Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.
AN: This chapter is rated M for language, racism, gross living conditions and violence. Again, all opinions and views expressed by characters of Ernestina are THEIR OWN, and while I believe it important to represent the realities of racism and inner city gang violence I in no ways am attempting to promote them.
Disclaimer: I don't own kickass Forensic Scientist Andrea Taylor, she's an OC visiting from Irish Luck19's Unmasked, one of the newest, most promising Harley Quinn origin stories I've come across on this site!
Monday, September 2nd
Sunrise
The Narrows-1421 Riverview Apartments (Bolthole #1)
…Angel-!
Dark, doe-like eyes are open, staring into mine. His hand is warm and soft, fingertips laid gently against my cheek. Through the net of my lashes I see him smile, corners of his small mouth turning up, sending my heart aching and leaping in a flutter of maternal wonder. I'm dreaming, caught in the dusk between slumber and wakefulness, each second ebbing further from this place of peace and content back into utter darkness. I try to hold on, to feel the sharpness of his nails laid against my bone but already it is fading. Angel. His dark eyes blaze and his face goes white, translucent skin blinding me, disappearing into a flash of the purest, scintillating light-
The sun. She streams in unwelcome through open blinds, piercing my eyes, bringing with her both light and yet another day's sorrow and sickness. Never before have I been so reluctant to see her. I look with longing across the bedframe but know in my heart the boy isn't there.
"Come back," I whisper with my waking breath. But I know he never will.
Morning
I shower. Rinse my tired body with rust and sulfur and will the pain away. I hide my face under a hooded sweatshirt, and walk five blocks to get breakfast. The bolthole won't do me any good as a hide-out if the neighborhood knows me. I pay cash for stale coffee and day-old muffins, and eat them on the go. I've got to stock up on food, keep myself out of sight, out of mind. With my head down and haggard face I blend in, invisible, lost among the hopeless, homeless masses of the Narrows.
Daylight
It's afternoon. My back is now stiff and sore. I add it to the list of things on my body that ache and resolve promptly to forget it. I've sat for hours planning, watched the sun rise to its noon zenith and sink again, sending streaking shadows to spread across the dingy walls from windows stained with decades of industrial soot, polluted dust and pigeon dung. A few more finishing touches and I am finished. I stand. Stretch. Pace the filthy flat until the stiffness wanes then return to bed for rest.
Only now do I notice the naked mattress is filthy and discolored. In the light of day crusted scabs of sweat, semen, and menstrual blood stain its fetid surface. The shudder is involuntary; the gag, reflexive. The shower? Mandatory. In retrospect, I should've known better than to lease from a land-lady who's willing to collect rent by the hour…
No towels, no soap, no curtain. I drip-dry and re-don Lawless' bloodied clothes, every moment becoming more squeamishly resigned to scabies, lice, ring-worm and foot-fungus. Before falling fitfully asleep on the molding carpet I add bleach, rubber gloves and household cleaners to my list for this festering, miserable Hades.
…Make that some air-freshener as well.
Darkness
Gunshots pierce the night. I wake instantly, coiled and ready to spring. But the shots are distant, muffled; and traffic rolls on, unchanging. For nearly an hour I lay awake, wait for the reassuring sound of sirens to offer my city solace. None come.
This is the Narrows, I am reminded as I drift back to sleep, home of thugs, mafiosos, illegals, outcasts, and ex-cons. Not a one of them is foolish enough to call the cops. But if Gordon won't police it, Chaos will.
Morning
Morning again. I initiate phase 1 of my war on Gotham: I have to fool the FBI.
I will find the truth behind Meroni's midnight visits to Sisters of Mercy. I will find who is responsible, and I will kill them. Kill them all. Brutally. Mercilessly. Systematically. But first I have to know my targets-their ranks in Meroni's employ, their bosses, and their shock value. It's one thing to lose a private, quite another to lose a general-and I will see Meroni both powerless and friendless before I destroy him. I will teach him what it is to fear. Let him know an Angel's pain-Salazar Meroni, you get to die alone.
But first I need names and addresses… and that's what Dan Murray and Eddie Nashton can give me. But before I can get those I've got to have faces. Legitimate ones. Faces that look like they've been taken off a GCPD ops mission-highly classified, of course. And then, only then, can I go to the Bureau and beg for some 'Interdepartmental Cooperation' on their ID's with Murray and Nashton none the wiser. But with the Legacy Murray'll be busy, and I'm not exactly his friend. I make a mental note to put on a friendly face when I see him and keep the bitterness in check. There's bad blood between the FBI and GCPD, and it goes back long before any of us. Before my Angel was murdered and the goddamned FBI waited three days to tell us about it while the Joker vanished without a trace. So much for the PANDEMONIUM Taskforce. So much for fucking 'interdepartmental collaboration'. So much for the deaths of Rachel Dawes, Judge Surillo, and Commissioner Loeb. So much for Harvey Dent. It used to be martyrdom meant something in Gotham City. It meant cooperation. Solidarity. The stick-to-itiveness and let's-get-shit-done attitude like the night Thomas and Martha Wayne died and the whole city went out on a manhunt…
…But now, now with this sick, sadistic Clown on the loose again…now I'm not so sure.
