As soon as he heard the chirps as the alarm deactivated, Caramarin stopped pounding on the door. The young stock man pushed the fire door open. Bad mistake. Caramarin whipped out the automatic in one fluid motion, smashing the barrel across the young man's face. Blood sprayed in an arc across the doorway. The man's nose smashed sideways. Caramarin followed with a left handed punch to the man's solar plexus, doubling him over, winded, gasping with pain.
An instant later, Caramarin brought the pistol's butt down hard on the back of the man's head. It hit with a sickening crack. The stock man collapsed onto the painted concrete floor at Caramarin's feet. A final kick to the head and the one sided fight was over.
Shutting the door behind him, Caramarin looked round the storeroom. Crates of lagers stood against one wall. Boxes of vodka, whisky and sodas neatly stacked against another. In the quiet, he paused to listen but heard nobody coming. On a shelf he spotted an old, paint splattered boom box. He didn't think the lad would be getting up any time soon but couldn't take a chance.
He pulled down the radio and tied its flex around the young man's wrists before stuffing a wad of blue tissue roll into his mouth. Then he rolled the lad onto his side and wedged a box against his back. Really he had no quarrel with the lad; he was just collateral damage and Caramarin didn't want him to choke on his own blood and die.
Caramarin opened the door to the corridor a fraction and peered down the passage. The cola boxes had been moved so the corridor was empty leaving a clear line of sight. He jogged down the corridor, CZ-75 in hand. He paused outside the manager's office. No sounds.
He tried the handle but the door was locked. Somehow, he didn't think anyone would be hiding in there so took a chance and carried on to the end of the passage. His heart pounding in his chest, all his senses heightened, he pulled the door open to the main club.
He swung the CZ-75 in an flat arc in front of him to cover every part of the large room. The nightclub was in near darkness. Hundreds of places for an enemy to hide. Behind the bar; behind the curtains on either side of the pole-dancing stage. Underneath the tables. Or just lurking in the shadows, waiting to shoot. Aware of time slipping through his fingers like sand, Caramarin knew he couldn't check it all out.
Keeping the wall to his back, Caramarin slid along keeping his CZ-75 pointing into the room. His eyes peering everywhere through the gloom, his ears like radar for any sound of movement. He edged along until he reached the door leading to the knocking shop rooms upstairs. Standing with his back to the door, he groped behind him for the handle. The door was locked. He took one last glance around the nightclub.
Caramarin turned his back to any threat and tried the lock again. Immovable. He thought for a second. Maybe he could return to the manager's office and search for the key. Always assuming it was there. And the office was locked, too. No, that would take too long.
If he had any element of surprise left, now was the time to lose it. Shielding his face with his left arm Caramarin shot into the lock. In the enclosed space, the gunshot deafened him and now he just heard ringing in his ears. He kicked the door. It quivered on its frame, another solid kick and the lock shattered and the doorway crashed open. It rebounded before slamming back again. He kicked it a third time and then ran up the narrow concrete stairs.
Remembering which was the girl's room, he ran down the passage. The door was also locked but it was only an internal door. No defence against Caramarin's powerful kicks. The door burst open.
"Come with me," shouted Caramarin, his head still ringing from the gunshot. A good sign, as the girl acknowledged him by looking up. She was sitting on her bed. Despite the cold, she was wearing only a stained vest and knickers. She was doubled over, one hand was clutching her belly as if she was in great pain. The other was between her legs.
Caramarin stepped into the room and held out his left hand. The girl looked blankly and moaned softly. Maybe she was frightened of the pistol he was holding. So he slipped it back into his jacket pocket, but kept a tight hold of its grip. She shifted position. Then he noticed she had been chained by the ankle to her bed. Fuck-shit. What next?
"I'll be back," he said. He ran down the passage to the room he'd seen the older woman come out of on his previous visit. A few of the other doors opened as he ran past. Young women peered from out of their rooms; one stepped into the narrow corridor in front of him. Not checking his pace, he thrust her back into her room, sending her flying backwards.
The older woman's door was locked. No surprises there, the way his day was going. He raised his leg and kicked the lock. Pain shot up his calf muscles and up his thigh. The door trembled on its hinges but held firm. Another kick and then another. The door flew open, its lock hanging from shards of wood.
Andreea was standing at the far end of the room, by the window. She was wearing a hideous orange sweater and black slacks. Caramarin jumped to one side as she flung a vodka bottle at his head. Just as well she'd already had most of it already as the bottle sailed past. Caramarin caught the bottle mid flight. He drained the last couple of centimetres left in the bottom. Two strides brought him across the room. He raised his fist.
