by Jim Heskett
With nothing in the immediate area to hide behind, Rourke and the others lifted their assault rifles and started firing. The blasts were deafening. Micah crouched and took aim at the legs of a man running at full speed, spitting two quick shots, and the second hit the man in the kneecap. He twisted and bounced against a slot machine. Fell to the ground. Micah aimed and shot him in the head.
Through the gray haze, Micah couldn’t make out his face. He didn’t know if he would have recognized the man, anyway. The cartel must have been mostly new members at this point.
Then, he spent a split second thinking about how easy killing had once again become. The way violence became natural in the cartel when he drank every night to drown the actions of that day. As much as he’d wanted to leave that old person behind like a bulky couch in a vacated apartment, it was still him.
He was still a killer, and always would be.
Micah snapped out of it when one of Rourke’s guys screamed. He looked up to see Ethan clutching his arm. AK-47 on the ground. Carter jumped in front of him to act as a shield and launched a round of bullets in an arc.
The men on the other side of the room stopped coming. One of them fell in a heap, and the other spun into a roulette table. Both of them, dead.
Ethan backed into the wall and slid down with a grunt. He removed his hand from the wound, revealing a bloody mess of a forearm. Carter took a few steps toward the newly-dead men, his assault rifle out in front while Rourke dropped to his knees and helped put pressure on Ethan’s wound.
Reminded Micah of applying pressure to Yvette King’s throat wound, and how she bled out anyway. He couldn’t do anything to stop it. She’d been fated to die before he’d ever met her.
Focus, Micah. Focus.
“Shit. It hurts,” said Ethan.
“Can you stand?” Rourke said.
Ethan growled. “Give me a minute.”
“Micah,” Rourke said, pleading. “Get us in that room, please. We need to hurry this up.”
Micah could now clearly see the fire in the corner of the room. A long table was engulfed in flames, starting to spread to the wall. They needed to be out of here in about five minutes, before that fire either engulfed the whole room, or it became too smoky to breathe.
He examined the lock, then realized it didn’t matter. His lock picking tools were back in Denver, in a drawer in the kitchen of his condo. “Do you have tools?”
Rourke, his hands still gripping Ethan’s bleeding arm, shook his head.
“A screwdriver? Needle-nose pliers? Fucking paper clips?”
Carter backed up toward them, his eyes still on the front door. “We don’t have anything.”
Ethan grunted, and Micah could see he was flicking his head at something on a table. A woman, sprawled, her chest a red curtain of blood.
Micah had a feeling he knew what Ethan was implying, and he got up to check. She had long hair, and he expected he’d find bobby pins tying it back. As he neared her, he felt his stomach twist in knots. She was pretty—or she had been. Below the table lay a collection of broken glass. Waitress. She was probably serving drinks to gamblers at the moment the Sinaloa men broke in, took a bullet in the chest, found herself dying on the table, wondering why.
Micah’s breath caught in his throat.
He recognized her. The girl who’d first approached him when he’d come to the casino to search for Frank. The girl whose brow had knitted in worry when Micah was being questioned by Harvey and his goons. This girl who had parents, and siblings, and probably a boyfriend, all of whom would cry at her funeral. Would wonder what they could have done differently to change the course of her life.
Micah reached out, his hand shaking. He didn’t want to touch this dead girl. He couldn’t see well in the dim light, so he had to dig through her hair. It was soft, recently conditioned.
But he found what he was looking for. Two bobby pins on the side of her head. He plucked them out and stumbled back toward the cashier cage.
“You okay?” Rourke said.
Micah didn’t answer him, instead broke one bobby pin in half, then knelt in front of the door. He inserted it a quarter of an inch in the bottom of the lock, then bent it and applied pressure. The other half, he bent so it had a curved tip, then inserted it into the top of the lock and went to work, digging it around, feeling for the pins.
“Will this take long?” Carter said.
“Bobby pins aren’t ideal. Maybe a minute or two.”
