by Samson Weld
Ash rushed into the living room, separating them with a wall. He pressed his back against the wall, listening to the other man cursing in Spanish as he raced toward him. Old hardwood floors made it easy to track his progress. He swung the AR-15 butt first, straight into the thug’s face as he rounded the corner.
A five round burst into the fucker’s chest, followed by another in his face, ended that threat.
One down. Three to go.
Someone opened fire from atop the stairs. Ash darted away from the wall as bullets ripped through it.
He passed into the dining room, filled with dirty mattresses on the floor. Into the kitchen he went, listening intently to the man pounding down the stairs.
Walls still separated them, but Ash aimed at the sound and opened fire. Bullets shredded the walls and plaster dust filled the air. He heard a pained grunt and the sound of someone tumbling the rest of the way down the stairs.
The charging handle locked back, so Ash ejected that magazine, flipped it around, and slammed the next one in. He charged it, ready to rock and roll.
This sucks, he thought, looking around the kitchen.
He’d expected to find Hector on the first floor. Probably in the kitchen. The backdoor was open and there wasn’t anyone to be seen. The fact one of the thugs was upstairs meant Hector was up there as well. At least he didn’t escape out the back.
Ash moved as quietly as possible, retracing his steps through the dining room and living room. Easing up to the wall, he checked the stairs. One Hispanic man in a nice suit lay dead at the bottom of the stairs, just a few feet from the first thug he killed.
“Two down,” he whispered. “Two more to go.”
Upstairs, Hector cursed a blue streak. It sounded like he was accusing someone of setting him up. A pair of gunshots rang out, and he heard a body hit the floor above the kitchen.
“Hey, Bobby, I hear them above the kitchen. Shoot up through the floor!” Ash shouted. “Jeff, there’s an idiot at the stop of the stairs, so shoot up through the ceiling and take him out.”
All hell broke loose upstairs. Ash opened fire as he charged up the stairs. As hoped, the thug guarding the stairs had vacated his dominant position. Hector and his last thug valued their lives just a little too much.
A fierce gunfight broke out the second he reached the second floor. Men and women screamed and begged for mercy in the rooms around him. Ash ignored them. He had to take out Hector and his goon.
The distinct sound of one, then another magazine being ejected reached Ash. He had just a few seconds before they loaded full magazines and cocked their pistols.
With a wild scream, he charged their door. He then heard the sound of both weapons being racked just as he reached the door, so he dove to the floor and slid into the room.
Hector and his man opened fire, squeezing off rounds at an amazing rate. Ash twisted toward them as he slid across the floor, leveling the AR-15. He pulled that trigger as fast as he could, watching round after round pierce the thug’s body. Unfortunately, he was positioned to shield Hector. But that didn’t save Osorio’s lieutenant from the rounds that punched all the way through.
Still, Hector was not out of it.
“I will kill you!” Hector screamed. “I’m going to kill your family!”
The AR-15’s magazine was empty. He knew Hector wouldn’t give him the time to reload, so tossed it aside as he rolled up onto one knee, pulling both Glock 17s in one smooth move.
“You already did,” Ash snarled.
They glared at each other a second, and then Ash pushed the ski mask up to reveal his face. He saw no recognition in Hector’s eyes.
“Don’t you remember me? You should. You murdered my wife and two sons.”
Hector gave a little shrug. “So?”
“So die.”
Ash opened up with both pistols. Hector returned fire, but he ran out of ammo after only one shot.
When Hector ejected and reached into his pocket, Ash rushed across the small room in a flash and kicked the vile bastard in the face. Then kicked him between the legs, before shooting him in both shoulders. Hector writhed in agony, his bones utterly destroyed.
Knowing he only had minutes to spare, Ash quickly searched the room as well as the one next door. He found five syringes with at least a little left in them. It looked like everyone upstairs was doing heroin, leaving the crackheads downstairs.
