SHANK (A Wilde Crime Series) (15 page)

Frankie’s response was drown out by the opening and
closing of car doors. They were getting out of the cab. “Move,” Oscar said. She must have complied because the phone cut out. Please, I prayed to the cell phone deity, ‘do not drop this call’.

“They stopped,” Andy yelled
as we flew through yet another intersection. “Looks like a warehouse by the pier.”

“Call Mickey again.
Tell him where to meet us.” We neared the warehouse, and I slowed the Jeep. I spotted the taxi next to a large shipping container, but there was no sign of Oscar or Frankie. The whole pier appeared deserted. A perfect spot for an ambush. Fuck. Stopping the Jeep, I removed my suit jacket and slipped the Desert Eagle from its holster. “You carrying?” Andy nodded. I held out my hand. “Give it here.”

“What? Why?”
He gave me the gun. A decent sized .38. I checked the load, flicked off the safety, and slipped it into my boot.

“Stay here.” My face was set in stone.
“Wait for Mickey and Drew.”

“You can’t go after him alone.”

“I need you here tracking the GPS.” I swallowed. “If something goes wrong and he gets away you have to follow that signal. It’s Frankie’s only chance.”

We were running out of time
so instead of arguing he nodded. “Be careful, Ian.”

“No!”
Frankie’s pain filled shout reverberated from somewhere inside the warehouse as the mobile in my hand went dead. I glanced at Andy, dropped the phone, and ran into Oscar’s trap.

A maze of steel containers, forklifts, and wooden shipping crates divided the warehouse into four sections. My eyes adjusted to the gloom created by the blackened windows in time to avoid tripping over a long metal pipe just inside the doorway. Slipping through entryway, I stopped and listened. Nothing. No sign of Frankie. The only sound was the rapid beat of my heart.

Out of the coroner of my eye,
I caught a flash of something thirty feet above me. Second floor. I strained to make it out. A pale pink high-heeled shoe. Fuck. I searched the shadows for a ladder or a staircase. Ten feet to my left was a rusty round-rung extension ladder. Awfully convenient. I climbed the rickety ladder. It groaned and creaked under my weight. So much for the element of surprise, if there was one. Reaching the top, I scanned the small dark corridor with the Desert Eagle. I wouldn’t walk into an ambush a second time.

The
scuffed shoe lay inches from my hand. Dread filled me. I studied it for inspiration. None came. The voice in my mind screamed to hurry the fuck up. But I reined the terror in. Panic could get you killed. Freeze you in place while the enemy drilled you full of holes. I’d seen it happen. If I fell apart Frankie was dead. Plain and simple.

I noticed the tear in the sole, then. It wasn’t a common break. The heel bent to the right,
ripped on purpose and by hand, Oscar’s trail of breadcrumbs leading the lamb to slaughter. But not this time—I wouldn’t be an easy mark. I tried to think like the deranged, homicidal maniac hiding somewhere up ahead. Hallway. Door on the right. Two on the left. Was Oscar right or left handed? I tried to remember. My mind flashed back to six weeks ago and the growing pool of blood surrounding me. Oscar stood above me…gun in his...right hand. The room on the right. The perfect place for a surprise attack, dark and closed off with only one entrance or exit. He’d have a shot as I came down the hall—clean and quick.

Shit. I had to find another way
in. I climbed down the ladder, making sure anyone within a hundred yards would hear me. I ran out of the warehouse, checking for a way in that wouldn’t get me killed. I found it, thirty feet above the hard concrete—a single-paned, security window.

Rope. I needed rope.
Rushing back to the Jeep, I threw the back seat forward and searched for the jumper cables I’d seen earlier. “What happened?” Andy asked, shaking his laptop. “I lost the signal.”

“It’s a setup.” Finding
the cables, I tugged on one end. They seemed sturdy enough, but were about ten feet short. “New plan.”

Mickey and
Drew pulled up and jumped from their car. “Where is she?” Mickey’s voice shook with a cross between rage and fear.

I pointed to the
window. “He’s got her up there. Waiting for me.”

