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| Scene Title | Do You Remember Moscow? |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Feng Daiyu continues his revenge against Ethan Holden, and dozens die to prove a point. |
| Date | January 27, 2011 |
Chelsea isn't quite the shit-hole it used to be after the bomb. Efforts at urban rejuvination have done some small wonders at revitalizing the economy of this neighborhood, even if it meant pushing out small, privately owned businesses in favor of large, corporately owned stores. Neon lights, large marquees declaring SPRINT and STARBUCKS clutter up what was once a thriving and artistic community.
The further north that you go in Chelsea, though, the thinner that mass-marketing becomes, and the more obvious it is that New York City is never going to heal its wounds fully. Midtown is a gruesom scar visible on the northern horizon, and in the middle of the day it seems even more ghastly when cast against slate gray skies flurried with snow. Skeletal buildings reduced to iron girders, some strung with white banners declaring MAXWELL DEVELOPMENT COMPANY in blue on white show intentions for rebuilding, but there's no cranes out there yet. No signs of rebuilding.
Somewhere on the north end of Chelsea, Flint Deckard and Isabella Sheridan shared ana partment, one that he has so expediantly vacated following her rather public appearance on the television show The Advocate. Unfortunately, Flint never leaves forwarding addresses, and Ethan Holden wasn't on his contacts list.
On the side of the street under the shelter of a bus stop's plexiglass walls, the man long ago — and once more — called the Wolf watches cars, taxis and busses rll by on streets slowly accumulating a dusting of snow. Brown snowbanks look dirty on the roadside, and the streets are packed with pedestrians despite the inclement weather.
Up 9th avenue, the twenty foot tall concrete barricades that wall off Midtown from the rest of Manhattan are barely visible through the snow. The floodlights on the walls shine brightly down onto the street from the outside, and the colorful flash of red and blue from police cruisers parked at the checkpoint indicate somes ort of activity out there.
Someone's always trying to sneak into the ruins, and for short distances the police will give chase — or the the National Guardsmen posted there will open fire. It depends on how tense the situation is on any given day. Right now, attention anywhere other than on Ethan Holden is a luxury, for as much as he bled for the United States during Operation: Apollo, they weren't very forgiving of his disappearance following the operation when it came to his pardon.
Or lack thereof.
Another puff is taken from the little lung killer. Giving the typical badass exhalation, the smoke blows out of his nose. Reminiscent of those cartoon bulls that threw huffs and puffs of smoke from their nostrils, but only when they saw red. The cigarette dangles on his lips for a half second as he goes to re-button the top of his pea coat. A soft snort is let out as Ethan quickly grabs the cancer stick out of his mouth. Another loud exhalation through his nose. He hates when he accidentally breathes through his nose.
The cigarette is held limply at his side, steely gaze observing the red and blue down in the distance. Half lidded the gaze grows contemplative before flitting to one of the taller buildings. Hopefully the red and blue lights aren't for Deckard. And hopefully the man isn't in a bodybag by now.
But Ethan has other business in Chelsea today. Glancing this way then that, Ethan hops onto the street, dodging traffic with quick stops then loping motions with his legs, he eventually finds his way to the other side. Nearing the mouth of a storefront, the man slows his stride when he nears a rather homely looking homeless man huddled by the storefront.
A handful of change is dropped into the cup as Holden stares down at the man. One loafer goes forward to kick at the man's leg gently. More of a prodding motion, "Anything?"
Looking up from his cup, the grizzled old man slides his tongue across the inside of his cheek, snowflakes crusting ice in his gray beard. Ethan Holden's network of homeless is supplemented by this man, Claremont, a vagabond well past his fifties. Gruff, taciturn and acting as though he's seen it all, his ear to the ground has been, at times, a valuable asset to the Wolf. More so in recent months.
"Chinaman came down today, askin' after you…" Claremont grumbles, looking down into his cup and then back up to Ethan, one gloved hand starting to rummage around in his tattered winter coat. "Didn't much say his name, but he looked like a dock worker. Smelled like raw fish, like somebody what works on a boat." When the gloved hand comes out with a cell phone, Claremont's expression turns puzzled.
"Told me t'give you this," Claremont holds up the phone towards Ethan. "He a friend'v yours?"
Ethan's brows furrow together at Claremont's report. His lips thin as the cell phone is revealed. How is it possible that this motherfucker is always a step ahead of him. Crouching some, Holden goes to take the phone. Examining the front and back off it to make sure it's not a trap of some sort he nods down at the man. "Did 'e 'ave an annoyin' fuckin' voice?" Holden already knows the answer to that.