Above their heads, muted gun blasts raged on. Micah wondered if any of the mall employees had died in the assault. Maybe the hockey store staff all possessed guns of their own and had joined in the chaos.
“If you think you can’t open it, let me know,” Rourke said. “We’re running out of time.”
“I can get this,” Micah said, and he felt a click on the inside of the lock. Good. He dug further to hit the next pin, and it clicked instantly. He twisted the lower bobby pin, and the lock turned.
“You did it,” Rourke said.
Ethan snatched up his AK-47 and staggered to his feet. Blood still oozing from the wound on his arm.
Micah swung open the door, and the three casino robbers readied their weapons.
But they found no armed guards inside.
Just a middle-aged woman, cowering in the corner, tears streaming down her face. Her hands were thrust out in front of her, holding a knife. The blade jittered and glinted in the dim light.
“Where’s the money?” Carter said.
The woman said nothing. Micah noticed a collection of lockboxes around her, all of them open and empty.
“Where is the damn money?” Ethan said, raising his rifle at her.
Micah stepped in front of Ethan, shielding the woman from his rifle. “It’s not here, is it?”
The woman shook her head. “Harvey came and took it all. He’s in his office. His office says maintenance outside of it.” She tilted her head behind her. “Can I please go now? I don’t want to die here.”
“You should probably stay here,” Rourke said. “Keep your head down and don’t say anything. You can leave out the back door in a few minutes.”
Ethan stormed out of the cage and through the room. Fire in his eyes and a sneer on his face.
“Wait,” Rourke said, and they all hustled after the big guy. Ethan’s heavy feet stomped along the carpet. He didn’t bother maneuvering around the dead bodies, he marched directly toward the maintenance room.
Micah struggled to keep up, navigating the obstacles of overturned tables and haphazard chairs in his way. Ten feet ahead of him, Ethan reached the door, kicked it open, and his head snapped back as he took a bullet in the face.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
As Ethan’s arms pinwheeled and he tumbled backward, Micah watched the whole thing in slow motion. The spurt of blood ejecting from Ethan’s temple in a broken arc. The way his knees buckled as he fell back as if he was folding in half.
He collapsed on his back, dead eyes pointed straight at the ceiling. Micah hadn’t known Ethan, and had actually found him to be a surly bastard. But he felt the devastation he could see on Rourke’s and Carter’s faces.
For a moment, no one did anything. Muted gunfire rattled above their heads on the above-ground level of the mall. Rourke and Carter stared.
The silence broke when Rourke bolted to the edge of the door, pushing his body next to the frame. He pointed the nose of his AK-47 into the room and blasted inside at full auto as he swung the stock in a circle. Screaming at the top of his lungs.
The thumping of bullets lasted only two seconds.
“Are you dead?” Rourke said as he slammed a fresh magazine into his rifle. “Are you dead in there, Harvey, you racist piece of garbage?”
Silence came back from the room. Micah inched toward the open door, trying to get a look inside. When he’d come close enough, he spotted a body in a plush leather chair, leaning back. He raised his pistol and took a step into the doorway. The same man he’d seen in
the casino. Harvey, the owner.
“He’s dead,” Micah said.
Carter had been kneeling by Ethan’s body, which had gone still. Carter leaned forward, his long blond hair sprawled out over Ethan’s chest like a mop. His back was hitching. Crying.
“Ethan is gone,” Rourke said.
Carter lifted his head, tears streaming down his face. “How could they kill my best friend? They shot him right in the head like some kind of lame horse. How could they do that?”
Rourke’s lip jutted out and he blinked, fighting back tears. “I know, buddy. But we don’t have time right now. Please, let’s get this over with and we’ll deal with that later.”
Carter and Rourke joined Micah in the maintenance room. Harvey had slumped in the leather chair, with stacks of cash in front of him. Hundreds of thousands in bills piled up like a year’s worth of unread mail.
