Wait…
Ramirez’s meat cleaver. It could still be there.
I open the door a crack. It’s clear. I leave the staff room behind and run back to where we encountered Preacher. The body’s still lying in the water, the cleaver stuck in the guy’s skull. I yank it out, then move in the direction of the armory, hoping that Ramirez will find his way there and we can get this over with.
I’m almost there when I hear the shouting coming from up ahead. I round a corner to find four guys hanging off Ramirez. Literally hanging off him. One has his arms around the big man’s neck, trying his best to cut off his air supply. Two more hang on his arms, and the other one is on the floor, trying to yank Ramirez’s leg out from under him. It’s like watching kids trying to tackle the Incredible Hulk.
There’s no sign of Preacher or his followers. These are Crips attacking Ramirez. I can see by the tattoos. One has 211 inked onto his shoulder. Another has the numbers 3 18 9 16. They spell out the word “Crip” in that stupid alphabet-number code you used as a kid.
The Crips hear me coming. The guy holding on to Ramirez’s leg stands up, wiping water from his face. He comes right at me, arms wide as if ready to take me into a bear hug.
It’s a stupid stance to take. It leaves him completely open. I’ve kept the cleaver behind my back, but as soon as the guy comes within reach, I lash out, cutting his hand off at the wrist.
We both stare at the stump in a split second of surprise. I didn’t think the cleaver was anywhere near as sharp as that. Blood gushes into the water and the guy starts screaming,
The other three are distracted by his wailing. Ramirez shakes the two guys off his arms and then slams up against the wall, crushing the guy on his back between his body and the concrete.
The guy releases Ramirez’s neck and he spins around and wraps his huge hands around the Crip’s throat, squeezing until I hear the crack of breaking vertebrae.
The other two Crips overcome their shock and launch themselves at him. I run toward them. I swing the cleaver and hit the closest in the spine. He screams and arches backward. I keep hold of the handle and yank the blade free. The guy drops face-first into the water, paralyzed and drowning.
Ramirez punches the final Crip in the throat. The guy drops into the water with a crushed larynx, gurgling and gasping for breath.
Ramirez turns to me. His chest is heaving. His face is covered in blood and sweat, his eyes dark like a shark’s. He holds a hand out.
I’m not arguing with that. I pass him the cleaver.
At the exact same moment, Preacher and his congregation of psychotics appear in the corridor behind us.
“This way!” I shout.
Ramirez follows me as I sprint toward the armory, Preacher and his men hot on our tail.
Ramirez might be fast, but I’m definitely quicker when we take off at the same time. I skid into the corridor where the armory is located. There are lots of doors here, but most of them stand open. Only one remains closed, and it looks heavy, made from metal.
As I reach it, I glance back and see Preacher’s guys closing on Ramirez. I fumble with the keys. Jesus. Why the fuck are there so many? I try the first one. It doesn’t fit. Ramirez shouts behind me. I risk a glance to my right, see Preacher’s men attempting to beat him down with metal poles and… is that a crucifix? They’re beating him with a fucking crucifix.
Ramirez, for his part, is flailing around with the cleaver. He hits one of his attackers in the chest. The guy drops backward into the water, blood spreading out around him. Ramirez then whirls around and slices the cleaver against another of his attackers, shearing away a thick chunk of skin from his arm. The man screams and falls back, stumbling against the wall. Ramirez roars with laughter.
“Come on, then! Get on your knees and pray to me, bitches!”
I try the next key. Nothing. Same with the next, and the next.
The next key, though. The next key opens it. Fucking finally! I yank open the heavy door and dart inside.
I’m greeted by a neat, clean room with three rows of guns mounted along the wall. The top row holds semiautomatic rifles, the second row shotguns, and the bottom row handguns. A locked cabinet covered with thick metal mesh is packed with boxes of ammunition.
I duck my head out of the room. “Ramirez!”
I put the key in the inside lock and wait while Ramirez sprints toward me, Preacher’s men close behind. I push the heavy door, timing it so that he’s just able to slide through the gap. Immediately Preacher’s men slam up against the door, arms flailing around inside the room as they try to force it open.
Ramirez whirls around and swings the cleaver in a frenzied attack. I turn away as hot blood spatters my face.
The weight against the door lessens briefly and I manage to slam it shut. I quickly turn the key and then stagger back, watching Ramirez warily.
The guy is covered in blood, his face dripping. He sucks in ragged gasps of air as he stands there, still clutching the cleaver in his hand.
“You good?” I ask.
Ramirez turns to take in the rows of guns. “Yeah,” he says. “I am now.”
I follow his gaze. I have to admit, the sight of the guns is comforting. I’ve been around weapons most of my adult life. First as a cop, then as a soldier, then as a cop again. Seeing them now makes me feel like I’ll finally be able to protect myself properly. Maybe stay alive long enough to get to Wright and Tully. To escape.
The guns are held in place by a metal rack
