Gatac

  Sean liked to think he had had the naiveté kicked out of him early in his career, and vigorously, too. When it took most rookies a while to stop acting academy and start acting beat, he had easily adopted the outlook of his senior colleagues, but the difference between being cool and acting cool was the knowledge behind it, the experience Sean cked. Standing in Captain Whitton's office before the man's desk, Sean wondered if maybe his attempt to look seasoned and guileless-less in the confrontation with that murderer had led to this test episode of fucking himself over. And the way he stood with a ramrod-straight back and his hands cmmy at this side, it became increasingly clear to him he was not ready for this scenario. It was time to come clean, but…when exactly? Was there ever a good time to admit to completely fucking up everything? He tried to find the right pause in the rhythm of the Captain’s fingers drumming on the desk. Trying, of course, implying he failed at it.

  “Detective, I want to make sure you understand something,” Whitton began. He sounded much too calm despite ten thousand tons of weary looks pushing down on Sean. “There's a reason we have rules in this job. They're supposed to keep you safe.”“Yes, Sir,” Sean said.“Which is why you need to speak up before your partner goes cowboy on you,” Whitton said. “Detective Berkovitz told me that, in the course of your investigation, he entered the warehouse to check on what sounded like an ongoing fight. That, by the way, is not an excuse you want to use too often. Exigent circumstances only cover so much ground.”1As an exception from the requirement to obtain a warrant prior to searching a building (and good Lord, let’s not begin to talk about what constitutes a ‘building’ in the legal sense), ‘exigent circumstances’ basically says busting through a door was necessary to save lives or stop a crime in progress. That has its pce, but it doesn’t give you a bnket license to disregard the 4th Amendment.“…yes, Sir,” Sean said. “Sir, about the shoot —““I heard all I need to hear,” Whitton said.“Sir —““Please shut up, right now,” Whitton said. He pinched his nose. “You’ve been asked to this dance before, Detective. So, do you know the steps or do you not?”“…yes, Sir,” Sean said. Damn it. Whitton was right in a way, was trying to help him cover his ass, and Sean hated every second of it. “Lawyer, union rep, priest,” Sean rattled off. “Not a word to anyone else.”“Yep,” Whitton said. “Am I your wyer, your union rep or your priest?”“No, Sir,” Sean said. “You are not.”“Then I don’t want to hear another word about what you think happened,” Whitton said. “Fifth amendment, Detective. Protects cops from themselves, but doesn’t protect you from me. If the DA puts me on the stand, I am going to spill every damn thing I know about this. There is absolutely nothing you could ever do for me that would even tempt me to perjure myself to save your ass. The same goes for everyone else in this department. You get that, yes?”“Yes, Sir,” Sean said.“Okay, time for the formalities,” Whitton said. “Detective Collins, I’m temporarily suspending you from active duty with pay while IAB2The NYPD’s Internal Affairs Bureau. You know how you should not talk to cops unless advised by your wyer? Well, plenty of cops don’t talk to IAB unless advised by their wyer. investigates your use of deadly force. You’re going to —““Get my notes in order and review my training materials, Sir,” Sean said. “And stand by for orders.”“So you remember that part, good,” Whitton said. “The DA's office will have my report by the end of the day. I don’t think they’ll run their own investigation, if they do, you will let them ask their questions anyway. Of which you’re going to answer exactly zero unless it is on the advice of your wyer. Not sure about the Feds but they might blow in a call, too. Same procedure. Your service weapon3At the time, there were no issue weapons in the NYPD — every officer bought their own gun off a list of approved weapons. This is still the case for plenty of smaller w enforcement agencies today, but most of the bigger agencies have standardized on a single model of handgun that they issue to new recruits.As of this writing, the NYPD is transitioning to three semi-automatic pistols: officer’s choice of a Glock 17, Glock 19 or a SIG 226 DAO. The previous grandfathering of revolvers for officers who still carried them has ended. will remain in the precinct’s custody.”“Yes, Sir,” Sean said.Whitton looked at Sean, looked him up and down, as if weighing whether he rated more advice. “Are you scared of what might happen?” he asked.

  Sean nodded.

  “A little scared is good,” Whitton said. “Keeps you focused. But don’t let it fuck with you. And, well, just because you need to shut up doesn’t mean I have to end this on a down note. Off the record, you did good, Detective. Joe swears up and down you saved his ass. You two went up against three perps with automatics, got out without a scratch and managed to score a couple million dolrs in firearms and drugs. That’s a win. My report will reflect that and I hope the people upstairs will realize we need cops like you doing their jobs. So I'll do what I can for you from here.”“Thank you, Sir,” Sean said.“Stop 'Sir'-ing me, please,” Whitton said. “Captain will do. If you keep your head straight, you may well work yourself up to 'Paul'.”“Yes…Captain,” Sean said. “I'll see myself out, then.”“Go ahead and send in Detective Berkovitz again,” Whitton said. “I've got some choice words for him.”“Will do, Captain,” Sean said. “Thank you.”“Save it for when the review clears you,” Whitton said. “Oh, and I heard you don't own a backup?”“Yeah?” Sean said.“While those bodies might not have had families, I'm damn sure they had friends,” Whitton said. “I think we need to talk about a purchase authorization for an off-duty carry. Not right now, but once this settles down. Also, when IAB shows up, they might want to make things easier on themselves and tell you a couple things that aren't strictly speaking true, try to pick apart your statement, confiscate any and all firearms in your home — I don’t know where you live, Detective, maybe your dad owns a gun?”“I live alone,” Sean said.Whitton nodded. “Anyway, stay safe,” he said. “And get some lunch in you. You look like you could use a bite.”

  Get out, that is what Sean thought. It was what he thought from Captain Whitton's office past a concerned look from Berkovitz all the way down the stairs and through the motherfucking front door. It stuck around for an encore as Sean walked down the sidewalk in a direction that bore little spatial retionship to any viable destination. But maybe if he moved quickly enough he could outrun all the bad thoughts and keep the vision of lunch fresh and foremost in his mind. It didn’t have to be lunch, mind. Most anything would do, as long as it was sensible and nice and completely unreted to how a murderer had gotten away with killing three people with his gun.

  Footsteps beside him, matching his gait. Sean turned to look: Simmons, coat, beanie hat and all, holding out a paper cup of coffee for him to take. Of fucking course.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” Sean said, keeping his stride. “Actually? No. We left things on a ‘fuck you’ and that’s still the deal. So get lost. I don't want to hear it, I don't want to see you ever again.”“Hello to you, too, Detective Collins,” she said, walking with him. “I suppose —”“You’re not getting the whole ‘fuck you’ idea, Simmons,” Sean said. “That is your real name, yeah? Oh, I know how I can find out, I'll just arrest you right the fuck now, book you and run your prints, get a nice mugshot and send it off to the F-B-fucking-I. God knows that's what I should do.”She coughed. “What is it, you think, I should do with a witness?”

  Sean said nothing, just kept walking, staring straight ahead.

