by Jeff Gunhus
Some of those essentials were on display when he opened the studio’s single closet. Hanging on wooden hangers were various uniforms. UPS driver, Chicago Police Department, Chicago Fire Department, Pizzeria Uno delivery, and several others. Alongside these were three tailored dark suits and pressed shirts. He pulled out one of these suits and the Chicago PD uniform, and laid them on the round table, where he both ate his meals and built his bombs. He stared at the two disguises, undecided which would be better for the job. He checked his watch again, then pulled the single chair up and sat in it to think.
This was going to be the most important job of his life. He didn’t want to fuck it up.
CHAPTER 9
“You trust this guy?” Mara asked, looking at the run-down pawnshop across the street.
“He owes me one,” he said.
She noticed him scanning the utility poles on the street. “Three cameras,” she said. She pointed them out. Two on lights poles and one above them on the roof of a mechanic shop.
“You missed the one over there,” he said, pointing to a blackened husk of a burned-out row house across the street.
She turned in her seat and looked the ruin over, not seeing the camera for a full thirty seconds. He watched her and gave a little cluck of his tongue when she finally saw it tucked into a shadow on the second floor.
“Details, details.”
She was mad at herself for having missed it. Not that it mattered since they were already there parked in front of the damn place, on display for whoever was inside watching. But mad because it was sloppy. And like it or not, she wanted to impress the great Scott Roberts. Missing a surveillance camera wasn’t the way to do it.
“Why don’t you wait here?”
“Yeah, right,” she said, opening her door and climbing out. There were a few guys at the end of the block, but they took one look at her and walked away.
“You look like a cop,” her dad said.
“I look like I need to look,” she said. “Figured the less company we had the better.”
He glanced up and down the empty street. “I guess there will be fewer witnesses if Harry tries to kill us. So that’s a plus.” He walked toward the pawnshop, slowly, his hands open and slightly out to his sides. Mara looked around at the empty windows in the abandoned buildings on the street, every one of them a potential hiding place for a sniper.
“I thought you said this guy was a friend of yours.”
“No, I said he owed me one. Not the same thing.”
The unmistakable sound of a pump action shotgun being racked filled the air. It echoed on the street, making it impossible to tell where it came from. “You’re damn right it’s not the same thing,” said a rough voice. “And for the record, I don’t owe you shit.”
The voice was easier to track, or at least Mara thought it was. Her eyes keyed on the spot where her brain told her the voice originated, only to find a small speaker attached to the brick of the pawnshop building. She suspected there were more speakers around just like there were cameras covering every angle on the street. Clearly, Harry was not the typical pawnshop owner.
“Harry, how about we come in there and we talk it over?”
A pause, then the voice came again. “Is that your girl? Mara?”
“How does he know who I am?”
“Yeah, that’s Mara. You going to let us in now or what?”
Another pause. Then a buzzer sounded. It was the door to the pawnshop, some kind of electric lock being deactivated. “Come on in. But that’s not a promise that I’m not still going to shoot you in the ass at some point.”
Scott held his hand toward the door, as if he were offering to let her walk in front of him as they entered a fancy restaurant. “Some friend,” she murmured as she walked past him.
“He has his moments.”
Mara ignored the comment. She reached the door and pushed it open with her foot. The inside looked like any other pawnshop she’d ever been in. A U-shaped glass case filled most of the floor space, displaying a wide assortment of junk from costume jewelry to baseball cards. There were rows of collectible silver dollars and an entire cabinet filled with porcelain plates. The walls were an even more eclectic assortment. There was a neon Budweiser sign that lit up only halfway. A deer head with a broken antler and wearing sunglasses and a straw hat. To her right, a painting of all the Republican presidents playing poker together.
The place had a feel like it was someone’s personal museum. It didn’t look like many of the items had been moved in a while. She had a sneaking suspicion that anyone wandering into the place would have discovered many of the items suddenly not for sale if they had the poor taste to actually make an offer.
At the far end of the room, behind the bend in the U, was a cabinet filled with guns. And standing in front of the guns, still brandishing one himself, was the owner of the establishment. And he didn’t look happy to see them.
* * *
The man was older than her dad, but not by much. It was hard to tell because his dark skin hid any wrinkles that might have been around his eyes, but that same complexion made his shock white hair and beard stand out all the more.
“Jesus, Harry. You look like a black Santa Claus,” her dad said.
“Fuck you. And the horse you rode in on.” He gave her a short nod. “Sorry ’bout the language, miss.”
“I tell him to fuck off all the time,” she said. “Why should you deny yourself the pleasure?”
That made Harry break out into a wide smile, his teeth mostly silver fillings, except for the front two, which were gold. “You don’t take no shit. I can see that.”
“Which is why I’d appreciate you lowering that shotgun,” she said. When the man didn’t budge, she followed it up with, “Please.”
Harry lowered the gun. “See, Scott? That’s what I’m talking about. Some goddamn manners.”
“Yeah, then she’ll punch you in the head when you’re not looking,” Scott said.
“You wouldn’t do that, would you?”
“Depends on if you deserved it or not.”
