The Omega Device (The Ha-Shan Chronicles Book 1) (6 page)

A random arm knocked her down. The broken blade sailed away. Erratic kicks forced her beneath the dining table.

She fumbled with her pocket, her body convulsing with fear. Her breaths were terror-filled needles. She clutched her phone, tried to dial. The table upended over her. Maggie shrieked, dropped the phone, scrambled sideways to avoid a leg.

A foot caught her ankle, tripped her back toward the kitchen. She spied the black pistol in reach. The man reared at her breaths. He tore the snapped piece of knife from his stomach, readied to charge.

Maggie jerked sideways, hands rising. Furious cracks riddled his torso with bloody holes. He fell back mid-step, slumped across the overturned table, and smacked against the wall, dead.

The weapon clicked mechanically in Maggie's, empty. Her body and brain were fused in autonomous repetition. Her brain sputtered to regain control. She dropped the weapon, forced herself sideways on  all fours, and vomited around a corner. Her body heaved anguish until her vision could re-focus.

She crawled back to her phone, dialed: “9-1-1, what's your emergency?”

Maggie's reply came with acidic gasps, “A man. Attacked me. My apartment. Oh god, so much blood.”

“Ma'am an officer will be there soon. Is the man still in your home?”

“Yes, but he's. Oh god, what have I done?” Maggie sobbed.

“Ma'am, are you
safe?
” The operator asked.

“Still here. But. Dead. Had to—”

The operator soured, “Ma'am, please I need you to—”

“What—what do I need to—”

Maggie checked her phone; the call had dropped. She sobbed uncontrollably, curled up into a ball. Her fingers acted without volition to dial Ashley's number.

“What's up, Mags?”

Maggie's voice trembled with watery sobs, “I. I. Oh, god, I can't…”

Ashley's voice went flat, “I'm coming. I'll be there in twenty minutes.”

Maggie sobbed harder, heard the rustling as Ashley gathered Mandy on the other end. When Maggie had gotten enough of the story out, Ashley responded.

“Call that cop, Maggie. Maggie, call him and tell him what happened. This isn't a coincidence. He'll want to know, and it's better having him on your side. The cops'll be there soon.
Call him!
”
 

Maggie sifted through her pocket, hands still trembling. She crawled into the kitchen, “I've. Got it. Here.”

“He's expecting you. We'll be there.
Let him know.
We love you.”

A knock sounded before the door burst open. A group of uniformed officers filed in shouting. Maggie ignored them to dial Russell with twitching fingers. He answered. She spoke fast, looking over the counter to see the group.

“I need your help…”

September 29
th
 

11:02 PM

758 South St.

Russell retrieved his phone from his pocket as he entered his home. He threw his coat over the bar at his right, beside the entryway.

“Williams.”

Maggie's tearful, terrified voice responded, “I need your help. I—It's Maggie. I need your help. Oh god…”

“Maggie? What's wrong? What can I—”

“Someone. My apartment… dead,” she said in trembling breaths. “Cops here. S-so scared.”

“Are they inside?” Orders yelled beyond Maggie's whimpers answered him. His tone hardened urgently, “Maggie, tell them you have no weapons! Tell them you're not a threat!” He heard Maggie repeat his word. The yelling continued. “Tell them Detective Russell Williams would like to speak to the lead officer.”

Again Maggie repeated his words. The yelling ceased. A man answered, fuming, “This is Lt. Xavier, if this is some kind of joke—”

“Bill, it's Russell,” he said, flipping on a light beside the door. “What's it looking like?”

He replied with irritation, “A body. Signs of struggle.”

“Bill, I can vouch for her. She's not a danger to you.”

“If you say so, Rus.”

“I do.”

He hurried straight from the entryway into the kitchen ahead, switched on a second set of lights. The dining room's chandelier bathed the area in bright light beyond a breakfast bar. He rifled through a drawer, retrieved a notepad and pen, and scribbled something as he spoke.

“The woman's name is Maggie Doherty, calm her down and take a statement. Keep her safe but don't let her leave. Doherty needs to be comfortable, is that understood?”

“Russell, this is against regs,” Xavier said with disappointment.

“Bill, do this for me.
Please
,” he pled. “She may have information for the case I'm working. Treat her as a witness, not a threat. I'm coming over but I need the address.”

