Luke Delaney - Cold Killing

“Bloody hell,” Sean said as he saw Donnelly step into the room. “You got here fast.”

“Aye. I hitched a ride with the uniform lads in a response car, blues-and-twos all the way. No expense spared.” Donnelly’s tone changed. “Is she okay?”

“I think so,” Sean replied.

“Care to tell me what’s going on? Why we’re here? Why we let Hellier walk away a free man again?”

Sean opened his mouth to explain, but no explanation came forth, only a question. “Where’s the guard? The armed guard? Did you see him?”

“I didn’t see a guard,” Donnelly answered. “Just you.”

“No. You got here right after I did.” The fear was back again, the knot in his stomach worse than ever. “There was a guard outside this room.”

“Okay,” Donnelly said calmly. “I believe you, guv’nor. Christ, he’s probably gone for a piss.”

“The toilet,” said Sean. “I have to check the toilet.”

“Why?” Donnelly asked. “What’s the problem?”

“I know who the killer is,” Sean answered, already racing along the corridor, searching for the toilet, shouting now. “He’s here. I know he’s here.”

“Hellier’s the killer,” Donnelly argued. “But you let him go.”

Donnelly’s words would have stung Sean, but he wasn’t listening, he was frantically searching for the toilet and the uniformed officer. At last he found the communal toilet and threw the door open. Three sinks lined one side and three toilet cubicles the other. Only one of the cubicle doors was shut. Sean walked slowly into the room.

“Hello,” he called to no one. “I’m Detective Inspector Corrigan. I need to know if anyone is in here. . Is anyone in here?” Silence. He moved to the closed cubicle and placed his palm on the door. The small square of green told Sean the door wasn’t locked. Gently he pushed and the door swung open.

Sean couldn’t help taking two steps backward, repelled by the sight of the nearly naked man slumped on the toilet, eyes bulging grotesquely, his swollen purple tongue protruding from his mouth, rolled to one side. The burgundy color of his face contrasting pitifully against the pale, now waxlike skin of the rest of his body. Sean stared at the scene, his mind processing the information. He saw one of the man’s arms fallen across his lap, while the other was still raised, the fingers desperately grasping at the thin metal wire that was buried in his neck and throat. Drying blood stained the dead man’s hands and chest, blood that had run from the virtually severed fingers.

Donnelly appeared at Sean’s shoulder, ready to continue the argument until he saw the body.

“Jesus Christ,” Donnelly said. “What in God’s name is going on?”

“It’s Gibran,” Sean told him. “Sebastian Gibran killed him and all the others.”

“But who is this poor bastard?”

“Our armed police guard. Gibran must have taken his uniform. I walked straight past him, bastard.” Sean turned and began to run toward the lifts, drawing concerned glances from two nurses who’d come out to see what the commotion was about.

“Where you going?” Donnelly called after him.

“Stay here and watch over Sally,” Sean commanded, punching the lift button. “I’m going after him. He can’t have taken the lift, else you’d have seen him, so he must have used the stairs. I can make up the ground.”

“That’s not a good idea, guv,” Donnelly shouted. “If he took the uniform, then he took the gun too. Let an armed unit-”

The lift doors closed, cutting off the rest of the sentence. As it began to descend, Sean left Donnelly’s world and entered one that few people would ever truly understand and even fewer could ever survive.

Sean ran frantically through the crowded lobby of the hospital, straining, searching in all directions for any sign of Gibran, any sign of a uniform striding through the crowds. Increasingly desperate, he approached passersby, thrusting his identification into their faces.

“A uniformed officer,” he demanded. “Has anyone seen a uniformed officer?”

Most recoiled from him in fright, but finally he came upon a startled hospital porter who nodded in response to his question.

“How long ago?” The porter just gawped at him. Sean grabbed the man by the collar. “How long ago?”

“A couple of minutes,” the man stuttered.

“Which way?”

“Out the main exit, toward the car park.”

Sean released the porter and made for the exit, sprinting now, not caring who saw him, who he knocked out of the way, oblivious to the panic he might be causing. He kept running toward the parking lot, in blind hope more than belief.

He’d been running hard for over a minute and his lungs and thighs were on fire, but there was still no sign of Gibran. Sean bent over, resting with his hands on his hips, desperately trying to draw new oxygen into his exhausted blood. After a few seconds he straightened and began to scan the vast lot. His mobile vibrated in his pocket. Donnelly’s name came up on the screen. Somehow he managed to speak.

“I’ve lost him” was all he said.

“Where the hell are you?” Donnelly asked.

“In the main car park,” he answered breathlessly. Then, about a hundred meters ahead of him, bobbing his way through the legions of parked cars, he saw a figure clad in a police uniform, the peaked cap prominent. “He’s here, in the car park. I can see him.” He hung up without waiting for Donnelly’s response.

The excitement electrified Sean’s body. The pain in his chest and legs was soon forgotten as he sprinted faster than he knew he could toward the walking figure, so fast that he knew he would catch up with the man-but if it was Gibran, why wasn’t he running? What was he waiting for?

As Sean closed the last few meters, the man turned to face him with the speed of a snake. Sean saw nothing but the knife in the man’s hand. The shinning, gleaming knife that Sean was about to run onto. Sean tried to stop, but knew he would be too late. He braced himself for the unbearable pain that he knew was about to cut into his stomach or his liver or his chest.

The last thing Sean saw before he closed his eyes were Gibran’s white teeth, his lips curled back in a grin as he prepared to impale Sean on his short, sharp blade. But no cutting pain ripped into Sean’s body. Instead he was hit in the chest by an incredibly powerful force, like being struck by a medicine ball fired from a cannon. It lifted him off his feet and threw him backward. He landed on a car bonnet and rolled onto the ground, immediately springing back to his feet, instinctively checking his chest for blood. There was none.

Sean quickly regained his bearings, his eyes searching for Gibran, his mind trying to work out what it was that had hit him. Even as the scene in front of him became clear, his mind struggled to make sense of what he was seeing.

James Hellier was holding Gibran in a grip not even he could escape from. The knife that had been in Gibran’s hand was now in Hellier’s. He pressed it hard into Gibran’s throat, breaking the skin, allowing a trickle of blood to escape. Hellier’s other hand pushed the pistol he’d already slipped from the holster on Gibran’s thigh into his kidney. Swiftly tucking the pistol into his waistband, Hellier used this free hand to enhance his physical dominance over Gibran, who squirmed in protest.

“Ah, ah,” Hellier warned him and pushed the blade a little deeper into his throat. Sean watched as Hellier suddenly pulled one of Gibran’s arms behind his back. Sean heard a click and knew what was happening. Gibran visibly winced. With practiced ease Hellier pulled the other arm backward and another clicking sound. Again Gibran winced as the handcuffs were tightened around his wrists. All the while, Hellier kept the knife pressed to his throat.