The Doomsday Girl

by Dave Stanton

  “Did she get mad at that?”

  “No, she was having a screaming orgasm at the time, so I don’t think she noticed.”

  “You’ve always had good timing.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said as we reached his car. “Where we headed again?”

  “The restaurant where the Volkovs hang out. It’s over on Tropicana.”

  “Don’t you want to wait until dark?”

  “Let’s just drive out there,” I said. “Where’s Abbey?”

  “She took off, said she’d call later.”

  “Let’s take your ride. My truck’s been around, probably been seen.”

  I lowered myself into Cody’s passenger seat and listened while he started the supercharged motor. Then he deftly worked the gearbox as we drove to the southbound freeway. The suspension and steering felt stiff and precise. Five minutes later we took the Tropicana exit and rolled through the big intersection, past the Excalibur and the MGM. There was ninety minutes of daylight left and the afternoon had become more overcast. As we drove east, the sky grew darker and the heavy air seemed to descend upon us.

  “Looks like rain,” Cody said.

  We turned into the lot next to the Café Leonov. A half dozen cars were parked to the side of the building, including the white limo. Cody left the motor idling as we sat looking at the restaurant.

  “It’s like the Volkovs live here,” I said. “The limo’s always here.”

  “Are they open?”

  “Not until five-thirty, the sign says.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “I’m gonna walk behind the place, have a look.”

  “You want backup?”

  “Just keep an eye out, text me if anything happens.”

  As I left Cody’s car, a misty drizzle began falling. I zipped my coat and stepped over the short fence between the lots, then jogged alongside the cafe, toward the rear. When I reached the end of the building, I was surprised to see an extra section extending from the back. It was inset from the main perimeter walls, and invisible from the street. There were no windows in the stucco facing, and when I peeked around the end of the addition, I saw no rear door.

  Along the back fence was a large trash bin flanked by scraggly hedges. I ran the fifty feet to the bin and pushed open the lid. It was half full with green garbage bags. I yanked one open and spilled its contents. Large, empty cans that once held olives, stewed tomatoes, and pickled cabbage rolled and clattered from the bag. I opened a second and found head lettuce cores, chicken remains, and other unidentified rubbish, all coated in a mess of thick, lumpy gravy. I was reaching for a third bag when I heard a sound from the building.

  I lowered the lid and darted to the rear corner of the Dumpster. Crouching, I heard wheels crunching over gravel. The sound drew closer, then the lid was thrown open, and a man grunted. There were two thumps, the lid banged shut, and I heard the wheels again. I looked around the trash bin and saw a man pushing a dolly back toward the building. He went to the far side and disappeared around the corner of the extended section.

  I waited a minute, then opened the lid again. This time I saw a smaller, white garbage bag on top. I pulled it open and shook out some of the contents. Crumpled tissues, a rolled toothpaste tube, and a few toilet paper rolls fell free, and then a larger item, an empty Froot Loops cereal box. I felt the skin around my face tighten. I jammed the items back in the white bag, cinched it shut, and carried it at a jog to where Cody waited in his modified Toyota.

  “Find any good stuff?” he asked.

  “I think Mia Jordan is inside,” I said.

  “What’s in the bag?”

  “Fruit Loops box. Plus, there’s a back section that looks added to the original structure. They could be holding her there. I’m betting her DNA or fingerprints are on something in this bag.”

  “You want me to bring it to Denise?”

  “There’s no time for that.”

  “Gear up, then?”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied.

  Cody reached into the backseat and grabbed his bag, while I tightened my bulletproof vest across my chest, secured my shoulder holster, and made sure my sap was in place in my coat pocket.

  “Should I bring this?” Cody asked, adjusting his vest. The single barrel of his sawed-off Remington ten gauge lay across his thigh.

  “No. Just your handgun.” I watched him check the cylinder of his .357 Magnum revolver and fit it into the holster on his rib cage.

  “Front door or back?” he asked.

  “Back.”

