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bedlamsbardWhen last we saw our heroes, they were in a fair spot of trouble. Now that we return to them again...well, they're still in trouble, and it doesn't look like it's going to let up anytime soon.
Stella heard the shot the same time Mac dropped the phone.
Mac’s eyes flicked toward her, and in him the NYPD detective stilled and fled away, and it was Mac Taylor the Marine who was standing in front of her now, not Mac Taylor the detective. “Call ESU,” he said flatly, and drew his gun
“Why do I have to call?” Stella muttered under her breath as she pulled out her phone and Mac pulled open the door. “This is Detective Stella Bonasera, requesting an Emergency Services Unit, shots fired, repeat, shots fired –”
“NYPD!” Mac barked. “Hands in the air, keep ‘em where I can see them.”
Stella swore. Fluently. Then followed him in, hand on the butt of her gun as she undid the holster strap with two fingers.
“Get the fuck out of my restaurant, man!” Benny Gravante yelled. His hands, Stella noted in a detached sort of way, were hidden beneath the counter. Shawna the waitress had backed into a corner near the window, hands up, tears filling her eyes.
“Omigawd, please don’t arrest me, I didn’t do anything, I swear –”
“Ma’am, please be quiet,” Stella said flatly. “Gravante. Get your hands up.”
“The boss said you can’t come in here!” Gravante said. His hands moved, and the gun he held was in not at all inexperienced hands. He stepped out from behind the counter, ignoring the screams of the patrons.
Mac trained his gun on him. “Mr. Gravante, drop the weapon.”
“No fucking way! Get the fuck out my restaurant, you son of a –”
Stella tackled him, sending the gun skidding out over the floor. “Okay,” she said. “Now that was just dumb.” She pulled out her cuffs, happily noting she’d managed to knock Gravante onto his side. She rolled him over onto his back.
“Get the fuck off’a me, bitch!”
Stella pushed his head down and cuffed him. “You’re under arrest for assaulting an officer, public lewdity, obstructing a police investigation – oh yeah, carrying a concealed weapon without a permit –”
Mac brushed past them, heading for the kitchen. “Amarelli!” he called. “Come out with your hands up!”
Stella hauled Gravante to his feet. “Mac! Stop fucking around and get to Danny and Aiden!”
“NYPD!” Mac barked again, and disappeared between the swinging doors that marked the boundary between kitchen and restaurant.
*
“Aiden!”
Aiden collapsed in on herself with a startled intake of breath, clutching at her midsection. Danny whirled, aimed and fired in a single fluid movement. Phil DiCarlo’s mouth tightened, teeth clenching in pain as blood blossomed on his right shoulder.
“Shit!” Danny yelled. “Shit! Aiden! Fuck, Aiden!”
“Goddamnit!” Flack screamed. Curly pushed the gun closer to his temple. “Shut up, you cop son of a bitch.”
Flack gritted his teeth and scowled at Aiden’s limp body. “Oh, you sorry bastards are fucked now,” he breathed, trying to force blood flow back into his fingers. His bad leg spasmed under him and he would’ve fallen if not for Curly’s tight grip.
Danny was backing up to stand protectively over Aiden. His gun was trained on Phil now, but his eyes flicked over to Curly every few seconds. “Officer down,” he said, the words almost a whisper, then he yelled it. “Officer down! Officer down!”
“Hold on, Danny!” Mac’s voice echoed down from the front room of the – whatever it was, Flack didn’t know and didn’t much care. The concrete composition of the room, as well as its shape, threw everything off, mutating sound to suit itself. It was impossible to tell how far away Mac was.
“Shoot the fucker!” Curly ordered. “Goddamnit, Messer, you should have stuck to your own fucking business!”
“I’m a detective, Curly,” said Danny in a soft voice. It would have been almost normal, except Flack knew Danny, and that voice was nowhere near normal. “Anything that happens in New York is my business.” He raised his gun, trained it on Curly. “And you shouldn’t have shot my friend, you son of a bitch.”
Flack closed his eyes. Take the shot, take the shot. No matter what he did, he had a good chance of getting shot, either by Curly, Phil, or Danny, who didn’t look like he really cared who got in the way of his bullets, along as one of them hit Curly eventually. Gavin, he thought fleetingly. Don’t have a partner to watch my back. He opened his eyes.
Aiden was staring back at him, eyes wide and empty.
Fuck this, Flack thought, and surged sideways. Curly wasn’t expecting him to move and Danny must have been, because the CSI didn’t hesitate a moment. Curly’s head exploded, showering Flack with bits of blood and brain and bone.
