Perpetual Motion (19 page)

Banging his shin on the lip of the tub,
Cynical cursed, limped, and dripped toward the female voice leaving
a message. Assuming it was Amanda calling him back, he hurried to
catch her before she hung up. In his haste, his hip clipped the
corner of a dresser. By the time he reached the phone, he was
painfully awake.

“Cynical?” the young female repeated
urgently. It was Karen. “Are you there?”

“I’m here,” he stammered. “Hello?”

“Michael called!” she exclaimed. “I know
where he is!”

“Did you hear me? I know where he is,” Karen
repeated, almost breathless with excitement. “He told me - ”

“Wait,” Cynical said, cutting her off.

His “bug man,” Angelo, was good, but it was
possible he could have missed something. Even if the apartment was
completely clean, he knew there were other techniques, such as
aiming a laser through a window to pick up voice vibrations. While
it was advanced technology, this outfit seemed to have access to
the latest gadgetry. Sometimes, a little paranoia was in order.

“Don’t say it out loud.”

“Okay,” she said nervously.

“Just tell J.T. to sit tight with you,”
Cynical instructed. “I’ll be right over.”

Hanging up, the PI grabbed his wallet, keys,
and cell phones in-between articles of clothing. Five minutes
later, he was dressed and out the door, leaving droplets of
bathwater behind him. Eight minutes later, the Impala was roaring
out of the parking lot.

It was late and traffic was mercifully light.
Taking full advantage of the open streets, he made good time on
Santa Monica Boulevard, by the boy bars of West Hollywood and the
stores of consumer porn in Beverly Hills. Passing through the palm
tree lined boulevard, he felt a surge of excitement; it felt good
to be back in the game.

Calming himself down, he tried to think
through his next steps. Should he take Karen down to the garage to
talk, or have her write down her conversation with Michael? Okay,
so now, maybe, he was being full-blown paranoid. It was hard to
know anymore.

His cell phone rang and, seeing it was coming
from “University Circle,” he immediately picked up.

“We - have an - emergency,” a male voice was
already saying in broken stutters. “I repeat - ”

“Who is this?” Cynical demanded to the
fragmented voice.

“Karl!” the security guard hissed.

“Karl? What’s going on?”

“It’s the Mob,” he said in a rush. “They’re
here!”

“Where are they now?”

“Upstairs,” he cried. “I hear shooting!”

Cynical swallowed hard as his stomach twisted
into a tight knot. “Okay, slow down,” he said, trying to sound calm
for Karl’s sake. “Tell me what happened. When did they get
there?”

“A few minutes ago,” Karl said after a quick
inhalation. “I saw a couple of SUVs pull into the garage on my
monitors - about five people got out and took the elevator. I
called upstairs - tried to warn them. Then the gunshots started!”
He stopped for a moment, on the verge of hyperventilating. “They’re
still shooting!”

“Get under your desk and stay there,” Cynical
commanded.

The line went dead just as the traffic light
turned red in front of him. Hitting the gas, Cynical sped through
the light. No longer thinking of anything but getting to the kids,
he ran what seemed like an endless series of red lights that had
suddenly conspired to close off the cloistered enclave of Beverly
Hills.

When a police siren sounded behind him,
Cynical wondered what had taken so long. Pushing the noise out of
his head, he speeded up, weaving around the other motorists like a
crazed stunt-car driver. Some pulled over to let him his pass,
while others laid on the horn and gave him the LA salute.

Veering from North Santa Monica Boulevard
onto Wilshire, he madly charged in front of breaking cars. A near
miss slowed him down, but only for an instant. Accelerating away,
the Impala left a cluster of vehicles to untangle themselves and,
by the time the police cruiser weaved through the traffic jam, he
was gone.

Momentarily free of the sirens, Cynical
considered calling J.T.; then thought better of it. If shots were
fired, the security guard probably had his hands full. Besides, a
ringing phone could give away a position. Instead, he pushed
through the city; screeching tires and honking horns echoing in his
wake.

