by Darcia Helle
Michael drove through the lot. Pete’s apartment was midway down on the right side. Apartment number 9. Could be on either floor.
It was after 10 and dark. The parking lot had lights scattered throughout. Not too bright, but they provided enough light for anyone interested enough to notice him. He pulled the Bucs cap low over his eyes. He had a pair of old sunglasses that he kept on despite the dark. And the car, of course, would never be traced back to him. Or anyone, for that matter. The plate didn’t actually exist.
Michael left the parking lot and drove slowly through the neighborhood. For about an hour, he turned down a variety of streets, finding his way, getting comfortable with all the roads. He didn’t anticipate the need to escape quickly but he liked to be prepared.
Eventually he made his way to Rafferty’s. This was probably not a wise move, since he didn’t want to run into Isaac. But he needed to see the Lincoln, to make sure the boys were safely tucked away for awhile.
The Lincoln held a prominent place in the front of the lot. Isaac sat in a nondescript sedan with another young cop behind the wheel. They were at the far end of the lot, beside a rundown pawn shop. Michael drove past. The road was busy enough that his presence didn’t attract the least bit of attention. Not that Isaac would have recognized him in the dark, in a strange car, at this distance. Still, taking unnecessary chances wasn’t something Michael was accustomed to.
By midnight he was back at Pete’s apartment building. He backed into a space that gave him a quick exit in either direction. Then, keeping his head low, he strode to the entranceway leading to apartment 9.
No one was outside. A few lights burned in various apartment windows. Music filtered out from nearby. Something he’d recently heard on the radio but couldn’t identify.
Inside the entranceway, Michael checked the doors. The one on the right had the number 10 boldly displayed. On his left, the number 9 hung crooked. He stood there listening. No sounds. That could mean it was empty. It could also mean whoever was inside was asleep. Or sitting in the dark waiting for him.
He knocked. Waited. Knocked again. Still no sounds from inside. He glanced around. No one had come out. No one looked in from the parking lot. He took the little pick that Sean have given him more than a year ago and jimmied the door open. Cheap door and cheap lock. He was inside in less than 30 seconds.
The place smelled like rotted socks. A sliver of light slipped in through the open living room blinds. Two minutes later Michael had completed a tour of the apartment, confirming that it was, in fact, empty. The bedroom, if you could call it that, had a mattress on the floor and a battered chest of drawers. No woman’s things in the drawers or the closet. This guy definitely lived alone.
Michael did a quick search of the place, looking for anything that might point him to the guys producing the kiddie porn. He found nothing. Pete didn’t own a computer. His drawers gave up nothing but a few overdue bills and a box of condoms. His DVD collection was interesting. Half of it was horror movies, Freddy and the countless sequels. The other half of the collection was porn. But all of it was adult stuff. Some of it still had the stickers from various video stores. Most likely stolen.
Michael positioned himself by the living room window where he had a perfect view of the parking lot and the outside entrance. The picture he’d pulled up with Pete’s information verified that he was the guy who’d gotten a blow job outside Rafferty’s the other night. The one who’d said nothing the entire time Michael had been inside the bar playing pool. The one who would die tonight.
Chapter 47
“Any word on who that bitch hired?” Lotto asked.
The cacophony of sounds faded into the background as Lotto stared his men down. They were all still shaken from Marcus’ murder. The man had been good at what he did. Cold. Efficient. Always on guard. The fact that someone had not only gotten to him, but had apparently done it with such ease, had them all watching the shadows.
Pete finally spoke. As was typical of Pete, he spoke in clipped sentences, using only enough words to convey what was necessary. “Rumors. Nothing positive. Might be shit talk.”
A waitress winked at Lotto on her way past. She was hot and his body immediately went on full alert. Damn, he needed to get laid. Knowing he couldn’t walk away from all this and spend a few hours having his dick worshipped put him in an even fouler mood. He turned his attention back to Pete. “So spit it out,” he said. “What are you hearing?”
“Ghost,” Pete replied.
