Lethal Rage (15 page)

The suspect blew along King, steadily pulling away from Jack, but then the good guys caught a break. There was a sudden blast of a car horn and the sharp screech of tires locking up on asphalt as the suspect raced across a narrow street that T-intersected with King. The southbound car braked so hard the front bumper almost touched the road.

The suspect threw himself onto the braking car's hood, then slid across — Jack would have been impressed if it didn't piss him off so much — but the car's sudden stop dumped him onto the road and he tumbled out onto King Street. Jack hoped he'd get mashed by another car. No such luck. He rolled a couple of times, then was back on his feet and moving like a bat out of hell.

Jack had made up some ground, but he was still nowhere near to grabbing the bastard. Sirens were now wailing in the night, coming closer, but if anything, the sound of approaching police support only added to the suspect's speed.

Fuck, he's fast!

Jack's legs wanted to stop, threatened to cramp, but he pushed on. No way was he going to give up on a murder pinch. He'd collapse first.

Then the suspect disappeared, cutting through a parking lot squeezed into a tiny space between buildings. Jack followed and saw the suspect almost through the lot and heading for the next street. Jack ripped out his radio. Sy was too far back to know Jack's location. “Suspect . . . north in a parking lot . . . not sure of . . . exact location.” Why couldn't this chase have been in 51, where he knew all the streets and laneways?

Jack pounded along, feeling the weight of the belt and vest with every stride. His legs were done, beyond pain. Each breath he drew burned his lungs. And still he ran.

The suspect cut east and seconds later Jack burst onto a little one-way road, hardly more than a driveway, lined by the ass ends of old commercial buildings and a tiered parking lot. The suspect was still in sight — the gap was probably fifty feet — and nearing the next major cross street. University? No, too soon for that.

Fuck! I wish I knew where I was!

Again the suspect vanished, again by cutting sharply from his course. A few more quick changes in direction and Jack would lose him for sure. Finally, he reached the spot where the suspect had turned: a laneway that opened onto King Street. Jack could see Roy Thompson Hall gleaming artistically in the streetlights. The suspect was nowhere to be seen.

Fuck!

Jack held up at the mouth of the laneway. The suspect might not be in sight because he had already reached King, or he might be hunkered down somewhere ahead of Jack. Running blindly down the laneway could get Jack killed.

“Suspect . . . now . . . southbound . . . through alley . . . to King.” God, it hurt to breathe, let alone talk. “Sy . . . might be . . . coming your . . . way.”

The laneway was a black pit between two tall buildings, the darkness broken only by intermittent lights high up on the walls. Jack tucked his radio in its pouch and drew his gun.

The mouth of the alley — a driveway, he realized — was narrow, barely wide enough for a single car, but the wall on his left quickly opened up into a loading dock. He kept his right shoulder tight to the wall and took the dock quickly, his gun tracking with his eyes. The bay was only about knee high and except for a square metal box — tool bin? vent hood? — at its far end, it was empty. Nowhere for anyone to hide.

At the end of the dock, fifteen or twenty feet south, the driveway sprouted parking spaces and a trio of dumpsters. A lonely car sat next to the bins like a forgotten cousin. Between the square metal box and the dumpsters was a shitload of hiding places. Two lights high on the wall, watching over the area like sentinel gargoyles, slashed the deep shadows with geometric precision.

Jack reached for his flashlight with his left hand. Cradling his gun hand in the crook of his forearm and the back of his hand, he thumbed the compact light on. Its intense beam stabbed at the shadows, ripping away their secrets. Slowly, he edged down the lane, sure he was chasing nothing — but not sure enough.

“5106, are you still in foot pursuit?”

Jack swept the dumpsters a final time as best he could from his present angle before trading his flashlight for his radio. “Negative, dispatch. Suspect last seen southbound through a laneway toward King Street. Chances are he's heading east on King. That was the direction he was going when we started chasing him.”

“10-4, '06. 5207 is investigating one at King and University. Can you head over there to see if it is our suspect?”

Cool!
“You bet, dispatch. Let them know I'm heading over. PC Carter on the air? Sy, if you're out there, I'll meet you at King and University.” He holstered his radio and gun and trotted down the lane.

Clang!