“What’s
the plan?” His eyes filled with trust. Frankie’s life was in my hands, and that scared the shit out me. What if my plan went to hell? I filled him in as best I could. He nodded, taking a shaky breath. “We have to save her.” It was my turn to nod. Whatever it took, I would find a way.

“
It’s too dangerous.” Drew shook his head. “You’re not fucking Spiderman, you know?”

“It will work.
” My assurance, all show, and we all knew it. Nevertheless, Andy maneuvered the Jeep as close to the building as possible while Mickey searched his car for longer cables. Finding none, we tied the two shorter pairs together. “Once I’m in position, get his attention.” I pointed to the window. “But stay low. When you hear the glass break, grab Frankie get the hell out.”

I climbed on the hood of the Jeep and
took the jumper-cable rope from Mickey’s hands. With a hiss, I let it fly. It landed on the roof a few feet left of the intended mark. I released the slack until it caught and tugged it hard. It seemed secure. Only one way to find out.

Gripping
the hard plastic with both hands, I climbed up using my legs for leverage. Blisters formed on my fingers. The webbed skin between my thumb and index finger shredded. I ignored the pain. This was nothing like climbing the rope in gym class. No safety net or big-breasted Nurse Nancy waited below with a Band-Aid to ease the pain and humiliation of a fall.

Three feet from the window the
cable slipped. I fell backwards against the building with a smack. It knocked the wind from my lungs, but I held tight. Taking a shallow breath, I started climbing again. Finally I reached my position, about a foot above the window. My plan from here got hazy. I waved to Andy, letting him know all systems were a go. Gripping the sweat slicked Desert Eagle with one hand; I held the rope with the other. Andy blew the horn once. I kicked off from the building and swung my body at the window.

My boots made contact with the steel reinforced windowpane about the same time I realized this was a dumb idea. Glass shattered, flaying my shirt and exposed skin, as the rest of my body pushed through the flying debris field. I let go of the cabled rope and rolled across the floor. Oscar crouched against the far wall, shock registering on his face. In slow motion, he raised his weapon. Time wasn’t on my side, so I did the only thing that came to mind. I used my momentum to take us both down.

Unfortunately
he held onto the weapon and smacked it into my skull moments after impact. Stars blinked behind my eyes and darkness threatened. I shook it off. If I blacked out Frankie and I were both dead. Before he could hit me again, I latched on to a pressure point on his right arm. His muscles tighten under my grip, going slack as the pressure increased.

He dropped
his gun, much to my relief. I smashed my elbow into his jaw. His head snapped back. Breaking free from him, I scanned the room for Frankie. She was lying face down on the floor next to her shattered cell phone, not moving. Was she dead? Rage overwhelmed me as did a sudden and intense fear. I took a step toward her.

Oscar shook off my last punch
and charged, headfirst into my healing ribcage. His talon like fingers dug into the tender flesh and fractured bone. Pain stabbed across my senses, and a gray haze clouded my eyes.
              Lucky for me Drew and Mickey chose that moment to make their entrance, and I was able to break free. Wrapping my forearm around Oscar’s neck, I applied pressure, wanting to snap the vertebrate like a twig, and rip his head from his shoulders. Out of the coroner of my eye, I saw Frankie move her arm and my rage lessened somewhat. Don’t get me wrong, he was still going to die, but not so painfully.

“Get her o
ut of here.” I gestured to the floor.

Oscar
slipped a serrated knife from his belt. The glint of metal blinded me for a second. I tugged harder at his windpipe, hoping he’d blackout before the knife found its mark. Frankie groaned, drawing my attention.

Drew
grabbed her around the waist, hoisting her under his arms. “When we get home, you’re going to the gym,” he said to her. Drew balanced her with one arm and trained his gun on Oscar with the other. “C’mon girl, work with me.”

Oscar plunged the knife into my
thigh. I twisted to avoid impact, but not enough. Searing pain blinded me. Instinctively I dropped my arms. I did my best to stifle my scream and the pain. The knife blade entered my thigh, high and on the outside. Lucky for me, it didn’t hit a major artery. But blood gushed from the wound like a geyser nonetheless.