"Y'might wanna skip stops, buzzard." Holden mutters, bobbing his chin down the street. "This guy's trouble. I want y't'call my burn phone iff y'see this fucker again. On the fuckin' double. I'll buy you dinner later." Holden gives a little bob of his chin before bringing the phone up, turning it on.
Swallowing noisily, Claremont dips his head down into a bobbing nod, reaching up to brace himself against the cold, stone wall before ambling up to his feet. "Don't gotta' tell me twice, last thing I want is t'end up on the wrong side of one of your problems." Tired eyes look across the street to the bus stop, and Claremont offers a weary smile to Ethan.
"Don't do nothin' I wouldn't do," the old man taunts, his breath smelling faintly of whiskey. As he turns towards the street, Ethan is sprayed by a cloud of misty blood that erupts from Claremont's back, wetting his hands and cheek. There's a distant echo of a gunshot afterward, reverberating around between the buildings, sounding like it came from a suppressed rifle.
Claremont falls foward into the road, blood pulsing out of the center of his chest, blood spotting red in his white beard. People scream, three young men crossing the street come to a halt and stare wide-eyed at the body. Someone's shouting for the police, while other pedestrians on the curb are running to Claremont's side, a young woman in a heavy winter jacket crouching down beside him. "Oh my God! Oh my God!"
Amidst the chaos and screaming, amidst honking horns and a cacophony of urban noise, the phoen in Ethan's hand vibrates and lets out a loud series of electronic chirps.
«INCOMING CALL — NIDHOGG»
There is little Ethan does. His eyes follow the older man get up and take a few steps down the road until pop, one of his main informants is taking a nap on the sidewalk. Holden remains still, simply watching the man go down. A little groan emits from Ethan's lips as the blood flows from Claremont's back. Giving a light sigh, the call is accepted and brought up to his ear.
"I expect you to replace 'im." Holden says calmly, with a touch of agitation in his voice. Sounding more put out than anything. Like someone just spilled some grape juice on his white shirt.
«I expected a warmer welcome, Fenrir. Did you get the message I left you?»
Eileen's bloodied and cut legs, a stranger's gunshot wound, a promise carved into a wall. Feng has left many messages, and scars, wherever he has gone. «It must be difficult, getting around like you do being a wanted man. I know I have my own problems, our lives our problematic. You're looking good, though. Fit. I wonder if age has slowed you down any? Complacency?»
As Feng speaks over the phone, there's an obvious bipolar reaction from the crowd. Most people are ducking for cover, cowering and hiding. A handful of brave people have gone to Clairemont's aid. The old man is still alive, even if barely just. Blood bubbles out of his mouth, gloved fingers claw at the ground and tear-filled eyes wrench shut and then stare up at the cloudy sky overhead.
The young blonde int he puffy winter jacket sets down her purse, picking up her cell phone to call for help. One of the three young men who witnessed the shot hustles through the crosswalk while his friends wave off traffic to get cars to go around where Claremont lays.
Ethan's patience has paid off though, in giving him time to assess the situation. Feng has always been a skilled sniper. Not nearly as well trained in distance shots as Ellinka Duluknova was, however. Feng preferred to sit in medium to close range, somewhere withina block at most in an urban environment. He favored indoor perches, using windows or balconies, rarely ever rooftops.
Judging from the angle that Claremont was hit at, and Feng's psyche profile, Ethan scans up the gray building across the street, then the building adjacent to it. A window somewhere on between the 25th and 30th floor is open, curtains blowing in the wind and the barrel of a silenced rifle sticking out.
"Yes I got your calls. I swear, Feng you're the most needy bitch I've ever been in a relationship with." Holden says with exasperation clear. Taking a few steps forward, the phone is pulled away from his ear for a moment. "There's cops just down th'street. Someone get in the store, and call the ambulance on the land line. Now." Holden points at a young man in particular before pointing at the store.
His eyes wander carefully. Not lingering too long on the source of the shot. Don't let the enemy know where you are. His eyes move around the area steadily. Until the boys near Claremont start to wave around a larger moving truck. Ethan arches a single brow. That will block Feng's vision at least for a moment.
And when the truck moves to reveal Holden to Feng's position again, the Wolf is gone. "«How long d'you think this can go for, Feng? Y'should 'ave just shot me. Y'should stop playin' with your food before a stampede of cattle run over you.»"
