My reaction to the killer’s presence was pure instinct, but I couldn’t tell if I’d hit him or only his clothing before he spun over the railing and plummeted out of sight. Training told me to check that he was dead, but friendship was a more powerful deciding factor and I leaped after the two thugs who by now were cornering Rink.
I passed through the short vestibule in less than two seconds, noting distractedly that the doors to the anterooms had been thrust open, as the men had made their search of the apartment. Although the door to the living room stood wide, the room was in darkness save for the narrow strip of city light leaking through the chink in the curtains. The two men were big and blocked much of my view, but I could tell from their stance that they hadn’t found whom they were expecting. But the person they had found was an unexpected bonus.
There were words: recriminations and threats, but my mind was working on another level and didn’t order them into any sense. It didn’t matter. If they were here for a fair fight, then maybe I’d have been happy to oblige, but they had come to force information from helpless old men, so the rules didn’t apply. I slipped into the room behind them.
Rink had placed his gun down, out of reach of the two bruisers, and was beckoning them forward with his curled fingers. His face was set in a manic grin, and I understood that he had not yet gone beyond the madness his father’s murder had induced in him. He could have easily disarmed them by threat of his gun, but no: Rink wanted to fight these punks. I slipped my SIG into my trousers.
Fair enough, I thought, as I lunged at the nearest one.
At the same time Rink went for the other.
There was no time for checking Rink’s tactics; I was too busy with my own. The big guy reacted to my presence by jerking away, but immediately swiping at my skull with his metal bar. I ducked and closed with him, getting within the arch of his weapon and jamming his arm with my elbow. I jabbed a knee into the soft flesh of his inner thigh, a hand’s width above the knee. His leg buckled, but he didn’t go down. That was OK, because I was more intent on disrupting his balance for a follow-up strike than on putting him down on the floor. The guy should have dropped the bar, because it only hindered him. He tried to twist it around and took a couple of cracks at my skull, but the bar couldn’t reach. With my defending arm, I jammed the heel of my palm solidly below his right ear. My free fist pounded into his solar plexus in a right hook. He massively outweighed me, but that meant he was easily manoeuvred when off balance. I struck upwards now, employing my palm heel against his chin, smashing his teeth together and rocking him back on his heels. As he backpedalled my left hand struck a knife-edge blow to the mound of his forearm and his numb arm could no longer hold the unwieldy bar. It fell with a hollow thud on the carpet.
The big guy was more dangerous now, but he didn’t know it, and I didn’t give him an opportunity to use his strength or size. I shot a kick into his knee, choosing to attack the one previously softened up. His leg twisted awkwardly, yanking and ripping the tendons in his hip, and the guy let out a shout of pain as he began to collapse. As he dropped down to my size, I whipped the point of my right elbow into his cheekbone, and the force of the blow, plus the tremendous impact in his skull, spun him to the floor. If his leg had been twisted badly before, now it was in a grotesque position. I’d never previously dislocated anyone’s hip by striking their head, but I wasn’t particularly impressed. Feeling mildly nauseated by what I’d done to the man, I spared him the boot to the balls I was lining up and turned to check on my friend instead.
I was just in time to see Rink drive his heel into the second man’s gut and send him five feet backwards to crash against the living room wall. The big guy rebounded, but it only meant he met Rink’s fist as my friend spun and back-fisted him across the jaw. The man completed a graceless pirouette and went face down on Parnell’s settee, his legs jerking in a spasm as all the receptors in his brain rebelled against the concussion. Rink leaned over the downed man, his fist cocked. I was about to step in and halt the final blow, but Rink had already figured the man was out cold and relaxed. He turned to me, his face still rigid with battle determination.
Rink used to say I had a look when I went into battle. He called it ‘my face’: well, I could see it reflected in that of my best friend and I didn’t like what I saw.
I grabbed at him, took his elbow. ‘These fuckers almost spoiled everything.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The killer. He was here.’
Rink jerked at my words. I held on to him. ‘I shot the bastard, Rink.’
‘You did what?’ Rink began hauling me towards the exit.
I held on.
‘He’s gone, Rink. He went over the balcony.’
‘Son of a bitch!’ I couldn’t tell if he was angry with me, or if he’d been distracted by the two thugs here and missed the action. ‘Where is he? Show me.’
‘In a minute. Hold up, will you?’ I jabbed a hand back at the two bruisers. ‘We have to sort this first.’
‘They’re done.’ I’d never seen Rink acting petulantly before. It wasn’t an image that suited him.
‘We have to find out who sent them.’
‘Isn’t that obvious? It was Chaney. The frog-gigging asshole…’
‘The killer isn’t going anywhere, Rink. Just give me a few seconds with this guy here and we’ll know for sure.’
Rink was shivering with pent up adrenalin. But he relented. ‘You’d best be quick. The racket we’ve made, half the block will be on the phone to the police. We don’t want to be here when they arrive.’
I ignored the man on the settee. He was still out cold, but the one I downed was wide awake. Not that he was fully cognisant, because the agony of his dislocated femur was making him feverish. His face was a pale oval in the dimness, and beads of perspiration poured off him in floods. When he saw me stoop over him, his mouth opened in terror.
If I had considered my actions I would have stopped then and there, but I needed answers and I needed them quick.
Placing one hand on his chest to hold him down, I used the other to dig into his dislocated hip. I could feel where the end of his femur had jumped out of the socket. Even through his jeans I could sense the pulsating heat of his injury. He was already in intense pain; my probing fingers made it grow tenfold. He yowled but I clamped my palm down on his mouth.
‘If you think that hurts, just think what I’ll do to you if you don’t give me what I want.’
His eyes bugged.
‘Who sent you after us?’
He moaned, working his mouth beneath my palm. He wasn’t trying to bite me. I took some of the pressure from his mouth.
‘If I tell you he won’t be happy, man!’
‘I’m not happy. Take your pick who you’d rather piss off.’
‘It was Sean Chaney. He offered us good money to sort you out.’
‘And you two were the best he could afford, eh? Why am I not afraid?’ I relaxed a little more. There was no fight left in this man. I let go of his hip and rested on my heels. ‘Why’d he send you here to hurt some old guys? Why not just call us out in person?’
The man looked past me to where Rink stood like a silent shadow in the doorway. ‘It was him, man. The way he treated Chaney that day on the train. Don’t you remember?’ He directed his next words at Rink. ‘You humiliated him and he’s got a rep to protect. He wanted to humiliate you by beating those under your protection. We saw you that day at the funeral, but it wasn’t the time or place. Instead we hung around and then followed the old guys back to this apartment. We knew it would only be a matter of time before you showed up here. We missed you the first time, it’s why we came back.’