Russell recorded Maggie's address as it was relayed. Xavier handed the phone back; Maggie was more coherent but by no means calm.

Russell spoke slowly, “Maggie, you're safe now but you need to stay there. They're going to take a statement and examine you for injury. I'm on my way over, but listen and answer any questions they have.”

Maggie sniffled, voice distant, “Ashley and Mandy were coming—”

“Let Xavier know and he'll let them through. I'll be there soon.”

The call ended. Russell's mind was racing. Two victims. Now an attack. No coincidence.

He exited the kitchen for the hall at the right, took it in fast steps to the first door on the left. He switched on the light. Something solid and heavy smacked the back of his head. He grunted, fell through to his knees, rolled sideways.

His eyes fell on a hulking, black-haired man. Sunken features sneered with cold eyes. A pistol rose in large hands.

Russell's feet flew. The pistol ejected sideways into a wall, cracked-off a round. Sneakers in surgical caps stomped Russell's ribs, winded him. He grasped for his pistol, came up empty. Fleeting panic coursed with images of the holster wrapped in his jacket at the door.

His instincts took over, forced his full weight through legs that swept sideways. His feet caught the man's ankles, followed through to knock him off-balance. The man slid, grasped vainly at the wall. Russell sprang up, bolted for the kitchen.

A quick shuffle preceded cracks tearing at walls and carpet. Russell dove into the kitchen. He scuttled to his feet. A heavy thud signaled a magazine change. An angry click chambered a new round.

Russell's breath came fast; he'd missed ending the fight easily. He waited, listened to the man's approach, kept low. The pistol's lengthened suppressor edged into view.

Russell readied himself. The barrel angled inward. He lunged, tackled the man at the knees. They slammed the floor at the mouth of the hallway. The pistol fired randomly from Russell's grip over the man's hand.

They struggled, rolled. Russell forced his weight over, righted himself. His knees pinned the man's chest while he slammed the pistol-hand against the floor. The gun came free, slid out of reach at a heavy swat.

A blow unbalanced Russell toward the kitchen. The man shoved sideways for the gun. Russell recovered, grabbed his ankles to drag him further back. A sturdy kick dislodged Russell's grip. A second hit his chest, knocked him down.

The man reared up. Sharp steel flashed. He lunged. Two feet caught him, propelled him back down the hall. A second flash of metal gleamed and both men were on their feet. The attacker charged. Russell was ready.

A quick flurry of firm wrists ejected the blade from the attacker's grip, sank it into the fleshy softness of his belly. Warmth soaked Russell's hands. He gave a furious, upward thrust. Bone cracked. Blood spilled. Russell released his hold.

The man stumbled back, blood rushing from his gut to drip a trail along the carpet. He fell to the floor, choking. Russell hurried to his side, spied a darkness on his right wrist; a black tattoo of the Greek Omega.

He forced the man's head up by the hair, “Why are you here?!”

Blood rolled from a corner of his mouth. He laughed out flecks of blood with fading fanaticism, “Omega. Is coming. You—you'll never stop them now. ”

The man choked on his last breaths, went silent. Russell's eyes were wild. He swallowed hard, defeated by the puzzle-piece before him. He hurried for the kitchen, legs and feet rubber as he dialed his cell-phone, engaged its loudspeaker, and twisted on the water. He battled his surging adrenaline to scrub blood from his hands.

“Switzer,” Chuck answered sleepily.

“Chuck, we've got a problem,” he panted.

He gave a confused yawn, “Wud'ya mean Rus? What's goin' on?”

“You remember that lead I told you about?”

“Yeah. What about'er?”

“She was attacked in her apartment. I'm supposed to be on my way over,” Russell said, hypnotized by the blood sloshing from his hands and circling the drain.

“So? Prolly a burgle gone bad, what of it?” Chuck replied.

“I was just attacked too, in my house. I killed the guy.”

Chuck was suddenly awake, “Jesus Christ, Russell! The hell happened?”

“Doesn't matter right now. I need you to send OCF here to—”

“You're not leavin', are you?”

“Chuck, this isn't a coincidence, I
have
to get to Doherty. I'll give a statement
after
I make sure she's alright.”

Chuck sighed, relented, “Fine. What d'you need?”