He swiftly injected four syringes into Hector’s legs, and held the fifth to the bastard’s throat, right above the jugular. He locked eyes with Hector, and pushed the needle into his neck, into the thick pulsing vein.
“Remember me now?”
Chapter 7
Osorio’s eyes popped open. The sun was up. And he wasn’t alone. Some blonde chick was snuggled up to his left side. He’d gotten pretty drunk last night and barely remembered picking her up at the strip club. What happened after they left the club was a blur. Still, he liked her cute asymmetrical bob. And her large silicone tits.
“Stripper,” he said, suddenly remembering her name. “Angel.”
He was naked. She was naked. Osorio felt an urge and tingle. I don’t remember what we did last night, but I still have this morning.
Someone knocked on his door before he could roll over onto her. Really, they pounded.
“What the fuck?”
“Osorio, we have a problem,” Consuelo shouted through the door. “Someone killed Hector last night.”
The drug lord woke up the stripper, gave her a twenty for an Uber, and sent her away. She was pissed, but after a look at his expression, she wisely shut up and departed. Consuelo entered after she left.
“What happened?”
His chief lieutenant scowled and ran greasy fingers through his hair.
“I got the call from Hector’s girlfriend around six this morning, saying he never came home last night,” Consuelo said. “He’s not answering his phone, so she was worried about him.”
“Maybe he hooked up with someone else?”
He nodded. “That’s what I thought, so I sent Rubin out to drive his route and see if he could find out anything from our people. Same time, I tried to call Hector while I drove over here. He never answered, and neither did Paolo, Juan, or Carlos. Rubin called me back a few minutes ago from the Oak Cliff house. He found the place shot up pretty bad, and the dead bodies of Hector and his boys. Gus was shot dead, too.”
“Damn.”
Osorio didn’t give a damn about the two-bit loser he’d hired to run the crackhouse. Gus could go to hell, but he’d grown up with Hector. They’d been friends since before they’d known what their peckers were good for, which was how you truly valued friendship where he was from.
“Any ideas who did it?” Osorio asked, a dozen names bouncing around in his head.
Whoever did it was dead meat. Creative ways to kill the bastard were already filling his head. Someone was going to pay very terribly.
“Not exactly, but…” Consuelo said. “Hector was the only one not shot to death.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, Hector was shot, but he was killed with a drug overdose. Rubin said he found five needles still in his neck and legs.”
Osorio’s blood ran cold. Did the one time he showed mercy come back to bite him in the ass?
“Potter.”
Darryl Potter was officially retired from the business. In reality, Osorio had run him out of business. Potter had gotten shot up pretty badly, and he’d barely survived. He had conceded defeat, gave his operation over to Osorio, and retired to a life of sex and booze. He lived in a very upscale neighborhood over on the west side of Plano, north of Dallas. Not too far from Osorio’s small ranch east of Plano.
“Killing with drug overdoses is his MO, boss,” Consuelo said, eyes narrowing. “You want me to go take care of him?”
“No. I’ll handle it. Get the boys together while I wash that stripper’s stink off,” Osorio said. “I’ll meet you out front.”
It didn’t t
ake long before Osorio was riding shotgun in the middle of three black luxury SUVs. The stripper was still waiting for her ride outside the front gate. She waved and shouted, but they didn’t even slow down for her.
Osorio had bought the ranch for privacy. He’d grown up and lived all his life in cities, so he longed for a country place. His dreams came true in Dallas, allowing him to buy a thousand acre farm.
Unfortunately, developers had begun buying farms and building houses. They’d almost reached his place and he’d already been offered considerable sums for his land. Indeed, the closer he got to Wylie, the more and more built up areas filled the countryside. And rush hour traffic slowed them down, too.
Traffic was pretty thick in Wylie, through Murphy, and into Plano. Osorio took the opportunity to check his pistol. He carried a Desert Eagle. The gold-plated .50 caliber pistol had a 7-round magazine. His ammo was all hollow points, too. Maximum damage.
