‘Had he lied… or had they gotten something wrong?’
I HAD TO FALL
Marcus Rivera
prompt: blood
The first thing he really became aware of was his hand.
It took a long time for his eyes to focus on it… too long, he registered after the lines of detail started to clarify and lose their blurred edges.
It was near his face. He knew that much. He couldn’t really feel it though, and as he stared at it, eyes strangely heavy and slow to respond, he saw his fingers twitch just slightly. Closing his eyes for a minute, to give them a seemingly much-needed break from concentrating, he tried to think; tried to cut through the thick haze in his mind, and remember. Where was he? First things first…
He was lying on the floor; a hard floor, either wood or concrete or something very similar. He knew that much. It was cold, and uncomfortable, and slightly rough. He was lying on his stomach; he knew that because breathing was awkward. His head was turned to the left, bangs tumbled across his brow, and his left arm was bent at an angle that allowed his hand to be near his face. His other arm was out of his view, for obvious reasons; he couldn’t really feel that one either, but there was a definite, if hazy, tingle through his body that he could almost sense. He slowly became aware of the fact that he was wearing a shirt and tie… the collar felt too tight, even though he always gave himself breathing room when he dressed for work. But there was something else; something different over the top of it all. It seemed to encompass the majority of his torso, but ended above his belt, and didn’t cover his shoulders or arms.
A vest.
He was wearing a bullet-proof vest.
Why?
A raid. It took him a minute more, but he remembered that much. Other details were slower in their recollection, but that one seemed to jump almost excitedly to the front of his brain. A raid… on a warehouse? He took in a breath, eyes still closed, and realised that was it. A warehouse. Concentrating, he picked other things out from his memory; the warehouse was the stronghold they’d been looking for… the base for a group they’d been closing in on for two months. A suspect in custody had given them the details; the address and layout.
Had he lied… or had they gotten something wrong?
Wait… what was wrong? Why did he think…?
He opened his eyes. They only lifted halfway. They were too heavy… but that wasn’t what made his breath catch.
Why did he feel… damp? He wasn’t outside, and it wasn’t raining. Not only that, but it was a sticky, warm kind of damp. He grimaced, and tried to focus… tried to move.
Bad idea.
It had been a minimal shift at best; the slightest twist and lift of the left side of his body, and immediately, everything inside of him screamed in agony. The only thing preventing him from echoing that externally was the shortness of breath, and sudden dizziness.
The sticky, warm dampness… it had a subtle, bad smell to it, and oozed from somewhere beneath him. He could feel it now, like a puddle; a thick pool. He tried to figure out where it was from, the specifics, but he failed, his mind hitching and giving up on him as he tried too hard. He almost coughed, and clenched his jaw. Why was he bleeding? Why?
Gritting his teeth, he growled to himself… he had to remember.
The raid… they had come to the building; a group of them. Over a dozen strong, armed, ready… not ready enough. They had split up inside, groups and pairs… they’d spread out, checking the perimeter and working their way inwards; they had made a net.
But someone had made a net around them…
A trap.
It had been a setup. He realised that as he remembered something else with vivid, painful clarity, and his eyes opened anew, and he tried to lift his head to look around. A pounding weight in his skull kept him from succeeding. It didn’t matter. He didn’t have to look far.
Wiles…
His partner was laying not far away, with his back to him. As he fought to keep focus, he realised the other detective was lying in a pool, much like he was. Oh god, was he even breathing? He tried to summon the strength to call, but his voice caught and failed, and he managed a gasped cough instead, rough and scratchy in his throat like sandpaper.
They had been surrounded… no, not surrounded… not exactly. From the shadowed corners, they’d heard whispers of movement. And then they’d heard shots… singular, deafening cracks. And then they’d felt them. He remembered now… he remembered feeling the white-hot pain of the slammed impact in his abdomen, just below his ribs. The vest hadn’t helped; it hadn’t stopped the bullet. It had just given the armour-piercing round something else to plough through before it had cannoned into him, and knocked him right off his feet, leaving him on the ground to bleed.
He had gone down first. Wiles must have followed. He’d blacked out… he hadn’t seen his partner fall.
Was Wiles dead? He couldn’t be… he had to be-
Marcus Rivera stopped.
Someone was coming.
“How many of them are left?” The voice was male, and unfamiliar; deep and rough and commanding. His footsteps were confident and firm. A pair of boots came into Marcus’ line of sight, and he bit back a gasp of surprise. He didn’t even have the time to close his eyes and fake unconsciousness. The man knew he was awake. Darkly-clad legs bent at the knee, bringing part of the torso into the fallen detective’s view; hanging from a weathered hand was a gun… a Colt .45. Marcus didn’t even realise how bizarre that recognition was at that moment, as he lay there, breathing raggedly, defenceless. He couldn’t even clench his hand into a fist, let alone protect himself.
“Six,” someone else replied, and the black-haired young man saw the shifting shadow from the other individual. They were behind him, standing patiently, as if awaiting orders.
“How many of them are men?” the crouching one asked, and Marcus realised he was being studied… watched like prey. Dammit, where was his gun?
“Two,” replied the other.
“Hmm.” It was an acknowledgement, deep and resonating, and then he pulled in a breath, steady and assertive; “Leave the women.” A mutter of confirmation came from the other person, and Marcus struggled against a grimace and a slight groan.
He failed.
He felt eyes on him again, imaging the man cocking his head, like a hawk or an eagle contemplating the attack.
“Sir?” A pause. “What about this one? He’s still alive.”
“I know,” the man replied, and Marcus waited. “He won’t be for long though…” A dark kind of humour touched his voice as he added, “Look at what you’re standing in.”
Marcus’ eyes closed tightly. He heard boots shift behind him. As he opened his eyes again, he started slightly at the face down near his own; the breath he sucked in burned down to his lungs, and he gave a weak sound of pain. He tried to hold the man’s gaze, refusing to show his fear; that would be showing submission, and this man wanted that. Marcus wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.
After a minute of the odd staring-contest, the older man said in a level voice, “Nothing personal.” And then he stood, one fluid motion that carried his muscular frame up. With that, he moved away, and Marcus shivered as he heard their footfalls retreat, growing quieter. He looked to Wiles’ still form not far away, and his expression twisted in discomfort and guilt. If Wiles was dead…
A gunshot. And another.
Marcus started with each boom as he heard it. The hand near his face balled into a shaking fist.
And then everything went dark.