by Bill Brewer
In spite of asking for it, Julie was shocked as she watched Vince dole out violence as she could never have imagined.
Diegert ripped the curtain from the bar above the window, handing the fabric to Julie. She wrapped it around her naked body, securing it toga style around her shoulder and waist.
Stepping over to Spencer, who was desperately trying to staunch the bleeding from his thigh, Diegert backhanded the guy across the face, knocking him from his seated position, flat on the floor.
“Judas, you fucker,” groaned the leader of the dying gang. “You really suck, you know that?”
“Yeah, I know,” replied Diegert as he took a knee and drove the barrel of the pistol into the open knife wound.
Spencer hollered at the top of his lungs. He swung his right arm in an attempt to punch Diegert, but that only led to his arm being twisted and placed under Vince’s Salvatore Ferragamo shoe. Pinned down and in excruciating pain, Spencer kept up the screaming, cussing and hyperventilating a lot longer than Diegert ever thought he would. Bearing down on the gun barrel, Diegert could feel the rigidity of the femur bone. Spencer felt the pressure as well, which took him to a whole new level of pain. For Diegert, the benefit was that Spencer was now silent. He gasped for breath but no longer had the energy to scream. “Are you ready to listen to me now?” asked Diegert. Spencer nodded wordlessly.
“Did Michael Kellerman have anything to do with this?”
Spencer’s face contorted into a look of disbelief. Diegert reduced the pressure on the femur. Spencer closed his eyes, trembling with relief as Diegert eased the gun barrel off his leg bone.
“Tell me what Michael’s role was in all of this?” demanded Diegert.
Convulsing, Spencer said, “He owes us a lot of money. He said we could have his hot bitch sister for the night. You know, as payment.”
The clenched teeth, furrowed brow and determined eyes of David Diegert were now set in the handsome face of Vince Kronig. The deadly expression spelled trouble for the long-haired man hoping to glean mercy for his admission.
“Hey man, you gotta call me an ambulance,” muttered Spencer.
“That won’t be necessary.”
“I’m bleeding bad here man, I might not make it,” Spencer explained as if Diegert needed to be made aware of the obvious. “Call them now, don’t fuck’n wait.”
“You are never going to hurt another woman,” said Diegert as he returned to his feet.
“What? What are you talking about? I need an ambulance like right now, and you’re talking about slits?” He groaned again as he rolled to his side and pulled his phone from his pocket. Smeared with bloody fingerprints, he attempted to activate it. Perturbed by the pathetic effort to call for help, Diegert kicked the phone out of his hand.
“What the fuck,” exclaimed Spencer. “I need help.”
With blood dripping from the end of the barrel, Diegert raised the pistol, firing point blank at the spot where the frontal and nasal bones converge. Splintered shards of calcium along with the bullet, shredded the lizard brain of the cruel and callous man.
Diegert turned to face Julie.
“Oh my God,” was all she could say.
CHAPTER 23
Diegert had to find his way back to Vince. He had to let go of the merciless fighter and re-engage with the kind and sensitive person he was struggling to become. With the iron-tinged stench of hot blood permeating the room, Diegert had to show Julie that he was not just a violent killing machine. Looking down to the blood on his bruised hands, he sought to conjure up the feelings that he thought Vince would have. He tried to imagine what Julie needed right now other than a quick exit. It was bewildering, because he just felt so amped up by kicking ass, but he wondered if she needed something more from him to cope with the intensity of the moment. At the same time, he was burning to understand what she knew about Michael.
He continued to look around the room, taking in the dead bodies and bloody gore splattered and sprayed over the killing field. The torn fabric of her evening dress was saturated in a puddle of Spencer’s crimson blood.
The posterior portion of Tomas’s head was gone. Light reflected in the pool of blood, gathered in the bowl of his cranium formerly occupied by his brain.
Ian, slumped against the wall, had blood covering his shirt from his chin to his belly. His head was flexed so far forward that the top of his head was where his face should be.
