Crime & Counterpoint (28 page)

Enticing aromas wafted around her, filling the cheery, warm environs of
LaFavreau’s Boulangerie.
The name was frosted in white in an attractive arc across the store-front windows and door. Even though the bakery would be closing in less than an hour, there were plenty of customers filling the quaint, black-and-white-checked booths.

There was only one woman manning the counter, and so absently, Shelley fell in line, letting her thoughts wander in a hundred different directions, thinking about nothing and everything at once. Feet incredibly sore from a full days’ worth of shopping, she distracted herself by playing the intricate Bebop line of some Dizzy Gillespie number against her thigh.

Behind her, the door jangled, discordant and too loud in her hyperactive mind. She jumped imperceptibly and looked around. It was just some bearded guy with a Giants skullcap, and she chastised herself for overreacting – a tiresome habit of late.

The newcomer didn’t get in line and meandered past the baked goods display of decadent
éclairs
,
mendicants
,
petit fours
,
religieuse
, traditional square macarons, and more. Shelley eyed the assortment of French pastries, desserts, and breads; most everything was out of her personal caloric intake allowance but decided she would get a brioche with raisins for breakfast. It was divine warm with butter and coffee.

She peeked around the person in front of her and saw that the woman at the counter was personally icing a layered chocolate mousse cake with some rote phrase. Sighing, she wondered if she shouldn’t just cut in front and tell the woman she was here to see Monsieur LaFavreau.

But then, the man who’d just entered cleared his throat, automatically catching her attention. He was not looking at her, however, and seemed to be lazily perusing a magazine. However, just as she was inclined to look away, she noticed something draped over the chair adjacent to him.

It was filthy. Ragged. Nearly torn to shreds though its overall shape remained. Yet, there was something terribly familiar about it. In her mind, she felt the desperation, the knowledge that she was going to die. She couldn’t get away.
Take it off
.

Overwhelmed by fear, she forced herself to calm down, to reevaluate.
How can that be my coat? It can’t, right? Think, Shelley, think.
Pulling out her phone, she barely managed to dial the three digits. However, after listening to the rings, she didn’t get the normal, “9-1-1. What’s the nature of your emergency?” Instead, a strange, accented male voice answered. “
Hello?
”

Suddenly, h
er vision distorted, heat stung her around her neck like wasps, and
the floor shifted.
She hung up and started to feel like the world was closing in on her.

“Hey lady, you’re next.”

Looking through blurring eyes at the woman, she said weakly, “I’m sorry, I’ll be back in a minute.” She started edging sideways along the counter, passing the warm display case.  Panic crescendoed until her ears rang with it.

But distracted to the point of tears, she accidentally bumped a rotund customer attacking a chocolate éclair, causing him to drop the pastry on the checkered-tile floor.

He turned angry, deepset eyes to her, sugary, brown saliva peeking in the corners of his mouth.

“You’ve gotta be kiddin’, lady!” he roared loudly. “You gonna pay for that?”

Her eyes rounded in obvious penitence. “I’m so sorry, sir,” she said backing away, clutching at the lapels of her jacket with both hands.

“Hey, take it easy, buddy,” an easy-going fair-haired guy in his mid-thirties pacified, rising to her defense from another table. “I’m sure it was just an accident. Here, I’ll be happy to get you another one.”

Shelley smiled her terrified gratitude. “Oh no,” she gushed, “I can pay for it really.”

“Damn right you will!” éclair man scowled.

Nervously, she fished out a ten-dollar-note from her pocket full of tips and handed it to the man, just wanting to get out.

But her rescuer took offense.

“No, no way,” he said, sporting an indignant look of his own. “She shouldn’t have to pay for anything. It was an honest mistake.”

“Really. Please. It’s okay,” she said, loud enough to be heard over the talking heads. Flushed, she thrust the money at éclair man and turned around to leave, hurrying towards the glass door.

A desperate prayer looping through her mind, she glanced back, her gaze searching for the man with the NY Giants beanie and her ruined coat. However, they were gone.

Her step hesitated. Had she imagined the whole thing? Of course she had. She must have. That coat had been utterly destroyed. How could anyone have fished it out? Moreover, why would they be carrying it around? It was insane.

Leaving the bakery, she felt intense relief just breathing the cold, exhaust-filled air. It smelled like freedom. Maybe she just needed to go back to the apartment and sleep it off.

To her surprise, the guy who’d come to her aid, followed her out. “Hey, hold on a second,” he said, his voice lacking that definable New York quality sported by most average Joe’s.

She closed her eyes briefly before turning to face him with a painted smile. “Hi, thanks so much for standing up for me back there. I’m such a klutz sometimes.”

He smirked, a vintage AC/DC shirt peeking through the unzipped leather coat. He dug his hands into his pockets. “You don’t seem like that kinda girl,” he said, his eyes giving her a quick full-body appraisal.

“Oh. Well… thank you. I think.”

“Hey. If you’ve got a sec, I’d love to have coffee. There’s a nice place right down the street.”

