Savage Rage (28 page)

Jesse, the sidekick, hadn't fled with Lisa. Jack realized he was waiting for the showdown. He reminded Jack of a hyena, waiting on the fringe for the larger predators to make the kill. Waiting for his chance to feast.

“I tell you, Kayne,” Jesse the hyena called from a safe distance, “he's the one who iced that dealer. You do him, kill him and your rep is set. Forever.”

“Is that what this is about?” Jack asked in disbelief. “Your reputation?” He pointed at Jesse. “And what the fuck is your problem? What have I ever done to you?”

“What have you —” Jesse sputtered, spittle flying from his lips. “You fucking asshole!”

Eyes blazing a maniacal fury, Jesse threw himself at Jack. Jack met the attack with a stiff left jab and Jesse's nose, broken once before and never set properly, shattered again. Jesse fell to his knees and Jack shoved him away with a foot to the chest.

Kayne attacked.

Caught with one foot raised, Jack went flying and landed heavily on the wood planking. He rolled to his knees as Kayne rushed in. Jack blocked a knee to his face with his forearms, then wrapped his arms around Kayne's legs. Jack twisted, heaved and Kayne toppled. Jack scrambled to get on top of the man in the hoodie, but Kayne was too fast. Both men rose to their feet.

Training screamed at Jack the cop to pull his baton or pepper spray, but Jack the cop was gone, buried beneath a primal rage that wanted to do nothing but hurt. All the shit, all the guilt and fear that he had fought and suppressed for the past six months, tore free of their chains and raged forward.

Jack lunged for Kayne and they grappled standing up. Kayne drove a knee into Jack's stomach, then aimed another at his groin. Jack twisted and the knee slammed into his thigh. Pain, dulled by adrenalin, exploded in his thigh, but he ignored it and slammed his forehead into Kayne's face. The head butt caught Kayne on the cheekbone and Jack followed up with a short elbow to the mouth.

Kayne fought back, hitting Jack repeatedly in the body and head, but Jack shrugged off the blows, never really feeling any of them. The rage inside him was too powerful to be stopped.

Jack slammed Kayne against the metal railing. Had the railing been only waist high, Kayne might have gone right over. But it was a good seven feet high and his head clanged off a metal post. He sagged in Jack's grip, but the rage inside Jack wanted more. More pain, more blood.

He drew his elbow back and drove it powerfully, unforgivingly, into Kayne's mouth. Skin split, teeth broke, Kayne became a dead weight in Jack's arms. Jack let him drop to the planks.

Chest heaving, Jack fought to slow his breathing. He looked to his right and there was Jesse, cowering, no doubt wanting to flee, but Jack was between him and the exit. No longer was Jesse a hyena: he was a little cowardly shit.

Jack pointed a finger at him. “Stay put.”

He pulled out his handcuffs and bent to flip Kayne onto his stomach. Kayne's hand lashed out fast and Jack was too slow. The slate's razor edge slashed his neck and he felt a sudden burning across his throat. He staggered, his hands to his throat.

And in that instant, when he was positive he was dying, that little voice from the back of his head spoke again. Calmly. Condemningly.

You couldn't save Sy. Now it's your turn to die. Karen was right all along.

Jack pulled his hands away from his neck, forced himself to look at them, to look and see only a small smear of blood.

“Almost got you, copper.” Kayne laughed as he used the railing to pull himself up. He swung his stone knife in lazy arcs. “C'mon, pig. Let's finish it.”

Jack glanced at the blood on his hands, the blood that told him how close he had come to dying and the rage flared anew. He threw himself at Kayne, who smiled in triumph and drove the piece of slate at Jack's stomach. Against flesh the slate was deadly, but it was practically useless against Kevlar. The stone hit Jack's vest, tore through the nylon carrier and jammed against the ballistic weave. The stone bit Kayne's hand, ripping open his palm's tender flesh.

Kayne screamed and dropped his weapon. Jack didn't notice. He grabbed Kayne's shirt, spun and flung him away. Kayne hit the wood that closed the gap in the railing and the flimsy barrier broke. He clutched madly at the wood still attached to the railing, but it could not bear his weight and tore free. His scream was cut short when he slammed into the street far below.

