Thicker than Water

Well, I want constructive criticism, and I know no place on the web more critical than Wc3Campaigns. This is the first part of a piece of fiction that may or may not become regualrly updated. I suppose I ought to put in a language disclamer.

*WARNING! CONTAINS STRONG LANGUAGE!*

So, without further ado...

The rain comes down like an avalanche. The stuff’s polluted by the smog of the city and I can feel it on my scalp. I can feel the trail of its filth winding its way down the back of my neck. I pity it for landing here, of all places. I notice the lack of scent and smoke from my cigarette. I reach for another, then remind myself that it’s raining. I pull my hand from the pocket of my trench coat and instead reach for the Glock 17 strapped under my right armpit, then remind myself that we’re not at that stage yet. I look up at the decrepit warehouse looming in front of me. Battered red brick thing on the waterfront. Damn thing’s been used for hundreds of similar things in my time on the force. I look left. I look right. No sign of any patrol cars. No back up like I asked for. This is seeming all too familiar for someone as jaded as me.

Paedophile with a sadistic fetish on the side takes a girl. A young girl in this case. Her name’s Ava. Nine years old. Only daughter of some wealthy Iranian businessman – and I mean businessman in the loosest sense – who’s only in town for a couple of weeks to do a drug deal with the city’s number one crime franchise run by one Mr. Fercetti. We down at the precinct know we gotta catch this guy who took Ava, or else we’re gonna have an armed uprising on our hands, and the city’ll become pretty much a dictatorship overnight. A lot hinges on getting this guy. We know this guy, down at the precinct. We’re familiar with his… work. Likes drills. A lot. And I don’t mean the practice type. This is the fourth kid he’s taken in four months. And as important as it is, backup ain’t coming any time soon. I figure someone who would rather see the city under the guiding hand of Fercetti, and that someone’s pulling some purse strings down at the precinct. I gotta go in alone, before it’s too late. I take a half step forward.

“Hold it Jack.”

My partner, Oliver Sykes. After a career long partnership, we have a mutual respect for one another. We also have a mutual hate of the other.

“I’m goin’ in Sykes. I can’t let this girl die if I can stop it.”
“I can’t let you do that, Jackie boy.”

He’s on the payroll of Mr. Fercetti’s benefactor. Must be. I turn to face him. His Glock’s already out, aimed straight at my forehead.

“We’re doing this by the book this time, Jackie boy. No heroics. We’re gonna do our job by the book. By the fucking book, d’you hear me?!”
“Whose? ‘Cause I don’t remember the police motto bein’ ‘collect, then serve’.”

His eye lights up. He lost the other one in a shootout with some of Mendez’s boys ‘bout ten years back. I started that shootout too, just like I’m gonna end up starting this one. I ain’t got time for this crap. I feint left, but then dodge forward and right. He fires, but the shot goes wide over my left shoulder. I turn the dodge into a shoulder barge, and he hits the floor, and his Glock goes flying. He makes to stand up, and I knock him clean out with a single punch. He never could fight. Loved paperwork, though. I go over to his Glock and picked it up. Always useful to have more firepower in these sorta fights. I reloaded Sykes’ Glock, and checked mine was brimming too. I need to hurry, or all the firepower of an H-bomb wouldn’t help Ava. Sometimes, though, I think it would be better for this city if someone did drop an H-bomb.

I move to the door of the warehouse. The guy doesn’t know I’m here, I think. I hope. He probably heard Sykes’ shot. If I’m lucky, he just discounted it as a gang drive by, which wouldn’t be out of the ordinary in this part of town. Or even this town, period. I may still have the element of surprise. However, if he’s cautious, he’ll hurry this one and take extra time with the next. That doesn’t bear thinking about. He takes hours normally anyway.

I holster Sykes’ Glock and put my hand on the cold steel of the door’s handle. I open it, and it squeals with both defiance and neglect. I pause a moment. No noise. No screams. Either I’ve made it in time, or I’m way, way too late. The corridor behind the door is cold and damp, and smells of rot and dust. It’s dark, and I can barely see twelve paces in front of me. I cock the Glock, and the click both reassures me and panics me as it echoes beyond the corridor. I walk about twenty paces when I come to a right turn where the darkness is broken by fluorescent light as the corridor turns right, deeper into the warehouse. I stand stock still for a moment, hold my breath. Heavy breathing still greets me. I must be damn close, I realise. I take the corner, and damn near walk into the guy.

His fucking eyes. Shit!

He makes a sound that I think may be a gasp or a scream of alarm. He bolts, and I follow. He leads me into an open but shadowy portion of the building. I take note of the small section lit to my left, guessing it’s where Ava or Ava’s body is. He’s starting to pull away from me, obviously fitter than me. Sometimes I wish I wouldn’t get older. I stop following him, and he stops running. He turns to face me.

Those eyes.

I take a moment to look at him. Brown hair, fucking scary eyes. Moist, red lips. Average enough looking, wearing jeans, and a white shirt of some sort under a brown leather jacket. He reaches inside the jacket, and it takes me a while to realise what’s in his hand when he takes it out. A hatchet. He gives me a gleeful look, then starts running at me.

I whip Sykes’ Glock out and fill the guy with about four shots. He goes down. Hard. He starts groaning. I walk over and kick the hatchet away from his hand, then lift him up. He gives me a confused look that changes to understanding as I swing at him with my right and knock him clean out. I pause a moment. He stays down. He ain’t goin’ anywhere. I turn around and head back to the area that was lighted.

I don’t find Ava.

In fact, I can only assume what I find is Ava’s body. For the first time in twenty years, I vomit at a murder scene. I mean, Jesus. There’s barely enough left for a DNA ID, unless they can test bone marrow now. It takes a while for me to make the connection. The guy’s lips where red and moist. I walk back to check. He’s still out cold. Yeah, his lips are moist and red. So moist, the colour’s running down his left cheek. So moist, I can wipe it away and leave his actual lips uncovered.

Christ…

I don’t think I say it out loud, but in my shock and disgust I can’t be sure. I take the cuffs out of my pocket and put them on him, with a pillar between his back and his hands. I make a call to the Precinct. I tell them to bring the strongest stomached guys they have, and to bring plenty of evidence jars. I tell them to cut back on the bags.

Well, this just fucked the city up some more.

... You call this strong language? *shrugs*

I like it. You are a well qualified writer. I understand that this is an introduction, so I'm not expecting any crazy, enormous plot, yet. Oliver didn't die, did he? From what I remember reading, Jack only knocked him out. Does that mean that the person who was holding the hatchet-supposably the murderer, is knocked out, too?

It's pretty ironic, how Jack sees himself has not very athletic when he avoided a bullet. >.>

Both people Jack punched are merely unconscious. Why kill them when they can rot in a hellhole of a jail?


If you feignted one way, but then threw yourself completely in th eopposite direction and down, I imagine you'd manage to avoid a bullet. That and Oliver's aim would be thrown off by having a man knocking him over .

Anyway, thanks for the reply. The next chapter will be up when it's finished, which could be... anytime in the next few years.