The Darkness hp-5 Read online

  While they were distracted, I rushed forward and shoved

  Malloy as hard as I could. His body, already off balance, went toppling down the stairs. He landed with a thud two floors below, screaming in pain and clutching his leg.

  Before Ramos had a chance to recover, I leaped back into the stairwell and began to climb. They’d taken Curt somewhere upstairs, and I could only hope to find him before the entire warehouse was shredded.

  As I ascended, relief spread through me as I saw that

  Ramos was still pinned down in the stairwell below me.

  I tried the door one flight above but it was locked from the inside. There was no keypad I could see, no way inside. So I kept going up, hunched over, trying not to get shot or sliced.

  One more flight up and I’d reached the top level of the warehouse. Peering over the railing, my breath caught in my throat when I saw that neither Ramos or

  Malloy were still there. They weren’t on the stairwell though, so I had a small window to figure out what the hell to do.

  The stairwell here had one door, and this had an electronic keypad. I tried several combinations, including

  718, but none of them worked. But just as I was about to give up and turn to my nonexistent plan B, I heard the doorknob turn from the other side.

  I stepped back to allow the door to open. The handle turned and into the hall walked another man. He was big, with a gleaming bald head, numerous tattoos running down his arms. And, oh yeah, he was also holding a big, black assault rifle.

  I was hidden between the door and the wall, my gun held out in defense, but the man didn’t see me as he raced down the stairs. When he’d gone down several steps, I spun around the closing door, stuck the gun muzzle into the crack, threw it open and pulled the door shut behind me just as I heard a startled “Hey!” from below.

  Turning around, I found myself in a narrow hallway.

  It was painted stark white. There were two doors at the other end, and I could see an LED light blinking red on the farthest one.

  Curt.

  I ran as fast as I could to the other end and banged on the door.

  “Curt!” I shouted. “You in there?”

  It took a moment, but then I heard someone say,

  “Henry?”

  “Yeah! How do I open this thing?”

  “Four eight two one nine,” he said. “I saw the guy enter it when he put me in here.”

  I pressed the numbers on the keypad, and the light turned green.

  I yanked the handle and pulled the door open, just as the door as the other end flew open, revealing the guy with the rifle. He yelled some sort of curse, but I dove inside Curt’s room and pulled the door closed just as a spatter of bullets hit the metal. I held my foot against the door, keeping it open just slightly to make sure we didn’t get locked inside.

  “Holy shit,” Curt said, “you okay?”

  “Yeah, fine,” I said, noticing a trickle of blood on my arm where glass had cut me. “No big deal.”

  “How the hell did you get away?”

  “No time. Here,” I said, handing Curt the gun. “You’re probably better with this than I am.”

  Another round of gunfire hit the door, and we parted on either side. Dimples punched out on our side of the door every time a round hit it.

  “That’s an M16,” Curt said. “A4, I believe. Thirty round magazine. And he’s fired twenty-three of them.”

  Another burst of gunfire shelled the door. Curt looked at the dimples, said, “Seven. Get your shit together, Curt turned the handle and kicked the door open, training the gun on the rifleman just as he was popping out the old magazine.

  “You move and I take your head off,” Curt said. The man stood there, unsure of what to do, the magazine clattering to the ground. “Take your hand out of your pocket.”

  He did so, holding a fresh mag.

  “Drop it,” Curt said. The bald man looked at him, trying to size Curt up. Then, instead of putting down the magazine, he snapped it into place and raised it to fire.

  Three loud reports exploded in the hallway, and the rifleman was driven backward, three fresh holes in his chest. As he fell he looked at Curt, surprised that he’d actually pulled the trigger.

  Without a moment of hesitation, Curt went over to the fallen gunman and picked up the rifle. He checked the new magazine, then came back over to me and held out the gun, butt first.

  “You’ve used one of these before, right?”

  “Um, not on purpose.”