«If I wanted you dead, I'd have killed you when you and your girlfriend Delphine were sitting under the tree that day, when you were trying to whittle a block of wood into something. No, Ethan, I want you to suffer before you die. I want to humiliate you, break you down, and prove that in every aspect I am superior to you. I want you to know how helpless you are, before this is over. Before I kill Munin, Jensen…»
Standing up from Claremont's body, the young woman in the puffy jacket turns to Ethan at his barked orders. "R— right," she stammers, turning to head towards the Starbucks cafe, only to have the space below her right eye pop outwards in an explosion of blood that dislocates her jaw and spins her disfigured head around before her body joins the momentum.
Panic comes immediately, people scrambling for cover behind cars stuck in traffic, ducking behind mailboxes and street lights, everyone except Ethan.
«I want everything you touch to wither and die.»
Across the street, Ethan is pressed against a building out of Feng's vision. His brows crease as the youn woman's face explodes. A light sigh passes through his mouth. His back slides against the wall, as he moves from cover to cover. Not for the purpose of hiding from Feng's bullets. It's Feng's eyes he needs to hide from. Pressed against a corner across from the Starbucks, Ethan glances over at one of the individuals clambering over a car to get away from the madness. A balding man with a similar frame to Ethan. The phone is tucked into Ethan's pocket for the moment, grabbing another phone out of his coat pocket.
"You!" He calls out. "It's coming from over there!" He points up to the building across from where Feng slithers. "I have the cops on the phone but I.. I can't handle it!" Taking his pea coat off it's practically flung on the other man as he shoves the phone into his hand. "Tell them where he's shooting from." He points at the building. "Just don't turn around!"
Ethan allows himself to feel a little guilt for the man he most probably just condemned to death. If and when Feng discovers the ruse, the balding man will most likely have a bullet in his head. But he bought Ethan a little time. A little time to get closer.
Catching the phone, the young man crouched by the mailbox looks wide-eyed at Ethan, flipping it open and dialing 911 with shaking hands. He pops up, if only for a moment to get a look exactly where Ethan told him not to look, and a bullet ricochets off of the mailbox with a noisy pang, causing the young man to duck back down.
"Jesus Christ!" The young man shouts, having narrowly avoided being shot in the head. "This— this is— I'm on 9th street in Chelsea outside of the Starbucks across from— from a bus stop! Somebody's shooting, I— I dunno! Oh my God— there's— she's— oh my God we need help, please!"
Another gunshot rings out while Ethan is slipping out of sight, and Feng fires a round at the sidewalk in front of the mailbox, sending the round ricocheting up beneath the blue box and into the young man's calf. He lets out a yowl of pain, falling backwards and out of cover as the phone falls to the ground. Realizing he's exposed, the man Ethan condemned to death has only moments to consider his fate, before a puff of read mist erupts from his chest in a silenced gunshot, the suppressed muzzle report echoing between the buildings a few moments afterward.
This time Ethan could even see the muzzle flash, subtle though it was.
The phone is pressed against his ear. "«You really think you're going to survive to do all this?»" Holden takes a moment as he leans against the wall, peering across the intersection. "«Stop killin' these fuckin' people now and I'll only kill you. You keep this shit up, and I won't grant y'that. I'll take away all your limbs. I'll mutilate you. I'll 'ave you on display, paraded in front o the masses. On feeding tubes for the rest of your life. And I'll step into your room every now and then to juggle your dismembered shrivled testicles in front of you.»"
The building is close now, Ethan just needs to duck near a few cars and get in there before Feng can see him coming. Sprinting towards the door, Ethan shoulders it open. Wearing a dull green sweater, as Ethan enters the building his gun is pulled out from under his arm. "«You're not going t'win, Feng.»"
Bursting into the lobby of the apartment building, Ethan is met by screams of fright from a woman checking her mail at the boxes by the door. She drops an assortment of letters, holding up her hands and dropping into a crouch, murmuring over and over again. "Please don't shoot me! Please! Please!" Fat tears are already welling up in her eyes.
The doorman is backing away, breath caught in his throat and gloved hands held up, palms out. "Oh— oh my God. Please— please don't, I— I have a son. Please."
«Strong words» is Feng's response in the receiver, followed by the sound of exploding glass out on the street as he fires into one of the cars stalled in traffic. «I entreat you to try, Ethan. If you can find me, that is. Until then, each of these lives is on //your head.» Another pop of glass comes from the front window of the Starbucks. Feng has opened fire randomly now, picking off innocent bystanders on the street.
In view of Ethan through the doorway into the lobby, still out on the street, a woman bundled in a long black pea coat cradles her ten year old daughter to her chest, hiding behind a parked taxi with its windows blown out. Safety glass rests in glittering pieces in the snow beside her.
