The Magpye: Circus Page 24

  White took a deep breath. He could feel other lenses trained on him, drawn magnetically to his voice. There were even some King Media cameras drifting his way, eager journalists arguing furiously with unseen producers over earpieces and through mobile phones. Beyond them, even the crowd had turned their attention to White. He saw the tiny eyes of countless mobile phones trained on him. The eyes and ears of the world, for a moment, turned away from the flames and looked him.

  "The name of the man responsible… is Cane King."

  CORRIDOR

  The corridor was wide enough for four people abreast and ended in a wider space in front of a bank of six elevators. Taylor had his men lined up in two rows, the first group crouched down or on one knee in front of the others. Able stood in the middle of the corridor, half a floor away. The corridor was dotted with occasional tables, small sofas, and a few odd recesses. The angles were tight for his opponents, but wide for Able. Twenty to one, but a maximum of eight shooters at once realistically, and then Taylor. Able wasn't going to let Taylor get away with taking a stray bullet. Dealing with Taylor was personal.

  Able raised his guns. Malcolm, Nutt, Rogers, Cooper. Four pairs of eyes, already placing shots before the triggers had been pulled.

  "Screw this," spat Taylor. "Cut him down."

  Able fired first, the sub-machineguns letting out three shots bursts as he alternated from his left hand to his right. The first three bullets took out one of the shooters in the second row, splattering those around him with blood and sending his body toppling backwards towards Taylor with only half a head and no face. The second three were spread across the bottom row, hitting chests and abdomens squarely.

  Able moved before the first shot was fired from the other end of the corridor, putting his head down and rushing towards the first piece of available cover. Bullets zipped past, scorching the air as Able dropped and skidded on his side towards a small sofa. A shot thudded into the other side of the thing, the bullet rushing through and grazing Able's cheek.

  Able fired blind, another three shot burst that somehow found its mark.

  "Magda, I need to move fast."

  Bursting out from behind the sofa, bullets zipping past again, Able flipped through the air, head over heels, and landed safely in a recess in the wall opposite. He could see Taylor from this angle, standing with his hands in his pockets and watching as his henchmen pumped round after round into the walls either side of Able.

  Taylor didn't raise his gun, even though he had a clean shot.

  It was personal for him too, it seemed.

  Ducking out briefly from the recess, Able fired with both guns. Six shots, six hits. The bodies were starting to pile up now, and Taylor's goons were panicking.

  Able flattened himself back into the corner of the recess as they returned fire. Wally Wu couldn't have gotten any deeper into the recess if he'd tried.

  "Anyone who runs now lives," shouted Able. "I just want Taylor."

  "Anyone who runs is dead before they reach the elevator," replied Taylor.

  Able waited. One second. Two.

  Taylor's men fired again, chipping away at the wall on the other side of the recess.

  "How many left?" whispered Able.

  "Twelve, plus him," answered Hartley. The computer expert and tactician had stayed quiet up until now. "There's another recess, eight yards up the corridor on the opposite side."

  "They've got me pinned, I won't make it."

  "You don't need to," replied Hartley. "I saw you heal yourself back in the pit, remember? Just try not to let them shoot you anywhere important."

  Able took a deep breath and spun out into the corridor, guns blazing.

  Six bullets sped down the corridor, finding their marks. Flesh was torn, organs punctured. Blood burst forth and bodies hot with pain or icy cold with shock fell against each other. Firing across each other, the remaining shooters put bullets into the walls, into the floor, and into Able.

  The first went into his right arm, wrenching it backwards and knocking the sub-machinegun loose from his grip. The second hit his left thigh, almost taking him off balance and sending him skidding into the recess head first.

  Panting, feeling blood running down inside and outside his body suit, Able put his weight against the wall and fired around the corner. Rogers put three shots in a neat triangle into the chest of one of the last shooters.

  "See?" said Hartley. "Only six left to go."

  Able closed his eyes and called Dorothy forward.

  "Fix it, Dorothy," he whispered. "I need my arm, at least."

