The Darkness - Jason Pinter [128]
simply shaken.
As he tried to get up, Curt stomped on Malloy's hand,
a sickening crunch as his fingers broke. Malloy cried out.
Curt placed his knee on Malloy's left shoulder, pinning
him. I ran over and grabbed his other arm, trying to neutralize the man's strength. Then Curt reached over and
grabbed a handful of the black gravel and shoved it into
Malloy's throat.
The former Special Forces operative hacked and
coughed, but Curt drove him backward with a vicious
head butt, and I could hear Malloy swallow the rocks.
Then Curt raised his fist and brought it right onto
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Malloy's windpipe. Once, twice, until there was another
sickening crack as his windpipe broke.
Malloy tried to claw at his throat, but we held him
fast. Finally the man stopped struggling, his eyes glazing over. Curt felt the man's pulse, looked at me, nodded. We were both breathing hard, and the side of my
head felt wet.
"Let's get the hell out of here," I said.
"Good plan. Come on."
We ran back to the stairwell and up one flight, bursting
through the door into the late-morning sun. The sudden
glare caused us to cover our eyes, but when we opened
them we saw a phalanx of cops outside the warehouse,
guns trained on us.
"Don't shoot!" a voice yelled. "He's a cop!"
"And he's a reporter!" yelled another.
Jack. I laughed, never happier to hear the old man's
voice.
Three cops ran over to us, guns trained, and led us
back to the group. We were dirty, bleeding, but didn't
feel any of it.
The shooting had stopped. All guns were still trained
on the warehouse, but the area had gone silent. The calm
after the storm.
Then I felt a pair of arms squeezing me to death, and
I looked up to see Jack O'Donnell.
"Jesus Christ, kid, what are you, a method journalist?
You don't need to kill yourself to get the story."
I laughed, hugged the man right back. "You followed
us," I said.
"Damn right. I have to admit it was a little selfish.
Didn't want you and your cop buddy learning the truth
without me."
368
Jason Pinter
A man came over to us. He said, "Louis Carruthers,
Chief of Department. Who's left in there?"
"I don't know. At least three are dead. Leonard Reeves,
another gunman and Rex Malloy."
"We've taken out another three, but we don't know
how many there were to begin with. Are there any other
innocents? Do we need to go back in?"
"Back in? Why would you do that?"
"Look," Jack said.
I turned around to see orange flames licking at the
windows of the warehouse, thick black smoke pouring
from inside.
"How'd it catch on fire?" I said.
"Don't know," Carruthers said. "But that smoke isn't
from fire."
"The Darkness," I said. "Somebody's burning the
place down from inside."
Before I could speak again, I heard a single gunshot
report. Then there was something wet and sticky on my
chest. Then I looked into Jack's eyes and knew what had
just happened.
"Henry," Jack said, "what..."
Then the old man was flung backward, a red rose
blooming on his white shirt.
"Jack?" I said.
He looked at me as he fell, his eyes wide and fearful.
Then another gunshot sounded out, this one hitting the
adjacent car, less than six inches from where I stood. We
ducked for cover, waiting for the firing to end. I stared at
Jack, then quickly looked up to see who was shooting at us.
Eve Ramos was standing at the doorway, gun out, her
face covered in blood and ash.
And then a barrage of gunfire like I'd never imagined
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tore the air apart, ripping Ramos apart in a hail of bullets
and blood. Her body was flung through the air like a puppet,
her gun firing wildly into the air, before she fell, lifeless,
next to the burning building that housed her life's work.
I knelt down next to Jack, a knot in my throat as I
hovered over him. A thin trickle of blood was streaming
from his mouth.
"We need an ambulance!" I shouted as loud as I could.
"Somebody help us!"
Two cops ran over, one of them carrying an orange kit.
He placed it beside Jack, opening it, and began to work
on my friend. My mentor.