out of reach at a heavy swat.
A blow unbalanced Russell toward the kitchen. The man shoved sideways for the gun. Russell recovered, grabbed his ankles to drag him further back. A sturdy kick dislodged Russell's grip. A second hit his chest, knocked him down.
The man reared up. Sharp steel flashed. He lunged. Two feet caught him, propelled him back down the hall. A second flash of metal gleamed and both men were on their feet. The attacker charged. Russell was ready.
A quick flurry of firm wrists ejected the blade from the attacker's grip, sank it into the fleshy softness of his belly. Warmth soaked Russell's hands. He gave a furious, upward thrust. Bone cracked. Blood spilled. Russell released his hold.
The man stumbled back, blood rushing from his gut to drip a trail along the carpet. He fell to the floor, choking. Russell hurried to his side, spied a darkness on his right wrist; a black tattoo of the Greek Omega.
He forced the man's head up by the hair, “Why are you here?!”
Blood rolled from a corner of his mouth. He laughed out flecks of blood with fading fanaticism, “Omega. Is coming. You—you'll never stop them now. ”
The man choked on his last breaths, went silent. Russell's eyes were wild. He swallowed hard, defeated by the puzzle-piece before him. He hurried for the kitchen, legs and feet rubber as he dialed his cell-phone, engaged its loudspeaker, and twisted on the water. He battled his surging adrenaline to scrub blood from his hands.
“Switzer,” Chuck answered sleepily.
“Chuck, we've got a problem,” he panted.
He gave a confused yawn, “Wud'ya mean Rus? What's goin' on?”
“You remember that lead I told you about?”
“Yeah. What about'er?”
“She was attacked in her apartment. I'm supposed to be on my way over,” Russell said, hypnotized by the blood sloshing from his hands and circling the drain.
“So? Prolly a burgle gone bad, what of it?” Chuck replied.
“I was just attacked too, in my house. I killed the guy.”
Chuck was suddenly awake, “Jesus Christ, Russell! The hell happened?”
“Doesn't matter right now. I need you to send OCF here to—”
“You're not leavin', are you?”
“Chuck, this isn't a coincidence, I have to get to Doherty. I'll give a statement after I make sure she's alright.”
Chuck sighed, relented, “Fine. What d'you need?”
Russell turned off the tap, made for the bedroom past the dead body. He dug into a standing safe for a shotgun, “A security detail on Maggie Doherty. No less than two patrol cars at all times. There's something going on, and whether she likes it or not, she's involved.”
He set the shotgun aside, retrieved a duffel bag, and filled it with boxes of pistol and shotgun ammunition. He grabbed a holstered pistol, set it inside with an extra pair of magazines.
“I'll get on it, Rus, but keep your head on straight, man.”
“Understood.”
The line cut out. Russell zipped the bag closed, slung it over his shoulder, and grabbed the shotgun. He made for the door, retrieved his coat and pistol from the counter, then rushed out.
For twenty minutes the undercover Impala's lights and sirens blared through the emptying, Oakton boulevards. It took wide corners with squealing tires, sharper ones with light braking before sling-shotting out and back to top-speed.
He arrived on-scene to a barrage of police cars and ambulances barring entrance to the building. Their lights flared over the street, attracted a small crowd on its opposite side. A pair of officers held them back, ineffectual against the faces gazing down from random apartments above.
He hurried in, followed clusters of officers to the third floor, his spare pistol nestled beside the other beneath his jacket.
Inside Maggie's apartment, OCF's high-powered flashes lit the main-room with loud pops and high-pitched charges. Lt. Xavier stood outside a bedroom door just inside the apartment.
He nodded to Russell, shifted to allow a group of officers to pass,
A blow unbalanced Russell toward the kitchen. The man shoved sideways for the gun. Russell recovered, grabbed his ankles to drag him further back. A sturdy kick dislodged Russell's grip. A second hit his chest, knocked him down.
The man reared up. Sharp steel flashed. He lunged. Two feet caught him, propelled him back down the hall. A second flash of metal gleamed and both men were on their feet. The attacker charged. Russell was ready.
A quick flurry of firm wrists ejected the blade from the attacker's grip, sank it into the fleshy softness of his belly. Warmth soaked Russell's hands. He gave a furious, upward thrust. Bone cracked. Blood spilled. Russell released his hold.
The man stumbled back, blood rushing from his gut to drip a trail along the carpet. He fell to the floor, choking. Russell hurried to his side, spied a darkness on his right wrist; a black tattoo of the Greek Omega.
He forced the man's head up by the hair, “Why are you here?!”
Blood rolled from a corner of his mouth. He laughed out flecks of blood with fading fanaticism, “Omega. Is coming. You—you'll never stop them now. ”
The man choked on his last breaths, went silent. Russell's eyes were wild. He swallowed hard, defeated by the puzzle-piece before him. He hurried for the kitchen, legs and feet rubber as he dialed his cell-phone, engaged its loudspeaker, and twisted on the water. He battled his surging adrenaline to scrub blood from his hands.
“Switzer,” Chuck answered sleepily.
“Chuck, we've got a problem,” he panted.
He gave a confused yawn, “Wud'ya mean Rus? What's goin' on?”
“You remember that lead I told you about?”
“Yeah. What about'er?”
“She was attacked in her apartment. I'm supposed to be on my way over,” Russell said, hypnotized by the blood sloshing from his hands and circling the drain.
“So? Prolly a burgle gone bad, what of it?” Chuck replied.
“I was just attacked too, in my house. I killed the guy.”
Chuck was suddenly awake, “Jesus Christ, Russell! The hell happened?”
“Doesn't matter right now. I need you to send OCF here to—”
“You're not leavin', are you?”
“Chuck, this isn't a coincidence, I have to get to Doherty. I'll give a statement after I make sure she's alright.”
Chuck sighed, relented, “Fine. What d'you need?”
Russell turned off the tap, made for the bedroom past the dead body. He dug into a standing safe for a shotgun, “A security detail on Maggie Doherty. No less than two patrol cars at all times. There's something going on, and whether she likes it or not, she's involved.”
He set the shotgun aside, retrieved a duffel bag, and filled it with boxes of pistol and shotgun ammunition. He grabbed a holstered pistol, set it inside with an extra pair of magazines.
“I'll get on it, Rus, but keep your head on straight, man.”
“Understood.”
The line cut out. Russell zipped the bag closed, slung it over his shoulder, and grabbed the shotgun. He made for the door, retrieved his coat and pistol from the counter, then rushed out.
For twenty minutes the undercover Impala's lights and sirens blared through the emptying, Oakton boulevards. It took wide corners with squealing tires, sharper ones with light braking before sling-shotting out and back to top-speed.
He arrived on-scene to a barrage of police cars and ambulances barring entrance to the building. Their lights flared over the street, attracted a small crowd on its opposite side. A pair of officers held them back, ineffectual against the faces gazing down from random apartments above.
He hurried in, followed clusters of officers to the third floor, his spare pistol nestled beside the other beneath his jacket.
Inside Maggie's apartment, OCF's high-powered flashes lit the main-room with loud pops and high-pitched charges. Lt. Xavier stood outside a bedroom door just inside the apartment.
He nodded to Russell, shifted to allow a group of officers to pass,
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