In the years I've been with the GCPD Dan Murray's done his best to keep a truce, but there is, has been, and will always be distrust between us and the Feds. Perhaps they're right not giving us the heads up when they encroach on our turf, perhaps it's safer that way, perhaps WATCHDOG, too, has been infiltrated by the corruption rampant in the GCPD but I'm damn sick of petty squabbles over jurisdiction, and of the heartache of having to scrape together the resources to make a bust only to find out the FBI has been running it for years with an undercover man on the inside.
I've been there. Had cover blown. Dangerous as hell and an entire identity, training and coaching, all those contacts, money, time, effort, lives…everything wasted.
Red swastikas grin crookedly from the shamrocks on my biceps, and 88 glares from the nape of my neck below my nearly shaven crown. It's all henna, but no passersby could mistake me for anything other than the Aryan Brotherhood. I've had the damn things for over four months now, and I've grown tired of seeing their poison etched into my skin, tired of the words I must repeat to play this part. I am weary, heart-sick, ready to be done. And today we close. The Brothers have already boasted about the murder of a local political journalist, now they're about to let me in on their plot to destroy the Amerikaans community center-one of the largest and most controversial pro-immigrant aid centers on the East Coast; it's a second home to Gotham's South African immigrants-both legal and non-all trying to better their lives and English. Half the members on its roster are under 12, and I wouldn't doubt the majority are anchor babies…and these neo-nazi sons of bitches have decided to stage a perversion of Harpers Ferry, convinced the masses of oppressed whites who've gone jobless and hungry will rise to their call if they go and blow the Hell out of these 'foreigners.'
Foreigners my ass. Minus Arizona making a stand back when I was in Mortalis the US of A still hasn't grown any balls on the immigration issue. Yeah, I'd fucking love to see some more authoritative action along all our borders but these? They're children, born on American soil, and whatever their skin color or ethnic group they're citizens like the rest of us. That's the way it's always been. The way it should always be. But today I don't give a damn about the political intricacies of legal status—my son was taken from me as a boy and these motherfuckers are trying to kill little kids. I hope they rot in Hell. As the crisp September air disappears into the fumes of gasoline and carbon monoxide in the abandoned subway terminal I find myself wishing every single last one of them ends up with a black cellmate to teach them a lesson. Nothing enforces diversity like loss of a few teeth or sphincter control…
Milton and Bradley are monitoring us from a mobile lab. Crispus and Montoya have the cavalry on full alert, and Lawless and his new partner-O'Connell? Shit. Connolly-are waiting three blocks away in an unmarked car. "You ready?" I whisper into the lapel mike as the Ford idles loudly in the enveloping dark. The back is loaded with acetone. Lots of acetone. It's still liquid, but it's only a few short steps away from crystallization and becoming a deadly explosive.
"Yes sir! Er, ma'a-I mean, Lt!" Lawless' partner stammers quickly. My eyes roll involuntarily.
"Don't kill yourself, Kid." Lawless laughs. Kid. Now there's a great moniker: he looks, sounds, and acts like a goddamned fifteen year-old. Sure, the GCPD are desperate but I still don't know what the hell Gordon was thinking hiring him…Or maybe I've been doing this so long I've forgotten what it means to be a rookie. But hell, I never was. I'd had 18 months of combat training in Pakistan before I ever got the badge. I grit my teeth and make a mental note to be nicer. "Everyone stay close." I whisper, and the radio goes silent. I'm in the belly of the beast now, and I'm all alone. No Lawless, no Gordon, just me, my wits and Art's old gun. A glance in the dusky rearview mirror: You still got it, bitch?
…Hell, yeah.
I kill the engine. Wrench the keys. Adrenaline kicks in with a rush of power. From the semi-darkness a voice calls, "Perci, that you?"
"Who else, dipshit?" I ask angrily, slamming the driver's side door. To the kindred I'm Persephone Simmons, parolee, WASP, and mean as fuck. "You sure you pansies know what you're doing?"
"Relax, Perci." Star O'Day soothes, "Harry does this all the time."
