I was dizzy.
When my eyes opened, I saw Andrik holding a black cloth sack in front of me. It had a drawstring around the opening and he was widening the hole. Jeff Dimeglio was taping my hands behind me. We were in the garage, with Jeff’s car behind me. There were two black Rolls-Royces as well. I looked ahead to Andrik as he smiled coldly. He had a scar on his left hand and maybe some fingernail claw marks under his right eye. Anna. He put the sack over my head but left the drawstring loose.
I saw nothing. My head throbbed. My chest and back ached. I heard a car door open then I heard Andrik say, “I will send some men with you. There will be no mistakes this time.”
Jeff Dimeglio said, “Whatever, man.”
Then I was forced into the backseat of Jeff’s LeSabre. My head was getting warm. There was no fresh air to breathe. I heard the driver’s door open, a body get in, then the door shut. It was Jeff. He was muttering to himself, annoyed by the help Andrik was sending. He didn’t need help, he thought. He certainly didn’t care for the Russians.
“I work alone,” he finished.
Just then the other three doors opened and bodies crammed in. My guess was three Russians and no more. Most cars didn’t hold more than five adults. The car started. Jeff Dimeglio sighed. I got comfortable and took a nap.
A sharp smack to the face woke me. The nap was fine but it didn’t cure my headache. I could taste the blood in my mouth right away. I could smell oil and grease and some other chemicals in the air. Nothing like women’s perfume. Nothing pleasant.
My left eye was swollen, partially closed. It stung like hell. I could see well enough to make out my surroundings. We were in another abandoned building, blue collar undoubtedly. Probably a place where steel and iron were cut and bent and welded. I saw Jeff Dimeglio sitting in a small wooden chair in front of me with a nine millimeter lying on the concrete beside his right foot.
I was in a chair as well. My hands were taped together behind me with my arms behind the back of the chair. The wooden chair was for a child. It was small and narrow, short to the floor, with most of its original red color faded away. I didn’t fit it well. It was very uncomfortable.
I saw the cloth sack on the cement floor beside Jeff’s shoes. His help wasn’t around. We were alone.
“Where’s Andrik’s men?” I smirked, “In the trunk, perhaps?”
He smirked back. “Outside. I’ll call if I need them. But I won’t need them. I don’t like them. I’m not down with all that torture bullshit they want done. It’s not professional.”
“Such a classy guy.”
“Not really. But if you’re going to kill somebody, I believe it’s best to just get at it, get it done and over with. Quicker the better. I don’t need all that on my conscious. I need to be able to sleep at night.”
“Can’t just buy a new mattress?”
“You got a real smartass way. I admire that. That’s why the boot-kickers are standing outside yanking their chains.”
I said nothing. I was busy planning, for once.
“You poked the bees nest back there, cowboy. Nobody does that to The Bear. Not without consequences. Not smart, man. What the hell were you thinking?”
“Same thing I’m thinking right now.”
“Still think it’s going to happen?”
I nodded. “I’ll kill him.”
“I hate to break your heart, but that illusion you have interferes with my reality.” He gave me a sympathetic smile. “The fat one paid me upfront. Done deal. It’s a business thing.”
“Why not find a real job? Can’t say paper or plastic?”
Jeff Dimeglio smiled. “Too bad I like you. Makes it harder sometimes.”
“I don’t like you at all.”
He laughed. He stood up and walked behind me. I stared forward. The nearest wall was about twenty yards away. The ceiling was high, full of holes. Light spilled in through the broken windows. The walls looked like aluminum siding, faded white. The cement floor had large dark stains everywhere. I stared at his handgun. It had a long silencer. I thought of the blood splatter on Sally’s wall.
Then he punched me in the back of my head.
He walked around to the front of me as I pulled my head back upright. It stung a little. He didn’t use all his force. “Russians are crazy. They hate cops. And they’re sick with their torture machines. Just sick. Plus they kick a lot. I prefer bullets.”
Another punch to my head, just above my right eye. I yelled. That one hurt. Jeff kept circling me. Punching me and talking. I didn’t care for his talking. But I figured I’d make it worth my time.
“What are they going to do with the women?”
He stopped in front of me. “Selling them to some Russian. He’s flying in tonight to take them back.”
Another punch. I recovered, gathered myself, and asked another question. “When?”
“Midnight.”
Another punch. A shock of pain. Another question. “Where?”
My head was knocked back the other way. I held back my scream. But it hurt. “Don’t know. I don’t plan on being around. They paid me to kill you and to get them a few more women. The fat one gave me a list. Told me to hurry up. Told me to make you suffer. A lot. You embarrassed him. I liked that. Too bad for you.”