Murphy’s Law, Flack remembered reading in The Law Enforcement Bulletin, is tattooed on the inside of every law enforcement officer’s eyelids. The old Irish bastard was getting his fair share of fun, because Flack’s leg took the opportunity to collapse under him, sending him to the floor.
Phil DiCarlo took the opportunity to fire at Danny.
“Fuck!” Danny yelled. “Fuck, fuck – fuck!” Blood flared on the sleeve of his jacket, spreading poppy-petals of scarlet across the fabric. He didn’t bother turning, just emptied his clip into Curly’s body, which was far too close to Flack for comfort. Then he fell over.
Flack grabbed for the gun still clutched loosely in Curly’s hand, wrapping his fingers over skin-warmed metal, then rolled onto his elbow and shot without even thinking about it.
The gun kicked lightly against his hand, and Detective Donald Flack, Jr., passed out.
*
“Get out of my restaurant, you fucking cop!” Amarelli barked. He darted out from behind the door of a huge walk-in refrigerator with a gun in his hand.
Mac turned, raised his revolver. “Drop the weapon, Amarelli,” he said flatly. “Drop the gun and I won’t shoot you.”
“Get your fucking cops out of my restaurant. There’s nothing illegal going on here.”
Mac looked at the gun. “You’re holding a gun on a police officer. You’re obstructing a police investigation. And,” he added, “you’re aiding and abetting the kidnapping of a NYPD officer.”
“Don’t give a fuck about your goddamn officer,” Amarelli snarled. His finger tightened on the trigger. “I don’t know what the hell Phil’s gettin’ up to back there, you can’t charge me with a damn thing. I’m gonna have your fuckin’ badge for this, Taylor.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Mac said. He took a step forward, watched the gun shake a little, then heard Danny screaming, distant and close at the same time.
“Officer down! Officer down!”
“Hold on, Danny!” Mac yelled, and surged forward. Amarelli’s gun went flying one direction in the butcher’s knife he’d stuck in his belt went another, and Mac shoved the perp against the wall and dragged out his cuffs.
“You are under arrest,” he said. “You have the right to remain silent –” He froze, went silent at more gunfire. Someone screamed – Danny. One more shot.
And it went quiet. Eerily, spookily, quiet.
*wicked grin*
In other news, I get to do the Tanglewood Boys for a school paper on gangs. How cool is that?
Stella heard the shot the same time Mac dropped the phone.
Mac’s eyes flicked toward her, and in him the NYPD detective stilled and fled away, and it was Mac Taylor the Marine who was standing in front of her now, not Mac Taylor the detective. “Call ESU,” he said flatly, and drew his gun
“Why do I have to call?” Stella muttered under her breath as she pulled out her phone and Mac pulled open the door. “This is Detective Stella Bonasera, requesting an Emergency Services Unit, shots fired, repeat, shots fired –”
“NYPD!” Mac barked. “Hands in the air, keep ‘em where I can see them.”
Stella swore. Fluently. Then followed him in, hand on the butt of her gun as she undid the holster strap with two fingers.
“Get the fuck out of my restaurant, man!” Benny Gravante yelled. His hands, Stella noted in a detached sort of way, were hidden beneath the counter. Shawna the waitress had backed into a corner near the window, hands up, tears filling her eyes.
“Omigawd, please don’t arrest me, I didn’t do anything, I swear –”
“Ma’am, please be quiet,” Stella said flatly. “Gravante. Get your hands up.”
“The boss said you can’t come in here!” Gravante said. His hands moved, and the gun he held was in not at all inexperienced hands. He stepped out from behind the counter, ignoring the screams of the patrons.
Mac trained his gun on him. “Mr. Gravante, drop the weapon.”
“No fucking way! Get the fuck out my restaurant, you son of a –”
Stella tackled him, sending the gun skidding out over the floor. “Okay,” she said. “Now that was just dumb.” She pulled out her cuffs, happily noting she’d managed to knock Gravante onto his side. She rolled him over onto his back.
“Get the fuck off’a me, bitch!”
Stella pushed his head down and cuffed him. “You’re under arrest for assaulting an officer, public lewdity, obstructing a police investigation – oh yeah, carrying a concealed weapon without a permit –”
Mac brushed past them, heading for the kitchen. “Amarelli!” he called. “Come out with your hands up!”
Stella hauled Gravante to his feet. “Mac! Stop fucking around and get to Danny and Aiden!”
“NYPD!” Mac barked again, and disappeared between the swinging doors that marked the boundary between kitchen and restaurant.
*
“Aiden!”