Lotto waited a moment. Pete’s expression remained flat. The guy was like a damn robot. When Pete added nothing more, Lotto demanded, “What about a fucking ghost? You telling me a spirit got Marcus?”
Pete shook his head. “Not a ghost. The Ghost.”
“Shit,” Darius muttered.
Lotto’s stomach twisted. He grabbed his whiskey and drained the glass. “You’re talking the hit man? You’re saying this Nicki bitch hired The Ghost to take Marcus out?”
Pete shrugged. “Probably meant for you.”
Lotto slammed his fist onto the table. Wiz caught his beer bottle just as it tipped over. He placed it back on the table and said, “How does an ex-hooker working for a lousy women’s shelter afford a guy like that?”
“How does she even know a guy like that?” Darius asked.
Pete shrugged. “Rumors.”
“So I could have a hit hanging over my goddamn head?” Lotto snapped. “The fucking Ghost?”
No one responded. “Fuck!” Lotto sputtered. “What the fuck? Who is this bitch?”
“Just another whore,” Wiz replied. “I didn’t find anything that would connect her to a guy on that level.”
“What do we know about this Ghost?” Lotto asked. “Anyone ever see him? Know where to find him?”
“He’s an invisible man,” Wiz said. “Usually kills with a headshot.”
Darius said, “No one I’ve talked to even knows how to contact the guy.”
Lotto’s mood instantly grew darker. He’d been in trouble before. But this? The Ghost? That dude was lethal. Everyone knew the dude existed but no one knew who he was. How was he supposed to fight someone like that?
“We need to find that whore,” Lotto said. “How hard can it be? I’ve got the cops watching over my shoulder because of her. Fucking Isabel. Of all the bitches she could’ve hooked up with, blabbed to. Why that one?”
“I’ve been watching the shelter,” Wiz said. “She hasn’t gone back to work.”
“Fuck,” Lotto muttered. He called the waitress over and ordered another whiskey. A double. Then he turned to Pete and said, “She must have friends at that place. Someone there knows who she is. I don’t care what you have to do to get the information but get it.”
Pete nodded. That was all the response he’d give and all Lotto needed. Pete always came through. When it came to extracting information, Pete was the best.
“What about Jimmy?” Darius asked. “He’s got a kilo waiting for us.”
“Handle it,” Lotto said. “But I don’t want no activity around my apartment. Fucking cops will likely get themselves a warrant anytime now.” He rubbed his hands over his face, shook his head. “Nothing worse than having uniforms swarm your place, ripping apart your shit. But they ain’t gonna find a damn thing. And I want to keep it that way.”
Chapter 48
Michael leaned his head back against the wall. His hands were sweaty beneath the cotton gloves and his eyes throbbed after hours of staring out into the parking lot from the edge of the window. His methods of self-entertainment had about worn thin. So far he’d recited the alphabet backward, solved dozens of math problems in his head, and named all the states and their capitals. At the moment he was singing the theme song to The Flintstones. Boredom had driven him over the edge.
Headlights cut through the parking lot. A truck came into view, slowed, then pulled into an empty space. Michael gave up on the song and carefully studied the figure stepping out of the pickup. Definitely Pete
. And fortunately he was alone.
The guy was thin. Probably about Michael’s height, maybe 6’2” or so. Hair in a ponytail. Michael stepped away from the window as Pete approached the entrance.
The lock twisted and the door swung open. Pete stepped inside. He flicked the light switch on. Nothing happened. He cursed it, pushed the door shut.
Pete stumbled across the ratty carpet. Michael watched from the corner by the door. As Pete crossed the living room, Michael stepped behind him and said, “Don’t move.”
Pete froze. The dim light spilling in from the parking lot fell over Pete’s rigid body. Michael held his gun, finger loosely on the trigger, aimed dead center on Pete’s back. “Turn around slowly,” Michael said.
Pete turned. His face betrayed no emotion. He simply stood and stared. Michael said, “Remember me?”
