Lethal Rage (27 page)

The wind had teeth.

Icy fangs tore at his exposed flesh, yet he smiled. The skin on his bare arms bristled at the wind's hostile caress, yet he stayed his ground, wrapped within the doorway's cold shadows. The hood of his sleeveless sweatshirt was pulled low over his brow, concealing his hunter's eyes beneath a second layer of darkness. The shirt's deep blue hue merged with the shadows, enveloping him in stillness.

He had learned the value of patience over the past four years. Confined and surrounded by enemies, those jealous or fearful of his status, he had learned to hunt. When to wait and when to strike. When to kill.

Now he was free and the city was his to hunt. So now he waited. And watched.

His prey, oblivious to the danger poised across the street, huddled against the wall of the community centre, seeking what refuge he could from the bitter wind. The building's south end and small parking lot were brushed by the yellow-orange hue cast from old and failing lights, and skeletal trees laid down sickly shadows in the flickering illumination. Beyond the community centre and its frozen playfields, a park lay encased in icy darkness.

His prey had been busy tonight despite the cold, busy selling. But now as the hour reached the heart of night, business was slowing. Only the most desperate of crackheads would be out at this time, in this cold. And a desperate crackhead was a moneyless crackhead. His prey would soon be heading home.

The hunter's lips pulled back in a grinning snarl. The wait was almost over.

Marvin Gaye was cold. Fucking cold. Every time that bitching wind blew across the soccer field behind the community centre it cut through his jacket, shrivelling up his nuts as if he was standing balls naked. He couldn't stop shivering and when he stomped his feet they felt like clumps of ice shoved inside his Nikes. And his fingers burned. How could they be burning when it was so fucking cold?

He reluctantly freed his hands from what little comfort there was in his pockets to check his watch. Three o'clock. Fuck this, it was time to go home. Six hours standing out here was enough. Cold or not, it had been a good night. He had started the night with pockets empty of cash but filled with an eight-ball of crack to sell. He was down to the last of his crack — so little that he had it all stuffed down his crotch instead of hidden nearby — and had hundreds of dollars, mostly tens and twenties, squirrelled away in pockets, socks and underwear.

Marvin glanced at his watch again. Definitely time to go. Even the cops had stopped cruising by and scaring off his customers. Fucking pigs. But the cold had also worked in his favour, keeping the pigs inside their warm cars and off his back. The last thing he needed was another trip to the cells on a trafficking charge.

Marvin was a small-time dealer, just a step or two above a crackhead himself. He had been on the streets of downtown Toronto since he was fourteen, selling rock since he was seventeen and using since he was nineteen. At twenty-four, he was a burned-out old man, a wasted scarecrow of the boy named after his mother's favourite singer. If Marvin had ever known who his namesake was, the knowledge had long ago been burned away in the acrid smoke of his crack pipe.

Marvin was about to pack it in when he spotted a final sale coming his way. How did he know? With some, it was a familiar face. Others, a deep-set need in the eyes. But this one. . . .

“He must be hurting for a fix bad,” Marvin laughed to himself, watching the fool cross Queen Street, his arms startlingly bare. “Or he's one crazy-ass mother.”

He waited impatiently, shivering inside his parka. How this fool could be out like that. . . . Marvin wrapped his hand around the knife tucked inside his coat pocket. If this fucker was crazy enough to let himself freeze to death, there was no telling what he would do.

“Hey, man, you looking?” he called out when the crackhead drew close, raising his voice to be heard over a gust of wind. The wind grabbed the crackhead's hood and snapped it off his head, revealing a scalp shaved clean on the sides, leaving only a band of short dark hair.

The man raised his head. Marvin saw eyes as cold as the wind and realized two things simultaneously: this was no crackhead and he was in deep shit.

Marvin tried to pull out his knife and that's when things got very bad. Very quickly. Very painfully.

The hunter waited until he saw the realization bloom in the dealer's face, then he smashed his fist into his prey's nose. Bone broke with a satisfying crunch. The dealer staggered back into the wall of the community centre, his left hand flying to his nose while his right swung a knife blindly in great, looping arcs.

The hunter swatted the knife away contemptuously, then drove his knee into the dealer's groin. The dealer was lifted onto his toes from the force of the blow before crumpling to his knees. Both hands clutched at his balls, the pain from his broken and bloodied nose forgotten, overwhelmed by the sheer agony ripping through his guts.

