by Brian Drake
He unlocked the door and led her into the dark entryway. A flip of several wall switches lit up a small living room. Leather couches and chairs, wood coffee table, and large front window. Ava kicked off her left shoe and ran a bare foot over the thick carpet.
“Nice and soft,” she said. “I can walk on this all day.” She removed her other shoe and placed them by the door.
“I bought this place a few years ago,” Wolf said. “Home away from home.” He pointed at the large big-screen television in the corner. “Even got satellite TV.”
“You can’t afford a flat screen?” Ava said. “That’s a monster.”
“There’s a reason for that.” Wolf removed a breakaway panel from the bottom of the wood-framed television, revealing two pistols clamped in the hidden compartment.
“High-capacity Glocks,” Wolf said. “Seventeen rounds each.”
“Is that enough?”
He led her around the room.
“Over here by the heat vent. Go ahead and remove the vent, it just pops off.”
The vent left its mounting with a click. “A revolver.”
“Thirty-eight, loaded with hollow-points,” he said. “There’s more. Underneath the couch, another breakaway vent right there. Everything’s loaded. Point and shoot.”
In the small kitchen, he opened a cupboard.
She said, “Got enough chili and beans?”
“And Chef Boyardee. There’s a store up the road if you want something else,” he said.
Ava said, “Wolf,” and folded her arms.
“Ava, please.”
“Let me help you. We can finish this together. Like the old days.”
Wolf shook his head. “I need you here. Until this afternoon.”
She let out a breath. “Where do I sleep?”
“Bedroom’s down the hall.”
“Blankets?”
“In the hall closet. You can have your extra covers.”
She started to smile but the smile faded. She reached out to Wolf and he held her close.
“Was it hard?”
He rubbed circles on her back. “What do you mean?”
“To change. We’ve spent so long being other people--”
“I needed somebody to tell me I wasn’t fooling anyone. There’s nothing wrong with me, so there’s no reason to pretend I’m somebody else.”
She looked up at him but didn’t smile.
“Hey,” Wolf said, “when we’re done, I’ll show you the most dazzling beach you’ve ever seen.”
Ava smiled. “Be right back.”
Wolf watched her go and leaned against the counter with folded arms. When Ava returned, the smile was still in place. She’d scrubbed the make-up from her face.
Wolf’s cell phone chirped. He glanced at the caller ID, but his face remained blank.
“Is that your little girlfriend?”
“No.” Wolf flipped the phone open and said, “Who is this?”
He listened for a moment and the color drained from his face.
23
Kiki opened the door. She heard the voice of a late-night infomercial on the television. Kiki set purse and keys on the kitchen counter, kicked her shoes in a corner, and went around to the living room.
“Hi,” Sheila said from Kiki’s faded blue couch. She lay stretched out with her feet propped up on the worn armrest.
“Can’t sleep?”
“Tossing and turning. How was work?”
“Dreadful,” Kiki said. She went to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. “We started a big operation tonight, thanks to Wolf. I have to be back at nine so it’s a quick turnaround for me.” She twisted the cap off the water and joined Sheila on the couch.
“Did you see him today?” Sheila muted the television.
“No,” Kiki said.
A knock at the door. Kiki frowned, went to the peep hole—
And screamed as the door smashed against her; she flailed back, hitting the floor.
Miles Kincaid stormed in and pushed the door shut. As Kiki started to rise, he grabbed her left arm and dragged her kicking and screaming into the living room. He shoved her onto the couch. Sheila jumped up and covered her mouth with both hands.
Miles drew his gun. “Sit down.” Sheila sat and started shaking.
“Stay quiet,” Miles said, “and you won’t get a scratch.”
“I’ve heard that one before,” Kiki said.
“Not another word, sugar bear,” Miles said. He found a recliner across from the couch and sat. Kiki glared. It was her father’s checkered recliner and she didn’t want the man’s stink on the fabric.
Miles said, “I want to talk to whoever handed you Palakis. Scott Palakis, not the older one.”
Kiki guessed the man meant Wolf. Who else? And there was nobody she wanted to call more.
“So,” she said, “I suppose I need to use the phone.”
Miles let out a low laugh and took out a razor phone. “I’ll dial, sugar bear,” he said, and punched the number Kiki rattled off. He handed her the phone.
Kiki mouthed, “It’s okay,” to Sheila, but the pregnant woman continued to shake.
Wolf answered and Kiki said his name and started to say more but Miles grabbed the phone.
Miles said, “Listen, Mister Wolf, come over to your girlfriend’s pronto so you and me can jaw a little.” He flipped the phone closed and returned it to his jacket. He kept his pistol aimed at the two women.
“I hope he gets here fast,” he said.
“He will,” Kiki said.
Wolf entered the apartment with the Colt .45 leading the way. Sheila and Kiki and a big bald man sat on the couch. The big man sat with a hand on Sheila’s right arm, a pistol in the other hand. No smile on his face.
“I suggest you lower that pistol.”
Sheila fixed terrified eyes on Wolf. Kiki tried to smile. There was no way to win. A head shot could switch off the bald man, but his dying trigger finger twitch would send a bullet into Sheila and the baby. Wolf holstered his gun. He sat in the checkered recliner.
