by Sam Jones
The group of construction workers standing around jumped back, one of them whistling in astonishment as the Porsche took off, mounted the opposite sidewalk, and prepared to make a right on St. Clair, pedestrians jumping and diving out of its way as it jetted down the street.
The construction workers gathered around a curled-up and slumped-over Billy, the dust settling around him, his hair and clothes tattered and torn and powdered with debris.
“Holy shit,” one of the workers said. “Buddy, are you okay?”
Billy didn’t stir.
Didn’t twitch.
Three seconds passed, and then his limbs began flailing, consciousness and adrenaline jolting his system awake like he had been hit by lightning. He was grunting and coughing, struggling to stand, and retrieving the breath that had gotten knocked out of him.
The construction workers leaned in and stretched out their arms to help him up.
“Hey!” one of them said. “Stay down, man!”
They quickly abandoned their attempts to help as soon as they saw the Colt (still) clutched in Billy’s left hand.
“Whoa! Hey-hey-hey! Whoa, man!” the choir sang out.
“It’s cool,” Billy said, leaning and bobbing from one side to the other, struggling to find his footing and waving his gun in the air. “I’m FBI. I’m allowed to have one of these. It’s cool. All good.”
The workers remained frozen in place, hands up and palms out.
Seconds later Maria came to a smoking stop in a commandeered Mitsubishi Cordia and hopped out of the car.
“Billy!” she hollered as she ran over. “Are you all right? Jesus Christ!”
Billy wobbled and braced his hands on his knees as he pointed to her new ride.
“All the cars in the world in that lot, and you steal that piece of shit?”
“Billy, don’t move. Hold still.”
“Hot damn!” he coughed as he looked at the indentation his body had made in the plaster. “That sucked so bad…”
Maria looked him over. Nothing was sticking out. Nothing was gushing blood. As she opened her mouth to speak, from twenty feet out and to the right, the classic sounds of car metal making impact with a stationary object rang out. Maria then shot a look toward the corner of St. Clair and saw that someone had made a turn at the wrong time and t-boned Mr. Thompson’s Porsche.
Another welcomed break.
Billy spotted the crash a split second after Maria did. The moment he saw Mr. Thompson on foot, he felt the adrenaline in his body once again starting to pump and temporarily alleviating him of what was going to be an extremely sore, bruised—and slightly cracked—body in the hours to come.
He straightened up.
Maria saw the fire in his eye.
“Billy, wait—”
It was too late.
Billy was already weaving through the traffic in an all-out sprint toward the corner of St. Clair.
“God damn it…” Maria said as she followed after him.
Billy was about halfway to the corner of St. Clair when Mr. Thompson jumped out of his car and shoved away the approaching driver who had run into him. As soon as Billy was about ten feet away, Mr. Thompson spotted him, raised his reloaded Ruger, and fired it twice.
The moment the shots rang out, screams erupted and people scattered. As soon as Billy spotted Mr. Thompson raising his gun, he ducked left and behind one of the cars wading in traffic, the shots missing him by three feet with a hiss and burying themselves into a wall in the building behind him. He waited three seconds before he peeked around the bumper and spotted Mr. Thompson gunning it on foot down St. Clair.
Move.
Billy looked to his right and spotted the entrance to an open, multileveled parking structure running parallel to St. Clair. He got out of cover behind the car and ran through it, Maria now behind him by about twelve feet. Billy closed the distance on Mr. Thompson with the intention to flank him on his right as he ran up St. Clair.
Billy slid over a parked car facing St. Clair and emerged onto the street, Mr. Thompson now twenty feet ahead of him and gunning in the direction of the John Hancock building. Every muscle in his legs burned, his body fueled by sheer adrenaline. His sites were honed in on Mr. Thompson, slowly closing in on him inch by precious-inch.
Everything was catching up to Billy: his anger over being punched, smacked, tortured, and beaten around for the past several days; his confusion and rage over his best friend now running lead for the bad guys; his frustration over how he was going to tell the family of Andy Sykes that the man they loved was not only alive but had turned to the dark side.