Shelley took a step back. “That’s really nice, but I have to get going.”

“You sure? Just five minutes. I swear.” He opened his hands and smiled, which is when she thought she caught a hint of black polymer under his jacket. But it was gone in the next instant and she just couldn’t be sure.

Nevertheless, her heartbeat went haywire. “I’m sorry, but I’m engaged.” She showed him the back of her left hand and thereby the diamond ring.

“Engaged? Really. Can’t be too serious, you missed your appointment with the cake maker.”

Her gut dipped. “Excuse me?”

“What’s a wedding without a cake? Am I right?” He smiled tenderly.

Just then, she spotted the NY Giants skullcap guy, loitering beneath the canvas awning of LaFavreau’s in plain sight, one boot crossed over the other, her coat tenderly clutched in his left arm. A deep tremble set in.

He swiped off the hat and looked directly at her. He was shaved bald, brawny, and no older than forty. His grey eyes matched his smile: cunning. He lifted the cigarette from a pack of Camel to his curling lips, flicked a BIC lighter, and let the butt catch the flame. Smoke funneled from his nostrils and mouth as he pulled away the white rollup and pocketed the lighter. He gave her a slight nod and winked knowingly. With his cigarette hand, he caressed the soiled coat once.

“Are you okay?” the Latino guy asked, bringing her back to focus.

She blinked and reluctantly made herself meet his hazel gaze despite the wooziness and trembling of her insides. The urge to run nearly overpowered. “Um, yeah. Sorry, I – I have to go.”

“Hey! Wait a minute!” he called after her.

But she was already gone. Scampering away, she felt a quickening within her as she blended with the pedestrians. If she could make it another block, she might be able to escape. How did they even track her here? Had they been following her the whole time? Couldn’t be. She’d been zig-zagging in and out of crowded sidewalks for the whole day. And they wouldn’t be so stupid as to blatantly follow her with the FBI on her trail. Unless, they weren’t following her at all.

Her chest tightened. She thought fast.
Oh God. The phone.
Fumbling in her pockets, she pulled out the device and stared at it fearfully as if it was alive. Then, spying a trash receptacle, she promptly dumped it inside. The new smartphone clanged loudly as it hit the bottom.

But she didn’t feel much better. Her tired legs found renewed strength and quickened their pace, carrying her toward the crosswalk.

However, there was a thin patch ahead. A patch where darkness reigned because the building’s light didn’t seem to work. She worried. Time stretched as the blackness swallowed her. She couldn’t stop herself from peering down the darkened alleyway full of secret shadows.

A calloused, warm hand clamped on her arm and another over her mouth. She tried to scream but all that came out was a muffled cry.

“It’s okay. It’s me, Shelley.”

Zach!
She immediately stopped struggling as he drew her into the alley and hid her behind stacked crates. “What’re you doing here?”

“Shh.” His breath met the damp air in a plume of opaque white. He gripped her tighter and pressed her against the cold, brick wall. Thunder rumbled the sky but only faintly.

Zach waited until several men had passed. Releasing her, he put a finger to his lips, indicating he wanted her silence. He crept over to the edge of the wall, where the building met the sidewalk, and peeked around the corner.

Shelley held her breath. Seconds stretched one into the other.

At last, he turned back to her. “Okay, come on. I think it’s safe. Let’s–”

Out of nowhere, hands slammed him up against the brick and mortar.

Shelley screamed as one of the black figures came for her. “No, please!”

“Run!” Zach yelled, pushing back against his assailants. There were at least six to his count.

He threw up his hands into a solid guard, but outmanned, someone managed to thread the needle of his defense and land a punishing, venomous fist. Shooting pain radiated through the left side of his temple.

Grappling him, they forced his head firmly against the rough brick. Zach fought not to give his back to his opponents. But as he struggled, they bent his wrist back painfully, threatening to rip the joint. He growled.

“You move, she dies,” a dark figure said, walking into the alley.

His gaze darted to Shelley; she was whimpering in the clutches of a tall, skin-headed man, cigarette in his mouth, who held something to her throat. Too thin to be a knife. Anger rattled its cage inside him, and he began to fight again. But his actions earned him excruciating pain. He cried out.

“Told you not to move, detective.” The man came closer until Zach got a good look at him. He had a pinkish-white patch across one side of his face. An old burn wound.

Immediately, Zach settled down and used his head to think. But he had no rational thoughts. He couldn’t stop the building wrath.

“If you’re a good boy, we’ll let her go.”

“What is it you want?” he seethed.

“Kazanov wants the warrant for him removed.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

Zach gnashed his teeth together. “Both.”

The speaker came into view and put his mouth right up to Zach’s ear. “In that case–”

Without warning, he blind-sided Zach with the butt of a Sig Sauer.

Shelley screamed.

Dancing lights exploded around the periphery of Zach’s vision. Pain weakened him, and his consciousness faded – dazed, but only for the moment.