  “I thought you would be more curious about my intentions,” Simmons said, “as you must suspect I am not here to trade barbs with you.”Sean stopped and pivoted on his heel. “Sure, y it on me, what are you here for?” he said. “Turning yourself in? 'cause I just finished biting my tongue instead of putting a BOLO4Be On LookOut. A simir term to All-Points Bulletin, this is basically a general message going out to all w enforcement in an area to keep watch for a certain person or vehicle. out for you! You're very fucking welcome.”“Please don't make a scene, Detective,” Simmons said. “I do appreciate your discretion. And I have come to repay it with critical information.” She held out the cup for him again. “I also brought you this coffee.”Sean took it, almost reflexively, and turned to start walking again. Still, he couldn't leave this uncommented. “I hate coffee,” he said, taking a sip.“I will remember that,” she said. “Now. I am here because we have a new problem.”“Of course,” Sean mumbled. “Hot and fresh problems to go with hot and fresh coffee, wonderful. Hell of an apology gift. Was getting bored, actually, haven't had any new problems in, oh, the st half hour or so. Sure, just bring ‘em all to me, I live for that crap. And what's this ‘we’ bullshit?”“I am building to that,” she said. “Barely an hour after we parted, I received a call from an associate. He said word was getting around you killed two of Ilya Sidorov's men.”“That’s fucking ridiculous,” Sean said. “Press release isn’t even out yet and when it is my name won’t be on it, exactly because of crap like this. So how exactly did this get out to your friends?”“I don’t know,” Simmons said. “That surprised me as well. I can only assume they have…sources in your department.”“Yeah, no, I’m not pying that guessing game,” Sean said. Simmons kept quiet for a few steps, so he continued. “Oh, sorry, I cut you off in the middle of your bullshit. To recap: you say your friends are putting me down for your kills. Got it, go on, what did you tell your associate?”“Nothing,” she said.“Oh, so you’re not singling me out for the silent treatment, cool,” Sean said. “Bringing me to the next thing that’s not adding up: you id down three, but he said only two?”“That would be Bolesv and Rusn,” she said. “Ilya Sidorov’s men. Now I don't know the driver. Neither does my associate. I should not say it is my chief concern, but it does put me on edge.”“Too bad,” Sean said. “When I figure it out, I’ll be sure not to let you know.”“Nevermind that,” Simmons said. “I can well satisfy my own curiosity. And I will gdly share a name if it advances our mutual interest.”“I’m sure you will,” Sean muttered. “So, fine, your friends think I killed two of Team Thieves and number three was picked never at scumbag dodgeball, so he doesn’t count. But I’m a cop, I was there on the clock, it wasn’t fucking personal.”“That is not a factor,” Simmons said. “Whatever the intent, there is…more aggravation around it than I hoped for.”“Aggravation, huh?” Sean probed. “What’s that without the five-dolr word? A price on my head?”“He didn't come out and say it but I suppose there is one by now, yes,” she said. “Ilya is a difficult man at the best of times, but this —““Peachy,” Sean said. “Just peachy. So gd to hear I’m moving on up in the world. Got me a crime boss arch-nemesis and a lie to take to my grave, all in a day’s work. Any cop should be so lucky. But hey, maybe I can pay weregild, I've got fifty bucks in my savings account.”“I rather doubt that would be effective,” she said. “Once you have paid him the Dane-geld, you never get rid of the Dane.”5While Simmons drops the more famous line from Rudyard Kipling’s Dane-geld, Sean’s use of the closely-reted-but-not-the-same term ‘weregild’ is also applicable. Dane-geld is what you pay to make somebody not attack you. Weregild is what you pay as restitution for the injury you’ve caused someone else. Which term is more applicable depends on your view of the trouble Sean finds himself in.“That was sarcasm, by the way,” Sean shot back.“You might find yourself better served with gratitude, Detective,” she said.“Gee, thank you for the warning and the social skills critique, I appreciate it,” Sean said. “All that and coffee, too, wow, I’m just blown away by your generosity. There, that’s all the gratitude I could possibly express. And just because you’re you, I’ll top my super-special serving of ‘fuck you’ with an extra scoop of ‘eat shit’. Whatever little scheme you’re trying to run —”

  Simmons held on to her reply, instead falling back a half-step to get behind Sean. She caught up with him on the other side, putting herself between him and the road. A light gray sedan slowly rolled past them. She gred at it for a few seconds before it sped up and went around the next corner, disappearing again into the grey. She turned back to Sean, catching him craning his head after the car as well.

  “…fuck,” Sean said. “What the fuck just happened?”“It looked like intimidation to me, giving away their surveilnce like that,” she said. “Drive-by is unlikely this close to a precinct and with traffic too tight for a quick getaway, but I have seen more audacious attempts. I caught the license pte if you want to check it, but it was more likely than not stolen sometime st night.”“…yeah, that makes sense,” Sean said. The implications pyed through his head. “That makes sense because if what you’re saying is what happened then this is…they’re trying to kill me,” he continued. “And they know where I am, they know what I look like — if they didn't before they do now, maybe they tracked you, but you stepped in, so that means you're here to…protect me?”“Yes,” she said.“Why?” Sean said. Simmons looked at him and his wide-open eyes. “I’m a goddamn witness —”“We need to keep walking,” she said, moving ahead. “Do you really want me to follow that line of thought?”Sean nodded slowly, picking up the pace beside her.“If they do kill you, then yes, I am safer, for the moment,” she expined, “because they may think the matter is settled, for as long as it takes your boss to grab his men and raid Ilya's pce in retaliation. I don’t see how he could do any less. And Ilya and his soldiers won't go quietly. There will be more bodies before nightfall.”“You don't —“ he tried.“That aside,” she continued, “if they had shot at you, they would have hit me, too, even before I put myself between them and you. I think I took the safer option.”“Okay, so, you don't work for Sidorov,” Sean said. “And not for Dolzhikov, either, I think. You don't talk about them like you do. But someone in the Thief community, because you’re sure enough they won’t shoot through you to get me. Joe mentioned an ‘old man’ but fuck, that doesn’t narrow it down, does it? Whatever. What I know is they didn’t kill you on sight at the warehouse. I guess you’re actually a pretty big deal, huh?”“How much did you hear?” she asked.“Enough,” Sean said. “So, if I do get killed and we take down Sidorov for that, wouldn't it also be good for you and your boss, whoever he is? Less competition? And Sidorov's clearly broken whatever gentlemen’s agreement you guys had, so sooner or ter you were gonna kill him anyway, why not let us pull the trigger, keep your hands clean for once?”“You seem to have a very dark view of the world,” Simmons said.“Well, if I’m gonna be stuck in this mess I’d like to try and understand it,” Sean said. “And your angle in it.”“My angle is that I made a critical mistake and I am trying to fix it,” she said, staring down the sidewalk ahead of them. “Involving you —““Framing me,” Sean interrupted.“Framing you created consequences beyond my calcution,” she said, “and I never meant to put you in harm's way. Well enough people are dead already. I am trying to forestall further escation of the matter.”“That’s nice,” Sean said. “Real fucking nice. All the murderers in this city and I get the one who’s trying for an optimal body count.”“My professional standards and sense of right actually are in alignment on this matter,” she said. She turned her head to Sean. “If it is easier to fit into your worldview, drawing more heat on Little Odessa is going to hurt us, too. It could conceivably even get me killed. So I have something to lose here. Does that satisfy your cynicism?”“I'm not taking shit for my moral compass from a hitman — hitwoman?” Sean said. “Contract killer? What's the term?”“I suppose ‘criminal’ will do,” Simmons said. “Where is your car?”

  “Well, it is a nice car,” Simmons said, and Sean still wasn't sure what the hell her deal was.

  To stick with the facts: Sean's off-red Mazda GLC6It’s a great little car! No, seriously, that’s what GLC stands for. was no dream car, hadn't been when he had gotten it ten years ago. It was simply how far his dad's budget had stretched when sending Sean off to college. And Sean, cost of living being what it was, hadn't yet reached the point where keeping the car running hurt him more in credit card payments than trying to save up for a down payment on a new car. This was not to say the GLC was a shitbox, though. Sean kept up with the maintenance and the usual scratches and dings aside, it was in decent shape. But damn it, Sean had his degree, he had a steady job, he was supposed to be past his first car by now. And with Simmons riding shotgun, her little comment felt like it was judging his entire life as a waste of her time.

  “So,” he said, “how exactly do you pn to fix this mess you got me into?”“My boss will meet with Ilya,” Simmons said. “They will talk. He will convince Ilya to see reason, that there is nothing good that can come from a hit on a police officer. Ilya is proud, but not too proud to understand that the deaths in the warehouse and the lost goods, while deeply regrettable, are part of the cost of doing business. He will cancel the bounty, lest he waste more money and draw more heat over a matter which cannot be rectified anymore. As for as you are concerned, this will resolve the issue. I will work out the rest without involving you again.”“And all you have to do is keep me alive,” Sean said. “Well, that ought to be easy enough. Just kill anyone who comes after me. Hell, why not go straight to Sidorov and kill him and everyone else in the building while you’re at it? Like, isn’t that what you mean by ‘working out the rest’? Just start with the killing spree. Hell, the odds aren’t getting better, right now you might still catch them by surprise. Bam, problem solved.”“You know,” Simmons said, “for someone in Organized Crime, you have a strangely naive idea of how we work.”“I've seen how you work,” Sean said.Simmons turned away from him. “You seem awfully quick to judge me,” she said.“What’s to judge?” Sean said. “You kill people.”Simmons rolled her eyes. “I do, occasionally, when it is truly necessary, kill people, but…it is hardly an everyday occurrence.”“Oh, it's fine, she takes the weekends off,” Sean said.

  Simmons stifled a ugh.