The storm fueled Billy. He used it. He was running faster and harder than he ever had in his life, all of his raw emotion projected onto the pasty guy sprinting fifteen feet ahead of him.
And then a Trans-Am turned onto the street, twenty-five feet away from Mr. Thompson.
Mr. Thompson saw his out and fired a round into the windshield.
The Trans-Am screeched to a halt, the driver spilling out of the car a half second later and onto the pavement, clutching at a now-bloodied shoulder as he crawled away from the car and found cover behind another one parked near a meter to his left.
Billy moved to the right behind the rear of a GMC for some concealment as he leveled the gun at Mr. Thompson from fifteen feet away. He drew a quick breath and curled his finger around the trigger.
Come on…
But Mr. Thompson turned on his heel as he raised his Ruger in a swift and almost exaggerated pose that Billy associated with old cowboy movies—the quick draw, the deadly man in the black hat. In this case, the pale guy in the black wardrobe.
Both of them fired.
Billy’s shot missed Mr. Thompson by about a foot to the left.
Mr. Thompson’s shot clipped Billy’s right shoulder.
Billy went down hard and quick. Before he had gotten clipped, he was in the process of taking his shot, but he knew full well when he squeezed the trigger he hadn’t lined up the sights well enough to hit his pasty target.
Mr. Thompson’s round hit Billy like a hard punch in his right shoulder and spun him around. The momentum Billy had already put into moving toward cover further enhanced his spin, landing hard on his right side onto the pavement as Mr. Thompson hopped into the Trans-Am and peeled out in reverse.
Billy rolled out of cover onto his stomach and raised his Colt, squeezing off the remaining seven rounds in his gun toward the grill of the Trans-Am as it backed out, hoping that one of the rounds would hit the engine block or another vital mechanism that made the car go.
But it didn’t happen.
The Trans-Am swung around in a one-eighty, charged up the street, and fled the scene as Billy’s bullets turned the back window white.
Billy watched as the car turned into a blur, his face red and teeth gritting. He pushed up off of the pavement, jittery and jumpy as he slammed the butt of his pistol against the door of the car next to him.
“Shit!” he spat in a raspy tone.
His thoughts quickly shifted to the driver of the Trans-Am, currently lying prone two parked cars ahead of him with a small puddle of blood pooling around his shoulder. Billy, grimacing in pain as he stuffed his empty Colt in the back of his pants, applied pressure to his wound and half ran, half wobbled over to the fallen bystander. “Hey!” he said as he crouched down by the guy and flipped him over. “Look at me! Look at me!”
The driver turned onto his back. He was a kid, probably no more than twenty or twenty-one with a Def Leppard T-shirt, a pair of acid-washed jeans, and a red flannel shirt. His eyes were wide. His skin was paler than Mr. Thompson’s and glistening with sweat.
“Am I gonna die?” he asked in a pleading tone laced with fear. “Am I gonna die?”
Billy looked at the kid’s wound and saw a neat hole in his left shoulder, soaked with ruby. It was a bad wound—and no doubt excruciatingly painful—but the kid would live. Billy had seen enough gunshot wounds in his life to know the difference
between the life-threatening ones and the imminently life-threatening ones.
“Hang tight, bud,” he said in a calmer tone. “Just hang tight.”
He applied pressure on the kid’s wound as the pain in his own shoulder started to sear.
“Check it out,” Billy said to the kid, wincing as he pointed to the deep maroon stain on his shoulder. “We’re twins.”
The kid was too frightened to be amused.
Moments later Billy heard the shouts: “Hands up! Put your hands up!”
He could tell from the tone that it was 5-0.
Only cops gave orders.
Bad guys just started shooting.
Billy slowly raised his hands as he turned his head to the left and spotted three local beat boys in uniform approaching him from the rear, weapons drawn and leveled at his back. “Lace your fingers behind your head!” the tall one on the right shouted as the shorter one went for his cuffs. “Now!”
Billy obliged and stared down the street in the direction the Trans-Am had fled, already stewing over his defeat and ready to go in for another round.
