by Brian Drake
Wolf turned her over. Several slugs had torn up her neck and chest. Her dead eyes were half rolled back into her head. He let out a curse. If he’d not been clutching her hand, she might have had a chance.
Heavy breathing. Footsteps. From around the back. Wolf looked up to see the last gunman stomping through the dirt. He raised his gun and fired. The gunman’s body hit the ground face first.
Now he heard sirens. He raced to the Chrysler. The big car’s tires screeched, biting into the pavement, as the machine launched forward. Behind Wolf, cops closed in with flashing lights and sirens, but they were too far back to catch up. He pressed the gas some more. Eight cylinders of power responded with a surge of speed that took him away from the remains of the bloody fight and into the night.
16
“I’m not sure how we’ll clean this up,” Kiki said, “but we’re working on it. What I know already is that the dead gunmen all have ties to the East Coast, like those guys who went after Holly at the diner.”
Kiki paced the floor while Wolf sat in front of the open window, a cigar going, feet propped up on the sill, chest and shoulders slumped. Totally drained. He shook his head, took a long pull and blew out a stream of smoke.
When Wolf finally returned home and tried sleeping, he saw Alice and Holly’s faces and relived the shootings in dreams. He could never get them away in one piece.
“What now?”
Wolf blew smoke.
“You can’t sit forever,” she said.
Kiki grabbed another chair from the table and sat across from Wolf. He avoided her gaze a moment, then looked up and said, “I screwed up.”
“Not the first time. Won’t be the last,” she said. “We’ve been over this before. You can’t save everybody. Doctors know that. Doesn’t make it easier, but you don’t stop doing your job.”
Wolf laughed.
“Victims demand justice. You’ve said it before. What do you think keeps Dad and me covering for you? How long can we get away with this before somebody starts asking questions? You know what I walked away from to help you. Dad, too.”
Wolf looked out the window.
Kiki folded her arms.
Wolf smoked a little more. “Thanks, Kiki.”
“What’s your next move?”
“You’ll know when it happens.”
“Try and keep the body count down, okay?”
“No promises.”
Kiki hopped up from the chair, grabbed her jacket and let herself out.
When Vince Palakis heard the sirens, he dropped his coffee mug, which shattered on the tiled kitchen floor…
Miles Kincaid sat at the kitchen table with an over-toasted cream-cheesed bagel in front on him. Palakis ran into the adjoining living room while Kincaid slid back his chair and stood. He brushed crumbs off his shirt and followed. Palakis, panting, swept open the front drapes. Police units filled the street. From an unmarked sedan, two men in suits emerged. Two uniformed officers followed them up the walk.
Miles took out his gun.
Palakis said, “My son talked.” He turned to Miles, and Miles shot him in the head.
The Amis address, provided by Scott Palakis, turned out to be a two-story home in a quiet neighborhood, similar homes on either side and a school across the street.
Wolf sat in the Chrysler, watching from a cul-de-sac next to the school. He’d been parked since seven in the morning, when vans and SUVs crowded the street as moms dropped off kids.
Just past nine a.m. Wolf watched Jack Amis exit his house. The man matched Scott’s description, older, white hair. His upper body tilted from side-to-side as he went down the walk. Wolf peered through a small pair of binoculars but didn’t catch a glimpse of the man’s face. When Amis opened the driver’s side door, he turned his back to the car and eased inside bottom-first, then pulled in his legs one after the other.
Wolf lowered the binoculars and brought the silent Chrysler to rumbling life. Scott’s information wasn’t a waste.
Amis drove from the house to a downtown park where he spent an hour sitting on a bench, tossing chunks of bread at swarming pigeons. Presently he drove to a construction site and parked outside a portable building.
Wolf watched the construction activity for a half hour. Nobody else entered or exited the portable. Wolf returned home, filled his chipped mug with tea, grabbed a cigar and sat out on the deck. The previous evening’s failure weighed on him. No matter how many ways he replayed the scene, no matter what alternative choices he proposed, he never saw a different outcome.