Micah hadn’t seen so much cash in one place for years. This kind of temptation and the promise of riches could make people do insane things, like try to rob a casino during the middle of an active gang war.
Harvey blinked and wheezed.
Rourke raised his rifle. He was trembling. “Not dead.”
Three or four separate bloodstains marked the front of Harvey’s button-down shirt, and his left ear had been blown off. Wash of crimson blood down that side of his face. But he was alive, barely breathing. His eyes darted around while his body seemed frozen in that slumped position.
Carter, Rourke, and Micah formed a semi-circle in front of the desk. A Smith & Wesson M&P Shield 9mm sat out of Harvey’s reach, and Micah snatched it from him. Stowed the compact gun in his back pocket.
Harvey blinked a few times, then landed on Micah.
“Wait a second,” Harvey whispered. “I know you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Harvey’s breathing slowed, then left him in one last exhale. His eyes turned glassy and his shoulders rolled forward.
Rourke let out a shuddering sigh. “Carter, open the duffel bag.”
Carter had frozen in place, staring at the dead casino owner crumpled in the leather chair.
“Carter,” Rourke said. “Duffel.”
Carter’s head jerked, then he set down his gun and took off his backpack. He opened it and pulled out a duffel bag, which Rourke and Carter started filling with the piles of cash. Some of the stacks were dotted with blood. Micah tried to count as he helped the two of them shove the wrapped stacks of cash into the bag. Half a million, maybe more.
When it was filled, Carter zipped the bag and hefted it over his shoulder. He stumbled a little when the weight of the bag settled on him. “Which way?” he said, then paused as he tried to swallow. He had to tilt his head back to get his throat muscles to work. “Which way do we go?”
Micah eyed the ceiling, and he could still hear gunfire up above. “We can’t go out the front. Too much action up there. We exit out through the hockey store, we’ll have to fight our way out.”
Rourke tilted his head toward the back door. “I say we take our chances going out the back. It’s not far to our car. Micah, did you park back there?”
“No, but mine’s a rental. Don’t worry about that. I’ll ride out of here with you guys.”
They left, and Carter paused outside the room to stare at Ethan’s body on the floor. “I can’t believe we’re going to leave him.”
Rourke rested a hand on Carter’s shoulder. “If we had any other choice, I wouldn’t. Come on, Carter, let’s get out of here.”
Rourke led them back through the casino floor, stepping awkwardly to avoid the jigsaw puzzle of corpses. The fire in the far corner of the room had spread to the nearby wall, and a layer of smoke obscured everything from the waist down. Micah could barely breathe.
Something rustled about thirty feet away, near a coat rack against the wall. Micah barely had time to focus his eyes before a bullet whipped the air, less than a foot from his head. Gangster or cartel member in hiding.
Rourke raised his AK and emptied the magazine, screaming as he did. This only lasted a couple of seconds. The man hiding near the coat rack danced and spun as bullets riddled his body. When the firing stopped, he fell, taking the coat rack with him.
Rourke, panting, shoved a fresh magazine into his rifle. His eyes were bloodshot and panicked. Micah had to take these guys out in the fresh air, not only because of the billowing smoke, but also before they lost their minds.
Carter shot the dead guy a couple times for good measure. Said nothing, but Micah could hear him whimpering as he readjusted his AK’s shoulder strap.
Then they resumed the trek to the back. With each movement closer to that door, Micah considered what they would find out there in the parking lot. The fact that Gustavo had not come barging down the stairs still puzzled him. Micah and the others had been down here for at least five minutes, so it seemed unlikely that the old cartel boss would have waited for so long. Just standing in the lot. Maybe Gustavo hadn’t ever spotted him and had pursued Micah because Gustavo had mistaken him for some stray Crossroads mobster.
Micah didn’t know. And as they reached the stairs and started to climb, with Rourke in the lead, Carter following, and Micah bringing up the rear, not knowing made him feel like he might puke. He couldn’t remember having eaten any breakfast today, but whatever remained in his guts threatened to rise and spray everywhere.
