by Samson Weld
Lopez shrugged. “What’s an extra minute?”
“Why did you shoot him?”
“He moved.”
“Barely,” Carpenter said. “He was disarmed. No threat. The gunshots probably made others in the adjacent stores call the police.”
Lopez remained unfazed. “It turned out well.”
Without another word, Carpenter drew his pistol and shot Lopez in the forehead. The big Latino fell straight back, a shocked look on his face. Kurt and Eddie looked at the corpse without emotion. Just another dead man.
“He was unprofessional,” Carpenter explained, scowling down at the corpse. “We can’t have a loose cannon putting the rest of us in danger.”
“He was an Army grunt,” Kurt said. He extended his right hand, wrist up, showing them his black lightning bolt “SS” tattoo. “We should stick to Scout Snipers in the future.”
“Agreed,” he said.
Carpenter’s phone vibrated three times, quickly. He checked to see who’d sent him an e-mail at that number. Only a very select few had his number.
Fiona? Steinberg’s assistant?
The e-mail was short and to the point. It was a rush job, so that meant a better payout.
“A job?” Eddie asked.
“Yes. Steinberg needs us in Dallas,” he said. “He has a problem resolved that needs our special touch.”
Chapter 10
A white Ford 500 sat in his usual spot in front of the Beer Shack. Ash liked the small neighborhood bar. They didn’t water down their drinks and they served a mean grilled cheese and bacon sandwich.
He parked his F-150 next to the sedan. Pausing, he scanned the parking lot. No obvious threats. His Glock 19 was in the truck’s center console, since he couldn’t conceal it while wearing a polo shirt and jeans. Jim Bob allowed weapons in his bar, being a proud gun owner, too, but Ash couldn’t get over his aversion to open carry.
Swinging around the back of the pickup, he walked up on the driver’s side of the car. Tan interior. It looked and smelled freshly detailed. Ash didn’t know her license plate number, but it looked like her car.
Great.
Ash headed into the bar. The Beer Shack was a cozy little place in the corner of an L-shaped strip mall, just a mile from his place. The ambience was supposed to be an east coast neighborhood bar, with wood paneling, bistro tables, booths, and a long bar. A pool table stood off to the far right. He found two patrons inside. A familiar blonde, thirty-something woman sat at the bar, with an elderly man reading the newspaper in one of the booths.
“Hey, Pete,” Ash said, and the elderly man glance up and waved. The woman slanted a curious look over her shoulder. “How are you doing, Detective Bellucci?”
The only other person was the bartender. The owner was probably in back and Jim Bob’s daughter, Chloe, would show up soon for the evening shift.
She blinked at him. “Mr. Wexler?”
She wasn’t here to question him about the carjacking? He’d expected to see her snooping around sooner, all considering.
“After all we’ve been through, call me Ash. Mind if I call you Detective?”
A smile lit up her face and he realized she was quite pretty. She was dressed a bit casually for work in jeans and t-shirt. Everything fit really nicely, too. Plus, it was the first time her badge and pistol weren’t prominently display on her belt.
“You should smile more often. It becomes you.”
“What does that even mean?” she asked. “My name is Anna, but everyone calls me Bellucci, even my grandmother. I’ll answer to either.”
“Great. I like the way Bellucci rolls off the tongue,” he said, sliding up onto the stool beside her. He waved at Clint behind the bar. “Scotch.”
The bartender was a young man, with light brown hair, brown eyes, and a friendly face. He was barely old enough to drink himself. Clint had only joined the staff of the family owned and operated bar two weeks back.
“Straight up, I know,” Clint said. “Good afternoon, Ash.”
“I take it you’re a regular?” Bellucci asked.
“I have time to kill,” he said, and instantly regretting his choice of words. Bellucci’s eyes glazed over for a second, before she smiled and shook her head. “I’m retired, after all.”
Clint placed his scotch on the bar. Ash took a sip, loving the taste and burn. They served good stuff.