"How much did you bring?" Harry asks, surveying me skeptically. Harold Shumaker, WE employee, has a degree in inorganic chemistry with a major in racist bigotry and a specialization in homemade explosives. To the rest of the world he's a just a routine, run of the mill laboratory scientist with pale, pasty skin and a dulled affect from twenty years of quality control management. But we know differently-Harry here's Aryan Council. Way up there. The sort of confession that comes with a plea bargain and a shit-load of names attached. Harold Shumaker is our ace in the hole, the reason we've been hanging on so long. I should have taken my promotion a month ago, moved into a permanent desk job, but they needed someone on the inside…and that was me. Brotherhood already knew my alias, my face, and they'd learned to trust me. And once the Council gets involved it becomes conspiracy to commit murder and a hate crime…and all the families under his command-over two hundred neo-nazi hatemongerers in our streets and schools-can be charged together under the Dent statute.
Dent. Harvey Dent. Good man. Good lawyer-if there is such a thing. This is my last op, last tour of the street, my last chance to get the scum out of our city before shifting through paperwork until I turn 65. This one's for him. "20 liters. That good enough?"
"20 liters?" Harry muses darkly. "No way in Hell. I told you she's a cop."
My heart freezes, but Star vouches for me. "Harry, she's one of us. I'm telling you, Perci wouldn't betray us-"
"You can't buy that much. You can't. No way. No way." Harry mutters. "How'd you do it?" He asks, stepping forward aggressively. "How the hell you get so much without being flagged?"
"You don't get it, do you Harry? Any woman can buy acetone. Real simple-like." Star giggles. "Walk in with a manicure and say you work for a nail salon or something like that, chat 'em up real good and they let you buy in bulk-"
"Like they fucking believed that." Harry adds darkly, eying me up and down from my black leather soles to my bleached fohawk. At the moment I look like a dope-pushing, butch-lesbo feminazi dominatrix…and suddenly the reason behind Connolly's utter terror of me becomes crystal clear: he's never met me, just Perci.
"Monkey working the counter didn't argue." I state, brows arched. "I think she was glad to get rid of me."
Star busts into peals of obnoxious laughter. "Oh, Perci! You're just too good! She's real good, ain't she Harry? How's that for ironic-blow 'em up with their own acetone! That's what I like about you." She gushes. "I like your sense of humor."
You like irony? Then just wait 'til you get cuffed, fuckhead, I seethe. I might just let Cripus Allen do it. As their arresting officer he'll have to appear at their trial-and no jury in America will be able to ignore their hate. Hell, no judge will put up with it, either.
Harry's got a make-shift bomb factory built in the subway exterior, right under the exhaust vents, which at one point prevented tunnel-workers from carbon monoxide poisoning. It used to be one of Gambol's meth labs, Star babbles excitedly as we get to work, but now the kindred are putting it to a more 'patriotic' use. For hours I listen to her sugary diatribe, voicing my agreement with grunts and fuck, yeah's. I can swear like a sailor and not feel a thing but there's only so many times you can stomach the word nigger before you want to wash your mouth out with bleach. Hell, Bear was black. I trusted my life to him. And Art, and Crispus Allen…
Hours-or is it days?-later my nose is still stinging from chemical vapors, but the coughing fits have gotten better now that we're above ground. We've donned bland, nondescript grey uniforms and piled into the Ford to deliver the payload, now disguised as a benign cardboard box loaded on a pallet with at least thirty others, all filled with canned goods and school supplies for the community pantry. Amerikaans' has a donation delivery dock, manned by volunteer staff with rigorous background checks and covered by heavy security. But even then the Brotherhood has a man on the inside, an ESOL teacher in deep undercover, helping to teach these people our language and culture while plotting to blow them to Hell. And that's why we haven't bagged these motherfuckers yet. No one likes the idea of these explosives getting inside the campus but we have to wait for the drop. We've got Harry now-Harry and everyone else under him. But if we don't catch the Inside Man…it'll only be a matter of time before this happens again. And if Mortalis taught me one thing it's that trying to stop one solitary terrorist is a whole hell of a lot harder than going after a cell.
We pull out of the abandoned station, and suddenly the game is on. The board is set, and the pieces are beginning to move. Lawless and Connolly pull onto the street behind us. I watch in the rearview mirror, keeping tabs on the unmarked car. He's following close, but not too close, going slow and changing lanes to stay about six cars behind me. If I hadn't known he'd be tailing, I might never have spotted him.
And there it is-the dichotomously bright-colored Amerikaans Community Center nestled safely within its complex of chain link and barbed wire. Security comes out, and Star babbles excitedly about 'charitable donations', and suddenly we're through. The trap is shrinking around us like a net. We pull to a park beside the loading dock, and out of my peripheral vision I see Lawless' vehicle waved boredly through security behind us.