«Do you remember Moscow, Ethan? The hunt for Grigori? How you embarrassed me in front of Kazimir when I missed by shot at the plaza? How you humiliated me? He left me in Russia!» Feng's voice raises to a shout, followed by another gunshot outside, this one hitting somewhere further away..
«Because //you imasculated me in front of him for being fooled by his illusion! You just wanted to look good in that old corpse's eyes! He left me there, Ethan, left me to go rot with Wagner in that God-forsaken bunker in Berlin!»
"«Very strong words.»" Ethan agrees. Pulling the phone down he presses it to his chest. "I'm an ATF agent, call 911. Tell them there's a ten seventy one, eleven ninety nine. Get out of th'way." Holden commands sternly as he makes his way through the lobby purposefully.
The phone then comes back up to his ear. "«Yes, I remember our days in Moscow, darling.»" He rumbles, kicking his way into the stairwell. Feet thumping against the stairs as he climbs rapidly. He does his best to keep his breath stable. "«That 'appened because you sucked at your job Feng. You knew 'oo the target was. You knew what we 'unted. We took on people with advantages. Yet we still 'ad to win. You failed. And no amount of psychopathic shooting is going to change the size of your tiny penis.»"
His rise through the building continues, gun held at his side. "«Admittedly, you've gotten better since then. And I think you owe it all t'me. You've become a very talented psychopath.»"
The noise of bootfalls on the stairs echo loudly as Ethan makes his way up the winding steps, trying to estimate from his few glimpses which floor Feng is hiding out on. Shouting carries into the stairwell from the lobby all the way until the door finally swings shut on automatic hinges, leaving Ethan and, by way of phone, Feng alone.
«I've always been better. But that old fool valued your opinion so highly. Look where that got him. I never would have betrayed our organization, Ethan, not the way you did. You would still be crying over the corpses of your family if it weren't for Kazimir.» Venom in Feng's voice is so palpable as Ethan carries up the stairs.
«Are you wheezing?» Sounds like a taunt. «You're getting old, Ethan.»
Rounding another landing and continuing up the stairs, it's a long way to get twenty floors up. «Do you know what happens to an old Alpha Male in a pack of wolves, when he can no longer protect the pack? Another Alpha rises up, kills him, and takes his place.»
Sixteen.. Seventeen.. His breath is beginning to drag out heavily. Eighteen. His lips clap shut. He is getting older. He can't run twenty flights of stairs and pretend he's an iron man. Cigarettes doesn't help his cardio either. However, his age hasn't affected his mind just yet. Holden stops at the ninteenth floor. The door opens and closes. Walking down the hallway, Holden stares down the hallway, mapping it out carefully. The room should be there.
Stalking down the hallway, Ethan glances down at the door. "«You remember you're older than me and a small weak asian, right?»" Holden asks, holstering his gun. A blade appears from under his pant leg, coming up Holden goes to quietly break into the room.
Immediately making his way over to the window. "«Whot, y'gonna stop your little game cause y'think I'm comin? If you're gonna commit mass murder, son. Y'might as well commit.»"
«Oh, i'm just getting started murdering,» Feng comments over the phone, followed by the very close snap-crack of a suppressed rifle round firing. It's coming from the apartment Ethan expected it would, 19B. The matte brown door is closed, probably locked too. «This game of ours, and it is that— a game— is going to need to have a winner sooner or later. But you're right… I am older, smaller…» Feng lets that comment trail off, firing another round from the sniper rifle. Ethan can hear the snap-crack of the suppressed round through the door. Feng can't be all that far away inside.
There also can't be that many exits from the apartment either. There were no fire escapes on the street-facing windows, which means Feng would need to exit out of the way Ethan is coming in. Down the hall, a door opens from apartment 19C, a somewhat overweight woman in sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt nosily staring out into the hall, phone over one ear before she spots Ethan and the knife and ducks back inside of her apartment with a slam of the door shut.
«Oh, i'm just getting started murdering,» Feng comments over the phone, followed by the very close snap-crack of a suppressed rifle round firing. It's coming from above, barely heard through the floor. The matte brown door to the apartment beneath where Feng resides is closed, probably locked too given that this is New York. «This game of ours, and it is that— a game— is going to need to have a winner sooner or later. But you're right… I am older, smaller…» Feng lets that comment trail off, firing another round from the sniper rifle. Ethan can hear the snap-crack of the suppressed round through the ceiling again. Feng can't be all that far away inside and up above, the windows are maybe fifteen to twenty feet from the door at most.
