Vigilare (12 page)

“Please, don’t!” she cries, shaking her head.

Randall grabs her by the backs of her arms, shaking her. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he consoles contradictingly through gritted teeth. She winces, a distraught moan escaping her mouth. He quickly loosens his grip, apologetically stroking her hair. “Trust me, Tess. I’m going to take care of you.” He sniffs the air around her. “God, you smell good. I can’t wait to see how you taste,” he continues, his mouth moving in toward hers.

“Oh, Randall…” a voice beckons him from behind.

He freezes, warily looking at Tessa as if she can help him. “Who’s there? Who’s behind me, Tess?”

She says nothing, her attention frozen on the individual standing behind Randall, clad in all black from head to toe.

Randall grabs the lamp off her bedside table and wings it, running out of the bedroom. The Vigilare ducks, the lamp shatters into pieces against the wall.

“Lock the door,” she orders Tessa, fleeing the bedroom in diligent pursuit of Randall.

Tessa does as instructed, jumping off her bed and locking the door. She piles in the closet, hiding under the stack of clothing. Her cell phone in hand, she sharply dials 9-1-1.

Randall dashes for the front door, his grand escape. Vigilare grabs the first object she sees, a clothing iron, as she rounds the linen cabinet outside Tessa’s bedroom. She heaves the iron with precise accuracy.
Thud!
the sound echoes off the middle of Randall’s back, causing him to fall to his knees.

Knock! Knock! Knock!
“Vanguard PD. Open up.”

“Help me!” Randall screams. “It’s here. The Vigilare. Help me!”

Detective Gronkowski, amped by the thought that he has finally made his mark, shoves his shoulder into the unforgiving door.

Vigilare’s flight instinct kicking in, she jets to the window in the kitchen, where she first made her ascent.
Shit!
she exclaims to herself, remembering Tessa in the closet. She can’t leave her.

Gronkowski backs away, pivoting his body as he lines up, delivering a few solid mule kicks to the area over the deadbolt. The door gives, swinging open. He charges the room, his department issued 1911 handgun drawn, the hammer cocked.

“It’s in the kitchen,” Randall chokes out, grabbing Tony’s leg as he swiftly walks by him.

Tony shakes him off. “Get up,” he orders. Randall hovers on his knees, grabbing at his back. Tony quickly and cautiously clears the kitchen, no Vigilare to be found. Doubting Randall, he drops his gun to his side. “You seeing things now, Randall?”

“Boo!” she whispers from behind him.

He spins facing her, pulling the gun from his side. As he raises the weapon, she swiftly intercepts it, twisting the gun around trapping his finger in the trigger pull. She follows through, his finger snaps, releasing the weapon into her hands. She quickly discards it into the trashcan beside them.

Tony is mesmerized momentarily by the fact that this
thing
, the Vigilare, actually exists. And he is doubly smitten by the fact that
it’s
a
she
, who took his gun away from him. Her eyes and lips, dark green and full, the only things visible among her black attire. “I don’t know whether to be alarmed or turned on,” he gulps, a smile forming on his lips.

“Either works for me,” she quips, grabbing him by his shirt collar. With great momentum, she twists their bodies, throwing herself gently to the floor on her back. She takes Tony with her, planting her feet into his stomach, propelling him like a springboard with her legs. His body flies end over end until he comes down like a brick, flat on his back onto the living room floor. She gathers her arms and legs underneath her, preparing a perfectly executed backflip, landing on her feet astraddle Tony’s hips.

“Umph,” he groans. Grabbing her ankles, he sweeps her legs out from under her. And there they go, grappling on the floor.

“You sure you want to take it to the floor?” she teases. “You’ve seen my work.”

“It’s worth the risk,” he pants. “Especially if I can get you in the north-south position.” He chuckles.

“Go for it,” she challenges. “Just know that I fight to win, even if that means dirty.” She escapes his grasp, reversing to the dominant position once again. “You might not like having your
golden nuggets
anywhere near the vicinity of my teeth,” she continues through choppy, labored breaths.

Randall crawls on his hands and knees around to the backside of the couch, removing himself from their direct path as they continue to tumble across the living room floor.

“Seriously,” she says. “I’m going to have to choke you out real soon. So let me give you the lo-down.”

“Oh,” he crows. “Please do.” Disbelieving her threat.