  We set out and Cody followed me as I retraced my footsteps to the back of the Café Leonov. The rain was now falling in a light patter. The asphalt was cracked and muddy puddles were forming in the dirt creases. When we reached the end of the building, I led us to the far side, where the man with the dolly had emerged from an unseen door.

  Now we stood directly in front of the door. It was a stout, metal unit, providing passage into the main building, not to the section I thought was likely an add-on.

  “The door probably leads to the kitchen,” I said. “But we need to get into this area.” I pointed at the wall ten feet to our right.

  “Let’s do it,” Cody said.

  I pulled on the handle and we entered a hallway stacked with boxes on one side. As we walked forward, I could smell boiling meat, but it was overpowered by an odor that reminded me of sour milk. We turned into the kitchen, where the man nearest us was chopping carrots and mushrooms with a French knife. Behind a counter another cook tended to pots on a stove while a third pulled a tray from a large oven.

  The man with the knife looked up. It was the same man who’d taken out the trash. He was of medium size and unshaven.

  “Could we get a table for two?” Cody said.

  The man blinked and looked confused, then he muttered something in a thick Russian accent. I stepped forward and brought my hand down on top of his, pinning the knife against the cutting board.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” I said. “Where’s the girl?”

  He yelled out, and the other two cooks turned and stared openmouthed.

  Cody pulled his big pistol from his holster. “Make a sound, I’ll blow you to hell,” he said. “On the ground, now.”

  The chef at the oven dropped to his knees, but the other cook had a cocksure, defiant gleam in his eyes. He shook his head and smiled, then began walking toward a doorway that led to the dining room.

  Cody ran forward and cut him off, and the cook had a brief moment to regret his misunderstanding of the situation before Cody swung the pistol barrel down and clubbed him behind the ear. The man collapsed to the floor in a heap.

  “I won’t be as easy on you,” I said to the prep cook. “Where is she?”

  He tried to yank his hand from my grasp, and I punched him with a straight right to the nose, not hard enough to break it, just enough to stun him and make his eyes water. His face puckered, the skin pinching and creasing, then he lashed out with his free hand. I ducked, but his finger grazed my eye, which prompted me to smack him with a full backhand across the mouth. When his knees buckled I grabbed him by the neck to keep him upright, then threw him up on the counter, his head banging the wall.

  “Last chance,” I said. His eyes were unfocused and dull, but then he spit a mouthful of blood at me. I hit him with another straight right, and this time I didn’t hold back. My fist slammed into his chin and he slumped over unconscious, then slid off the cutting board and onto the tiled floor.

  “Worthless piece of shit,” I said.

  “Dirt, Dirt,” Cody said, shaking his head. He came around the counter, pushing the chef who’d been at the stove. The man was in his early twenties and the scowl on his face looked like an exaggerated attempt to hide fear and vulnerability. He’s low man on the totem pole, an underling, not a thug, I thought. His right arm was pinned behind him and he was grimacing in pain. Cody’s left hand held the man by the back of the collar, while his right maintai
ned the police arm lock.

  “My friend has no subtlety,” Cody said into the cook’s ear. “But I’m different. If I crank your arm up another inch, the tendons will start tearing. But I won’t stop there. I’ll ruin your shoulder so your arm will never work again. You’ll go through life as a cripple. So you get to make a big decision today, douche bag. Take us to the girl.”

  His eyes were squeezed shut and his teeth clenched. He gestured with his free hand. “They’ll kill me,” he said.

  “You’re screwed either way, pal,” I said. “But at least we’ll let you get a head start out of town.” When Cody jerked his arm, the man cried, “The cooler!”

  Cody pushed him forward, and I followed them around to the left. “Open it,” Cody said, as we approached the door to a walk-in refrigerator. He pulled the latch, and we walked to a second latch handle in the back of the cooler. He opened that one to reveal a hallway running perpendicular. There were three doors, one in front of us and one to either side.

  “Which one?” I said.

  He nodded to our left. “Last question,” I said. “What were the plans for the girl?” I saw the beginnings of a lie on his face, but it vanished when Cody pushed him against the wall and reapplied pressure on his shoulder joint.

