Bellomorte 2

Ely reclined on the makeshift bed, fresh beads of sweat standing on his forehead. Mike handed him a towel and then reclined in the rooms only chair. A snap of pain rushed through the injured leg as Ely gritted his teeth and focused on the high ceiling above him and the woodwork that trimmed the upper walls. He willed his body to relax as each twitch of the leg muscle brought a fresh spike of pain.

Daniela nodded and reached under the desk for the bag. She cinched the top and then got a hand behind him to help push Ely to a sitting position and slide the bag in behind him as a cushion. He was breathing heavily and gasping, pain etched on his face. Daniela soaked the end of the towel and wiped down Ely's face.

Ely nodded and reached for the cup with a shaky hand. Daniela only partially surrendered the cup; Ely's hand shook slightly as he placed first one then the other around the cup, but even then the shaking was so bad that the hot liquid threatened to spill over. Daniela shot him a sympathetic look and took possession of the cup.

“Maybe tomorrow. Let me help for now,” she said as she began to spoon the soup to him. He swallowed slowly, feeling foolish when liquid dribbled from his mouth, but Daniela was there to wipe his chin and his stomach gurgled loudly. The soup was more than likely average at best, but at that moment it was fine cuisine as far as his body was concerned.

“No,” she laughed, “he's just this sweet guy who's always trying to prove he's useful or something.” She fed Ely the next bite which he dutifully swallowed before attempting to speak.

“The gangs have been around for a long time, usually killing each other,” she replied as she set the cup down and began to pour water into the empty cup. “A few years ago they got really intense, killing each other and there were a lot of innocent people killed too. The cops started to patrol less, there were assault weapons the gangs used and the cops were afraid. They regrouped, eventually, and came in with SWAT teams or something but the gangs were used to killing in the streets. Hiding in burnt out cars and abandoned buildings. The police never had a chance. There was a rumor about the Mayor or Governor was going to get military help, but we never saw any of that if it ever happened."

Pills rattled in the plastic container and Daniela handed them to Ely with his cup. His hand was more stable than it had been when she'd walked in with the soup. “Eventually there was all out war and one gang finally came out on top. They were ruthless, even killing the families of rival gang members, right in their homes. The police tried again to come in and stop them, it was all done undercover, but they pretty much abandoned this part of the city.” She sighed heavily, taking the empty cup back from Ely and sitting in the chair.

“Lots of people died. Rumor is that a few of the families of the cops that came in got killed, just like local folks here. Intimidation, fear for your own; that keeps people in their own neighborhoods. Then things were calm for about five months, before people started to disappear.”

“We had no place to go. This was our home, the houses our families have owned for a generation or more. Houses we grew up in, worked to own. Most of us here, in the library, have no other family but ourselves." She shrugged, "and where would we go? We're poor people, we still own our homes but we can't get to them anymore.”

"Just that. It used to be when someone disappeared it would only be a few days until a body was found, but then...people were never being heard of again. No one knows what heppened to them." She shook her head.

Ely lay silent and absorbed this, and at some point drifted to sleep. Daniela watched him sleep for a short time, once she was sure he was out she covered him with the light blanket and left him alone.

The streetlight had been dark for months, probably shot out and never replaced. Blazing blue eyes glared across the darkened street at the single story house whose every window boasted a bright light. Bellomorte crouched in the shadows of a burned out house, one that had been quite similar to the one he now watched. Four gang members had entered an hour and a half ago, which made a total of seven if you left out the woman, who probably didn't want to be there. There had been yelled greetings, loud music and party noises. All that remained now was the music.

His head rolled on his shoulders, relaxing a kink. He stood up slowly in the shadows, stretching each limb and awakening his muscles from the long wait. Satisfied his body was ready for action, he crept in the deep shadows across the deserted street to the vacant lot next to the occupied house. He moved quickly to the rear of the property and into the alleyway. With great caution he stole up the alley to the rear of the well lit house, and he paused behind the small outbuilding in the yard.

He peered around the corner of the small metal storage building and studied the back door. No curtains hung to obscure the view, and the room appeared empty. He moved slowly towards the back of the building. Three quarters of the way to the house, the back door suddenly opened. In a rush, Bellomorte pushed himself flat against the back of the house while a gang banger stood in the doorway, his back partially turned to the yard as he called out to someone inside. Moments later the man was joined by a second gang banger. Alcohol hung heavily in the air and both men lit cigarettes.

“This shit has to get moved tonight, they are expecting you. You need to hit the Jefferson pick up, ten o'clock and don't be late. They'll have a truck with goods, stuff we need. Use the money you get tonight to pay for the shit tomorrow, then bring it to the Fort warehouse. Be there by eleven or we come looking for your ass, got it punk?”

