Broken Angel Read online

  He shot a poisoned glance at his new tormentor, the cop behind him with the stick. It earned him another whack. Gritting his teeth, he followed the driver inside.

  They stopped in front of a desk. “We got an assault, possible assault with intent,” the driver said to a dour-faced man who sat behind it.

  “Name,” the desk cop intoned.

  “What’s your name?” Nightstick hissed.

  He said the first thing that came to mind. “Mouse. Mickey Mouse.”

  A shove from behind sent him crashing into the desk. He struggled to right himself and looked into the face of the desk cop, who seemed to be doing a Queen Mother impersonation: We are not amused.

  Without batting an eye the desk cop said, “Take Mr. Mouse here down to booking.”

  They led him through a twisting maze of hallways and desks and into a small, gray-walled room containing a plain wooden table and two metal folding chairs. Driver removed the cuffs. Nightstick stood in front of him, tapping the end of his club in the palm of one hand.

  “All right, strip.”

  He turned to look at Driver, who stood with his arms folded, waiting. Humiliation burned him. He faced forward again, removed his shirt and dropped it on the floor. Nightstick cast a scorn-filled glance at the bruises that marred his chest and stomach, and as his fingers worked to unbutton his jeans, a low whistle sounded behind him.

  “Christ, wouldya get a load of this.”

  Nightstick moved behind him to regard his tattoo.

  “Holy shit, he’s got wings. You gonna fly away on us?”

  Raucous laughter burst from the two cops. He kicked off his shoes and slid his jeans and underwear down. He stood rigid with the expectation of another blow from the stick at any moment. However, Nightstick seemed content to go through his discarded clothing.

  The distinctive snap of rubber gloves chilled his blood.

  “You gonna give us any trouble, boy?” Driver circled around to his front, sounding eerily like Marcus Slade.

  He swallowed and shook his head.

  “Good. Open your mouth, real wide.”

  He performed the order. Driver raised a gloved hand to his face and hesitated. “If you try anything stupid, like biting me, my partner here will bash your fucking skull in. Got it?”

  The cop didn’t bother to wait for an answer. Vinyl-coated fingers entered his mouth and probed roughly at the roof, around the tongue. They slid down his throat far enough to produce a retching gag. The hand withdrew fast. “Don’t you fuckin’ puke on me, punk.”

  He glared at him, but the look didn’t faze the taciturn cop. “Turn around and put your hands on the table.”

  His father’s face flashed before him. He froze, unable to obey the command—and in response to his apparent refusal, the club swung into his lower spine. Pain exploded through his body. With a sharp hiss of air, he slowly assumed the required position.

  Jagged, degrading pressure invaded him. Driver probed with one finger, and then two. Gabriel bit his lip to keep from crying out as the cop prodded deeper, deliberately twisting his assault to cause more pain. At last, he withdrew and stepped back.

  “He’s clean.” Disgust filled Driver’s voice.

  Shaking, he stood and clenched his fists at his sides. “Siddown,” a voice barked at his back. He couldn’t tell which cop had spoken, but he sat anyway. The cold steel of the chair seared his exposed flesh on contact.

  Driver pulled the other chair around the table and sat facing him. Nightstick remained standing just behind him. The insistent tap of the club against a palm was the only sound in the room for a long, agonizing minute while Driver stared at him.

  At last, the cop sighed and leaned forward as though he were a concerned buddy. “Look, we’re gonna need your name for the paperwork. Just give it to us and we’ll get you a bed so you can grab some sleep. We’ll sort the rest out in the morning.”

  He offered no response.

  “Come on. Spit it out, kid.”

  Silence.

  The club smashed his right shoulder, almost knocking him from the chair. “Answer him, fuckhead,” Nightstick said in menacing tones.

  His defiant stare answered for him.

  Nightstick raised the club for another blow, but Driver held up one hand and shook his head, and the club lowered.

  “Get your cuffs,” Driver told his partner. He rose, reaching for his own steel bracelets, and ratcheted one end tight around his left wrist. The other end he clamped around the rear leg of the chair. Nightstick repeated the process with the right wrist, and the two walked to the door.