  “You think that's funny?” Sean said.“It is a little funny,” Simmons said.“I'm so gd one of us is enjoying this,” Sean said. “Goddammit, Simmons. If you hadn't —”“If I hadn't killed my colleagues,” she cut in, “they would have killed me. If you think that was easy, you are welcome to imagine yourself in my pce, Detective.”“At least I would have had a good reason!” Sean snarled. “I'm a cop, dammit, you're…a murderer.”“If that bothers you,” Simmons said, “just turn this car around and hand me over to your colleagues.”“Like you would let me,” Sean said.“I never said I would go along with it,” Simmons said. “But as long as you seem inclined to profit from my protection, I won't give time to whatever good-and-evil speech you are building toward. The moral option is clear and you have elected not to take it. As I see it, you are out for yourself. That doesn’t make you any better or worse than anyone else in this scenario. So I suggest you save us both some grief and accept it.”“Actually, I'm in this for me and my partner, criminal,” Sean said. “I'm going with it because Joe said we should, and —”“Because you trust him,” Simmons said.Sean shook his head. “Because I'm his partner and it's my job to back him up. So, you know, if the story he told my Captain wasn't bullshit, if I had gone in there gun drawn…I'm not sure I wouldn't have done it.”“You would have killed them as well?” Simmons asked.“Yeah,” Sean said. “I mean, if I had gone in. Like, if Joe was in actual trouble.”“And you think he wasn't?” Simmons asked. “He thinks familiarity shields him, but that has limits. He was never safe walking in on the deal.”“Right,” Sean said. “And what I'm saying is, if that was the real situation, if it really looked that way, I can see myself shooting, too. And I'm not the only one who can. I think that's why my boss bought the whole story.”Simmons considered it. “I don't think so,” she said.The corners of Sean's mouth twitched a little. “Well, you don't know me very well,” he said.“Point taken,” Simmons said.

  The two fell silent, green lights fshing by on their way through Queens.

  “What is your routine, anyway?” she asked eventually. “I need to figure out how to protect you.”“Not much to protect,” Sean said. “Wake up, go to work, come back home, watch TV if I'm tired, read a book if I'm bored. I get my groceries on the way home, mostly.”“You don't go out?” Simmons asked.“I rent videos sometimes,” Sean said. “No jokes.”“I am quite satisfied with knowing you occasionally visit the video store,” Simmons said. “I don't need to know the shelf.”“Just…forget it,” Sean said. “I'm not going outside until you fix this. You can handle groceries and videos and whatever. There, that should make it easier on you.”

  Sean's studio apartment on the seventh floor of the Woodside Houses estates had started as a bachelor pad just after college and entered the slow but inevitable decline to man cave. To be fair, he hadn't expected to have a quote-unquote guest that day, but the general yout suggested he had never entertained the possibility of having visitors at all. The far right corner of the main room was the first eye catcher, with a queen-size single bed shoved against the walls, almost but not completely blocking the wall closet’s sliding doors while also reaching underneath the apartment's single rge window. To the left, the apartment had a small alcove that would have been a logical pce for said single bed had it not instead housed two bookshelves so deep it was just barely possible to walk through the narrow corridor between them. Working one's gaze back toward the front of the apartment swept it past a kitchenette — sink half full with dishes and cutlery, with a pstic shopping bag hanging from a drawer handle, repurposed as a trash bag — and to the small bathroom squeezed into the near left corner. The right wall had another closet next to the one blocked by the bed and a waist-high cabinet in the near right corner with a VCR and TV stacked on top. Tables and chairs were not endemic to his habitat, but if there had been any, they would have been covered in the piles of dirty undry that instead occupied the corners of the floor.

  “You're not going to say 'It's a nice apartment', are you?” Sean asked.“No,” Simmons replied. Her eyes were fixed on the single window. Making her way along the walls of the apartment, Simmons crossed over to its side and quickly drew the curtains closed, which took the light levels from twilight to near darkness.Sean rolled his eyes as he switched the ceiling light on. “Let me guess, snipers?”“Surveilnce is more likely at this stage,” she said, “but if someone was intent on killing you quickly, yes, they might post a sniper.”“In the tower across my backyard,” Sean said. “Yeah, right. You got any other material or is this your whole act?”“I apologize if my caution wears on you,” Simmons said. “Do you want me to go and leave you to the wolves?”“The only one crying wolf is you, Simmons,” Sean said. “I mean, now that we’re here in the comfort of my home, let me just take a leisurely stroll through the story you're trying to sell me. You show up at my crime scene, kill three people and make me lie about it, then you come back bearing the bad news that the lie is gonna get my killed, too — and, by the way, if your friends know my name, the likeliest expnation is you told them — then you 'protect' me from a drive-by you might as well have arranged yourself. To cap it off, you now know where I live. I don't know if your Secret Service act is just your paranoia acting up or if you've got an angle I'm not seeing yet, but whatever it is, I don't believe a single word out of you. So, yeah, I do want you to go, thank you for finally asking my opinion about today’s events and our retionship going forward, I was afraid I was going to have to get rude and throw you out!”“You would do well to take my warning seriously,” Simmons said. “Even if I do depart, you ought to stand ready to defend yourself.”“If you’re such a hot shot assassin, why don’t you take a good guess how many guns are in this apartment?” Sean said. “Here’s a hint: same number you packed for a bit of a light killing spree this morning. Defend myself, right. You think I woulda let you get anywhere near this close to me if I wasn’t at whatever passes for mercy in your book?”Simmons nodded. “You have a point,” she said.

  She shrugged out of her coat, dropping it onto the bed. This revealed a dyed leather shoulder holster with the gun on the left and two magazine pouches on the right, linked by two vertical straps to a heavy-duty belt with two knife sheaths: a rge one at 7 o’clock, handle to the left, while a much smaller one sat up front at her 11 o’clock with the handle pointing toward her centerline.7You’ve seen the big knife before in the warehouse, where Simmons used it to open a crate. The small one up front is no good for utility tasks, though. That’s a cinch knife, the ‘oh shit’ option when things get up close and personal, which is why it’s small and easy to reach for both left and right hand. The big knife would be easier to draw from a centerline position as well, but that’s harder to conceal. They’re both fixed-bde knives; assume there’s at least one lockable folder tucked away in a pocket somewhere, too. As if that wasn't enough, a rge belt pack hung over her left hip, straining under the weight inside.

  “Should I be on my knees for this?” Sean asked.

  Simmons did not dignify that with an answer. Instead, she reached over to the holster on her left, leather glove against the snap on the retaining strap, opening it with practiced ease. In full sight of Sean, she drew the gun, ejected the magazine and cleared the cartridge from the chamber. Before Sean could even properly protest, she pointed the now empty gun toward the wall under the window, as if aiming at the empty pza beyond. Safety off, trigger pulled — the hammer fell with a click that was altogether much too loud.

  “There,” she said, flipping the gun in her hand and holding it out for Sean to take, pistol grip first. “Now neither of us can shoot anyone. You just hold on to it for me while you figure out whether you believe me. Do you think you can handle that?”“Is it hot?” Sean asked.“Nothing that needs to concern you,” Simmons said, wiggling the gun in her hand. “So, what is it going to be?”

  Sean walked over to her and inspected it. He reached for it, but thought better of touching the actual pistol.

  “Can you spare some gloves?” he asked.Simmons smiled at that. “You are learning,” she said.“Oh, so this was a trap?” Sean asked.“No, but it is good that you have your wits about you despite all,” Simmons said. “Check the coat, left inner pocket.”

  Sean stared at her for a moment. He reached into his own pocket for a tissue, spreading it over his hand before gingerly prying apart the folds of the coat on his bed.

  “Perhaps you don’t need to worry about prints on my box of gloves, too?” Simmons asked.“Uh-huh,” Sean replied. The box fought back a little as he pulled it from the tight pocket.“Look, Detective, if I wanted your prints, there are plenty of surfaces here I could try to lift them from,” Simmons said, depositing the full magazine into one of the pouches on her belt and the loose cartridge into her belt pack. “I understand not wanting to touch my gun without protection, but this is a little ridiculous.”“Coming from the criminal who thinks there's a price on my head,” Sean replied. “And who's carrying what looks like a half ton of pstic in her coat. Also, maybe I wipe down the surfaces of my apartment every time I leave, how about that?”

  Simmons didn't even have to say anything.

  “It would take you longer, though,” Sean said. “But you can see exactly where I touched this box, so I don't want my prints on that.” He pulled the tab open (still through the tissue) and reached inside, producing two tex gloves. “I thought they only made the bck ones for tattoo parlors,” he commented.“My supplier stocks six colors, actually,” Simmons said, “so if Strawberry Red is more to your liking —““Bck's fine,” Sean said.“Also,” Simmons said, “I know for a fact you touched the doorknob outside. That is smooth metal.”“Okay, fine, you win, you can totally hypothetically frame me, again,” Sean said, pulling the gloves over his hands.“Detective —“Sean waved her off. “I said, you win.”“No, please hear me out,” Simmons said. “This isn't about winning. That argument is over. I am here to protect you. And right now I am trying to make a point about the difference between sensible precautions” — she held out the gun for Sean to take — “and paranoia.”

