Without Remorse, page 18
She glanced around desperately, searching for some way in. As she stared towards the bulletproof, double door system, she paused, frowning.
There, a dark spot on the ground.
She dropped to a knee, reaching down and touching it. Blood streaked across the tile.
Her face chilled as blood drained from her cheeks. She tried the door handle. No luck. Tried pushing against it. No give. She took a step and kicked with a loud grunt.
Nothing. The door was made to withstand bullets—her foot and shoulder would only break against it. She glanced at her phone. Cops and Marcus were still on the way but minutes behind her.
Judging by the blood on the ground, their victim wouldn't have minutes. She couldn't go through the bottom floor windows or door... but what if...
She let out a faint huff of air. “Sorry Duncan,” she muttered.
She turned on her heel and raced back towards the idling car in the alley. She backed out with a squeal of tires, slammed on the brakes, paused and offered up a little prayer, inspired by the cross dangling beneath the mirror.
“Holy shit,” she muttered. No one was watching. This side of the street at night didn't receive traffic. Good thing for what she was about to—
She slammed on the gas, aiming for the glass window. Bullets were one thing. But a speeding vehicle aimed with full force?
The hood of the car crumpled on impact. The glass didn't shatter so much as bend in, splintering white but remaining one giant sheet.
Dakota jolted forward, her head ricocheting off the steering wheel. She groaned, groggy, wincing and touching at her forehead, testing for blood. Dazed, black spots dancing across her vision, she felt like she might throw up. Dakota took a second, inhaling the odor of smoke and burnt rubber.
At last, after she gathered her wits, grateful to still be conscious, she unbuckled, pushed groggily out of the front seat and stumbled onto the sidewalk to witness the damage.
The blacked-out display window of the fabricator shop was bent in on the side. Some sort of protective, sticky sheet kept the glass together, preventing it from falling in pieces. Dakota pushed with her foot, bending the rubber-like window in. Then, inhaling and cursing her luck, Dakota sidled, facing the wall to avoid carving her face on any residue of glass, into the shop beyond.
It was dark inside. Dakota stood in the gloom, listening for any sounds, any voices.
What she heard weren't bloodcurdling screams, though, but faint, tinkling music coming from further in.
Around her, she spotted strange machines, benches, tables with clamps and tools she didn't recognize. There were thick saw blades and drills and scraps and pieces of metal. Buckets of bolts and springs and old, used nuts and washers.
She stared around the space, sniffing as she detected a strong odor of grease. The music was what caught her attention, though. A faint hum coming from up a flight of stairs.
She approached the stairs tentatively, still rubbing at her bruised head. The anxiety in her chest was at an all-time high. Hand on her holster, she took the stairs slowly. She paused halfway up, glancing towards the smashed front window. No sign of red and blue lights. No sound of sirens.
Marcus wasn't here yet either.
She was alone—when hunting demons, isolation made it nearly impossible. But she didn't have a choice. Ms. Peacock was counting on her.
...if she was still alive.
Dakota felt a faint chill and she began moving up the stairs again, her one hand tight on her weapon, her other glazing the metal rail curling towards the second floor.
She emerged to the sound of cellos and violins reaching some sort of crescendo. Instead of work equipment, up here... things were far stranger.
Metal sculptures lined the walls or dangled from the ceiling or stood sentry along the floor. There were creations that resembled suits of armor, or others that looked like angels in flight, hanging by chains from the rafters. Bigger creations looked like dragons with open maws, while smaller ones like little train cars stacked on top of each other.
Amidst the sculptures and metallic pieces of quasi-art, Dakota spotted fitness machines. The normal treadmills and exercise bikes somehow seemed even more out of place in this loft than the metal sculptures did. There were barbells and dumbbells and bikes and ellipticals.
It was as if someone had packed an entire gym in the upstairs. All the machines looked well used and worn, the rubber on one treadmill stained so dark with sweat that it almost looked as if the material were two different colors.
Dakota took a hesitant step into the expansive, high-ceilinged loft.
