Steele and Zerr communicated through hand signals. One of Zerr’s guys stepped to the door with a heavy ram. Steele nodded, and he swung the ram into the door. Steele tossed a flashbang into the dim room. After the explosion and flash of light, they entered. Steele entered first, followed by Zerr. The rest of the team followed and fanned out on either side of the room.
“Police. On the floor.”
At least a dozen people were crammed into the room, some wandering, dazed. Others hit the floor in compliance. Steele shone his flashlight around the room. Three Coleman lanterns were spaced around the room, providing limited light and heat. Sleeping bags littered the floor with cardboard as dividers between.
“Coulter, you here?” Steele shouted.
No answer.
“Brad. Are you in here?”
Still no answer.
“I’ll take a team and check the rest of the building,” Zerr said.
A voice from the floor asked, “Who y’all here for?”
“Brad Coulter or Michael Trant.”
“Can’t say as I know anyone by those names. Course, some of us don’t use actual names.”
“How long have you been here?” Steele asked.
“Can’t say for sure. Late September. Shelters won’t take most of us. At least we’re out of the cold here.”
“You sure Coulter or Trant weren’t here today?”
“We’d all help you if we could.” He was pleading with his eyes. “We got a safe thing here. We’d help in a second, so you’d leave us alone. We don’t want no trouble.”
“Don’t want no trouble about what?” A tall black man wearing a heavy overcoat and fake fur hat headed over to them. His gloved hand brushed snow off his shoulders.
“Hey, Gilly. These cops are searching for a couple of people.”
Gilly nodded. “Few people out in this weather. I saw a man and a woman heading south.”
“Wait,” Zerr said. “A man and a woman?”
“Yeah, heading south toward the old CN Railway station. He was wearing a winter army jacket and pants. He was drunk or something. He kept falling. She was holding him up.”
“How long ago?” Steele asked.
Gilly shrugged. “About fifteen minutes ago. Long enough for me to walk here.”
Chapter Seventy-Two
Brad tried to talk but couldn’t. His jaw wouldn’t move. Dislocated or fractured, for sure. He tried to breathe through his nose, but it was likely broken and was clogged with blood now. The best he could do was breathe through gritted teeth. Each breath was a whistle. His lungs screamed for oxygen.
Toscana was squatting beside Michael, injecting something into a vein. Michael’s eyes rolled back in his head, a faint grin on his face. Then his lips curled, and he screamed out. His body convulsed and rocked the chair across the concrete floor.
Brad curled into the fetal position, shook with the cold, and stretched his arms. He could just reach his boot. He rubbed his leg on the floor, causing his pant leg to ride up above his boot top. He stretched his fingers inside the boot and got a finger through the rope glued to his shoddily repaired tactical knife where it was tucked into a leather sheath. Initially, the knife failed to budge. The rope cut into his finger. Brad scrunched as tight as he could, then stretched his legs and withdrew his fingers. The knife slid out of the sheath.
The struggle to retrieve the knife left him breathless. His eyes blurred, and the world spun. Despite the pain, he forced his jaw open to get extra air. Bones shifted in his jaw and searing pain shot to his temple. The world went white. But he could breathe and rapidly gasped for air. The pain subsided, his vision cleared, and his breathing slowed. He worked the blade over the ropes on his knees. Then he reversed the blade and sawed at the ropes around his wrists. The sharp blade easily cut through the rope … and his wrists. Compared to his other pains, the cuts were a minor inconvenience. With his wrists free, he could slide his arms around in front.
He cut through the rope across his chest and rolled onto his knees. When he glanced up, Toscana was standing next to Michael, her eyes wide. “How the hell—”
In three steps she crossed the room, swung her foot back, and kicked at Brad’s jaw. He swiveled as the boot swung toward him. The heel grazed his head—pain shot up his jaw and he dropped the knife blade. He grabbed the swinging leg and yanked, pulling Toscana’s other foot out from under her. She crashed to the floor, hitting the concrete with her ass first, then her head.
Brad pushed to his knees. His gut churned. Waves of nausea crashed into his body and the room spun. He reached out for something to support him. He sucked air through his clenched jaw. It was enough—barely. He rose to a crouch.
Toscana had rolled onto her stomach and was pulling the cattle prod out of her pocket. She stood, took a couple of unsteady steps, then reached out with the tube. As Toscana thrust the tube toward him, Brad spun to the side and stepped forward, his left hand chopping down on Toscana’s wrist. She cried out and dropped the prod.
Brad snatched it off the floor and faced Toscana. He was staring at a gun.
She shrugged. “Like the saying about bringing a knife to a gunfight.”
Brad glared.
“Cat got your tongue? Is your jaw broken? Just as well. I’m tired of your self-righteous rambling.”
The problem was that Brad hadn’t planned beyond cutting the ropes. Maybe a thought about weapons would have been useful. By his count, Toscana had at least three guns. Hers and Brad’s two pistols. She had Brad’s knife, and now he’d dropped the repaired blade. You’d think carrying a primary gun and a backup and a couple of knives would be enough. Did he need to carry three guns? Might as well carry a couple of grenades.
He had few options, so he went with his first one. “F … uck you.”
Toscana laughed. “My god, that is funny. As far as