Oscar
escaped when I had dropped my arms, swinging the knife in an arch for the deathblow. Drew fired his gun. The bullet missed, striking the wall a few inches from my head. I glared at him. He gave me a sheepish shrug. What the fuck? “Shoot him,” I frowned, “not me.”

Again
Oscar took a swipe at me with the knife. Sidestepping, I reached for his arm, and we struggled. Drew took aim but didn’t fire, afraid he’d hit me instead, or at least I hoped that was his reasoning. Locked in battle, I slammed my foot on Oscar’s instep and sent a hard jab to his kidneys. If he won, at least he’d piss blood for a week.

Oscar retaliated with a mind numbing punch to my he
ad. Unlike in cartoons, little blue birdies failed to swoop through my vision. Instead, a loud ringing sounded in my ears and I stepped back, losing my grip.

Frankie cried, “Loo
k out.” With the serrated blade Oscar took a couple of jabs at me. One sliced through my shirt taking a chunk out of my right arm. It burned like a bitch, but I’d had worse.

Mickey must have expected
me to lose because he jumped Oscar, grabbing and twisting his knife hand. The knife clattered to the floor as I sent the palm of my hand into Oscar’s nose. The crunch of cartilage and bone was like a gunshot in the small room. Mickey fell backward as I wrapped my arms around Oscar’s neck, twisting with deadly force. It snapped with brutal efficiency. I stepped back, and Oscar dropped to the ground like a side of beef—dead—blood leaking from his right nostril.

I glanced
on the floor to Mickey and then to Drew. They both wore the same look of stunned surprise. My gaze went to Frankie. Her eyes were wide with horror, face bloodied and swollen. I felt like a monster, more so because I felt nothing at killing him. No remorse or guilt. He deserved to die, and I’d arranged it. Frankie was safe and that was all that mattered. “C’mon.” Mickey staggered to his feet, staring down Oscar. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

I agreed
, following Frankie and Drew down the ladder. Mickey trailed behind; probably worried I’d pass out or something. Blood seeped through my jeans. The searing pain in my thigh had lessened, and I only considered puking every few minutes. Once we made it to the Jeep, Andy helped Frankie inside and I climbed in slowly next to her. A thin trail of blood ran down her forehead. She looked dazed, disoriented.

“Frankie.
” I gently shook her when her eyes started to close. “Open your eyes, honey.”

She did as she was told, blinking at the bright sunlight.
“What happened?” She touched her hand to the bloody gash on her head. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

I w
rapped my arm around her as she vomited over the side of the Jeep.

“It’s okay. Everything’s going to be fine.” I turned to Mickey. “We’ll
get her to the hospital. You and Drew take care…” I trailed off. He nodded. Oscar’s body would be swimming with the fishes soon enough. “Meet us at the bungalow.”

“You’re bleeding.
” Frankie touched my arm.

“Like you should talk.” I took off my shirt and pressed it to t
he wound on her head, an angry red splotch appeared where the barrel struck her skull. The bastard had pistol whipped her. I wanted to kill him again.

“He’s dead,” she
said. It was a statement not a question, so I didn’t bother to answer.

Andy threw the Jeep in gear and
we left, alive and damn lucky.

“I don’t need a hospital,” Frankie said to me with a frown. Her voice was barely above a whisper. Each word sent a grimace of pain across her face.

“Don’t argue.”

Andy cut in, “You might not, but look at Ian. He’s a mess, I’ve seen better looking corpses.”

“Thanks,” I sneered. “Just pay attention to the road.”

Andy swerved to avoid an oncoming car. He didn’t have a license and about drove once a year. In the city, a car was a luxury most of us couldn’t afford to park. Drew was the only guy I knew with a car, but he lived in Brooklyn.

“Hey,” Andy said.
“I’m a very good driver.”

Frankie smiled, and I felt instant relief. She’d be okay. “How bad are you hurt?”
she asked me, concern replacing the dazed look in her eyes.