“Don't tell no one either. Sims wants this done quiet like, since that fucker is still out there cutting our boys heads off so everything stays on the down low, hear me?”

Whatever the response might have been would never be heard. There was a slight gasp as a blade passed through the spine and out the throat of the first man, and before the second could call out a warning a second blade bit deep into his neck, angled down down towards his chest. Bellomorte slid the blade free of the first thug and brought it down to meet the blade buried deep in the second to sever the head and a goodly portion of the neck. He paused to wipe the blades on the thugs clothes before moving to the back door.

He peered through the glass to see a single man, stoned and staring at the ceiling, drool running from his mouth. A small mirror lay on the table before him, a powdery residue clung to it. Gently he eased the door open and entered the house. The man in the chair took no heed, continuing to stare mindlessly at the stained stucco ceiling. With a dismissive flick of his wrist, Bellomorte laid the man's throat open. The body didn't even twitch, the sightless eyes remaining fixed on the crumbling stucco.

Using the loud music to mask his progress, Bellomorte stepped into the next room. Beer bottles, liquor bottles, and a cigarette haze hung in the room. One man lay snoring on a shabby couch, the butt of a gun visible in the waistband of his pants. With silent efficiency Bellomorte dispatched the sleeper before moving to the alcove on his right. Stretching one hand back into the kitchen, he killed the lights and then shut them off in the living room as well. The tiny hallway ended in a tee shape with three doors available to him. One, no doubt, was a bathroom and the other two would be bedrooms. Moving to his left, he gently opened the old wooden door, just enough to get a look inside.

A bedraggled woman lay sleeping, her nude body covered in bruises. Bellomorte closed the door and turned to face the other bedroom. Edging the door open he found it empty. As he turned back, the bathroom door opened and a nearly naked thug exited, tattoos standing out in the light from the bathroom as it spilled into the darkened hallway.

The gang banger seemed to realize the lights in the living room were out. “What the fuck?” he muttered and began to stumble forward to investigate. Bellomorte seized the opportunity, stepped in behind the man and raised his blade. Fortune, however, was not on his side as the thug caught the moving blackness from the corner of his eye and reacted with animal instincts, ducking and swearing. Bellomorte's blade bit through the plaster and buried itself in the wall. Extracting it in one clean movement, he pursued the fleeing man back to the kitchen. His quarry yelled, sounding the alarm to his remaining confederates. He quickly jigged to his left in the kitchen and opened a doorway, one that led to a basement.

Opening the door had taken the split second Bellomorte needed to get within striking distance and he drove both blades into the thug's back, both slipping between ribs and one striking home in the gang banger's heart. Bellomorte planted a boot in the small of the dying thugs back and pushed him down the basement stairs, freeing his blades in the bargain. Yells came from the basement and the metal on metal sound of guns being cocked and readied for business could be heard. Bellomorte kicked the door closed quickly as the first man appeared at the bottom of the stairs and fired a wild shot.

Bellomorte moved calmly, silently. He grabbed a chair and wedged it under the door handle, and then backed away. Two shots rang out, punching holes through the wooden upper door panel. Calmly he moved to the dead man, still raptly enthralled with the ceiling and wiped his blades on the corpse's clothes before sheathing them in scabbards built into his black pants. Calmly he reached into his breast pocket and removed a lighter and a small can of lighter fluid and began to methodically hose down the kitchen.

Two more shots rang out and a portion of the wooden door shattered, wood splinters showering the chair wedging the door closed. He set the lighter fluid cannister on the laminated kitchen table and drew one of his blades again. The basement door shuddered as a body hit it, but the chair held its ground. The door handle bent upward slightly; it wouldn't take many hits. An elbow struck the weak wood of the upper panel, making a sizable hole, enough for a hand to reach out and attempt to unblock the door. When the hand reached out, Bellomorte was waiting. The probing hand was a small, moving target and Bellomorte's strike was imperfect. Instead of severing the hand his blade bit deep into the forearm and struck bone. The arm pulled back in a hurry, the blade cutting more as the retreating limb rubbed against the edged weapon.

While the hands probing ways were over, the screaming from the limb's owner continued unabated. Bellomorte once again cleaned his blade and sheathed it, recovered his lighter fluid and began to spray the dead body at the table. Discarding the spent container he casually flipped the lighter's wheel and touched the flame it created to the corpse. Flames spread quickly and panicked screams came from the basement, accompanied by more wild gunshots. Bellomorte stepped through the doorway to the living room, and back into the bedroom and the sleeping woman. She was awake, bleary eyed and not able to focus on his approach.

