by Eric Beetner
The rubber man ran around the outside of the room and came up to the bank of batteries from behind. Dale and Lauren were too stunned by the sparking chaos in front of them to react. The rubber man lifted a set of cables and came at Dale.
Dale ducked and shifted to the side. The clamps swung past his head and connected in the air, spat sparks that burned little bee stings into the flesh on the back of his neck. Dale went for the gun. Rubber man tackled him from behind.
They fell to the hard subfloor. Dale was an arm length away from the gun. Rubber man squeezed on a clamp and shoved it down at Dale. He pinched the flesh on his upper arm behind the triceps. Dale felt the bite. Dale reached out futilely for the gun as rubber man came at him with the jaws of the second clamp open and toothy. If the connection was made the current would blast through Dale’s body from one side to the other, crossing through his heart. Add to that the overturned tub the tortured man had been steeping in. Dale now lay in a thin layer of water.
A burst of light flashed in Dale’s eyes and the smell of burning flesh became stronger. Rubber man rolled off Dale and slumped to the floor. Lauren stood over him with a cable in each hand, light smoke curling from the brass tips.
“Hit him again.” Dale crawled for the gun. Lauren bent down and zapped the rubber man again on the thin strip of exposed arm flesh right above where his long gloves ended.
Dale snatched the gun from the floor and stood. “That’s it.”
He’d tried to be good. Tried his hand at redemption, but he’d had it. Lauren needed protecting, Dahlia needed saving. He knew how to do this part. He could do it and still be a cop. He didn’t need the other half anymore. It might not be strictly by the book, but he never met a cop who played by absolutely all the rules.
He stood over the rubber man and shot him three times in the heart.
“Anybody else gets in my way, they’re getting the same thing. I’m fucking done with this place.”
Lauren didn’t know what to say. She was a little bit scared, a little bit grateful that he was acting like a real anything-goes protector now. Hopefully they wouldn’t need it. My God, how much worse could it get?
CHAPTER 16
The door cracked against the wall making a cannon blast sound of metal on cinder block. Dahlia had pushed the door open with such force she stumbled forward into the room, losing her balance and ending up on all fours looking up at a table with four men. Three of them had guns drawn on her.
She froze, the slow creak of rusty door hinges behind her. The space used to be a restaurant of some kind, but that was a long time ago. Now it stored boxes, housed a desk in one corner and a round poker table in the middle, but the men sitting there weren’t playing cards.
One stood, a man with a shaved head and a white tank top. Tattoos circled his neck and decorated his biceps. The Virgin Mary and heavy gothic script of names and dates underneath. Fallen comrades.
“The fuck, Gil?”
The fourth man at the table, a fat man and the only without a shaved head and tattoos, put his hands up in a surrender gesture. “She’s not with me. I swear it, Pooch. I don’t know who the fuck she is.”
Dahlia noticed two stacks on the table—one of money and one of bricks of something obscured by layers of plastic wrapping and tape. They could only be one thing.
Out of the frying pan…
“Someone is trying to kill me.” Dahlia stayed on all fours, looking up at the men through wisps of hair that had fallen in her face.
The standing man, Pooch, kept his gun on her. “This is some bullshit, Gil.”
Gil pushed back from the table a bit, his sizable gut kept him from getting close in the first place, but now he seemed to be planning a retreat. “I swear, Pooch. She’s not with me. Tell him, honey. Tell him you don’t know me.”
“I don’t know him.” Dahlia grit her teeth against the frustration. She’d broken into a garage full of kids who couldn’t defend her, though they tried, and now she’d broken into a room of men who could obviously take care of T, but they might prove to be more dangerous than him.
“Who’s trying to kill you?” Pooch eyed her suspiciously. “I don’t see nobody.”
“He’s following me. I ran away.”
Pooch traded looks with his two partners. Nobody seemed eager to roll out the welcome mat for Dahlia. “I think maybe you came through the wrong door.” Pooch turned to the shaved head man to his right. “A door that shoulda been locked.”
