Michael Savage - Abuse of Power

Then he was up a short set of steps and heading into the hallway, which was dark because of a broken light fixture.

There was movement to his left and he hesitated when he saw two dark figures-then realized it was the clinching couple from the dance floor. They hadn’t bothered to find a motel room, their silhouettes moving rhythmically to the music.

He hurried past them and saw a door marked EXIT.

Pushing through, he found himself in another alley that ran the length of the building and then some, opening out to streets on either side. But there was no sign of the woman, and Jack was quickly coming to the conclusion that he wasn’t very good at this stalking thing.

Which way had she gone?

Making his choice-there was a faint floral scent in the air, possibly the hand lotion he had smelled earlier? — he went to his right and hurried toward the street, not slowing this time as he reached the mouth of the alley. Moving onto the sidewalk, he swiveled his head, glancing both ways, and was relieved to find her walking about a quarter of a block away to his left.

Dry skin, he thought gratefully. A woman’s vanity can be dangerously second nature.

As he moved out after her, she crossed the street again and disappeared into yet another alley.

What the hell was she up to?

Jack waited for a couple cars to pass, then followed. The way the alley was situated, there was very little light in there and he hesitated, once again wishing he had his. 357 on his hip. Those years as an embedded reporter in Iraq had made firearms seem like part of a man. More often than not he was allowed to carry weapons in hairy situations. It was against the regs, but so was a lot of what happened in war. His third arm was an M249 light machine gun, fussy with sand but it took care of them; a Beretta M9 was his fourth hand, making up for a lack of stopping power with smooth, semiautomatic action that put a lot of those little balls into an enemy. Being unarmed felt like an unnatural state of being.

Plunging forward, he walked briskly, looking toward the other end of the alley. Jack didn’t see the woman. That was the first inkling he had that she was the cat and he was the mouse. But he had gone this far Halfway through, the building to his right gave way to a small car park-probably an employee lot. It was empty and lit only by a single incandescent bulb that burned over the building’s rear door. A faded sign under the bulb read CG amp; SONS FINE GARMENTS.

Had she gone in there?

Jack was about to move toward the door when a figure stepped from the shadows next to him and pressed the muzzle of a Browning Hi-Power 9mm to the side of his head.

He froze. Slowly, he shifted his gaze to her.

There was a gun at his skull, the safety probably off, an anxious and unsentimental finger on a hair trigger, yet he couldn’t help thinking she was even more mesmerizing up close and personal.

Ridiculous, but there it was.

Her face was a mask. Hardened. Unflinching. In these kinds of situations, it was best to let the person with the firepower do all the talking.

“Why are you following me?”

“I saw you at the club and-”

Gunmetal and perspiration produce a distinctive odor. It was in the air now and it overpowered the fading smell of aloe. The smart-aleck act was not going to buy him anything.

She pressed harder. She knew what she was doing. She didn’t lean into the gun like an angry street thug. She knew he would feel the increased pressure against his skin, understand that it meant her center of gravity was off, realize that if he were willing to risk it he could step from the line of fire, pivot, grab her wrist, and hurl her off-balanced self against the wall. It was basic self-defense.

So much for the stuff you can’t do, he thought.

“ Who do you work for and what do you want?” she demanded.

She was getting impatient but she wasn’t quite there. He had a little wiggle room. He hoped so; he was betting his life on it.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Jack said.

“Except you’re the one following me, remember? Although you’re not very good at it. I spotted you back at the train station.”

“That shows what you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I had you way before that,” he said. “I was in Abdal al-Fida’s flat when you found him.”

That caught her off guard. Her dark eyes widened. “That’s impossible.”

“I was hiding in his closet. I saw that show you put on when you called the police. Pretty good performance as a grieving girlfriend.”

She pressed the Hi-Power against his temple-hard, like it was a drill bit. He’d pricked her pride. Now she was off balance.

“Did you kill him?”

Jack frowned. “Hell, no. I wanted to talk to the guy.”

“Why?”

“Because of what happened in San Francisco. I know al-Fida was behind it and I’m trying to find out who he works for.”

She considered this. “You’re a Yank.”

“Through and through.”

“ Who are you?”

“A reporter,” Jack told her, just as squealing tires announced the arrival of a dark SUV in the alley. Its headlights washed across them. The woman flinched and Jack took his shot. He stepped sideways, simultaneously grabbing her wrist and twisting it away from her. Only she didn’t release her hold on the gun as he’d expected. She yelped and swung a fist toward him, landing a blow to the side of his head.

He stumbled sideways, caught off guard by her power.

Another SUV roared in from the opposite side, and the alley was soon flooded with men, automatic weapons in hand, heading straight for Jack and the woman. More surprised than hurt by her punch, Jack kicked her legs out from under her, grabbed the Browning with his right hand, then spun toward one of the approaching gunmen. He slammed the heel of his left hand into the gunman’s nose and the guy howled and went down as Jack raised the Browning. But before he could make use of it, three more men were grabbing hold of him. The butt of a rifle slammed into the back of his head and his cranium exploded in pain. The world went red and he stumbled as the men started pulling him exactly where he didn’t want to go-to the ground, where his chances of survival were nearly nil. You can’t grapple with men who are beating you.

He tried to fight, but there were too many of them. Then the rifle butt slammed him again, and the next thing Jack knew he was spiraling down a long black hole.

Jack awoke to the sound of screaming.

A woman’s screams of pain, the kind of pain that comes from teeth being extracted without Novocain, or fingers being cut off with wire clippers. Her high-pitched wails echoed mournfully down a long hallway.

Then they stopped, abruptly, followed by the sound of her sobs as she gasped for air.

Jack had a bag over his head-burlap, from the smell of it-and he had no idea where he was. He was sitting in a chair with a sagging wicker seat, his wrists tied to the slats that comprised the seatback. The chair was not bolted to the floor but even if he could hop it around, where would he go? His mouth tasted of blood, and his tongue was sore, which meant he’d managed to bite it during the struggle in the alleyway.

Worse yet, his head was throbbing and the room seemed to be spinning slowly. Around and around, like a Ferris wheel. He thought he might throw up.

But at least he was alive.

For now.

Listening to the woman sob. And he knew she wasn’t acting this time, a turn of events that surprised him.

Back in the alley he had thought she was with the gunmen-had attacked her because of it-but he’d obviously been wrong. And now that he knew better, this knowledge begged yet another question: