Behind them, Woody made it only so far as the bumper before pulling up, clearly meant to stay behind as the driver.
When Byrdie had first arrived, his plan was to get inside the house and figure out how to find the women. Get an address or a phone number or something that would point him in the right direction. From there, he could go after Clady.
Bring the meddling bastard back to the Wolves, proving both his worth and the fact that he should be the man sitting at the head of the organization.
Now crouching in the alley behind the house, the plan begins to morph. Byrdie takes in the presence of Ringer and the others. The way they are moving. The weapons in their hand.
The original idea will work, but it is slow. It requires patience and time. Time that will mean he is still ousted from the organization. Time for stories to spread and grow. For people to begin blaming him for all that went down.
For them to rally behind Ringer, the clunky bastard now bounding toward the backdoor. The man that has finally gotten off his throne and decided to handle something himself for a change.
Watching it all play out, Byrdie allows a new idea to take hold. He watches as the men all bear down on the rear of the house, each passing moment bringing his new plan into focus.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The information Sven came in search of was much easier to locate than anticipated. Needing to go no further than the kitchen, he found the cellphone number for the younger Ogo scribbled onto a Post-It note. Affixed to the refrigerator beside the landline, it looked like it had been left there for the older woman, put out in plain sight without much thought.
Not that there was any way she could have foreseen who might be coming or what he would possibly intend to use it for.
With the information copied onto an index card in his pocket, Sven was back in position mere minutes after entering the home. Quick enough that he could have gotten away easily if he chose to, though the thought never really entered his mind.
Some of his competitors like to claim that what they do is merely a transaction. That they have no connection to the work itself, the deeds they perform are simply tasks to be completed. No different than an accountant filing tax returns or a dental hygienist performing a cleaning.
Sven knows better. There is no possible way to perform what they do, to practice in the art of eliminating life, without having connection to the work.
Knowing that, accepting it, is why he is so much better than they are. It is why he is the one Elsa Teller and countless others seek out.
Why the mundane list she gave him isn’t quite enough without the added challenge of the Wolves.
Sven is standing at the exact midpoint of the two side walls of the lower floor when he hears the first sound from outside. Eight minutes after he first entered, he stands ten feet down from the midpoint of the space. Close enough to the front door that he can fire without obstruction, his left hand is more than sufficient for such a short distance.
Far enough back that he is hidden by the wall separating him from the kitchen, obscuring him from view of anybody that might enter through the rear.
Best guess, the Wolves will come at him with four men. Having to rely on gates on both ends of the property, any more than that will create a logjam. Too many people vying for the same bottleneck, especially if trying to flee in a hurry.
In the Beretta Pico, he has seven rounds. In the event something goes awry, he also has the spring-loaded MTU16 out and in hand.
The scrape of metal is obvious as the latch on the front gate is lifted. Allowing his eyes to drift shut, Sven tracks the movement of whoever is outside. He superimposes it over the course he just traveled a moment before.
His heart rate remains completely even as he envisions what he believes to be two men bounding up the concrete walk. He waits as they make their way up the short flight of steps onto the landing.
From the opposite direction, he hears the second gate. A similar sound to that out front, it arrives three full seconds after the first.
More than enough gap to widen the advantage he already has.
To look at Sven, he is completely at peace. His eyes are closed. He breathes evenly through his nose.
The instant the front door bursts inward in an explosion of noise and splintered wood, Sven opens his eyes. His head swivels to the left as his arm rises.
The first man through stands at least as tall as Sven. Pumped up with gymnasium muscles, his face is pockmarked with acne, suggesting some chemical enhancement to his impressive physique. Dressed in jeans and a black leather vest, he is the one that kicked his way through the door, the movement leaving him off-balance as he stumbles forward.
Spilling in right behind him is a second man no older than twenty-five. Hair already receding into a steep widow’s peak has been buzzed down short. Wiry arms with pale skin protrude from a sleeveless t-shirt underscoring a matching vest.
Starting with the second one, Sven fires a single shot. Not wanting him to make it over the threshold, he puts the round through the man’s forehead, dropping him on the spot. Slouching to the floor, his body blocks the door from closing, creating a barrier for anybody trying to get by.
On cue, he hears the second team burst through the back door, their entry somehow even louder than the first. With it comes a cacophony of grunts and feet slapping against linoleum, Sven making no attempt to move toward it.
Rooted in place, he instead keeps his focus on the first man through the front door. Not expecting the attack, for Sven to be standing where he is, the man flails. His eyes go wide as he tries to bring his enormous size to a stop, his feet sliding over the smooth wooden flooring.
In his hand is a battered handgun of some sort, the weapon barely making it to his waist before Sven fires again. Aiming for the lead shoulder, he mashes a shot through the deltoid muscle, cleaving a divot into the soft tissue.
On contact, the man cries out. The nerves and muscles running the length of his arm act as nature intended, releasing their tension, the gun tumbling from his hand to the floor.
Stripped of his weapon, Sven shifts the front of his own gun a couple of inches and fires a second time.
