Lines formed around Kuntzman’s eyes as he considered the statement. “What, like a PI?”
“Unknown,” Russo said. “If it’s a PI, it’s nobody I’ve ever seen before, and believe me, I would remember this guy.”
Kuntzman wasn’t entirely sure what that was supposed to mean, though he didn’t bother pressing it. Speaking with Russo was always an exercise in self-restraint, limiting it to as few shared syllables as possible so they could both be on their way again.
“Is he getting anywhere?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Russo said, “but the point is, I now need to start getting somewhere. As of this moment, I can no longer continue to delay things.”
Giving the tire one last kick, Kuntzman allowed the momentum to push him back. Turning, he rested himself against the side of the track, folding an arm over his stomach.
He’d known this was coming. Since the instant he’d found out about the girl, the clock had been running. People like Elyse Denman didn’t just disappear without someone going to look for them.
That’s what was making her such a commodity to begin with.
“Tonight,” Kuntzman said. “Couple more hours, and she’s in the wind.”
Part Three
Chapter Fifty-Three
The positioning inside the car was exactly like it had been two nights prior. Jamal Pierce was reclined in the driver’s seat, his right hand draped over the wheel. With that shoulder leaning forward, the rest of his body was twisted away, hiding the improvised splint that extended the length of his nose.
In the backseat, Joey was doubled over into a ball. Wearing two sweatshirts for added padding, he sat with his hands wrapped around his midsection, the extra clothing he wore causing him to sweat profusely, beads of it streaming down his forehead.
Overall, it was a bad look for Ronell and his crew. A far cry from what he would have envisioned, this was not at all how he had imagined things turning out.
But he’d been ordered to show up and to bring the others, and no amount of earlier incompetence on their part was going to take this from him.
The act was the second part of the initiation, the backend to what started with the theft of the car. Already, they had proven themselves proficient at acquiring something of value, using their skills in a way that could profit the S-2.
They’d even managed to take it a bit further by bringing the girl into the fold as well, the young blonde a veritable boon for the organization.
It might not have all gone entirely to plan, but they had pulled it off. Big Man had told them to come back. To be ready.
That could only mean that the second part of their initial rites was about to occur. Unofficially known as being beat in, it was exactly what the title intimated. At a date and place specified by the group, any potential inductee was to show up and essentially get the hell beat out of them by the rest of the organization.
If the first act was to see how they reacted in a live situation, how they responded in the face of the police if things went sideways, the second part was to determine their mettle.
The expression was blood in, blood out. Tonight, they would get hit. A lot. And they would bleed. But after that, they would be part of something, something bigger than themselves, and the only way out was death.
Ronell could take a punch. Years of living with his stepfather had ensured that. He wasn’t particularly enthused about catching a beating, but it was merely a means to an end, what he really treasured coming in the aftermath.
Respect. Standing. People that would be by his side, have his back, forever.
Up to this point, he had Jamal and Joey, but they weren’t enough. They had been there all those times his stepfather had come home drunk and looking to wail. A few nights, they’d even taken blows themselves.
That’s the only reason he had them along now. They might not be the best to have riding shotgun, but they were loyal, and for that, they had his respect.
Glancing over, Ronell tried to imagine what each was thinking, how prepared they were for the night ahead.
Barely had Jamal said a word since Ronell untied them and woke them up. The few he had shared were all about the bearded bastard that had shown up and whacked him with a baseball bat.
In the backseat, Joey was silent save the few pained groans he let out.
Combined, they were in no condition for what was about to come, but that was alright. The S-2 was already aware of what happened, had already assured Ronell that the bulk of it would be aimed his way.
They just needed to show.
“Same spot we used the other night,” Ronell said, extending a hand and pointing to the first roll top in the row.
“Not the parking garage? Like this morning?” Jamal asked.
“Naw,” Ronell said. “Everybody’s coming in for this, so they said it’s already taken. Said to be sure and use the first stall.”
Nodding his understanding, Jamal idled up to the first door. Lowering his window, he looked up at the camera on the wall, nodding slightly.
A moment later, the door slid upward.
As it did, the scene on the other side came into view, a complete transformation from the previous night. What was once a working garage, with hydraulic lifts and toolboxes illuminated by bright white light, was nothing more than an open space.
Everything shoved to the side, the room looked much larger than Ronell remembered. The floor was only bare concrete, a few stray spots of oil and fluid dotting it. Around the outside stood well over a dozen guys, all with their shirts stripped away, their bare bodies illuminated by the flickering glow of candles.
“What the...?” Jamal muttered, muscle striation appearing on his arms as he tensed.
“Oh, Jesus,” Joey whined from the backseat.
In the front, Ronell remained silent. He could feel adrenaline seeping into his system, the inclination to fight rising in him. His fingertips began to dance atop his thighs, a tingling rising the length of his neck.
This was what he wanted, what he’d waited so long for.