There also can't be that many exits from the apartment either. There were no fire escapes on the street-facing windows, which means Feng would need to exit out of the way Ethan is coming in to the lower apartment. Down the hall, a door opens from apartment 19C, a somewhat overweight woman in sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt nosily staring out into the hall, phone over one ear before she spots Ethan and the knife and ducks back inside of her apartment with a slam of the door shut.
Once in, the door closes. Though Ethan snarls at the woman down the hallway right before cut off from her vision. Watching out the window, his blade is tucked back under his pant leg. Holden stands up, drawing his gun once again. Looking out the window. "«You're soft old man. Your aim is off just like it was in Moscow. Hitting these poor sods straight through the chest like a fucking rookie on the NYPD. I thought you were better than that, fucker. But it appears Volken was right, you're a 'ack.»"
He glances up at the ceiling, listening carefully ffor the snap-cracck. The Desert Eagle is aimed at the ceiling as Holden takes a few cautionary steps around, the cell phone pressed against his ear with his shoulder. 'Come on…' He mouths, the barrel of the gun dancing around as if anticipating the source of the snap-crack. At the next sound of a shot, Ethan will being to unload half his clip into the ceiling where Feng should be.
«I'm in control.» Feng states flatly, followed by another snap of a round and the explosion of a window across the street. That was all that Ethan needed to hear exactly where Feng is. The explosive discharge of his handgun up into the ceiling, seven shots long, blasts plaster and drywall down on Ethan. Bullets tear thorugh the floor, and elicit the wonderful sound of a yelp of pain and the crash of someone hitting the floor up above.
The cell phone is silent now.
No more shots are fired.
Ethan is bursting through the door now. Gun drawn and held with two hands before him as he rushes back into the stairwell. Rushing up to the next floor, he bursts into the hallway. Holden plants his feet firmly in the mouth of the hallway. His gun trained down the expanse that leads towards the apartment where Feng should be. But the Wolf isn't running. Not this time. It would be like Feng to bring help and claim he's acting independently.
And the Wolf isn't planning on rushing in and dismembering Feng in an emotional rage. Feng doesn't deserve his wrath, he deserves a cold calculated defeat. Making his way down the hall at a slow stalk, Holden's weapon is aimed carefully at the doorway.
There's the sound of labored breathing from the apartment on the 20th floor. A whine of pain and a scrape of someone crawling across the floor. Police sirens are louder, more able to be heard. Given the state of martial law, it likely also means that military officials will probably be responding to a sniper taking roost inside of a tenement building.
Whatever Ethan's going to do, it's going to require haste.
The barrel zips around the hallway. He'll get in the apartment, find some weirdo, and Feng will jump out of a mousehole to kick him in the mouth. He's seen this movie. But there's not much to do. Curious minds are dying to know. So, moving closer a single shot rings out, bullet flying at the doorknob. Stalking forward, his foot comes up and thunders against the door.
Immediately dancing backwards and taking cover behind the corner, Holden keeps his gun up and level with his chest. Tucking his back to the wall, he moves low, going to peek around the corner with his barrel out first.
Only to find a young woman, probably in her mid to late twenties, short brown hair and broken glasses laying on the floor, a cloth gag tied in her mouth and arms bound to the arms of her chair by duct tape. What Ethan can already see is terrible, the lights of a remote detonator attached to the bottom of her chair, a half brick of C4.
Her chair was positioned directly in front of a table in front of the window where a laptop has been set up. The laptop is connected is a webcam mounted in the corner of the window, where a matte black rifle is mounted on a tripod with a second camera affixed to the scope mount. A metallic clamp is locked down over the trigger guard, with a mechanical device designed to pull the trigger, likely by remote signal. A few servos on the tripod mount allow it to be pivoted up, down, left and right like a remote control security camera.
The girl, having toppled over her own chair, is bleeding from the thigh where Ethan's handgun round perforated her leg. On the laptop, Ethan can see a video display set up, showing Feng Daiyu's smiling face in shuttering, buffering video feed. He folds the cell phone closed that he'd been holding up to his ear.
«Smaller. Older. Smarter.» Feng intones sharply to Ethan. «I took the leisure of calling in to the police in advance, before our game of cat and mouse began. You could probably get the girl out of that chair before the C4 blows, but then you'll have New York's finest left to deal with, wouldn't you?»
«Clock's ticking, Wolf.»