  "I can't do it on my own," replied the circus medic. "I'll need the bird."

  "I'm here," replied the chilling voice of the Magpye, the thing inside Able that was neither ghost nor man. "But know that I shall take my tithe later."

  "Whatever," muttered Able. "Just patch me up."

  Close to the end of the corridor now, Able could hear the ragged breaths of the remaining shooters. He knew the ones he had hit were dead, their raw and skinless ghosts were howling just on the edge of his hearing. He wondered how many more he'd have to kill before he got to Marv, and before he got to King.

  Able gritted his teeth has he felt his wounded flesh knitting itself back together, his stomach churning as his unnatural digestion transformed whatever scant remnants of corpse meat he had in his gut into new, undead flesh for his body.

  The process took just a few moments, but it was long enough for Taylor to gather his forces.

  "He's wounded," Able heard him bark. "Rush him."

  THE DEATH OF MICK GARRITY

  Garrity was sweating and gasping for breath by the time he reached the ground floor. Thankfully, the stairwell had been empty except for him and, with no one to get in his way, he'd made good progress. It had been a long time since he'd run from anything. He could still hear gunfire echoing down the stairwell shaft behind him, the smoke from the fire on the roof was drifting slowly down with it and there was a sticky coating of ash accumulating on every surface. None of that mattered to Garrity though. He had scoped out this escape route days earlier and it had served its purpose. Another one his little dirty secrets paying out just when he needed it to. Now he'd just vanish into the madness outside and let Cane and Taylor and whoever the hell it was still running around in a mask sort things out amongst themselves. Whoever came out on top was going to need the police on their side, and Garrity was the police in this city.

  Maybe, if things panned out, he could find himself playing hero cop like Owen White. All he'd need were a few well-to-do hostages, ushered out of here under his careful care… Garrity was almost ready to turn back when the metal door that was his gateway to safety opened and Owen White walked in.

  "Garrity," said White, seemingly unsurprised to find his nemesis-cum-mentor on the other side of the door. "Abandoning the sinking ship?"

  "Look, White," said Garrity, "This thing is shaking out bad, you understand me? Cane's lost it, Taylor's worse. And that other guy? He crashed a fucking blimp into the roof!"

  White smiled. For once, Garrity wasn't the one sitting on all the secrets.

  Outside, the world was reeling to the revaluations that White had spewed. The networks were in chaos and, in the panic, White had simply slipped away. Right now, he was the most famous face in America, and Garrity had no idea.

  "I saw," said White. "It's all over the news."

  "That's exactly what I'm talking about," puffed Garrity. "We need to get out of here, both of us, get us some distance and then start running containment."

  White limped inside, shutting the door behind him. With the door closed, the only light was from a dim emergency bulb over the doorway.

  "What's our play?" he asked, his voice low and conspiratorial.

  "We go back in," replied Garrity. "We tell Cane's crew there's been a change of plan. We get the hostages out, and we come out of this thing heroes. You and me. We're the cops, right? "

  "What about Cane?"

  "What about hi
m?" asked Garrity. "He thinks he can play the whole country, the whole fucking world, and convince them all over again that he's a stand up guy. He wants them all to think that he's the victim. I've told him, it will never work. There's too much heat now. He's finished."

  "But not us, right?"

  "No, not us," said Garrity. He smiled his piggy smile, food from Cane's buffet still stuck in his crooked yellow teeth. "We play this right and we'll have whoever takes over from Cane in our pocket."

  "You think so?"

  "Trust me," said Garrity. White remembered the last time that Garrity had asked him to trust him. He remembered the lives that it had cost. He took a breath, held his rage in check for a moment longer. "Look,” continued Garrity, “I've never told anyone this, OK, but when I was coming up the ranks, there was this sergeant. Real old school skull-buster. Ran a few blocks down-town, had himself the start of a little empire. Him and me, we were on a collision course from day one."

  White limped towards Garrity, slumped down onto the stairs, and rubbing at his tortured ankle. Garrity dumped his fat carcass next to him.