“There’s a girl in the bedroom,” she continues between pants. Both of them breathe heavily, getting a full workout from the grappling. Their bodies hot, fully charged and propelling the other. “Tessa. Randall’s girlfriend’s daughter.” They stop momentarily, a truce. Chests heaving, hearts pounding. “He would’ve raped her. In her bed. Sick prick. I showed up. Don’t leave her.” Tony attempts to take advantage while her focus is distracted. She counteracts, using his momentum to secure her position on top of him, setting him up for a nice blood choke hold. “Lock his ass up for violating his probation,” she says as she applies the hold.

Randall scurries around to the kitchen, rummaging through the trashcan.

“Shit, that feels funny,” Tony confesses.

She smiles down at him. “Little pressure here. You just close your eyes. When you wake, I’ll be gone.”

Bang!
the sound rings through the apartment. The gun drops from Randall’s hand as if he stunned himself by pulling the trigger.

Vigilare moans, her right shoulder instantly hot like fire. She arches her back. Blood begins to trickle from the wound. She closes her eyes, focusing on her breathing, attempting to maintain. The rhythmic drum starts up in her temples, it pounds fast and steady as she feels her pulse surge through her body.

“Goddammit! You stupid son of a bitch!” she hears Tony’s voice, reprimanding Randall. The words seem as though they’re spewed in slow motion inside her head, the change within her body causing her to question whether the scene is even real.

The scent of blood—hers, and of man—the one beneath her, send her searching, gasping for air. She breathes in deep, and with one glorious exhale, her body has delivered a complete transformation. Her senses, her reflexes, her muscles, pristine and unmatched. She opens her eyes.

Tony is awestruck, somewhere between wanting to look away but too mesmerized not to meet her stare. “Sparkling emerald green light,” he whispers in disbelief. The very notion he mocked Aubrey Raines about days earlier. “Oh shit,” he quickly exclaims as her grasp on his neck becomes more aggressive with her glare. He wriggles about unsuccessful against her seemingly superhuman strength.

She tilts her head in confusion. Locked in on his gaze, she can see his soul, everything, good and bad that he has done.
How is it there is nothing punishable?
A few dirty mags as a kid, some illegitimately retrieved documents as a cop, his first time with his girlfriend in the backseat of a classic 1969 Chevrolet Nova, but nothing worth taking his life over.
Isn’t this what I do? An eye for an eye? Who is this man? Why is he here, in my assignment?
She loosens her grip with the realization that he is one of the good guys.

Randall scuffles behind them on the floor, his hands fumble nervously with the gun. He accidentally hits the clip release button causing the clip to drop from the handle. “Shit!” he stammers, his hands busily attempting to reassemble the weapon.

Vigilare whips her head in his direction, a smile forming on her lips as she sights him in.
Bullseye!
With incredible speed, she pushes off Tony, lunging at Randall. Her hands viced around his neck, she jerks him to his feet, throwing him up against the wall. He screams, his eyes wide open, providing her the perfect vantage point. She locks in. He is unable to pull his stare from hers. With each evil image, her right shoulder twinges in pain, the gunshot wound coupled with her rampant heart rate causing ample blood loss. Tony gathers himself from the floor. Vigilare’s hands on Randall’s neck turn cool and clammy. Her pulse, once loud and rhythmic grows weak, her breathing rapid and shallow. She attempts to steady herself, purposely focusing, her eyes seemingly unwilling to maintain. Her grip loosening, the room begins to spin, the emerald green light flickers, vanishing. She faints, falling to the floor. Randall slides down the wall gasping for air, his nearly limp body unable to sustain itself upright.

“Vanguard PD,” the identifier bounces off the walls of the hallway, accompanied by the sound of heavy boots.

Tony rushes to Vigilare, rolling her over onto her back, he applies pressure over her right shoulder.

Four officers enter the apartment, cautiously, stealthily, followed by Tony’s stakeout partner, Officer Marks. “Gronkowski?” one of the officer’s recognizes Tony. He motions with his hand, a signal to those following him that the scene is secure.

“Tried to tell them you had it under control, Sarge,” Marks chimes.

The officer instantly on the defensive. “Look. We got a call to this address. We gotta answer that call.”

Tony nods, waving them toward the closed bedroom door. “She’s in the closet. Fifteen-year-old female.”

“Tessa,” Randall gasps, his breath returning to his body.