  Sean pulled the gloves over his hands and took the gun. Steel construction, matte bck color — parkerized8Parkerizing is a method of chemical conversion coating that makes the surface of steel parts resistant to corrosion. It’s a common enough procedure on firearms, especially ones with all-steel construction like a cssic 1911., but aftermarket. Heavier and a good deal ftter than his Ruger. He tilted the gun to the side and gingerly pulled back on the slide to inspect the chamber.9Treat every gun as if it is loaded. Even if you just saw somebody clear the chamber before they handed it to you.

  “You are familiar?” Simmons asked.“Not with this one, but I had a range day in Bethlehem, went through a couple of rentals to get a feel for automatics,” Sean said. He let the slide snap forward again. “Yeah, some cops can shoot straight. Tell me what I need to know. 1911A1?”10In practical terms, you’re very unlikely to run into a working baseline 1911 these days. Production changed over to the 1911A1 in 1924 and pretty much all civilian production worth mentioning is based on that or even ter modifications to the original design. You can look up the actual differences on Wikipedia, but it’s nothing worth getting into here.“That is quite everything that needs to be said about it,” Simmons said. “I adjusted the trigger reset11Okay, this is seriously getting into patriot fiction levels of gun nerdery, but basically, trigger reset is how you far you have to let the trigger come forward after pulling it before it becomes functional again. A shorter trigger reset is theoretically quicker at follow-up shots, but at the end of the day it has to feel right to the user. In a 1911-pattern gun, trigger reset distance is equal to the overtravel, which is the distance the trigger can be pulled back after it breaks, and adjusted by the aptly named overtravel screw. Custom trigger jobs may also include an adjustable pre-travel, i.e. the distance the trigger moves from rest to ‘take-up’ or engaging with the sear, and will most likely also let you adjust the trigger weight, i.e. how much force you need to apply to the trigger to overcome the resistance at the point of engagement and fire the gun. to my preference, otherwise there is not much profit in messing with it, if you ask me.”“Hm,” Sean said. He cocked the hammer and aimed the gun past Simmons. His index finger pulled on the trigger, felt it move slightly with no resistance at all before the take-up. It engaged there and offered some resistance — Sean estimated about four pounds, not exactly a hair trigger, but still light. Pulling further on it felt like nothing was happening until the trigger broke and the hammer dropped, much earlier than Sean had expected it to. He tried not to look startled. “Not sure I could deal with an SAO12The single-action/double-action designation is one of the most important cssifications of handgun operating mechanisms. Briefly, it concerns whether pulling the trigger on an uncocked weapon does nothing (single action) or if it cocks the action and then fires it (double action). The most important variants are, not so briefly:Single-action only (SAO): most prominently on the 1911 and derivative semi-automatics, or the Colt Single Action Army revolver. The weapon must be manually cocked before it can fire. On semi-automatics, this generally only applies to the first shot, as cycling the action will also cock it, while SAO revolvers must be cocked before every shot. If you’ve seen a Western where a character fans the hammer with the palm of their off-hand while shooting rapidly, this is what they’re doing.Single-action/double-action (SA/DA, also often just DA): Many, many semi-automatic pistols and revolvers. The weapon can either fire in single-action if cocked or fired double-action with a correspondingly heavier trigger-pull. Many SA/DA weapons have external hammers that can be manually cocked for a single-action shot, others have bobbed or internal hammers and are intended to always be fired double-action on the first shot.Double-action only (DAO): These weapons cannot be cocked manually and also decock after every shot, so they are fired double-action for every round. Not very common in semi-automatics, but more often encountered in small backup pistols or offered as an option in service pistols. The NYPD uses the SIG 226 — more commonly sold as SA/DA — in its DAO variant on the logic that the heavy double-action trigger pull prevents accidental discharges. Other DAO users believe that the transition from DA to SA after the first shot can throw off follow-up shots and prefer to just have a consistent trigger pull throughout. Then again, this crowd now generally goes for…Striker-fired (no sexy abbreviation): Found most prominently in Glock semi-automatic pistols and designs inspired by them, these weapons have a different action principle but operate simirly to DAO weapons with shorter and lighter trigger pulls in practice. Well, except for the NYPD versions, those still have those heavy trigger pulls from the DAO section for the same reason.Each of those types has its proponents and detractors. Suffice it to say that this makes questions like “What’s the best handgun?” about as easy to answer as “So, which major religion is the true one?” like this,” he said.“It comes down to preference, I suppose,” Simmons said. “I know the NYPD likes the built-in workout.”“Pulls your shots off target and strains your trigger finger, what’s not to like?” Sean said. He weighed the pistol in his hand, an act as meaningful as swirling a gss of red wine at a tasting. “Okay, fine, stick around. But when I tell you, you need to go wait outside.”“I would prefer to stay close, if it is all the same to you,” Simmons said.“It’s not, ‘cause I'm gonna take a shit and a shower right now,” Sean said. “And I don't want you in here for that.”“Fair enough,” Simmons said. “Can I stay here while you are actually in the bathroom, though? The neighbors might wonder about me if they see me lurking outside for too long. I will step outside while you dress, of course.”Sean considered that for a moment. “Fine,” he said. “But I'm taking the gun with me. Don't touch anything.”“I won't,” Simmons said.

  While Sean disappeared into the bathroom, Simmons went to take better stock of the apartment, trying to assess exactly what they would need to hunker down for a few days, worst case scenario. She didn't even have to open any of the kitchen cupboards to figure Sean for a non-cook: the trash bag full of Chinese takeout boxes and the three crusty forks piled-up on a single pte with rock-hard crumbs and mustard stains put his st use of the kitchenette at the weekend prior, at least. So, no useful supplies, little in the way of utensils, no oven, just a single hotpte and a microwave to work with — the way this was going, she would be lucky to find a sanitary saucepan. One single dirty gss (next to the sink, not in it) had visible calcium deposits on the bottom. Back home, where the water came down the mountain, you could almost watch those form, but in the city, it'd have to sit a good long while to get this messy. And all that was not even looking at the ptes stacked in the sink, still caked with bits of food and sitting in an inch-high pool of liquid that had crossed the line from water to slop days ago.13Dirty dishes in the sink beget more dirty dishes stacked on top, so clean as you go. Never wash your dishes in slop, drain and refill your sink when the liquid gets nasty. If you’re wondering, no, you’re not using enough water, but you are using too much dish soap. For crusted stuff in pans, fill with water and soap, then bring the mixture to a boil on the stovetop, let cool and give it a careful scrub, ideally with a long-handled dish brush. And when you’re dealing with cast-iron cookware, don’t use soap at all; scrub with coarse salt instead, rinse thoroughly with clear water, then dry the pan, apply a thin coat of oil and heat up in the oven until the oil barely begins to smoke.I live by these principles and let me tell you, my kitchen is not at all a complete mess that I only clean out of desperate necessity, no sir. Simmons sighed to herself, amending her shopping list: food, utensils and proper cleaning supplies. Just one more reason to live alone.

  As for sleeping — well, obviously they were not going to share the bed, for reasons both moral and practical. She scanned the half-open closet for bnkets and thick clothes to improvise a pillow for herself. She eyed the room between the bookshelves in the alcove as a pce to sleep; she'd be fine with a little padding underneath her. On top of protecting the cop were her own needs, clean underwear, moisturizer and more — added to the list, which had already outgrown the corner bodega and gotten supermarket-sized. That meant a longer trip. Detective Collins would stay behind, of course, no sense putting him in the open when he was already safely inside a pce with only one viable entrance. He'd just have to kill anyone coming through the door until she returned. Simmons hoped his bravado in that direction wasn't just talk, that actually having someone kick in the door would activate some survival instincts, but if it didn't — well. She tried to keep her mind on the things she could change.

  Her thoughts wandered back to the bookshelves, and eventually, so did she. If she didn't already know he had a degree in Criminal Justice, this cinched it. The shelves ached from the weight of books on famous criminals, psychology and sociology, with little sticky notes and colored tabs barely visible sticking out from the top of the pages. As she awkwardly knelt down to check the lower shelves, she noticed the books becoming less academic. There were coffee-table glossies about martial arts and exotic destinations, interspersed with photocopied binders of books that had never made the grade of having a ‘legit’ publisher. Covert operations, improvised explosive devices, close combat…were those for understanding what he might encounter on the job, or attempts to learn those skills for another purpose? Simmons wasn't comfortable coming down on one or the other side yet, but if it was the tter, she'd have her work cut out for her.