And then she spotted movement.
Dakota stared, at first not quite believing her eyes. It was just another sculpture... it had to be. It was too large to possibly be...
But then the hunched figure began to turn slowly. He wasn't wearing a shirt, his muscles rippling as he pushed to his feet. A faint hissing sound was coming from his direction, and Dakota's gun was now fully raised, pointing towards the man. As his eyes settled on her, he didn't look startled at all. As if he'd heard her arrive but didn't even care. “Hands where I can see them!” she shouted. “FBI! FBI! Hands up!”
But as she shouted, the man just stared at her. A faint bluish light hissed at his side, and Dakota realized he was holding a live blowtorch. But even this was nothing compared to the sheer shock of the man's size.
He would've dwarfed even Marcus. The figure had to be nearly seven feet tall, with muscles the size of bowling balls. And there, at his feet, Dakota spotted the missing woman. She lay unconscious on the ground, hands splayed out, an ugly gash over her forehead. For the moment, she was breathing—evident by the slight oscillation of her chest.
But thick metal bars were holding her to the floor, looped through the ground like crochet wickets. The giant's foot was as long as the woman's forearm. Dakota shouted again, more an incoherent sound than any useful instruction. The man was staring straight at her now, a faint flicker of a smile creasing his lips. He looked her dead in the eyes, tilting his head slowly, the motions of his figure keeping rhythm with the symphony playing from unseen speakers hidden in the room.
“Hello there,” the big man said. He had a surprisingly high-pitched, almost lisping voice. A tongue darted out, tending to a cracked lower lip. His smile turned to a smirk, and he didn't move at first.
“I said get down! Drop the blowtorch!” Dakota yelled.
The man sighed, muttering, “It's not a blowtorch.”
But then, instead of listening, he stepped over the unconscious woman, dropping to a sudden gargoyle's crouch behind her. He was still impossibly larger than the small female, but now Dakota risked shooting the woman by accident.
She tried to sidestep, but the man moved with her, keeping his victim between them. He leered over the body like some feline predator, his motions slick and smooth, his muscles rippling, his body tensed like a coiled spring.
“Get away from her! Hands where I can see them.”
But the man was humming now, along with the cello music, swaying a bit, his eyes closed. There was something almost erotic about the motions. At last, he gave a faint shake of his head. “I don't think so,” he whispered.
And then he began to lift the blowtorch, extending it towards his unconscious victim.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Dakota let loose a yowl like a wounded animal, taking two sprinting steps to the side for another angle. But the man followed the motion. His blowtorch still spewed jet blue fire on the air. Small trails of heat vapor wafted up from the nozzle. The woman on the ground, trapped beneath one of the bent metal wickets groaned now, trying to shift. Her leg caught on the loop of metal soldered to the floor.
The big man seemed calm, completely unconcerned. Dakota was beginning to hyperventilate but caught herself. The physical training of cage fighting often helped regulate her emotions in high stress situations. She forced herself to breathe, forced herself to focus on the killer. The woman was struggling to rise, only further serving to block Dakota's line of fire.
So she reached a decision: she lowered her weapon sharply, pointing it at the floor. “You don't have to do this,” she said, speaking mostly just to stall for time.
The big man frowned at her, clicking his tongue and wagging the hot flame beneath his nose as if it were a finger. In that high-pitched voice of his, he murmured, “Don't have to? I want to... I'm here to help.” He shushed the moaning woman, putting an actual finger to her lips. The digit was nearly the size of a small banana.
Dakota cleared her throat, making a sound if only to draw the killer's attention away from his victim again. “You're here to help?” she said slowly. So he was loony tunes. Great. The crazy ones were often the hardest to talk down. One could never predict their choices.
The man smiled, bobbing his head a single time. He used the finger pressed to the victim's lips to shove her rising head back against the cold floor. “Stay there,” he whispered to her in a gentle, tender tone. “I'll cleanse you. I promise. It won't take long.”