“Good to hear,” she said, lifting her glass of beer in salute before taking a sip. “You look happier. More relaxed, at least.”
“Speaking of which, don’t drink too much,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you to get a DWI.”
She laughed. He relaxed a little more and took another sip. Yeah, good stuff.
“Not a problem. I can walk home from here,” Bellucci said and finished her beer. “Top me off, Clint.”
He wasn’t sure he liked the idea of the homicide detective living so close to him.
“Still, men take advantage of drunk women,” he said, glancing at the elderly man across the bar.
She followed his line of sight and snickered.
“Pete?” she asked. “Not you?”
“I wish,” Ash said. She stiffened and he felt his face heat up. Poor choice of words. “No. I have a girlfriend.” He paused, frowning. “You’d think we’d have a better word for people my age. I’m forty years old. Saying I have a girlfriend sounds like I’m in high school.”
“I feel your pain,” she said. Her beer arrived. “A couple more of these and I won’t feel anything.” She glanced at him. “How are you doing? I haven’t had to investigate any massacres in the last three months, so I assume you’re doing well.”
“Except for last Thursday, I’ve been a good boy.”
Her eyes locked on him. Intense. “What about Thursday?”
“You didn’t hear?”
“I wouldn’t be asking if I did,” she said. Bellucci looked around to ensure privacy and then lowered her voice. “Did you kill someone?”
“No,” he said. “Deanna and I were heading to our car after a movie when we stumbled upon a carjacking in the parking lot. They were beating an old guy down and then went after his wife. I tried to calm the carjackers down, telling them to just take the car.”
“They didn’t agree?”
“No, they didn’t,” he said, grimacing at the memory. “One of them pulled a gun on me and the other went after Deanna.” He paused, picking his words carefully. “So I put them down.”
“So you did kill them?”
“No. I took the pistol away from the man threatening me, knocked him out, and then shot the guy going after my girlfriend,” he said. “Flesh wounds. Nothing life threatening.”
“And the police?”
“Agreed it was self-defense,” Ash said, and took another sip while holding her gaze. “The Richardson Police are very nice and understanding. Unlike the Dallas Police.”
Bellucci rolled her eyes. “My lord, Ash, you like to play with fire.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say like, but trouble does seem to follow me,” he said. “Anyway, Deanna is very against violence, so I’m being a good boy.”
She studied his face a long moment, rubbing her lips together. Finally, she turned back to her beer.
“Good. Maybe a nice woman can make an honest man out of you yet,” she said. “I gave you a pass once, Ash. Don’t expect me to be so generous again if you continue your evil ways. Do you have a job?”
Bellucci had investigated him and identified him as the vigilante who had recently wreaked havoc on Dallas. He wondered how much she really knew about him. Surely, the detective knew he’d received a hefty life insurance payout from the murder of his family. And he’d acquired some of Osorio’s drug money along the way, too.
“No. I don’t really need a job,” he said. “But I’ve been considering it. Retirement at forty can be boring at times.”
She remained silent, staring off into space a long moment. Ash finished off his scotch and asked for another.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Ash. I kind of like you,” she said. “Nothing I’d admit to officially, of course.”
He chuckled. “I like you, too, but I’ll deny it if questioned.” She smiled, which pleased him for some reason. “Don’t worry about me. I’m starting to get my life back together. In fact, my brother is coming into town for a dentist convention tomorrow, and I’m going to pick him up at the airport. It’ll be the first time we’ve been together, face-to-face, in over five years.”
Ash wished he’d kept quiet. Just saying it brought back feelings best left buried. Dale hadn’t exactly been there for him after his family’s murder. He now understood the problem was with him, not his brother. It hurt to think how he’d cut off family and friends in his despair, and then his burning need for revenge.
“I’m glad to hear that. Family is everything. I hope you have a wonderful reunion,” she said and turned back to her beer. “And stay out of trouble. I have too many problems to hunt you down again.”
