Chapter 15

It took Michelangelo fifty minutes to get there. He lost five minutes when he jumped off the subway train one stop too soon, (such an easy mistake, he bemoaned, for someone unable to wait to see the station signs), but he made up a little time after that by taking to the rooftops, running fast, still maintaining enough control to make precise jumps and climbs. He could only hope he wasn't too late.

When he finally crouched on the rooftop next to the four-story apartment building that bore the address he was looking for, he gave himself a couple of minutes to recover, slowing his breath and heart rate as he studied the dark squares of glass. There was no way to tell from the outside how the apartments were arranged and which window belonged to unit 408.

He rappelled over to the building's roof, counted to the eighth balcony on the east side, and dropped down onto it silently. He pressed himself against the wall, concentrating hard, but sensed no noise or movement from inside the dark apartment. The sliding door presumably led into the bedroom, but it was obscured by heavy blinds. Carefully, he edged over to the window and looked in, shielding his eyes from the glare of the city lights. He could make out the outlines of the kitchen- the fridge, the stove and a counter littered with takeout containers. He could see very little of the main living area beyond the kitchen, but he could tell it was a mess: clothes tossed over the back of a sofa, a small TV, a coffee table cluttered with cans. The walls were bare. Mike admitted that he knew very few women, but he suspected one did not live here.

He climbed back up to the roof and counted off eight balconies on the west side. He was getting nervous. What he was doing might be futile and ridiculous. The balcony he dropped onto this time was also dark, but the blinds were not drawn and he saw right away that the single bed in the bedroom lay empty. He also glimpsed a half-open closet full of clothes and a dresser upon which sat a clock, some photo frames and little objects that looked like the sorts of things he'd seen strewn on April's bathroom counter. He tried the balcony door. It was locked. The window, however, was not. He slid it open, popped the screen out and climbed in, maneuvering himself awkwardly but silently over the sink to get to the floor. He held motionless for a second, scanning with all his senses, then straightened up, confident he was alone.

He walked through the kitchen. There was a calendar on the freezer door. He put his face close enough to read it in the dark. Call Schedule. It had a bunch of codes and numbers he didn't understand, but the circled dates seemed self-explanatory. Today's date was one of them.

The living area was tidy, too tidy, as if it was rarely used. There was a bookshelf filled with big binders and textbooks, and a framed diploma on the wall. He stepped into the bedroom and squatted down to look at the photographs on the dresser.

Mike sucked in a breath. The terrible suspicion he'd been carrying for over the last hour burst into reality like shattering ice. With trembling fingers he slid the photo out of the frame and pocketed it in his belt. Then he went to work.

He closed the blinds in both the bedroom and kitchen. He pulled a standing lamp over to the front door and turned it on. It cast a yellow pool of light on the carpet. He found a pen and a pad of notepaper in one of the kitchen drawers, wrote a short note, and placed it on the floor, directly in the circle of light, where it could not be missed.

He climbed back out of the kitchen window. Before he replaced the screen and slid the glass shut, he shoved a section of the blinds aside, creating a small crack through which he had an unobstructed view of the apartment's front door. Then he froze into place, calling upon his ninjitsu training to render himself utterly motionless. Only his eyes moved, alternately scanning the street below, the rooftops nearby and the apartment inside.

Time passed. It must be past four a.m. by now. He began to doubt what he was doing. Nothing was happening. It was still early spring and the night, if not dangerously cold, was not warm either. He had the physical and mental training to be able to override the need to fidget or shift, but he had also had a long, exhausting night. Fighting to keep his eyelids and chin from drooping, he imagined he was in one of those childhood contests that Master Splinter would engineer for him and his brothers to test who could remain absolutely still for the longest time. He'd never been the best at those.

Just as he was beginning to be sure he'd made some mistake, he saw the light in the apartment shift as the front door opened and the woman from the photograph stepped through the doorway. She was tall, a little pale, and tired-looking as she was, even prettier in person. She stopped when she saw the lit lamp in her path. Her purse dropped to the floor as she stooped to pick up the note. Mike didn't dare to breathe. As she straightened up, the lamp shade partly obscured the view of her face, so he couldn't see her expression, but her whole body stiffened in alarm. She craned her neck, eyes sweeping around the shadowy apartment fearfully. They lighted briefly on the kitchen window and even though Mike knew there was no way she could see him, he resisted the urge to draw away from the glass. Her hands shook as she grabbed her purse and backed out into the hallway, pulling the front door closed.

Michelangelo kept his eyes on the street in front of the building. After a couple of minutes, he spotted the woman's white coat as she emerged onto the sidewalk, ran to the corner of the street and hailed a cab. When the taxi she climbed into disappeared around a corner, Mike let out his breath. He stood, slowly, working feeling back into each of his stiff, cold fingers and toes. He scanned the rooftops and the street one more time. That's when he saw Snake.