"Give me the key. Now, you fuckin' bitch," he screamed into her face. Andreea recoiled but said nothing. He could smell booze and cigarettes on her breath. The woman said nothing. Then Caramarin punched her. Punched her hard. The woman fell to the floor, clutching her face. Blood flowed between her fingers. She screamed.
He was aware that a couple of girls were watching him from the doorway. At this point he couldn't care less if he had an audience or not. All one to him now. He gave her a hard kick to the ribs. She curled up. Caramarin hauled Andreea to her feet by her hair. Her hands flew up to her scalp. He saw blood pouring down her chin, staining her orange sweater.
"Want more?" he screamed again, right into her face. "You like a bit of what you gave her?" He drew back his fist again. The woman screamed in anguish into his face. Fuck it. He punched her again, full in her face. Blood streamed down from Andreea's nose, joining that from her mouth, her face a red mask now.
"Want more? Where's the fuckin' key?"
"In my bag," Andreea managed to gasp out.
Caramarin let go of the woman's hair. She crashed to the floor, once again curling up into a ball. She cried and moaned to herself. Caramarin spotted a black handbag on a cabinet. He picked it up and tipped it upside down. A purse, keys, lipstick, comb, receipts fell to the floor. He picked up the keys then crossed back to the woman.
"You fucking bastard bitch," he swore. Again, he grabbed her hair and yanked the woman to her feet. Andreea howled with pain. He dragged her out of the room. The other women stared at the scene, open eyed and open mouthed.
"Best chance you'll get, girls," he said. "You want out of this life, then go. Go now. Before Stanga or his mob come back. Go on, fuck off. Run while you can."
"Where will we go?" asked one, a tall woman with ash blonde hair.
"The cops, the hospital? How the fuck do I know? Just get out of here. Now."
He shouldered the women aside and pulled the still howling Andreea along to the young girl's room. The only one he had come here to rescue. He threw Andreea into the room, over towards the green locker.
"Open it, you cunt," he told her. The woman fumbled with the lock, then opened the door. Immediately, the stench in the room got worse. Nobody had taken the trouble to clean it out since. And that poor girl had been locked in there for God knows how long. Fucking hell, what a life.
"In! Now!" The older woman looked at him. Fury mixed in with her terror.
"No, no," Andreea whined through her mask of blood.
Caramarin thrust her into the locker.
"This is from me," said Caramarin. He spat on her face. Then he took out Narcisa's little digital camera and snapped off several shots of the room, the chained girl and lastly the older woman in the locker. Andreea covered her face with her arm until Caramarin knocked it away.
Slamming the door shut, he banged her elbow. He locked it. Locked it tight. The woman's cries echoed from within her metal box. He turned to the young woman. She was still sitting on the bed. Caramarin was glad that the girl was not so far gone in her own world that she hadn't noticed what had just happened in front of her. He knelt before her and tried the only suitable key on the ring. The padlock snapped open and the young woman stood. She blinked several times.
"Come on," he said, gently. "Trust me. You'll be all right now." He took her hand and led her out of her room. She followed meekly. Other women still hung about the corridor.
"Go on, leave," Caramarin said to them more quietly now. Adrenaline started to dump out of his system, leaving him feeling weak and shaky. He half led, half pulled the young woman along the corridor and down the concrete stairs. Only then did he notice that she was barefoot. No, nothing he could do about it now.
He paused at the foot of the stairs, and pulled the door open as quietly as he could with the pistol's barrel. The nightclub still seemed empty so he stepped out, swinging the pistol around, trying to cover every shadow at the same time. An impossible task. Was there really no-one there?
Caramarin stepped out into the club, half-expecting a sniper's bullet to doom him. Expecting an instant of total pain before stepping off into the great beyond. He paused. Nothing. Taking hold of the girl's hand, he guided her around the tables to the corridor leading to the store room and fire exit. She followed, eyes still blank, not taking anything in. But at least she obeyed, not making any trouble.
As he passed, Caramarin wondered if it was worth breaking into the manager's office but decided he had no time. Don't push your luck. He led the woman through the store room. She glanced at the tied up young man. He was starting to move around. That was a good sign. Now it didn't matter, Caramarin took a moment to pull the gag out of the man's mouth. He flung the sodden wad over to the other end of the room. The young man had never done him any harm and he didn't want the lad choking on him.
Caramarin pushed open the fire door to the outside world. The fresh air, even with lingering traffic fumes smelled so much better than the squalid club. There was no sign of anyone and Caramarin couldn't believe his luck was still in. He thumbed through the keys on their ring and chose the Subaru's car key. He ran to the sports car and opened both doors.
"Let's get movin'!"