For the first portion of this chapter, refer to this link.
Roaring, Booker ripped his hand away from the second officer and sank his elbow into the gut of the man pressing him against the wall. He grunted and jackknifed forward as Booker brought his knee up and rammed it into his skull. Spinning around, snarling, Booker kicked the second officer in the groin, tackled him around the waist, and shoved him against a partition pillar, which splintered like a broken bone. Teeth gaping. Little needles prodding the air.
“You bastards,” Booker screamed, punching the police officer in the face once, twice, three times, molding his mouth into a bloody pulp. From behind, someone snatched tufts of his hair and jerked his head back, snapping his neck to one side violently. Booker fell into the wet bar, away from the police officer – neat lines of bottles toppling over like toy soldiers and shattering on the ground, bleeding inebriation – and felt broken glass rip into his forehead. Bleeding, gasping, he stumbled to his feet and turned around.
There was a popping sound.
And two darts – boiling with electricity, singing painful choruses through the air – punctured his side.
Booker vision exploded into a trillion white hot marbles and he opened his mouth to scream, but didn't hear anything come out. Every muscle in his body was suddenly alive, pulsing, jumping, twitching, frozen as electricity from the Taser needles in his side ravaged his frame. His fingers curled. His spine arched. And voiceless screams caught fire in his throat, burning like acid as they collided with each other.
Then it stopped.
Booker's back slammed against the wall and he shrank to the floor. Blurred and stumbling, the second police officer moved towards him, slurred words tripping out of his mouth and into the receiver of the radio held up to his mouth.
“Yeah. I need some back-up ASAP. Dom is down. Bleeding like hell. I got the stupid hump down, but jeez, he put up a fight.”
A stream of muffled jargon and static slipped from the radio like grains of sand in response.
Booker's eyesight jumped erratically, skipping as he tried to lift his hand, pull the needles out, escape. For God's sake, he needed to get away! His arms, his legs, his hands – unresponding cement stumps – all screamed for asphalt and pounding footsteps and pounding heartbeats.
Prison.
He couldn't go to prison.
Not with his wife in the hospital and a newborn kid in her arms.
As the police officer knelt to examine his fallen partner, Booker twitched his fingers. One at a time, sweat breaking out at his hairline and slipping down his face like blood from open pores. He played piano with them. Tapping, injecting life back into them.
Before Eating Apples Drink Good Claret for the flats.
He had to get out!
He could feel the temporary paralysis shrinking up his arms, flowing towards his chest, and draining out of his mouth as staccato gasps. Now his wrist. Playing piano and massaging his wrist. Pain screamed at him as he lifted his arms – his forehead exploding – and touched the needles shoved into his side.
The police officer got up.
In the distance, police sirens sang with ugly dissonance.
“Dirty bastard,” the officer hissed, walking over to him. “Won yourself another ten years with that stupid stunt.”
He screamed as he yanked the Taser needles from his side and threw them back at the approaching officer. Every inch of skin was bleeding. He was lying on broken glass and pools of alcohol that smelled like burning hair and electricity and turpentine, and sobbing as his skin caught fire.
The police officer stopped.
And began pulling a baton from his belt.
Out! He had to get –
Now.
Mustering all his strength, roaring like Eva, Booker lashed out with both legs, catching the man in the shins with a sweet, musical crunching sound. He pushed himself up, lost his balance, and fell over. Panting, he pushed himself up again onto his hands and knees and began crawling forward, towards the Taser lying fallen, inches away from the officers hand. The world spun with all the grace of a ballroom dancer executing waltz steps.
Booker felt like throwing up.
With a grunt, the officer punched him in the face and stumbled to his feet. Drooling blood and spit, his head crunching like an eggshell, Booker wrapped a hand around the man's ankle and pulled back, sending him crashing heavily into the wall behind him. Booker snatched the Taser, ripped off the air cartridge, pushed himself up shakily and fell on top of the other man, ramming the weapon against the bridge of the other's nose. The officer let out a ragged gasp and blood blossomed across his face like crimson olive oil. Booker snarled and punched him again.
And held down the trigger of the gun.
It's teeth – grinning – sparked lazily.
“Dirty bastard,” he spat and plunged the Taser into the man's chest.
Once. Twice. Three times. Each hit arching the man's spine, twitching his fingers, controlling his body like the wires of some puppeteer.
Little gasps. Lyrical noises.
Booker pushed himself away from the unconscious man and threw the Taser against the wall, rising on unsteady legs. The sirens were blowing holes through his door, through his eardrums, boiling in the parking lot. Heralding the city's finest: big men with high caliber guns and flashing badges.
Tripping over upturned furniture and the police officer's body, Booker ran – loped – for the back door. Voices whispered to him as he gritted his teeth and sobbed and crashed through the kitchen. They gathered in his ears quietly and bled into a thin stream of words.
He burst through the back door and staggered down the iron steps, the evening air bathing him with rough hands.
Don't leave me, Booker.
He heard the back-up team flood into the apartment through the front door, screaming, yelling, hunched over their guns and shouldering their way into vacant rooms.
Eva...Eva! I had to! I swear, I'm sorry. Forgive me! Please forgive me. I'm not my father, I'm not a killer!
Lights scintillated in the distance – sparkling under smoggy veils – as Booker ducked around a corner and ran for the parking lot, for his Mercedes.
Of course not. Just...don't leave.
Tears and sweat creating cocktails on his face, blurring the sleek, black car in front of him. His bloody hands slipped on the door handle.
I had to!
Those last words vibrated through his mind emptily as he spilled into the car, gunned the engine, and shoved the car into gear. He waited for an answer. He waited for Eva's voice to respond as he painted rubber tracks out of the drive way, ignoring the police officers up outside his apartment door dropping to their knees and firing bullets at his windshield.
But there was no response.
Everything was silent.
Only his own words echoing inside the car.
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