  She hadn't heard the soft scritching of metal on metal over the swooshing of the shower, but she did see the handle of the apartment door move. No gun to hand, warning Sean would give her away, no quick way to the door. The alcove! She took a step to the side and pressed her back against the bookshelf. While she strained to hear anything over the shower, her mind raced for a strategy. Anybody picking the lock on the door and sneaking in was likely to be here for Sean, armed with a lethal weapon and the will to use it. Just as well Sean had the pistol, far too loud for this. Her own knives? Not a good pce to leave that kind of mess, either. The personal touch, then. Keep the gloves on and acquaint the intruder with eight ounces of steel shot in her left and another eight in her right. The small apartment would work in her favor, but she had to make good on the element of surprise. Her left hand reached up to her forehead and pulled the bacva over her face. She brushed the rest of her straightened hair down the back of her colr. She closed her eyes. Quick breaths to get the adrenaline pumping. Adrenaline and surprise gave her the edge. Visualize the moves. More likely than not a right-hander, coming into the apartment, so head-on fight. If they’ve got a weapon out, it’s probably a gun, they’re expecting to empty the magazine at close range and make a run for it. Left hand grabs and controls their weapon arm14The almost certain outcome of any gun disarm technique is you get shot. But if the alternative to trying it was getting shot regardless, that drawback becomes easier to overlook., right hand does the damage. Push them against the wall and just keep working them until they stop fighting back. If they’ve got a knife out…they’ll gut you. But they won’t have a knife out. They’re not expecting you. Not expecting you. Don’t hesitate.

  Begin.

  Simmons rolled her back across the bookshelf and unched forward into the middle of the room. The target wasn't quite there, but further to the right, next to the bathroom door. He had a gun out, but not raised. Good. Her left foot hit the floor as the target turned to bring his gun to bear on her. She felt her knee flex, built up some of the impact and sprung forward off that at the target, both arms in front of her. The misstep might have cost her — she came at him staring down the barrel of his gun, but he didn't pull the trigger, instead flinching away from her incoming right fist. Her left hand found his gun and grabbed onto it while her right arm slid off his block, gliding just over his head. She knew she had overextended and left herself far too open. His blocking arm turned into a knife hand strike aimed at her throat, but she lowered her head and took it on her father's wide chin instead, clenched teeth feeling close to bursting out of her mouth.15Clearly, the assassin was unable to build much power at the extremely close range he found himself. Bruce Lee would not approve. Her left hand twisted the gun in his hand, first away from her, then away from him — he hadn't been ready to shoot just yet, which saved the apartment ceiling from a hole and his finger from getting snapped inside the trigger guard. Her right hand grabbed for the back of his head and she butted hers forward, ramming her forehead into the bridge of his nose. He reared back, tried to kick her shin, but her leg was already on the move. If she could just keep his head close, him moving back would open his gut up for her knee — but between her glove and his short hair, he escaped before she could connect.

  Keep going.

  The knee strike turned into a fall step as she forced herself forward, pushing him and his defense further back against the apartment's exterior wall. Feeling wallpaper against his back was just the thing he didn't need, stealing a precious moment for a reaction that Simmons used for a jab with her right fist. This one slid over the block again, but he was too straight and not fast enough to duck, so his eyebrow got a gncing visit from her knuckles, opening a bloody cut right over his face. Some of the blood and most of the punch ended up on the wall behind him. She hardly felt it. Good old sap gloves. His left hand let go of the gun. He put a fist into her ribs — missed the kidney.

  Keep going.

  Her left hand, still gripping the gun, moved to strike his face. Another battle of sap glove versus skin ended with the skin losing, this time pushing in his cheek and cracking a few teeth. The target slid down the wall, aiming a series of short punches at her midsection which coincided badly with her realization that beating him with his gun was liable to have it go off — good thing having the wind knocked out of her from his counterattack made her lose her grip and drop it to the floor. Bowed over from the strikes, she half-unched, half-fell onto him, left hand on his face seeking an eye while her right hand gripped his left by the wrist and trapped it between their bodies. Her fingers dug into the meat of his face, purchasing half inch by half inch with the tenacity of a mountaineer scaling an ice wall with a climbing axe.

  Keep going.

  His right arm was free, but didn’t punch her. Instead, he reached to unsheathe a knife with that hand. Simmons didn’t know how she knew and didn’t wonder either; the devil must have whispered it when she was only half-listening. Her left hand slid down his chest, trying to catch his right hand before the bde reached her guts.16And this is why the “horizontal behind the back” position is not great for a knife you expect to draw in a fight; it’s only accessible from one side and too easy to pin the arm going for it. As his focus went toward freeing the bde, his concentration for fighting faltered enough that Simmons powered through his resistance, clocking him in the side of his head with her elbow. Not a lot of power behind it, given the short wind-up, but it made sure the target’s attention was once again on his test source of pain and not on the knife he’d managed to free. Simmons abandoned all pretense of self-protection when she snaked her right arm across his chest to reach for his weapon. His left arm, all but pushed out the way, impotently banged on her back, but she had him shoved against the wall with her weight and both of her hands on his right wrist. After a moment of shivering struggle, the ws of physics asserted themselves and his right arm gave in. Insert bde into belly. She could hear the scream even through the teeth that were still clenched in their rightful pce.

  Keep going. He’s not done yet. Keep going.

  Her left hand kept at it, twisting the knife in the wound, while her torso and right hand hauled back and — and she pulled her punch, though it still bounced his head off the wall. She let go, watched him slide the rest of the way down the wall until it looked like he was sitting down, somehow not falling over. She had to finish him, but she didn't want to kill him, so…what now?17Always a great question to be asking yourself when you’re standing over the body of a man you just almost killed. The short circuit in her thoughts was remedied when someone grabbed her right shoulder from behind and tried to pull her off the target. Simmons spun around, swinging her arm wide, but all she found was Sean flinching away from her, naked and holding her gun. When she took a moment to process that, he fixed his stance and brought the gun up. It wasn’t loaded. She remembered that it wasn’t loaded. But if he tried to pull the trigger on her, well — what did that mean? Their eyes met, both trying to read the other's intent. Simmons stepped aside while Sean swiveled the gun to aim at the target.

  Holy fucking shit.

  Simmons knew Sean was saying that, could easily imagine those words fitting the movements of his lips, but it took a while for her to hear him again. She took another few steps back, tried to breathe — she had to unclench her teeth to get the air in, but clench them to fight the rush of pain from her chest. But in the end it came down to breathing and mind over matter, the insistent idea that this pain was like a three-year old throwing a tantrum: yes, something was wrong, but it wasn't as bad as it felt. It never could be, because if it ever were, she’d be dead.18Few things get you killed as efficiently as thinking you might already be dead.

  “Fuck!” Sean cried, his eyes flicking between her and the target. “You stabbed him!”“Still breath…ing,” Simmons coughed. “Duct…duct tape.”“Jesus fucking Christ,” Sean muttered. “Okay. Okay. Kitchen drawer! There’s tape in the drawer. It’s just — it’s first aid, we got this, I know this! Okay!”

  He rushed back into the bathroom and rummaged around inside. He stumbled back out with a little bck pstic box in his left hand. He only seemed to notice the pistol in his right when he sank to his knees and banged the gun against the box, producing a hollow cng that must have been heard all the way to Liberty Isnd. He gave the pistol a quick, angry gre, and put it on the floor, as far away from him as he could stretch his arm. With shaky hands, he opened the box, pulled out a little pack of sterile wound dressing and tore it open. Still naked, he scooted over the floor on his hands and knees toward the (by then) unconscious assassin, pressing the dressing underneath the knife that jutted out from the man's belly.

  Simmons, meanwhile, had regained enough self control to roll up the bacva into a little beanie hat again. Her eyes were misting up and the inside of her nose felt like she'd been snorting table salt for lunch. Still hurting from the blows to her midsection, she lurched off toward the kitchenette.

