elbow planted on an armrest. "I can't deal with this right now."
A smug smile adorned Angel's lips as she regarded the pathetic state of the fearless leader of Brooklyn. If only her brother could view how weak their keystone was, and how liable they were to crumble. He had the heel of his palm pulling his brow upwards and his fingers intertwined within his brassy hair as she simultaneously pushed his worn-crimson suspenders off of his shoulder. She then started for the uppermost buttons of his sullied white- collar shirt, her only experience being her own garments that she had fastened and unfastened on her own being.
Conlon's weight shifted in the chair, and it released another great cry, as his back sank lower. This act caused her now to be straddling his lower half, her black garters touching the material of his trousers.
After Angel had emancipated the last button, she pulled the shirt open to reveal his lithe chest. As she did so, a thought, much like a fleeting flash of lightening in a storm, entered her brain. It inquired what in the blue hell she was doing.
She halted in freeing his shirt from his trousers and observed him, a slight frown touching her face. His eyes were still clenched shut and his palm pressing with a passion against his brow as though to alleviate some massive aching, perhaps a pain to rival the shots that occurred between Angel's eyes intermittently. She realized then the incredulity of the situation: she, Oliver Haddox's sister, straddling Spot Conlon, the leader of Brooklyn, with the means of slicing his neck.
Angel sat back, releasing her grip upon his shirt, and suddenly felt genuinely ashamed of herself. Conlon looked liable to have a breakdown of some sort, most likely aggravated by Oliver Haddox and his assassins of the night. His words entered her brain:
He sends assassins after my boys for Christ's sake! I've never done that unless provoked.
Even though his name elicited bitter oaths of hate from those that followed her brother, at least he had the decency to uphold a truce with his wild rival. If the slaying that she, Flynn, and Nero had committed nearly shy of a month ago was still troubling him, what was he bound to think as he found the remains of a double homicide floating waterlogged in the river the next morning?
Angel cursed herself for thinking these damned thoughts. This night had been one that she wished would never have to have its name mentioned as long as she walked upon the earth. He was not going to have his life ended by her hand tonight. Allow it to end in battle with her brother.
She released a low sigh, prepared to dismount the chair, when Conlon suddenly lowered his hand from obstructing his face. She only saw his crystalline eyes open, clear and cool, before his lips were pressed against hers, hungry and ravaging. Her eyes opened to their entirety and she emitted a noise of complete and utter shock as she tried to pull away sharply. Yet, his hands had found her head, circling quickly, his fingers entwined in her tangles of flaxen hair, inhibiting her from doing do. The raw passion and want and desperation that surged through him was transferred to Angel, as she tasted the stale gin and dated nicotine that clung to his breath. These emotions terrified her to the innermost marrow, that one could experience emotions these unbridled and wild, and she could not but help that her brother had been the main benefactor of the energy that crackled from him to her.
He released a growl of pleasure as Angel allowed herself to succumb, releasing the emotions that had built up inside her, not giving a damn who was the recipient of her passion and hate, just that it could be released. Conlon raised a leg, placing it blindly upon the chair, raising her closer to him.
Angel closed her eyes harder, her legs now on either side of his bent one, as her arms found their way to his neck, into his dirty blond hair. She did not witness Spot Conlon in her feverish embrace, only a much-needed recipient of her strong emotions that had needed for so long to be emancipated. Her loathing at Nero Night, her failure of Flynn, her failure of herself, her mortal fear as what would occur to her trade was passed on to him, just as she received his intense, fiery hatred of her brother, of Midtown, and the ridiculous pressures that were placed upon him so quell this problem and halt the finding of bodies in the river at sun-up.
She released herself to the electricity, just as she felt him to the same. Alas, the audible noise of the door being thrown open with a bang deterred her and he broke apart. She turned her head to see that a newsie was standing in the doorway, doubled over, his palms on his upper thighs. His large eyes fell to Conlon as he quickly regained his composure, though the words were companioned with short breath. "Spot-outside-by the dock in the river-two guys-dead-Oh Christ dead!"
Angel felt Conlon's fingers expeditiously take leave from her hair. He quickly started to rise to his feet, causing her to emit a cry as she fell to the sullied floorboards. Though, she did not feel the shooting pains in her lumbar area. The shade of her skin had waned, just as Conlon's had, yet for different reasons. As his blue curses with the reprised word of Midtown ruptured the air, Angel could only lie, paralyzed with fear.