I hope he didn't land on anyone's car.

Jack's adrenalin was fading and his thigh was knotting up like a son of a bitch. He limped over to the gap, gripped the railing firmly and leaned over. Kayne was a crumpled mass on the asphalt.

Jack wiped his throat, then licked the blood from his fingers. He spat the blood at Kayne's corpse. He doubted he would hit the body, not with this wind, but he could always hope.

There was the sudden sound of running feet behind Jack and he realized he had turned his back on Jesse. Now he was leaning out into space with only one hand holding him safe.

You idiot, you fucking idiot.

But Jesse wasn't running at Jack. Jack watched as Jesse threw himself through the barricade and disappeared into the tunnel. Jack knew he should chase him, but he was just too tired.
Fuck it. I'll get him another day.

He pulled his mitre out and keyed it. “5103 with a priority.”

Karen is going to fucking love this.

Crap. Going home in the dark. Fucking lovely.

Jack pulled his old leather jacket around him as he plodded to his car. Old jacket, old car. Old but familiar and right now he could use some simple comforts; it had been one hell of a long day.

First there was the on-scene investigation of Kayne's death. Both Sergeant Rose and the detectives tore strips off Jack for getting suckered into such an obvious trap. Then a lengthy wait at North York General Hospital only to find out what he already knew: he was beaten and bruised, but nothing was broken. The cut on his throat wasn't severe enough to require stitching. Then off to the station to be isolated in an empty office and just when he was about to go nuts from boredom the Association-appointed lawyer showed up and Jack got to repeat the whole messy story.

Right now all he wanted to do was go home and crawl into bed. With his head pulled down into his collar for warmth and his thoughts far from the parking lot, he didn't see Sergeant Rose until he almost walked into her. He stopped just short of plowing into her, but the way he felt he probably would have been the one to go sprawling.

“Sorry, Sarge. Didn't see you.”

“No harm, Warren,” she told him with a tight smile. “I've been hit by bigger guys than you.” The sergeant was wearing her own beat-up jacket and had her car keys in hand.

“You're still not here 'cause of me, are you?”

“Yeah, but don't worry about it,” she reassured him again. “Someone had to run interference with the brass and SIU for you.”

“Thanks, Sarge, I appreciate that.” Jack grimaced. “Another SIU investigation. Lucky me.”

“Yeah, you've had one hell of a week, haven't you?” Rose looked quickly about, but they were the only people in the poorly lit parking lot. “Listen, Jack. I'm really not supposed to be talking to you about this, but I think you should know: no one on our end is looking at you as the bad guy in this. We'll leave that up to the pricks in the SIU.”

“Thanks. That's good to hear.”

No doubt the civilian investigators would work the evidence and statements any way they could to bring criminal charges against Jack. But that was shit to be dealt with on a later day.

“Listen, Sarge. I'm bagged and just want to get home; if I'm lucky, I can put off the fight with my wife until tomorrow.”

“You're a good man, Warren,” the big sergeant said, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. “If your wife doesn't appreciate that, call me and I'll fucking tell her.”

Jack smiled, picturing Karen and Sergeant Rose having a heart-to-heart. “Thanks, Sarge. I may just take you up on that. Good night.”

Jack had taken only a few steps when Rose called out to him. He waited, shivering inside his jacket — as much from exhaustion as the cold — as she plodded over to him.

“Fuck, sorry, Jack. I almost forgot to tell you.” She frowned as if she were having second thoughts; then she shook her head and plunged in. “You know Brett Douglas up in 53, right?”

Jack nodded. “Yeah. We worked together at times. He's a good guy. What about him?” Judging from Sergeant Rose's grim face, whatever had happened wasn't good. “Don't tell me he got involved in something, too. The last thing he needs is to have the SIU raking him over the coals.”

“He's dead, Jack.”

The blunt words hit him like a sledgehammer. His knees suddenly buckled and he would have hit the pavement if Rose hadn't grabbed him and leaned him against his car.

“What happened?” Brett dead? Jack had talked to him just the other day.

“He took his Glock home with him after work today and shot himself.” Again Rose was brutally blunt, as she should be; there was only one way to deliver shit news and that was quickly and directly. Explanations and answers could be given later.

