Christopher Smith - Running of the bulls

The building was now in front of them. So was a young woman coming their way. She passed them with her head lowered. They could hear her sobbing. Instinctively, they slowed and watched her over their shoulders. She never looked at them. She made no attempt to reach for a cell phone or something worse. She was legit.

They took the steps, exchanged a glance. Then Marty knocked.

The door edged open.

Surprised, each took a step back. Marty held his hand out behind him, keeping Maggie back, and drew his gun. He listened but could hear nothing. He maneuvered his head so he could look through the crack, but it wasn’t wide enough.

He knocked again, harder this time, his gun held low at his side and ready. The door gave a few more inches. This isn’t right, this isn’t right, this isn’t right. He put his hand on the handle and gave the door a gentle push. It swung open. This isn’t right, this isn’t right, this isn’t right. He looked back at Maggie and saw that she had drawn her gun. He motioned for her to lower it lest they be seen by anyone who might pass on the street. She did so, holding it close to her thigh.

There was no other way to do this but to step inside. So Marty eased into the oddly shaped, narrow front foyer. There was a door to his left and to his right, but only the door to his left was open. The lights were on inside. The floor was sticky. He listened and thought he could hear something. It sounded like feet scuffing against wood.

He moved closer to the open door and pressed his back to the wall. He waved for Maggie to join him. When she did, he motioned for her to close the door. But before it latched shut, he stopped her. Keep it open. Don’t make a sound. Leave it slightly ajar, just as they’d found it.

Again, they listened. Something or someone was in the next room. They strained to hear anything that would give them a clue, something telling, and this time they heard what sounded like scratching. And then they heard a tapping.

And then, without warning, something or someone gurgled.

Marty and Maggie crouched down. With an outstretched hand, he kept her back and took the chance that could end his life. He peered into the room.

The space was massive. Two metal cages to his right. Leather furniture positioned around the room. No people that he could see. He swung his head back, waited a moment and looked again. This was the room that he’d seen on Schwartz’s tape. He checked the details and saw it all. This wasn’t a safe house. They were being set-up, just as he feared.

He was about to rear back when he saw them.

Unbelieving, Marty stood and turned the corner so one eye was exposed. What he saw was a horror show.

At the far end of the room, three people were hanging from ropes just above the bar. They were clawing at nooses fastened to their throats. Their feet were kicking, reaching, dancing on the counter top, sometimes sticking just long enough to allow each to release the tension and take a breath.

Tap, tap, tap.

Marty looked up and saw that each rope was strapped to the beam above them. It was too dark to see their faces. Tentatively, he took a step into the room. And then, above him, came the sudden sound of footsteps hurrying about on the second floor. Something heavy thumped against the ceiling. A muffled voice came through the plaster ceiling. It was a man’s voice.

There was no time to waste. He looked at Maggie and motioned for her to follow him to the bar.

They were naked now, completely exposed. They dipped in and out of shadows. They could hear the doomed gasping, their feet slipping, exhaustion setting in.

Hunched low, Marty and Maggie kept moving across the room until something caught Marty’s attention and they stopped.

It was Mark Andrews.

He was at the far end of the room, near one of the windows. He was in a wheelchair and he was pointing up at the ceiling. Behind Marty, Maggie gasped but she didn’t run to him. She held out an open palm to him. Andrews put a finger to his lips and, with his other hand, he made a motion for them to hurry.

And so they did. They went to the bar, looked up-and saw all of it.

Hanging from the ropes were Carra Wolfhagen, Ira Lasker and Jennifer Barnes. Their faces were turning blue, the fight to live was leaving them and as Marty watched them swing and twist before he sprang into action, he knew all of them were mainlining toward death.

12:31 a.m.

Marty scrambled behind the bar, leaped onto it, put an arm around Jennifer’s waist and lifted her up so the pressure was off her throat.

“Stay with me,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a jackknife. He clenched it between his teeth and with his free hand, he pulled out the blade. “Stay with me. Don’t leave me. Stay with me.”

Her hands were tugging sluggishly at the rope around her neck. Saliva was running out of her mouth and down her chin. Her eyes were boulders bulging under the pressure. Her body trembled against him in spasms. She was trying to breathe, but it was almost impossible. And then, with a quick sawing motion, the rope snapped, but it didn’t go down as Marty had hoped. Instead of her falling back into his arms, she fell so heavily against him, they each went over the bar and toppled to the floor below.

Stunned, they lay there. Jennifer was on top of him. The noose was tight around her neck. She wasn’t moving.

Maggie came around the corner and took the blade out of Marty’s hands. He watched her sprint to the top of the bar and quickly cut the ropes that bound Lasker and Carra, who now were hanging lifelessly.

She wrapped her arm around their waists and eased each body to the floor. She jumped down and loosened the rope around Carra’s neck, patted her face firmly, then turned and did the same to Lasker, whose eyes were open and staring up blindly at her.

Carra groaned behind her. Maggie turned to look at her and saw her eyes fluttering. She’d live. She put her ear to Lasker’s chest and listened. She licked the back of her hand and held it over his mouth. And then, as Marty lifted Jennifer off him and shook her until her own eyes flickered open, Marty watched Maggie slam her fists down hard on Lasker’s chest. She did it again while Carra Wolfhagen turned onto her side and loosened the noose just enough to pull it over her head.

On the floor above them, they could hear footsteps coming their way. At first, they started off slowly at the front of the room, near the building’s entrance, but now they were picking up speed as they raced to the back of the room, where they were.

And then Mark Andrews’ voice, loud and clear, rang throughout the room. “He’s upstairs,” he called. “He’s armed. Be careful.”

And the footsteps stopped. Quietly, they started to retreat. And Marty knew-if whoever was upstairs didn’t hear movement soon, they’d know they’d been tricked.

He held Jennifer’s face in her hands. “Are you alright?”

She nodded.

He kissed her on the forehead. “Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t you dare move.” He gave her his cell. “Call 911. That’s all I want you to do. I know you’re in pain, but try. Tell them where we are. Tell them this is linked to the explosions across the Park. Tell them to hurry.”

He looked at Maggie, who had been administering CPR and now was feeling for a pulse in Lasker’s neck. There was none. “He’s dead,” she said.

Above them, a creaking. Someone listening.

“We need to get up those stairs.” He looked at Carra Wolfhagen, who had sagged against the bar and was rubbing her hand over her throat. What the hell was she wearing? Not the little black dress Jennifer told him about earlier. “Who’s up there?” he asked.

“Max,” she said, in a voice low enough so Mark couldn’t hear. “He did all of this. He lured us here. He tried to kill us just like he’s killing all those people who took the stand against him. He admitted it to us. He said we were next.”