As I ascended, relief spread through me as I saw that
Ramos was still pinned down in the stairwell below me.
I tried the door one flight above but it was locked from
the inside. There was no keypad I could see, no way
inside. So I kept going up, hunched over, trying not to get
shot or sliced.
One more flight up and I’d reached the top level of
the warehouse. Peering over the railing, my breath
caught in my throat when I saw that neither Ramos or
Malloy were still there. They weren’t on the stairwell
though, so I had a small window to figure out what the
hell to do.
The stairwell here had one door, and this had an electronic keypad. I tried several combinations, including
718, but none of them worked. But just as I was about to
give up and turn to my nonexistent plan B, I heard the
doorknob turn from the other side.
I stepped back to allow the door to open. The handle
turned and into the hall walked another man. He was big,
with a gleaming bald head, numerous tattoos running
down his arms. And, oh yeah, he was also holding a big,
black assault rifle.
I was hidden between the door and the wall, my gun
held out in defense, but the man didn’t see me as he raced
down the stairs. When he’d gone down several steps, I
spun around the closing door, stuck the gun muzzle into
the crack, threw it open and pulled the door shut behind
me just as I heard a startled “Hey!” from below.
Turning around, I found myself in a narrow hallway.
It was painted stark white. There were two doors at the
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other end, and I could see an LED light blinking red on
the farthest one.
Curt.
I ran as fast as I could to the other end and banged
on the door.
“Curt!” I shouted. “You in there?”
It took a moment, but then I heard someone say,
“Henry?”
“Yeah! How do I open this thing?”
“Four eight two one nine,” he said. “I saw the guy enter
it when he put me in here.”
I pressed the numbers on the keypad, and the light
turned green.
I yanked the handle and pulled the door open, just as the
door as the other end flew open, revealing the guy with the
rifle. He yelled some sort of curse, but I dove inside Curt’s
room and pulled the door closed just as a spatter of bullets
hit the metal. I held my foot against the door, keeping it
open just slightly to make sure we didn’t get locked inside.
“Holy shit,” Curt said, “you okay?”
“Yeah, fine,” I said, noticing a trickle of blood on my
arm where glass had cut me. “No big deal.”
“How the hell did you get away?”
“No time. Here,” I said, handing Curt the gun. “You’re
probably better with this than I am.”
Another round of gunfire hit the door, and we parted
on either side. Dimples punched out on our side of the
door every time a round hit it.
“That’s an M16,” Curt said. “A4, I believe. Thirty
round magazine. And he’s fired twenty-three of them.”
Another burst of gunfire shelled the door. Curt looked
at the dimples, said, “Seven. Get your shit together,
Parker, here we go.”
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Curt turned the handle and kicked the door open,
training the gun on the rifleman just as he was popping
out the old magazine.
“You move and I take your head off,” Curt said. The
man stood there, unsure of what to do, the magazine clattering to the ground. “Take your hand out of your pocket.”
He did so, holding a fresh mag.
“Drop it,” Curt said. The bald man looked at him,
trying to size Curt up. Then, instead of putting down the
magazine, he snapped it into place and raised it to fire.
Three loud reports exploded in the hallway, and the
rifleman was driven backward, three fresh holes in his
chest. As he fell he looked at Curt, surprised that he’d
actually pulled the trigger.
Without a moment of hesitation, Curt went over to the
fallen gunman and picked up the rifle. He checked the
the gun, butt first.
“You’ve used one of these before, right?”
“Um, not on purpose.”
“It’s easy. Safety’s already off. Aim with two hands
and squeeze. None of this holding the gun sideways or
upside down or any of that stupid gangster, Angelina
Jolie crap in the movies. You hold it straight, two hands,
squeeze hard for each round and take kickback into
account. Aim for the chest. Think you can handle that?”
“If I say no will it matter?”
“Not really, but we don’t have a choice. Come on,
Parker.”
Curt led the way, rifle snug against his shoulder, as we
crouched outside the door to the opposite stairwell from
where I’d come from. This was where they’d brought
him from, and somewhere below was the way out. And
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we had to get out fast, because the gunfire from both sides
was turning this place into Swiss cheese.
We stood on either side of the door, both of our guns at
the ready. Curt reached over and pulled it open, and as he
did I swung the gun into the opening, ready for anything.
It was empty.
Curt joined me, using the rifle as a sight to confirm that
we were the only people there. I could hear Curt breathing hard, but his eyes were focused. He nodded down.
I’d lead, he’d cover me.
He mouthed age before beauty. I gave him the finger,
and slowly crept into the stairwell.