Aiden collapsed in on herself with a startled intake of breath, clutching at her midsection. Danny whirled, aimed and fired in a single fluid movement. Phil DiCarlo’s mouth tightened, teeth clenching in pain as blood blossomed on his right shoulder.
“Shit!” Danny yelled. “Shit! Aiden! Fuck, Aiden!”
“Goddamnit!” Flack screamed. Curly pushed the gun closer to his temple. “Shut up, you cop son of a bitch.”
Flack gritted his teeth and scowled at Aiden’s limp body. “Oh, you sorry bastards are fucked now,” he breathed, trying to force blood flow back into his fingers. His bad leg spasmed under him and he would’ve fallen if not for Curly’s tight grip.
Danny was backing up to stand protectively over Aiden. His gun was trained on Phil now, but his eyes flicked over to Curly every few seconds. “Officer down,” he said, the words almost a whisper, then he yelled it. “Officer down! Officer down!”
“Hold on, Danny!” Mac’s voice echoed down from the front room of the – whatever it was, Flack didn’t know and didn’t much care. The concrete composition of the room, as well as its shape, threw everything off, mutating sound to suit itself. It was impossible to tell how far away Mac was.
“Shoot the fucker!” Curly ordered. “Goddamnit, Messer, you should have stuck to your own fucking business!”
“I’m a detective, Curly,” said Danny in a soft voice. It would have been almost normal, except Flack knew Danny, and that voice was nowhere near normal. “Anything that happens in New York is my business.” He raised his gun, trained it on Curly. “And you shouldn’t have shot my friend, you son of a bitch.”
Flack closed his eyes. Take the shot, take the shot. No matter what he did, he had a good chance of getting shot, either by Curly, Phil, or Danny, who didn’t look like he really cared who got in the way of his bullets, along as one of them hit Curly eventually. Gavin, he thought fleetingly. Don’t have a partner to watch my back. He opened his eyes.
Aiden was staring back at him, eyes wide and empty.
Fuck this, Flack thought, and surged sideways. Curly wasn’t expecting him to move and Danny must have been, because the CSI didn’t hesitate a moment. Curly’s head exploded, showering Flack with bits of blood and brain and bone.
Murphy’s Law, Flack remembered reading in The Law Enforcement Bulletin, is tattooed on the inside of every law enforcement officer’s eyelids. The old Irish bastard was getting his fair share of fun, because Flack’s leg took the opportunity to collapse under him, sending him to the floor.
Phil DiCarlo took the opportunity to fire at Danny.
“Fuck!” Danny yelled. “Fuck, fuck – fuck!” Blood flared on the sleeve of his jacket, spreading poppy-petals of scarlet across the fabric. He didn’t bother turning, just emptied his clip into Curly’s body, which was far too close to Flack for comfort. Then he fell over.
Flack grabbed for the gun still clutched loosely in Curly’s hand, wrapping his fingers over skin-warmed metal, then rolled onto his elbow and shot without even thinking about it.
The gun kicked lightly against his hand, and Detective Donald Flack, Jr., passed out.
*
“Get out of my restaurant, you fucking cop!” Amarelli barked. He darted out from behind the door of a huge walk-in refrigerator with a gun in his hand.
Mac turned, raised his revolver. “Drop the weapon, Amarelli,” he said flatly. “Drop the gun and I won’t shoot you.”
“Get your fucking cops out of my restaurant. There’s nothing illegal going on here.”
Mac looked at the gun. “You’re holding a gun on a police officer. You’re obstructing a police investigation. And,” he added, “you’re aiding and abetting the kidnapping of a NYPD officer.”
“Don’t give a fuck about your goddamn officer,” Amarelli snarled. His finger tightened on the trigger. “I don’t know what the hell Phil’s gettin’ up to back there, you can’t charge me with a damn thing. I’m gonna have your fuckin’ badge for this, Taylor.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Mac said. He took a step forward, watched the gun shake a little, then heard Danny screaming, distant and close at the same time.
“Officer down! Officer down!”
“Hold on, Danny!” Mac yelled, and surged forward. Amarelli’s gun went flying one direction in the butcher’s knife he’d stuck in his belt went another, and Mac shoved the perp against the wall and dragged out his cuffs.
“You are under arrest,” he said. “You have the right to remain silent –” He froze, went silent at more gunfire. Someone screamed – Danny. One more shot.
And it went quiet. Eerily, spookily, quiet.
*wicked grin*
In other news, I get to do the Tanglewood Boys for a school paper on gangs. How cool is that?
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Date: 2005-07-18 10:44 pm (UTC)