“Men?” he asked, just a hint of taunt.
“It’s always about men,” she said. “But not in the salacious way you meant. No, there’s been a string of home invasions where they kill the homeowners. It’s almost as if they’re on a killing spree and are using home invasions to cover it up.”
“I think I saw something about that on the news,” he said. “They’re not just happening in Dallas. They’re all over the place. Fort Worth, Plano, DeSoto have all reported those home invasions. Brutal stuff, from what I’ve heard.”
“It’s worse than the media knows,” she said. Bellucci pushed her beer away and picked up her purse. “Anyway, that’s my problem, not yours. Have fun with your brother.”
“I will. And good luck with your case,” he said. When she pulled her wallet out. “No, let me get this. You can get the next round.”
Chapter 11
“You want to go out to the airport with me to pick up Dale?”
He was stopped in front of the ER entrance. They usually enjoyed lunch during Deanna’s break since she could work some long, odd hours. It was dark, so he quickly scanned the area for threats while she checked her face and hair in the visor mirror.
Deanna frowned, brushing dark hair out of her eyes. “No. If it’s been five years, you two need some time alone. I’ll meet him when you bring him over for dinner.”
She leaned over the console and they kissed.
“How fancy is the restaurant you’re taking us to?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“I need to know what to wear. Dress and heels, or jeans and sneakers,” she said. Deanna indicated her body, sheathed in blue scrubs. “Or I can go very informal if you’re taking us to Fridays.”
“In that case, it’s very fancy. Wear a dress and heels,” he said. “Do you have an evening gown?”
She gave him an exasperated look. “Really?”
He shrugged, with a sheepish look. “Okay, it’s Appleby’s.”
“That is pretty fancy, for you,” she said, and giggled. “Great. Jeans it is.”
Ash waited until she was safely inside before pulling out. He changed the radio station from her favorite, with easy listening pop, to a classic rock station. The music wasn’t that different, but at least he didn’t have to listen to any rap.
LBJ was the most direct way home from the hospital, but traffic and construction made that way unpleasant. So Ash took Arapaho east through Richardson, before turning south on Audelia to his Forest Lane apartment. The area was a sea of apartment complexes, making him wonder where Bellucci lived.
Maybe I should move to Richardson, he thought.
It would be nice living a little closer to Deanna, but he’d miss his new friends at the Beer Shack. He hadn’t realized how much he missed and needed friends. And he kind of got the impression Bellucci could join their number.
Turning into the parking lot, he immediately noticed Desmond’s car in its usual spot. His eyes rose to see light in his friend’s windows.
Is he a friend?
Since the incident almost three weeks back, their paths had crossed multiple times a week. Most of the time it was in the parking lot, but he’d run into Desmond at the grocery store, too. They’d spoken at the complex’s Mayday pool party get together as well. Desmond seemed like a decent man and they both shared a similar loss.
Ash’s favorite parking spot was taken by a silver Nissan sedan. He noticed the Enterprise sticker. A rental car? Odd. Finding a parking spot, he slipped the Glock 19 under his waistband in back. Its holster was designed to be worn like that, but it was uncomfortable while driving. And Deanna didn’t want him carrying.
A little nip in the spring air invigorated him. Mostly, it encouraged him to walk faster to get inside where it was a more comfortable temperature. The climb up the stairs to the third floor warmed him up nicely.
There were two opposing doors on the top floor. The apartment across from his was empty, but management said a young couple would move in on the first of June. He hoped they weren’t too young, and loud. The last tenant was a twenty-year-old construction worker who got drunk every night and blasted his music. Rap.
Keys in hand, Ash stopped outside his door. He knew there was a problem the second his hand touched the knob. When locked, it didn’t move at all. The knob turned easily. For a second, he thought back to ensure he hadn’t screwed up and left it unlocked.
Not a chance.