33
KRUGER WAS WAITING in the lobby of the hotel, repeatedly checking his watch as one of his goons kept a rotating eye on everyone in the immediate vicinity behind them.
Time was running out.
The job was almost complete.
And Kruger didn’t have the slightest bit of remorse over ordering Billy Reese’s death.
He just didn’t care.
Plain and simple.
“Where the hell is Thompson?” Kruger asked, looking at his watch again for the sixth time in two minutes.
Seconds later, Mr. Thompson entered the lobby, slightly disheveled and—per usual—completely expressionless.
Kruger flexed his eyebrows—What the fuck?
“What happened?” he asked Mr. Thompson as the trio of bad men moved toward the bank of elevators to their left.
“We have a problem,” Mr. Thompson said.
“What kind of problem?”
“Reese and that cop got away. The rest of our men at the warehouse are dead.”
Kruger squeezed Mr. Thompson’s elbow and pulled him in close. “I pray this is you attempting to employ a sense of humor.”
“The woman killed Snyder, Parker, and Lowe, and then cut Reese loose,” Mr. Thompson said.
“And why the hell didn’t you stop them?”
“She had the drop on me.”
“And you’re a trained killer. What kind of piss-poor cop out are you trying to lay on me?”
“I got away. Reese and Velasco were being arrested by local police when I last saw them.”
Kruger got in his face. “Yeah? And how long until they cut them loose after they identify them, you fair-haired sociopath?”
“Reese took a round in the shoulder.”
“And how is that supposed to ease my anxiety about the situation?”
“He’s wounded.”
“Dead would have been preferable.”
Kruger composed himself. Shot his cuffs. The goon with him had his hand hovering near the button panel by the elevator, waiting for Kruger to give him the order to press it.
Kruger lowered his voice and addressed his people. “Don’t mention a thing to Salazar. As far as he’s concerned, the deal is still good. We’re not going to compromise that because of Reese or Velasco.”
“It very well might be,” Mr. Thompson said. “Reese is on the loose. He could pop up anywhere.”
Kruger took a step closer to him. “And whose fault is that, you colorless fool?”
Mr. Thompson said nothing, entirely unmoved.
“We’ll finish with Salazar,” Kruger said, “and then we’ll figure out what to do about Reese and his friend. If he’s wounded, he might be in the hospital. Maybe we can find him and put a fucking bullet it in his head.”
Kruger motioned to his goon. The goon pressed up on the button panel.
“Just keep your mouths shut,” Kruger said, turning toward the double doors to the elevator cart in front of him. “We’re three days away from bankrolling life sentences on the beach.”
The cart arrived.
The doors opened with a ping.
Rodrigo Salazar was a confident and highly intelligent man who had eased into his sixties gracefully. He was slim. Athletic. Sophisticated. Though he spoke in a soft timbre saturated with Colombian flair, the inflection and words he chose instilled one with a sense that he was the ultimate authority—the boss. The master.
He was by the window in his suite on the top floor of the hotel overlooking downtown Chicago like a king, dressed in a cozy maroon turtleneck covered by an Italian-crafted blazer, surveying and scrutinizing the ant-sized citizens flowing through the streets as they celebrated Irish heritage with cheers and overindulgence. Two men flanked him, dressed in suits, hands clasped together in front of them with stone-cold gazes that appeared to never blink, and bulges sticking out on one side of their blazers. They were defenders of Don Rodrigo, even if the end result was lethal.
Don Rodrigo’s beginnings, like most legendary “Dons” from folklore, were simple. And like most legendary “Dons” from folklore, the later years of his life were filled with lucrative and illicit business practices driven by violence and masked with a beguiled sophistication. He was ruthless. Greedy. Yet another asshole drug kingpin who believed that life owed him nothing shy of the world. Don Rodrigo was a thug and lived a life that better and more honest men deserved.
He was a scumbag—the exact kind of scumbag that Billy Reese would relish agitating.