Dahlia started to straighten out. Pooch’s head spun around to her. She stopped her motions. “I’ll go. I’ll leave. But can I go out the front? He’s right behind me and if I go out in that alley again…”
Gil eased back in his chair again, angling for the door. Pooch tightened the grip on his gun. “Something don’t smell right.”
“I swear to God—”
All eyes went to the open doorway. T slid his body into the space, filling it with his gun drawn. Pooch and his boys regarded him, then Pooch made his decision. “Aw, hell no, man.”
Pooch shot first. T dove into the room firing as he went. A bullet punched the poker table and a puff of white powder went up from one of the plastic-wrapped bricks.
Dahlia flattened onto her belly and crawled for the corner as gunfire traded overhead. Pooch and his two boys launched their attack while trying to take cover. As if to avenge his betrayal, Pooch shot Gil twice in the chest. He never had time to get out of his chair.
T ducked into a dark corner behind a tall shelf stacked high with boxes and rolls of paper towels. He managed to get one of the shaved head men with a shot across the forehead. The man slumped out of his chair and Pooch turned his attention to the new intruder again.
Dahlia crawled forward, hoping to reach the front of the storefront and slip out during the gun battle. Ahead of her, Gil slid off his chair and fell into a heap blocking her path. She had to adjust course and crawl around him.
The bullets slowed. Pooch huddled next to the wall, stealing glances at the back of the room where T hid. The other man sat at the poker table and reloaded his gun. T took the chance and leaned out to fire a single shot that caught the man above his heart. He slapped a hand over his chest as if someone had suddenly started playing the national anthem. The wide-eyed, stunned expression on his face stayed as he gasped for air. One lung had already gone flat.
Pooch watched his last partner and he caught Dahlia moving on the floor. Instead of waiting to get shot, he wanted out. Gil was already dead, and the men Gil worked for would get theirs later and Pooch could get repaid for any money he left behind. He couldn’t do any of it if he was dead, though.
He pulled away from the wall and ducked behind the poker table, the empty air-sucking sounds moving past his ear as he slipped behind his dying partner. Thinking he was taking a hostage, he dipped down and grabbed Dahlia’s arm, yanking her to her feet and spinning her to act as a human shield as he moved toward the door.
“See you in hell, motherfucker.” Pooch squeezed off five rapid rounds at the dark corner where T hid and then pushed Dahlia outside.
“Thank you.” Dahlia struggled to keep up as Pooch made for his car.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m nothing to do with that. I’m just a woman. He was trying to kill me.”
“Clearly. You don’t work for Gil?”
“I don’t know who that is.”
Pooch stopped, spun her toward him by the fist wrapped around her arm. He put the gun between her eyes. Down the block, a shop owner ducked inside. Across the street someone gasped. Pooch ignored them. “Say that again.”
Dahlia couldn’t catch her breath to speak. She stammered, the hot circle of the gun barrel burning a ring into her skin. “I…I don’t know any of you. I swear. I was trying to get away from that man.”
Pooch looked her in the eye. He did most of his business on handshakes and trust. A few hundred grand a year in street drugs and a few girls on the side he
pimped out. Everyone had a few girls. He worked in a game of trusting untrustworthy people. He felt like he got pretty good at sorting out who would screw him over, and who he could do business with. Something about this girl’s eyes. And the fact he’d never seen her before. He didn’t want to, but dammit, he believed her.
“Why’s he trying to kill you?”
“I’m not sure. Something about my husband, I think.”
Wasn’t it always? Pooch pushed her forward toward his car. “We can’t stay here.”
“I can’t go to the police.”
“Who said anything about that?”
“I’m just saying. They set me up.”
“Lady, I wouldn’t take you to the police no matter what.”
They reached a wide Pontiac. Pooch yanked open the passenger door. “Get in.”