In spite of the chaos swirling around him, a
singular question managed to take shape. These people had waited to
attack until just after Karen had received a call from Michael… So,
how did they know when the call came in? The only answer was they
had missed a bug, or these people had inside information.

Approaching University Circle, his phone rang
again.

“Yeah!” Cynical barked, as he skidded up to
the front of the building.

Heavy breathing. “They’re on the – way -
out,” J.T. said, barely able to push the words out. “They got
Karen.”

Realizing Karen’s abductors were on their way
to their vehicles, Cynical whipped the Impala around in the
circular drive. Three hard rights later, he was plunging down into
the garage. Bouncing hard over a speed bump, he hit his head on the
roof of his car; then nearly sideswiped an illegally parked
Mercedes.

Just as Karl had reported, two expensive
looking black SUVs were parked by the elevators. Knowing they would
be coming out any second, Cynical instinctively reached for the gun
under his seat. Considering they would have Karen with them, and
not trusting his own aim, he dropped the gun and the prospects of a
bloody shoot-out.

Now would be a good time for the FBI to make
an appearance, he thought in desperation. Of course, that would be
too much to ask. They only seemed to show up when he didn’t want
them around. And that gave him an idea.

In a moment of inspiration, he parked, jumped
out, and rolled underneath his own car. Fumbling around, he found
what he was looking for underneath his wheel well, right where he
left it. He gave the transmitter a yank just as the elevator
“
dinged
.” Sliding over to the closest SUV, he slapped the
homing device to the chrome bumper.

The elevator doors opened.

Scrambling for cover, he was totally exposed
for about fifteen feet. Ducking low, he managed to get to the other
side of the closest parked car, a silver Scion. Still crouching,
Cynical listened to the shuffle of shoes and a muffled cry that
could have come from Karen. Doors on the SUVs opened and slammed
shut; motors started.

At that moment, what seemed to be an
incredibly loud ringing came from underneath him. Jabbing his hand
into his pocket, Cynical snapped the phone to silent. Irritated, he
checked the screen and recognized the 301 area code. It was a
number he had called earlier that night. Amanda’s timing was not
the best.

A back car door opened on the idling
Escalade, followed by sharp clipping sound on the concrete floor.
Flattening his chest to the pavement, Cynical listened as repeated
footsteps closed in on his hiding place.

Quietly as possible, he slid the length of
the boxy car an attempt to escape. Checking behind him, he watched
as a figure wheeled around, gun in one hand, cell phone in the
other. For a moment, he froze, like a dazed deer caught in the head
lights right before it becomes a hood ornament.

Perched on high heels, a woman clad in an all
black business suit coldly looked down at him.

“Amanda?” Cynical whispered hoarsely.

There was no happy reunion. No kisses, no
hugs. The beautiful face didn’t crack a smile, or exhibit any human
emotion for that matter.

Amanda just tightened her aim on her
target.

In what was perhaps his last conscious
thought, Cynical realized Karen’s apartment had not been the source
of the leak. He was the leak. When he’d taken Amanda back to his
place, he’d let the enemy inside. She’d left sometime during the
night, but not before she’d wired his place for sound. Now his
laziness and lust was going to cost him his life. Somehow, it
seemed tragically fitting.

Gunshots rang out through the parking garage,
reverberating off the thick concrete walls. Slamming his lids shut,
Cynical braced for the final blow. When it didn’t come after a
second or two, he opened his eyes and saw Amanda’s profile.
Distracted, she was peering around the back of the car, shooting
across the garage.

The shots hadn’t come from her.

Seizing the moment, Cynical sprang to his
feet and around the front of the car, abandoning his hiding place
as more gunshots rang out. This time they seemed to come from
everywhere at once, filling the garage with deafening
explosions.

Running for his life, he swung his head
around and caught a glimpse of the Mercedes he’d nearly hit coming
into the garage. Long gun barrels protruded out of half-rolled down
smoked windows - exchanging heavy fire with the Escalades.

It was J.T.’s back-up team and an extra
thousand dollars a night for the added protection suddenly seemed
dirt cheap. With the shooters in the Escalades momentarily
detained, he darted into the elevator’s alcove.

