Allan Leverone - Mr. Midnight

Then the door swung open and a man filled the doorway. He was young—around Rico’s age—and appeared preoccupied. And he was sweating, as if he had just been involved in some form of heavy physical activity. Like beating his wife, maybe? “Yeah? What is it?” he said, an edge to his voice.

Rico tried to look past the man and into the house and found he couldn’t. The dude’s body was blocking his view and besides, the hallway behind him was filled with shadows, too dark to make out much of anything. “Everything all right, sir?”

“Sure it is. Why wouldn’t it be?”

Rico ignored the question. “What’s your name, sir?”

The man hesitated and then answered. “Milo Cain.”

“Anyone else home with you, Mr. Cain?”

“Nope. I’m here all by myself.”

“Really. Because we received a call from a neighbor concerned about the resident at this address. A resident who happens to be a lady. Can you shed any light on that for me, Mr. Cain?”

“I sure can’t. Sorry. Like I said, no one else is even here. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m kinda busy…” He began closing the door in Rico’s face and Rico reached out with his left hand to block it. His right hand stayed where it was, on the butt of his weapon.

“May I come in for just a moment, sir?”

A shadow of something—annoyance, impatience, fear?—flickered across the man’s face and Rico thought for a moment the guy might actually try to force the door closed in his face despite his efforts at holding it open. It had happened before. And then the man shrugged and said, “Whatever. Can you make it quick? I’m trying to prepare for a little party I’ll be hosting later.” He smiled and the sight chilled Rico. The man’s eyes were cold and calculating and distant.

Rico stepped through the door and as he did a moan floated on the air, coming from somewhere inside the house. He hesitated for a half second, confused. It sounded like a man’s voice, not a woman’s, and the dispatcher had specifically stated the complainant was concerned about a woman being in danger.

The screen door slammed behind Rico. The face of the man standing in front of him gave away nothing. Then Rico heard the sound again—definitely a moan, definitely a man’s voice—and in one smooth motion unholstered his Glock. He reached out to grab the man, whom he expected to retreat.

But the man didn’t retreat. He stepped forward, rattlesnake-quick, reaching behind his back and producing a knife he had hidden in the waistband of his trousers. His hand was a blur as he slashed at Rico and Rico squeezed off a shot and the gun bucked in his hand and a loud roar filled his ears and fire flew from the end of the barrel and a massive hole appeared like magic in the hallway wall behind the man and Rico realized he had missed—

—and he felt a stinging pain in his throat, like someone had taken their fingernail and dragged it across the skin. Suddenly his uniform shirt was wet. It felt as though he had stepped into the path of a fire hose. He could feel the wetness flowing down his chest and his belly like a wave.

He reached up reflexively with his left hand and covered the damage to his throat as he pulled the trigger again with his right. By now the man had sidestepped to his right and even though Rico’s aim was better this time, the man was no longer there. The same roar filled the little house and the same fire flew from the barrel of Rico’s gun, but this time the bullet disappeared somewhere past the end of the hallway. Rico registered screaming now, loud screaming, coming from a room off the end of the hall.

He stumbled forward, aware of the man approaching him from the left. He pulled his hand away from his throat and saw that it was drenched in blood, his blood, lots of blood. It flowed like a tiny river, splattering his shoes as it struck the hallway floor. Rico knew he was in big trouble and he slapped his left hand back on the gash in his throat and incredibly he splashed blood into his eyes and he heard a desperate keening moan and dimly realized it was coming from him.

Rico lurched backward toward the front door. He had to get out and regroup, had to call for backup. And an ambulance. Then he felt a sting in his side, just under his ribs, and he turned his head and saw the man pulling the knife out of his side and that was when he heard the sirens in the distance and he knew everything would be okay. Backup was coming.

Rico fumbled with his gun, trying to turn to his left and bring it to bear on his attacker, but his fingers were starting to feel numb and the gun seemed like it was getting heavier by the second. It no longer felt like a 9mm Glock sidearm, instead it felt to Rico like he was trying to maneuver a five-gallon bucket of water.

He fell to his knees and slipped in the blood on the floor, rolling onto his side as he worked on getting off another shot. But the man had moved again, he was like a fucking magician. He had somehow gotten behind Rico and the gun was now pointing in the wrong direction. Rico twisted his weapon and realized he couldn’t shoot now or he would likely put a bullet into his own head.

And where were those fucking cruisers and ambulances? He could hear them, why hadn’t they arrived yet? The sound of the sirens had grown much louder, except now it didn’t resemble sirens as much as it did the buzzing noise his mother’s clothes dryer used to make when a load of laundry had finished drying. It sounded like his mother’s dryer, only the noise didn’t stop; it just kept buzzing and buzzing, getting louder and louder like the dryer was moving down the hall.

Rico realized through his mounting fuzzy confusion that he wasn’t hearing sirens at all. Nor was he hearing a clothes dryer. The noise was coming from inside his own head.

And that made sense. He had never had a chance to call for backup. Had never had a chance, period. The guy had suckered him and Rico had made it easy for him. Out of nowhere, the old cliché, “Don’t bring a knife to a gunfight” popped into his head and it occurred to him in retrospect that the saying wasn’t entirely accurate. Sometimes bringing a gun to a knife fight can be just a bad an idea.

The blood continued to gush from his neck, casting the scene in a bright-red pulsing glow, and Rico realized the knife-wielding motherfucker had severed his carotid artery. He was fucked. The buzzing noise had continued to increase in volume and now it was more of a roar, like a helicopter was hovering out of sight just overhead. Dark clouds roiled at the edges of his vision, which was beginning to flicker, and he struggled to breathe, gasping vainly, and he knew he would lose consciousness soon.

He looked around for the man with the knife to blow him to hell—if Rico was going to die, he would make goddamned sure he took the fucker with him—but the man had disappeared.

Then someone turned out the lights and Rico Petralli felt an instant of heartache and regret. Then he was gone.

Cait barely registered the sound of the ringing doorbell. She barely registered anything besides the sight of Kevin lying motionless on the floor. Then the man who called himself Milo cursed and hurried out of the room. He paused in the doorway and turned. He reached one long arm toward her and pointed the bloodstained knife blade. “Stay perfectly quiet or everyone dies,” he said, his voice low and soft and menacing. Then he disappeared.

Cait didn’t know who was at the door. Didn’t care, either. It wasn’t like the cavalry was going to come riding in on their white horses and save everyone; no one even knew they were here. And her top priority, her only priority, was Kevin.

She rushed across the floor, sidestepping pieces of broken chair, and knelt next to him. His face was white, his lips a frightening shade of pale blue. His eyes were closed and he lay unmoving and for a horrible moment Cait feared he might already be dead. If that were the case, she would rush the maniac, knife or no knife, and inflict as much damage on his murdering soul as she could before she went down.