A small crowd of volunteers and donators mill around the docks, unloading used clothing, non-perishables, and carton after carton of back-to-school supplies for the ESL students. Star and I clamor up onto the bed, handing down box after cardboard box with painstaking care until our hands are chapped and sore. Harry packed the pallet, and although I tried to memorize the bomb's location with Star's haphazard unloading already it's impossible for me to tell if it's still on the truck or not.
Shit.
Lawless and Connolly are out of their car, dully hauling crate after crate of non-perishables from the trunk. I give the signal: straighten my back, take a long, drawn out stretch. Translation: I don't know where the fuck the bomb is.
"Careful with that!" Lawless reprimands his partner sternly. Roger that, proceed with caution. Even over Star's continuing babble I hear Connolly's quizzical retort. At least one of them got the message…
And finally. Three volunteers approach us. One black. Two white: middle-aged man and a mixed-race teenager wearing a delinquent's orange traffic vest, doing his community service hours. The net is narrowing. "Need some help?"
The unidentified man and Harry shake hands. He climbs up, begins to help us unload. I've got you now, motherfucker. I'm milliseconds away from telling Bradley to spring the trap when out of nowhere the shit hits the fan in monumental proportions. Star's slate-green eyes go wide, and even Harry's stoicism is momentarily breached. I wheel.
…And everything was going so well. Through a gap in the gathered throng I make out the shape of a squad car sitting in the lot. 29 presinct. "It's empty." Star whispers. But before any of us can breathe a silent prayer of relief all Hell breaks loose. A uniformed cop breezes out the loading dock entrance, stops twenty feet from us, then pulls a goddamn cigarette to his lips and lights up.
Oh, fuck.
Star lets out a whispered squeal. My heart begins to hammer. Norton. Sergeant Sean Norton. I did WATCHDOG training under him-told him a million times that smoking would be the death of him. But he's not Homicide, he's standard beat. He knows my face, my rank, my liquor preferences…but he's not cleared for this Op. Norton would know me from a hundred yards away, but there's no way he'd ever know I was undercover—undercover with a bunch of racist maniacs who'd kill him as soon as look at him. And now he's twenty feet from us. Don't see me, Norton. Don't see me. Please God, don't see me…
Too late. Norton's dark face brightens in recognition, spread into a wide, beaming smile and there's no way I can wave him off. I try to make eye contact, plead his silence…but no avail. "Hey," Norton calls, squashing the cigarette before looking both ways and jogging slowly across the parking lot. "What's with the hair-?"
Don't panic. Stay calm. You can still get through this…"You know this nigger?" Harry asks in alarm.
"He's Norton. My fucking Parole officer." I grunt, loud enough for Norton to hear. But if Harry buys the lie, it's not for long. Sean Norton's cheerful face widens in a bemused smile. "Paltron? What the Hell-?"
"Paltron?" Harry asks sharply, wheeling on Star. "You told me her name was Simmons-"
The world freezes. Time drags to a halt.
Going undercover takes acting skills. Quick wit. Improv. A mistake can be made in a matter of milliseconds…and a millisecond is all it takes. Norton looks from me to Harry; Harry looks from me to Norton. And for one millisecond, one barely perceptible millisecond there's a bright, dawning light of comprehension in Norton's dark eyes-
The game is up. Harry knows.
No time. The world moves in slow motion. Harry draws. Star and the yet-unidentified suspect both scream. I drop the box and jump from the bed. But it's too late. Too late. There's an earsplitting KRACK! and the white, wide eyes of Sean Norton roll back as his body sprawls lifelessly to the curb in a graceful, deliberate arc. Pandemonium. People scream. Pedestrians run. Children crying mothers shrieking-
Shots. Shouts. Lawless and security have taken refuge behind the unmarked car and for a hellish minute this place is the fucking OK corral. Glass shatters from the Ford's windows and I throw myself to the ground. Norton's dead. As dead as hell. Took a 9mm through the frontal lobe and his brains are splashed all over the pavement-
"You're a cop!" Star screams hysterically. "I trusted you!" Her shot goes wild, the rear tire bursts. "You're a cop like your nigger friend and you're gonna go the way he did-"
A bullet rips through the side of the truck, and hot gasoline soaks me like piss. I roll under the truck again. "Star, don't shoot!" God, if the tank blows-
"You're a liar, and, and a bitch, and, and a traitor-!" Star sobs. She's distraught. Crazed. We've got God knows how many civilians in this lot, God knows how many inside and now we're staging a shoot out around a volatile explosive.
"Don't fire!" I shout into the mike. "For God's sake don't fucking fire-!"