Jack whirled left, drawing smoothly as the brief metallic echoes died away in the man-made canyon. “Police! Don't move!”

Laughter from the gloom. “I think I will move, ass-wipe. Let you see the shit you just stepped in.”

A bulk of darkness, not fifteen feet from Jack, detached itself from the shadows between the dumpster and the car. The man Jack had been chasing was holding Sy, using him as a shield. Sy's left arm was behind his back and from the way his back was arched in pain, the suspect must have had it wrenched up in some sort of arm bar. With his other hand, the suspect held a knife against Sy's throat.

Jack's vision collapsed into a tunnel focused on the suspect and Sy. Details leapt out at him: the suspect hunched down behind Sy's right shoulder; a single eye peering out beneath a bare scalp glistening with sweat; a flash of silver as his shirt collar flickered in an errant breeze; a black latex glove on the suspect's right hand; the thin blade of the butterfly knife along Sy's throat, the blade gleaming in the stark light; Sy's gun in its holster, his right arm at his side; Sy grimacing in pain, but his eyes calm, confident in his partner.

“That was stupid, piggy, kicking the bin like that. Scared me so much I almost cut you open.” Then, to Jack, “Your turn not to move, ass-wipe. If you reach for your radio, I'll slit open his throat quick as can be.” Jack kept both hands on his gun. “That's good. Now drop your gun. Drop it, ass-wipe, or I cut him.” A slight pressure and blood seeped onto the blade, dark as death in the shadow, vibrantly alive as it spilled into the light.

“You do that and I splatter the wall behind you with your brains. Drop the blade, do it
now!
”

“How you going to do that, ass-wipe?” Silver Shirt pulled Sy closer and all but disappeared. Sy groaned and rose up higher on his toes. “Don't you be reaching for your gun either, piggy, or I might have to slice me some ham.”

This guy must be strong to keep Sy in such a hold.
Jack didn't recall him being big enough to manhandle Sy.
A trained fighter, then. Dangerous.

“Tell you what, man. I'll make you a deal. Let him go and I'll let you take off. You outran me before, so you know I can't catch you. Just go.”

Silver Shirt's laugh was sharp, abrasive. The laugh of a man wound too tight, a man capable of murder. Again.

“I don't think so, piggy. 'Course I can run faster'n you. But you'll just shoot me in the back. Fucking pigs always shooting brothers in the back.”

It was Jack's turn to laugh. A bare snicker, but he had to convince this madman. “This is Canada, bud, not L.A. We're not allowed to shoot at people who run away from us.”
And as soon as you let Sy go, I'll drop you before you have a chance to move.
Jack kept the thought from his face, but Sy would know what Jack was thinking. He just had to make sure Silver Shirt didn't.

As he bargained, Jack eased to his right and Silver Shirt mimicked his movement, which put his back to the north end of the lane.

“See, man? Take off up the alley. Nothing in your way. You heard my dispatcher. They think they have you over on University, so there's no one up that way to stop you. I swear to you, man, I won't chase you.” Jack lowered his gun, the barrel aimed near Sy's feet. At this range, he wouldn't need sights to put three in the guy's chest.

No answer. Silver Shirt's face, what little of it Jack could see, was in Sy's shadow. The left side of Sy's face, sweat-soaked but still calm, was leached of colour by the harsh light. The face of a corpse. Jack forced the image away. Still no answer. Was Silver Shirt considering? Was he close to accepting Jack's offer?

“C'mon, man. Just let him go and run. I swear I won't chase you.”

“I know you won't.”

The words whispered out of the darkness and Jack knew what they meant.

“No!”

The blade flashed in the light, slashing open Sy's throat. Blood sprayed, painting the night vivid scarlet. The suspect shoved Sy into Jack's arms. Hot blood splashed Jack's face; he tasted its salty bitterness in his mouth. Sy clutched at his throat, a futile attempt to stem the blood. Jack sagged beneath the sudden weight but let Sy collapse, controlling the fall as best he could.

Sy fought Jack, not wanting to lie down. Jack shoved him to the asphalt with both hands, dimly aware he had let go of his gun. He was unarmed. Was Silver Shirt still here, waiting to spill Jack's blood? Jack was defenceless. If he died, he couldn't help Sy.

