Reginald Cook - Veil

“Thorne,” Robert called, signaling for her to follow him. “That guy trailed me to the mission earlier today.” Thorne caught up. They reached the alley. The weasel looked back, saw them following, and took off-ass on fire. They sprinted hard and fast but he moved like a cheetah, cutting out of the alley, sprinting down a deserted street, disappearing into another alley at the far end of the block.

Robert and Thorne drew their weapons, each falling to a different side of the alleyway, taking cover behind crates and dumpsters.

Robert agreed with Detective Durbin. Most people couldn’t tell the difference between a silencer and a mosquito whisper. He wasn’t most people.

With a silencer screwed on, the added volume in a gun barrel allowed the gas to expand, and it whooshed out behind the bullet quietly, like air carefully let out of a balloon-a mosquito whisper.

Angry mosquitoes whispered past their ears, ricocheting off the surrounding buildings. He heard the man reload several times, but signaled Thorne not to fire back. He counted the shots, motioned for his partner to cover him, slid out on his belly and crawled toward the crates where the weasel hid.

Halfway there, Thorne bolted to the dumpster he’d just left, drawing fire. She let off a volley of gunfire, keeping the weasel pinned down.

He fired back, then focused his attention on Robert, sending streams of mosquitoes rocketing just above his skull.

Robert took a deep breath and pressed closer to the ground. Two clips later, he heard the weasel’s gun disengage. Empty.

He sprang to his feet, jumped over the crates and garbage cans, crashing down on top of the weasel. Wiry and strong, he wrapped over Robert like a full-grown boa constrictor.

Both men jumped to their feet, punching like cowboys in a western bar room brawl. The wiry little man surprised Robert, landing several fast blows to his face and neck, knocking him to the ground.

Thorne leapt like a panther, knocking the goon to the pavement with a roundhouse kick to the chest. Robert scrambled and rushed forward, like a crazed Chicago Bears linebacker.

Like shotgun blasts, two hard-soled shoes hit Robert hard in the gut, sending him backwards in the air, crashing to the concrete. He righted himself, head spinning.

The weasel sprang to his feet like an Olympic gymnast. Thorne rushed over and hit him with a combination to the body and face, like Sugar Ray Leonard in a Marvin Hagler fight. The man doubled over then snapped upright, back handed her in the head and kicked her hard between the legs, sending her crashing into a pile of boxes.

Robert recovered, rushed over, and drop kicked him to the ground.

Back to his feet, the weasel picked up his gun and sprinted out of the alley, Robert on his heels.

Congestion on the street didn’t slow the weasel. He knocked down unlucky pedestrians, stomping and kicking several rag-covered people asleep on the street. A couple of blocks down, he stopped and fired. His silencer gone, the gun erupted a familiar melody, and everyone dove for cover.

Robert dropped to the ground with them and felt for his guns, but both holsters were empty. The shooting stopped. He snapped to his feet.

Shit!

The weasel, more than two blocks away, sprinted hard, fast, and disappeared around a corner. When Robert got there, the agile killer, with the strength of an anaconda, vanished.

Thorne limped up next to him breathing heavy, and handed him his guns. They searched the faces along the street, the buildings, and alleyways, but found nothing.

Sirens screamed, coming their way. Unwilling to endure more questioning from Durbin and the police, they gave up and headed back to Crossroads.

They reached the shelter as the coroner loaded Miller’s body. A crowd of homeless men, women, and children looked on, sullied, sad.

Robert’s anger seared like alcohol on an open wound.

Detective Durbin lumbered out of the mission, spotted them and walked over. He stopped in his tracks and looked them up and down.

“Should I ask?”

“Don’t bother,” said Robert.

“Another missing person case I guess,” said Durbin, directing a facetious smirk at Thorne.

“Is there something you need from us?” asked Robert, exhausted.

Durbin laughed and shook his head. “It seems you’re in the clear.

For the moment. Several people say they saw you leave while Miller was still alive, and the coroner’s preliminary estimate of the time of death puts you at Judge Weiss’ house at the time of the murder. But don’t go too far. Doctors make mistakes.”

“As have the police,” said Thorne, wincing, and rubbing her behind.

“Don’t worry detective,” said Robert. “I’m as concerned about Miller’s death as you are. So if you get any ideas let us know.”

“Sure I will,” said Durbin. The detective walked to his car and crammed his girth inside, stressing the black Crowne Victoria’s shocks to their max. “Just as soon as you let me in on your missing person case.” Durbin slammed the car door, took a long, lustful look at Thorne, then drove off.

“I can’t believe that little fucker kicked me in the puss,” she said, openly rubbing her crotch, to the delight of several officers and onlookers. “Only twenty-four hours and we’re already in the mix. We better find your boy Charlie and figure out exactly what the hell he’s gotten us into. I don’t mind a fight, but I want to know who the hell I’m fighting.”

“I’m with you on that partner,” said Robert, stroking his jaw. “We better find him before that guy in the alley does. Did you notice his fighting tactics?”

“Yes,” said Thorne. “Definitely Company trained. I guess the old man told us the truth.”

Charlie told the truth. Miller’s death and the man in the alley are confirmation. “Meet me at the office in the morning,” said Robert. “I need a few hours sleep. I’m going home. I’ll see you around eight.

Thorne agreed and walked gingerly to her Rover. Sliding inside, she swore profusely and sped off.

Twenty minutes later, Robert pulled into his parking complex, head reeling. A serial killer he couldn’t find would strike again soon. The murder of a decent man, for reasons unknown, vexed him, and a professional tomcat whipped their asses in an alley. His hands quivered.

President John F. Kennedy. We’re close. I feel it.

The elevator zipped to the eleventh floor. Robert trudged down the rich burgundy carpet to his apartment, eleven-twelve. He touched key to lock; the door cracked open. He pulled his weapon.

Braced against the wall, eyes closed, he took a deep breath, adrenaline churning. He rolled inside, came up on one knee, and pointed the nine-millimeter back and forth around the pitch-black room.

“No need to be alarmed,” said a calm voice, from the darkness.

“Hands up in the air,” Robert shouted. “Now!” The lamp next to his recliner clicked on. Robert trained his weapon.

His eyes focused, he holstered his gun, and sat down across from his visitor. Marilyn London.

“Sorry I startled you. I wanted to follow up from earlier today.” Robert rested back in his chair. “Follow up?” Marilyn stood and removed her coat. A steel blue cat suit clung to her, leaving little to the imagination.

“Yes,” she said, approaching. She straddled him. “I felt like we left things open.”

Robert smiled. “You always this bold?”

“Always,” said Marilyn, pulling close to his lips. “Scared?” Robert stroked her cheek. “Terrified.”

The next morning, Robert awoke to an empty bed, a note on his pillow. It was better than I expected. Marilyn.

Robert laughed, jumped out of bed, and slipped on his pants. He heard stirring in the living room. His smile widened. “I’m glad you’re still here,” he said. “You can’t just leave a note and run. That’s my move.”