  “Seems you got some thinking to do,” Driver said from the doorway after Nightstick went through. “We’ll be back in a couple of hours to find out what you came up with.”

  A harsh bark of laughter buffeted his stiff, shackled form. The door closed and the light went out, bathing him in blackness.

  * * * *

  Time crawled. Gabriel waited, silent and numb. Whatever happened, he resolved not to give them a name, or any indication of what he’d been doing. He had no idea what they would do if he refused to identify himself—but he supposed he’d find out soon enough.

  He wouldn’t put it past Slade to hurt Lillith, or kill her, if the cops traced this arrest back to the organization.

  Mendez, you dirty son of a bitch. The Prometheus leader must have orchestrated everything. If he managed to get out of this somehow and went back to Slade, he’d end up taking the fall regardless of whether he implicated Mendez. Slade would punish Lillith again. Make him watch. Arrange another degrading experience for him. And the bastard still wouldn’t release them. There had to be another way.

  Gradually he discovered an advantage—a small one, but an advantage nonetheless. Before, he’d been thrust into unfamiliar territory. Now, after nearly a year of captivity, he knew the location and the layout of Slade’s hotel. He might be able to get in, find Lillith, and get out. All he had to do was sneak in the back and hope no one was watching the damned monitoring system, figure out which of the fifty or so rooms was Lillith’s, and avoid all contact with every other person inside, especially Apollo, Sol and Jenner. Right after he broke out of jail.

  No problem.

  Despair dampened the spark of hope. Here he sat, naked and handcuffed to a chair in a police interrogation room, planning to infiltrate Slade’s fortress. He laughed. The sound echoed in the bare space, bouncing back as though the walls scorned him.

  Light flooded the room. He snarled and squeezed his eyes shut. A muffled voice spoke outside the door. “Damn it, how long has he been in there?”

  “A couple hours.”

  The sullen responder was Nightstick. The door opened. An older cop entered and stopped short. “Christ! Blake, what the hell did you do to him?”

  “He looked like that when we brought him in, Sarge.”

  Nightstick had a name. Blake glowered at him from behind the sergeant, silently daring him to refute the statement.

  “Right. And that nasty bruise on his shoulder just happened to be shaped like a baton.” Apparently, the sergeant wasn’t buying Blake’s story. The knowledge afforded him little relief. “Unlock him, and get out. I’ll deal with this.”

  Muttering incoherently, Blake moved to do as the sergeant ordered. He released both sets of handcuffs and stalked from the room with his partner right behind. The door closed, and the sergeant drew his gun out in plain sight.

  He resisted rubbing his sore wrists and waited to see what this one would do.

  “I don’t think I need to use this.” The cop gestured with the gun, crossed the room, and took the empty chair Driver had left in front of him. “Call it insurance, if you want, but I’ll just hold onto it for a few minutes.”

  He nodded.

  “I’m Sergeant Ames. Look, I can’t let you go, but I can at least get you a place to grab some sleep. I understand you didn’t identify yourself to the other officers.”

  He stared at him.

  “If yo
u’ll just tell me your name, I’ll take you to a bed.”

  No. The temptation to speak nearly won out, but he might say something incriminating. He shook his head and kept his mouth shut.

  “Fine,” Ames snapped. “Get dressed, you little shit.”

  He stood and gathered his clothes. Ames watched him dress. The cop’s expression relaxed, and when he’d finished he said, “I know why you didn’t want to talk to Blake or Sullivan. But if you don’t give me something to go on here, we’re gonna have to move you to a nuthouse. You don’t want to go to a nuthouse, do you?”

  He shrugged. At this point insanity sounded convenient. If he lost his mind, maybe he wouldn’t care any more about what happened to him. Or Lillith.

  “Why do I always get the crazies?” Ames sighed, rose from the chair and holstered his gun. He unhooked a complicated set of handcuffs from his belt: two pairs of steel bracelets connected by lengths of slender chain. One pair hung open. “Well, this’ll be just loads of fun. Christ. Sit down.”

  He took a seat. The cop drew his gun again. He lowered the open cuffs on the chain, held them out, and nodded at his feet. “Put those on your ankles.”