At last, it was here.
“Pull forward,” he whispered.
Casting him a glance, Jamal did as instructed. He let the car idle forward, easing in just past the threshold before coming to a stop. Cutting the engine, they all sat inside and waited, staring at the assemblage before them.
There they remained, listening as the roll top door slammed shut behind them, locking them in.
“What do we do?” Joey whispered, the crack in his voice hinting he was about to cry at any moment.
Ronell felt his molars come together. So badly he wanted to turn and tell Joey to be a man, to take what was coming like he had a pair, though he said nothing. They were too far in now to be seen bickering among themselves, the eyes of every member firmly on them.
Instead, he sat and watched as the crowd before them spread. Beginning at the top of the arc, a gap appeared, splitting the group into two equal parts.
For a moment, there was nothing there, no more than an open space, before Big Man appeared, his second-in-command beside him. Both dressed the same as the others, they filled the empty spot in the circle.
Raising one hand before him, Big Man flicked his fingers back, beckoning them out of the car.
This was it. The moment Ronell had been waiting years for, the final step toward righting the years of wrongs that had been done to him.
“Let’s go,” he whispered, pushing the door open and stepping out. The interior of the garage was much warmer than he’d anticipated, the combination of candles and excess bodies causing sweat to spring to the surface.
On the opposite side of the car, Jamal exited as well.
Third came Joey, stepping out behind Ronell, barely balanced on uneven legs.
“Shirts,” Big Man barked.
Lifting his high overhead, Ronell peeled away the tank top he’d been wearing, etched abs gleaming in the candlelight. Beside him, he heard Joey whimper softly as he stripped out of the
sweatshirts, revealing the bandage taped around his doughy midsection.
Sensation continued to traverse the length of Ronell’s body as he stood and waited. His hands curled into fists as he stared at the men around him, their faces displaying carnal urge, like hyenas on the hunt.
Again, Big Man was the only one to speak, uttering a single word.
“Go.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
“I need another favor.”
The list of things I’d already requested from Pally was lengthy. Fortunately, I knew he lived for this sort of thing, the fact that he rarely left his electronically-fortified chamber being irrelevant. On every mission I’d ever been on in the DEA, he was equally as vital as those of us on the ground, often seeing and doing things that we couldn’t.
It was how he thrived, a personal measuring stick for his worth to the world.
“Name it.”
“If you don’t hear from me in half an hour, call the police and send them to the warehouse,” I said. Pausing, I considered it a moment, before adding, “Actually, call them then anyway.”
The odds were, regardless of whatever was about to take place, I wouldn’t be pausing to put in a phone call. All that would do would be give them a number to trace or a location to try and follow should they get curious about who made the call.
With Pally, there was no way they would know a thing. The man never showed anybody one iota that he didn’t want to be seen.
“Okay,” Pally replied, “but why do I get the impression you’re about to do something insanely stupid?”
What I was about to do was both insane and stupid. I knew it, but I didn’t have many other options.
Going to the police would work only if Elyse was there. They could storm the place, take down the S-2, and walk out with her.
If she had already been passed on, though, or was being held somewhere else, the cops showing up would no doubt send up an alarm. It would either seal her fate or have her sent further into seclusion, neither of which were preferable options.
Aside from Amber and her husband, I also didn’t know a soul in Nashville. I was sure there were plenty of people around town that the S-2 had pissed off at one point or another, but I didn’t have the time or inclination to try and spearhead a gang war.
The idea was to get to Elyse as quickly and safely as possible. Not drag her into the second coming of Beirut.
“Just, make the call,” I said, not needing to acknowledge his question with a response. “And thanks, for everything.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Pally said, cutting the call off there.
A wry smile tugged at a corner of my mouth as I dropped the phone back into the middle console.
Pally didn’t do thanks, just as he didn’t do goodbyes. He would move heaven and earth to help any of us whenever we called, but the instant things got a little too real, he bailed.
Just how the man was.
How all of us were with each other to some extent, truth be told.
Leaving the phone there, I traced my gaze over the small assortment of items stowed on the passenger seat beside me. A combination of what I’d nabbed from the shooting range the night before, the sporting goods store this morning, and a hardware store just moments ago, in total it was six things, enough to be stowed into a small drawstring bag.
Six things to potentially go up against a budding gang with as many as two dozen members.
Pally was right. What I was about to do was insanely stupid.
Shifting my gaze away from the odd collection, I focused on the photo Amber had given me of her daughter still tucked into the middle cupholder. Without sliding it free, I peered at the face spread across it, on the smiling features and the splash of blonde hair.
I had never been particularly close to Elyse, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that she was a young girl in need of help, an innocent pulled into a situation where some punk kids needed to prove themselves. They had an eye on her car and grabbed her too, just because they could.
For whatever reason they felt like the world was unfair, that life owed them something, and Elyse was somehow a payment for all that.