He paused a moment on the third step to gather his thoughts. “Carter. Maybe you should let me go first.”
Carter raised two AK-47s, one which had belonged to Ethan. He’d stopped crying, but his eyes were weary and bloodshot. “I’m a little better armed than you. No offense.”
“Besides,” Rourke said, “I don’t hear any gunfire out there. Do you?”
Micah pointed his ear at the closed door above them. He couldn’t pinpoint any sounds coming from outside. “No, I guess not.”
Carter spun and jogged the last few steps, then he kicked the door open.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Micah watched Carter step out into the humid Flint air outside the Dort Mall. Arms at his sides, the barrels of Carter’s twin AK-47s scraping on the concrete. He took three steps onto the pavement, then paused. Tilted his head back and breathed in a lungful.
“Smell that?”
Rourke and Micah stepped into the light, and the door closed behind them.
“What?” Rourke said.
“This whole thing is a massive clusterfuck. I don’t even… my best friend is dead, and I don’t think… I don’t think it’s even hit me yet. Don’t know how to begin to process something like that. But that smell? That’s the scent of justice. Of us being rich as fuck. I know that Ethan would have—”
Carter’s words were lost underneath the blast of a pistol. The bullet punctured his back, and he stumbled forward, then fell flat on his face. His bag slumped to his side. The pistol shot echoed from the mall exterior to the trees lining the edge of the lot.
“What is in the bag?” said a familiar voice from behind.
Gustavo Salazar.
Rourke spun, but before he could raise his rifle, another gunshot rang out and he clutched his side. He staggered back, collapsing against the building. Still alive, at least for now. Bullet wound in his stomach.
Micah raised his hands, the Glock in his right. Finger off the trigger.
He knew now that Gustavo had been hiding behind the door and currently had a gun trained on him. He’d patiently waited out here for Micah to return from inside the casino. Ten minutes, standing there against the mall exterior, waiting, anticipating.
There was no point trying to run. Gus’ trigger finger was quicker than Micah’s legs.
“Weapons on the ground,” Gustavo said.
Micah tossed his pistol out in front of him. He tried to aim it far enough away to satisfy Gustavo, but maybe close enough that he could somersault and grab it. That was a long shot, but he might have no other choice.
Rourke hesitated, and then Gustavo circled
around them. He had a Desert Eagle in each hand. One pointed at Rourke, one at Micah.
“Drop that rifle right now. If you don’t, I will shoot you where you stand. I am faster than you, I guarantee it.”
Rourke shrugged his shoulder to loosen the strap, then he let the AK-47 slip from his fingers. He clasped both hands to his side. He was pressed up against the wall, his breathing shallow and erratic. Blood leaking out from between his fingers.
“Do you have another in an ankle holster?” Gustavo asked Micah.
He shook his head.
Gustavo came to a stop, now facing the two of them. Micah wondered where Gustavo’s other men had gone. Maybe he’d dismissed them to handle Micah on his own.
Yes, he would want that pleasure all to himself.
“Michael. It has been a long time, hasn’t it?”
“I go by Micah now.”
Gustavo sniffed. “You changed your name? I am not surprised. No wonder we have had such trouble finding you.”
“You didn’t find me. I came to you.”
“Yes, you did, didn’t you? When they approached us about that body in the morgue they said was you, I did not believe it from the start. We sent someone to look, but that was more of a…” he waved one of the Desert Eagles in a circle, searching for the right word. “Exercise. I always had a feeling you were not dead, even before that. All those rumors. I always held out hope I would see you again, in the flesh. Prayed I would get the chance to confront the traitor.”
“And now here I am.”
“Here you are. Tell me: what is in the duffel bag?”
“The casino’s money,” Micah said.
“Damn it, Micah, don’t tell him shit,” Rourke said, his voice raspy. “We’re not giving him a cent of it.”
Gustavo smiled. “Your friend thinks he has a choice here about the money. This makes me laugh.”