  “Hey!” Sean cried, nodding toward the TV. “Phone's over there!”Simmons took a second to process that before she half-turned toward him. “…phone?” she coughed.“911!” Sean said. “Jesus, Simmons! 911!”Simmons shook her head. The thick spit gathered in her mouth dirtied the dishes in Sean’s sink further. “No,” she said. She felt the st bits of wetness on the corners of her mouth, but kept her wits about her. No wiping it on the sleeve of her shirt. There were rules.“The hell you mean 'no'?” Sean said. “He's fucking dying! Swear to fucking God —”“No!” Simmons said and fought for another breath. “No. Not 911. 911 means police…we can’t.” Believing her point made, she let her eyes sweep the kitchenette, trying to decide which drawer to check first.“I can't believe this shit,” Sean said. “Listen, if we're going to do one good thing today, it's that we're not letting this guy bleed to fucking death in my living fucking room!”Simmons pulled the first drawer. No joy. “You listen,” she said. “That man tried to kill you. He almost killed me.”“Oh, right, that makes it perfectly okay to leave him here to fucking die!” Sean said.“We are stabilizing19Here’s some medical gallows humor for you: all bleeding stops, eventually. Clinical death is a stable condition. Hey, nobody said anything about surviving. him,” Simmons said. Second drawer, nada.“He's not walking this off and you know it,” Sean said. “We sp a dressing on him, stop the bleeding, and then what, we just fuck off? Who's gonna take care of him, the Stab Wound Fairy?”

  For a moment, Simmons was silent, staring at the kitchen counter like Sean had just turned into a problem she needed to solve. As if he hadn’t been one before. He looked over to the pistol he had pushed away so quickly.

  “I know a doctor,” Simmons said. She bowed down, drawing another sharp breath, and search through the cabinet under the counter, finding a half roll of ratty duct tape next to a 'universal' knife sharpener, still sealed in pstic. Then again, lucky to find it at all; nothing in this apartment indicated its inhabitant had any particur sense of organization. “I hit him in the face,” she said as her mind repyed the previous minutes on fast-forward. “Check his mouth.”“You check his mouth!” Sean said.

  Simmons stumbled back out of the kitchen, dropped the duct tape on the floor next to Sean and took a knee. She reached out for the assassin's bloodied face, hoping her gloves were enough to protect her. She parted his lips with her thumbs and tried to pull his jaw open. This didn't rouse the assassin from his unconsciousness. It did, however, lead to his head snapping backward, banging his skull against the wall, which started a heaving motion all throughout his chest.

  “He's choking!” Sean barked.“We have to put him down,” Simmons said. “My side,” she added, rising to her feet and grabbing the assassin by his shoulders. “Keep the knife steady in there.”“I got it!” Sean said.

  It took ten seconds to maneuver the assassin into lying down, and even then they had their work cut out for them. Sean found himself somehow in charge of keeping everything where it was supposed to be against the assassin's heaves and rolling motions, while Simmons came down on the other side, unceremoniously forced the man's jaws apart and stuck two fingers inside to feel for obstructions. She felt jagged little pebbles in there — teeth fragments, probably, plus a whole lot of slimy liquid and warm, spongy meat. She didn't have the medical acumen to tell if the next heave shuddering through the assassin's whole body had just found the right moment or if she had triggered a gag reflex pushing his bloody tongue out of the way, but in a second she felt warmth wash over her hand and over the skin of her wrist where both yers of glove ended. She pulled her hand free, just about a half-count too te.

  “Fuck!” Sean cried, flinching away from the growing puddle of blood, mucus and half-digested street food. The man before him was a literal mess. Still, Sean tried to hang on to the relevant details in his head: medium height, Caucasian, short brown hair, one of the many nondescript extras of life's grand casting call.“Keep him down!” Simmons said.

  She didn't have the luxury of avoiding the emetic bst, getting some of that cocktail on her pants while she struggled to keep his head down and to the side. Killing people for a living gave her a more than passing familiarity with the whole spectrum of bodily juices, but this was pushing even her nausea threshold. The acrid smell, the way it squeezed out of both his mouth and his nostrils, the warmth, the…texture, the sheer volume of it, all of those aspects were simultaneously the worst possible part of this. All that and it still fell to her to make sure the vomit evacuated the assassin in a calm and orderly fashion. It seemed she would serve penance for her sloppiness right then and there.

  “Oh, fuck,” Sean said, flinching away from the sight and the stench. “Jesus fuck.”“Keep the pressure on!” Simmons barked. Her eyes watered when she forced her face closer to the source of the stench and listened to the assassin's breathing. “Sounds clear now,” she said, stripping off her vomit-covered gloves and feeling for a pulse at his neck.“Fucking hell, Simmons,” Sean said. “911. 911, now.”“We can handle it,” Simmons said. She dumped her ruined gloves to the side and stole a gnce at her coat, with its ready supply of vinyl repcements. If she had had the time, she would have washed off the rest of the vomit, disinfected her hands, retrieved some fresh gloves — if she had had the time. “He is breathing, he has a pulse,” she added. “We must get that knife fixed so we can get him out of here.”

  She spooled off a length of the duct tape, nicked the edge on her own knife and tore off a strip, tapping one end against the edge of the cabinet under the TV. With Sean holding the wound dressing in pce, Simmons quickly cut open the attacker's clothes around the wound. She'd seen men live through worse, but she was pretty sure he'd remember this one if he did. As she taped down the dressing with the strip of duct tape and started on another one to fix the knife, she wondered if she had injured his guts with the bde, which would adjust his chance of survival sharply downward, but then again, with a bit of luck, he would be in surgery within the hour — just not in a hospital.

  “That should hold,” Simmons said. “Do you have any…rags?”“Get a, like, a towel,” Sean said. “Oh my God. I’m never eating anything again.”Simmons stepped into the bathroom, finding only Sean's still damp towel hanging down across his shower curtain. She quickly rinsed the gunk off her arm in the sink and grabbed the used bath towel. She stepped outside and dumped it on the sea of sick before stalking off to grab vinyl gloves and a trash bag from her own supplies. “I can triage the mess, but you should go get dressed,” she said. “Or do you still want me outside?”“No,” Sean said, not looking up. “You're staying right where I can see you. I mean, Jesus Christ, I just went to take a shower and I find you gutting this motherfucker like a goddamned walleye. To hell with —”“Do you mind toning it down, Detective?” she said, snapping on gloves and watching the bath towel try to absorb the emesis — which wasn't all that effective. A wet wipe from her supplies had to suffice to wipe off what little muck on her pants hadn't already soaked in. Its final duty complete, the bath towel was consigned to the pstic embrace of her trash bag. She stood and inspected the pitiful effect of her bor. “My kingdom for a roll of paper towels,” she muttered.To Sean’s credit, he waited a few seconds for an expnation. “Uh, mind what?” he said. “Tone down what? What the hell are you saying?”“You are cussing up a storm,” she added. “I realize the severity of the situation just fine without the profanities.”

  That got Sean to his feet and in Simmons's face, stabbing a finger at her colrbone. He didn’t see her hands twitch.20Clearly, the best thing to do with someone who is extensively drilled in close-quarters combat techniques is to aggressively enter their personal space.For real though, if you know somebody who’s got martial arts/self defense training, do your best not to sneak up on them or startle them. Just common courtesy.

  “Oh, I'm cussing, wow, so I am — now you just try and fucking stop me,” Sean said. “We're fucking knee-deep in blood and vomit and God knows what else, what else can we pile on, I guess the next step is Sleeping Beauty here deciding to shit himself.21I’m okay with skipping that part if you are. Besides, it’s apparently not anywhere close to certain that it’ll actually happen, even if loss of bdder and bowel control is the standard ‘dying is icky’ trope. And you're making like you want to sneak out and leave me alone with that poor bastard and this goddamn mess plus the fucking mountain of bullshit you dumped on me already, and like hell am I gonna let you walk all over me like this. So fuck you, Simmons, I'm not having a great fucking day and it's your fault on every single fucking count, so if you insist on inserting yourself into what’s left of my life you'll just have to deal with me being a little salty. I'm cussing up a storm? Where the fuck do you get off compining about anything? God, am I poisoning your chakras, or some other New Age bullshit?”“Detective Collins,” she sighed, “I am no prude, I work with criminals every day. Expletives are hardly the issue. But could you please stop taking the Lord's name in vain? Hearing you swear oaths upsets me.”“…seriously?” Sean said.“Quite,” Simmons said.“That's your fucking problem?” Sean said.“One of them, and not exactly the most pressing, I will admit, but since you asked: yes, I do take offense,” Simmons said. She seized Sean's arm by the wrist and pushed him out of her personal space. She wasn't taller than Sean, but standing opposite him, she sure seemed bigger. “I will remind you that the man whose life you are trying to save is depending on us both getting it together and not wasting more time shouting, so let me ask you a simple question,” she said. “Do you still believe I am trying to deceive you about the danger you are in or are you starting to come around to my perspective?”Sean met her eyes, but put a few seconds of thought into his reply. “…I think this guy came here to kill one of us, maybe you, maybe me,” Sean said. “And no matter who his target was, he wouldn't have left without killing the other, too.” He blinked. “Thanks. I guess.”“You are welcome,” Simmons said. She let go of his hand. Looking straight at him, she seemed to realize he was still naked and turned away. “If you still want to take your chances alone, well, I can't hold it against you after…this,” she said, waving a hand in the direction of the unconscious assassin. “I promise he is going to receive medical care either way. Now, please hurry and get dressed. You look ridiculous and we need to go.”