A slight nod was the response. Michael said, “Lott wants a friend of mine dead. I came here to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
No movement. No sound. Pete stood like a statue. Not even a twitch. Michael had never come across a man so utterly silent in the face of death. Most of them attempted to plead their case. Many of them swore he had it all wrong. A few of them cried. But this guy only stared in cold silence.
Michael waited to feel something. Sympathy. Guilt. Fear. He didn’t. So he said, “Aside from the issue with my friend, I hear your boss is into teenagers. Porn. Sound familiar?”
No reaction from Pete. Michael wanted to shoot him in the foot just to see if the guy was capable of emotion. Instead he said, “I know Lott is a distributor. I want to know who’s producing the stuff. You give me that info, get the hell out of the state, and I won’t kill you. Interested?”
Pete said nothing. Not even a glimmer of a reaction. He wasn’t buying Michael’s offer, which wasn’t much of an offer anyway. Michael had no intention of letting him live. And Pete obviously knew that.
Michael let out a slow breath. Despite the darkness, he caught the movement of Pete’s hand as it inched into his oversized pocket. Most likely going for a gun. Michael said, “Don’t do it, Pete.”
The movement stopped. The two men stood less than three feet apart. Michael said, “Maybe you could give me one reason not to kill you.”
Pete’s cell phone started playing a muffled hip hop ringtone. Michael waited for a response. Anything. Finally the ringing stopped. Pete said, “You’re The Ghost.”
“I guess that would be me,” Michael said.
Pete gave a slight nod. That was it. No more words. No pleas. No last minute insane attempts to reach his gun or knock Michael down.
Michael raised his gun a few inches and shot Pete between the eyes. The sound was a soft pop, thanks to the silencer. Even so, the noise always seemed much too loud. Pete crumbled backward, landing with a thud in the center of the living room.
Michael crouched down. Blood seeped in a pool beneath what was left of Pete’s head. Michael reached into Pete’s pocket and took the cell phone. No one in the address book had names, just codes. And whoever had called had not left a message.
Michael left the phone behind for the cops to work with, then quietly slipped out of the building.
***
After Michael had left the house, Nicki took Chelsea out in the backyard. While the dog sniffed every blade of grass, Nicki fumed about being left behind yet again. Deep down she understood Michael was risking his life to protect her. But logic had no room in her mind right now. She was sick of hiding out, waiting for things to happen around her. She’d always been one to face the world head-on. This helpless routine belonged to someone else, not her.
Okay, so Michael knew what he was doing. After all, the guy killed people professionally. Nicki shook her head. On some level, she should find that disturbing. Then again, he did only kill bad people. That wasn’t such an awful thing. In fact, it could be argued that what he did was a public service.
All that aside, Nicki saw no reason why she couldn’t help. Well, one reason. She was being hunted. That could be a pretty good reason. Then there was the fact that Michael did not want her to be a part of what he did. Maybe that was another way of protecting her. Maybe it was about protecting himself. Probably both.
So, yes, he had reasons to keep her safely locked away. And she had reasons to listen to him and stay where she was.
Then again, when had she actually done what she was told? That look on Michael’s face when he spoke about the teen porn remained vivid in her mind. She could see how torn he was. He badly wanted to stop the people producing that crap. But he’d put her safety first. If those guys slipped off the radar, Michael would likely be haunted by it for the rest of his life.
Was that overly dramatic? Nicki didn’t care. She stood, called for the dog, and headed inside. Michael had been all too willing to sacrifice his life for her. Now it was her turn to do something for him. She knew her way around. All she needed was an hour or so. She’d talk to a few girls, get some information, and be back long before Michael.
Chapter 49
That one had been too easy. Killing Pete had been nothing more than an exercise in enduring boredom. The remaining three would not be that simple.
Michael drove slowly through the city, stopping at a 24-hour convenience store. He bought himself a bottled water and a Reece’s Cup, then sat in the car contemplating his next move. He should go straight for Lott. Lott was, after all, the core of the threat. And the cops could pull him in at any time. Michael needed to get to him before that happened.