  “It’s easy. Safety’s already off. Aim with two hands and squeeze. None of this holding the gun sideways or upside down or any of that stupid gangster, Angelina

  Jolie crap in the movies. You hold it straight, two hands, squeeze hard for each round and take kickback into account. Aim for the chest. Think you can handle that?”

  “If I say no will it matter?”

  “Not really, but we don’t have a choice. Come on,

  Parker.”

  Curt led the way, rifle snug against his shoulder, as we crouched outside the door to the opposite stairwell from where I’d come from. This was where they’d brought him from, and somewhere below was the way out. And we had to get out fast, because the gunfire from both sides was turning this place into Swiss cheese.

  We stood on either side of the door, both of our guns at the ready. Curt reached over and pulled it open, and as he did I swung the gun into the opening, ready for anything.

  It was empty.

  Curt joined me, using the rifle as a sight to confirm that we were the only people there. I could hear Curt breathing hard, but his eyes were focused. He nodded down.

  I’d lead, he’d cover me.

  He mouthed age before beauty. I gave him the finger, and slowly crept into the stairwell.

  If I remembered correctly, the entrance was three flights below us. But looking down, I saw that the stairwell continued below that one to a basement. Four levels in total.

  The noise in the stairwell was deafening, the gunfire echoing all around us. I made my way down the stairs, sensing Curt’s muzzle right above me.

  The landing below us was empty. Curt stood one step above me, then flicked the muzzle once. Two more flights.

  My heart pounding, the gun shaking ever so slightly in my hands, I moved down to the next level, the third floor. Nobody there. One more to go.

  Between the blood roaring in my veins and the deafening noise surrounding us, even if there was someone below us hiding, we wouldn’t know. Only one way to find out.

  No time for creeping around. I leaped down the next flight, to the second floor, recognizing the same door they’d brought us through, the same cameras recording everything. Curt stepped onto the landing as well, the rifle still aimed forward. He nodded at the door. I reached for it, turned the knob. Felt it go. One step from freedom.

  But then I looked below me, saw the landing of the next floor below us, and knew there was one more thing to do. To know.

  Below us, on the basement landing, was a small pile of black rocks. It was Darkness, the drug, the cherry bomb Ramos was using to tear down the city. And I knew what that basement was used for, and that I couldn’t leave without knowing for sure.

  I nodded to Curt. He rolled his eyes, said, “Come on.”

  And he was on board to see what lay below us. To see what kind of evil Eve Ramos had been waiting to unleash upon this city.

  51

  The door below us opened with the same combination as Curt’s holding cell. And as soon as that smell hit our nostrils, we knew what we’d found. It was only when we entered the room that we saw the extent of it.

  The basement of the warehouse was nearly the length of a football field, and nearly every inch of it was piled high with pills, rocks and powders of different sizes and concentrations. There were bags of powder stacked fifteen feet high, piles of black rocks that you could literally dive into.

  I lowered my gun, the blood draining from my face.

  “Ho
ly shit,” Curt said beside me. “Are they supplying the whole country?”

  “That’s the idea,” I said. “First New York, then anywhere that needs a fix. And I don’t see any mixing agents or supplies here, so my guess is it’s brought in across our borders somehow.

  “This is incredible,” I said. “But we can’t let it survive this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Makhoulian,” I said. “Who knows if he’s the only cop in on it? We let this stuff go into evidence, what are the odds it leaks out? Seventy-five? Ninety?”

  “So what do we do?” Curt said.

  “I don’t know, but this place has to burn.”

  As I said that, a hail of gunfire drilled the wall behind us, sending us running for cover. It had come from inside somewhere.

  “I know you’re in here, asshole,” the voice yelled. It was Rex Malloy. “Let’s make this easy.”

  Another round let loose, this time grinding up a pile of black rocks beside me, the dark soot raining into the air, burning my eyes. I sure as hell hoped Curt was counting this guy’s rounds, too.