Even from four stories up, Mike picked him out by the telltale sunglasses. Why the man wore them even at night was incomprehensible. Snake was standing on the corner of the street across from the apartment, studying the dark windows as Michelangelo had done only a short while ago. Mike dropped back into a crouch below the level of the balcony railing, unsure if he'd been spotted from a distance. Through the vertical metal stiles, he watched Snake cross the street and walk along the side of the building, passing almost directly underneath. The man went around the corner into the alley behind the apartment and Mike heard boots on the fire escape ladder.

Michelangelo moved. He latched his grappling hook around the balcony railing and vaulted over it, grabbing hold of the line and letting himself drop over the side, checking his descent by pushing off the balconies on each floor as he fell. He landed noiselessly, retracted his line, and ran towards the fire escape ladder. "Snake!" he shouted.

The figure clinging to the ladder one floor up stopped and looked down. His face registered surprise, then the corners of his mouth lifted in amused incredulity.

Mike shook his head. "Don't do it."

Snake let go and dropped several feet, his boots thudding on concrete as he landed in a crouch. He tugged his black leather jacket straight as he stood. "Why, coach," he drawled, "I thought tonight was your last night with us."

"It was," Mike said. "Though this wasn't the way I'd hoped to leave things off. I know what you're doing, and I'm telling you, don't do it."

Snake leered as though he were being ordered about by a child. "Scurry on underground to your own kind. I've got assignments to handle tonight."

"You mean killing people."

Snake grunted. "Who're you to be high and mighty? Like you ain't done your share."

"Not like this. Not defenseless people, not for money."

"What's it to you? You always knew this was part of our work."

And I ignored it, Mike thought guiltily. I only thought about what I needed from Doshida. "It's hard to explain," he said, "but I can't let you do this."

Snake's eyebrows rose over his glasses.

"Call it off," Mike urged. "I'll go with you to talk to Doshida. There must be a way to resolve this. You guys have plenty of work that doesn't involve taking lives. There's no reason why you need to-"

"You talk too much, coach." Snake spat at Mike's feet. "I've got a job to do. Now get out of the way."

Mike said, "You won't find her there. I've already warned her away."

Snake's face twitched, then flushed with disbelief and anger. "Why, you-" he pulled a thick, short serrated dagger from a holster on his thigh. "Insufferable, cocky little green fucker. You're not one of us anymore, not that you ever were, so I won't feel bad about killing you."

Mike's eyes traveled from the dagger blade to Snake's face. "I don't want to fight you. Put it away, okay? You may not have ever liked me, and I don't agree with what you're doing, but I don't want to hurt a squad teammate."

"We aren't teammates. You were there to get something for yourself, and so was I. And sorry to say, I don't feel the same way. In fact," he stepped sideways towards Mike in a fighting stance, bringing his dagger up, "I'm going to enjoy hurting you."

Mike put a hand on his nunchuku. "C'mon Snake," he said, "let's not-"

Snake lunged.

Mike's nunchuks whistled through air, executing two moves together. The chain of one nunchuk trapped the wrist of Snake's knife hand, the other came down on the forearm, twice.

That should have been more than enough to make the man drop his dagger and render the attacking arm useless. To Mike's shock, Snake's arm bulged and he yanked it away, ripping the attached nunchuku from Michelangelo's grasp and sending it tumbling into the dark. The dagger came slashing back down towards the turtle's neck and he barely deflected it with his remaining nunchuku as he dropped low and swung behind Snake, thinking fast. He landed a crushing kidney strike, but suddenly found himself defending against a whirlwind of dagger swipes and thrusts. His weapon became a blur, clearing him enough space to leap out of range. His plastron was scored twice, and a warm trickle ran down his side, from ribcage to hip.

Snake read the open astonishment on his face. "Bet you're not used to losing, are you, coach?" He laughed. "All those times you thought I was taking it easy? Well, I was."

Michelangelo had begun the fight with the intention to stop Snake, but not seriously hurt or kill him. He was in a far different game now. The man had taken the strikes he'd delivered and barely flinched. It shouldn't be possible.

They clashed again, neither holding back, their movements blindingly fast and vicious. Even amongst his brothers Michelangelo was known for his speed and precision, and he easily outclassed Snake in fighting skill. But the man took blow after blow without falling, his blade dipping, weaving and slashing, too fast to believe.

They broke apart, breathing hard. Snake moved gingerly, and Mike had at least two more nasty cuts. One high on his shoulder bled freely, rivulets running together into a creek down the central groove of his plastron. He had to take out the dagger. He launched himself at Snake, and as his foe focused on the nunchuku flying straight at his face, Mike drove a shuriken into the meaty base of the man's knife hand.

The fingers spasmed and the weapon slipped from Snake's grasp. A well-aimed nunchuku blow sent the blade skittering across concrete. Michelangelo pressed his advantage, but Snake deflected the throat strike; it cracked against collarbone but didn't slow the man down as he barreled forward, slamming them both into the wall of the building behind them.

Close together, it became a contest of holds and locks. Mike brought his knee up into Snake's sternum, even as the man dashed the turtle's hand against brick, forcing the nunchuku from nerveless fingers. Mike's maneuver had bought him space and he snapped his bent elbow around, into the side of his opponent's head. The sunglasses flew off as the head jerked aside. Instead of crumpling unconscious, Snake brought his face back around and grinned.