The hunter gripped the front of the dealer's coat and slammed him against the wall, then let the dealer slide down to an almost upright sitting position. He was crying now, openly bawling, and the hunter's guts rolled with distaste.

Fucking weak black bastard.

He jumped at the dealer, a vicious knee strike that smacked the dealer's skull against the bricks. This time the dealer didn't crumple so much as deflate, a balloon released with its tail untied. His eyes fluttered, then rolled back into his head as if he was trying to inspect the inside of his head for damage.

The hunter squatted down and casually looted the dealer's pockets. He did not rush; he had no fear of witnesses. Let them see. For soon his name would be known and feared by all the weak.

He transferred the dealer's profits to his own pockets, then rudely shoved his hand down the front of the man's pants. His hand groped among balls already swelling — had the dealer been conscious, the screams from his wounded testicles would have been enough to knock him out — and fished out the remaining half-dozen pieces of crack. They followed the money into his pocket. A treat for later.

The hunter wiped his hands on the guy's coat, then reached into the belly pocket of his sweatshirt, reaching for
it
. Erratic snowflakes sailed on the wind, flickering past his eyes in the sallow light. Its weight felt good in his hand. Solid. He ran his thumb over its dark, fierce edge carefully; it may be his, but it didn't care whose blood it drank.

That old fool Jeremiah had been right about one thing.
Turn to the good book, he had said and you will find your guide, your talisman.

Well, he had found his talisman. How it had ended up in the prison yard was a mystery but as soon as he had seen it he knew it was meant to be his, his to use first behind bars and then on the streets he called home. Soon everyone would know those streets were his. Would know his name.

Not a full day after leaving captivity, it was time to take his first step into history.

The dealer's head hung limply. A line of bloodied drool dripped from his busted lip, dancing erratically before the wind snatched it away. He seized the dealer's jaw and shook his head till his eyes opened, focused. It would not do if he was unconscious for what was coming next. Not at all.

Still gripping the dealer's jaw, the hunter straddled his chest, pinning the dealer against the bricks with his weight. He raised his talisman slowly, reverently. Wide, frightened eyes clutched at the talisman but they were impotent to stay the hunter's hand. The talisman's edge lay on the dealer's forehead and the man flinched at its icy touch.

“Tell everyone who did this to you. Tell them and let them see.”

The hunter bore down with the talisman, ripping flesh, digging for the hidden bone.

For Marvin Gaye, the pain went on forever.

“5106, in your area. 339 George Street, the Seaton House. Male going berserk, attacking staff with a chair. Units to back up 5106? Time, 0017.”

Jack's hands twitched on the steering wheel as the dispatcher voiced the hotshot. The urge to hit the lights and turn the scout car around was almost too strong to ignore. He took a deep breath and forced his hands to relax.

“Doesn't get any easier, does it?”

Jack glanced at the officer in the passenger seat and shook his head. “You'd think after three months up here I'd be used to it. Guess in my heart I'm still a 51 copper.” He snorted. “Might be easier to forget I'm no longer down there if there was more going on up here.”

His escort laughed but not without sympathy. “Welcome to 53 Division, Jack: the Sleepy Hollow of Toronto. Give it time, you'll get used to it.” Brett Douglas spoke from experience, having transferred to the mid-city division after spending fourteen years in the shithole that was 14 Division. The two divisions, 51 and 14, were similar in nature: drugs and violence, and they bracketed 52 Division, the business and entertainment core of Toronto. As such, they were frequently referred to as the city's armpits.

Jack eased the car to a stop at the red light at Yonge Street and Eglinton Avenue. “How long did it take you to get used to the pace up here?”

“'Bout a year.”

Jack groaned.

The light changed and Jack continued their slow crawl up Yonge Street. It was the first mild day after a cold winter and despite the hour, the streets and sidewalks were busy with people relishing the much-needed touch of spring. The snow still piled everywhere and the warmth had dropped from the air with the setting sun. The city could be dumped back into a deep-freeze tomorrow, but for tonight winter was in retreat and every club and pub was in full celebration mode. Jack even saw the odd open patio; he thought that was taking positive thinking to a new level of drunkenness.