  Sean seemed to get the hint and rushed over to the half-open closet for a fresh set of underwear — boxers, as Simmons glimpsed in the corner of her vision.

  “So, if we stick together?” he asked, digging through a pile of subtly different bck socks22 “Write what you know,” they say. So I wrote what I know: the joys of owning about a dozen pairs of bck socks that are all just barely not the same kind. for a matching pair. Was she right? Did he look ridiculous? Probably, but fuck her for saying that. “Pack up, leave, then what?”Simmons walked behind his back and stripped a new length of duct tape from the dwindling roll. “Let's23You may note I’m writing Anne as avoiding contractions other than forms of ‘not’, but does anyone actually say “let us” unironically? If you do, let us know! leave the pnning for ter,” she said. She carefully approached the attacker and taped his wrists together behind his back, followed by his ankles. “I am as yet uncertain what our friend might hear — or shout, when he wakes up.”“Don’t gag him,” Sean said, pulling a pin white t-shirt over his head.“I wasn't going to,” Simmons said. She patted the assassin down for weapons. It seemed the gun and the knife were the whole of it; he hadn’t come here looking for a fight. His pockets yielded only a key ring with a pair of near-identical keys. The angur bitting looked like it belonged to a high security pin tumbler lock, as best as she could judge them from a gnce. No telling what door they might open, though. “Aspiration might kill him,” she added.“…uh, yeah,” Sean said. “They teach first aid at crime college?”Simmons rolled her eyes. “Can we discuss this after you get dressed?”“Okay, first things first, we need to get him out in one piece,” Sean said, spending three seconds to judge whether he should put on new pants or the ones he had already worn for two days running, and coming down on the side of reuse. “You better add some more tape, just to be safe. I don't have a stretcher in my closet, so I guess we're doing a clothes drag.”24For first aid purposes, it’s best to minimize movement of the patient until the pros get there. Don’t pull someone out of a car wreck, for example, unless you have a good reason to. (Explosion is very unlikely. Fire or smoke in the passenger cabin is far more dangerous.) If there’s a source of danger around that can’t be removed and you absolutely, positively have to move someone, fireman’s carry and such should be your st resort. The clothes drag technique has the patient ft on their back getting dragged by the colr of their clothes, with your arms on either side of their head to stabilize it, dragging the patient low so they stay as ft and in-line as possible. The next best thing is to pce the patient on a bnket and drag that, but this requires carefully rolling them onto their sides to get the bnket under them. Either way, you need to minimize the risks of aggravating injuries, especially of the cervical spine.Now spinal damage is admittedly less of a factor here, but still, imagine slinging a guy with a gut wound over your shoulders. Not a good idea. With his pants pulled on, Sean tightened the belt and reflexively ran a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to straighten it, only succeeding in brushing in a thin yer of fresh blood. “It's past six doors to the elevator and I don't think anyone's home for lunch. We'll ride down and drag him to the undry room, I'll go and bring the car around, then we'll take him out the back through the fire exit. Pretty sure the arm on that is out but I guess we’ll see, huh? And we might run into Bizzie B — short guy in a hoodie, I'll handle him. You just…follow my lead.”“Fine by me,” Simmons said. “You should know we are not coming back here anytime soon. How long do you need to pack the essentials?”“Exactly this long,” Sean said, pulling back the covers of his bed to reveal a dark gray gym bag at the foot of the mattress. “I got my bug-out bag.”25Not sure how period-appropriate the term is in times before people made internet forums post about what to do when Shit Hits The Fan. That said, disaster preparedness has long emphasized keeping a supply of everything you might need for a few days of travel packed up in case you have to leave your home in a hurry. The more complete form of this also includes some jugs of water and preserved food, but then we’re going from bag to car trunk disaster preparedness. Sean, wannabe adventurer that he is, naturally knows about that piece of advice.“Right,” Simmons said. “One more thing.”

  She picked up the discarded Colt from the ground, reloaded and chambered a round. Sean looked at the killer’s dropped weapon on the floor. After a moment, she did the same.

  “Looks like a Beretta,” she said. She clicked the safety of her gun on and holstered it. “Go ahead and take it.”“I’m not picking that up,” Sean said. “I don’t know where that gun came from, I don’t know if it works, I don’t even know if it’s loaded.”Simmons took the discarded weapon from the ground. “So let’s find out,” she said, turning the weapon for Sean to see with her finger on the rear of the ejection port. “Do you see this?” she asked. A small piece of metal stuck out to the side by a hair, just enough to see some red paint.26Some firearms have what is called a loaded chamber indicator, usually a little piece that is marked in a bright color and also sticks out so it can be felt for without looking at the gun. On the Beretta 92 family, the extractor serves this purpose, while other guns have dedicated pins that pop out when a round is chambered. “One in the pipe, safety is on.” Sean looked at her, stumped for a moment. “Take it,” she said. “We can get rid of it ter.”Sean took it and pulled the slide back about halfway, just enough to stick his finger through the ejection port and feel for the cartridge inside.27Useful as an LCI might be to tell the status of a gun at a gnce, the only way to be sure is to open up the chamber and feel for the cartridge, as Sean does here. And when it comes to handling firearms, you really want to be sure. “So, back to threatening each other,” he said, letting the slide snap forward. He pushed the Beretta into his belt.“I suppose we will have to work on that,” Simmons said. “After you, Detective.”

  Getting the assassin into the elevator took a total of four minutes. They had to maneuver through the hallway with Sean's bug-out bag slung over his shoulders and the trash bag in Simmons’s hand, and the elevator wasn't big enough to just lie the assassin down on the floor, so the best they could do was to gingerly put his head in one corner and his feet in the opposite one, bending his knees without agitating the knife in his belly. That didn't exactly leave a lot of room for the two of them to stand, but somehow they managed to get the doors to close and the cab to go down.

  “Shit,” Sean said. “It’s gonna stain, isn’t it?”“Who will see that?” Simmons said. “You seem to have fired your maid.”“But if somebody comes looking for me,” Sean said, “then I'm fucked.”“Does anybody other than you even have a key?” Simmons said.“No, but I've got an IAB visit to look forward to,” Sean said. “What if I'm not home?”“I suppose they will call you first,” Simmons said.“And I won't be there to answer,” Sean said.“Then I suppose they will think you are not there,” Simmons said.“I have to be there and keep myself avaible,” Sean said. “Orders.”“So you stepped out to get lunch or took a walk to clear your head,” Simmons said.“It's gonna start to smell,” Sean said. “Shit, we should have opened a window or something.”Simmons sighed. “We will have to take care of that ter,” she said. “After we are sure it is safe to return here. One problem at a time, Detective.”

  The elevator ground to a halt and Sean pulled the door open to reveal a new problem. The possibility of encountering 'Bizzie B' became actual, pcing the five foot two dealer (plus another two inches of matts28The proper term for the imitation of dreadlocks by people with straight hair. Not just to be a dick about terms, but because it’s formed by, well, letting hair get unkempt and matted until the strands stick together, sometimes even helped along with glue or wax. By contrast, proper dreadlocks can only be formed from the thicker, curlier hair texture of people of African descent and require entirely different treatment to be made and maintained.) into a shady corner of the lobby, with three prospective customers ringed around him and his backpack of goodies. That made a total of eight eyes on Sean, on Simmons and on the body. Sean did the first thing that came to mind: he pulled out his badge.

  “NYPD!” he called, holding the badge high so the fluorescent flicker from the ceiling could reflect off it. The customers didn't need to take a good look or listen to what Sean had to say — they simply took off, one of them even trying to snatch the backpack from Bizzie B, which came to nothing but some spilled pstic baggies on the floor.

  “Fuck!” Bizzie B shouted.

