Rise of a Phoenix: Rise of a Phoenix (10 page)

The other men laughed at him as he wiped the stinking saliva from his lips.

“I see you have a date later tonight, Vladimir,” one of them joked. He just spat and gave them the bird.

“OK boys, I’m in. Let’s do this.” McCall spoke as she headed for the bar, which ran across the right side of the room. In the centre lay a long stage with mirrored sides, where scantily clad girls performed erotic acrobatics on long shiny poles, while others danced in cages, which hung around the dimly lit room. The walls were covered in red patterned wallpaper and the floor covering was of wooden tiles. She arrived at the bar, which also had mirrors on the front of it, as well as brass fittings, which reflected the lights from the stage into her eyes, almost blinding her. McCall sat on a bar stool nearest to a wall which was one end of the bar counter. The seat rocked as she perched on it and she pretended to have lost her balance—the bar keeper quickly grabbed her arm to steady her. She thanked him in a drunken way, and he smiled.

“What can I get you honey?” said the young handsome man in the black silk shirt. He had dark greased-back hair and his bulging muscles tried to push their way through his shirt every time he bent his elbow.

“Get a beer ppllleeease,” she slurred.

He backed away quickly.

“Sorry, but I think that you have had too many.” He carried on polishing the glasses. “I tell you what. I get you a coffee? Yes coffee,” he said, picking up a cup and filling it from the machine behind him.

She thanked him and started to drink the coffee without gagging: one cup of this and you would be sober in no time, she thought. McCall put down the cup and spun round so that the camera could get a view of the room, which was full of businessmen and old army vets. In the corner of the bar sat an old bum who was busy eating peanuts and talking to himself.

“We got anything yet?” she said to him furtively as she pretended to look through her purse.

“No nothing,” he replied. “Wait. Guy at the far side of the room, he just came in.”

She looked up to see a group of men in suits shaking hands and greeting one another.

“Is that him, is that the owner?” she said softly, but before she could get an answer a man came up to her screaming and yelling.

“Who you talking to lady? Who sent you? My fucking wife?” The short stocky man almost ripped her from her seat. The bartender shot round to try and calm things down.

“You can tell that bitch she can.....” Those were the last words the newcomer uttered, just before three bullets pasted through him and also into the bartender, sending him flying back behind the bar.

Chaos ensued as bullets flew and flashes from weapons lit up the dimness. McCall spotted the men disappear from where they came from.

“Suspects moving into a back room, request backup and medical, multiple civilian casualties, I’m in pursuit.” She didn’t wait for an answer, which she knew would be to stay put wait for the cavalry. But every second she waited, the further away they got.

She made it to the door and, with her weapon ready, she opened it slowly, just enough to see the coast was clear. Sliding slowly through the opening she moved through to the back of the stage. It was dark and silent, the two worst combinations for her, but she pushed on. Her arms ached as every muscle in them was tensed ready for action, and she felt the adrenalin course through her veins. Moving slowly and deliberately, checking corners as she went, until a green light illuminated her, she looked over to the “
Exit
.” sign and smiled.

A black-haired man suddenly burst through the door, his weapon blazing. McCall took cover behind a stack of old crates. Suddenly there was a
click, click, click
which she knew signified an empty magazine. Flying out of the cover, weapon pointing at the goon, she yelled,

“Drop it!” But he just reached for his back up. Putting two rounds into him, he dropped firstly to his knees then his face smashed against the hard floor.

Slowly, she inched the door open, keeping as low as possible. Shots rang out and the wood above her head splintered, as automatic fire peppered the door. After returning fire McCall heard someone cry out, then silence. She looked in front of her and saw a stack of heavy looking crates; if she could just get across to them, it would be a start.

McCall got up and opened the door, using a mop. Bullets continued to hail through the alleyway, but now that the door was perched open she had a chance. She sprinted then dived down as bullets followed her movement. But she was safe—for now.