It strikes an inch left of where he wanted, but is still enough to have the intended effect.
Much like his cohort, he crumples to the floor, not to move again.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Doc is twelve years younger and fifty pounds lighter than Ringer. He also had the advantage of being on the driver side of the car, meaning he was that much closer to the gate as the Wolves exited the sedan. Reaching it in three long strides, he paused just long enough to fling open the metal latch before bounding down the concrete walk leading to the backdoor.
Coming from the opposite side of the vehicle, Ringer was out even before Gamer had brought them to a complete stop. Leaving his door open, he let the car roll forward a few feet, choosing to go around the back end.
With the Wolves patch splayed across Doc’s vest in his sights, he gripped the Smith & Wesson tight in his right hand. As he did so, he could feel the open wound of his palm rubbing against the gnarl of the grip, fresh blood seeping out.
Setting his jaw, he tore across the alley and through the gate standing open. He didn’t bother looking back, knowing that Gamer would be along whenever his girth allowed it.
Hair flying out behind him, his feet slapped hard against the concrete as he watched Doc cover the last bit of ground to the house. Making no effort to slow himself, to even check if the door was unlocked, the man instead elongated his strides. Building momentum, he bounded up onto the middle of three steps before launching himself into the rear door.
The sound of the collision echoed out, as loud as a car crash in the quiet of the neighborhood. As expected for a house with such age, the wood casing around the door was no match for the sheer force of the blow. The pine surrounding the dead bolt shattered, wood shards raining down. Higher up, the remainder sheared off in one long piece, nails screec
hing as they were pulled from the frame.
All sounds that paled in comparison to the gunshot that rang out a moment later.
And the two more that came immediately thereafter.
In the wake of hearing them, Ringer can feel adrenaline seep into his system. He manages to mutter, “Shit,” pushing the word out between breaths as he reaches the trio of steps leading up into the house.
Able to see inside for the first time, it appears that the rear door leads directly into the kitchen. Beyond it looks to be the living room, most of the doorway leading into it blocked by Doc.
Billy club in hand, the younger man has ceased his forward momentum. Turned sideways, he is bent at the knee, easing forward, allowing Ringer to close the gap between them.
Gaze aimed forward, Doc’s body clenches. His body jerks in recognition as he opens his mouth, an unintelligible sound all that passes from it. Pulling his arm back, he begins to raise the club as a fourth shot rings out.
Just inches inside the back door, Ringer pauses, watching as the bullet connects with Doc’s skull. Blood spatter bursts forth from the wound, exploding against the pale wallpaper beside him.
Coming in from an angle behind the kitchen wall, the shot thrusts Doc’s body to the side. Strong enough to lift him from his feet, he mashes into the wall, the entire kitchen seeming to shake.
A moment later it does so a second time as he drops to the floor, landing hard. In his wake, a bright red smear extends down the wall, the smells of blood and gunpowder in the air.
Landing in a heap, Doc’s arms and legs are twisted around him, blocking much of the doorway separating Ringer from whoever waits on the other side.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The third of the Wolves is barely around the edge of the door when Sven pulls the trigger. For a moment, he considered waiting as he had on the front, letting the man get inside the room and taking out whoever came later, bottling them in.
Just as fast, he dismisses the idea. Already, these attackers have heard the prior gunshots. They know where he is and that he is armed.
Knowing that anywhere from a third to half of their force is already dead, he tugs back on the trigger, eliminating number three before he even reaches the seam separating kitchen linoleum from the hardwood of the great room.
With the odds already swung so violently in his favor, Sven allows the slightest bit of emotion to creep in. The coppery tang of blood fills his nostrils. The sight of carnage fills the lower level of the house.
Much like he imagines his ancestors once felt on the battlefield, he can feel excitement roiling through him. Pulsating from every pore, it drives him forward, a craving he cannot cast aside.
The instant the bullet is out of the gun, Sven pushes off his back foot. Following its path, he sees as it cleaves a hole through the man’s cheek. As it pitches him to the side, slamming him into the wall before gravity wins out, dropping him to the floor.
Arriving a moment later, Sven leaps over the man sprawled across the doorway. Gun in hand, he fires a single round as he makes the corner, a blind shot that slams into the back door standing ajar, shoving it closed.
Just making it past the spray of blood and brain matter coating the wall and floor around the doorway, Sven twists himself mid-air. He lets his back mash into the wall, feeling the structure shift just slightly beneath him.
His initial assessment of the Wolves assault was correct. Standing before him is one last man, an older guy with big arms and long hair with signs of gray at the temples. In his hand is a large revolver, the man at least having the good sense to have it raised into a firing position.
Barely does Sven’s feet even touch the floor before the Beretta Pico is up before him. Pulling back on the trigger, he sees the blinding orange blossom of a matching muzzle flash a few feet away.
Standing so close together, there is no way for either man to miss. Sven feels the searing pain of a round entering the soft flesh of his abdomen, a hot poker driven into his core.