The woman's eyes were fluttering—she was still caught somewhere between awake and unconscious. The big man's blowtorch was moving far too close to her head, though, for Dakota's comfort. “I don't think she wants your help!” she said, trying to appeal on the victim's behalf. Her gun was still clutched tightly in her fist. If she had to, she'd take the shot—even if it meant risking the victim. She couldn't just sit by and watch him torture her.
But now he was frowning. His attention had once again diverted towards Dakota. “Want? It has nothing to do with want, little lady.” He wagged his massive head and patted himself on the chest. Never had Dakota seen such a self-congratulatory gesture before, complete with puffed sternum and haughty eyes.
“I did it for myself. But these things? They're stuck. Wasting away. I'm the only one to purge them. Without me...” he clicked his tongue. “They'll die...” He whispered this last part, his face twisting into a grotesque mask before settling back to haughty rest.
“Stuck how? You're hurting her—you realize that?”
“Purity takes pain!” he spat, slamming the base of his blowtorch against the floor. “Gold is refined only in fire! I refine them. I do what they can't do for themselves!”
“Is that what you did for Caitlynn Jackson? What about Michelle Stanton? Or Teri—”
“Their old names!” he snapped. “I've named them now. They're my creations after all.”
“You're insane.” Perhaps not the most insightful comment, but Dakota felt as if it were worth pointing out.
He giggled, swaying his head again as the music changed. More fiddle and flute now than cello. But he refocused. “I'm free! Don't you see me? Look at me. Have you seen such a specimen? I built this. I did, up here. I was once like them. A dirty little, rotten...” His face twisted as if he were sucking on a lemon. He whispered this last word, “...addict. Do you know this one?” he said, patting the cheek of the moaning woman. “Hmm? No—then perhaps you ought to just leave. Unless...” Suddenly he stared at her as if seeing Dakota in a new light. “Unless you've come for my help too...”
Dakota was struggling to keep track of the madman's ravings. Madman or not, he was an enormous issue. But he was also smart. Every time she side-stepped, he would follow, keeping the victim between them. One of his hands always hovered by her head, too, as if preparing to lift her in case Dakota raised and fired.
For all his talk of helping, he was clearly willing to use the half-conscious woman as a human shield.
“Look,” Dakota said, slowly. “I haven't seen anything as large as you. Not off a basketball court at least. Very impressive. How about you let me come closer and I can get a better look at you?” She winced, certain the ploy was obvious.
His snort of contempt initially suggested he'd reached the same conclusion. But then, he snapped, “If you can't appreciate what you see from there, it won't matter how close you are. Are you blind, little human woman? Hmm?”
“I'll put my gun down,” she said, desperately searching for the words to get the reaction she needed. “I'll put it down and then you can put the blowtorch down. How about it? That way I can see you better...”
The big man suddenly grinned at the suggestion. “I see... A sort of... competition?” he asked. “I like competitions. The one in the trainyard was quite slow. I allowed her to try to outrun me. The first one—the pill-addict tried to out-climb me. The last two...” he tutted. “Tried to out-create me. But you... you think you can compete with me?”
Dakota wasn't sure what direction this was going now, but at least he wasn't torturing or killing anyone. “What sort of competition?”
“A foot race?” he paused, then frowned. “No... no, not that. I've done that. I won.” He bit his lip, then his eyes widened in delight. “Oh—I know! What about a bit of a tussle, hmm?” He wagged his head excitedly, his features dimpling like a schoolboy's. “Yes—yes I like that. A tussle. You lower your weapon—I'll lower my paintbrush and we can see which of us is the true piece of craftsmanship.”
Dakota shifted uncomfortably. A fight against a man that size? She was asking for it. But there were still no sirens. No sound of approaching cops. She was still on her own and the woman on the ground didn't have anyone else to help her.
The man was already leaning towards her again with his weapon.
At last, Dakota cursed. “Fine!” she said. “Fine—fine I'll do it. Here, see, I'm putting it down.” She heard the sound of the metal weapon striking the floor, it mirrored the noise of her heart dropping to her toes.