She drew a breath; McCall knew that staying here was not an option. They were getting away or worse, they were setting her up and
where was the backup?
She thought, panicked at the idea of being alone to face this danger.

McCall took three good breaths, then she was ready. She didn’t know what for but she was ready. Rolling out, she was expecting a hail of red-hot copper-coated death but there was nothing: the alley was empty. The detective got up slowly and moved keeping in cover, down to where she had just seen a door slowly close. As she passed a dead goon who lay slumped on the ground she realized that some of her shots had hit home and she felt a little easier.

“OK, McCall, you got this,” She said to herself. She opened the door slowly and edged her way through. It was dark with only faint shards of light to help her eyes adjust, and as she moved round she could feel some things that seemed to ran upwards and downwards. They felt coarse, as if they could be ropes. Where the hell was she? Moving softly and slowly she came across what felt like fabric, heavy dusty fabric. She found a gap in the material and chanced a look. The sight froze her with fear. She was in an old theatre, and she was probably massively outnumbered. She decided that the best course of action was to retreat and regroup.

As she got to the door she noticed it was now shut and locked.

You have got to be kidding me
, she thought.

Her heart sank. The only way out was through the ordinances exit and, due to the large round auditorium it looked to be perfect as a shooting gallery. But she had little choice. McCall moved slowly, avoiding every shard of light that could give away her position. Before her stood a guard. He was of average height and build, and, more importantly, his back was towards her. Creeping up behind him, she held her pistol by the top slide and used the butt of the weapon to knock him out. As he fell she grabbed him so as to avoid a loud crash, which almost certainly would draw attention to her. Dragging him off into the dark, she smiled.

One down, lots to go
.

Her purse was gone and she had two ammunition magazines less, leaving only the one in the magazine housing.
Find somewhere to try and get a viewpoint,
she thought, calculating that her best chance was to find these bastards and take them out.

McCall crept along the side of the curtain and found some old props lying around, plus some large prop barrels and crates, trees made from cut-out wooden boarding. There were not many but just enough to provide cover. Sliding behind a load of old barrels and heavy turn-of-the-century chests, she sat for a moment gathering her thoughts, concocting a plan.
Damn it, where the hell is Steel
, she thought? Of all the times he just popped up when he wasn’t wanted, why in hell couldn’t he arrive when he was needed?

FIFTEEN

In the blackness he stood alone. Stan was a new boy on the circuit, there was no mistaking that fact, but he had potential and was very keen, that’s why they liked him. If they had not, the crew would have kicked him to the curb a long time ago. Sure he didn’t really have a Russian background as such, just some long lost grandparent who was later sent to Siberia after the revolt, but that got him in. After all, family is family. He was tall and athletic looking, his physique was more that of a wrestler than anything else, his brown hair was greased back and his new blue tracksuit made an annoying rustling sound but they wore such outfits, so he had to live with it.

He held the MP5 tightly, the feel of the metal and plastic felt good in his hands. He felt the power emanating from it, and he felt invincible. His orders were simple: don’t let the cop leave but don’t kill her. No, Samuel was going to have that honour and he would make her bleed first. His grin turned sour at the thought of that lady they had brought in days before. Her screams still rang in his ears, he could not believe what they had done to her. But that was the way it was, you had to do such things so people would respect you. His grip tightened and he felt the gun’s power once again.

Nothing would get past him. He was invisible, indestructible. He felt cocky as he acted out with the weapon approaching some invisible target.

“Oh, you think you can get past me do you, ay?” He stabbed the air with the machine gun to simulate firing at some imaginary foe. Yes, he was the man.

Behind him a shadow slithered down a rope that had been tied off at the base. The Shadow’s movement was slow and easy, taking its time coming down, until finally it was directly behind the gunman Stan, who was now busy fighting off whole hordes of cops. Two outstretched arms came closer and closer until, finally, one cupped his nose and mouth, the other applied pressure onto his neck. Stan fell silent, and with immense control, the Shadow brought him down and dragged his unconscious body away. The victor looked round for a brief moment then his attention went upwards before he disappeared into the darkness.