“Who are you?” Her speech was slurred. Bellomorte grabbed her in a fireman's carry, which she protested weakly over, and carried her to the front of the house. The blaze had engulfed the kitchen and the living room carpet was feeding its expansion towards the front of the house. He exited quickly, dropping the dazed woman on the front lawn before melting into the night.

“Anything going on?” Carlo yawned as he approached Mike on the second floor of the library. Mike was perched on a chair and looking through an opening in the barricaded window that looked out to the side of the library.

“Get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning.” Carlo patted Mike on the shoulder and he nodded in reply. Yawning Mike headed down to the main floor of the library to seek out a soft chair to sleep in. Descending the wrought iron circular staircase, he noticed Daniela sleeping in a chair, muttering in her sleep. Her blanket had slid off her and onto the floor. She shivered and muttered again in her sleep and Mike smiled fondly at her. Completing his descent he collected her blanket and draped it over her, carefully tucking it to block out drafts. Her eyes fluttered open and she graced him with a small smile.

He felt mildly refreshed after speaking to Daniela, he always did. He wandered back towards the offices to check on Ely. He found him awake and sweating profusely, half off the make shift bed.

“Fucking hurts, wanted to get something for the pain. Gotta piss too, that soup from this afternoon...” Ely panted and closed his eyes as a wave of pain passed through him.

“Sure man,” Mike moved next to Ely and draped an arm around his shoulders. Ely threw an arm around Mike as well and together they hobbled to the bathroom where Mike propped him up.

“So what are you still doing awake, Mike?” Ely grunted. Balancing so that most of his weight stayed on his good leg wasn't as easy as he'd thought it would be. Not only that, any pressure at all made for pain in the injured leg.

“Yeah, to make sure the gangs don't try to burn us out or something. We don't think they know we are here, we keep lights off and stuff, but you never know what kind of shit they'll get up to.” Mike yawned.

“What do you do if they try something?” Ely asked, finally in a semi-comfortable position in which his body could be slightly less concerned with pain and somewhat concerned with emptying his bladder.

“We have some weapons downstairs, stuff we can use. Choke points like doorways and stuff, if we have to. The basement has a bomb shelter too, so we can hide if it comes to that.”

Bladder pressure finally relieved, Ely pulled his boxers back into place and leaned over to flush. He winced from a throb of pain, but managed all the same. Mike entered the stall and gathered his arm around Ely again, and for his part Ely gratefully leaned on the shorter guy. As they moved down the hallway, low voices could be heard coming from the office Ely had thought of as his room.

Bellomorte had left the burning house at a dead run, turning into an alley at the first opportunity. He pulled a small cloth from his pocket and slowed to a walk three blocks away, covering his mouth with the cloth to disguise his heavy breathing. He walked briskly, zig zagging to the Northeast and the Jefferson drop point the first of tonight's victims had mentioned.

Most of Bellomorte's nights were spent gathering information rather than dispatching the gang members as he could. Tonight had been planned for at least a week. After discovering the drug house, where coke refinement had been accomplished in the basement, Bellomorte had cased the house to determine the best time to take it out. The early morning hours were usually good times, and he rested appropriately to be fresh and ready to take care of business.

Getting the information about Jefferson had been a stroke of luck. It was something that wasn't planted as misinformation to trap him, and it had the additional virtue of screwing up the gang's plans and cash flow. The trick would be to see if he could capitalize somehow on the information; that money was available tonight, and items were to be moved to Fort Street. He sincerely hoped they were flammable items.

His brisk walk through the shadows had brought him to the alley behind the Jefferson street drop point, and the alley was likely the spot the deal was to have gone down at any rate. A single light burned at the rear of the small brick building illuminating a small loading dock with a box truck backed up to it. Bellomorte moved farthest from the light and crouched to regain his breath and study the scene. Two large wooden crates about five feet by five feet sat on the dock. The truck was off, no driver was visible. A man walked on the dock, out of the light, but marked by the glow of his cigarette.

The guard carried himself with assurance, an arrogant swagger that seemed to elude most gang bangers. Unlike most of them, he had his hair cropped close to his skull, his shoes were black boots rather than sneakers. More interesting, no bling. Every banger he'd winnowed from the pack carried bling, even if it was in their mouths. This guard was no banger. Interesting.

Now that his body had recovered sufficiently, Bellomorte crept forward, staying to the shadows and avoiding the cone of light to close in on the guard. The man leaned against the building and took a deep drag on the cigarette before casually tossing it. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and hit a key before holding the phone to his ear; speed dial. He crept closer to his quarry, reminding himself to be doubly cautious since he'd had no time to prepare and study this target.

