Len Levinson - Without Mercy

Police swarmed into the station as the train zoomed through. Rackman saw it gather speed. He looked around and decided he was safe in the lane he was in. The train came abreast of him and roared by. Sparks flew from the wheels and lights flashed inside the cars. Rackman held his hands over his ears and looked at the commuters hanging onto straps inside the cars. The train was almost past him, and he got ready. The last car zoomed by and he leapt over onto the uptown track. He got down on one knee, held his revolver in both hands, and got ready. He hoped Kowalchuk would make his play.

The train receded. Rackman’s breath came in little gasps as he held the pistol steady. He’s not going to do it, Rackman thought, and then he saw the white shirt move onto the track. It was coming from the right and it was moving fast. It crossed the local track in a flash and then it was in the air. Rackman caught him in his sight and pulled the trigger.

The bullet ricocheted off the metal wall of the train and splintered into Kowalchuk’s face. He screamed and let go, dropping onto the track, where he lay still for a few moments, trying to figure out how badly he was hurt. He blinked his eyes and saw a figure stalking toward him from uptown. It was the cop who’d shot at him; Kowalchuk could make out the revolver in his hands.

Maybe I can get his gun, Kowalchuk thought. His face stung and felt wet; he didn’t know if it was blood or sweat. Probably it was both. He seemed okay everyplace else except where he landed on his hip. He looked at the cop advancing toward him. It was the one in the blue blazer jacket he’d seen coming after him on the street. Just a little closer, you fuck, Kowalchuk thought, closing his eyes and making his breathing shallow.

Rackman crept closer to Kowalchuk, his gun pointed at him. Kowalchuk wasn’t moving and Rackman figured he’d either hit him fatally, or Kowalchuk had hurt himself in the fall from the train. Rackman stopped a few feet away from Kowalchuk and heard a commotion in the tunnel behind him. The other cops were coming now, and he glanced around to look. Even as he was doing it, he knew he was making a mistake.

Kowalchuk saw his chance and leapt for Rackman’s gun. Rackman spun around at the last moment but Kowalchuk grabbed his wrist. Startled, Rackman pulled back, but Kowalchuk had him in a vise grip.

“Give… me… your… gun,” Kowalchuk growled, holding Rackman’s wrist with one massive hand and reaching for the gun with his other. Their sweating faces were inches apart and Rackman could smell Kowalchuk’s fetid breath.

Rackman tried to kick Kowalchuk in the groin, but Kowalchuk pivoted out of the way and spun Rackman around, slamming him against a steel pillar. Rackman was knocked cold for a split second, and dropped the gun. Kowalchuk bent over to pick it up and Rackman kicked him in the head. The force of the blow straightened Kowalchuk up and sent him falling backward. Rackman went after him and threw a hard left to Kowalchuk’s face. Kowalchuk grunted as it landed and shot a punch of his own at Rackman’s stomach, but Rackman stepped back out of range.

Kowalchuk reached into his pocket and pulled out his switchblade. He hit the button and the blade glowed dully in the dim light. “Get away from me, cop,” he said.

“Drop that knife and give yourself up, Kowalchuk,” Rackman replied. “You haven’t got a chance.”

Kowalchuk licked his lips and glanced uptown. Policemen with flashlights were entering the tunnel.

“Just let me get the gun,” Kowalchuk said.

“I won’t hurt you if you let me get the gun.”

Rackman moved between Kowalchuk and the gun. “Not today.”

“Then you die!” Kowalchuk yelled, lunging at Rackman, but Rackman darted back out of the way. The gun was only a few feet from Rackman now, and he knew he’d have to stand his ground or try to get the gun himself. He decided to try and get the gun. He stepped backward, his eyes on Kowalchuk’s knife, trying to locate the gun with his feet. His face was covered with perspiration and he stared at Kowalchuk’s knife.

“No you don’t!” Kowalchuk said, realizing Rackman was trying to get the gun.

Kowalchuk jumped forward and tried to rip Rackman’s stomach, but Rackman caught Kowalchuk’s wrist in both his hands, lifted it in the air, pivoted, and brought Kowalchuk’s elbow down on his shoulder. Kowalchuk screamed and dropped the knife. Rackman side-stepped karate style and jabbed his elbow into Kowalchuk’s gut, but Kowalchuk had a lot of cushioning there and barely felt it. Kowalchuk slugged Rackman in the ear, and then hit him again, watching him go sprawling down the track. Rackman fell on his knees and knew there was an electric rail somewhere around here. He turned around and saw Kowalchuk bending over the revolver.

Rackman gritted his teeth and dived at Kowalchuk. The force of his body hit Kowalchuk waist-high and knocked him over.

Rackman pounded Kowalchuk in the head but Kowalchuk shook off the blows, pushing Rackman away with all his might. Rackman stumbled backward, and Kowalchuk went for the gun again.

Rackman saw the knife gleaming on a wooden trestle between him and Kowalchuk. Charging forward, he scooped up the knife and went for Kowalchuk’s back. Kowalchuk didn’t see him; he was reaching for the gun, certain he’d get it this time. Rackman rushed him and raised the knife, hesitating for a split second at the awareness of what he was about to do, and then plunged it into Kowalchuk’s back.

Kowalchuk had the gun three inches off the ground when the knife went in. He bellowed and arched his back, firing the pistol wildly in the air. Rackman pulled the knife out and stabbed it in higher this time. Blood spurted everywhere, and Kowalchuk turned around. Blood dripped from his nose and the corner of his mouth as he tripped over the trestle and tried to gain his footing. He glowered at Rackman and unsteadily raised the revolver. Rackman attacked, smashing the gun out of the way and burying the knife up to its hilt in Kowalchuk’s heart.

Kowalchuk’s knees wobbled as blood gushed out of the wound. He dropped the gun and staggered backward, trying to pull the knife out. Then his eyes glazed over and he pitched forward onto his face.

Huffing and puffing, Rackman looked down at him. Rackman was bleeding from a cut on his arm, and the lights were spinning around him.

Leaning against a steel pillar, he gazed at Kowalchuk lying in a pool of spreading blood.

The police came out of the gloom with their flashlights and guns.

“Are you all right?” a sergeant asked.

“Yeah,” Rackman said, turning his head and spitting out a wad of blood. He looked at Kowalchuk again, then picked his revolver out of the gravel and put it in his shoulder holster.

“Good work,” the sergeant said, patting Rackman on the back.

The other policemen kept their distance, looking respectfully at Rackman. He frowned, wiped the blood off his mouth with the back of his hand, and sat on a steel rail, burying his face in his hands.

As I look back at my so-called literary career, which consisted of 83 paperback novels by 22 pseudonyms, I’ve concluded that it all began in 1946 when I was 11, Fifth Grade, John Hannigan Grammar School, New Bedford, Massachusetts.

A teacher named Miss Ribeiro asked students to write essays of our choosing. Some kids wrote about baking cookies with mommy, fishing excursions to Cuttyhunk with dad, or bus to Boston to watch the Red Sox play the Yankees at Fenway Park, etc.