  Curt was crouched behind a steel beam. He tried to lean out to look, but gunfire drove him back behind it.

  Asshole.

  Only one asshole. That was my chance. Malloy thought there was only one of us.

  I ran around the side of one pile, then crouched down, holding the gun in front of me. I tried to listen for footsteps, but heard nothing. Then more gunfire sounded, aimed at Curt’s hiding spot. It was a matter of seconds before he got close enough to get a good shot.

  I rounded the pile, gun outstretched, and saw two boot heels pass me. Rex Malloy. He was closing in on Sheffield.

  As he passed, I stepped out behind him and raised my gun to his chest level. As Malloy raised his gun to fire, I could see the side of Curt’s face. And if I could see it,

  Malloy could hit it. One shot. That’s all I had.

  So I pulled the trigger.

  The force of the gunshot drove my hands upward, but

  I didn’t stumble. Rex Malloy grunted as he fell forward, his rifle clattering to the floor as he fell. And then he lay there, still.

  “Oh my God,” I said, stepping over the body. “Oh my

  God. Curt? You there?”

  Sheffield came out from behind the beam. “Nice shooting, Tex.”

  I looked at him, then felt like I was going to vomit.

  Then something stirred, and I felt something crack the side of my head.

  I fell down, shook it off, and turned to see Rex Malloy standing up. There was no blood, nothing. Then I saw the hole in his vest. He rapped it once with his knuckle.

  “Was a nice shot,” he said. Then as he raised the rifle toward me, a gunshot rang out and Malloy fell to one knee, blood spurting from his leg. Curt ran up to us, aimed at Malloy’s head, but the man struck out lightning quick and knocked the gun from Curt’s hand. Then he punched Curt in the throat.

  Sheffield, wheezing, tried to catch his breath, but

  Malloy was on top of him. He wrapped his hands around

  Curt’s throat and began to squeeze. My head throbbing,

  I picked up Malloy’s dropped rifle, ran over, and drilled the butt into Malloy’s head. He went down, but was simply shaken.

  As he tried to get up, Curt stomped on Malloy’s hand, a sickening crunch as his fingers broke. Malloy cried out.

  Curt placed his knee on Malloy’s left shoulder, pinning him. I ran over and grabbed his other arm, trying to neutralize the man’s strength. Then Curt reached over and grabbed a handful of the black gravel and shoved it into

  Malloy’s throat.

  The former Special Forces operative hacked and coughed, but Curt drove him backward with a vicious head butt, and I could hear Malloy swallow the rocks.

  Then Curt raised his fist and brought it right onto Malloy’s windpipe. Once, twice, until there was another sickening crack as his windpipe broke.

  Malloy tried to claw at his throat, but we held him fast. Finally the man stopped struggling, his eyes glazing over. Curt felt the man’s pulse, looked at me, nodded. We were both breathing hard, and the side of my head felt wet.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” I said.

  “Good plan. Come on.”

  We ran back to the stairwell and up one flight, bursting through the door into the late-morning sun. The sudden glare caused us to cover our eyes, but when we opened them we saw a phalanx of cops outside the warehouse, guns trained on us.

  “Don’t shoot!” a voice yelled. “He’s a cop!”

  “And he’s a reporter!” yelled another.

  Jack. I laughed, never happier to hear the old man’s voice.

  Three cops ran over to us, guns trained, and led us back to the group. We were dirty, bleeding, but didn’t feel any of it.

  The shooting had stopped. All guns were still trained on the warehouse, but the area had gone silent. The calm after the storm.

  Then I felt a pair of arms squeezing me to death, and

  I looked up to see Jack O’Donnell.

  “Jesus Christ, kid, what are you, a method journalist?

  You don’t need to kill yourself to get the story.”

  I laughed, hugged the man right back. “You followed us,” I said.

  “Damn right. I have to admit it was a little selfish.

  Didn’t want you and your cop buddy learning the truth without me.”