The point was also the fact that when I looked at that picture, I didn’t just see my niece. In fact, I barely saw her.
What I did see was my wife fifteen years before her passing. My daughter ten years after hers.
More than half a decade had passed since their deaths, and still not a single day went by that I didn’t think of them. Frozen in time, every morning I woke up and saw myself getting older, but they remained the same, both pristine and perfect, preserved forever.
Just the way Elyse was in this photograph. I might not have been able to get there in time to help them, but I did still have a chance to help her. And I had to take it.
No matter how foolish it might be.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Dressed in black running shorts, a short-sleeve neoprene shirt, and a pair of black Nikes, I looked like any other suburban weekend warrior out for a late-night run. Perhaps a bit different due to the beard and hair covering my head, and the fact that my skin was white in a neighborhood that decidedly wasn’t, but not different enough to be given a second thought by anybody I passed by.
Which, blessedly, was precious few.
Parked more than a half-mile away from the warehouse, I took the long way from the SUV to my destination. Careful not use the same street twice, I worked my way forward, following the grid I had dedicated to memory.
Against my back bounced the drawstring bag, the impromptu cache a trick I had picked up in Venezuela months before. Small enough to be inconspicuous, it was more than enough to carry what I might need for the coming moments.
Rolled up onto the balls of my feet, I kept my steps light, my ears attuned to the world around me. Despite the cool night air, sweat streamed down my face, plastering my hair to my forehead and my shirt to my back.
As I went, I paid close attention to the clock in my head, knowing that the instant I hung up with Pally began the official countdown. There was no way he would be even a nanosecond late, meaning I had exactly thirty minutes, plus whatever response time it would take for NPD to arrive.
In a place like West Nashville, I had to think that meant thirty-five minutes.
Tops.
Taking the ruse of being out for a late run as far as I could, I let the timer tick off eight minutes before making a final turn. Picking up my pace slightly, I aimed for the front corner of the warehouse.
The roll top doors across the back would be where most of the people and machinery were grouped up, especially at this time of night. There was a reason that cameras were affixed over each one of them, a constant monitoring going on of everything coming and going.
The front would be where appearances were kept up. Faux offices. The veneer of a working space.
The least cause for active surveillance.
Slowing my pace to a walk, I made a show of sliding the bag from my shoulders. Reaching inside, I felt through each of the items in order before extracting a bottle of water. Unscrewing the top, I took a long pull, leaving the top of the bag gaping open and taking a quick glance down inside.
Once I was sure of where things were, I returned the water, swapping it out for one of the Brownings. Tucking it into the front waistband of my shorts, I went back in a second time, sliding out a small can of black spray paint no larger than the average aerosol deodorant.
Hiding it in the palm of my hand, I tossed the bag back over my shoulders and bounced twice to settle it into position.
Not once did I break stride.
Coming up on the warehouse from the south, I passed by a pair of white gravel beds lining the street. Between them stood a stanchion pole, a halogen security light atop it throwing down a bright glow angled out in a wide cone.
Dipping the top of my head slightly, I passed through the illumination zone, flicking my gaze to the side, seeing the front door come ever closer. With the paint can
in hand, I rotated my wrist a few quick times, hearing the metal pebble inside rattle slightly, the sound barely audible.
Up close, the building played out much the way my surveillance earlier had indicated. Made of concrete block, enough coats of white paint had been added to give it a smooth and glossy finish. Frosted windows were spaced just above eye-level.
No logos or insignia of any kind were present.
For more than half a block, I walked on, tucked up close to it. Behind me, the harsh glow of the light faded. A matching post was positioned up ahead, placed just inside the far corner, the two combined strong enough to cover almost the entire front.
Which left the weakest point at the very center, the spot I was headed toward.
The front doors were positioned in a small alcove. Set back a few feet from the outside of the building, they were made of glass with a metal frame. A matching set, they opened from the middle, horizontal pull bars extended across them. Glass panels stretched from floor to ceiling filled the remaining space on either side between the doors and the concrete walls.
Dropping down out of the ceiling above was a rounded glass orb, a camera with a full circular view, seeing all that came and went.
Taking this all in, I gave the spray paint one more twist. With a hop, I skipped up the two short steps onto the main landing and shot my arm upward, smashing down on the top dispenser. On cue, the thin hiss of paint being expelled rang out, a thick film instantly appearing over the glass.
Working from side to side, I coated the outer half before working my way inward. Sweeping across it, I watched as any reflected light faded from view, covered by the matte black finish of the paint.
Doing things this way wasn’t ideal, but it was better than just ignoring them. Given the time of night and the enterprises I knew the S-2 to work in, I was banking on there not being someone staring directly at the cameras. If that was the case, the paint might buy me a bit of time. It may even convince whoever took a look that the camera was out.
Home Fire: A Suspense Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 5) Page 19
