ANGEL BLUE [1]

LEAD 9: up in smoke

      “If you even scream Bloody Mary, I will put a bullet in your skull,” I threaten.

      The man laughs in my face, his stubble grazes my cheek as he takes a step back and spreads his arms wide as if inviting me to shoot him. By God I want to shoot something, but he isn’t my target. I’ll make sure that when I get back to the precinct (hopefully in one piece) I’m going to put three bullets into Helena’s chest and pray that her boobs don’t burst.

      “Your boy over there is tainting my meal,” the Night Crawler exhales the smoke in my face. “I like women with shiny toys. You can flash all the silver you want at me baby but that won’t save you from my pals.”

      “Special Agent Samuel Pingelly, FBI,” Sam reaches to his belt to unclip the silver handcuffs. “You’re under arrest for man slaughter in the first degree.”

      Sometimes I get the feeling that Sam likes to announce his title just to hear the sound of his own voice, or hearing his own name. He steps behind me in the doorway and shows the cuffs to the Night Crawler. I want to pistol-whip the prat sometimes; he makes more mistakes than me in the field―a man as bulky and tall as the head Night Crawler won’t even blink at a teeny-weeny set of handcuffs.  

      The Night Crawler takes one last drag from the diminishing cigarette, exhales and then flicks the butt past me into the room. It must’ve been previously doused with an odourless liquid because the room erupts in flames and so does the body of Jane Doe. The Night Crawler gives some sort of whistle like a farmer would to do his dogs, and Night Crawlers fill the space between both corridors, appearing from voids of black smoke.

      Sam and I both dive away from the blaze towards the staircase. The notebook and suspect photos slip from Sam’s grip and slide across the floorboards. One of the other Night Crawlers steps on it before picking it up and having a quick flick-through. 

      “Oi Frankie,” the one holding the suspect photos says to his leader. He holds up the photo of Officer Davenport, Dianne Hemming and the mug-shot of Henry Nikita. “They’re looking for the rat.”

      “Tch, what would you want with a scab like that? The bugger scammed me for one hundred bucks and didn’t even bring me fresh meat,” Frankie hisses as the crackling inside his bedroom extends to the lip of the doorway.

      “What’d he want?” Sam asks.

      Two Night Crawlers appear behind the prat and restrain him before two others grip my wrists, knocking my gun to the centre of the group along with Sam’s. We don’t bother to struggle, Night Crawlers get extremely violent when provoked.

      “The rat didn’t really want anything; he just came knocking on our door. He was manic; I thought he dropped acid or something because he was speaking in tongues or some weird shit. He had this black Bible looking thing in his hand and said he needed to see his girlfriend. So I asked what was in it for me and he said he’d get me a date with some smoking blonde so I was keen. He had me teleport him to some cemetery in the Bronx and then tried to gut me with a silver knife.”

      “That’s consistent with what Alkaios said regarding his black magic,” I say and then one of my captors twists my wrists at an awkward angle, forcing the rest of my body into an awkward position on my neck. “Do you mind?” I hiss.

      “You spoke to those guys? Well whatever, this rat tried to kill me so I buggered off straight back here,” Frankie lifts his plaid shirt so both Sam and I could see the puckered scar, a match to that on Alkaios’ arms but across Frankie’s sternum. He lowers the fabric and spits.

      “What’d the rat do to get a…” Frankie pads towards me and flicks two fingers against the gold shield on my belt. He tips his head to read my name, “Detective Akira Stevens of the NYPD and,” Frankie turns away from me and grips Sam by the collar with a smirk, lifting his ID out. “A Special Agent Samuel Pingelly of the FBI, involved?”