CHAPTER 17
Roy was a fixer. As far as Mayor O’Brien knew, Roy didn’t have a last name, and as for the job description of what a fixer did, he was equally as vague.
Roy’s expression was unmoving and emotionless. “I fix things. Solve problems. Make uncomfortable situations go away.”
All for a fee, thought O’Brien. A well-earned fee as it had turned out in the past. Twice before Lewis had brought Roy onto the payroll, but this was the first O’Brien ever met him. Better to keep them separate in most instances, but this required the face to face. Special circumstances.
Lewis acted the mediator. “So, that’s the outline.” He paused, waiting for Roy to ask follow-up questions. Waiting for the mayor to give an answer.
The plan Lewis outlined, and one he emphasized would need prompt attention, was to have Roy go down to the building and be there when they came out. If they came out. In case Lauren exited the building standing, Roy was to take the shot, then the machine would kick into gear to place blame on Tat and his bloodthirsty men. Not a hard sell.
Lewis had placed phone calls to Chief Schuster to get a progress report and had been told no news is good news. He didn’t know what the meant, but she and the rescue team—rescue man—weren’t out yet. No communication at all, in fact.
“Time is ticking, though.” Lewis folded his fingers together, put his two index fingers to his lips. Serious, anxious. “We need an answer, Mr. Mayor.”
O’Brien shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It unnerved him even more how unflappable Roy was. The man had barely budged an inch since sitting down. An eerie calm oozed off the man like an odor. Somewhere underneath that, though, O’Brien knew he was a tensed coil waiting to strike. The man could kill you with a knife hidden on his body, a pen off his own desk or even a magazine from his coffee table. Roy was a killer. It’s how a lot of his problems got “fixed.”
“I really don’t think I can authorize this.” O’Brien put a hand to his temple, a stress headache pounding behind the bone.
Roy finally spoke, a quiet, raspy growl. “It’ll go quick. Painless.”
O’Brien took little comfort. “I don’t think you understand—this is my daughter.”
“Everyone is somebody’s kid.” Roy’s blunt assessment of the value of human life reassured the mayor of his capabilities in the job, but offered no reassurance to his own heart-rending decision.
Lewis leaned in again. “I know it’s not easy, but we’ve got to think of the consequences if the story gets out.”
O’Brien met Lewis’ eye. “You mean if she gets out.” He held the vicious stare and Lewis stayed firm.
“You didn’t want me to talk about the benefits to the election. This is the other side of that coin. This is life when we don’t win. This is jail time. Loss of all your assets. Every penny you’ve saved they will trace back to one of Mr. Losopo’s accounts. We’ve been careful, very careful, but there is always a trail.”
“I’ll be ruined.”
Lewis nodded. “Unless you do this.”
O’Brien admired Lewis’ coldness. His calculating style that never said the words out loud what “this” meant. He never said kill, never said Lauren’s name, never said shot or shoot. It was always “the target” or “eliminate” or “the threat.” Not the first time O’Brien thought it was Lewis who should be in the mayor’s chair and not him. Maybe then the decision would be easy for him. Not that he had kids. His life was the office, the campaign, the back-room deals to be struck. They were his children. Would he shoot one of them in the head?
“Well, would you?”
Lewis furrowed his brow at the mayor. “Would I what?”
O’Brien realized, shit, I said that out loud. “I just wonder, would you do it if you were in my shoes.”
Lewis maintained his steel gaze locked with the mayor. “You know I would.”
Exactly the answer he expected. But what the hell did the kid know? It’s different when it’s your own child.
His thoughts swirled like he was being forced to make this decision while drunk. Christ, he wished he was drunk. The rationalizations took hold. He didn’t start this fight. It was her. She initiated the investigation. She wanted to bring him down. She went and talked to Tat behind his back, and what did that get her? Kidnapped.
There was a long list of political opponents in his wake who learned up close and personal that if you bring a fight to the mayor, chances are you will lose. Did he want to add Lauren to that list of political backstabbers and opportunists?
