Black Rain, page 19
“Yeah, I know.”
“Your friend will be in good hands, I can promise you that much.”
My smile was a reflex, born from a deep-seated trust in Maria's abilities and intentions. “Yeah, I know.”
Maria’s soft laughter echoed down the phone. “And how is your ink? Are you happy with it? I heard it helped you with one of the local gangs here.”
“I’m extremely happy with it,” I said, maneuvering the car around a bend, the tall buildings of downtown beginning to dominate the horizon. The city was waking up, but my attention was firmly on the conversation. “I’m still getting to know it.”
“That’s the thing about the ink, Ethan, there are always hidden depths to plumb.”
Heading into downtown, I changed the subject slightly. “There’s something I need to ask you.”
“Ask away.”
“If I had another tattoo made from very different ink, with much darker forces behind it, how would I go about removing it?”
Maria paused before answering. “That would entirely depend on the type of forces involved. Ink removal is possible, but it is far from simple, and the consequences of trying it can be—”
“Deadly?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah, I thought so.”
“I can try if you want me to… for a fee, of course.”
“Let me think about it,” I said. “Focus on inking my friend for now.”
“I’m always here if you need me, Ethan.”
“Thanks Maria.”
The precinct was already buzzing with activity by the time I entered, a chaotic symphony of phones ringing, radios squawking, and officers talking. The hum of the old, long-overdue-for-a-replacement coffee machine provided a steady, familiar backdrop to it all. Knight was there, hunched over the battered appliance, pouring a cup of the black brew it churned out.
“Morning,” Knight greeted, a faint smile on her face as she held out a styrofoam cup to me. I eyed the so-called coffee with a grimace. It was a gloomy, viscous liquid, less like coffee and more like crude oil, its color a distressing shade of near-black that was hardly inviting.
“Tired,” I admitted, my gaze drifting to the black liquid in my hand. My fingers clung to the styrofoam cup almost defensively, the harsh aroma of the coffee too potent, too abrasive for the moment. The bitterness seemed to mirror my predicament a little too accurately for my taste. “Kendra’s sister turned up last night. Apparently, Giordano gave her an ultimatum. He wants me and Kendra brought to him within the next thirty-six hours, maybe less now.”
“Damn,” Knight muttered. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“I’ll help you. Just tell me what you need me to do.”
“First, I need you to go see Maria Gomez after work.”
“You made an appointment?”
“I did. You’re all set.”
An uncertain smile creased Knight’s face. “Now I feel scared.”
“You have nothing to worry about. You’ll be in good hands with Maria. And once you get inked—”
“I’ll be able to jump off buildings?”
“We’ll see. No one is ever sure what affect the ink will have.”
“Now I’m worried.”
“Don’t be. You’ll be fine. And once you have that power flowing through you, you’ll have no regrets.”
As far as I know anyway. Time will tell, I guess…
With the morning sun flooding through the glass windows, we navigated the bustling police precinct to the conference room for the routine morning meeting. As we wove through a sea of uniformed officers and white-collar workers, our path intersected with Captain Routman. He seemed to be just arriving, likely after what seemed like a late-night endeavor. His tie was slightly crooked, his hair a disheveled mess, and his face bore the shadow of stubble.
“Late one last night, Jim?” I quipped, grinning sardonically as I noticed his condition. His shirt was slightly wrinkled, unlike the crisp, ironed uniform he typically donned.
“You could say that,” Routman shot back, a cheerful sparkle lighting up his eyes despite his evident weariness. He fiddled with his tie, trying to bring it back into line, but the knot resisted.
“Wait a minute,” Knight piped up, her blue eyes wide with suspicion. She leaned in, scrutinizing him like she'd just spotted a potential suspect in a line-up. “Did you… get laid last night, sir?”
“That’s highly inappropriate, Knight,” Routman admonished, his lips forming a firm line. He paused, a rogue smile breaking through his stoic facade. “But to answer your question, you’re damn right I did.”