  “Sell her,” he whined. “I had nothing to do with it, I swear. You’re just in time.”

  “To who?” I asked.

  “A man with a lot of money.”

  “Why did they wait so long?”

  “He’s coming from the Mideast. Lots of plans, details.”

  I sighed, then dropped him with my lead-weighted sap.

  “Good night, Irene,” Cody said, looking down at the unconscious body. “I’d say his career here is done.”

  We moved to the door on the left. I tried the locked door knob, then drew back my leg and slammed my heel below the knob. The door didn’t give.

  “Son of a bitch,” I said. “It’s reinforced.”

  “You’re weak,” Cody said. “Stand back.” He yanked on the knob with both hands, once, twice, and the third time the knob broke off in his hand. He tossed it aside and kicked the door, but it didn’t budge. Then he pulled out his revolver.

  “No,” I said. “She’s in there.”

  I could see Cody’s ears turn red, before he drove his foot into the wall next to the door. The sheetrock caved in and he continued kicking, the hole widening below a crossbeam. When the opening was wide enough, he dropped to his butt and pounded his heels into the opposite wall, kicking through, his huge legs pumping like pistons. He moved in a frenzy, exerting his brute size and strength against a problem that required a solution that was not only urgent, but also obvious if one possessed the physical attributes.

  When he paused, I heard the cry of a tiny voice.

  Cody gave a final kick, then rolled out of the way. “Go,” he said.

  I ducked down and wedged my body through the jagged hole, pushing away bands of fiberglass insulation and trying not to breathe in the thick dust. When I got my shoulders past the second wall, I looked up and saw a small table and a bed. On the corner of the bed against the wall, a little figure sat huddled, a blanket pulled over her head, as if to shield her.

  “Mia? It’s okay, I’m here to help you,” I said. I walked myself into the carpeted room on my hands until my feet were free. Then I stood and said, “I’m going to bring you back to your mom.”

  The blanket slowly lowered until two large brown eyes stared at me. The little girl had short, dark hair that looked like it had recently been styled.

  “My mommy and daddy are dead,” she said. Her voice was tiny but defiant.

  “Mia, I was hired by your mom to find you. She’s alive, I promise.”

  “They killed her, and they’ll kill you, too,” she said, her voice breaking. She held the blanket just below her eyes, clutching it in her little hands. Her fingernails were painted red.

  “We have to go now,” I said, but then I heard a sound from outside, a door opening, then the unmistakable hiss of a silenced round fired, followed by the thunderous boom of a large caliber gun shot.

  I leapt forward, scooped up Mia Jordan, and moved to the side of the door opposite where Cody had kicked through the wall.

  “Stay behind me,” I said, training my Beretta on the hole. “Cody!” I yelled.

  “Son of a bitch shot me,” he replied. “But I put a round through his hand.”

  “How bad?”

  “Kevlar saved my ass. Come on out.”

  “Where’s the shooter?”

  “He scurried back into his room. He comes out again he won’t be as lucky.”

  “She’s here, Cody. I’m passing her through.”

  Mia was still clutching the blanket around herself. Her eyes were big and round.

  “You don’t need to be frightened now,” I said. “My friend, Cody, is waiting out there. He won’t let anyone harm you, I promise.”

  Mia dropped the blanket. She was wearing yellow pajamas. She went to the hole and crawled through, and I followed her, chafing my forearms on the broken sheetrock. Once my shoulders cleared, Cody reached down, grabbed my hand, and pulled me to my feet.

  “Back through the cooler,” I said, stepping over the punk I’d knocked out. I held Mia by the hand, and with the other I grasped the cooler handle.

  “Wait a minute,” Cody said. “I want to pull that guy out of there.” He pointed to the door at the end.

  “Not now,” I said. “Call Vegas PD. Or your girlfriend.”

  “Crap,” Cody muttered. But he followed us through the cooler. When we walked into the kitchen, the prep cook had regained consciousness. He was on his feet and holding his jaw. He looked in pain and disoriented, but when he saw us he snatched up his French knife. I reached for my pistol, but Cody brushed past me.