The steady volley of artillery continued a
few yards away while he rapped the “up” button with his knuckle. As
soon as the doors opened, Cynical rushed inside and punched “3,”
just as the elevator’s glass wall shattered behind him.

Even through the gunfire, he could make out
the distinctive sound of high heels coming closer. It sent a chill
through him. Sliding to the floor and leaning against the side of
the elevator, he stayed just out of the way of bullets whizzing by
- inches away. As the elevator’s steel doors closed, they began to
catch the flying lead.

Despite being shot up, the elevator still
worked. Slowly moving upward, Cynical stayed slouched against the
wall and opened his eyes. Breathing hard, he tried to ready himself
in case Amanda was taking the stairs to continue her attack on the
third floor.

When the elevator doors reopened, he
cautiously crawled into an eerily quiet hallway. Getting to his
feet, he moved down the corridor, nervously glancing back toward
the stairwell. Deciding Amanda wasn’t coming; he turned his full
attention to the hallway in front of him. A body was lying thirty
feet away.

A cold, clammy sickness gripped him as he
forced himself forward. He had seen his share of blood but, this
time, he felt personally responsible for it. As the unmoving man
came into view, a brief respite of relief washed over him.

The corpse was already dressed for his
funeral in a dark suit. Sunglasses hung askew; an ear piece dangled
out of his head like a malfunctioning robot. Staring at the man, he
recognized one of the men he’d fought at the Mirage.

Looking up, he noticed apartment 309 was
cracked open; a wild-eyed young man peered out before quickly
ducking back inside and dead-bolting his door. Continuing to 315,
he saw the walls around the shattered door were riddled with bullet
holes. This was really bad. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into
the war zone.

Inside, the room was a jumble of splintered
debris that had once been cheap furniture. Another one of the
“suits” was slumped in the corner; a patch of red on his shirt
matched a smear on the wall behind him. Beside the corpse, a line
of bullet holes dotted the wall before piercing a row of textbook
spines on a shelf.

A low moan rose up from behind an overturned,
riddled futon that lay cross the entrance to Karen’s bedroom.
Stepping into the bedroom turned foxhole, Cynical found J.T. behind
the makeshift bunker, a gun twitching in his hand. Miraculously,
the big man was still breathing in shallow gasps.

“They - got - her.”

“Hang in there,” Cynical said as he got out
his cell phone to call 911.

“I’ve already called the police and an
ambulance.”

Looking up, Cynical found the new voice
belonged to Karl, who had seemingly materialized in the middle of
the living room, accessing the situation with a terrorized
expression plastered on his face.

“Who’s that?” the security guard suddenly
gasped, pointing behind the PI.

Whirling around again, Cynical looked in the
direction of Karen’s bed.

Underneath the box-springs was a human hand;
the fingers gripping the carpet as it tried to pull itself out like
a zombie rising from the grave. Going over, the detective leaned
down and yanked the skinny arm all the way out.

Getting to his feet, Desmond looked around
like a frightened animal. “Is it over?” he asked, sniffling and
shaking.

“Yeah, it’s over.”

“J.T. told us to hide,” Desmond
explained.

J.T. groaned as if trying to support the
kid’s story with his dying breath.

“That’s all you could do,” Cynical
agreed.

In the distance, he heard the first yelp of
what would soon be a pack of howling sirens. “Hang in there J.T.
Help is on the way.” Putting one hand on Desmond, he nudged the kid
over the overturned futon. “Let’s go.”

Dazed, Desmond allowed himself to be led into
what was left of Karen’s living room.

“Stay with J.T.,” Cynical instructed Karl, as
he continued to move Desmond out into the hall.

Somewhat in a state of shock himself, the
security guard stepped over the couch and knelt beside the fallen
protector.

A charged atmosphere now permeated the
hallway as frightened residents had begun to trickle out, crying
and comforting each other. Opting for the stairwell over the
shattered elevator, Cynical helped Desmond stumble down the stairs.
Perhaps it was the adrenalin, but Desmond picked up speed with each
flight, as if trying to get out of a burning building.