  He was standing inside one of the shoulder loops with his right foot, keeping the backpack from leaving his side, and his retaliatory swing at the would-be thief only winged that guy in the arm as he stumbled out, breaking for the front door past Sean. Bizzie B missed his chance to give chase. He had spent too much time deciding whether to run or try to gather up his spilled stash, and when the choice came down to the tter, Sean already had his free hand on the Beretta.

  “Fuck!” Bizzie B repeated as he sank to his knees to grab the bags from the floor. “Shit, man!”“Whatcha got there?” Sean asked. “Let me see those hands, nice and slow.”“Fuck!” Bizzie B said once again, his hand stopping short of a tidy little dime bag just beyond his fingertips. He slowly raised both hands to the sides of his head. He knew the drill. “Fuck, man, I’m cool! We’re cool, right?”“We’re not,” Sean said. “You got a problem. You know what your problem is, Bizzie B? I can expin. So, you listening? B, you've been hanging out in my house all week. I’m Detective Sean Collins, by the way. NYPD. And this is my house, it ain’t yours. I like the people here, you ever see Juanita from 7F? Lovely dy, I help with her groceries on Thursdays. I like doing that. But I don't like it when pushers stick around long enough that I get to hear their names. Now see, you think that just because I didn't come down on you — and I haven't so far, I have bigger fish to fry than you — that this means you've got some sort of right to pull this shit under my nose.29I think we’re all agreed this is, indeed, not a customary w situation. Well, you don't. Maybe you thought I approved of it, even. No, I don’t. Every minute I let you stand here, I did you a goddamn favor. Doesn't that make you feel fucking grateful? Well, you didn't notice I was doing you those favors, and now it looks like it's time I stop being so fucking generous.”“Fuck, man,” Bizzie B said. “I can't go to jail! I'm just doing this for my family, man.”“You want to help your family, go flip some burgers,” Sean said. “Who are you running this for, huh?”

  Sean heard footsteps behind him and craned his neck around, looking over his shoulder. Simmons was approaching, and she had her bacva pulled down over her face.

  “Hey!” Sean hissed. “I'm handling it!”"You are wasting time," Simmons said, gncing down at the student ID dangling from the man’s belt. Expired, of course. "Listen good, Benjamin," she added, pausing for a second. She reached into her pocket and produced a money clip. "You will receive from me two thousand dolrs in exchange for your backpack and all contents thereof. I advise you to use this money to skip town before I tell the Four Paths Boys about you. You don’t want to make their acquaintance over a territory dispute. Now, do we have a deal?"

  Bizzie B gaped at her. Simmons quickly stripped twenty bills from her roll and held them out for him to take.

  "Say 'yes'," Simmons said."Yes," Bizzie B muttered, grabbing for the cash. His fingers closed around the bills, but Simmons didn't let go just yet."Git," she hissed, then let go.

  And Bizzie B, well, he got gone. By the time Sean turned around to face Simmons, the back door was already on its backswing from Bizzie B's hasty exit.

  "What the fuck?" Sean asked."I suppose you could call it arbitrage,"30You know the whole ‘buy low, sell high’ thing? While it usually applies to holding onto a good (such as stocks) while prices for that good go up, there’s also the situation where a good might have different prices in different markets. If you can buy that good in market A, ship it to market B and then sell it there at an overall profit, congratutions, you’re engaging in arbitrage. Also, by doing that, you’re driving up prices in market A and depressing prices in market B, ultimately ensuring prices equalize across markets — supply and demand at work.Because the real world isn’t Econ 101, price equilibrium isn’t instant or perfect, which makes arbitrage possible, but overall, most prices do reflect the real costs of bringing something from one market to another, including transport, licensing, taxes and import duties, which makes profitable legal arbitrage very hard — and the more connected and computerized the world gets, the harder it becomes. Simmons replied, grabbing the backpack and slinging it over her shoulder. "Come on.""What the fuck?" Sean said, again.

  If getting the assassin into the elevator had been easier said than done, getting him into the car's backseat proved genuinely difficult: wrangling his feet, lying him down on his side with his hands tied behind his back, and haphazardly buckling him in, all without disturbing the knife in his belly. Sean's eyes kept wandering over the surroundings, trying to spot prying eyes behind corners or windows, maybe even the telltale glint of a telephoto camera lens ready to capture his crimes.

  “We need to cover him,” Simmons said. “Take your coat off.”“Like yours is too good,” Sean replied. Simmons pulled on her coat, reminding him of the gear hidden beneath. “Fine,” Sean said, sliding out of his wool coat and passing it to Simmons. “Try not to get blood on it. You bloody it, you buy it.”“I think I can spare fifteen dolrs,” Simmons said, dumping the trash bag into the car’s trunk.“Yeah, yeah, ugh it up,” Sean said.

  After stealing one more rueful look at his outerwear, Sean climbed into the driver's seat and buckled in, starting the car while Simmons was still climbing in.

  "Where to?" he asked."Jackson Heights," Simmons said. "Broadway31The Broadway in Queens, not the more famous one in Manhattan, if you’re following along. down to 37th, keep going until —"

  She managed to close the door while Sean put the Mazda in reverse. The engine gave a little roar like the death throes of a hedge trimmer and he unched the car backward, quicker than she had anticipated. Over the squealing and swerving, she didn't manage to buckle in until they were a block away. And even that almost got spoiled when Sean swerved across the median to dodge a left-turning mail truck, downshifted to second for another burst of acceleration to clear the intersection and somehow still managed to lean on the horn the whole way. Simmons's heart was considering possible emergency exits from her ribcage when the ‘calm’ part of the drive involved low-level flight down Broadway with only the occasional emergency overtake.32It must be noted that a 1979 Mazda GLC is not exactly anyone’s idea of a ‘fast car’, but it is a subcompact with a 1.4l engine giving a nominal 65 horsepower, so while the top speed may not be great, the acceleration is still acceptable — and Sean drives like a maniac, so that helps.

  "I said I was gonna handle that guy," Sean said, left hand all but squeezing through the steering wheel while his right hand stayed on the shifter. “I said that, right? Didn’t just dream it?”"You were taking too long," Simmons said."So you just bought the whole bag," Sean said. "I mean, I can’t fault your logic, ‘Benjamin’ hoofed it after that." He snorted. “Wish I had that kinda money to blow on drugs.”"I should hope the product is worth more than my outy, given the right buyer," Simmons said. “Arbitrage, as I said.” Shifting around in her seat until she could open her belly bag, she produced a small hunk of pstic that unfolded into what Sean only recognized as a phone when she dialed a number on it."Fuck," Sean muttered."Hello, Simmons here," she said into the phone. "Yes, hello. I am headed your way with an emergency. No, I am alright, it is…someone else. Tell me when you are ready to take notes.” She shot a gnce at Sean’s hands curled around the steering wheel. “Blunt force trauma to the head with suspected skull fracture, stab wound to the lower right quadrant, lost consciousness about fifteen minutes ago. Do you have all that? Okay. Yes." She twisted around in her seat to get a look over her shoulder at the man lying on the back seat. "Hello, Dolr. Yes, indeed. He is still breathing. We are about…five minutes away. I will expin there. Yes, I know. I know, Dolr. Can you handle it?""Or we could go to Elmhurst33Elmhurst Hospital would be the nearest major trauma center. It had just started its big renovation a few months prior, but stayed open throughout.," Sean mumbled. "But that would make sense.""Yes, I can do that," Simmons said. "Yes, with me. Alright, see you soon. Hanging up now, goodbye."

  Putting the phone away was momentarily complicated when Sean turned the car into a hard left, bumping Anne against the passenger door.

  “This is a bad move,” Sean said. “But here we are, 37th. Do I get an intersection or a number or should I wait for you to yell ‘Stop’?”“You can slow down now, I will let you know when we get close,” Simmons said. “Please leave the introductions to me.”“But what if I think you’re taking too long?” Sean asked. “What if I think I’m so much smarter than you? I mean, hypothetically. Just asking for no particur reason at all.”“…then that would complicate my efforts to protect you,” Simmons said.“They shoot cops on sight, huh?” Sean asked.“Nothing quite so drastic,” Simmons said. “But I suppose you understand peace officers are hardly welcome there. If that shield of yours doesn't get us kicked out on the spot, at the very least it would drive up the price.”“Cool, so, we’re good, just as long as we can keep all the lies straight,” Sean said. “Hey, John Doe, you got that? Don’t go squealing on us now.”“Well,” Simmons said, “for his sake I hope he doesn't, or else he won't make it another hour.” She pointed towards a slight gap between stone walls that revealed itself as a passage on closer approach. “Over there, Detective.”“If you say so,” Sean said.