Ethan lets out a light sigh as his eyes track the woman. Holden glances at the young woman, taking a few steps into the apartment. Two years ago, a bullet would be in the head of the young woman, and Ethan would be long gone. But that woman is someone's daughter. Ethan shakes his head lightly, bringing up a middle finger at the camera. The phone is tossed out the window carelessly. A knife appears once again, as Ethan carefully removes her binding from the chair. Pulling her off the chair, Ethan throws his knife down.
Picking up the chair, the Wolf moves to the window. "Bomb!" He screams out, "Bomb, watch out bomb!" The chair is then flung out of the window towards the street below. That'll slow the cops down a bit. And hopefully with everyone scrambling out of the street already, no one will be in the blast radius.
Then the gag is removed. "Sweet'eart. I need you to take a deep breath. Then tell me your name."
Eyes welled up with tears, the young woman stares wide-eyed and trembling at Ethan. "Are— are you a— a c— a cop?" Yes, sweetie, the British accented man with a knife who shot you through the floor is a cop. "M- My— my name's Ashl— "
Words are list when C4 detonates mid-air, sending a shockwave into the building that blows out the windows of the floor below, demolishes the vehicles beneath the explosion, sending a concussive wave down onto the street from the explosion, blowing out windows of cars, knocking people off of their feet and causing untold amount of havoc.
The video geed terminates around this time, quite possibly because of the blast. Curled up into a ball and covering her head with her hands, the young brunette stares up at Ethan, tears smearing her dark eye makeup down her face. She looks younger up close, but probably a little older than Eileen, though not by much.
"I— I don't wanna' die," the girl whimpers, clutching at her bleeding leg. Outside, Ethan can hear the sirens drawing closer, the noise of a helicopter closing in as well. Getting out of the building alive is going to be difficult.
"No, love. I'm not a cop." Ethan states calmly. The explosion behind him gives Holden an amazing backlight as he stoops to slide one arm behind her back. His other arm gingerly under her legs. "This is going to 'urt." And with that he's standing up quickly. "I'm a bad man." Holden explains gently. "But I'm not going to let you die, Ashley." The Wolf urges quietly as he carries the young woman back into the hallway.
Making his way to the stairwell, Holden thunders through it before making his way swiftly down the stairs towards the lobby. As he runs down, his voice carries down to the woman softly. "D'you work Ashley? Or are you still studying?"
Her only response is a yowl of pain from being moved, blood running out of the open wound on her leg and down into Ethan's hand. Gritting her teeth, the young girl wrenches her eyes shut, arms hooped around Ethan's neck. There's a stammering, spluttering noise as she tries to focus on something — anything — other than the pain. The question, maybe, but right now all she can do is feel how much it hurts.
Whatever possessed Ethan to take the girl has to be something valuable, because with the bomb disarmed and Feng likely nowhere around, all she's doing is slowing him down. But if Feng hadn't planned for Ethan to take her, than perhaps he hadn't planned on the girl being able to relay anything about Feng to Ethan. Maybe there, in that insanity of Ethan's thought processes, is rationatlle: She's information.
Or, maybe, she represents every woman he's let down and failed to protect.
Maybe it's a little of both.
Down is easier than up on those stairs, but each jostling step shakes that wound on Ashley's leg, and her whimpering, keening whines of pain come in rhythm with the hustle downstairs. By the time he's managed to break into the lobby, shouldering through the door and out into the hall, both the doorman who had been downstairs before and the woman from earlier have both vacated the premises. The front door is blown in off of the hinges from the aerial explosion of the C4. Small fires burn outside where newspapers caught alight in the explosion. Glass is everywhere, and out front police cruisers are trying to navigate between snowbanks and parked cars to get an angle of approach on the building.
Overhear, Ethan can hear the roar of a helicopter, and the girl in his arms feels like she's getting heavier by the minute.
Sweat drips from his brow. A sprint up twenty flights and then a run, carrying a woman down twenty flights. It's a fuck of a worfkout. His breaths are ragged, his eyes over to the police trying to approach. He doesn't have much left in the tank. And Ashley is all he has to get information on Feng's whereabouts. He glances through the lobby, to the offices behind the lobby. He's not going anywhere outside the building. Holden immediately is moving into the offices. Maybe people are holed up in here, maybe there's an extra doorman uniform. Something.
Moving in, Ethan lets out a pant. "Ashley. I know it 'urts. I need y'to talk t'me." He practically pleads as his eyes search desperately for anything that could help him. The cops will probably immediately go for the upper levels without spending much time in the lobby initially. If he ffinds a spot to hide and can keep Ashley's mouth shut. He might have enough time to slither out.