KRACK! Ping! The side-view mirror shatters above my head. I shout to Lawless again but even through the rush of adrenaline and the haze of smoke and rising gas fumes something's off. Wrong trajectory. I look up, on top the building and there. There he is-it wasn't the white volunteer at all. I was wrong about our Inside Man. She isn't a man…she's a woman, and now she's crouched on the edge of the fire escape, shooting into the crowd-
That man-the volunteer-our wrong suspect doesn't live to ever know, laugh, joke to his kids and wife at home that he was mistaken for a terrorist. Even crouched behind the truck he takes a hit, feet from me, straight to the heart and there's a belch, a bubble, a bellows of blood erupting from his chest and mouth, now two gaping, scarlet maws in a spreading sea of ghastly pale.
I roll. Fire a three round burst up to the fire escape and the shooter's head explodes into a fountain of blood. Muscles clench in death and the dead hand fires more rounds as the body plummets the sickening seven stories down. Star lets out a keening wail and her eyes blaze in murderous rage. Across the lot a gasoline tank explodes-
Shrapnel. Black smoke. Flying bullets. Fire. All it takes is one spark and the Ford will blow with the bomb insidenearbytooclose and we'll all be as dead as Hell. Harry knows it. His eyes are cool, disinterested, surveying me and the Ford with calm detachment. In that moment I realize Harold Shumaker is the sickest, worst kind of coward. He's afraid to fail-but he's not afraid to die. This rat-bastard wants to be martyred for his cause. He wants to be remembered. And someone has to stop him-
Black smoke billows. Star's still screeching. She's oblivious to the chaos, obvious to the danger, oblivious to everything but me…and I'm still under the goddamned truck-
She's fired at least two shots. She's got four bullets left-
…But all it takes is one.
Hell, shit, damn and fuck. "Don't fire! For God's sakes, Lawless, don't fire!" Again I roll from under the Ford, shattered safety glass tears my face, my arms, my palms as I jump from the boiling pavement-
KRACK!
Security's closing in. Rushing across the lot. All running to their deaths if I can't stop Harry. KRACK! Star shoots again, misses me by millimeters-
There's another KRACK! Burning pain. Hot blood. I fall to my knees. Above me Harry Shumaker is wreathed in smoke and flames, as serpentine and sinister as the devil himself. He raises his pistol to the Ford, thin lips pressed in a cruel smile, cold eyes boring straight into mine-
Heartbreak. Rage. Despair. No way I can get him in time. I can't stop him. For the second time in my life I know what utter hopelessness is. The difference is in Warizistan I got to die saving my unit…this time it doesn't matter. It won't make any fucking difference. His finger's already on the trigger, and even if I get him everyone'll still get blown to hell-
"Paltron, look out!" Out of the ashes Aaron Scott Lawless appears, one burly shoulder knocking Harry's aim astray and the other raising his service pistol to the woman behind me-
KRACK! two bullets fire at once, Harry's shot spinning wildly into the pavement and Lawless' disappearing above me straight into Star O'Day's left breast. She falls in a spurt of scarlet. Harry disappears into the plumes of smoke, and I don't have it in me to shoot blind. Not even now. Not when there's kids and civies who can get caught in the cross-fire-
I swear. Clamor to my feet, hot blood oozing down my side. I press my fingers and instantly regret it. Bullet nicked my ribs, just a gentle graze, but it hurts like fire. "Lawless?" I choke. "Lawless!" Smoke hangs like acrid fog, and through the haze I hear weeping, screams, and the bitter blare of sirens in the distance. FD on their way to cool things off a bit-
And finally I find them. Star O'Day is dead, and Lawless stands above the twitching corpse, remorse eating through his rage. "You okay?" He asks gruffly.
"Flesh wound. What took you so fucking long?" I gasp.
"You know how hard it is to stop security pukes from shooting in response to gunfire?" he snarls. "Especially ones from South Africa? These guys are all ex-paramilitary. I had to confiscate guns. It was a fucking nightmare."
But I know him better than this. It's Star. Star the bitch O'Day…or what's left of her. "You had to shoot her. You didn't have a choice." I say softly. "It's not your fault."
Lawless sighs. "It's still shitty." And that's Lawless for you. Woman plots to murder immigrants and small children and he still feels bad for killing her. "Guys are supposed to protect women."
"And women are supposed to protect little kids," I add darkly, edging the gun away from her limp hands with my foot. "Guess you're even."
He's silent after that for a long, long while. "Where's Connolly?" I venture, afraid to know the truth. Goddamn bitch, I berate myself, getting a rookie involved in this clusterfuck-
"Told him to stay with the car." His turn to ask the questions. And he asks The Question-the one that Gordon and IA will keep repeating for weeks to come: how the Hell did you fuck this up? "What the hell went wrong?"