Michelangelo gasped. There was something horribly wrong with the man's eyes. Huge, dilated pupils filled the irises, ringed with bright red blood that bulged beneath the membrane.

In the split second that he stared, Snake slammed his forearm against Mike's throat and locked it in place. Instantly, Mike dropped his chin and dug his powerful grip into the pressure points on the man's arm. It was no good. He went for a different chokehold break, again to no avail. He drove his knuckles into the man's armpit and still Snake was impervious. He should be screaming as Mike ground the nerves of his arm into pulp, but he only tightened his grip, pressing in with all his weight.

Michelangelo couldn't breathe. His windpipe was being steadily compressed, the air in his lungs being used up in his efforts to get free. Bright white spots began to appear in his vision.

A dark shape dropped to earth and sailed towards Snake's back. Somehow the man sensed it and turned just in time, releasing Michelangelo, who slumped to the floor of the alleyway. Impossibly, Snake caught his attacker by the wrists. His forearms rippled as he squeezed down and twisted. The twin sai, which had sought to skewer him through the lungs, clattered to the ground as Snake planted a foot in his assailant's chest and launched him backwards.

Astounded as he was at the sudden reversal, Raphael checked his momentum and flew back at his opponent like a rock from a slingshot.

Snake came to meet him and the fight instantly reached an staggering level of ferocity. Both were fighting to kill with bare hands, going for damage over finesse as they exchanged flurry after flurry of brutal, punishing blows. When they broke apart and circled each other for an opening, Snake spat teeth and blood from his mouth and said, "Now it's getting good. And to think a whole army of ninjas couldn't take out one of you freaks."

Raphael did not answer. He felt warm wetness on his face and he was having a harder time bending the left side of his torso, but the bloodlust coursing through his body made him as insensible to pain as Snake seemed to be. He knew with certainty that he was in a death match. An adversary who could trap Michelangelo in a chokehold, who could disarm him in a full-speed charge, was not going to back down. And Raphael, sparing only a brief glance to make sure Michelangelo still breathed, before hurling himself back at his foe, was in a burning red place where his own survival was a secondary consideration.

Michelangelo rose to his hands and knees, his breath scalding the inside of his raw throat, his limbs rubbery, disconnected from his body. He raised his still ringing, throbbing head in time to see Snake catch Raphael by the edge of the shell and dash him to the ground. The turtle was up in an instant, whipping out a low sweep that forced Snake back, and springing after him with an unrelenting barrage of strikes, finally landing a jaw-shattering back-fist just as Snake connected with the side of Raphael's ribcage, dropping him to his knees.

Mike saw what he was looking for and forced his body up, diving and rolling across the concrete. "Raph!" With all his might he hurled Snake's serrated dagger. It sank up to its hilt in the man's shoulder blade and Snake howled, turning and reaching for the wound. Mike flung a sai along the ground. It skittered between Snake's legs and Raphael caught it. Like a bird of prey, he rose into the air and came down, plunging the sai through the side of Snake's throat.

Snake fell. Raphael fell with him, until he felt the tip of his weapon, borne by his body weight, puncture the other side of his enemy's thick neck.

For a long minute, Raphael knelt, chest heaving, beads of sweat and blood rolling off his bowed head. "Mike," he said.

Michelangelo walked over and crouched next to him, rubbing his bruised neck. "I'm all right." He tried to smile, but it hurt. "What took you so long?"

Raphael flashed his brother an un-amused glare. He tore the phone from his belt and tossed it on the ground. "That thing doesn't track you when you go underground into the subway, you dumbass!" He coughed and stood up slowly. "By the time it picked up where the hell you were, you were halfway across town."

Mike picked up the small gadget. The screen was cracked, damaged in the fight. "I did wonder how you guys kept such good tabs on me. How did Don-"

"He put a homing thingamajig into your belt. Good thing too. I knew you'd end up in some shit storm." He looked down at Snake's body and scowled, shoving it with his foot. "You've got some major explaining to do. Like who the hell was this guy?"

Snake's eerie dead eyes stared up at Mike, who shook his head, sad and greatly disturbed. "I don't think I know." He turned away and retrieved his nunchuks, then said, "We should hide him. Better that Doshida doesn't find out right away."

Raphael nodded. Wincing from their injuries, they hefted Snake's body and carried it out of sight behind the dumpster at the end of the alley. It wouldn't stay hidden for long, but at least it would buy them time. Raphael yanked out his sai, wiped the blade on his armband and said, "This way."

"Isn't the easiest way underground in the other direction over by-" Mike did a double take as Raphael led him around the corner of the street. "Whoa, you took Casey's bike?"

"I borrowed it," Raphael corrected. "I know where he keeps the spare keys."

Despite this nightmare of a night, Mike could not help smiling, impressed. "Can I drive?"

Raphael snorted in disbelief. "After dragging us out here to nearly get killed? Hell no. You can ride behind me like a girl."