Bursting into the back office, Ethan finds the security desk vacant. No one's here, and no one has been here since the shooting started. Papers are disorganized on the desk, chairs hastily pushed aside. Ethan's entrance drove people out onto the street, waiting for the police to arrive. Slamming the door shut, he finds little of use in this room, save for the fire escape access he'd been missing ont he street-facing windows. Accessed from the back of the security room, it probably goes all the way to the roof.
Not that the roof is a huge help.
"He— he picked me up at— at t- the pier," Ashley whimpers, eyes shut and her thin body trembling. What a girl her age was doing down at a harbor seems suspect. "He— he picked me up, he— he said— " The girl swallows worriedly, looking to the side towards the door, wrenching her eyes shut when her leg shifts and the pain becomes intolerable.
"I thought he was a John," is the last thing Ethan wanted to hear out of this girl's mouth.
Sweat drips from his brow. A sprint up twenty flights and then a run, carrying a woman down twenty flights. It's a fuck of a worfkout. His breaths are ragged, his eyes over to the police trying to approach. He doesn't have much left in the tank. And Ashley is all he has to get information on Feng's whereabouts. He glances through the lobby, to the offices behind the lobby. He's not going anywhere outside the building. Holden immediately is moving into the offices. Maybe people are holed up in here, maybe there's an extra doorman uniform. Something.
Moving in, Ethan lets out a pant. "Ashley. I know it 'urts. I need y'to talk t'me." He practically pleads as his eyes search desperately for anything that could help him. The cops will probably immediately go for the upper levels without spending much time in the lobby initially. If he finds a spot to hide and can keep Ashley's mouth shut. He might have enough time to slither out.
"How did y'come t'be 'ere? How did that man get you?"
Bursting into the back office, Ethan finds the security desk vacant. No one's here, and no one has been here since the shooting started. Papers are disorganized on the desk, chairs hastily pushed aside. Ethan's entrance drove people out onto the street, waiting for the police to arrive. Slamming the door shut, he finds little of use in this room, save for the fire escape access he'd been missing ont he street-facing windows. Accessed from the back of the security room, it probably goes all the way to the roof.
Not that the roof is a huge help.
"He— he picked me up at— at t- the pier," Ashley whimpers, eyes shut and her thin body trembling. What a girl her age was doing down at a harbor seems suspect. "He— he picked me up, he— he said— " The girl swallows worriedly, looking to the side towards the door, wrenching her eyes shut when her leg shifts and the pain becomes intolerable.
"I thought he was a John," is the last thing Ethan wanted to hear out of this girl's mouth.
Well this isn't primal.
Ethan goes to set the girl on the desk, trying to regain his strength. Feng was right. He is getting older. "I need y'tell me anything. Anything you remember. Was 'e with someone. Did 'e take you in a car, anything Ashley." Ethan pleads, looking down at the woman. "Y'saw whot 'e did. 'e just killed a dozen people for no fuckin' reason. The cops won't be able to find 'im. I promise you that. The only person 'o can stop 'im is me. So I need you to slow down, take a deep breath."
The cops will be breaking in any moment, but according to his ears, they're not in the building yet. Staring at the girl, his hands go up to take her hands gently. Giving a fatherly squeeze to them as he takes a seat on the edge of the desk. "Please Ashley. Y've got to 'elp me."
Stammering and trembling, the cold sweat that Ashley has broken out into is indicative of the onset of shock. Wide eyes surrounded by too much dark makeup stare across at Ethan, then down to her bloodied leg. It's going numb, and this much terrifies her. "He— he was— he was on a boat. He came— he came in on— on a f-fishing boat. It— he— he didn't— I just went over to him, asked him if he was— if he was looking for some company…"
Swallowing noisily, Ashley looks down to the floor, then back up to Ethan. "I just needed enough money to score some B-Blue Fairy, and he— he brought me into an alley near the wharves and— and he fucking drugged me. He stuck me with something, and— and then he tied me up with those plastic— plastic things and— and— " Pressing small hands down on her bloody leg, Ashley stares vacantly at the injury.
"It's numb," she mutters, trying to swallow again. "It's— I don't wanna' lose my leg. P-Please I— I need a doctor." Tear-filled eyes sweep up to Ethan, and the trembling young woman is now the least of Ethan's worries as the sound of a door being kicked in echoes through the office from the lobby. Barked orders are shouted out and booted feet are storming across a tiled floor.