“They're late.” The guard paused as the other person responded. “Yeah I will, but how much longer?” Pause. “Yeah, the guns are here and ready for them, cash too.” Pause. “I'll drop it in your trunk, then they make the deal tomorrow, I got that part. How much longer you want me to wait?” The guard eventually grumbled and hung up. He made less than a complete walk of the dock, which was only big enough to accommodate two trucks, and he paused to light up again. Bellomorte was on the deck and had a blade to the man's throat before he realized he wasn't alone.

“It's an undercover deal. We're trying to get to the leader, gain his confidence so we can take him out,” the man said in less than convincing tones. “I'm a cop, I'm reaching for my badge real slow like, real slow; just take it easy.” The man reached into his pocket and suddenly spun to break the choke hold and spin away from his assailant. He pulled a gun and fired blindly as Bellomorte dove into the warehouse door and into shadow.

“You vigilante fuck. You're a fucking coward, sneaking in the dark! Nobody knows you!” the man appeared to be losing his composure, “This is police business!” he screamed and shakily aimed his gun in the direction of the doorway.

Bellomorte knew he didn't have much time. He pulled a small balanced knife from a hidden sheath and threw it at the light, shattering it and plunging the dock into darkness. The gun went off wildly again and Bellomorte crossed the door to hide on the opposite side. Soon the guards eyes would adjust to the lack of light.

“Come out here you fuck! Bet you wish you had a gun, huh? Not close enough for any of those fucking knives you freak!” Bellomorte picked up a small piece of detritus near his feet and tossed it on the far side of the door where it made a satisfying sound. The guard wheeled the gun and popped off another round before swearing under his breath. He slowly moved forward, gun out in front of him, to the open bay door. The gun swept side to side and the mans eyes were wide with fear and adrenaline.

Bellomorte retreated deeper into the room, which seemed to be a disused warehouse of some kind. He stayed near the thick supporting posts and deep shadows as his hunter moved in deeper. Bellomorte knew he had to finish this quickly, if his handy work were discovered at the crack house too soon he could have more company than he could handle. The shoes of his pursuer crackled slightly on the dusty, creaky wooden floor. Making himself as small as he could he waited for the man to approach in the deep gloom.

"Dirty fucking coward," the man muttered as he moved noisily, feet shuffling as he advanced; gun moving from side to side and his eyes feverishly sweeping the room. A small creature, probably a rat, scuttled deep in the shadows and the gun swung in its direction. Unsteadily the man moved near an open box in the shadows; and he decided it was the only place his quarry could be hiding, so he lunged to the far side and prepared to fire.

With one giant lunge, Bellomorte thrust his blade forward and through the right hand of the guard. The gun clattered as it hit the ground and the man screamed in pain and began to stumble away; almost falling from the surprise attack. In a flash, the assault continued with a snap kick to the side of the knee that brought the man to the ground with a scream and a horrible wet squelching noise from the knee. The leather boots slowly approached the guard and the tip of one sword was placed just under the chin of the man, lifting it to face Bellomorte's eyes.

Entering the room they found Isabella, eyelids heavy from recently disturbed sleep but her eyes themselves bright and alert. Next to her in the dim light stood a man completely dressed in black. Bulges appeared all over his clothing, and two hafts could plainly be seen poking from the sheaths mounted on the thighs of his balck pants. His head was completely garbed in black as well, piercing blue eyes fixed on them as they entered the room.

Her words were almost unheard in the presence of Bellomorte. Ely and Mike stared at the man, eyes drawn in like light to a black hole, unable to look away. Bellomorte took a step towards them and fixed Mike with a glare, sharp and fierce. Slowly, as if the look had passed on a warning, Bellomote turned to look at Ely. Ely could have sworn the eyes went from flinty, icy blue to a soft, warm blue. A gloved hand moved out a little bit too fast to be called casual and cupped Ely's face.

“You look so much like Angelina.” His deep blue eyes seemed watery for a fraction of a second, but locked onto Ely's green orbs, and then Bellomorte shook his head slightly. “No, it's the eyes. You have her eyes.” He recoiled suddenly, stepping away from the young men and fixed his gaze on Isabella.

“I hit them hard tonight, move your valuables to the bomb shelter and the injured as well as anyone who can't move there quickly if needed. Things are going to get worse, I think, after tonight. Even worse after tomorrow night.”

“You will be careful, si Bello? Let me feed you.” Isabella hooked her arm into that of Bellomorte as if he were no more than a gentleman caller, not the lethal machine he was. He stopped once more and stared deeply into Ely's eyes.