“How can I help you?” A gaunt middle-aged man behind the glass rose and leaned against the counter. His electronic bracelet flashed orange. The manager’s silver name tag glistened on the lapel of his jacket.
Damn. Frank coughed to conceal his awkwardness. Just his luck. He pulled himself together, produced the badge and showed it to the manager. Then he handed him the receipt.
“Excuse me,” he mumbled, his nose running, his eyes streaming. “Excuse me,” he wiped his face and went on more clearly, “I am Detective Freeman from Police Department. I’m here to collect some mail. Here’s the receipt.” He showed the paper to the manager, spat into the tissue, took out a fresh one and covered his face with it. “Damn this allergy. Everything to please…”
The manager inspected him through the glass.
“Have you heard what happened in West Side today?” Frank asked him.
The man twitched his head. Was it a yes or a no?
“I’m talking about the murder. Kathleen Baker,” Frank added, just in case.
“I have.”
“The mail is evidence. A very important piece of evidence. I’m here to retrieve it.”
“I understand that. In order to give you the mail, I need to make a phone call to the station first. Detective Freeman — what did you say your first name was?”
“I didn’t,” Frank mumbled behind the tissue. “It’s Ed.”
“Very well,” the manager picked up the phone, popped his glasses on and started punching in the number.
Fucking paper-pusher. Frank blotted his eyes and tried to gauge his own body. He could breathe much better now. Looked like the allergy bout was nearly over. What wasn’t so good was the news that the old manager was about to hear at the station. Most likely, Freeman was dead. The bullets had hit him in the chest and the shoulder. He’d told Frank to duck in, saving his life. Frank should now use this chance the detective had given him. He had to obtain the package whatever it cost, but without giving himself away.
“This package, is it very big?” Frank spoke. “You think I can manage it on my own?”
The manager winced, hung up, took his glasses off and turned to the shelves. After a brief search, he showed Frank a box the size of a small pack of Oreos, put it on his desk and reached for the phone again.
That was better. Frank could grab the box now and escape by breaking a window. The manager dialed the police department again when the door swung open behind Frank’s back.
“Put the phone down!” a voice growled from the doorway.
Trying to look calm, Frank turned around. Two men stood by the door, tall and fit, their faces unfriendly, their eyes deeply set and the skin, unnaturally smooth and drawn tight over their bones. One was bald, and the other wore a knitted cap, but Frank was almost sure there was no hair under it, either.
The pair reminded Frank of the airport cabbie who’d been so eager to drag him into his cab. He’d looked very much like these two.
“National Security Agency,” the bald man produced an ID.
They approached the booth, walking in step. Frank covered his face with a tissue and stepped aside.
The two didn’t look like federal agents, but they did look like the station attackers. Only these two had no helmets, no masks and no bulletproof jackets. They wore thick black jackets, combat trousers with side pockets, gloves and combat boots. Frank could bet his bottom dollar they had guns hidden under those jackets.
The one in the knitted cap glared at Frank, his bald-headed partner, at the manager. The latter squinted at all three men. An awkward silence hung in the air, broken by the manager.
“How can I help you?” he flustered in a shaking voice.
The bald one leaned against the counter’s edge under the window, lowered his head like a young bull preparing to charge at the glass, and said,
“There must be… mail… from Kathleen Baker… general delivery…” he seemed unable to spit out more than two or three words at a time which made him sound like an information machine. “It was sent… to your office.”
The manager let out a nervous little cough and glanced at Frank.
Now Frank had little doubt that these were two of the attackers, two of the force which was hunting him down. Now they’d come to collect Kathleen’s package.
At that moment, the guy in the knitted cap gasped, recognition in his eyes.
“He-” he pointed his finger at Frank who couldn’t wait any longer. Frank’s right fist collided with the man’s chin and, once the jaw snapped, his left one went for the ribs. The man heaved and collapsed at Frank’s feet.
The second man unzipped his jacket in one well-practiced motion. His hand reached under his arm. But Frank failed to reach him: the bald man retreated a few steps and pulled out his gun. His actions were much better organized than his speech: his thumb pushed the safety catch, and the breechblock clanged under the palm that covered the weapon. When the gun was about to go off, Frank felt a blow to his knee, and another one that hit his calf. His legs gave way in agony, and a powerful figure rose in front of him. Frank barely had time to cover his head when a headbutt from the knitted cap sent him flying against the wall.
The bald man’s partner — who’d scrambled off the floor — had blocked the line of fire. Pure luck. He bared his bloodied teeth, grabbed a collapsed Frank by the collar — and received another blow as Frank buried his knuckles into the man’s Adam’s apple.
The man’s throat made a hoarse noise, and Frank’s face was showered with spit. Frank doubled up, pulling his bent legs into his stomach, and kicked knitted-cap toward his partner. The latter stepped aside in a fluid motion, letting his brother-in-arms hit the empty benches. Again Frank was at gunpoint and couldn’t reach the shooter.
Doubtful he’d be as lucky second time round.
Something bright and yellow, the size of a football, shot out of the counter window. The bald one swung round to face the manager and pulled the trigger twice.
Although deafened by the shots, Frank leapt at the bald man. The shattered glass was still rattling behind his back and the yellow box, pierced by a bullet, was still falling, when he karate-chopped the hand holding the gun. His other hand was stopped mid-air by a counterpunch as the man struck back.
Frank turned his body to the right and stepped forward to minimize the distance. The other one’s fist brushed past his ribs. The man’s eyes glistened when Frank’s elbow collided with his cheekbone. Another knee kick to his hip, topped up with a fist to his nose, and Frank knocked the man to the ground.
He didn’t have a chance for a breather: the knitted cap guy had come to and was trying to get up, leaning against the bench with one hand and trying to reach for his holster with the other. Frank stepped closer. The man attempted to shield himself with his elbow but failed and got kicked in the jaw.
The man yelped. His head tilted backward. He collapsed, hit his chin against the bench and became silent.
“The package!” Frank gasped as he turned to the counter. “You-” he strode across the office, “You all right?”
The old manager lay between the shelves in the heap of boxes and plastic bags that had tumbled down. He breathed fitfully, his eyes wide open, his hand clasping the wound in his chest. Dark blood, almost black, was oozing between wizened fingers.
Frank looked back at the door, then at the motionless attackers.
“Shit!”
He reached through the broken glass window and took Kathleen’s package, then reached for the phone.
“Shit!”
He dialed the rescue service.
The manager erupted in convulsions, opened his mouth, sucked in air with a wheeze — and stopped moving.
“What kind of emergency are you having?” the receiver resounded with the answering machine’s mechanical voice. “Press one for the fire brigade; press two for ambulance; press three for police…”