The two cadavers of those that Flynn had slain had been discovered. The blood pulsed through her veins, chilled, with a vengeance as she questioned whether Flynn had been captured or not.
She glanced up and saw Conlon, his face twisted in rage, and his hands tugging furiously at his hair. He finally released a sob laced with infuriation as he violently shoved past the newsie who had herald the grim news. The latter quickly followed after Conlon, their heavy footsteps and Conlon's fulminating oaths audible from the hallway.
Angel fluidly gathered herself to a standing position, dashing down the darkened hallway, suppressing the urge to hysterically scream Flynn's name to that of a whisper. As she descended the stairs, she halted midway in descent, to find that all inhabitants of the lodging house no longer remained inside. They were most likely out at the pier due to the distant shouts she heard resonating from outside.
She released a cry, calling Flynn's name against her better will, as she skidded down the remainder of the stairs. Her hand on the base of the banister, she was poised to fling herself out the doorway and onto the porch, when just as she was exiting the threshold she felt a strong arm wrap itself around her waist and a hand cover her mouth, pulling her backwards as though she were a creature born of elastic.
Though she tried to increment her howls, they were muffled by the powerful grip upon her mouth. Her assailant pulled her backwards, her heels dragging in rebellion, to the doorway. Angel could now see onto the porch and the surrounding areas. She cocked her head back, her pate coming to rest against a broad chest, and she released a retrenched sob and her knees buckled from under her as she saw the hardened green eyes and shock of blonde hair that was nonetheless Flynn Finesse.
His features set in hate, Flynn's grip only became more constricting as he sidestepped out the lodging house and onto the porch, the floorboards creaking under their weight. He halted only when they were well concealed in a copse of bushes that bordered the left side of the Brooklyn structure. There, he held Angel erect, and she watched in stunned silence with Flynn's palm over her lips the scene before her.
The avenue that the lodging house resided on crested into small hill some hundred yards away, halting where land met water and the docks were situated. The populace of the lodging house was now down by the docks, the bright lantern that lined the streets illuminating their minute figures in the night. There were a few that still ran down the hill and to the scene of the crime. Amongst that group, Angel could discern Spot Conlon, his white shirt flying unbuttoned behind him as he finally approached the docks.
Amongst the shouts and the cries, he pushed his way to the center, coming to a halt over two bodies that lay sprawled in unnatural situations.
"Don't worry," Flynn said in a low, bitter voice close to her ear. "I dumped the bodies. Some drunk bastard took a girl down there to get laid and he found them."
Conlon now dropped to his knees, his gaze flickering wildly to and from the corpses. As his agonizing howl ruptured the night air, Angel closed her eyes as tight as humanly possible, turning her head so that one cheek rested upon Flynn's chest. She could not suppress the sobs that raked at her or the tears that streamed down her cheeks, dampening Flynn's hand.
She could barely even manage the trek to Midtown as the assassin pulled both of them out of the bushes, disappearing from the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House and into the night.
***
As Angel Haddox and Flynn Finesse finally reached the warehouse that was residence to Midtown, night was waning and the bright sunlight was beginning to touch the sky as the eastern horizon made preparations for sunrise.
Flynn entered the warehouse first, exhausted and silent. Angel waited outside, frozen, paralyzed, sick with fear at looking upon the face of her brother. She only stood outside the façade, staring at the gleaming black revolver that she held in her flattened palms. The first rays of light reflected off of the weapon, as she absentmindedly turned it this way and that. Flynn had returned it to her on their sojourn back.
She then drew a hand around the base and cocked the trigger. She raised her arm, placing the barrel to her temple and closing her eyes. Oh, how deliciously simplistic it would be to end her woeful life right here and now. Then she would not have to face Oliver's wrath, his disappointment of his greatest creation of hate could be tossed aside so carelessly.
Yet, her eyes opened and she drew the revolver down, swallowing the sour bile that loomed at the back of her throat and entered the warehouse. Her countenance was void of any expression and her soul empty as she entered the first large area on her right, the room that served as the parlor.
The parlor was cavernous, yet it was dreary and dust-ridden. The singular window that sat perched high in the front wall of the warehouse served as the only allotment of light allowed in the room. Though, the waning bars of night threw themselves through the pane of glass, now. Moldy cardboard boxes and decrepit wooden chairs, some that were turned upright, littered about served as the only furniture.