Shot himself?
“An accident?” Jack asked hopefully, but he knew the answer.

Rose shook her head. “No, it wasn't an accident.”

“Shit,” Jack muttered. “I knew he wasn't feeling good, was going through some trouble, but not this. Fuck.”

“I'm sorry to tell you after the day you've had, but I figured you'd want to hear it sooner than later and from someone you know.”

“Yeah,” Jack mumbled, nodding absently. “It sucks, but thanks again, Sarge.”

“You okay to drive?” she asked, genuinely concerned. “I can have a scout car take you home.”

Jack laughed bitterly. “No, thanks. I think I've had enough of the Toronto police for one day.”

Rose understood. “Go home, Jack, and get some sleep. You don't have to come in tomorrow, so take advantage of it.”

Another sour laugh. “Yeah, I guess I'm off until the SIU decide how they're going to fuck me.”

“They may want to, but they can't,” she assured him.

Jack wanted to believe her, but he wouldn't consider himself safe until there was an official ruling. Preferably etched in steel.

He settled into his old Taurus and cranked the engine. Like Jack, the engine just wanted to sleep and it refused to wake up. “Ah, c'mon, please,” he beseeched the old beast and it finally coughed to life. He offered silent thanks to the car gods.

The dashboard clock told him it was 9:15. Well past his day shift bedtime. But then again he was officially off duty during the investigation. Right now he was Injured on Duty; if the SIU had their way, he'd probably end up suspended, pending charges.

“Like I give a fuck right now,” he told the tired cop in the rear-view mirror and the cop agreed with him. Fuck it.

He raised a hand and gave Rose a tired wave as she drove past. Her tail lights flashed before she turned onto Regent Street and as soon as her car was out of sight, Jack broke down.

“Damn it, Brett!” he cried. “Why didn't you call me? Why did you have to . . .”

He slumped in the seat and grief washed over him, a drowning tide of pain for a friend gone forever. For minutes he sat crying and in time the rawness searing his soul faded as he buried it beneath his cop mask.

“Sorry, Brett,” he said, his voice thick and sore from crying. “I just can't handle this right now.”

He palmed his tears away, the heel of one hand grazing the bandage on his throat. Jack angled the mirror to check his throat. The slash had scabbed, but the scab was ugly; the doctor had slapped a bandage on it. There was so much gauze wrapped around his neck it looked like he was wearing an ascot, for fuck's sake.

To take the bandage off or leave it on? What would freak Karen out the least? Or did it really matter? She was going to use his day as fuel for her argument to leave 51, to leave policing. Never mind that he had stopped a brutal, sadistic criminal. Or — here's a thought! — maybe Jack wasn't in the mood for a fight because he had killed someone today. Did anybody think about that?

Manny had. He had made it his personal mission to see that Jack didn't go hungry or thirsty all day and when he wasn't fetching food he was Jack's doorman and bouncer, screening anybody who wanted to speak to Jack. Jenny had stopped in as well, at both the hospital and the station. The support of those two got Jack through the day. He only hoped Karen would be as sensitive.

Yeah, right.

Jack sat in his car, reluctant to head home. It wasn't right. Sy had been right all those months ago when he told Jack that a supportive, understanding spouse was a copper's greatest strength. So why was Jack thinking about taking Jenny up on her offer to crash on her couch if he needed a sympathetic ear?

“Fuck it, Jack, just head home and get the fight over with.” He yawned, then scrubbed his face to wake up. “But first some caffeine.”

He paused at the parking lot's exit, considering where to get his hit of caffeine. “I think I deserve some of the good stuff and maybe a cookie to go with it.”

Jack turned south on Regent and west on Shuter, heading for the Second Cup at Church and Wellesley. An Earl Grey with honey and one of the oversized oatmeal cookies sounded just about perfect.

The sky was that oppressive grey-black only a late-winter night could fashion. Even the streetlights along Shuter seemed tired and dull. At least it wasn't snowing. God, he couldn't wait for summer.

Even though he was off duty, he scanned the streets as he drove. It was a habit he had developed when he transferred to 51 and it drove Karen nuts when she was in the car. He glanced at the Moss Park baseball field and hammered the brakes.