Heart racing, his hand went straight to his pistol. Ash considered his options, weapon still holstered. Investigate, and maybe surprise a burglar? Call the police and let them investigate? But what if it was nothing? What if he had forgotten to lock the door on the way out? How embarrassing would that be?
He drew his weapon and moved to the side, back against the wall. Racking the Glock to chamber a round, Ash cringed at the distinct noise. That sounded loud to his stressed mind.
Staying to the side, he reached over and slowly turned the knob, before pushing the door open. No one fired at him. Ash thought they’d already left, before he heard noise inside. Then whispering voices. At least two men inside.
Ash sucked in a slow, deep breath to calm his nerves. He peeked around the corner. The lights remained off, but he could see the living room pretty well thanks to moonlight streaming in from the open curtains. Dark shapes littered the floor, and his coffee table gun cabinet was open. That meant they’d be well-armed.
It sounded like they were in the bedroom. He heard drawers being opened and slammed shut. More angry sounding whispers. And then a dark shape walked out into the living room, turning toward the door.
“He’s home!”
The intruder opened fire. Ash ducked back and dropped to the concrete floor. He didn’t have much maneuvering room, and those wood and stucco walls were not stopping the bullets. Debris rained down upon him as Ash rolled to his belly.
At least two other men joined the first. He could hear them moving toward the door, all three firing. Ash scrambled to the stairs, going down head first.
That wasn’t a pleasant slide to the next landing, but he rolled to his feet and raced down the concrete and steel stairs. His passage wasn’t quiet, so the intruders had definitely heard. They came charging out before he reached the ground.
The intruders weren’t trying to get away. They wanted him dead.
Are these the home invaders Bellucci is trying to find?
Ash raced away looking for cover. Desmond appeared on the second floor above him, pistol in hand and eyes huge. He waved Ash up, and they rushed back into Desmond’s apartment.
Ash turned off the lights and went straight to the window overlooking the parking lot.
“What’s going down, Ash? Is it Walt?”
Three men raced out into the parking lot, all holding pistols. He watched them split up and check between cars and behind the dumpster.
“I don’t know who they are,” he gasped out. “It was too dark to make out faces, but there are at least three of
them. I walked in on them trashing my place.”
He watched them a moment longer, before they piled into the rental car and sped away. If it was truly him they wanted, then they would be back.
Chapter 12
The other residents began to come out and look around after a few minutes of peace and quiet. Ash holstered his weapon and ventured out, followed by Desmond. He could hear sirens coming toward them. The cops would be there soon, and his apartment would be a sealed off crime scene.
I don’t have much time, Ash thought. He then noticed Desmond was still holding his pistol.
“Put that thing down. If the cops see you waving that gun around, they’ll shoot first and ask questions later.”
While Desmond returned to his apartment to put away the pistol, Ash hurried up to his place. He found a disaster. Worse than anticipated.
The refrigerator was actually hissing, the freezer door ajar. Every piece of furniture looked damaged, and not just from gunfire. The intruders had ripped open his cushions, smashed tables and chairs. The bed was stripped, with the mattress on one side of the room and the box-spring on the other. They had even removed and smashed the lid atop the toilet’s water tank.
They were looking for something, and not necessarily me.
They’d opened the coffee table, having discovered his weapon cache. Yet, they hadn’t taken anything. Not even the Uzi. Just that fact told Ash that they weren’t common thugs. They were targeting him for a reason, and guns weren’t it.
Then why?
He grabbed a small black nylon pack. He stuffed the contents of the coffee table gun case into it, including what little ammo he kept there. He reached back for the Glock holster at his back, but couldn’t remember if he’d returned fire. It had all happened so fast. The police would get a hard-on for him if he failed to admit that and produce the weapon he used.
Ash pulled his Glock. It felt cool to the touch so he checked the magazine. Full, minus the one round that was chambered. He put the pistol and holster into the pack. The police would confiscate it otherwise.