  Unease coursed through him, the same feeling he’d experienced at the fight. Something about this wasn’t right. “What if I don’t?” he said.

  “So, you can talk. Amazing.” Ames offered a grim smirk. “If you don’t, I guess I’ll have to shoot you. Your choice.” He shook the cuffs.

  Reluctantly, he fastened the bracelets. Ames directed him to stand and loop part of the chain around his waist. The cop completed the circuit by snapping the second pair around his wrists. “You sure you don’t want to tell me your name?”

  “Positive.”

  “You know, you scrubs really need to stop getting yourselves busted. It’s a pain in the ass.”

  “What?”

  Ames grunted. “Now you’re gonna play dumb. Fine.” He retrieved a cellphone from his belt, dialed, waited. “Hey. I got another banged-up JD over here. You want him?” Ames’ gaze crawled over him. “Black hair, green eyes. Fucking bizarre tattoo on his back. Big black wings.” The voice on the other end surged loud, and Ames moved the phone away from his ear. “I don’t know. Blake and Sullivan brought him in.” He paused. “Yeah, all right. I’ll stick him down there.” Ames disconnected and replaced the phone.

  His stomach lurched. “What the hell is going on?”

  “I don’t ask questions, and neither do you. Those are the rules. Come on.”

  Ames headed for the door. He hesitated and shuffled after him. Apparently, whoever had been on the phone knew him. He wouldn’t be surprised if the cop had called Slade.

  The sergeant led him away from the main part of the station and down a flight of stairs. He stopped in a dim hallway, opened a door and gestured. “You’ll wait here. I don’t know how long he’s gonna be.”

  He moved into the room. The door closed. Inside, a number of empty metal utility shelves lined the left and right walls. Graffiti scarred the otherwise blank rear wall, scratched into the faded paint with God knew what—probably the corners of handcuffs. Amid crudely lettered epithets and absurd cheerful phrases, one symbol stood out. A five-point star.

  At once weary and beyond caring, he stumbled to the wall, turned to face the door, and leaned against the vandalized surface. He wasn’t the first fighter to occupy this room, and he wouldn’t be the last. He couldn’t beat the organization. No matter who came to get him, he’d be returned to Slade. And things would go downhill from there.

  He slid to the floor and rested his head on his bent knees. His body shut down, forcing him toward sleep. Before he drifted off, an odd thought occurred to him and he realized they were Jenner’s words.

  By now you should have realized that you cannot win this game by following the rules.

  Maybe the lieutenant hadn’t been talking about the fights. And maybe he’d been playing the wrong game from the start.

  A light slumber claimed him, interrupted by moments of half-waking dreams. Some time later the click of the door snapped him awake. He raised his head and blinked away the grogginess to find he’d been joined by the last cop in the world he wanted to see.

  Captain Wolff.

  Chapter 30

  Wolff closed the door behind him. A few faded bruises and healing cuts still decorated his face, souvenirs of the tournament. “Kid, I thought I told you to go the fuck home.”

  “You probably did.” Gabriel grimaced and struggled to stand. “But here I am anyway. So now what?”

  “Well, let’s see.” Wolff ticked off fingers. “Assault with a deadly weapon, possible assault with intent to kill, against one Giles Torres, a.k.a. Nails. Resisting arrest. And failure to identify yourself to law enforcement personnel.” He lowered his arms and scowled. “I had to wreck my car because of you. It was the only way I could explain what you did to me. And I don’t appreciate it.”

  “We’re even, then. I don’t appreciate what you did to Shiro.”

  “It was his own fault. He should have withdrawn.”

  “So you did know he could have died.”

  “Damn it, boy, I wouldn’t have killed him. I know the rules. I made the fucking rules.” Wolff’s hands clenched at his sides. “They aren’t my rules any more, though. Everything got away from me—and assholes like you only make it worse.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Wolff sneered. “You think I enjoy containing this shit? Mendez and I set this up for turf control. I wanted to keep the gangs from killing each other—and innocent bystanders—in the goddamn streets. Mendez had the clout to make the rest of them participate. I was going to bring him down, eventually. Then Harada and your buddy Slade got involved.”