"Norton." I grunt.
"Norton? Wait-Sergeant Norton? He was in on this-?"
"No." I state. "He blew my cover. He's dead."
"Dead," Lawless repeats in hollow disbelief.
"Dead. Harry shot him. Where the fuck is Harry?" I groan.
"He can't leave the campus," Lawless says decisively. "My bet's on the loading dock-"
I groan. "Lawless, that'll take him inside-"
"Reinforcements are on the way. We've got SWAT coming, Milton and Bradley've already called up the building plans and Allen and Montoya are already here-"
"No time." I hiss. "You can bet the Feds'll want in on this one, Lawless. And once they call jurisdiction they'll try to handle it their way. Negotiators. They don't know him. I do. Harry wants to die. Wants to be a martyr. You can't negotiate with a bastard like that. He'll kill himself, Lawless. Kill himself and any one else he possibly can and we can kiss our evidence goodbye-"
"He's might have hostages in there, Paltron." Lawless argues. "Kids. The two of us can't handle that. And he's still got help on the inside-"
I shake my head. "Negative. The bitch is dead."
"What? Who?" Lawless demands.
"Lisa Sharpe, the Kindergarten teacher." Lawless swears vehemently-he interviewed her himself, gave her the clear. "If the shot didn't kill her the fall did. Harry's all alone now and he knows it. Lawless, we've got to get in there."
"If I go in there I shoot to kill." Lawless warns.
"We need him alive." God knows I want to blow his racist brains out. But it'd be easy. Too easy. Make him a martyr. And I'm not going to let that happen. You're going to die in prison, Harry. Lethal injection, old age, shanked by a cell mate I don't really give a damn. But you're going to die there, friendless, alone, and disgraced.
"I need those kids protected." A look of anguish crosses Lawless' face. "I can't-I saw one go down right in front of me and I, I can't watch that again. If you had a kid at home you'd understand-"
The scars on my stomach sear white-hot and the pain of my ribs is nothing, nothing compared to this—and then it's gone. "I'm a better shot. You do the talking. Distract him. I'll take him down."
"Paltron-"
You'd do everything you possibly could for your kid at home, Lawless. You'd rush right in there regardless of who told you to stand down. You're either a parent or you're not. I reactivate my mic. "Bradley! The loading dock! How many exits out of it?"
"Uh…three." Eugene's voice is tinny through the speakers. "The garage bay, and two interior doors. Both lead to the storage room, both on the North wall."
"And exits from the storage room?" Lawless asks.
"Two. Dead center West-wall. Also an emergency exit on the left corner, South side but Startech security's monitoring, no reports of a breach-"
"North wall." I tell Lawless. "He's already in."
"and after that you've got the basement hallway, a flight of stairs that's maintenance only and the elevator shaft, which is currently out of order due to remodeling on the first floor—not that any of this matters since you're waiting for SWAT-"Eugene drones as we storm the bay doors. "-at least, in theory-"
"He'll be in the elevator." Lawless whispers as we prowl slowly down the north wall towards the storage room. "Trying to make it work-" I don't have time to disagree. KRACK! Ping! A bullet ricochets off the stolid steel doorframe not two inches above my head. We drop to the floor, fall back. Lawless swears. "The Son of a bitch is covering the entry-way," he snarls. "Now what?"
"That's two," I grunt, rubbing the fohawk down so I don't make such a goddamn easy target. "Two shots at least." A plan-hastily devised and crude-begins to form.
"Don't be an idiot, Paltron." Lawless chides. "Counting bullets only works in the movies. You have no idea how many bullets he has left, if he has more ammo-"
"But I do know Harry, and he wants to kill as many people as possible. He couldn't make it upstairs, so he's stuck with us. He'll want me, Lawless. But he also wants to be a martyr. Listen—Listen! You go in first and I'll cover you. If he doesn't shoot we know he's running low, saving them for when it counts. I'm a traitor, and if he's running low he'll save his last bullets for me, then himself."
"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard." Lawless mumbles. "But for lack of a better idea let's hope to God he's running low."
On the count of three Lawless dives through the doorway, crouching low while I fire above. No retaliatory shots. Either Harry's fucking smart, or he's running low. Lawless beckons me, and I join him behind a dingy forklift and look out at the crowded menagerie of cardboard and wooden shipping crates. I have to get my bearings…
"Harry?" Lawless calls. "Harry Shumaker? We just want to talk."
"The fuck you do." Harry's voice snarls. "You've chosen the wrong side. You're blood traitors. Both of you! Standing up for this filth and garbage when you should be protecting American citizens-"
"Harry, your little stunt here just killed American citizens. Thirteen of them. One of them was a fucking five year old." Lawless states evenly. "That really the sort of thing your Brotherhood wants to glorify? Killing kids?"