How had the gunman found them? Only two people jumped to mind as tipsters, Orin, the waiter, or Charles Naughton, the manager. Wolf put his money on the manager. He didn’t like the way the bearded man had looked at him during their short chat. As if he were memorizing Wolf’s face. The bullets that killed Alice had been meant for him.
Wolf sat until early evening and hit the street again. His first task of the day had been a success. Now he wanted to find Charles Naughton and have some other questions answered.
Charles Naughton’s long face and tired eyes said he’d had a rough night at the club. The car door creaked open. He sank into the cloth seat and started the motor. Wolf followed him down the street. Plenty of traffic crowded each direction but the interior of the 300 was quiet except for the low burble of the V8. The silence was making Wolf’s mind wander to thoughts he’d rather not have so he turned on the radio and let soft jazz fill the car.
After a few blocks Wolf pulled over at a meter and watched Naughton’s Honda stop in front of a small, closed-down bar.
The old Shipwreck Bar. A favorite hang-out of Wolf’s before he joined the military.
Naughton climbed out. Wooden beams had been placed across the bar’s front doors closed signs displayed in several places. The bearded man rotated one of the wooden beams up and away from the door, unlocked it with a key, and went inside.
Wolf left the Chrysler. The chill clawed at his skin and he zipped his jacket, bypassed the front of the bar and went around the side, down a pair of steps to a narrow alley. He stopped at a metal door.
From a pocket of his jacket he pulled out a trio of lock picks. The top lock, caked with rust, kept the pick from going in all the way. Wolf had to push and wiggle the pick to get the tumblers moved. The bottom lock offered no resistance and Wolf pushed open the door, closed it behind him, and brought out a pen flash. The light revealed a small empty room. Floating dust tickled his nose and he squeezed his nostrils to block a sneeze. Wolf crossed to another door, opened it, and entered a long, carpeted hallway. Pool room at the end. Dust-covered main bar and sitting area, empty of tables, at the other end, along with a closed door with Manager stamped on the front. Light glowed from beneath the door.
Wolf went to the door, turned the knob and pushed. Hinges squeaked. On the first wall to the left, glossy black-and-white photos hung, and Charles Naughton sat at a desk, his back to the door. As he turned, he said, “I thought you were--” and froze when he saw Wolf. He jumped from the chair and brought up an arm as a shield, but Wolf batted away the arm and smashed the automatic against the bearded man’s head. Naughton collapsed.
Wolf approached the desk and scanned the scattered papers. He snatched a page containing a list of known city gangs, starting with the Up the Hill and Down the Hill crews from the first shooting involving the stolen military rifles. He also saw the words sales cancelled till further notice scratched on the margin.
Wolf turned to the wall. The pictures showed people at various events, in malls, milling about town. Some faces were circled. Two of the circled faces had X’s drawn through them. Wolf breathed through his mouth, not sure what to think.
Most of the pictures were of the same people. People he knew. A former client named Zachary Coleman and his family.
Feet shuffled outside the door.
Wolf pivoted and the broad-shouldered man framed in the doorway dove with his hands out, clamping his left around Wolf’s right wrist. Wolf fired
and the shot burned the other man’s earlobe. He yelled, shoving Wolf’s arm wide, hammering his free hand into the side of Wolf’s head.
Wolf slammed back against the desk. The other man brought his free fist back, and Wolf kicked him in the stomach. The man’s cheeks puffed, hot breath scorching Wolf’s face. He crumpled. Wolf back-handed the man’s jaw. The man’s grip on Wolf’s right wrist carried him along and they crashed to the floor.
Wolf landed on top. The other man wheezed trying to suck air, loosened his grip on Wolf’s wrist. Wolf rolled away, scrambled to his feet. The other man was halfway up when Wolf lashed out with a kick. The tip of his shoe bit into the side of the other man’s head and sent him back down, but he wasn’t out. He rolled his front toward Wolf with a hand snaking under his jacket. Wolf kicked him in the stomach, the face, the stomach again. The man’s hand fell out of his coat, a pistol falling with it, and Wolf kicked the gun across the room.