He glanced up the alley in time to see a dark man-shape silhouetted under the street lights. It darted around the corner and disappeared.

Sy clutched at Jack with a blood-covered hand. His other hand was clamped on his throat and blood still fountained up between his fingers. His face was splashed with blood, eerily bright against his paling skin. His eyes were wide with fear but still alive. Still alive.

“Calm down, Sy. Let me help you.”

Jack tried to move his partner's hand, but Sy refused to let go.

“Sy, you have to let go so I can see. I can stop the bleeding. Just trust me, let go. Please, Sy, let go. Please.”

Jack met Sy's eyes and the fear was under control — not gone, but controlled. Sy nodded and slid his hand from under Jack's, sliding free with incredible ease, their skin heavily oiled with Sy's blood.

Jack pressed his fingers into the wound, seeking. The blood was bright and pulsing free. The straight razor had hit an artery. If he could find it, pinch it shut, Sy would make it. Jack searched blindly. There was too much blood. His fingers were drowning in it.

He fought for Sy's life with one hand and ripped his radio free with the other. “Assist PC!” he screamed. “Assist PC! My partner's throat has been cut. I need an ambulance here now! Put a rush on it!” He released the talk button, knowing somewhere deep in his mind that if he let the panic consume him Sy was dead. Simple as that. Panic and Sy dies.

“5106, what's your location? I need your location.”
The dispatcher's words were steady, but Jack could tell she had heard the fear in his voice: it echoed faintly in hers.

Jack groped, feeling a pulsing flow with his fingers. Find the artery, find the cut. “In a laneway north of King,” he managed. “West of . . . west of. . . .”
West of what? Where the fuck am I?
“University!” he shouted into the radio. “In a laneway off King, west of University. The suspect cut my partner's throat. I'm trying to stop the bleeding. We need an ambulance here now. Right now!”

“10-4. Ambulance on the way. Hang on, '06, hang —”
Jack dropped the radio, losing the rest of her message. He added his left hand to the search.

Sy thrashed beneath him but kept his hands away from Jack's. “Sorry, Sy. I know it hurts, but I have to find the . . . the cut.”
Don't say artery, don't tell him that.
“Lie still, Sy. Just lie still, please.”

Jack followed the pulse of the blood as it spurted against his fingers, a pulse that was steadily becoming weaker. There! A cord that felt like a slick, muscular hose. It was the source of the pulse and he clamped his fingers to it, pinching its sides together. He could feel it throbbing, a living — living! — heartbeat beneath his fingertips. The pulse pushed against his fingers faintly. Faintly, but it pushed.

The blood in the wound receded, a terrible tide retreating. It drained away, no longer swallowing his fingers, no longer adding to the pool surrounding them.

“I've got it, Sy. I've stopped the bleeding.” He leaned down and stared into Sy's eyes, just inches away. “You're going to be all right, partner. I've got you.”

Sy nodded and, amazingly, smiled.

Jack grinned back. “You ain't leaving me to work with Boris.”

Sy smiled again, at the feeble joke. His face was pale, a deathly white, and his mouth and chin were smeared with red.

Sirens screamed in the distance, a chorus of avenging angels.

“Hear that, Sy? Help's on the way. Hang in there, partner. Hang on.”

The pulse beneath his fingers was gone. But that was okay, wasn't it? He had the artery pinched shut. The blood had nowhere to go. It would only pulse if the blood was moving, right? Right?

Sy convulsed under him, a sudden heave that arched his back off the ground. Jack almost lost his grip on the artery. He pushed down on Sy's chest with his free hand, frantic to hold him still. “Calm down, Sy, calm down. Don't move, help's on the way. Don't move, help's on the way,” he chanted, not knowing he was doing so.

As quickly as it hit, the convulsion passed. Sy dropped flat and the sudden release caught Jack by surprise. His chest slammed into Sy's. Blood squirted from where it had collected under Sy's vest and splashed against Jack's hand. But Jack's grip was solid. He would die before loosening his hold on his partner's life.

The sirens were louder, almost on top of them.

“Hang on, Sy. Damn it, hang on! The ambulance is almost here.”

Jack felt a shudder run through Sy. Sy raised his head, stared at Jack with eyes wide with fear . . . and knowing. His hands rose to clutch at Jack's arms.