It's a grid. A simple, warehouse grid. Steel shelves are stacked to the ceiling, a good twenty-some feet above us. Ten lines run north/south, each cut twice by east/west avenues. Harry's muffled voice calls out from somewhere further up the lines. "We're the Aryan Brotherhood! We look out for our own! We'll kill anyone who threatens our rights!"
"Keep him talking." I warn Lawless. "No matter what just keep him talking so I can find him."
"Just look around for a soap-box." Lawless says wryly. "Get going. And if I die-"
"I know. You'll kill me." He winks. I crawl around the corner, and he's lost from view. We're mired in the Minotaur's labyrinth, and Theseus begins the hunt. I go north, along the shelves, wait to cross the east/west avenue until Lawless has Harry's full attention-
"That's why you've got a Government, Harry. Our Government does that." Lawless' voice rings from my left. "The Government is there to protect our rights-"
"The American Government is a laughingstock. It's a front! It's run by Jews, Communists, and International Corporations! Lobbyists! Lawyers!" And go! Face down crawling knees and elbows I'm across the first east/west junction. Harry's voice is forward, to my right…
"You're right, Harry." Lawless soothes. "You're right. We've got corruption and special interest groups and big businesses running our country and threatening our safety. You're absolutely right. Why don't you come out so we can talk about it?"
"You're just a pig-headed policeman. You're just a fucking pig! What would you know!" Again! I cross the second great divide. Harry's voice is directly to my right…but how many aisles over? I run to the end of the second tier, Harry's voice behind me now. "You're government scum! You uphold their lies! Their affirmative action!" I climb the northern end of the shelf, peer back down. Harry's not hiding in this aisle…
"I know you're not a terrorist, Harry." Lawless says gently. From across the room I watch with bated breath as first his upraised arms, then entire figure comes into view, standing up and stepping out from behind the forklift. Damnit, Lawless!
"Get back!" Harry shouts at Lawless' advancing form. The diversion buys me time. I sprint right to the third north/south aisle. "Stay back!" But Harry doesn't shoot. He's running low. Very low. So low he won't risk shooting an unarmed man. You can run, Harry, but you can't hide forever. And you can't bullshit me. You're bluffing.
"You're not a terrorist," Lawless repeats, stepping slowly forward, hands atop his head. " And you don't want to be known as one. You're not a terrorist, Harry, you're misunderstood. The Brotherhood is misunderstood. You're a patriot, Harry. A goddamn patriot who loves his country and wants to restore her to glory but the press won't see it like that. You've got to come out. Come clean. Make sure these people don't paint you and your cause to look like terrorism-"
"That's only because the media is run by the Jews!" Fourth! "And the American people buy into their lies! They need us! They need us to show them the truth-" Fifth! Sixth-!
"Then stand trial, Harry. Come on TV. Tell the American people what it is they need to hear-"
"You can't fool me. You're a liar. A liar and a bloodtraitor! You're a nigger-loving Jew!" The voice is behind me now. He's in the sixth row. I hoist myself up onto the shelves, stalk him silently from above-
"You have to come out, Harry." Lawless continues, still stepping slowly towards the sound of Harry's ranting. "You have to save the people-"
"Don't come any closer!" Harry bellows.
"Harry, Harry," Lawless says gently, "You're not going to shoot me. You're afraid. You don't want to give up but you don't want to be a martyr either-"
"I'm not a coward!" Harry bawls. "I'm not afraid to die for my country-!"
But Harry doesn't get the chance. I drop, land feet behind him. "Drop the gun, motherfucker." I whisper. Harry wheels, raises his arm, split second decision in his gleaming, hate-filled eyes he turns the gun upon himself-
I fire Art's berretta. In fourteen years, she's never let me down. The shot goes true, there's a KRACK of snapping bone loud as the gun's discharge. Lawless cries my name, comes hurtling up the adjacent aisle, rounds the corner as Harry slumps to his knees, letting out a strangled scream as blood spurts from the stump of his right arm, fountains out on the wall behind him, sprays the ceiling, floor, peppers the absurd, severed limb still cradling his pistol.
"Jesus!" Lawless shouts, horrified, but he rushes forward, removes his belt and begins to tie a tourniquet as I stand watch, still poised to shoot. Harry is shaking, shaking, shaking in shock from loss of blood, scarlet spatters still flailing from that useless, gory stump. But something is wrong. Harry's skin is turning a mottled, purple-blue. Lawless face is deathly pale-
"What's going on? Lawless!"
His hazel eyes shut tight. "Fatty embolism." He whispers. "The shot broke his humorus. The marrow's lodged in his pulmonary artery-"
I don't understand. Can't understand. Lawless-my partner, doctor, friend-does nothing. "Do something!" I shout desperately.
