Twenty
Someone lights a cigarette
While riding in a car
Some ol' guy takes a swig
And passes back the jar
But where they were last night
No-one can remember
Somebody got murdered
Goodbye, for keeps, forever
Somebody got murdered
Somebody's dead forever
And you're minding your own business
Carrying spare change
You wouldn't cosh a barber
You're hungry all the same
I been very tempted
To grab it from the till
I been very hungry
But not enough to kill
Somebody got murdered
His name cannot be found
A small stain on the pavement
They'll scrub it off the ground
As the daily crown disperses
No-one says that much
Somebody got murdered
And it' left me with a touch
Somebody got murdered
Somebody's dead forever
Sounds like murder!
Those shouts!
Are they drunk down below?
It's late, and my watch stopped
Some time ago
Sounds like murder!
Those screams!
Are they drunk down below?
Sirens wailed in the distance, muffled by the low clouds and falling snow. They sounded close, closer than was considered comfortable, that wasn’t what had Enrique Martinez worried. The sirens weren’t that much cause for alarm. What was alarming were the muffled noises coming from the surveillance microphones located at strategic points and the motion-detecting CCTV cameras also discretely placed throughout the park. Post September 11th, security at all major tourist attractions had been increased, and while The Cloisters wasn’t necessarily a hot-spot like MOMA or the Met, it got its fair share of tourist attention. And therefore, security had been increased. Cameras, microphones, and motion-detectors were all part of the package now.
Usually, everything was quiet; especially during the winter. Not many people braved Ft. Tryon’s steep trails in the winter, and those that did, he’d learned to identify through the monitors.
The people moving around weren’t regulars.
For one thing, none of them was dressed for the strenuous hike. For another, Enrique didn’t believe that hikers normally carried guns. Not even in the wilds of upper Manhattan.
He was out of his seat and on the radio as the first shots were being fired. Mobilizing his small cadre of guards was primary, and once that was accomplished, he notified the NYPD. His security clearance allowed him to bypass dispatchers and 911 – so he did. Getting the precinct commander directly on the phone, he quickly relayed his visuals and what limited descriptions he could discern.
Within moments of his phone call, the precinct commander had sent two units to The Cloisters. Barely minutes later, both the Borough Commander and the Chief of Department had been notified.
But Martinez wasn’t concerned with any of that. What had his attention was directly in front of him, playing out on the monitors. The microphones picked up shots, but weren’t sophisticated enough to capture voices, at least not in this snow. He couldn’t deplete his security team to face whatever had prompted the gunfight – but what he could do was rescue the person attempting to make her way up the steep hill. Though she appeared lost and frightened, he could also tell she was injured. She was more than halfway up the hill, though for every five feet of ground she gained, she lost half as much slipping and sliding on the ice and snow.
The motion sensors were flaring with every moment. The NYPD could handle the gunfight. There wasn’t much his team could do in that area, but the girl. . . Dark patches of shadow followed her progress and Enrique realized, almost belatedly, that they weren’t ordinary shadows. Martinez directed his team to her location.
Flexing her fingers didn’t work.
Raising her arm and holding it hard against her side didn’t really ease the pain either.
Alanna switched the gun from her right hand to the left, cradling the wounded limb against her side. Harsh, panting breaths emerged from her mouth and she cursed softly under her breath. “Damn, damn, damn. Momma’s gonna have my hide.”
Yeah, but Charles is gonna be murdered. She’s gonna blame him for this. Struggling to stay awake, Alanna unzipped the heavy down and gingerly tried removing her arm from the sleeve. Twice she nearly blacked out, both times slowing her movements until they were non-existent. This isn’t working. But I gotta make it work, coz I can’t. . .
Her thoughts were growing sluggish, and she was aware of her mind drifting. Pain surged through her when she listed sideways, bringing her back into herself. Ohkay, gotta focus, girl. Stay with it.
Shots whizzed past her and Alanna belatedly realized she was out in the open, presenting an easy target for Pratt’s attackers. While she was glad she was proving a distraction, she really didn’t want to chance getting shot again. She lurched sideways, to her left, ducking behind a large oak tree.
Safe. Safe is good. With her back against the trunk, Alanna was finally able to free her arm from the sleeve. She tucked it against her side, reversing the sleeve so that it wrapped around the wound, staunching the blood flow. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she managed to rezip the jacket, holding her arm steady. Good. Good. Now just gotta wait for help. Which should be coming.
Soon.
Soon.
Where the fuck is she? Blasted female. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Spike crouched low, looking for signs of her passage through the heavily falling snow. The area around where he’d left her was trampled, and at first it looked as if she’d gone closer to the action. A second look at him peering uphill, trying to make out her figure in the snow. Nothin’. I got nothin.
Breathing heavily through his nose, Will darted uphill, gaining about fifty or so feet before a shot thunked into the tree about three feet behind him. Pivoting on his heel, he returned fire, then moved another thirty feet to his right. He was about to shoot again, when the relief inducing shouts of “NYPD! Hold your fire!” Came through, muffled and barely distinct, but welcomed all the same.
He held up his hands, yelling back, “NYPD! NYPD! Officer needs assistance!”
While not entirely sure he was actually correct, Will figured that it would at least get him some attention and he could direct the uniforms to Gunn and Alanna’s last locations. He rose to his feet, calling out again, “NYPD!”
Two uniformed officers materialized out of the snow, slipping and sliding on the rocks beneath the snow. “You okay?”
Will fished inside his jacket for his shield, brandishing it for their perusal. “Yeah, I’m good. But my partner is down there and he could be hit. I couldn’t tell.” He waved downhill, indicating general location. “Two unknown shooters, and two other officers. Detective Charles Gunn and his sister, Alanna Gunn from the Three-four.”
“Sir, are you hit?” The second uniform relayed the information into his radio, while the first questioned him. “Sir?”
“No. ‘M fine. Got a witness that’s gone missing. She’s five-one, blond hair, hazel eyes. Name’s Buffy Summers. She was here an’ now she’s gone.” He growled out her description, waiting while the officer continued the information stream. “Those are pro’lly Reilly’s men.”
He waited while the information seeped into their awareness, watching with hard eyes when the second officer said, “Suspects are heavily armed. Be advised – suspects are heavily armed.”
Will nodded, knowing that they would switch frequencies to a secure channel and then relay the information regarding the suspects’ identities.
The frequency switch happened quickly and the next thing he knew, the radio was handed to him and Borough Command was on the line. “Pratt. What’s the situation?”
The debriefing took less than five minutes, all of which Will spent trying to maneuver his way to the path, searching for signs of Buffy. When he’d finished there was silence on the radio for a moment, then, “Your team is on the way. ETA is approximately four minutes. Hold the scene, if you can. You have the com until I arrive.”
“Yes, sir.” Will handed off the radio, finding it easier to have the go-between. “Set a perimeter and have a unit locate the vehicle. It has to be close.”
Without waiting for the radio to crackle to life, Will headed for the pathway. “Any word on the girl?”
“Nothing.” At the look on Will’s face, the officer verbally backtracked. “Not yet, sir. We’ve got all available units looking for her.”
“Good.” He studied the snow-covered ground. “She’s injured so she can’t have gotten far.”
Not without help. . .
Despite the delays in getting this chapter posted, I hope some of you are still with me and still reading. If you are, I'd love to know that. Any word of kindness will make my day. Thanks! Nia