I blinked in surprise, a mischievous grin tugging at my lips. “By your wife?” I pressed, causing Knight to let out a stifled gasp of shock.
Routman narrowed his eyes at me, clearly not appreciating the direction of the conversation. “Yes, Drake, by my wife. You think I slept with someone else on my wife’s birthday?”
I shrugged, a wry smile spreading across my face. “Stranger things have happened, Jim.”
Routman scoffed, his weathered face lighting up with a roll of laughter. He dismissed my ribbing with a nonchalant shake of his head. “I have good news.”
My brow shot up. “Besides you getting laid?”
Knight's shoulders shook with laughter, her attempt to stifle her amusement only causing her to wheeze out an apology when Routman fixed her with a stern glare. “Sorry, sir.”
“Honestly, I try my best for you two and this is the thanks I get.” Routman's gruff voice held a note of amused resignation.
Intrigued, I asked, “What’s the good news? Did you get that warrant?”
Routman nodded, a triumphant smile playing on his lips. “I did, as a matter of fact. Lucky for you, the higher ups want this creep brought in, so you’re good to go.”
Knight's stern expression softened into relief. “With full backup?”
Routman sighed. “SWAT have already been informed, what’s left of it anyway.” He shook his head, a grimace pulling at his mouth. “Fucking budget cuts. They’ll be coming for my balls soon.”
I chuckled, casting him a wry look. “Only, they’ll find your sack empty now, Jim, won’t they?” I couldn't resist the jab.
Knight turned away, her body shaking with silent laughter as Routman shook his head at me. “Why did I even accept you back, Drake?”
Feigning innocence, I replied, “I think we all know the answer to that, Jim.” I turned to Knight, who was still trying to control her laughter. “Come on, Knight. Let’s leave Jim to bask in his post-coital glow so we can get set up and bring this Alchemist asshole in.”
Routman's stern gaze met mine once more. “Alive, Drake,” he reminded me. “Alive.”
I raised my hands in mock surrender. “Of course, Jim.”
Routman wasn’t joking about the budget cuts. The SWAT team he assigned to us consisted of two men and one woman. That was it. The team leader was a man in his fifties who stank of cigarettes and could hardly fit his gear around his massive belly. His name was Sergeant Bill "Grizzly" Pearson, a seasoned SWAT leader with graying hair and a permanent scowl etched deep into his leathered face. He'd seen years of action, his hands steady even if his reflexes weren't as sharp as they used to be. Pearson, in his heyday, was a force to be reckoned with, and even though his physical prowess was on the wane, his tactical acumen was as sharp as ever.
The second SWAT member, Officer Terrence "Terry" Givens, was a middle-aged man with a dour, resigned look on his face. He was lanky and tall, with thinning hair and a perpetually hunched posture. Terry was not the picture of enthusiasm, looking more like a man who had seen too much and cared too little. His gaze was a lifeless gray, devoid of the burning passion that one would expect from an officer of his rank.
The last of the trio, Officer Gabriela "Gabi" Martinez, was a stark contrast to her colleagues. She was a Latina in her late twenties, a powerhouse of energy and determination, with an alertness in her eyes that suggested a razor-sharp focus. She was physically fit, her form suggesting hours spent on rigorous training. She treated her job with absolute seriousness, a trait that was both commendable and starkly contrasting with the other two.
As well as the small SWAT team, I brought two other detectives on board as well—Detective Christine "Chris" Larson and Detective Simon "Si" Greene.
Detective Christine Larson was a tenacious investigator. A woman in her mid-thirties, she had worked her way up the ranks through sheer grit and determination. Her short, chestnut hair framed a face with sharp features and steely blue eyes that missed nothing. Chris was known for her analytical mind and unyielding dedication to each case she was assigned.