"I can't." Lawless whispers. "Nothing I can do. Nothing anyone can do." For sixty-seven slow seconds we watch Harold Shumaker suffocate. His blue eyes bulge, his muscles spasm, he gasps, froths, wets himself…and suddenly, he's gone. It was agonizing, humiliating, inglorious-no more, no less than he deserved. Lawless bows his head. I send a stack of boxes scattering across the floor with a vicious, vengeful kick. Let out a scream, fall to my knees panting in pain, in anger, in bloodlust. I needed Harry alive. Needed his testimony, his plea bargain, needed to bring closure to my stint in this racist Hell…but I'd be a liar to say that killing him wasn't what I really wanted. The op is blown. Blood leaks out the disembodied arm. Civilians dead, an uninvolved officer murdered, no evidences, no confessions…Four months of planning, three-hundred thousand dollars, and sixteen lives, all wasted. They called a bus, of course; but it doesn't take more than a few seconds for the EMT's to confirm it: Harold Shumaker, like Sergeant Sean Norton, like so many nameless innocents, is dead.
My mind is lost in a hopeless haze, too apathetic to be angry. Allen and Montoya come. Take our statements as we wait on forensics. Me, Lawless, Harry and that arm, laying obscenely in a surreal sea of scarlet. Nora and Taylor snap their pictures. Argue jurisdiction. The body belongs to the Coroner's office, but the hand-still clenched around that pistol-is holding Forensic evidence. Besides, Taylor argues, Forensics needs to do a GSR test on both the corpse's clothes and the hand to confirm that shots were indeed fired by that arm, and pre-amputation.
But Nora needs the arm to confirm the amputation was done pre-mortem.
There's only so much anyone can take. And this mother of a day just kept giving and giving and fucking giving. A fellow officer, dead. Our key witness and his conspirators, dead. Four months of undercover work, planning, all our leads, gone. And twelve civilians, all dead. Gone. Lives, time, money, effort, innocence…
"You think we staged this," I state, shaking in anger. "You think-after all that carnage outside-that we fucking faked this crime scene?" Lawless places a calming hand on my shoulder, but the hurt won't be assuaged.
"Dt. Paltron, it's only your word and your partner's as to what transpired here. There were no other witnesses." Nora states coolly. "It's been my experience that partners in the GCPD tend to cover for one another."
"They're just covering their bases, Paltron." Lawless says. "Just taking precautions-"
"They're covering their asses," I sneer in disgust.
"What I and Dr. Taylor are doing," Nora corrects hawkishly, "is making sure evidences match the given statements allowing your names to be cleared. It's a precaution and it's necessary-all the more so because one of you has a reputation for destroying evidence and obstructing justice. Do I make myself clear?"
"That was extenuating circumstances!" I'm losing it, losing perspective, losing control, afraid of losing my job, losing the trust of those I depend on to make arrests, to get the evil and corruption off our streets-
Taylor looks taken aback. But Nora Fields doesn't even so much as blink. "Aren't they all."
I'm numb with fury. I don't remember the walk back outside. There was Nora and Harry and a sea of blood and a grasping limb floating in the blood-red sea…but now a reassuring voice, the smell of acrid smoke, the feel of Lawless' hands on my arms guiding me forward, away from this mess. But there's no getting away from it. No escape. The wailing sirens, the din of the press, the weeping of survivors and the gurgle of fire-hoses are the only sounds in this bleak and barren landscape-
My fault. It will always be my fault.
Haddad the Fire-Marshall is waiting for us. And Gordon, Jim Gordon. Once I called him friend, once he was my partner…now he's just my boss. One look, one downcast, wearied look of haggard, stoic patience is nearly enough to drive me to bitter tears. Gordon doesn't say anything-he doesn't have to. We hit rock bottom. Fucked up as much as possible. And nothing the brass can say or yell or suspend without pay could ever make it worse than it already is…nothing but the loss of another life.
…but perhaps not everything was wasted. Perhaps out of that wreckage something can still be salvaged. Perhaps the thirteen innocent people who died that day didn't die in vain. The Simmons identity is shot as far as an operations standpoint, but according to the DMV and social security, Persephone 'Perci' Simmons still exists. And more importantly she has department issued credit cards.
I open my wallet reluctantly, and pull the fake driver's license and credit cards from a hidden pocket. I find myself staring at a grotesque picture of myself-a picture of Perci Simmons, a woman and a role over the last year that I've done my best to try to forget.
You ready for this, bitch? I ask her.
Fuck yeah, she hisses. Born ready.
…Then it's time for us to do some serious shopping.