With shaky footsteps, she stepped away from the gun.
The man smiled now, flicking something on his torch and the light died. With a faint, shuddering breath, he exhaled deeply. Then, he gently, with caressing fingers, lowered the blowtorch to the ground by the woman's head.
Dakota took another step away from her gun.
And then the man's smirk turned into a sneer. With a bounding leap, he crossed half the distance between them, launching over the unconscious woman. And he sprinted straight at her, howling as he approached, fingers extended like talons.
Dakota only had a split second to reach a decision. Too long to try to reach the gun, raise it, find the trigger, fire.
No. Split-second, she stood her ground, waited until he was on her, his shadow swallowing her like a whale gulping a minnow.
And then she darted to the side, hands up, protecting her face, knees slightly bent, pushing off the back heel. Not perfect form, but good enough. She avoided the monster and he stumbled back.
It took him a second to realize he'd missed her. He howled, turning sharply and glaring at her in the dark. Dakota bounced on the balls of her feet, hands bunched into fists, swaying slightly. She'd never faced an opponent this big, especially not one with such dire consequences.
She knew, even as a trained cage-fighter, the bigger they were the harder it was to make them fall.
David vs. Goliath was a nice story. But ninety-nine times out of a hundred, she'd seen how those battles went. And the scorecards were never on the shepherd's side. For a second, the giant paced, like a lion—the two of them squared off in the room full of metal-makings, reminding Dakota once again of the cage.
His eyes darted up, glancing at her injured forehead where she could still feel blood causing her hair to stick to her skin. His nose wrinkled as he stared at the wound in her skin. “Yuck,” he whispered.
And then he came again, shouting as he did, fist flying. Again, Dakota backpedaled. Avoid, dodge, hit when she saw an opening—and most of all: never let him get his hands on her. If he took it to the floor, it would be over before it even started.
He howled as he missed again, his fist slamming into a full suit of armor, sending it clattering to the ground in many pieces. Dakota tripped over another sculpture. The big man had to duck one of the flying angels. He lunged towards her, trying to wrap his arms around her waist, but she avoided this also.
Just keep distance... Just keep—shit!
He had her leg—having lunged again. This time she'd avoided the punch, but he'd gone low. No more dodging this—he'd lowered his head. She brought a knee up sharp. Crack! Straight to the chin.
Anyone else, it would've wobbled them. Maybe even knocked them down.
But the big man didn't even seem to feel it, almost as if she'd tried to pummel granite. He did, however, loosen his grip on her leg and she was able to scoot back.
Now, he was coming slower, breathing heavily, sweat drenching his brow, trickling down. In this light, he looked almost ghoulish, with almost no body fat to speak of, his tendons like cords, his muscles like hunks of meat. They moved when he did, like a small army of shapes moving to the music around them.
Dakota stumbled into another statue, nearly tripping, but using the thing to shove off and keep her distance.
The big man was no longer breathing heavily. When she realized this, her stomach sank. She'd been hoping that by getting him to come after her, the smaller fighter, he'd gas himself. But by the looks of things, he was only just getting started.
He clicked his tongue, shaking his head at her. “Nowhere left to run,” he whispered.
And even as he said it, her head tapped against the wall. Her shoulders scraped a window. Shit. He was right. She tried to sidestep to the left. He lunged. She dodged to the right, but he'd been expecting this and caught her around the waist.
And suddenly, he was on her.
The man towered over her—his shoulders three times as thick as hers. He wrapped his gorilla-sized fingers around her, squeezing her waist tight. She felt her ribs protest, aching just from the pressure of his damn fingers.
She tried to kick and connected perfectly to his stomach. But he didn't even seem to feel it. He tutted at her. “See,” he whispered. Even his breath smelled like mint. “I told you I was special.”
And then he tackled her to the ground. Four hundred pounds of mass landing on a buck ten. Dakota was strong, trained. She worked on her physique. But she was no match for the sheer size of the monster.