Detective Simon Greene, often called "Si," was a man of experience and a calming presence in the often tense atmosphere of the department. In his late forties, Si was the personification of the old guard, with a hint of salt and pepper in his hair and a pair of glasses perpetually perched on his nose. Despite his mild-mannered exterior, Si was known for his excellent investigative instincts and his ability to connect with people, making him an exceptional interrogator.
I gathered the squad into the conference room, spreading out photos of Cross and arial images of his manor house on the long table. The murmur of conversations quieted down as I began explaining the situation. The room was a mix of fluorescent lights and shadows, the atmosphere heavy with the prospect of what was to come.
"We are about to raid the house of a man known as 'The Alchemist,’ real name Ezekiel Cross," I began, my finger tracing the area on the map marked as the Old Quarter. "Our objective is to arrest Cross and search his residence for illegal substances. We have reasons to believe that he is involved in the manufacture and distribution of highly dangerous drugs."
“Drugs that killed over a dozen young people,” Knight added.
“Cross is a scientist and an alchemist,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean he won’t be dangerous, so proceed with caution.”
"But if he's an alchemist, shouldn't we be more worried about turning into gold than his drugs?" Pearson quipped, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling as he smiled. The room erupted into laughter, cutting the tension for a brief moment. "Just sayin', if I'm going to get transmuted, I'd prefer it to be into something valuable."
“Transmuted?” Martinez said. “That’s a big word for you, Pearson. You been watching those YouTube documentaries again?”
More laughter erupted, before Pearson retorted, “Actually, Martinez, I learned that word from your mother. She says it’s how she feels after I fuck her every night.”
A few “Ooohhs” replaced the laughter as Martinez glared at her superior. “Screw you, sir. My mother wouldn’t have your wart-ridden penis anywhere near her.”
Pearson grabbed his crotch. “Ribbed for her satisfaction, Martinez.”
Martinez shook her head with disdain. “Fuck you.”
The tension rose in the room like an invisible fog. “All right, enough,” I said, as Martinez kept glaring at Pearson, who merely grinned back at her. “We all clear on what we have to do?”
Everyone answered in the affirmative.
“All right. Let’s do it then.”
Chapter
Eighteen
The transition from the gritty urban landscape to the tranquil countryside was not abrupt, but gradual, much like slowly turning the pages of a well-loved book. As we navigated the sinuous country roads, the Gothic architecture of the Old Quarter gave way to lush green fields and gentle rolling hills. It was early spring, and the countryside was beginning to bloom, each corner of the landscape peppered with color. Patches of wildflowers dotted the fields, their bright hues standing stark against the emerald-green of the grass.
In the distance, small traditional farmhouses and barns punctuated the landscape, their rustic beauty lending an idyllic charm to the surroundings. The occasional sight of a grazing herd of sheep or a lone horse roaming freely added to the bucolic tranquility.
Tall, ancient trees lined the road, their branches swaying gently in the soft breeze, whispering tales of the past. The foliage was dense, a vibrant mix of greens that seemed to glow under the touch of sunlight, casting playful shadows on the road.
The air itself was different here, filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers, fresh grass, and the distinct earthiness that follows a recent rainfall. It was crisp and clean, a refreshing change from the city's heavy air.
As we drove deeper into this tranquil countryside, the chaotic hum of city life felt distant, almost forgotten. The contrast with the urban jungle we had left behind was stark, and the sense of calm it instilled was both humbling and slightly unsettling, given the nature of our mission. The peaceful exterior was in sharp contrast to the storm we were about to walk into.
“It feels good to be out of the city,” I said, my window down to allow the fresh, scented air in. “Like a weight off your shoulders.”
Driving the Mustang, Knight glanced across at me. “You ever think of moving out of the city? Getting a little cabin in the woods perhaps?”
“I used to dream about leaving everything behind and heading into the wilderness to live out the rest of my days.”
“What stopped you?”
I shook my head at her. “Are you kidding?”