Looking at Harold he saw the leg angled awkwardly at the knee. The guy was motionless until he saw his chest rise and fall. With the pistol gripped firmly in his hand, Diegert stepped to the skinny guy and nudged him with his toe. The guy did not move, Vince watched for another moment and then nudged the deformed right leg. Harold bellowed as the hyperextended knee exploded with pain when simply nudged.
“Please don’t shoot me. Please don’t kill me,” pleaded Harold. Diegert didn’t care to hear any begging. He pointed the pistol at Harold and readied himself for the blast of the bullet.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Julie raising her hands to her face as she called out, “Don’t do it.”
The thought of not killing this dude never entered Diegert’s mind. This was the only guy who knew exactly what happened here. That made him an eternal risk. The only guaranteed way to avoid trouble was to kill him. It made perfect sense and it had to happen now. But what about him? What about fairness? What about mercy? Diegert never bothered to consider these questions, but Vince did. Julie peered through her fingers to see Vince lowering his gun and stepping away from the crippled man.
Diegert was drawn back to the Gulf of Tadjoura just before sailing into the Red Sea with Barney Pinsdale. On board the Sue Ellen they had Omar Pascal, NCIS Officer stationed in Djibouti, the city where Barney and David had made a port of call. Omar recognized Diegert as wanted in the United States and pursued him until Diegert kidnapped the officer and sailed out into the gulf, miles from shore. He then shot the man and dumped his body in the ocean, never to be found. Diegert and Barney sailed on to Greece without incident. The young Naval Officer was completely gone without a trace or any witnesses, but Diegert was constantly haunted by the ghost of Omar Pascal.
Pascal was a good guy and Diegert lived by a code which allowed him to kill bad guys. He’d overlooked this, and let the fear of being captured and prosecuted cloud his decision. Now he saw the face of Omar Pascal in large crowds, when riding a bus, or trying to fall asleep. A fellow service man, American citizen, and a decent human being snuffed out for convenience. Diegert wielded the power to kill with misguided judgment that made Omar Pascal’s death the most regrettable mistake of his life. As Vince, he did not want to take another action he would live to regret, so a little smile crept across his face as a solution came to his mind.
“We’re going to make this easy for the cops,” said Vince.
“What, how?” responded Julie.
“Mr. Immobile here is going to be the prime suspect in a deal gone bad amongst thieves.”
Diegert checked the magazine of the Beretta. Just as he thought, six bullets left out of a ten round magazine. Releasing the clip, he emptied it of bullets and put them in his pocket. As he stepped over to Harold, he untucked his shirt using it to wipe the grip of the pistol, removing his fingerprints.
“What are you doing? You gotta help me get out of here,” pleaded the skinny tech thief.
“Didn’t you see what happened to the last guy who begged for my help?”
Harold looked beyond Vince to the dead bodies of his partners in crime.
Diegert pulled the ceremonial handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and knelt down next to the sniveling criminal. He stuffed the handkerchief into the guy’s mouth, grabbed his dispositioned foot and twisted it farther, rotating the femur against the tibia. The joint strained but Diegert kept twisting as Harold screamed into cotton. An audible snap preceded the moment when the ACL gave way and the joint rotated even further. It was now completely useless for locomotion. Haro
ld was going nowhere under his own power.
Spitting out the handkerchief, Harold protested through labored, painful gasps. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Diegert grabbed Harold’s right wrist, splashed his hand into a puddle of Spencer’s blood and placed the grip of the pistol in the confused man’s hand.
Standing up Vince said to Julie, “There’s all the evidence the police will need. This skinny runt will tell a crazy story about how someone else did all this, but a bloody murder weapon and a room full of dead associates is damning enough that the power of our wealthy privilege will make that accusation seem absolutely ridiculous.”
Addressing Harold, Diegert said, “Give me your phone.” When the incapacitated wuss hesitated, Diegert turned his gaze to the disjointed leg. Harold, tracking Diegert’s eyes, extracted his phone and held it aloft to the handsome, but increasingly dangerous man.
