Guillermo del Toro - The Fall

Three Mexican gangbangers and an old ex-wrestler with hands the size of thick steaks. “It’s getting dark, boys,” said Fet. “You should be moving right along.”

Creem, the silver-knuckled one, said, “Now what?”

Gus said to Fet, “The pawnbroker. Where is he?”

Fet held pat. These punks packed slaying weapons, but he didn’t know them, and what he didn’t know he didn’t like. “Don’t know who you’re talking about.”

Gus wasn’t buying. “I guess we go door to door, then, motherfucker.”

Fet said, “You do, you’re gonna have to go through me.” He pointed with his nail gun. “And just so you know-this baby right here is nasty. The nail just fastens to the bone. Homes right in on it. Vampire or not, damage will be done. I’ll hear you squeal when you try to pry a couple of silvery inches out of your fucking eye socket, cholo. ”

“Vasiliy,” said Setrakian, exiting out the back door, staff in hand.

Gus saw him, saw the old man’s hands. All busted up, just as he remembered. The pawnbroker looked even older now, smaller. It had been years since they’d met about one week ago. He straightened, uncertain if the old man would recognize him.

Setrakian looked him over. “From the jail.”

Fet said, “Jail?”

Setrakian reached out and patted Gus’s arm familiarly. “You listened. You learned. And you survived.”

“ A guevo. I survived. And you-you got out.”

“I had a stroke of good fortune,” said Setrakian. He looked at the others. “But what of your friend? The sick one. You did what you had to do?”

Gus winced, remembering. “ Si. I did what I had to do. And I’ve been fucking doing it ever since.”

Angel dug into a knapsack on his shoulder, and Fet readied his nail gun. “Easy, big bear,” he said.

Angel pulled out the silver case recovered from the pawnshop. Gus went and took it from him, opening it, removing the card inside, and handing it to the pawnbroker.

It contained Fet’s address.

Setrakian noticed that the case was dented and blackened, one corner warped from heat.

Gus told him, “They sent a crew for you. Used smoke cover to attack in daytime. They were all over your shop when we got there.” Gus nodded to the others. “We had to blow up your place to get out of there with our blood still red.”

Setrakian showed only a flicker of regret, passing quickly. “So-you have joined the fight.”

“Who, me?” said Gus, brandishing his silver blade. “I am the fight. Been flushing ’em out these past few days-way too many to count.”

Setrakian looked more closely at Gus’s weapon, showing concern. “Where, may I ask, did you get such well-made arms?”

“From the fucking source,” said Gus. “They came for me when I was still in handcuffs, running from the law. Pulled me right off the street.”

Setrakian’s expression turned dark. “Who are ‘they?’”

“Them. The old ones.”

Setrakian said, “The Ancients.”

“Holy Jesus,” said Fet.

Setrakian motioned to him to be patient. “Please,” he said to Gus. “Explain.”

Gus did so, recounting the Ancients’ offer, that they were holding his mother, and how he had recruited the Sapphires out of Jersey City to work at his side as day hunters.

“Mercenaries,” said Setrakian.

Gus took that as a compliment. “We’re mopping the floor with milk blood. A tight hit squad, good vampire killers. Vampire shitkickers, more like it.”

Angel nodded. He liked this kid.

“The Ancients,” Gus said. “They feel that this is all a concerted attack. Breaking their breeding rules, risking exposure. Shock and Awe, I guess…”

Fet coughed out a laugh. “You guess? You’re joking. No? You fucking dropout assassins have no idea what’s going down here. You don’t even know whose side you’re really on.”

“Hold, please.” Setrakian silenced Fet with a hand, thinking. “Do they know that you have come to me?”

“No,” said Gus.

“They will soon. And they will not be pleased.” Setrakian put up his hands, reassuring the confused Gus. “Fret not. It is all a big mess, a bad situation for anyone with red blood in their veins. I am very glad you sought me out again.”

Fet had learned to like the brightness that came into the old man’s eyes when he was getting an idea. It helped Fet relax a little.

Setrakian said to Gus, “I think perhaps there is something you can do for me.”

Gus shot a cutting look at Fet, as though saying, Take that. “Name it,” he said to Setrakian. “I owe you plenty.”

“You will take my friend and me to the Ancients.”

EPH SAT ALONE in the debriefing room, his elbows on a scratched table, calmly rubbing at his hands. The room smelled of old coffee, though there was none present. The ceiling-lamp light fell on the one-way mirror, illuminating a single human handprint, the ghostly remnant of a recent interrogation.

Strange knowing you are being watched, even studied. It affected what you do, down to your very posture, the way you licked your lips, how you looked at or didn’t look at yourself in the mirror, behind which lurked your captors. If lab rats knew their behavior was being scrutinized, then every maze-and-cheese experiment would take on an extra dimension.

Eph looked forward to their questions, perhaps more than the FBI was looking forward to his answers. He hoped that their inquiries would give him a sense of the investigation at hand, and, in doing so, let him know to what extent the vampire invasion was currently understood by law enforcement and the powers that be.

He had once read that falling asleep while awaiting questioning is a leading indicator of a suspect’s culpability. The reason was something about how the lack of a physical outlet for one’s anxiety exhausted the guilty mind-that, coupled with an unconscious need to hide or escape.

Eph was plenty tired, and sore, but more than that, he felt relief. He was done. Under arrest, in federal custody. No more fight, no more struggle. He was of little use to Setrakian and Fet anyway. With Zack and Nora now safely out of the hot zone, speeding south to Harrisburg, it seemed to him that sitting here in the penalty box was preferable to warming the bench.

Two agents entered without introduction. They handcuffed his wrists, Eph thinking that strange. They cuffed them not behind his back but in front of him, then pulled him out of the chair and walked him from the room.

They led him past the mostly empty bullpen to a key-access elevator. No one said anything on the ride up. The door opened on an unadorned access hallway, which they followed to a short flight of stairs, leading to a door to the roof.

A helicopter was parked there, its rotors already speeding up, chopping into the night air. Too noisy to ask questions, so Eph crouch-walked with the other two into the belly of the bird, and sat while they seat-belted him in.

The chopper lifted off, rising over Kew Gardens and greater Brooklyn. Eph saw the blocks burning, the helicopter weaving between great plumes of thick, black smoke. All this devastation raging below him. Surreal didn’t begin to describe it.

He realized they were crossing the East River, and then really wondered where they were taking him. He saw the police and fire lights spinning on the Brooklyn Bridge, but no moving cars, no people. Lower Manhattan came up fast around them, the helicopter dipping lower, the tallest buildings limiting his view.

Eph knew that the FBI headquarters were in Federal Plaza, a few blocks north of City Hall. But no, they remained close to the Financial District.

The chopper climbed again, zeroing in on the only lit rooftop for blocks around: a red ring of safety lights demarking a helipad. The bird touched down gently, and the agents unbuckled Eph’s seat belt. They got him up out of his seat without getting up themselves, essentially kicking him to the rooftop.