What O’Brien wanted right then was for Roy to move. To fidget, ask for a glass of water, blink, for God’s sake. But Roy sat patiently and waited for an answer.
CHAPTER 18
Dreams of murder filled the darkness. Tat’s eyes had adjusted as much as they were going to and the thin strip of light coming from the gap between the bottom of the closet door and the floor didn’t offer him any view of his surroundings. So his mind wandered.
Could have been the isolation and sensory deprivation, could have been the blood loss, but the visions were vivid and detailed.
He’d skin the cop alive. Dale. That guy. He’d seemed like such a loyal soldier. Tat recognized the pangs of guilt that kept the best ones in line. The ones who didn’t feel bad at all about betraying the badge were the ones who got cocky, asked for too much. Changed terms of the deal, or God forbid, asked favors.
How many had come to Tat looking for girls, piles of blow for weekend parties, hookups in Vegas or other places they assumed he knew a guy who knew a guy? That one bastard, Rector, he had to balls to ask Tat for a dozen girls for a weekend party. Tat gave in the one time and sent the girls out to the address he gave them. Forty-eight hours of prime tail for free, and when they came back, they said it wasn’t exactly a party. Just Rector alone in a rented beach house and all dozen girls serving at his pleasure and feeding him Viagra.
Soon after, Rector was taken off the payroll. He turned up in a drainpipe with exactly one dozen stab wounds.
Dale had been a good boy. Gave his information, lost the occasional file. Did it all for peanuts, relatively, and never rocked the boat. Until today. Now a dozen stab wounds would be too good for him. This stunt was triple-digit territory.
Tat had almost fallen asleep while standing, leaning against the bed of coats. Or was it passed out. His arms had quieted to a dull thrum of pain like a bad tooth you get used to living with. His hand only hurt when a whiff of wind passed through the open hole, but that was almost swollen shut and the skin around the edges was surely dead. He listened intently for every noise outside the door, wondering where the hell his rescue squad was. They sent one for the damn girl, why can’t his own guys get off their asses and find him?
He’d scared everyone away from coming into his floor is what it is. He made that point deathly clear. You don’t come to his home or his mother’s floor. All business takes place up top, or on the floor you’ve been assigned. The place was diverse enough he shouldn’t ever have to invite work into his residence. You keep that shit separate.
Now he felt the consequences of his choice. Alone in the dar
k, fantasizing about ways to kill a greasy cop and a bitch girl who first violated the sanctity of his building.
He’d built the nearly perfect fortress to keep them out. All of them. Everyone. Tat didn’t want to go full recluse, but he liked knowing who came and who went, where all the locks on the doors were.
Then he had to go and get careless and let a fly in through the screen. And now there was nothing to do but sit and think of ways to swat it.
8TH FLOOR
Slow day on the torture floor. The only occupied room they found now had two corpses in it and Dale and Lauren were on the move.
At the end of the long, dark hall the floor opened up. The rooms ended and the hall widened to a building-wide open area ahead of a railing and balcony looking down onto the eighth floor. Really, how many torture rooms do you need? So Tat, in his wisdom or by some recommendation from whatever sick puppy designed this fortress of criminality, chose to link this industrial, no frills floor to the floor below, an equally unfinished space. Also drab, dark, and unadorned by paint, carpet, lighting fixtures or anything you’d hope to find in an office.
The balcony overlooked an empty space below, a wide metal grating staircase connected the two floors. Movement between the two spaces was easy, obviously linking the floors in their usefulness and their staffs. Dale was a little frightened of another floor sharing a staff with the guys who worked the torture rooms, he admitted.
But down meant out and down was the only direction Dale and Lauren were interested in. So they headed down the metal steps.
Once down on eight they were confronted with a series of metal cages. They could see almost from one end of the floor to the other through the metal, chain-link walls of the cages, one after another. Inside each cage were cots, four to a cell, and on nearly every cot was a girl.