  "So, I put out the olive branch, right? I've got a little action, I offer to cut him in. He doesn't want to know. He thinks I'm shit, thinks I'm nothing, and he's going to take what's mine and cut me out."

  "So what happened?" asked White, still working on his bust ankle.

  "One night, he gets jumped in an alley. Couple of punk kids he'd been giving a hard time. Cut him up bad and left him to die in a dumpster. He was missing for a fortnight before someone smelt him out. Nobody could prove anything, of course. Those kids got away with it."

  "What are you saying, Garrity?"

  "I'm saying that you got to have your eye on the next big thing. You've got to see the opportunities that are coming your way because, otherwise, sometimes those same opportunities just wash you away."

  "You wash this guy away, Garrity, was that it?"

  "I did what I had to do," replied the dirty cop. "Only way to survive in this city. You stick with me, I'll teach you how to make something of yourself around here."

  White lifted up the leg of his trousers and pulled a short bladed knife from a holster around his duff ankle. Garrity's eyes bulged as White stabbed him in the side of his fat throat. Hot blood gushed out around the wound, drenching Garrity and White. The fat cop tried to pull his gun, but his strength was draining out of him too fast. Within moments, all that was left was a fat pig with a slit throat, slumped forward on the stairwell steps.

  White bent over and slipped the knife back into its holster before picking up his cane and limping up the stairs, towards the sounds of gunfire and the flames.

  “I've learnt my lesson,” he said, to nobody but himself.

  THE REVENGE OF THE DETECTIVES

  "Rush him."

  "Rush them."

  Malcolm kicked Able's legs into gear, driving him out of the alcove low and fast. He fired blind, spraying a fan of bullets at knee height. Taylor's three remaining shooters fell, their legs cut out from under them. Dorothy took a silent inventory of shattered bones and torn muscles as they fell. Criminals, killers, were made cripples in an instant.

  Able tucked into a roll, ducking under the few stray shots aimed at him, and landed in a crouch just past his fallen assailants. Malcolm turned one of the sub-machineguns back and fired again, finishing the job. Cripples became corpses and the corridor fell silent, except for the sound of applause from Jack Taylor.

  "Very impressive," he said. "Although, I never really thought they had a chance."

  Able stood, dropping the sub-machineguns to the floor with a clatter.

  "Jack Taylor," he said quietly.

  Cane King's lieutenant needed no introduction. The memories of the dead cops had run through Able's mind so many times they were as familiar, if not more familiar, to him than his own. Taylor was the man on the other end of the gun that ended their lives. Taylor was the man who had taken their friend and cut him into pieces just to draw them out. Taylor was the man they had all come back from the grave to kill. And Taylor was the man, on Cane King's orders, who had burnt down the circus.

  Between Able and Taylor, the bodies of Taylor's men lay dead and bloody. Blood had turned the thick beige carpet a dirty red and splattered the walls with crimson. The whole place felt hot, the fire working its way through the floors above, and the air had thin traces of smoke in it. It was hell, a small patch of hell, and Taylor looked very much at home there.

  Taylor tossed his own gun to his side.

  "We've never actually met, unless you count scooping you up off the floor and dumping you into a hole in the ground," said Taylor with a smirk, "But if what I've read is true, and if what I've guessed is right, then there's maybe a few people rattling around in that rotten melon of yours who think they've got a score to settle with me."

  Able's ghosts whirled in his head, all vying to be the one to take on Taylor while Able looked at the man again. Able was used to seeing ghosts, but Taylor was alive and yet somehow dead at the same time. He was a man with something missing, with a void where his soul should have been. A shell, like Able, but living. Living yet devoid of what should have made him alive.

  It scared Able.

  "One at a time or all together?" he whispered, knowing that Taylor could probably hear him even through his mask.

  "All together," came the reply and although Able could have told the voices in his head apart, he preferred to imagine that they had all replied at once.

  The two men raced at each other. Able threw a punch, the combined furry of the dead cops behind it, but it glided over Taylor's head as the other man ducked and tagged Able in the ribs with a pair of rapid punches. Able threw a fast elbow, hitting Taylor in the soft part of his shoulder and knocking him back a step.