Ethan lets out a sigh. "I'm sorry darling." Holden lets out as he reaches back to his holster. "I really hope you survive this." The gun comes down in a whipping motion at Ashley's forehead. Aiming to knock her unconcious rather than kill her. Once done, the weapon is held carefully. Dancing to the other side, a bottom drawr is opened and the Desert Eagle is tossed to the back of it. Dozens of cops he won't be able to outrun. Not like this. The drawer is shut. But a few EMTs?
The burn phone is crushed and tossed into the back of the drawer, Ethan glancing at the door warily. Any minute now. His knives come out. One with the sheath still on is tucked into the back of his belt. The other is bared before Holden takes a moment to stabilize his breathing. Ethan Holden has always done what he had to do.
The knife barbs through his side. Knowing whats important and where it is, Ethan essentially delivers a flesh wound to himself. The knife is then tossed into the drawer. Then kicked shut. Reaching up, Holden goes to dabble his fingers on the wounded woman. Getting her blood all over his hands, it's wiped onto his shirt, onto his chin. Blood is packed onto his face. If those idiots in the lobby are waiting outside, he needs to make sure he's not recognized. And then he's tossing himself to the ground. Head tilted back, pained expression, labored breathing.
And then it's time to wait for New Yorks finest.
Maybe two years ago, that's what would have happened. Maybe even a year ago, cops would have come smashing through the office door and been concerned for the injured. After what Andrew Mitchell and Humanis First did to this city, however, nothing is like the good old days. Ethan Holden finds himself presented with a black boot kicking down the door, and is violently introduced to the brave new world.
One Army sargent in gray digital camouflage comes storming in, a matte black tactical vest covering his torso. An assault rifle sweeps the room, spotting Ashley's prone body laid out across the desk, slouched against a closed window with a bleeding cut on her forehead from the pistol-whip delivered by Ethan. A concussion on top of her leg wound is likely going to put her in traction for a good, long while.
Behind the Sargent, four men in black combat fatigues are supplementary forces, private military designed to bolster the Army's ranks. These ones happen to have a white circle emblem on their shoulders with a red bird with wings outstretched, plumage on the bird emblem's head designed to look like a Roman Legionairre's helmet.
Redbird Security.
"Two down in here," The Sargets calls back into the hall, "check the upper floors. I want everyone rounded up, IDs checked. What's the ETA on FRONTLINE?". Outside in the lobby, Ethan can see more Redbird Security officers following Army command deeper into the building.
«FRONTLINE inbound in twenty, Sir.» Crackles over the Sargent's radio.
Five in the room. Six out. They're waiting for FRONTLINE. He's not getting out of here. Did Feng really win? Oh, this sucks. Ethan lets out a grunt, hand raising up and trembling above his stomach. "She's hurt.. Help her." The accent is a flawless American one as Ethan slides into his cover ID flawlessly. Go on, Jonathan Wells. See if you can get out of here.
His hand drops back to his stomach as he writhes to one side. The pain is manageable. He didn't injure himself too badly. He should be able to operate on top of it but… Apparently it's not going to help him out of here.
"Don't move!" is an asshole thing to say to someone who is injured and asking for help, but the paranoid military forces have seen too many instances of terrorists playing possum. One of the Redbird security team moves in and trains his assault rifle down on Ethan, while another steps closer to the desk where Ashley is knocked out. He reaches up to his radio, squeezing the call trigger as he lowers his rifle down.
"We need medical up in here, we have injured civilians. Wait until we give the all-clear." While that Redbird officer is informing command outside, another is watching the door to the hall, that sound of a helicopter drawing closer. The pain in Ethan's side seems to radiate a throbbing sensation in rhythm with the sound of boots storming up stairs that cross over the office.
Ethan could try to fight his way out. Hope that there aren't more soldiers surrounding the sight of the sniper attack than he has bullets. Hope that FRONTLINE doesn't arrive too soon. Hope that Feng isn't waiting to take advantage of this. Hope that he doesn't make a bad call, and leave Eileen without a father. It's funny how one girl's life can change normally simple decisions.
Sirens wail outside, crowds are gathering, and the bark of police on bull-horns are trying to keep the public at a safe distance. There's been few times in his life when Ethan Holden has been caught in a situation where immediate escape was not possible.
Thoughts of whether or not Feng won bring to mind that this may well have been a lesson. What was it Feng had talked about on the phone earlier? Being fooled by Grigori's illusion, shooting where there was no target, making a mistake?
Do you remember Moscow? Feng had asked. He was trying to prove a point here, and it was a lesson that has put Ethan in where he is now, and where he hasn't been in a very long time.
Captive.