Rise of a Phoenix: Rise of a Phoenix by phill syron-jones Page A

but sufficient to attract her attention. Her hands tightened on the pistol grip, her trigger-finger dug into the cold porcelain of the top slide. She felt her heart start to race as the noise came closer still, knowing that she had to be ready and focused.
    Boris moved gingerly towards where he had seen something. It may be nothing, he thought, reasoning that this place had not been used in decades. Rats! What if it was rats, he wondered? A shiver ran down his spine at the thought of the beady-eyed rodents, please don’t be rats , he thought, his weapon now beginning to shake in his hand, as he got closer and closer.
    McCall heard another sound to the left of her and she carefully dared to sneak a glance there. Edging round she saw there was nothing. She exhaled, and moved back to her position. As her back rested against the security of her hiding place, she felt someone standing to her right. McCall turned her head slowly; part of her did not want to find out what was there. Her mouth dropped open to find she was faced with a massive bald-headed man. Her breath left her body as he reached down and picked up as though she was a rag doll, pulling her close to his face. He breathed in her fear, and she glimpsed badly fitting teeth as he gave her a wicked grin.
    “I’m a police officer and you need to let me go!” She yelled.
    He found her mixture of fear and attempt at intimidating him amusing.
    “Hello, little fish,” he said, in a deep booming voice. “The boss has a surprise for you, do you like surprises?”
    She shuddered at the thought of what he meant, but then her eyes widened. He was confused, and she was no longer looking at him but behind him. Was someone there? He turned to look and a wave of fear washed over him.
    Samuel was the boss. He was a tall well-dressed man, and long white hair rested on his shoulders. He was Russian through and through, and after the Berlin wall came down in the 90s, he knew that it was time for change, so he came to America to exploit the enemy, and business had boomed. He brushed off his blue Italian suit that had cobwebs clinging to it from the stairwell he had come up; he knew he was safe at this vantage point in the presidential booth. Who knows, maybe this was the booth that Lincoln was killed in, nice touch , he thought.
    From up there he could see everything. A crash from the stage made him grasp his AKM with readiness. Had she given up? Creeping forward to the edge of the stall, he witnessed a massive bulk covered in rats heading for the exit and in its grasp was the woman. In his despair the massive hulk threw McCall to the side as he fought to remove the clinging rats from his back. Crashing into some chairs she rolled and made for cover.
    Samuel had little time for games. Somehow this woman detective had taken out all of his men, and the other cops would surely be not too far away by now; no, he decided, he would end her here and then he would disappear. As he raised the weapon to take aim, some sixth sense made McCall looked up and see him. As she stared down the barrel she knew that her gun was at the other side of the gantries—when she was thrown it must have been knocked from her grasp. The question was, who would be the quickest to fire?
    Her eyes darted from the Russian to where her pistol was. She had to try, for whatever she decided, he was going to shoot her, and if she could take him down as well, it would be some consolation. Samuel took aim, held his breath and began to squeeze the trigger as he saw McCall dive for the gun. He felt joy, he felt exhilaration. And then he felt something hit him on the back of the head. As he turned, he saw someone come from the shadows, race forward and rugby-tackle him over the balcony. As they fell, John Steel ensured that the Russian man was underneath, and would absorb the impact. A cloud of ancient dust rose up as they crashed onto cardboard boxes full of crockery and props. The English detective rolled off him, out of