Angel stood sullenly in the entryway. The only other inhabitants of the room were her brother and Nero Night, the former reclining on a broken chair and the latter on a lone crate. They each had a girl on their knees before them, performing monstrous acts upon them. Though, Oliver must have grown tired with his for she lay sprawled on her back with a gun wound in her head. Night's still kneeled before him, sobbing her utter heart out.
Flynn stood before them his back to Angel, as both Oliver and Night regarded him, not taking any heed to Angel.
Oliver sunk lower into the chair, stretching his legs out before him and crossing his ankles upon the cadaver at his feet, using it as a kind of morbid footrest. As he smiled his disgusting smile and bared his jagged teeth, his brown eyes glittered with malevolence. "Well, did you do it, Finesse?"
Angel's stomach lurched as her breath caught in her throat, waiting for him to tell of her miserable failure. Yet, she watched as his shoulders heaved in exhaustion and as he wearily replied, "Yeah. We killed them. They're dead."
She uttered a gasp in pure shock at his statement. This caused Oliver and Night's eyes to be shifted to her. Her brother's eyes gleamed and his smile broadened as he regarded her standing in the threshold. The girl at Night's feet released a scream of agony and fell back, pleading for her allowance to stop. Night only called her a despicable name and balled his fist, striking her across the face.
Angel entered the parlor, just as Flynn turned and brushed past her, the crevices of his fair features lines with weariness. Her gaze followed him before turning to Night. She pulled her revolver, straightening her arms before her and lining the barrel in between his eyes. Her raw nerves rivaled that of a stick of dynamite that only had to be ignited. "Do that again and I'll blow your brains out."
A shadow fell across Nero's face as his black eyes narrowed, taking in the proposition that faced him. Oliver's only reaction that of his smile slithering up his face more, Night sat back on the crate, reluctantly clasping his trousers shut as he shot a look of sheer hatred at her.
As she lowered the revolver, Oliver broke the silence of the room by slowly and softly clapping his hands together. Angel's glare fell to him and her scowl grew as she took in the amused expression that adorned his features.
"Wonderful work, dear sister. Finesse told me that you did very well."
She held the revolver firmly at her side as her eyes narrowed into slits. "Don't anybody dare wake me up today. And don't even think about sending me out tonight on any goddamn assassination."
With those final remarks to her kin, she turned on her heel and exited the parlor, climbing the flights of steps in a great thunder. She was poised to enter the doorway to the third floor when she heard heavy footsteps on the stairs behind her, and turned sharply to see the darkened figure of Nero Night approaching her.
Angel's eyes narrowed in contempt at him, her grip growing firmer around the revolver at her side. "What in the name of Jesus Christ do you want?"
Night was only silent, his ebony eyed locked upon hers as he drew himself to the step she occupied. She pressed herself against the wall as he inched his way closer to her, his oleaginous hair reflecting the dim light that surrounded them. He pressed himself close enough to her so that she could inhale the rank odor that radiated from him.
Night drew his head down, his nose inhaling her flesh. His gaze then locked with hers as his lips pulled themselves into a sneer. "You reek of Brooklyn."
Her countenance twisted into hatred. "And you reek of an ambitious pick who will never be anything more than a foil to my brother," she hissed in a low voice, before pushing him aside and entering the threshold to her quarters, slamming the door with a shuddering bang.
Taking great strides across the protesting floorboards, she released the revolver from her grasp, ignoring as it slid across the floor before coming to its resting-place. As she reached the mattress, she pulled the blood-red whore's dress over her head with great difficulty and grand screams before heaving it to the floor where it remained in a pile. She then threw herself down upon her mattress, clothed in only the corset, burying her head into the flattened pillow and digging her fingernails into the wretched mattress.
Angel then turned onto her back, one arm behind the pillow and one leg bent, as she cast her gaze to the window there the light of the dawning day filtered through. She sat watching the window, unblinkingly, until a sudden thought flashed across her mind.
She then slowly willed herself up, her tangled mass of hair falling over her shoulders as she prompted her legs into an Indian-style position. Angel torpidly, almost reluctantly, brought her forearm to her nostrils and inhaled. Her eyes widened and she cast her eyes to the bars of the new day the window brought into her room.
She did not carry the familiar scent of Midtown upon her flesh. It was an alien redolence that she perceived. One of Brooklyn.
Of Spot Conlon.