“You think the city would fall apart without you in it?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ve never been a fan of the countryside,” Knight said, lighting up a cigarette. “As a kid, I used to stay at my grandmother’s farm, and the place always gave me the creeps. I always felt like something was watching me from the forests and hills. It was hard to relax. I prefer the city.”
“You just don’t know what’s good for you, Knight.”
“I could say the same about you.”
“I guess we wouldn’t be cops otherwise, would we?”
“I guess not.”
Driving behind us was the black SWAT van, and behind that, a beige sedan carrying Detective’s Larson and Greene. Soon we arrived at Ezekiel Cross’ house. The manor was an imposing edifice nestled within a vast estate. It was isolated from the rest of civilization, the epitome of old money and power. A massive iron gate, ornate and intimidating, marked the entrance to the estate. The security system was top-notch, intimidating in its intricacy.
Martinez, however, was undeterred. Her fingers moved deftly over the portable hacking device she had brought along. It was fascinating to watch her work, her concentration unwavering as she masterfully bypassed the gate's electric security system. With a small triumphant grin, she hit a final key, and the iron gate creaked open, its defiance crumbling before Martinez's skill.
Our small caravan slowly drove up the long, winding driveway. A sense of anticipation filled the air as we approached the mansion, each vehicle crawling forward, dwarfed by the looming manor and the strangely darkening skies.
“You think Cross knows we’re coming?” Knight asked as the Mustang approached the house.
“Undoubtedly,” I replied. “There are wards all over this place and who knows what other security measures. We need to be careful.”
“You think he’ll resist us?”
“He’s already killed a load of people. What’s he got to lose?”
“With his money, I’m sure some fancy lawyer could get him off.”
“Maybe, but something tells me Cross is beyond all that now. His desperation to save his son has no doubt clouded his judgment.”
“I hope he knows when the gig is up. I don’t want to have to put a bullet in him.”
“Just be prepared for anything.”
The manor itself was a colossal monolith, a grim masterpiece of old-world architectural prowess. Imposing and austere, its rough stone facade bore the mark of centuries, shadowed under the weight of a timeless grandeur. The building loomed over us with an eerie authority, its pointed gables casting elongated shadows that stretched across the unkempt lawn.
Several towering chimneys, smudged black from decades of use, reached toward the iron-grey sky like the fingers of a spectral hand. The multitude of windows, varying in shape and size, stared down at us like myriad vigilant eyes, unblinking and cold. They gleamed in the now dim light of mid morning, casting a fractured reflection of our small convoy.
An assortment of ivy and creeping vines clung stubbornly to the manor's exterior, their dark green foliage a stark contrast against the pale stone. They slithered and coiled around window sills and door frames, adding to the eerie appearance of the edifice.
The sprawling grounds, once meticulously maintained, bore a haunting beauty that twisted the stomach with a sense of unease. The landscape was dotted with ancient trees whose gnarled branches swayed gently in the wind, their leaves rustling a soft, ominous lullaby. A thin mist curled at the edges of the property, imbuing the scene with an otherworldly quality.
The house, coupled with the unnerving allure of the grounds, resonated with a dark message. It spoke volumes of wealth and power, yes, but more than that, it whispered tales of secrets hidden deep within its walls, of a foreboding presence that hung in the air like an unsaid warning.
Now standing outside the manor house, an unexpected sensation surged through me, originating from the tattoos that decorated my body. Their usually dormant state was disturbed, shifting under my skin like restless serpents, the intricate lines of ink reacting to an unseen force.
A faint, cold tingling began at my fingertips, quickly coursing up my hands and arms. It felt like the trickle of icy water, sending rivulets of shivers across my skin. This was not painful, but it was jarring, a distinct feeling of alarm rippling through the layers of my skin.
The tattoos began to glow subtly, their outlines lighting up with a soft luminescence. It wasn't visible under my clothes, but I could feel it, a gentle warmth radiating against the cold tingles that had initially taken hold. They pulsed in an irregular rhythm, as though resonating with an unseen energy emanating from the manor house.