  Quickly, Able followed up with a kick to the groin, a move that was entirely Terry Cooper's. Taylor saw it coming, but couldn't move quickly enough to completely avoid it, and Able's metal tipped boot collided with Taylor's knee.

  Taylor fell, cursing under his breath. Cooper grabbed control again, and kicked Taylor in the face, Able's boot opening up a deep gash above Taylor's eye.

  Taylor ran his thumb across the gash and licked the blood from it.

  "Blood," he said, looking up at Able. "That's what its all about, isn't it?"

  "Right now?" replied Able. "Just your blood."

  "Want a taste?" taunted Taylor, getting unsteadily to his feet.

  "I'll pass," said Able, ignoring the tell tale twist in his gut that reminded him the Magpye was hungry again, and owed a tithe.

  "Then let's get this over with," said Taylor, lunging at Able.

  This time, Taylor didn't throw any punches. Dodging two punches from Able, Taylor came in low and closed the gap between the two men. His shoulder going into Able's stomach, Taylor got his arms around Able and lifted him up from the floor. Twisting, Taylor tried to bring Able down as Able drove an elbow down in between Taylor's shoulder-blades. Taylor's grip didn't weaken, and Able felt himself moving off balance.

  It was Rigby, surprisingly, who suddenly wrenched control of Able's body. Planting a foot down at an awkward angle, he rapidly shifted Able's weight and sent Taylor spinning away from Able.

  "Judo," said the bookish cop. "It had to come in handy one day."

  But no-one was listening to Rigby, not even Able. As Taylor had spun away his jacket had ripped open, revealing the complex apparatus of explosives strapped around his torso. The reflexes of every cop screamed "bomb" and Able leapt backwards, reaching for one of his holstered pistols.

  Taylor's smirk spread into a shark-like smile.

  "Planning on going out with a bang?" asked Able.

  In his head, the cops and Malcolm were already assessing the precise make-up and construction of the explosives. To Able, it didn't matter. He had been beaten, stabbed, slashed, and shot. Being blown up, being burnt up to nothing? Maybe he couldn't survive that, maybe he could. He had no intention of finding ou
t.

  "Like I said," said Taylor, standing up and straightening his clothes. "It's all about the blood. The power of the Kings? It's in the blood. Your power, what you've got in your head? That runs on blood too. I'm sure you know that."

  Able didn't react. He didn't want Taylor to know how little he really understood of his power, even after all the training from Adam King. He had assumed that what was a mystery to him was a mystery to the Kings as well, but was it possible that Taylor knew more? There was a white hot intelligence behind Taylor's piercing eyes, and Able wondered what Taylor could have deduced about him, and about the Magpye, given enough time and information.

  "You got your power from Adam King when you died, trapped in that stupid box. Your blood, his blood, mingled together in the moment of death. A fluke, a one in a million chance. Adam's power should have gone to Cane, but you screwed that up. Unlucky for him, eh?"

  Taylor pulled his jacket off, revealing the bomb strapped to him and the detonator switch placed over his heart. Able's hand tightened around one of his holstered pistols.

  "The bomb goes off if my heart stops or if I hit this button right here," explained Taylor, pointing to a red button on the side of the detonator. "So you shoot me? We both die."

  "You might have mentioned that earlier," quipped Able.

  "Well, that's the fun part," replied Taylor. "Because I'm ready for this thing to go off. I just want to be really close to you when it does."

  "You're not making sense," said Able.

  "It's like I said," replied Taylor, "You and your idiot father, dying together, blood into blood, he passed the Magpye into you even though you weren't a part of the real King line. The Kings are sired by Kings in the wombs of witches. Your circus trollop mother just didn't cut it. You just another bastard, did you really think you were the first of those? Don't be ridiculous. You're just the first to be in the right place at the right time. And if it could work for you, it could work for me."

  Able pulled his gun and levelled it at Taylor.