Blood and Redemption Ch.1

BLOOD AND REDEMPTION

R.E. ANTCZAK

Chapter One

 Shadows sprawled over the downtown streets like spilled ink. At the far end of the block, a lamp post hissed throwing sparks like it was spitting venom. Behind me, traffic lights pinged painting wet asphalt in eerie streaks of neon.  

Up ahead, across the street, something moved—quick, sharp, just a flicker at the mouth of an alley. A beat later, the clatter of a trash can echoed from within, followed by a muffled curse and retreating footsteps. In the distance, a siren wailed. It was closing in, but not fast enough. The guy would be gone long before the cops got here. Unless I got to him first.

I tore across the street into the alley. There he was, standing next to a dumpster and in the dim glow of a porch light hanging above one of the doorways. His back was to me, his head bent over the purse he’d ripped off some woman back on Fifth.

I stopped a few yards away, watched him stuff a wad of cash from the purse into his pocket. I called out, “Give it up, you got nowhere left to run.”

The guy dropped the purse, started to bolt, froze. Guess he just then realized that the alleyway had no outlet. That is unless he wanted to try to shimmy up one of the fire escapes. By the way they sagged and teetered, not too smart. Especially for a tank like this guy-about 6’2, pushing 200 plus. He must have come to the same conclusion. He spun around, eyes wide and frantic, full of fear. Stooping down, he snatched up a glass bottle, smashed it against the brick wall and held the jagged neck like a dagger.

“You want me...come and get me!” He growled.

I stood my ground. “Put the money back, and I’ll let you walk.”

The guy hesitated, eyes narrowed, sizing me up. I wasn’t as tall—just as solid, more lean. His lip curled. Decision made.

“I ain’t putting nothing back,” he said, voice low, defiant.

I shook my head. Why did they always have to learn the hard way? I sprang forward, closing the gap in seconds.

The guy didn’t flinch, but his face betrayed him—twitching, grimacing, second-guessing. It didn’t last. When I was within reach, his jaw tightened, teeth bared, spit flying as he lunged. The jagged glass shot straight for my chest.

I twisted, sidestepping the thrust, snatched his wrist in one motion. Using his momentum against him, I yanked hard, pulled him off balance. He reared back, just as I anticipated. I swept his legs, twisting with everything I had. His arms flailed, the bottle neck thrown from his hand and his legs coming parallel with his head. The momentum would have sent him into a full backward summersault, but I twisted in the opposite direction, slammed a hammer fist down into the center of his solar plexus. The air rushed out of him in a hoarse wheeze, and the impact sent him crashing to the ground. I kept a tight grip on his wrist, jerking it up just enough to keep the back of his skull from splitting on the pavement. I wanted him down for the count, not dead. I had other lessons I wanted to teach him. Ones that weren’t so painful. Ones that would involve encouraging him to make better decisions and putting steps in motion to get his life on the right track- reformation. But even more important than reformation I wanted to talk to him about transformation. A transformation that not only would save his life but his soul-something reformation could never do. Not yet though. That would come later, after a few days of sitting behind bars, when this guy had a chance to get reacquainted with his conscience, soften up a bit. Worked for some, but not many. At least, not in my experience. Most were just too far gone. I hoped this wasn't the case with this guy.

I let go of his arm. He didn’t try to get away, just curled up on his side, hugged his gut and drank in small sips of the night air stench. The cops were approaching. Seeing their red lights streak across the shadows out on the street, I shouted, "In here!”

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