Gnashing his teeth together, he continues pulling back on his own trigger. The last two rounds exit as he continues attempting to fire, the pin drawing nothing but air.
Across from him, another flash erupts as well, this one tearing into the drywall beside him.
Inside the narrow confines of the kitchen, the combined noise is deafening. Smoke hangs in a thick cloud, burning his eyes, making it almost impossible to see.
Releasing his grip on the Beretta Pico, Sven presses his hands into the wall supporting him. He prepares to shove himself forward, intent to finish the job with the MTU16, as the backdoor bursts open beside him.
With the knife extended, his body folded to protect the wound leaking blood down his front, there is no way for Sven to protect himself. No chance at getting a hand up or slowing the momentum of the door.
The last thing he sees is the corner of the heavy wooden implement swinging his way before it connects with his temple. Bright lights erupt before his eyes as he is lifted from the ground.
He is out before he lands.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Any concern Byrdie has for being spotted is gone the moment the first gunshots ring out. Abandoning his low crouch, he raises himself into a full sprint. Swinging up on the far side of the alley, he sees as Doc and Ringer disappear in through the backdoor. He also watches as Gamer lumbers behind them, the scene eerily reminiscent of what happened the first time they visited the house a week before.
Left behind to fend for the car, Woody’s full focus is on the house. Stepping away from the side of the vehicle, he goes as far as the chain link fence separating the backyard from the alley. Gripping the top of it with both hands, he is rooted in place, staring at the fight going on in the house.
Not once does he even consider that a threat could be coming up from behind him.
Opting against firing the gun just yet and giving away his position, Byrdie runs straight toward Woody. Moving at full speed, he drives upward off his left foot, lifting himself into an impromptu Superman punch. Cocking the gun back to his shoulder, he uses the combination of gravity and his momentum to drive the butt of the weapon down into the top of Woody’s skull.
On contact, warm liquid sluices from the man’s scalp and over Byrdie’s thumb. Never does he make a sound as he drops straight to the asphalt, his body completely limp.
Twisted to the side from the force of the blow, Byrdie’s hip slams into the fence. The clinking of metal rattling against itself rings out as he lets his forward momentum roll him onward, the fence digging into his back as he makes a full revolution, twisting to the side before reaching the open gate.
Without the fence to keep him upright, Byrdie stumbles. His left hand goes to the ground, steadying himself. Combining the sudden movement and the injuries sustained this morning, he can feel every part of his body protest. His core feels as if it has been stretched beyond capacity. His head feels like it is swelling. Sweat bathes his features. His lungs fight for air.
Lifting his gaze, he fights to push aside the pained complaints of his body. He aims his focus upward, watching as Gamer finally reaches the rear door.
Smashing through it, there is a dull thump as if someone was standing on the other side. Enough to cause Gamer to cease his forward progress, he stands in the doorway, the frame just barely broad enough to handle his girth.
Much like Woody a moment prior, he is oblivious to anything behind him. His full focus is aimed forward, any perceived threat located inside the house.
Never before has Byrdie had any major problems with Gamer, though he wouldn’t necessarily call the man a friend. For the last couple years, he’s considered the man little more than an overgrown gopher, Ringer’s personal valet for whatever is needed.
Someone that - if Byrdie’s new plan is going to work - has to go.
Staggering forward a couple of steps, Byrdie manages to get his feet under him, pulling himself upright. Giving no mind to any noise he is making, he puts himself in the ce
nter of the rear walk. Battered weapon extended before him, he points it at the enormous white circle that is Gamer’s head, light reflecting from the droplets of sweat coating it.
Up ahead, the sounds of gunfire have ceased. Gamer makes no attempt to go forward, his attention seemingly drawn to the side. Whatever he sees there has him frozen, the big man bobbing slightly in place, as if contemplating movement but having no idea which way to go.
With each step that Byrdie takes, he can feel his resolve rise. More and more of the aches of his body bleed away, replaced by the certainty in what he is doing.
Right up until he can wait no longer, the urge to pull the trigger just too strong to ignore.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Ringer knows that he got the guy they were there for at least once. After that, everything is blurry, a grainy slideshow of bright light and excruciating pain.
The first round that struck him hit square in his right breast plate. Going straight through the name tag sewn onto the front of his vest, it tore through the belly muscle before striking bone, pain reverberating through his body.
The second one hit almost a foot lower, striking roughly a centimeter to the right of his navel. Even more painful than the first shot, he could feel the intense heat of the bullet ripping through him, the soft tissue no match for the gas-propelled round.
The third and final one to hit him seemed like it was nothing more than a lucky shot. Striking right into the pit of his right elbow, it dislodged the joint, clawing and tearing through. Deadening the nerve, it felt like the entire lower half of his arm was disconnected, the Smith & Wesson falling from his hand.
After taking the three shots, things go black for a few moments. The slideshow clicks ahead, the blonde man with the gun before him replaced by Gamer standing in the doorway. His mouth is moving, though Ringer can’t make out any of the words before again the gray clouds along the sides of his vision win out.
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