It was just a short ten-minute drive to Potter’s place after crossing over Central Expressway and into West Plano. Potter lived in an older neighborhood, built before the days of gated communities. No problem getting to his house.
Potter’s house was a thirty-two hundred square foot single-story place, with pool and tennis court in back. The perfectly manicured lawn still glistened with early morning frost. They rolled to a stop in his circular drive.
Osorio left the drivers to guard their escape and led the other eight men to the front door. Consuelo started to kick the door open, but he stopped him.
“We are not barbarians,” the boss said, pulling on a pair of driving gloves. Everyone else put on gloves as well. Then Osorio rang the doorbell. The sound of stilettos came to him through the door. “See how much easier it is this way?”
The door opened to reveal a beautiful twenty-something redhead. He froze, since she was naked save for a pair of heels.
“Hi!” she said, sounding all bubbly as her tits jostled, distracting him for a split second.
“Oh shit,” Osorio said, rolling his eyes and punching her in the face.
The redhead never saw it coming and wound up spread-eagle on the floor before them. Out cold.
“Tie the cocktease up and toss her in back of one of the Escalades.”
The drug lord rushed inside, leading his men to the master bedroom in back. He found Potter sprawled atop his king-sized bed, naked, just like the pretty Latina going down on him.
Osorio growled as he grabbed the girl’s hair, yanked her off Potter, and hurled her back across the room. She cried out, but one of his men shut her up with an uppercut to the chin.
“What the hell?” Potter cried. “Don’t shoot!”
“Tie him down,” Osorio commanded. “Take that sleazy bitch out with the other one. Give them to Raphael. They can start selling their asses on the street for me.” He turned back to Potter. “Long time no see, old friend.”
Potter looked a lot older and thinner, all naked like that. He was only around fifty-five or so, but his hair was mostly gray. At least he still had it all. He’d shaven off his beard since last time they’d met.
“Debauchery has not been good to you, Potter. You look awful.” The former drug lord glared back at Osorio. He might’ve lost a lot of muscle mass, but his killer stare was still on point. “Consuelo, go check the garage for a toolbox. Bring it to me.”
Potter’s fury turned into shock and worry.
“What the hell is going on, Osorio? We have an arrangement.”
“We did, until you violated it last night,” he barked. “You should not have killed mi amigo, Hector.”
“I didn’t kill anyone. I haven’t left the house in three weeks,” Potter said. Consuelo returned with a metal toolbox in hand. He placed it at Osorio’s feet. “Why do you need that? Why are you here?”
“You killed Hector,” Osorio said. “Drug overdose.”
Potter’s eyes widened. “No. I didn’t. I’m retired, out of the business.”
“I think you want to come back in, and maybe push me out,” he said, opening the toolbox. He pulled out a Phillips screwdriver. “Who did you send to kill Hector?”
Osorio pulled a mallet out of the toolbox. He grinned mirthlessly at Potter and then moved the screwdriver to the middle of the bound man’s left thigh.
“No, please…”
Lifting the mallet, Osorio grinned at Potter’s horrified face, and hammered that screwdriver through his thigh, through the bone. The old bastard screamed and thrashed about.
“Aaaaahhhh!”
Very satisfying.
“I ask you again, why did you have to kill mi amigo Hector? Who helped you, or who did the deed for you?”
“I swear! I didn’t do anything to Hector, or anyone else,” Potter cried. “I swear on my life it wasn’t me.”
“Wrong answer.”
Osorio pulled out a pair of tin snips, and went to work on the screaming, bucking old man.
“Noooo!”
He cut things off. Nose. Ears. Fingers. Much more personal appendages. Potter never owned up to anything. All he did was beg for mercy and deny doing anything against Osorio. Then he gasped, eyes huge, and he was dead.
“I think he’s dead,” Consuelo said.
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“I think you made him have a heart attack. You think he was telling the truth?”
Osorio shrugged and tossed the snips away. “Yes. I guess it really wasn’t him, uh? I want you to find out who’s trying to run me out of business. And then we are going to kill him, his dog, and everyone he ever loved.”