Russell turned off the tap, made for the bedroom past the dead body. He dug into a standing safe for a shotgun, “A security detail on Maggie Doherty. No less than two patrol cars at all times. There's something going on, and whether she likes it or not, she's involved.”

He set the shotgun aside, retrieved a duffel bag, and filled it with boxes of pistol and shotgun ammunition. He grabbed a holstered pistol, set it inside with an extra pair of magazines.

“I'll get on it, Rus, but keep your head on straight, man.”

“Understood.”

The line cut out. Russell zipped the bag closed, slung it over his shoulder, and grabbed the shotgun. He made for the door, retrieved his coat and pistol from the counter, then rushed out.

For twenty minutes the undercover Impala's lights and sirens blared through the emptying, Oakton boulevards. It took wide corners with squealing tires, sharper ones with light braking before sling-shotting out and back to top-speed.

He arrived on-scene to a barrage of police cars and ambulances barring entrance to the building. Their lights flared over the street, attracted a small crowd on its opposite side. A pair of officers held them back, ineffectual against the faces gazing down from random apartments above.

He hurried in, followed clusters of officers to the third floor, his spare pistol nestled beside the other beneath his jacket.

Inside Maggie's apartment, OCF's high-powered flashes lit the main-room with loud
pops
and high-pitched charges. Lt. Xavier stood outside a bedroom door just inside the apartment.

He nodded to Russell, shifted to allow a group of officers to pass, “She's shaken up, but otherwise alright. The EMT's examining her for head-trauma, but it looks like she just needs some rest.”

“Thanks for helping me here, Bill. I appreciate it,” Russell said, preparing to step past.

Xavier stopped him with a hand, “Russell, I understand she's a good looking girl, but what's this all about?”

Russell met his eyes, “I'll tell you when I figure it out.”

Xavier released him. He stepped into Maggie's room, found her sitting on a queen-sized bed. An EMT checked her blood pressure and pulse while the other women from the shop sat beside her.

“How are you?” He asked, stepping to Maggie's side.

“How the fuck d'you think she is?” One woman asked. “Someone tried to
kill
her.”

“Ash, stop,” the other woman said.

“I'm fine Ashley,” Maggie said with calm despair. She looked to Russell, “Thank you for coming. This is Ashley and Mandy.”

“You're not hurt, right?” Russell asked over ripping Velcro. The EMT pulled off the blood-pressure cuff, set it in his bag.

Maggie watched him, “Not really, I took a hit to the head, but…”

Her voice trailed off into a thousand yard stare. It gave way to a shudder. Russell ran his hand through his hair. Millions of questions bubbled in his mind, but he stepped to a waist-high dresser in front of them, leaned against it.

“Could you give us some privacy?” He asked the EMT.

“Sure, I'm finished here. Just let us know if she starts exhibiting any unusual symptoms.”

He carried his bag out, closed the door. Maggie sighed, “A-am I in trouble?”

“Why would
you
be in trouble, Maggie? Defending yourself? That's not against the law—least the last time I checked,” Ashley said snidely.

“Ash,you're being an ass,” Mandy countered.

Ashley opened her mouth to speak, but Russell intoned first, “No, you're not in any trouble. But I don't think you're safe either.”

Maggie's eyes flickered with panic, “What d'you mean?”

Russell hesitated, gave up on any air of formality, “Something's going on. It's not a coincidence Ryusaki was murdered just before we were both attacked.”

“That's
exactly
what I said,” Ashley said to Maggie.

“Wait,
you
were attacked?” Maggie asked.

Russell retold of the attack and what had been said, hoping it might spur some connection in their minds. The three listened, but only grew more confused, agitated.

Russell sighed at their mutual ignorance, “Look, bottom line is, we have to figure out what's going on. For the time being, I've assigned you a security detail but you may need this.”

He removed the holstered spare-pistol, offered it to Maggie. Her eyes glazed over with exasperation, “Who d'you think I am, some kind of nut? I'm an artist! Tonight was the first time I've even
seen
a gun, let alone fired one!”

Russell frowned, looked between her and his hand, “You hit the mark, and saved your own life. I'd say given circumstances, that's a worthy first time.”

“But that was luck. This
can't
be safe.”

“We never really know what we're capable of 'til we're tested,” he said, stoically.

Maggie thought in silence a moment. Then, with a deep breath she accepted the gun, set it beside her on the bed.