“What are you going to do?” blurted the trembling thief.
“I’m going to get you some help. When I hold the phone to your face, you’re going to say exactly what I tell you. You got it?”
A sheepish nod, got a furrowed response and Harold added, “Yes, yes I will say whatever you tell me.”
“There’s been a violent crime, 132 Trumble Street in Brixton. The scene is inside the back of the building. You got that? You can remember that and say it?”
“Yes… yes I can,” stammered Harold nodding his head as assuredly as he could.
Diegert dialed 999 and held the phone to Harold’s face with his right hand as he placed his left on the ankle of Harold’s over-rotated and painfully dysfunctional leg.
“999, what is the nature of your emergency?” said the female voice.
“Ah.. Ah, 132 Trumble Street, Brixton. Upstairs in the back of the building there’s been a terrible, violent crime.”
“Okay, sir are you all right? Can I get your name?”
Diegert pulled the phone away while gesturing with a hand slash across his throat. Harold’s response to the woman’s question hung on his lips but the gesture caused him to swallow hard.
Diegert disconnected the call, put the phone on silent, made sure the GPS signal was active and placed the phone twenty feet away from Harold on the floral couch. Turning back to the whimpering wastrel, Vince took a knee and came in close as he said, “I don’t ever want to see you again, and you sure as hell don’t want to see me.” Gesturing with his hand to the carnage behind him, Vince added, “This is all on you. That’s what I want you to tell them.” As Harold nodded, the lids around Vince’s striking blue eyes narrowed. The frightened coward’s nodding was accompanied by the reply, “Yeah, Yes, I will tell them and you will never see me ever again.”
“Good,” said Vince as he stood up
Looking around the room Diegert cautioned Julie not to step in any of the puddles of blood as they moved to the door. Stepping into the hallway, Vince was surprised to see the seven-layer lady scuttling away from the stairs.
“Hey,” he shouted. She stopped in her tracks, slowly turning her dirt stained face towards the young couple.
“For $500 quid, we were never here,” said Vince as he pulled a roll of cash from his pocket as they descended.
“With $500 quid I won’t be here, when the cops come and I won’t ever come back neither,” cackled the joyful woman.
Getting a closer look at her as he handed over the money, Vince could see the years of hard living etched in her wrinkled face. This woman, who was probably at one time a kind mother and generous provider, was now trapped in desperate inescapable poverty.
Hustling through the shabby den of iniquity, Vince and Julie exited the building, got in the Audi and drove to the Kellerman townhouse.
CHAPTER 24
Vince had not entered the house when he picked up Julie for their dinner date. The building was a seven-story structure in Sussex. Using her phone, Julie opened the door to the underground garage. Vince piloted the A5 down the concrete ramp and found a parking spot amongst the dozen cars already stored in the beautiful wood paneled carport.
“Wow, this is nice.”
“Daddy really likes cars.”
“Yeah,” said Vince as he looked through the window at the MG, Jaguar, Rolls Royce, Ferrari, Porsche, and Lamborghini even a ’74 Corvette Stingray. He turned to Julie who remained in her seat wrapped in her curtain fabric toga. He held the two phones he’d taken from the scene.
Looking down at them he began, “This phone belonged to the guy with the long hair. The GPS has been deactivated. It can’t be tracked.” Holding up the other phone, which Julie recognized because of the tiger skin case, Vince said, “This one belongs—”
She interrupted him. “I can’t talk about that right now.”
She looked sad, but also resolved. She had to come to the realization on her own that Michael had so brazenly betrayed and worthlessly discarded her. The brother she loved and was so committed to helping had given her body to drug dealers in payment for a debt. She couldn’t discuss it until she had processed the evidence and absorbed the painful truth. “Let’s go upstairs,” she said with a wan smile.
As they stepped into the elevator, Julie pressed number four. When the door opened, Vince asked, “Your room is on the fourth floor?”
