Gideon’s Sword

Moving tentatively now, he approached the final stack of pallets and ducked around the corner, shining his light along the wall.

He felt something not unlike a displacement of air behind him and spun around; a black shadow burst out of the darkness but before he could scream there was a flash of steel and he felt a violent tug across his neck, and then everything was tumbling and crazy and red — and then it was over.

22

Gideon Crew waited, listening. There was someone else inside the warehouse who was not the guard: he was sure of it. The guard had heard it, too, and gone to inspect; returned; then investigated again. The second time he had not returned and Gideon had heard a faint scuffling sound, following by the sound of something wet landing softly on the floor.

He waited, absolutely still and unmoving. From his vantage point inside the car, he could see through several breaks in the wreckage, giving him a view of the central, cleared aisle of the warehouse, very broad, that ran to the security area at the far end. The guard was still gone, and he was taking much too long to investigate.

Gideon heard a soft plop, and then something rolled out from between two stacks of pallets on the right side and came slowly to rest in the open area.

The guard’s severed head.

Gideon’s mind kicked into overdrive. He knew instantly it was a trap — a way to flush him out, frighten him, or induce him to investigate. Another person was loose in the warehouse — and now Gideon was the target.

Quickly he reviewed his options. He could stay and fight, stalk his stalker. But his opponent was holding all the cards; he evidently knew exactly where Gideon was, he had worked it all out, he had lured and killed the guard so efficiently that there hadn’t even been a sound…Gideon’s instincts told him this guy was very, very good, a true professional.

So what to do? Get the hell out. He already had the cell phone, and additional searching had turned up nothing else.

But that was obviously one of the things his opponent — or opponents — expected him to do. Opponents. Now that was a chilling thought.

He needed to do the unexpected. But what could be unexpected here? Gideon was well protected inside the twisted car, but any move he made to leave it would potentially expose him.

He was fucked.

As he mulled it over, he realized that the killer, or killers, had been tracking his progress all along. Now they were probably in position, aiming at his cage, just waiting for his appearance. They wouldn’t have rolled out the head if they didn’t know where he was.

There was a way out. It was a huge risk, but at least it had the advantage of leaving him alive. He had no other options.

He glanced at his watch. Then he eased the Colt Python out of his waistband and aimed it carefully at the lock on the door leading outside the warehouse. He squeezed off a shot, which sounded thunderously in the enclosed space, the round clipping the alarm keypad. The siren began to whoop again.

Now it was a question of outwaiting the killer. Because at some point the unknown assailant would have to bolt. And then Gideon would have to get his own ass out.

Who was it? The driver of the black SUV? It had to be — they’d have gotten a good look at him during the chase.

A shot rang out, ripping into the wrecked taxi with a clang, followed by another and another, heavy-caliber rounds that punched through the metal like butter. Gideon realized with dismay that the killer wasn’t going to run, at least not immediately. He had, for better or worse, forced the man’s hand.

At least he now knew where the shots were coming from. Flattening himself within the wreckage, keeping behind the engine block, he took aim and waited. Boom came the next shot; he saw the muzzle flash and quickly returned fire. Already he could hear the sirens. How long had it taken before the police arrived last time? About five minutes.

He glanced at his watch again. It had already been three.

Another pair of rounds banged through the metal, bracketing him, spraying him with paint chips, and he returned fire once again. The sirens were getting louder — and then he heard wheels screeching to a stop outside.

He saw a flash of black behind the pallets—​the killer was finally fleeing. Backing quickly out of the ruined rear seat, he jumped up, ready to sprint to the door, when two more rounds suddenly whined past him. As he dove to the floor he realized the son of a bitch had feinted, pretending flight, in order to flush him out. He rolled, fired, and saw the black-clad figure vanish into a dark corner; he evidently had his own method of ingress and egress.

There was a sudden pounding on the forward door of the warehouse; it was still locked, the alarm blaring. To follow the killer out his own exit hole would be suicide; Gideon needed to find another way. He looked wildly around but the only possible escape route lay above, through some louvered vents in the ceiling. Quickly he sprinted across the warehouse to a metal support and began shimmying up it.

“Open up!” yelled the cops. There was more pounding, followed by the crash of a battering ram.

Higher he climbed, using bolts as rungs; he reached a metal collar beam and crawled across it to a gusset, reached up again, grabbed a truss web member, and worked his way up it until he was at the level of the louvered vents.

The battering ram smashed into the metal door again, and again, and Gideon offered a silent prayer of thanks for the fine workmanship.

“Roland! You in there? Open up!”

Crawling up the sloping angle-iron truss on his hands and knees, Gideon gripped the iron, crouched again, and launched himself across the narrow gap, grasping the open louver, his feet swinging free.

A moment later, as the metal door caved in with a great crash, he hoisted himself up, crawled out the louver onto the sloping roof, and lay flat, breathing hard. Would they think of looking up here? They certainly would: as soon as they discovered the decapitated guard, the police warehouse was going to look like Grand Central Terminal.

Sliding down the pitch of the roof, he reached the drip edge along the back and peered over. Good — all the activity was still concentrated at the front. He could hear shouting and expostulations of horror and fury as the police found the guard’s decapitated body.

What a balls-up.

Gideon grasped the drip edge, swung over, dropped to the ground, and headed to his previous opening. Then he reconsidered. The killer seemed to know an awful lot about his movements; he might be waiting there in ambush. Instead, Gideon sprinted to another part of the fence, climbed it, and as quickly as he could cut a crude gap through the concertina wire.

“Hey! You!”

Damn. He forced his way through the wire, feeling it slice his clothes and skin, and half climbed, half tumbled down the far side, landing in some bushes.

“Over here!” the cop yelled. “Suspect in flight! This way!”

Boom, the cop fired at him as he darted across the overgrown lot at the rear of the warehouse, dodging between abandoned containers, burned-out cars, and dumped refrigerators. He sprinted toward the railroad tracks ru

He swam underwater as far as he could, surfaced to gulp air, swam some more, and then—​with as little disturbance as possible—​returned to the surface. Jettisoning the heavy weight of the bolt cutters, he let himself drift downstream, floating without treading water, keeping his head as low in the water as possible. He could hear shouts from the shore and an unintelligible screed over an electronic megaphone. A feeble spotlight swung out over the water, but he was already out of reach; nevertheless, he turned his head to show only his black hair. There was quite a lot of flotsam bobbing downstream along with him, and for once he was grateful for the slovenly habits of New Yorkers. He wondered if he’d need to get a battery of shots after this little immersion, then realized it didn’t matter—​he was a dead man anyway.