The problem was that he had no plan, aside from waltzing into the apartment and shooting the guy in the face. That wasn’t exactly a smart way to play it. A plan like that, or lack of one, left him wide open for trouble. As long as the cops were sitting on Lott, Michael needed a solid plan before he made any moves.
Going after Lott and his men was not going to get easier. After tonight, whoever was left standing would know they were marked. That would certainly put them on guard. Maybe even push them into hiding. The one thing Michael had in his favor was the time to follow them, to choose the perfect place and moment. That and the fact that he knew his targets but they didn’t know him. An interesting game of cat and mouse.
Michael finished his candy bar and drained half his water. The clock on the dashboard read 3:12. Going about this logically was getting him nowhere. He’d end up sitting in this damn parking lot until dawn. Instinct would have to guide him the rest of the way.
He shifted into drive and pulled onto the quiet street. Ten minutes later he found the house he was looking for. Darius lived in an average neighborhood, in a house that might have belonged to anyone with an average income. Nothing remarkable. Neighbors within 20 feet on each side. A line of houses across the street, as well as behind. Not much privacy. No room for mistakes.
The house was deeded to Doreen Harris. Whether Darius rented it from her or lived there with her, Michael didn’t know. The unknown created a variable that kept him on edge.
He circled the block, then parked behind a church on the corner of the intersecting street. He switched off his engine and sat in the darkness. Nothing moved. No lights. No one around. He pulled his baseball cap low over his eyes, stuffed the gun in his waistband, and slipped out of the car.
The walk took him about five minutes. No one drove past. No house lights flipped on. So far things were going his way.
Darius, like Pete, was on the outskirts of this ordeal. Michael wasn’t sure what the guy’s place was with Lott. He had no real grasp on the guy’s life. He was going into this relatively blind.
He remembered Darius from the bar, remembered that he was soft spoken and had the kind of dark good looks women often fell for. He resembled Lott, which meant he was probably the other cousin. And he looked a great deal like the guy Michael had left in the trunk just days ago.
The garage was closed. One car in the driveway; a silver Hyundai. No lights on inside.
Michael slipped around to the back. A small pool enclosed b
y a screen, which looked more like a cage, ran half the length of the house. Lights inside the pool illuminated the water, as well as two people sitting on the edge. Michael hung back at the corner of the house, in the thick darkness, watching silently.
A female giggled. The sound of a teenager. The guy, Darius, pulled her close and ran his hand down her leg. She said, “What if someone wakes up?”
“I already told you that ain’t gonna happen,” Darius said. “My mother pops a sleeping pill every night. So ease up.”
“What about your sister?”
“Fuck. Will you stop. You’re blowing the mood here.”
Two people inside the house. Both female. Michael considered that, as well as the circumstances in front of him. The girl was young. Too young.
“I don’t know…” she said.
“Just a short dip,” Darius said as he tugged at her shirt. I promise you’ll enjoy every second.”
She squirmed away. “Tell me about that acting job.”
“Later.”
“C’mon Darius, tell me. You really think I’m right for it? What kind of part is it?”
The girl flipped her hair away from her face. Judging by her profile, Michael put her at about 15. If Darius had lured her with the promise of an acting job, he likely hadn’t told her it would be in a porn movie.
Michael slipped his gloves on. He flipped off the safety on his gun. And he waited.
“Course you’re right for it, baby,” Darius said. “We can talk later. Right now I want to see you naked.”
“I don’t think we should,” she said.
“Stop being such a little cock tease,” Darius snapped.
“I’m not.”
“Then let me feel you.”
“Darius, no,” she said, struggling to push him away. “Someone could wake up.”
“Not if you keep your fucking mouth shut.”
“Stop. I’m not ready for this.”
“Baby, you did this to me. You can’t make me stop now.”
As Darius pushed the girl onto the concrete, Michael crept around to the screen door. He gently depressed the button on the handle. It pulled open without a sound.