A knock came at the door to Salazar’s one-K-a-night hotel suite. The man to the left of him moved to answer it as Salazar continued to canvas the streets, his eyes glued on the crowd as Kruger, Mr. Thompson, and the goon dressed in black in the rear stood before him.
“I’ve never been a fan of this city,” Salazar said in his rich Colombian accent. “It’s always either too humid or too cold. And those bugs, those ones that buzz in the bushes all around the city?” He waved his hand as if one of them was wavering near his face. “Nonetheless,” he said, “this city has been good for business, and for that I should be grateful.”
He turned around and extended a handshake, Kruger immediately taking it up and greeting Salazar with the most cordial and warm demeanor he could muster. “It’s good to see you again, Don Salazar,” he said.
“A drink, Mr. Kruger?”
“No. Thank you. Time is of the essence today, I’m afraid. But for the sake of our working relationship, it is important for us meet this one last time before we conclude our business.”
Salazar motioned to the couch resting near the panoramic window overlooking the city. Kruger moved toward it.
“I want to thank you for making this trip to see me,” Salazar said. “I know it’s a bit of a journey, but Chicago is friendly territory, and maintaining that peace with those men requires my occasional presence.”
Kruger slipped down onto the couch. “No apologies necessary. It’s my pleasure to be here. And, just so you know, Hector Fuentes has been taken care of. We hit a stroke of good fortune on that end. Turns out someone else took him out for us.”
Salazar kept his eyes glued on Kruger as they took on a twinkle. “Yes. Yes, I’ve heard of Hector’s demise…and I was not allowed to facilitate it.”
Kruger said nothing.
Salazar turned around and held up a finger. “That wasn’t part of the deal. I was supposed to have the pleasure of dealing with that cucaracha myself…”
Kruger held up his hands—What can you do?
“We had some…unforeseeable hiccups that occurred, Don Salazar. But rest assured, all of that has been dealt with. Consider the seas smooth for the remainder of the voyage.”
Salazar wagged a finger and sucked air in through his teeth. “Again: that wasn’t the deal. I wanted to take care of Hector. Myself. That bastard killed my brother. A man like you can understand the importance of family, so you c
an no doubt empathize with my plight to, how should I put it, even the score.”
“Well, what’s done is done. Take comfort in knowing that the death of your brother has been avenged.”
Salazar waited for a long beat before changing the subject, somewhat seething at Kruger’s flippancy over the Hector issue. “I trust you’ve heard,” he said as he moved toward the bottle of tequila he had ordered up from room service, “that my trip overseas was successful.”
“I did. I heard the transition with Mr. Phan went smoothly.”
“It was. He shall be a great asset to me in the coming years.”
Salazar poured himself a drink, walked over, and stood in front of Kruger. Moments passed. Salazar did nothing but swirl the tequila around his glass.
Kruger looked at the glass, then back at Salazar. “Is everything all right?” he asked.
Salazar took a beat.
“Do I have any reason to worry?”
Kruger squinted. “I don’t follow.”
Salazar turned and moved toward the window. “I’m not a fool, Mr. Kruger.”
“I don’t believe you are.”
“Then you knew that I would know about a certain federal agent who has been attempting to dismantle things for you?”
A beat.
Kruger was surprised that the Don knew.
“Billy Reese is a compulsive basket case playing cops and robbers,” Kruger said. “The FBI has been trying to get rid of him for years. He’s unpredictable, brazen, and in my opinion, sociopathic. The only reason he’s been afloat as long as he has is because he’s an expendable asset with a rabbit’s foot charm that has only become more diluted as time has gone by.” He clapped his hands together, like a good Catholic praying to the Virgin Mary. “But Don Salazar, I promise you, right here and now: Billy Reese is no longer a factor in this situation.”
Salazar heard the words.
But he still wasn’t buying it.
“I don’t think I agree, Mr. Kruger. After doing a little bit of digging, I understand why Agent Reese has been such a favored lap dog of the bureau. He’s very…effective. The number of cases he has been a part of has secured quite a lot of convictions for some very prominent individuals.”