Jack Warren, originally of 32 Division, lately of 51 and Officer of the Year, was bored out of his bloody mind. After spending the first six years of his career in the north-central part of the city writing traffic tickets and dealing with shoplifters, he had transferred to 51, affectionately known as the toilet, armpit and asshole of the city. In three brief months he had learned, painfully at times, the immense difference between being a police officer and being a street cop. And tragedy had scarred his life. His partner murdered, his wife taken hostage, himself seriously wounded at the hands of his partner's killer. But Jack had triumphed, avenging his partner and saving his wife. 51 had forged him in blood and fire and laid claim to his soul.

Now, half a year later, he was on his way to break up a house party. Oh . . . bloody . . . joy.

“Actually, Jack, I've never understood how you ended up here. After all the shit you went through, I'd've thought you would have had your pick of the squads. If you don't mind me asking, why
are
you here?”

Jack laughed and even to his ears it sounded bitter. Why, indeed. “It was a compromise. I wanted to stay in 51 and my wife, Karen, wanted me to quit policing altogether. When I told her 53 had no housing projects and was pretty much a dead spot, she agreed to let me work here.”

“Agreed to let you?” Brett's voice held an amused note.

“It was either that or a divorce,” Jack snapped.

“Hey, no offence meant,” Brett pleaded, his hands held up in appeasement. “I'm all too familiar with an unpleasant home life.”

“Sorry, Brett, I'm just so fucking bored here.”

“That explains why you keep sliding down into 51 to help out with calls. Let me guess: your wife doesn't know that 53 borders the top end of 51 or that the divisions share the same radio band.”

Jack smiled impishly. “I may have forgotten to mention that.”

“But it was an honest mistake,” Brett suggested.

“Absolutely,” Jack agreed and they both laughed.

“Well,” Brett proclaimed, “while 51 fights the good fight, we are on our way to rescue a poor teenager from his own stupidity.”

“Speaking of that: it's gotta be a typo, right?
One hundred
unwanted guests? I can see one, or ten, but a hundred?”

“Nope, it happens a lot up here but more often at the end of the school year. Some kid's parents plan to go away for the weekend and Junior decides to invite a few friends over. By the time the weekend rolls around, word of the party has spread through the whole school and that little get-together becomes one big-ass party. By the time the house is getting trashed and there's an orgy on the parents' bed, Junior panics and calls us.”

“Better call the ETF,” Jack said dryly.

“Hey, you never know. We might get lucky and there could be some — dare I say it? — marijuana.”

“Marijuana and drunk teenagers? I don't know if I can take the excitement.”

“Hey, you have to take what excitement you can find in 53.”

Jack goosed the car through a yellow light at Blythwood Road. “Why did you leave 14? It's like 51, isn't it? But with a different cultural makeup?”

“Oh, yeah,” Brett agreed. “Drugs and all the shit that goes with them.” He was silent for a moment, reflecting. “I guess I left because I didn't like the person I was turning into.”

Jack looked at him. Brett didn't elaborate. “Meaning?”

“It's a story for another day.” Brett sighed. “Let's just say that, after spending fourteen years among the shit of humanity, it starts to wear off on you.” He was quiet again, then perked up. “But it's always nice to have that 14 or 51 copper inside you 'cause every once in a while he gets to come out and play and it scares the shit out of the pukes who have only dealt with spineless 53 coppers.”

“Don't I know it.” In the two and a half months Jack had spent on the road in his new division, he had actually seen cops back down or walk away from a confrontation. Not often and definitely not every cop, but even once was too many. “I still think you're right and they should go back to training divisions. Everyone should start in a shithole.”

Brett nodded. “Certainly can learn a lot more than in a quiet place like this.”

Jack enjoyed working with Brett. They were kindred spirits and had very similar views about policing. In particular, they weren't in favour of the touchy-feely style of community policing some of the brass were flaunting as the new direction for the Toronto Police Service. Hell, it wasn't all that long ago that it had been a force, not a service. But, of course, force had sounded too military, so the Toronto Police Service had been born.

Not that Jack and Brett were Neanderthals with badges, ­opting for brawn over brains. Not likely. Working in a shithole hammered home one lesson perfectly, and frequently: in a fight, anyone could get hurt. And lesson number two: whenever a cop got into a fight, there was at least one gun present. Why risk tangling with some guy and letting him get within reach of your gun if you could talk him into cuffs?

But, given the nature of the job, there were times when some knob just wouldn't listen to reason and it was off with the kid gloves and on with the leather ones lined with Kevlar. Sometimes brute force has a style all its own.