This got a genuine laugh out of Harry. The big man’s whole body shook, making Mara think of her dad’s comment about Santa Claus. A foulmouthed St. Nick that trafficked in guns and ammo in the middle of the Chicago war zone, but a jolly old elf nonetheless.
“I already like her a lot more than I ever liked you,” Harry said. “Your other girl this scrappy?”
Her dad’s eyes found the floor. He took a beat to answer. “My other girl’s gone. Cancer.”
Harry turned serious. “I’m sorry to hear that, Scott. I really am. Lost my wife to cancer. That whole disease is bullshit on top of bullshit.”
“Yes, it is,” her dad replied softly.
Mara fought the urge to point out that her dad didn’t know. That he hadn’t been there while Lucy wasted away to no more than a skeleton. He hadn’t been there when the smell of food made her dry heave until tears streamed down her sunken cheeks. He hadn’t been there when Lucy said goodbye to her son every day not knowing whether it might be her last. Cancer was bullshit on top of bullshit, but her dad didn’t have a right to pretend like he knew a damn thing about it.
But she held the words in check. No good would come from them right then, so she chewed the inside of her lip and held on tight, riding the surge of anger she felt until it dissipated enough for her to think straight again.
“I’m guessing you didn’t come for a social visit. Especially as how you’re supposed to be dead. Or locked up in some CIA black site getting the shit kicked out of you for all eternity.”
“You heard about that, huh?”
“I’ve got friends in the Agency still. I know things.”
“And?”
Harry shrugged. “You always were a rotten sumbitch, that much is a fact.” He pointed at Mara. “I want to hear what you say. You think he did all the nasty things they say he did?” The next words came out slow and filled with venom. The Santa Claus image
was gone, replaced by a dangerous man whose narrow eyes threatened violence. “You think he gave up those nine agents the Russians executed for all of us to see? You think he betrayed his country? And, here comes the big one now. You think he killed your momma?”
She expected her dad to turn to gauge her reaction to the question, but he didn’t. He kept his eyes fixed on Harry. She considered how best to answer. Was he looking for some validation that there was a chance he was innocent of those things? Or just that he could trust her to be honest?
She went with the truth. “Don’t know yet, Harry. But if I confirm that he did those things, especially the last one, I’m going to put a bullet through his head. So don’t think for a second that the two assholes behind that wall are going to beat me to the punch.”
Harry stared her down like she’d just called his mother fat. He walked toward her, hitting his shoulder against Scott’s as he passed. She stepped forward slightly with her left foot, putting herself in a better position if she had to fight the big man coming at her.
He stopped right in front of her, towering, standing at least six foot six and wide as an NFL linebacker. She craned her neck and met his stare, looking tough but wondering how she was going to be able to avoid getting crushed if he attacked.
With his eyes narrowed, top lip pulled back in a snarl, he reached back and pointed at the wall behind him. “What I want to know,” he growled, stretching it out, trying his best to intimidate her, “is how you knew Drey and Whitey are both assholes?”
He let the question hang in the air for a second and then burst out laughing so hard that she not only heard it, but felt it, too, as specks of spittle pelted her face. He noticed her wipe it off. “Oh shoot, sorry about that.”
Her dad turned and was laughing, too. The both of them having a good chuckle at her expense.
Harry wiped tears from his eyes. “’Cause they are assholes. Both of ’em.” He noticed that she wasn’t smiling. “Aw, c’mon now. I’m sorry, just having a little fun.”
The back door opened and two young men stepped out, each holding an M1 rifle. The muzzles were pointed at the ground, and Mara noticed their hands were in the safety position, fingers nowhere near the trigger. These boys may or may not have been assholes, but by the way they handled themselves, they were ex-military.
Her dad slapped Harry on the back. “As much as I’d like to watch Mara here kick your ass for messing with her, we have a shopping list.”
Harry directed him toward the open back door. As they walked, he fake-whispered so that Mara could still hear him. “She’s a little uptight, huh? Didn’t even crack a smile. That was some funny goddamn shit.”
“You’re an acquired taste, Harry. You know that.”
Mara watched the two of them disappear into the back room, hanging out like old school buddies. Drey and Whitey watched her, both of them with smirks on their faces, half amused and half looking like they should apologize for a crazy old uncle.
She sucked up her pride and followed Harry and her dad into the back of the pawnshop.
* * *
The real goodies were in a basement storeroom. To get there, Mara passed by the rows of M1s and AK-47s locked in cabinets faced with heavy security bars. She turned a corner around a stack of Kevlar vests and watched as Harry typed in a code on a keypad next to a metal door. The keypad lit up and chirped, but instead of opening the door, Harry stepped back and pulled away the carpet on the floor.
Beneath it was the real door he’d unlocked. She guessed the one in front of her was a dummy, or opened to a room with some contraband in it, but nothing special. It was the perfect decoy. What burglar or cop would think of looking for a second door when there was one staring him in the face?
The cellar door revealed a metal ladder that descended into a brightly lit room. Harry motioned Scott to go first and he obliged. He motioned for Mara next, but she hesitated. She didn’t know this man, nor did she know what was waiting for her at the bottom of the ladder. As far as she knew, Harry’s plan was to just slam the door behind them, call his buddies at the CIA, and turn them in.