  “Slade is not my buddy.” The words rushed from him, steps ahead of his brain.

  “Why am I not surprised?” Wolff shook his head. “Whatever he’s got on you, I don’t want to know. All I’m saying is, the more wet-nosed punks that come sniffing around looking for street cred, the harder my job gets. I have to follow them around wiping their asses after they make a mess.”

  “Look, I didn’t—” He clamped his mouth shut before he could finish with ask for this. He’d be signing Lillith’s death warrant...and apparently Wolff didn’t care anyway. “Sorry about the mess, but it wasn’t my fault. Mendez decided to hold a fight outside. It got busted.” He refrained from tacking on the part about Nails stabbing himself. Mendez already wanted him dead.

  Fury glittered in Wolff’s eyes. “Mendez held a fight?”

  “Yeah. In his goddamned lot.”

  Wolff stilled. Without warning, he spun and rammed a fist into the door behind him. Wood cracked and splintered on the heels of a tremendous thud. He lowered his arm slowly. Blood drizzled down a finger, and a few drops spattered the floor.

  He shuddered, thankful he hadn’t been on the receiving end of that punch.

  Wolff stood with his back to him, motionless again. At last, he shoved his uninjured hand in a pocket and yanked out a set of keys. He turned, selected a short key with a rounded stem and jabbed the air. “Hands.” He seemed barely able to speak.

  He raised his wrists. Wolff advanced, snagged the chain leading to his waist, and released the cuffs with rough twists. He ratcheted them open and let them fall. Thrusting the keys at him, he nodded down. “You get the ankles.”

  He accepted them and sat on the floor to unlock the leg cuffs. He disentangled himself from the chain, stood, and dropped the keys in Wolff’s waiting hand. What now? The captain didn’t seem inclined to keep him under arrest, at least. Would he call Slade? Deliver him to Mendez? His gaze drifted to Wolff’s gun. Maybe he’d just take him somewhere and shoot him.

  If he did, no one would look for him. And Wolff probably knew that.

  “I want you gone.”

  He stared at him. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m taking you out the back, and I want you to leave. Leave my precinct. Leave the goddamned city. Don
’t go back to Slade, don’t go anywhere near Mendez—unless you have a death wish, in which case, be my guest. Just get the fuck out.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  Wolff shoved him one-armed against the wall. “If you don’t, I’ll find a way to bust you. I’ll make sure your ass rots here. And I’ll put Blake in charge of your supervision. Understand?”

  He nodded.

  “Good.” Wolff released him and stalked toward the door. He yanked it open. “Come on.”

  He followed him through darkened corridors, past empty offices and rooms cluttered with boxes of files. They ascended a short flight of aluminum stairs leading to a solid metal door, and Wolff opened it onto a narrow alley.

  Beyond, the world waited for him to rejoin it.

  He squared his shoulders and stepped past the captain. Wolff offered a bitter smile. “I’m not sure if you’ll know where you are once you get out to the street, and I don’t care. Goodbye, Angel.” He slammed the door with a hollow bang.

  He breathed in a hesitant lungful of pure freedom and headed into the breaking dawn.

  * * * *

  Gathering clouds, dark above the towering concrete buildings, promised rain. In the distance an ominous rumble of thunder sounded, and a jagged stroke of electric blue split the gray velvet of the sky.

  Gabriel walked Fifth Avenue, headed uptown, shivering despite the warmth in the moist and heavy air. Free. He wanted to shout the word, scream it from the rooftops—but he didn’t dare. Everything seemed surreal, and he feared at any moment he’d wake from this dream to find himself on the floor in Slade’s attic, bloodied from a fight, still trapped in the nightmare that had become his reality.

  He would go back. Despite Wolff’s threats, he had no choice. He’d try to save Lillith. He might succeed, or be recaptured...or die. For now, he would savor this moment. This freedom.

  I’m not following the rules anymore, Jenner. He smiled and slowed his steps. Even if the lieutenant had known, he doubted he would care. Still, Shiro had been right to say what he had.

  Shiro. Would he ever see the man again? If things went his way, it wasn’t likely. The thought saddened him—but having Slade and Mendez out of his life forever would compensate.