Ed looked down from the lighting walkway. The large wooden strip was old but still held his weight. He thought of how brilliant he had been to think of going up here, he had a full view of every part of the stage and seating area; nobody would get past him, especially that woman cop. He was a short but stocky man, tattoos covered his arms, and his shaven head reflected the small specs of light that had dared to creep into the hall.

He had tried to join the army but had failed his psychological examination. ‘Was too fond of killing, a danger to all around him’, was their conclusion. Damn doctors, what did they know, he thought? So he got in with the Russians, since they seemed to like his lust for the job. Even at twenty-five years old, he had done some questionable things for them, but he regarded such actions as thrilling.

Looking down, he saw nothing. Wherever the woman cop was, hiding they would find her eventually. He recalled the phone call from Samuel telling someone from outside to lock the doors so the cop couldn’t get out and that he would find her. He smiled at the thought of what he would be able to do to her, he just might film his actions and send the recording to the cops. He chuckled to himself, feeling that this job was too easy. A sound in the far corner got his attention, and he looked off to where the creak of wood had come from, but saw nothing. He stared closer into the darkness, hoping to see something he could shoot at. But this was the last thing he did before he felt a pinch to his neck and the sensation of falling, and then nothing.

Down below ‘Boris the Bruiser’ walked his patrol, shotgun in hand as he paced the small area at the far end of the backstage. He was a massive hulk of a man who on first appearance seemed to have no neck, just a head balanced on his shoulders. The automatic 12-gauge weapon looked like a child’s toy in his grasp but he knew how to use it. The other guys had been placed here and there but his was a great place, he thought. It was right next to the exit, so if someone was to try and come in or out they would have to contend with him. Even for his large size, he moved quietly.

Something in the corner caught his eye. Was someone there? It was not possible, the area was covered top to bottom. He moved in slowly, shotgun at the ready.

Sam McCall hid herself behind the barricade, her back leaning against the cold wood for comfort.

From the right side of her position, she heard a slight noise: not much of one, but sufficient to attract her attention. Her hands tightened on the pistol grip, her trigger-finger dug into the cold porcelain of the top slide. She felt her heart start to race as the noise came closer still, knowing that she had to be ready and focused.

Boris moved gingerly towards where he had seen something. It may be nothing, he thought, reasoning that this place had not been used in decades. Rats! What if it was rats, he wondered? A shiver ran down his spine at the thought of the beady-eyed rodents,
please don’t be rats
, he thought, his weapon now beginning to shake in his hand, as he got closer and closer.

McCall heard another sound to the left of her and she carefully dared to sneak a glance there. Edging round she saw there was nothing. She exhaled, and moved back to her position. As her back rested against the security of her hiding place, she felt someone standing to her right. McCall turned her head slowly; part of her did not want to find out what was there. Her mouth dropped open to find she was faced with a massive bald-headed man. Her breath left her body as he reached down and picked up as though she was a rag doll, pulling her close to his face. He breathed in her fear, and she glimpsed badly fitting teeth as he gave her a wicked grin.

“I’m a police officer and you need to let me go!” She yelled.

He found her mixture of fear and attempt at intimidating him amusing.

“Hello, little fish,” he said, in a deep booming voice. “The boss has a surprise for you, do you like surprises?”

She shuddered at the thought of what he meant, but then her eyes widened. He was confused, and she was no longer looking at him but behind him. Was someone there? He turned to look and a wave of fear washed over him.

Samuel was the boss. He was a tall well-dressed man, and long white hair rested on his shoulders. He was Russian through and through, and after the Berlin wall came down in the 90s, he knew that it was time for change, so he came to America to exploit the enemy, and business had boomed. He brushed off his blue Italian suit that had cobwebs clinging to it from the stairwell he had come up; he knew he was safe at this vantage point in the presidential booth.
Who knows, maybe this was the booth that Lincoln was killed in, nice touch
, he thought.