Wolf, gasping, wiped sweat from his face, took a good look at the unconscious man on the floor. His stomach lurched.
He knew the man. Fifteen years ago they’d called each other friend but now his former ally would have killed him given the chance.
Sucking air, Wolf backed through the open door, slamming against the hallway wall. He stood there heaving with the .45 up and ready, listening. No other sounds. He raced out the way he’d entered as fast as he could.
Wolf returned to his hotel suite, showered and took two aspirin to ease the aches and pains. He made a pot of tea, and sat at the table at the window. He kept the lights off, the window open, a lit cigar trailing smoke. The Colt Series 70 sat on the table. Wolf focused on the ramifications of the fight at the bar. What would happen next might take a bit of time, but it would happen, and Wolf wondered how much of his past he’d have to confront.
The man he’d tangled with: Dick McNab. Ex-soldier, former government agent. He’d served with Wolf in the Delta Force and in secret commando cells run by the CIA. They’d called him “Skinner” because of his skills with sharp blades. Wolf had never expected to see any of the old crew again. So, was he in charge of the gun smuggling? Was there anybody else with him who also knew Wolf? McNab’s presence brought to mind something Kiki had said once the government took over the smuggling investigation, the rumor of a C.I.A. officer present with the Feds. Was Langley tracking McNab’s crew?
Wolf sat and smoked and sipped tea from his chipped mug and had almost emptied the pot when he heard the taps. Light, feminine taps against the door. His watch read a quarter passed three a.m. He stood up, bringing along the .45. He went to the door, released the trio of locks, opened up and stepped back.
17
Wolf closed his eyes, opened them. She was still there, staring at him through big beautiful brown eyes.
“Hi, Wolf,” she said.
The left corner of his mouth pulled up a bit.
Wolf opened the door the rest of the way and the woman walked in wearing a long black skirt, matching stockings, pink blouse. A diamond necklace glittered, and she carried a heavy coat. Thick make-up resembled a hard mask. Wolf pushed the door closed, stared at the locks a moment with his free hand at his side. When he turned, she was facing him.
“Aren’t you gonna lock the door?”
“Too late,” he said.
“It’s been a long time,” she said.
“Yeah.” It sounded stupid but he didn’t know what else to say. His mind wasn’t on conversation, it was on the fact that his carefully constructed life, his security, was now threatened from within, and he’d need more than bullets to solve the problem.
The woman sat on the couch, put her purse on the table, and crossed her legs. “You’ve done well,” she said, looking around.
Wolf still didn’t know what to say, so he went to the old stand-by. “Still scotch and soda?”
“Of course.”
Wolf went around the kitchen wall. He grabbed a bottle from the cupboard, willing his pulse to settle, his hands to stop shaking. No luck. He mixed the drinks and joined the woman on the couch. They watched each other. He needed time to think. At least his pulse had slowed.
“It’s nice to see you, Ava,” he said. “You look great.”
She twirled a finger through her curly black hair. She smiled. Wolf had forgotten how pretty her smile could be, but it wasn’t a knockout smile like Kiki had. Ava had put on a little more weight since he last saw her, but for her it looked good. She was still the kind of gal that he could fall on top of and not wonder right after if he’d cracked one of her ribs.
Wolf and Ava Sutter had been on the same team with Skinner McNab. Neither could explain their attraction but they’d been inseparable and took vacations together whenever possible. Paris. The Alps. Even tried a little town in India right on the beach, a perfect place for two people who wanted the world to go away for a while. But nothing lasts forever. When a bomb tore up Wolf’s left leg, he’d been sent to Zurich to recover. Ava went with him. In the middle of the trip, she left. No note, no reason. Just gone.
Wolf had never expected they’d build a nest together with the proverbial white picket fence. At least, that’s what he said to himself on quiet nights when thoughts drifted to years gone by.
But this reappearance meant something other than a reunion. First Dick McNab. Now Ava Sutter. How many more?
“Why are you here, Ava?”
Amusement crept into her eyes. “Aren’t you glad to see me, darling?”
“Answer me. Darling.”