Julie replied, “The entire floor is mine.”
Stepping out of the elevator Vince could see that it was a full apartment. Living room, kitchen, balcony with a view, it was all spectacular. The furnishings were classic yet they looked comfortable. Glass, marble and granite surfaces perched above oak floors and lush carpets. It was the kind of place most people would be lucky to afford for an overnight vacation, yet the family photos, the pieces of art and the socks and shoes on the floor marked this as a personal dwelling.
“We own the whole building,” continued Julie. “The first floor is for business and entertaining. Daddy lives on the second floor, Michael has the third. Here we are on the fourth. The fifth is a library and computer center. On the sixth is the sports and activity area as well as the movie theater. The seventh is off limits. Daddy said to us, long ago that we are not to enter the seventh floor. The doors are securely locked. I’ve never been on the seventh floor. The roof is lovely though with a tennis court, a garden and a pool we use in the summer.”
Vince smiled as he looked around. Life on the opposite side of being poor was pretty incredible. Three people living in a seven story building that could comfortably house a hundred was the kind of opulence that drew resentment from him. Now he was inside with this beautiful woman, after this crazy night and his perspective was shifting.
“Who are you Vince?” asked Julie as she leaned against the marble counter of the kitchen’s island.
The simple question set off alarm bells in Diegert’s head. Did she know? Why was she asking this? Is she a threat? Do I just play it cool and see where this goes? Looking at her, in this lovely apartment, wrapped in her curtain fabric toga, Diegert played it cool.
Cocking his head like a curious puppy Vince replied, “What do you mean?”
“I mean who are you, that you can take down four guys and not have a scratch on you?”
Vince looked to his hands. “My knuckles are quite swollen.”
Her rising eyebrows furrowed her forehead. “Were you in the Special Forces or are you an agent of some sort?”
Shaking his head, Vince replied, “I’m an economist. We talked about this.”
“Yeah, but you seem to know a lot more about fighting than the economy.”
“Remember I said, no one knows the economy. It’s the world’s biggest mystery. A phenomenon that functions by one simple rule, supply and demand. All the rest is not understood until after the fact. I’m just a guy who’s trying to predict the future from what we’ve learned of the past.”
She angled her face to him as she shot a look of disbelief. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like a guy trained for close quarter
s combat?”
Vince chuckled. “I think you’re giving me a lot more credit than I deserve. I was just lucky tonight.”
“You disarmed a guy, killed three out of four while setting the last guy up as the perpetrator of the crime. That’s not the work of an economist.”
“I took self-defense at the Y, when I was younger.”
“I’ve taken self-defense. They don’t teach killing. They don’t teach you how to handle a gun. You demonstrated a whole ‘nother level of capacity.”
“Julie,” said Vince with a sense of concern as he stepped closer to her. “Are you all right? I think you might be in a state of shock. Do you feel okay? Do you want me to leave?”
They held eye contact comfortably, enjoyably. Slow smiles seductively forming on both pairs of desirable lips.
Julie said, “You saw me naked.”
Chuckling, Vince nodded, “It was unavoidable.”
“Our first date and you get to see me naked before we even have dinner.”
“I can tell you I was quite shocked.”
“And?” she said with an expectant smile as she shifted her stance, placing her hand where her narrow waist became a curvaceous hip.
“And… impressed,” said Vince reading her body language.
“So if I remove my curtain will you be shocked or impressed?”
With a moment of hesitation Vince replied, “Both.”
Reaching to the knot at her shoulder, Julie untied the pale fabric. The wrapping came undone and dropped to the floor. She was still wearing her panties, but that was all. Vince inspected her lovely body with careful eyes, amazed at the beauty she was sharing with him. Her torso was exquisitely proportioned, with breasts, waist, and hips exemplifying a feminine ideal. Her legs were long, strong and athletic. She was smiling with an assured sense of confidence that surprised Vince only because of the dreadful situation she had earlier been in, when forced into the state of undress which she was now clearly enjoying.