If I remembered correctly, the entrance was three flights
below us. But looking down, I saw that the stairwell continued below that one to a basement. Four levels in total.
The noise in the stairwell was deafening, the gunfire
echoing all around us. I made my way down the stairs,
sensing Curt’s muzzle right above me.
The landing below us was empty. Curt stood one step
above me, then flicked the muzzle once. Two more flights.
My heart pounding, the gun shaking ever so slightly
in my hands, I moved down to the next level, the third
floor. Nobody there. One more to go.
Between the blood roaring in my veins and the deafening noise surrounding us, even if there was someone below
us hiding, we wouldn’t know. Only one way to find out.
No time for creeping around. I leaped down the next
flight, to the second floor, recognizing the same door
they’d brought us through, the same cameras recording
everything. Curt stepped onto the landing as well, the rifle
still aimed forward. He nodded at the door. I reached for
it, turned the knob. Felt it go. One step from freedom.
But then I looked below me, saw the landing of the
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next floor below us, and knew there was one more thing
to do. To
know.
Below us, on the basement landing, was a small pile
of black rocks. It was Darkness, the drug, the cherry
bomb Ramos was using to tear down the city. And I knew
what that basement was used for, and that I couldn’t leave
without knowing for sure.
I nodded to Curt. He rolled his eyes, said, “Come on.”
And he was on board to see what lay below us. To see
what kind of evil Eve Ramos had been waiting to unleash
upon this city.
51
The door below us opened with the same combination
as Curt’s holding cell. And as soon as that smell hit our
nostrils, we knew what we’d found. It was only when we
entered the room that we saw the extent of it.
The basement of the warehouse was nearly the length
of a football field, and nearly every inch of it was piled high
with pills, rocks and powders of different sizes and concentrations. There were bags of powder stacked fifteen feet
high, piles of black rocks that you could literally dive into.
I lowered my gun, the blood draining from my face.
“Holy shit,” Curt said beside me. “Are they supplying
the whole country?”
“That’s the idea,” I said. “First New York, then anywhere that needs a fix. And I don’t see any mixing agents
or supplies here, so my guess is it’s brought in across our
borders somehow.
“This is incredible,” I said. “But we can’t let it survive this.”
“What do you mean?”
“Makhoulian,” I said. “Who knows if he’s the only cop
in on it? We let this stuff go into evidence, what are the
odds it leaks out? Seventy-five? Ninety?”
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365
“So what do we do?” Curt said.
“I don’t know, but this place has to burn.”
As I said that, a hail of gunfire drilled the wall behind
us, sending us running for cover. It had come from
inside somewhere.
“I know you’re in here, asshole,” the voice yelled. It
was Rex Malloy. “Let’s make this easy.”
Another round let loose, this time grinding up a pile
of black rocks beside me, the dark soot raining into the
air, burning my eyes. I sure as hell hoped Curt was
counting this guy’s rounds, too.
Curt was crouched behind a steel beam. He tried to
lean out to look, but gunfire drove him back behind it.
Asshole.
Only one asshole. That was my chance. Malloy
thought there was only one of us.
I ran around the side of one pile, then crouched down,
holding the gun in front of me. I tried to listen for footsteps, but heard nothing. Then more gunfire sounded,
aimed at Curt’s hiding spot. It was a matter of seconds
before he got close enough to get a good shot.
I rounded the pile, gun outstretched, and saw two boot
heels pass me. Rex Malloy. He was closing in on Sheffield.
As he passed, I stepped out behind him and raised my
gun to his chest level. As Malloy raised his gun to fire, I
could see the side of Curt’s face. And if I could see it,
Malloy could hit it. One shot. That’s all I had.
So I pulled the trigger.
The force of the gunshot drove my hands upward, but
I didn’t stumble. Rex Malloy grunted as he fell forward,
his rifle clattering to the floor as he fell. And then he lay
there, still.
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“Oh my God,” I said, stepping over the body. “Oh my
God. Curt? You there?”
Sheffield came out from behind the beam. “Nice
shooting, Tex.”
I looked at him, then felt like I was going to vomit.
Then something stirred, and I felt something crack the
side of my head.
I fell down, shook it off, and turned to see Rex Malloy
standing up. There was no blood, nothing. Then I saw
the hole in his vest. He rapped it once with his knuckle.
“Was a nice shot,” he said. Then as he raised the rifle
toward me, a gunshot rang out and Malloy fell to one
knee, blood spurting from his leg. Curt ran up to us,
aimed at Malloy’s head, but the man struck out lightning
quick and knocked the gun from Curt’s hand. Then he
punched Curt in the throat.
