Read Online Angel Of The City by R.J. Leahy - Free Book Online Page B

the street on the opposite side.
    I could have chosen any station house, but not all will be delivering bodies tonight. The Two One Nine is in the Huenta quarter, close to the riot. They’ll be busy. I creep down into the weeds and circle the fence to the gate and wait. My timing is good. After only a few minutes, the metal doors of the station house open and a large black van leaves, driving through the gate. As soon as it passes, I grab on and leap lightly up onto the back fender.
    I let him get to within one block of the One Twenty Seven before swinging the brick on the wire and flinging it under the van. It bangs around three or four times before shooting back out and I haul it in quickly in case I need to do it again. But it works the first time. The driver stops the van and gets out, looking for the problem.
    Even before we come to a complete stop, I step off the bumper and head around the passenger side, coming up from the front of the vehicle as he’s bent over, looking under it. One blow from the brick to an area behind the left ear and he hits the pavement like a slab of beef.
    A hit like that usually isn ’t fatal. If it is, it’s due to a ruptured blood vessel slowly bleeding into the brain, squeezing it against the skull like a molcajete. But that takes hours and I only need him for a few minutes. I remove his coat then lift him up and toss him into the passenger side. I slip on the coat before getting in and driving away.
    Vans come all night to deliver bodies to the One Twenty Seven. No one tends the gates; they’re automatic, triggered by the tags of the drivers. As we pull up, I grab the Counselor’s arm and pull it toward my window. A second later, the gate slides open. The door to the covered garage is open and I drive inside. Two vans are already here, their cargo of shiny black body bags being unloaded onto gurneys while the drivers go inside to complete the paper work.
    As soon as I back the van into a slot, I ’m out, keeping my head down and moving quickly toward the station door. Prisoner cells are usually located in the basement, but here that area is reserved for the ovens. This station isn’t typically used for prisoner interrogation and there are only two available holding rooms, both on the first floor. Abby will be in one of them.
    I step up onto the landing and enter the station. Two drivers are in the receiving area behind the glass, heads bent over clipboards. No one even looks up. I just need to get through one door then down the hall and I should be to the holding cells.
    I open the inner door and take one step inside as something dense and heavy strikes me on the back of the head, dropping me to my knees. I ’m able to look up just briefly at a smiling face in a black trench coat before blackness pours over me. So far, so good.
     
    The experience of waking up from being cold-cocked is a little like a near drowning. Muffled voices; vague odors; sensations you can’t quite place, all surge around you like open water. When it finally comes together into something recognizable, it usually does so rapidly, like now.
    I throw my head back and gasp. The four blurry images in front of me focus and converge into two men, both wearing leather trench coats with insignia of Counselors. The one on the right has three gold bars across the left sleeve: Liedercounselor. I ’m sitting on a metal chair with my wrists bound behind me in handcuffs. My head is pounding. It takes me a moment to realize I’m completely naked. I look around the room. No furniture except for a metal bed attached to one wall with a thin, vinyl covered mattress. No clock.
    The Liedercounselor speaks. “Ah, you’re still with us. For a moment I thought Counselor Ellison here might have struck you a little too hard. That would have been… unfortunate.”
    The junior or Mindercounselor reddens, but remains ramrod still, his arms at his side. In his right hand he holds an electric prod.
    I shake my head, an effort that