Chapter 8
Chaos reigned at the crime scene. Silent, grim-faced men and women pressed up to the crime scene tape, while TV and print reporters shouted questions and tried to find anyone to say something.
Small pockets of people huddled together and cried. Some were pretty hysterical. Others stood back and shouted at the police, accusing them of being responsible. And of course, there were the crazies, there because murder and death fascinated them.
Bellucci got out of the car and followed Cagle through the crowd. He was good at making a path for her and avoiding the reporters. Ducking under the crime scene tape, they headed up the walkway to the house.
From the outside, the crackhouse looked a lot like Grandma Bellucci’s home in Queens. She loved her grandmother’s old house, and thought it a shame the owner of this place had let it go to pot. Bellucci doubted it’d been painted in her lifetime. The roof needed replacing and she noticed some rot on the porch.
“What do we have, Henry?” Cagle asked when they passed through the open front door.
“Crime scene,” he responded. “Is this your first one, after fifteen years on the force? Man, I bet your quarterly performance reviews are hell.”
While the boys socialized, Bellucci checked the first body. Hispanic man. Well dressed. Killed by multiple gunshots to the face and chest.
“They are hell, but mostly because my boss can’t find enough praise to heap up me.”
“Forgive my partner, he can be modest sometimes,” Bellucci said. She noticed gunpowder burns on the victim’s shirt. “Looks like this guy was shot point blank.”
He was sprawled on his back, face a bloody ruin. His chest looked almost as bad. His right hand still clutched a pistol. Fat lot of good having it did him.
“That he was,” Henry said. “His little friend at the base of the stairs, not so much.”
She glanced at the indicated body. Another Hispanic man, looking like he came tumbling down the stairs by the way he’d fallen. It reminded Bellucci of a ragdoll. His weapon rested on a tread halfway up and then she noticed all of the bullet holes in the wall and ceiling.
Hell, everywhere.
Must’ve been quite a gunfight, she thought. Then aloud, “Where’s your partner in crime? Jeff, right?”
Henry nodded. “Upstairs with the other three victims.”
The report did say there were five victims: four Latinos and one African-American.
“Did someone murder a Latino pop boy band?” Cagle asked. “Called Pop That Cap?”
The other officers groaned. Bellucci slanted a look at him and shook her head.
“You’re trying too hard, Cagle,” she said. “This is not Law & Order, so you don’t need to crack a joke at every murder scene.”
“So says our resident New York liberal, Miss NY Bellucci,” he replied.
“Sad, but that was still better than your joke,” she said, and the other cops laughed.
“Whatever,” Cagle said, turning back to Henry. “So what do you think happened here? Drug deal gone bad? Or were the Latino boys trying to rob the place?”
Henry shrugged. “They pay you the big buck to figure it out, Cagle.”
Bellucci left them to their banter. She walked all through the ground floor. The place was worse than filthy. Lots of mattresses on the floor, mismatched furniture. There was no food in the kitchen, but it was filled with drug paraphernalia. She couldn’t even keep count of all the used needles she spotted. The detective also noticed dropped bags of pot and some coke.
The clientele must’ve stampeded out when the shooting started.
The house might’ve been in sad repair, but it still had good bones. Shame. The city apparently had a policy of bulldozing crackhouses.
“Bellucci, stop playing around,” Cagle called. “Let’s check out upstairs and then go get lunch. I’m starving.”
“That reminds me, Henry,” she said. “What do you think is the time of death?”
“They’ve been dead about ten or eleven hours,” he said. “So, around midnight or shortly thereafter.”
She stared at him a second. “What took so long to call Homicide in?”
“Yeah,” he said, looking out the door. “No one bothered to call it in until late morning.”
Sounded about right. No one wanted to get involved. Gunshots in the middle of the night? No problem. Just keep your head down and don’t get involved. They had the same problem back home.