Tony hatefully points his finger at Randall, seething, “Get this mother-fucker out of my sight.” He wipes at the sweat over his brow, exchanging hands over Vigilare’s shoulder wound to maintain good pressure.

“I saved your life,” Randall defends.

Tony lunges for him. Marks pulls him off, with the help of another officer. “You take him down to the station, and you hold him. I’m booking this piece of shit.” Tony is fuming, nearly spitting with every word. His focus delivers, he returns to Vigilare.

Marks pulls Randall up by his shirt collar, handing him off to two officers who happily escort him from the premises.

“Marks, I need an ambulance, yesterday,” Tony says.

“You got it, Sarge.” Officer Marks paces, near Tony and Vigilare radioing dispatch for medical assistance.

The other two officers have cleared Tessa’s room and are taking her statement in the kitchen as two more cops arrive on scene. “We were in the neighborhood. Heard the call. What do ya need?”

“Tess! Tess!” a woman’s voice cries down the hallway. Tessa’s mother enters. “Oh my God,” she exclaims, her hand covering her mouth upon her initial assessment. “Tess, baby.” She continues to the kitchen, embracing her daughter.

The apartment is busy. People coming and going, voices all abound. Tony is used to such chaos. Why is it then, that he is having problems focusing on anything but the lifeless body he hovers over? He palpates her carotid artery—pulsing, but faint. His hands bare of gloves, he picks the right one up off the wound where he holds pressure. He stretches his hand out, extending his fingers away from his palm, a small cut visible. Unaware of how or when he acquired it (must have been when they were sparring ), it is now soaked in her blood, and tingling. A clot forms at the juncture of his cut, where her blood meets his. His curiosity beyond piqued, he grips the ski mask at her neck and slowly begins to peel it up over her face. Her lips familiar, surely his eyes play tricks on him. His heartbeat enhanced, he continues. With each new facial feature, the chatter in the apartment grows more distant, an ominous feeling befalls him.

“Sarge, ambulance is pulling up out front,” Marks reports, encroaching over his shoulder.

Tony attempts to block Marks’ view by leaning over her, but it’s too late, her auburn hair gives it away.

“Gina?” Marks expels from his lips, his expression deeply disconnected.

Tony identifies with the surreal feeling.

“Pinch me, Sarge,” Marks exclaims with serious intent, offering up his arm. “I gotta be freaking dreaming.”

Tony hangs his head, wishing such was the case. “Tell them to pull up out back. We’re not taking her out the front. You got it?”

Marks nods, his body inert.

“Now!” Tony barks, causing him to move to action.

The other officers hear the rise in his voice, two of them start in his direction, “You need something over here, boss?”

Tony holds his hand out to them, firmly. “I got it.” His body language crouched over Gina is protective in every assertion.

They look to one another, eyebrows raised, throwing their hands up to their shoulders in retreat. Tony eyes them until they return to the kitchen. The wheels of a medical stretcher approach from the hallway.

“What’cha got?” the paramedic at the head of the stretcher inquires, guiding his crew to Tony.

“Gunshot wound. Right shoulder. Cool, clammy skin. Rapid, weak pulse. She fell out...fainted.”

“Get me a line started. Both ACs. 18-gauge. Fluids, fast and furious. Possible shock,” the medic orders to his partner. “You comfortable doing a 12-lead?” he asks the student rider. She nods. “Need to ask you to give us some room.” He pats Tony on the shoulder.

“Sure.” Tony jumps up. “Just fix her, man.”

“That’s what we’re here to do,” the medic affirms.

Tony paces, hovering over them, running his fingers through his hair, watching them work diligently.

“1, 2, 3,” the medic counts as they hoist her onto the stretcher for departure to the local trauma center.

“I’m going with her,” Tony states.

“Got a student rider. No room, hoss.”

“She can ride with him,” he points in Marks’ direction. “I’m not leaving her. She’s my partner, goddammit!” His eyes begin to sting, quenching the urge for emotion, he breathes deeply, calming his voice. “Do you mind riding with Officer Marks?” he asks the student.

She eyes Marks, handsome and tall. “Not at all,” she says with a smile.

Tony grabs Marks, pulling him along as they accompany the stretcher. “You call Chief. Have him pull whatever strings he’s got with the hospital. I want her room ready before we get there. Somewhere secure and out of the way. Two heavily armed officers better be outside her hospital room waiting to greet us. No media, no visitors, no one gets near her. No one.”