Devon Ford - The Fall

She didn’t seem to care, pulling back her foot and spinning on her back to deliver a brutal stamp at his knees intent on crippling him. He stepped aside, drew back his own boot, and kicked her in the chest like he was sending up a field goal.

He had gained the desired effect, and her attempts to fight back stopped. He dragged her back toward his wounded colleague, thinking that treating a suspect like he just had and brutalizing them in cuffs, would probably cost him his badge and his life’s ambition on any other day.

He found the cop weak and pale, his lips fluttering as he tried to speak. Looking up and around for the nearest refuge, Jake saw the lights of the Waldorf up ahead.

Sebastian had regained his composure and got all the guests upstairs or back to their rooms, amidst ridiculous questions of such ludicrous natures as to warrant an unkind response.

“No sir, I don’t know if the cable TV is working. No madam, I do not think the kitchens will be providing room service at this time,” he said calmly, even though he wanted to yell at them all to stop being so self-centered and entitled for five minutes and do as they were goddamned told. He doubted if many of them fully understood the neck-deep level of shit they were in now, and how surviving the night was not a guaranteed prospect at this time.

He turned to find Cal and Louise still with him. “You two need to get upstairs too, please.” Cal opened his mouth to protest but Sebastian cut him off. “Cal, you’re pretty beat up. You need to rest, hell you probably need to spend at least a night in hospital, but something tells me that’s not going to happen.”

Cal went to speak again but another sound cut him off.

“NYPD!” came the familiar but unexpected shout. All eyes turned to the street to see Jake, sweating, and breathing hard, outside the glass front with another cop over one shoulder in a fireman’s carry and a dark shape dragging on the ground in his right hand.

“Jake?” Cal said as Sebastian moved forwards to open the bolts and let him in.

“Help Tromans,” he gasped, short of breath. He knew only three things about the now-unconscious brother he carried; he knew he was a cop from the 17 thprecinct as dictated by the numbers on his collar, he knew he was called Tromans thanks to the name badge on his chest, and he was badly hurt—probably dying.

Sebastian lifted the burden off Jake, carrying the man further inside the lobby and laying him down as he called out the names of staff to help him. Cal helped Jake drag his other burden inside, his shock registering with a single curse word.

“What the hell happened?” Louise asked.

Jake dropped to his knees, exhausted at having carried the dead weight of two people the short distance. “Shooters. Terrorists probably. One is dead and this one’s unconscious. The other one got Tromans just as he got him. I need to get back out there…” he said, climbing to his feet and reapplying the handcuffs to the unconscious woman to lock her arms around a pillar.

“Are you joking?” Cal said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“The other one. I need to bring him in. His equipment…” Jake gasped in between deep breaths as he sucked in oxygen.

“I’m coming with you,” Cal told him, forgetting his own physical state in worry that Jake would go back out alone.

“Okay,” Jake said surprising Cal by not arguing. “Stay close and do as I say. It’s not far.”

As they left, Louise picked up the large pistol from where Sebastian had left it while tending to Tromans. She stood guard by the door with the nervous remaining members of the paid security staff.

Three minutes later, Jake appeared at the door with his gun in both hands and eyes darting everywhere. Screams and shouts erupted in the street outside and the flickering orange light told Louise there was a fire nearby. Cal dragged in a body dressed in dark clothing and streaking blood from where the head scraped along the ground. The lobby was locked up, and the lights dimmed to leave the security guards watching the glass front. Jake’s first priority was Tromans, and he walked over to see that his uniform had been cut away and gauze was being packed onto the hole in his hip. His skin looked gray.

Sebastian looked up at Jake and shook his head slightly before returning his attention to the wound. Jake swallowed, and walked back to his two suspects; one dead and one unconscious.

“Tromans is likely… ” he told Cal and Louise, confusing them. Neither knew what he meant, and it pained him to explain it. “Likely to die from his injuries,” he told them. He pushed past the devastating news and knelt by the dead suspect. He peeled off the face mask, showing the gore of where the bullet had made his features seem less human. Stripping off his backpack he emptied the contents and sat back on his boots with his mouth wide open.

The backpack contained a stack of spare magazines which he laid out next to the gun, a bullpup design none of them had ever seen anything like before. Its fat, oversized barrel had a built-in suppressor, and a red-tinted holographic sight sat above the carry handle.

He found knives and a pistol on the body, as well as a dozen grenades in the bag, but no comms devices, no orders, and nothing to say who they were. There was a map of the city which Jake unfolded and smoothed down, wiping blood across it as he did. There were targets marked, and writing pointing to the targets in lettering he couldn’t read.

“Is that, Chinese?” Louise asked.

“I don’t know. Could be,” Jake answered. “Or Korean?”

“What the fuck is going on?” Cal asked openmouthed, thinking that the world had just gotten even weirder.

“I don’t know,” Jake said again, “but these assholes killed at least one man and put a bullet in a cop. These sure as shit aren’t your regular gun thugs,” he added.

That much was obvious. The weapons bore no trademarks, no manufacturer’s details, and didn’t register in Jake’s mind even though he had been trained and had studied to learn the caliber, capacity, and capabilities of weapons. He popped a round out of one of the magazines and studied the bullet with a furrowed brow, not having seen a round of that size and makeup before.

That certainly isn’t American-made, he told himself. Looking at the metallic tubes with the obvious trappings of a grenade, he studied the cylinders to see if he could make out any legend. Nothing. He had never seen a grenade without warnings or markings showing what it was; the thing in his hand could be smoke or an incendiary. He put it down carefully, then replaced the contents of the bag before zipping it all up tightly. A shout from behind followed by the sound of a woman crying made the three of them turn.

Tromans had gone.

Jake rose uncertainly, walked slowly toward the blood-soaked scene, and looked down on his fellow police officer. His blue-blooded brother. The two had never met before that day, and would be unlikely to have ever met in their entire careers, but he was dead now. Jake, uncertain of what to do, carefully removed his NYPD shield and the precinct badges from the collar of his shirt, as well as his duty belt and equipment, draped the sheet which one of the hotel staff had brought over his body, and laid the badges on top. He rested his duty belt over one shoulder and turned.

He froze, eyes wide, looking past Cal and Louise. The two slowly turned their heads to look in the direction he was staring, and found themselves looking into the murderous eyes of the handcuffed and broken-nosed woman, now awake and pulling one bloody hand free of the restraints.

Cal, as useless as he had felt when the gang had robbed the hotel, acted on instinct. He was the closest person to the now escaped prisoner, and he threw himself at her with an animalistic bellow of rage, but without any regard for his safety or thought for his next move. He was vaguely aware of screams behind him, unsure if it was Louise or someone else, but he was sure it wasn’t the lithe assassin he tried to rush. She was cold, collected, and much faster than him.