Sheffield, wheezing, tried to catch his breath, but
Malloy was on top of him. He wrapped his hands around
Curt’s throat and began to squeeze. My head throbbing,
I picked up Malloy’s dropped rifle, ran over, and drilled
the butt into Malloy’s head. He went down, but was
simply shaken.
As he tried to get up, Curt stomped on Malloy’s hand,
a sickening crunch as his fingers broke. Malloy cried out.
Curt placed his knee on Malloy’s left shoulder, pinning
him. I ran over and grabbed his other arm, trying to neutralize the man’s strength. Then Curt reached over and
grabbed a handful of the black gravel and shoved it into
Malloy’s throat.
The former Special Forces operative hacked and
coughed, but Curt drove him backward with a vicious
head butt, and I could hear Malloy swallow the rocks.
Then Curt raised his fist and brought it right onto
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367
Malloy’s windpipe. Once, twice, until there was another
sickening crack as his windpipe broke.
Malloy tried to claw at his throat, but we held him
fast. Finally the man stopped struggling, his eyes glazing over. Curt felt the man’s pulse, looked at me, nodded. We were both breathing hard, and the side of my
head felt wet.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” I said.
“Good plan. Come on.”
We ran back to the stairwell and up one flight, bursting
through the door into the late-morning sun. The sudden
glare caused us to cover our eyes, but when we opened
them we saw a phalanx of cops outside the warehouse,
guns trained on us.
“Don’t shoot!” a voice yelled. “He’s a cop!”
“And he’s a reporter!” yelled another.
Jack. I laughed, never happier to hear the old man’s
voice.
Three cops ran over to us, guns trained, and led us
back to the group. We were dirty, bleeding, but didn’t
feel any of it.
The shooting had stopped. All guns were still trained
on the warehouse, but the area had gone silent. The calm
after the storm.
Then I felt a pair of arms squeezing me to death, and
I looked up to see Jack O’Donnell.
“Jesus Christ, kid, what are you, a method journalist?
You don’t need to kill yourself to get the story.”
I laughed, hugged the man right back. “You followed
us,” I said.
“Damn right. I have to admit it was a little selfish.
Didn’t want you and your cop buddy learning the truth
without me.”
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Jason Pinter
A man came over to us. He said, “Louis Carruthers,
Chief of Department. Who’s left in there?”
“I don’t know. At least three are dead. Leonard Reeves,
another gunman and Rex Malloy.”
“We�
�ve taken out another three, but we don’t know
how many there were to begin with. Are there any other
innocents? Do we need to go back in?”
“Back in? Why would you do that?”
“Look,” Jack said.
I turned around to see orange flames licking at the
windows of the warehouse, thick black smoke pouring
from inside.
“How’d it catch on fire?” I said.
“Don’t know,” Carruthers said. “But that smoke isn’t
from fire.”
“The Darkness,” I said. “Somebody’s burning the
place down from inside.”
Before I could speak again, I heard a single gunshot
report. Then there was something wet and sticky on my
chest. Then I looked into Jack’s eyes and knew what had
just happened.
“Henry,” Jack said, “what…”
Then the old man was flung backward, a red rose
blooming on his white shirt.
“Jack?” I said.
He looked at me as he fell, his eyes wide and fearful.
Then another gunshot sounded out, this one hitting the
adjacent car, less than six inches from where I stood. We
ducked for cover, waiting for the firing to end. I stared at
Jack, then quickly looked up to see who was shooting at us.
Eve Ramos was standing at the doorway, gun out, her
face covered in blood and ash.
And then a barrage of gunfire like I’d never imagined
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369
tore the air apart, ripping Ramos apart in a hail of bullets
and blood. Her body was flung through the air like a puppet,
her gun firing wildly into the air, before she fell, lifeless,
next to the burning building that housed her life’s work.
I knelt down next to Jack, a knot in my throat as I
hovered over him. A thin trickle of blood was streaming
from his mouth.
“We need an ambulance!” I shouted as loud as I could.
“Somebody help us!”
Two cops ran over, one of them carrying an orange kit.
He placed it beside Jack, opening it, and began to work
on my friend. My mentor. The man who was responsible
for the person I’d become.
“You’re gonna be fine, Jack,” I said, holding his hand,
praying for one squeeze.
Jack’s eyes were open, and to my surprise he was actually
smiling. That’s when I felt that squeeze, the old, cracked
palm in mine. The blood on my shirt from a man who’d lived
a life that had seen more than I could ever hope to.
“It’s okay, Henry,” he said, his voice weak, raspy. “I’ve
told my story.”