Page 208 - Hunter - The Vigil

“Okay, so they’ve only been in business for a short time,” Vince mused. He wondered how Agent
Carver had heard about the Russians’ activities so quickly. How much did Carver know that he wasn’t
sharing?
You’re talking about mass murder.
What did they do with the bodies?
Is there anything else I need to know?

A nagging suspicion prickled the hairs on the back of Gabreski’s neck. Shifting in the seat, he
drew his pistol and checked the safety.
“Let’s do this,” he growled. “Andrea, you sure you’re good to go?”

She insisted the paralysis had almost completely gone. “You damn sure aren’t going in there without
me.” The female detective was already at the sliding door, her gun hanging loose in her right hand.
“That’s my girl,” he said. “Okay, everybody knows the drill: we go in fast, grab the fi rst
Russian that looks like he’s got a clue, and we get out. Let’s go.”
Gabreski was the fi rst one out, catching a gust of wind and sleet full in the face. The shock
snapped him awake and sharpened his senses. Teeth bared, he crouched low and came around the front
of the van, falling in behind Jack Dean as the group dashed across the dark street.
Dean fi shed a small fl ashlight from his jacket as they swept up the steps of the tenement and
pulled open the heavy metal door. A reek of old cinders, rotting wood and feces gusted out, hitting
them in the face.
The foyer of the old building was full of shit, both fi gurative and literal. A cleared path
through the debris led across the fl oor and to a fl ight of crumbling stairs. Dean shone the light up
the steps, pausing to gather his nerve before ascending.
The wooden risers creaked and popped with each cautious step. Vince grimaced inwardly at the
echoing racket that preceded them up the stairwell. He wished he could tell Dean to kill the light
and conceal their position, but it was the only way they could navigate the treacherous stairs.
At the fourth fl oor, just shy of the top, Dean paused to let the others catch up. They waited,
struggling to control their breathing, and listened intently for any signs of activity on the fl oor
above. Vince heard the slow squeak of footsteps and some muffl ed sounds that might have been voices.
Behind that, a strange, thready note rose and fell over the other sounds — some kind of music
perhaps, or singing? Vince couldn’t be sure. Whatever it was, it set his teeth on edge.
Dean looked to Vince for the go signal. Vince glanced back at the others, making sure everyone was
ready. Andrea was right behind him, then Raimundo. Then, right behind the gang leader, was Karl.
Vince’s eyes widened. Hadn’t he told the kid to stay in the van and keep an eye on the suit? He
couldn’t remember at this point. Maybe he’d just taken it for granted that the reporter wouldn’t
be dumb enough to want to come along. It was too late to argue about it now.
Gabreski tapped Dean’s shoulder, and the detective led the way up the last set of stairs. The
top-fl oor landing was piled with even more trash and broken furniture than the other levels; the
current occupants looked like they’d been busy renovating in the last couple of months.
Vince saw only one door they could reach from the stairs, ahead and to the left. Paint peeled
from its wooden surface, and faint yellow light leaked from beneath the jamb. Now he could clearly
hear muffl ed voices on the other side.
The door looked pretty stout, but the wall and doorframe hadn’t been reinforced. Vince motioned
for Dean to stand aside. He took a deep breath, took four long steps and put his boot against the
door, just beside the tarnished brass knob.
Wood splintered with a brittle crunch and the door burst inward. Vince dashed through, pistol
ready. “Philadelphia PD!” he roared. “Get on the fucking fl oor!”
He found himself in a large, rectangular room, stretching off to the right. His boots scuffed
on layers of worn, moth-eaten rugs, caked with years of dust and grime. Flickering yellow lantern
light played across the surfaces of old, wooden furniture: tattered couches and high-backed chairs,
sagging bookshelves and dark, hulking cabinets. Frayed curtains hung from the tall window opposite
the door.
An old woman sat in one of the chairs to Vince’s left. She wore a black, severe-looking dress
and a lace shawl wrapped around her head and shoulders. Her skin was white as parchment, and her
large, bulging eyes shone like polished marbles in the dim light. Long-fi ngered hands fl uttered in
shock; Vince saw that the nails were thick and sharp.

A gaggle of young children were sitting on the piled rugs around the grandmother’s feet. They
wore new jeans, clean shirts and expensive shoes. Dark blood covered their pale hands up to the
wrists and was smeared across their pointed chins. The bodies of a half-dozen large rats were piled
on the fl oor between them, their bellies chewed open and the guts torn by small, clawed hands.
The children bared pointed teeth and let out a chorus of terrible, inhuman howls.