She swallowed some of her scotch, set the glass on the coffee table.
She scooted closer, the jasmine scent from her neck stronger now. She reached out to touch Wolf’s face. He grabbed her wrist, twisting. She gasped, turning her body into the twist.
“Let go of me!”
“Tell me.”
Through gritted teeth she said: “Thorne.”
He let go. She scooted back to the other side of the couch. Her eyes met his.
The half-laugh Wolf let out covered the sinking feeling in his chest. “He’s still alive?”
Ava nodded.
“And after fighting Skinner he wants a meeting.”
“Yup.”
Wolf downed the scotch. He stood up and wandered over to the window, the street deserted below. No cars parked in front of the hotel. “Did you come here alone or is somebody waiting outside?”
“I came alone.”
“What did Thorne tell you?”
“About?”
“Don’t act stupid, baby.”
“Thorne wants to talk to you about a few things.”
The odds against him were rising faster than he figured, but now he had a chance to have a few more questions answered and the more he learned the better opportunity he’d have to stop the tide from overtaking him.
“Let’s go see Joe,” Wolf said.
Wolf and Ava piled into a Chevrolet Impala with soft cloth seats. Wolf frowned. Nothing exotic. An everyday car. She pulled into traffic the motor quiet but responsive.
“Where to?” Wolf said.
“The Hyatt.”
Wolf chuckled. “Joe’s cutting back on his usual extravagance. I would have expected--”
“Money’s tight right now.”
Wolf turned to her. “Is that what this is about?”
Her gaze remained forward. “You don’t know?”
“What I know wouldn’t fill a shot glass.”
Wolf watched the passing scenery. “Why are you running with Thorne?”
She let out a sigh.
“It’s an honest question.”
She traced a pattern on the back of his right hand. “Later, hon.”
The tall structure of the Hyatt grew in the distance.
Wolf recognized both men in the chilly hotel room. One he’d battled a few hours before. The other he hadn’t seen in a long time. They were in a two-room suite, large living area with couches and soft chairs.
Joe Thorne had also put on weight since the ol
d days. He’d gone from short and skinny to short and stocky, with less hair. His eyes were still big and blue. He’d been part of the same strike team as Wolf and Ava and Skinner. A good operative. Crack shot.
“Hello, Wolf,” Thorne said, rising from his chair. He approached with hands in pockets. “You’re looking good.”
He turned and nodded toward the broad-shouldered man in the other chair, who had bandages on his face. “You remember Skinner, of course.”
McNab stared at Wolf without blinking. One bandage had been wrapped around his head, another fastened to his left cheek. Thorne said, “Poor Skinner. You gave him a good whipping.”
McNab tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair, and Thorne raised a hand, made a “down” gesture. “Take it easy, Skinner. This is a friendly chat. A reunion.”
“You never were a good actor, Joe,” Wolf said.
Thorne turned up the corners of his mouth. “Drink?” Wolf said yes. Thorne poured a glass of Dewar’s from a corner mini bar. Wolf took the glass cautiously. The four of them sat down, Thorne and McNab across from Wolf and Ava. Ava sat with a hip parked on the arm of Wolf’s chair. She ran fingers through his hair. Her nails scratched his scalp and the warmth from her thigh, pressed against his arm, made the room less chilly. Wolf sipped his scotch and scowled. Thorne and McNab watched Wolf. The silence grew, only broken by the now-and-then tinkle of ice cubes.
“Which one of us talks first?” Wolf said. He took a drink to cover his quickening breath.
“You just did,” Thorne said. “So, you.”
Wolf set down his glass and waited.
“We had a good time in the old days, didn’t we?” Thorne said.
“Good enough.”
“Judging by some of the activities you participate in, obviously you haven’t gone into honest work. Don’t feel bad. Neither have we. But it’s hard to keep a good operation secret when somebody wrecks your plans. I’m guessing it was you who blasted our guns to kingdom come and brought the Feds snooping. You’ve probably heard of the shooters I’ve brought into town. I hated to ice that guy at the hospital--what was his name?--but the play’s the thing, right?”