I kept him talking, trying to figure out how I was going to get his gun and shoot him.
“What if I paid you to kill them?”
Silence.
“Double.”
Nothing.
“Triple.”
“You can’t be serious, cowboy. You don’t have that kind of cash. If you did, you wouldn’t be driving that old El Camino and dating that horse of a woman.”
“Triple. Final offer.”
“You don’t even know what he’s paying me.”
“Triple. For the last time.”
“That’d be close to five million cash.”
“Fine.”
“Where would you get that? Coffee can on top of the fridge? Get serious cowboy.” He got quiet then. I could almost feel him weighing the pros and cons. “You know I’d have to see that kind of money first. Can you do that?”
I nodded.
Another pause.
I said nothing.
“Must be your lucky day. Call me intrigued.” He laughed. “Maybe you’re a real cowboy after all.”
“I prefer angel.”
He stayed behind me. I felt him getting close to me. Real close. My left ear felt his warm breath as he whispered, “If you don’t have the money, you will suffer.”
I took a breath, leaned down, then quickly thrust my aching head back into his face with the intent of shattering his nose and sending bone fragments into his eyes. I heard cartilage explode. I heard him stumble and go down. I jumped and came down at an angle, cracking the chair’s legs loose and unhinging the backrest. I watched Jeff scramble around with blood pouring out of his nose as I used my hands to push my body upright and slid my lower half through them, bringing my arms in front of me. Before I stood, I grabbed a chair leg with both hands and stood like a batter with no outs and bases loaded.
Jeff came at me quickly. I swung. I assumed he couldn’t see what was happening until the chair leg was smashing into his ribcage. He screamed and went down hard. He scrambled to his feet, wiping his face against his sweatshirt. He was a mess.
Jeff lunged at me. I raised my bat up high and swung down hard, but I was too late. The hitman tackled me down to the cement floor and wrapped his thick fingers around my neck. He put his body weight into it, pressing down hard and squeezing. My hands were above my head, fumbling across the cement in a frantic search for anything to stab him with. I grabbed the first thing I made contact with. It was soft. I knew right away.
With both hands holding the cloth sack wide open, I flung my arms forward and quickly slid the sack over his head. I yanked hard on the string, tightening it. Jeff took one hand off my neck to attempt to remove the sack. But doing so allowed me to breathe again.
So I did. And I yelled hard.
“Get in here! Help me!”
Jeff Dimeglio struggled for a second, then stopped as my words registered. But it was too late. The door burst open immediately and the Russians sprinted in, sending vicious kicks to his head. The first kick sent his body sprawling backward with a loud crack. I assumed Jeff’s skull snapped from the first vertebra. The next few kicks finished the job. The flurry of kicks and stomps afterward were merely out of their hatred for cops. At that moment I was glad we had looked so much alike.
They paid no attention to me. I stood and turned away while they beat the hitman unmercifully. I freed my hands as the Russians continued their assault, probably waiting for someone of a higher rank to tell them when to stop. That wasn’t going to happen.
I turned back once to see Jeff’s body slumped face down across a giant black stain in the cement and the Russians taking turns kicking him in the ribcage. I could almost see the mess spilling out from under the cloth sack.
I scooped up Jeff’s gun and fired until the gun was empty. Eight rounds. At five feet away I didn’t miss. Three dead Russians piled down on top of Jeff Dimeglio’s motionless body. It happened quickly. But I didn’t feel any regret this time. I wasn’t turning cold. I wasn’t trembling. Instead I was burning with rage. Rotters got what they deserved. I did what had to be done.
Besides, I couldn’t take any kicks to the head.
I tossed the gun then checked Jeff’s pulse. I didn’t need to. It was just precautionary. He wasn’t the sort of guy I wanted showing up at my house unexpectedly. But he was as dead as the Russians with chests like Swiss cheese.
Time to go.
I moved quickly to the door, outside to the LeSabre, inside to start the engine, right foot pounded the gas pedal flat as my right hand slammed it in reverse, and the front tires left gravel flying as the car tore away from the building like a bullet Jeff wished he had used to begin with.
The sun was directly overhead. I had until midnight to find the women. But I didn’t feel safe. I needed guns. The only logical place I had to turn to was Sally’s. I was going to load up heavy there and maybe stumble across a clue as to where she was. I needed some help. I needed a miracle.
God, don’t let them die like Pamela!
I came across a road sign directing me to the freeway. I was about an hour north of Sally’s house. I entered onto the south lane ramp and stomped the gas pedal. I missed the El Camino SS badly.
I put in the Metallica cd and turned the volume up loud.
Handing out a strong dosage of road rage, I said, “Here I come.”
Chapter 21
The Hitman: Dirty Rotters Page 20