  “You’re not too bright, are you, comrade?” Cody said. The man took a step back, then his eyes became focused and he let out a yell and ran at Cody, his arm locked, the blade held before him as if it were a bayonet.

  Cody sidestepped and brought his fist down on the man’s arm. The knife clattered to the floor, then Cody picked him up by the crotch and the neck and held him high in the air.

  “Time to fly, shit-bird,” Cody said, and launched the man over the counter and into a wall lined with pots and pans. It caused a huge racket, and amid the clatter I heard the distinct sound of a bone breaking.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  We hurried down the hallway and out the back door. When we reached Cody’s car, I buckled Mia into the backseat. She was weeping silently, tears streaming down her freckled cheeks.

  “We’re going to take you to your mom soon,” I said. I closed the door and looked across the hood at Cody, who had his cell pressed to his ear.

  “Denise isn’t taking my call,” he said.

  “Call nine-one-one.”

  “I think she might be regretting last night.”

  “Would you call nine-one-one?”

  “I shouldn’t have let it happen.”

  “Christ,” I said, yanking my phone from my pocket. I dialed the police emergency number and gave the address to the 911 operator.

  “Yes,” I said. “There’s been a shooting, so get a couple cars over here pronto.”

  “Are you in danger now?” the operator asked.

  “No. But there’s a wounded gunman holed up inside. Send an ambulance if you want.”

  “Please wait for us, but stay clear of anywhere that might put you in danger.”

  I hung up and said, “Let’s drive across the street and wait for LVPD.”

  Cody was typing a text message, and I waited patiently for him to finish. When he looked up, I said, “What did the guy you shot look like?”

  “A middle-age fat slob with sagging jowls.”

  “Nice work,” I said. “You shot Igor the Butcher.”

  “Who?” Cody asked, as we got into his car.

  “Igor Volkov. He’s the boss.”

  Co
dy swung out of the lot and crossed over to the apartments on the opposite side of Tropicana. “I think his hand is toast,” Cody said. “I’m packing hollow points.”

  “You always do. Park facing the restaurant.”

  “He could go out the back. But I don’t see him climbing fences, even if his hand was good. You want a smoke?”

  I looked back at Mia. “Are you okay? The police are coming. Then we’ll go to your mom.”

  She sniffled and nodded, and I got out and walked a few steps to where a tree provided refuge from the drizzle. I called Melanie’s cell, and when she didn’t answer I left a message telling her I’d found and rescued her daughter. After I hung up, Cody handed me a Marlboro, and we stood watching the front of the Café Leonov.

  I blew a stream of smoke into the wet air and tried to not think about what Mia Jordan had endured, and what it would mean to the rest of her life. I suspected Cody had the same concerns, for the expression on his face when he first saw her was one I’d seen before. Though we never spoke of it, I knew of Cody’s soft spot for defenseless female victims. It was this dynamic that prompted some of his more extreme moments, like when he once threw a rapist off a roof.

  “I wouldn’t worry about Denise,” I said, hoping to keep the mood light. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Yeah, but somehow I always get blamed.”

  “Don’t rush to conclusions.”

  Cody squinted into the darkening afternoon and touched a spot on his midsection. “Ouch,” he said. “I think it was a thirty-two round, fortunately. Probably leave a bitch of a bruise though.”

  “Here’s what you should do, Cody. Send Denise a big flower bouquet. Send it to her home, not to the station where it will embarrass her.”

  He looked at me with doubt etched across his face.

  “I’m serious, man. Flowers are like magic to a woman. Most guys think, who gives a shit about flowers, right? But to women, it’s a big deal.”

  Cody pointed at me, his cigarette smoking in his fingers. “You know, Dirt, every now and then you say something halfway intelligent.” He smiled broadly. “I think I’ll take your advice. I’ll send her the biggest freaking arrangement they got.”

  I smiled and patted him on the back. “Life doesn’t have to be so complicated, old buddy.”