They released him and he was vaguely aware of sinking to his knees. The same man pointed the gun directly at his head, and Zach had the fleeting thought that he was going to die.

But just then, another shadow joined them, pointing a Glock 19 out from the darkness.

“FBI!” the sandy-haired man, wearing an AC/DC shirt said with authority. Shelley recognized him immediately – her intercessor from the bakery. “Hands up where I can see them!”

“Thanks for the introduction,” one of them sneered, as he redirected his own gun to the newcomer and fired.

But Zach suddenly sprang into action and bowled the shooter down.

The FBI agent ducked as several bullets pinged at him. He fired back, taking out one of the six thugs and injuring another.

Zach’s throbbing skull fueled his anger. Violently, he threw his fist into one of the man’s noses and knocked him out cold with a chilling crack. Zach processed little as he delivered damaging strikes to the two burly men who no longer had him secured.

But suddenly, a sharp pain pierced the left side of his neck – a needle and syringe. He ground his teeth as a strange, acrid taste flooded his mouth. Furious, he shifted into another gear entirely. Ripping out the syringe, he stabbed the final man on his right, plunging the rest of the vessel’s contents.

His blood buzzed; his heart palpitated as adrenaline surged cold through his veins. He felt electrified but pushed past the unnatural feeling and sought more, like a ravenous animal.

To one, he hammered his fist straight into the man’s solar plexus just below the ribs, putting his diaphragm into spasm, sending him staggering backwards. To the next, he launched his leg through the air, connecting with the side of the man’s head.

He didn’t realize that sweat poured down his face, that breathing became more difficult, or that the world grew quieter. He didn’t see the FBI agent try to get him to stop.

Senses in overdrive, he shot his left arm out to capture the thin barrel of a silenced gun just before it started spitting out bullets. Three in rapid succession found the fifth man in the chest while Zach cranked the arm that held it.
Snap!

Then, grabbing the gunman by his jacket, Zach launched him with ghastly force into the opposite building. The collision of flesh, blood, and bone with unyielding brick sounded like quiet thunder. He smashed his back first, whiplashed his head, and dropped to the cement.

Instantly, Zach swept the gun off the ground and set his sights for number six – the one still in possession of Shelley.

The FBI special agent looked at Zach, alarmed. “Don’t do it, man!” To the Russian who held Shelley, he said, “Look, I’m putting my weapon down.”

Zach didn’t follow his lead. He pointed the gun straight at her captor. “Let her go,” he commanded in a menacing growl he didn’t even recognize, torrid air hissing between his clenched teeth.

“You gonna risk her?” the tall man taunted around the cig.

Zach peered into Shelley’s frightened eyes – warning brights of the oncoming train, screeching at him to get off the track. But he couldn’t. Not without her.

“No!” the Fed yelled, hands out.

But Zach couldn’t even hear. His finger closed around the trigger and pulled. The kickback sent brutal shockwaves through him. He felt each succession like chronic reverb, jarring him to his core.

Shelley’s face filled with indescribable terror.

The silent bullet drilled perfectly into the target’s skull, several inches above Shelley’s head. It exited the man’s cranium and splattered the rust-colored brick with rainbows of blackish blood and reddened grey matter.

The needle in his hand slipped to the ground. Shelley convulsed in relief.

Zach dropped the gun at almost the same time. The pitchy clatter ricocheted in his mind in dull, wide ebbs like rippling water. He watched it carefully, head down, brows drawn fiercely, breathing shallow, as if he expected it to move.

“What is wrong with you?” the Fed shouted. “You coulda killed her!”

“Don’t yell at him!” Shelley scolded as she rushed to Zach. “Are you okay?”

Zach’s vision began to double even as his hearing cleared. A strange sense of separation –
division
– filled his spirit. There was an uncontrollable flickering like something inside was about to die out.

“Zach. What’s the matter?” she asked, trying to peer into his face.

Her contralto slipped into the stormy black miasma.

The agent looked between the two of them, gaining an understanding. He stepped away and put in a call on his cell.

Zach lifted his head and looked at her with delayed reaction. His hands found her waist. “Nothing,” he slurred, breathing shallow.

She touched the gash on his temple. “Oh my God, you’re bleeding.”

He clutched her tighter though he hadn’t even heard what she said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He realized with powerful revelation that he loved her, and his mouth opened to say as much. But the ground suddenly shifted. His legs gave out beneath him.

“Zach!” Shelley’s arms caught him and kept him from plunging face first to the cold cement. He fell sideways into the wall with her, smashing his shoulder, losing consciousness fast.

“Whoa,” the FBI agent exclaimed, hurrying over. He knelt down by Zach and felt for a pulse on his neck.

“What’s wrong with him?” she asked, a tremor in her voice.

The sparks intensified, flashing images and lights behind Zach’s eyes. He didn’t process her hands on him, the FBI agent’s voice as he called 9-1-1, or the fact that she spoke to him, touched his jaw, and cradled him.

His eyelids drooped heavily and then closed.