  A man came over to us. He said, “Louis Carruthers,

  Chief of Department. Who’s left in there?”

  “I don’t know. At least three are dead. Leonard Reeves, another gunman and Rex Malloy.”

  “We’ve taken out another three, but we don’t know how many there were to begin with. Are there any other innocents? Do we need to go back in?”

  “Back in? Why would you do that?”

  “Look,” Jack said.

  I turned around to see orange flames licking at the windows of the warehouse, thick black smoke pouring from inside.

  “How’d it catch on fire?” I said.

  “Don’t know,” Carruthers said. “But that smoke isn’t from fire.”

  “The Darkness,” I said. “Somebody’s burning the place down from inside.”

  Before I could speak again, I heard a single gunshot report. Then there was something wet and sticky on my chest. Then I looked into Jack’s eyes and knew what had just happened.

  “Henry,” Jack said, “what…”

  Then the old man was flung backward, a red rose blooming on his white shirt.

  “Jack?” I said.

  He looked at me as he fell, his eyes wide and fearful.

  Then another gunshot sounded out, this one hitting the adjacent car, less than six inches from where I stood. We ducked for cover, waiting for the firing to end. I stared at

  Jack, then quickly looked up to see who was shooting at us.

  Eve Ramos was standing at the doorway, gun out, her face covered in blood and ash.

  And then a barrage of gunfire like I’d never imagined tore the air apart, ripping Ramos apart in a hail of bullets and blood. Her body was flung through the air like a puppet, her gun firing wildly into the air, before she fell, lifeless, next to the burning building that housed her life’s work.

  I knelt down next to Jack, a knot in my throat as I hovered over him. A thin trickle of blood was streaming from his mouth.

  “We need an ambulance!” I shouted as loud as I could.

  “Somebody help us!”

  Two cops ran over, one of them carrying an orange kit.

  He placed it beside Jack, opening it, and began to work on my friend. My mentor. The man who was responsible for the person I’d become.

  “You’re gonna be fine, Jack,” I said, holding his hand, praying for one squeeze.

  Jack’s eyes were open, and to my surprise he was actually smiling. That’s when I felt that squeeze, the old, cracked palm in mine. The blood on my shirt from a man who’d lived a life that had se
en more than I could ever hope to.

  “It’s okay, Henry,” he said, his voice weak, raspy. “I’ve told my story.”

  “No,” I said, tears welling, as I squeezed his hand harder. “You can’t. This is our story. You and me.”

  Jack smiled. Then he said, “I know. Butch and Sundance, Henry. Thank you for saving my life.”

  Then Jack O’Donnell closed his eyes for the last time.

  Epilogue

  Amanda held my hand through the entire funeral. I didn’t cry once, and when the service was over, when the church had emptied, I hated myself for that. But then I realized that Jack had ended his life the way he wanted to, chasing that one big story, his name once again where it belonged. His final story.

  Through the Darkness Comes the Dawn by Jack O’Donnell and Henry Parker

  Rex Malloy was dead. Eve Ramos was dead. Sevag

  Makhoulian was found less than an hour after Jack’s death, hiding in a gas station in Queens. He was under indictment for enough crimes to keep him in prison until the rapture.

  No less than a dozen people, ranging from accountants who handled the 718 assets to the mayor himself, were under investigation. And I had no doubt that what they would find would end perhaps the largest drug conspiracy the city had ever seen.

  And by investigators’ estimates, nearly ten tons worth of narcotics had gone up in flames in that warehouse.

  Though he died to tell the story, Jack had saved hundreds, if not thousands of lives.

  He would be remembered the way he deserved to be.

  A journalist who told the truth, a man who uncovered the greatest stories never told.

  The day of the funeral, the Gazette ran a special edition with an insert that collected some of Jack’s most famous pieces from his nearly fifty years on the job. Reading them on the subway to work reminded me of just what an amazing career he’d had. And just how rich a life had been lost.