Her concern must have registered on her face because Harry’s expression softened. “You don’t remember, but I met you a bunch of times when you were just a little thing. I knew your momma. Hell, I loved her like she was my own sister. Cried my eyes out when I heard what happened to her.”
“Funny that you’re still friends with the man who killed her.”
Harry pursed his lips and squinted at her, a flash of anger at what she’d said. He waited a few seconds before he responded. “Listen, you might not know your daddy’s innocent, but I do. Most people you meet in life are a hard read on the best day. Not your dad. I know him like I know myself. He didn’t kill Wendy, not in a million years.”
“Yeah, but she’s dead, isn’t she?”
“And I have a suspicion you being in my store, in the same town where Preston Townsend likes to make a scene in public all the time, has something to do with sorting all that out.”
She felt her stomach tighten at the mention of Townsend’s name. She’d thought pawnshop Harry a fool, but she was clearly wrong. She decided it would serve her best never to think of him that way again.
“Do you have the things we need?” she asked.
“I’ve got pretty much anything a person can think of, even a crazy motherfucker like your daddy.”
She smiled. “You do know him.”
“We served some time together. Been in some scrapes along the way. Ol’ Harry wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for your dad saving my sorry ass. You may think you know stories about him, but maybe, if we ever have a chance, I’ll tell you some things I guarantee you ain’t never heard.”
Mara smiled. “I’d like that,” she said, realizing that she meant it. She walked up to the ladder, turned, and descended the first two steps. She stopped and looked up.
“Can I trust you, Harry?”
“You can’t trust no one in this business,” he said. “But I suppose you can trust me more than most.”
“I guess that’ll have to do,” she said, and climbed the rest of the way down the ladder.
* * *
They loaded a small duffel bag with their supplies into the space between them on the front bucket seat of the truck. After they’d sorted through all the options Harry had available, the end result was only a few very specialized pieces of equipment. Once Harry heard what her dad asked for, he understood the broad strokes of his plan. He didn’t say much about it, but just kept shaking his head like they were both crazy.
“Harry’s a character,” she said as they drove away.
“Known him for a long time.”
“He said you and he served together. Said he knew Mom.”
“The last time I was in the field with Harry we were on an op in Afghanistan. We had tracked a target to a remote village in the Hindu Kush. Wild country.”
“I know it,” she said softly. She’d left blood of her own in the Kush.
“So you know the drill. Tough terrain. Opposition can come from any direction, at any time. Especially when the target has been tipped off.”
“How many men?”
“Seven-man team. Lost three. Four injured.”
A shudder worked itself through Mara’s body. Her own memories of a mission gone wrong flashing back at her. The feeling of one of her men’s hot blood spraying across her face, the metallic tang of it her mouth, the cries for help from the rest of her squad as they took fire. She shook away the memory. “Harry told me you saved his life.”
“Is that what he said?” He let out a low chuckle. “I caught some shrapnel that he figures was meant for him.”
“Was it chance, or did you try to save him?”
Scott stared out the window, maybe lost in his own flash of memory of whatever hell he’d been through with Harry. She respected that he wouldn’t say. Real soldiers rarely talked about their own acts of courage. Mostly because they knew that even acts of valor
are born in fear and steeped in terror.
“What he never mentions about that day,” he continued, “is that he carried me two clicks on his shoulders to get the hell out of there, fighting off Jihadi assholes the entire way back. He was a thing possessed, all rage and death. But he refused to put me down. Wasn’t until we were at the base, taking our gear off, that he saw his clothes were drenched in his own blood. Turns out he took some shrapnel after all. He was just a tougher son of a bitch than I was.”
“And now he sells guns to gangs in the mean streets of Chicago.”
“Don’t be so quick to judge.”
“Seems pretty clear to me.”
“Not everything is what it seems. You think you’d know that better than most by now.”
“Like how my dad turned out to be a traitorous scumbag?”
Scott took a deep breath, obviously fighting the impulse to rise to the bait she’d dangled in front of his face. As she watched the emotions play across his face, she realized she wanted the confrontation. She needed to let all the hurt and pain out that she still carried from his betrayal, and she wanted to do it in a fight. She sure as hell didn’t want to do it with tears.
But he wasn’t going to give her what she wanted. Typical of him.
“He still has ties to our world,” he said. “Only caters to a very specific clientele.”
“People like us don’t use AKs. In this city, those are just cop killers and you know it.”
This time his voice took on a sharp edge. It was the tone she remembered from her teenage years when the two of them used to butt heads on the simplest issues. “Before you got on your high horse and decided to cast judgment on all of us low-lifes, did you ever stop to ask if maybe you had it wrong? Maybe the most obvious scenario wasn’t the truth?”
Mara was taken back by the comment, but then chastised herself for being manipulated. “In the face of overwhelming evidence, I’d say it’s pretty clear that—”
“That what? An African American war veteran set up shop in America’s murder capital to sell automatic weapons to help his community destroy itself faster?”
