The Clarity of Cold Steel

TYPICALLY, I don’t mind waiting. When you’re waiting, no one’s shooting at you, punching you in the face, threatening to kill you. It’s boring, sure, but boring time is slow time. Boring time makes your life seem longer, and we all get to the point where we want our lives a little longer. Just today ain’t that day.

Today, I’ve asked a friend to stick her neck out on my behalf by sending her out into a cathouse that moonlights as a lion’s den which is where and what Sweet Sally is doing right now. It’s the feeling of helplessness, of impending doom, that really gnaws at your gut. Pacing doesn’t help for long. Booze does, but only short term. You get too tight and you’re no good to anyone. You have to think of something completely different. Or focus on stuff that matters precisely. Hone your plan. Know it by rote. Go over it in your mind. So I study maps. And I drink.

A lay of the land may not seem too sexy, but it can save your life in a stitch, when the whole world goes to shit. And that’s really the only thing you can always count on it doing. And the more I study the maps and the more I consider, the more certain I am that the new building next to the power station is where Gortham is, or where he will be, or most likely, where he was. Shit.

I check on Brooklyn again, lying in bed, snoozing softly. Then I recheck my weapons. I’ve my Webley-Colt, as per usual, and my new small sword along with a couple of knives which I’m hoping don’t come in too handy. I’ve a new split-shooter derringer, an over under rig that fits nicely into my boot and, finally, a pair of buzz-cutter grenades. Nasty little bastards, good for sabotage, wholesale slaughter, or just getting the hell out of—

“Huh?” I turn at a light knock on the door followed by feet skittering away. “Sal?” I almost blurt, but I choke it back. Hesitate.

A few seconds later and there are more footsteps in the hall. Light. Furtive. Many. The sliver of light from under the door winks out. It sure as shit ain’t Sweet Sally. Someone’s onto us. Me. Somehow. Or am I being paranoid?

I blow out the lamp. My Webley-Colt’s massaging my palm as I rise from the table, sliding silently across to Brooklyn’s room, gun trained on the door with each step. Is it the cops? The man in the iron mask? Or someone else?

“What—?” Brooklyn lurches up in bed as I clamp a hand over his mouth.

“Easy…” I’m dragging him kicking and grumbling muffled from his bed. He lets loose a stifled squeal as his broken leg hits the floor. He’s wheezing in agony as I half-drag half-carry his ass across the room.

A key slides into the lock of the hallway door. Cautiously. The key’s teeth push the tumblers up, clinking softly, metal kissing on metal, one by one.

I slide the curtain back from the roof access door, tightening my grip on Brooklyn as he nearly collapses.

The key turns, ratcheting the lock open almost silently. Whoever’s there is patient. He doesn’t come bustling in.

“Shhh.” I pull open the roof door, freezing, my stomach dropping an instant when I realize I might be between the teeth of a trap ready to close. You never do know. You think you’re dodging the teeth, sidestepping them, clever as fuck, but maybe the trap ain’t what you think it is. And maybe you ain’t so clever. Maybe the bastard who set it’s smarter than you. Luckier. Or just plain meaner. In my mind’s eye, from the darkness beyond, I see the barrel of a gun jammed into my face, hammer cocked back, ripe and ready for ending this painful game. But the mirage fades — I blink — and there’re only the stairs leading up to the rooftop.

Letting the curtain fall back, I ease the door shut behind us. I’m halfway up the stairs when I hear someone try to open the door. The chair I’d wedged under the doorknob stiffens and creaks as the door forces into it. It holds. But it won’t for long. We’re up the stairs in a protracted scramble of stifled curses.

As I shoulder the scuttle hatch off the roof access and slide it aside, below, I hear the door to Sweet Sally’s room explode inward. Shards splinter, tinkling like raindrops against the far wall. A righteous kick from a steam-jack, most likely. How’d they know I was here? But it’s a thought for later. Lizard-brain time, react, retreat, regroup. Unless they know the room, whoever it is, it’ll take them a few seconds to find the attic door.

“C’mon,” I grunt as I lever Brooklyn, kicking and squirming, out of the roof hatch, his splinted leg flailing.

Brooklyn’s game, though, scrambling across the roof like a gimped-up crustacean as I grab the stowed flight harnesses and drag them after.

“Up,” I say, holding out one of the harnesses.

Brooklyn grimaces, his hands scrabbling at the parapet as he pulls himself up, balancing on his good leg against the short wall. He huffs a breath out. “Damn…”

“Don’t need legs to fly.” I slide the backpack harness over Brooklyn’s shoulders. “C’mere.” I cinch the shoulder straps down tight, a few sharp tugs that nearly fell him on the spot. Then I buckle him round the waist and drop to one knee and grab his wrist. “Ready?”

“No.”

“Good.” I fireman carry him up so he’s sitting on the parapet. “You sell me out again?”

One eyebrow goes up for an instant, quizzical; he shakes his head. “I’m done with that shit.”

“Good.” I throw a leg up on the parapet, holding his shoulder harness tight, looking out over the invisible wind, vertigo stunning me like a hammer fist, the sheer drop of building melding into wheel, city splayed out beneath us, the sea beyond, infinity encompassing all. “Landing’s gonna be a bitch.”

“Rrrrg.” Brooklyn adjusts. “You said it, my man.”

“Look for a soft spot,” I grunt, stepping up, slinging him out into emptiness.

Then I’m collapsing to my knees, fingers splayed out across rough stone as I stare down into the abyss, nearly shitting myself rotten when Brooklyn just drops down stone-straight, careening faster and faster. Frozen in terror, I kneel there gasping, glaring, staring, eyes straining for something, some hint or glimpse of the imp flying, a speck, a glimmer, a mote, but all is black and evenfall and my eyes are damned along with the rest of me.

Then from behind, the bastards start shooting.