“Just take it easy,” Wolf said. “Your fight is with me.”
“I don’t want to fight anybody,” Miles said. “None of you in this room, anyway.” He tilted his head as he examined Wolf. “I can tell you ain’t no cop. PI? No, not that, either. Maybe some sort of independent. Who cares? You’re the man I need.”
Miles continued, “I was sent here to find a DVD. You know what I’m talking about. I want the disk and the men who took it.”
“I have the disk.”
“What?”
“The man who stole the video left it for me to find. If the video is all you want, I’ll give it back and we’ll call it a day, okay?”
“No dice. The gang who wanted that DVD is looking for me. Never mind making my job tough, it makes staying alive tough. You should have no problem picking up the slack, right? Finish the job and the girls walk away. Then you can give me the disk.”
“Be serious.”
“I am serious. And just to keep you motivated, you have until noon today.”
“I’m just going to keep doing what I’ve been doing?”
“I don’t know how to make it clearer for you.”
“I’d like a moment with the women.”
“No.”
“What if I don’t finish by noon?”
“Then you better hope you’re already dead.”
Wolf nodded. He had a little less than eight hours. His mind started racing for the next move as he gave Sheila and Kiki a reassuring smile and hoped it worked for them because he didn’t feel any better for the effort.
Wolf drove to Gambolini’s house. No Town Car in the driveway. No matter. Wolf left the Chrysler curbside and went to the front window. He fired a shot that shattered the glass and slipped through the opening, a piece of glass falling on the back of his jacket and to the ground. The place was dark except for the flashing alarm box near the door. When the piercing wail began, Wolf ignored it. He moved through the kit
chen and T.V. room, down the hall, through the bedroom. No sign of life.
Sanborn’s townhouse was the next stop, and the Corvette sat where Wolf wanted it to be.
He rang the bell. Presently the surfer dude opened up, his bandaged face and foggy eyes contemplating Wolf with a drug-induced blankness.
Wolf grabbed a handful of long hair and put the .45 in Sanborn’s face, dragging him into the cold night.
“You again,” Sanborn said, shuffling, falling. He almost pulled Wolf with him. As Wolf hauled Sanborn upright, Sanborn said, “I’ve got a surprise--”
“Shut up.”
Wolf shoved the surfer dude toward the Chrysler. The pusher crashed against the fender, throwing hands on the hood to stop the momentum. Wolf grabbed Sanborn’s right arm and steered him to the passenger door.
Tires screeched. Blazing headlights blinded Wolf. The car skidded to a halt in front of the Chrysler. Wolf shot Sanborn in the head, letting the pusher’s body fall as he spun to face the car. The passenger door flew open and a man jumped out digging for a gun. Wolf fired and the man twitched, fell. The driver had one foot out and a pistol in hand and Wolf shot him in the shoulder. The driver screamed and dropped his gun. Wolf kicked the pistol away and jumped in back, pressing the hot barrel of the .45 into the wounded man’s neck.
“Drive.”
“Huh?”
“Home base. Go. Now.”
The wounded man hauled his door shut and groaned as he put the car in gear.
Fifteen minutes later the driver turned up a short hill outside the city. At the top of the road sat a cabin in a forest clearing. Three other cars were parked near the tree line. The two-story cabin looked cozy, and if it hadn’t been for the second story it could have been Wolf’s place.
The driver shut off the car. He slumped, breathing hard. “Now what?” he said.
“How many in the house?”
“Four.”
“Weapons?”
The man laughed. “What do you think?”
Wolf climbed out. The driver frowned and watched him through the side window. Wolf raised his gun and blew the frown off that face along with the rest of his head. He ran across the lot, kicking up dust, reached the front of the cabin, dropping low next to a thorny hedgerow. The front door opened and a gunman with a shotgun stuck his head out, saying, “What the--” but that’s all he said because Wolf fired again. The gunman tumbled down the porch steps and landed face-first in the dirt. Wolf holstered his automatic and grabbed the shotgun. A second man emerged, a cigarette falling from his lips. He started to shout, and Wolf fired a blast into the man’s chest.
Other men inside began shouting. Wolf scrambled around the side of the cabin and found the back porch. As he hit the first step the back door started to open. Wolf fired into the door. A man screamed. Wolf pumped the shotgun, ducked through the door, stepping over the body. A kitchen. He hunkered down beside the center island. A swing door was on the other side of the room. He heard shuffling and heavy breathing from behind the door.
The door started to open, stopped halfway, swung back. Wolf waited. His heart raced and sweat trickled down his face. The collar of his shirt felt wet. The swing-door opened fully, a man shoulder-rolling onto the cold floor. Wolf and the gunman rose at the same time and fired at the same time. A bullet stung Wolf’s right earlobe. The shotgun blast punched through the gunman’s chest; the gunman swayed, crashed to the floor.
Wolf dropped the now-empty shotgun, reloaded his pistol, and went back outside to the front of the house.
24
Wolf expected company any minute. One of the shooters had to have called for backup. He scanned the driveway, the tree line,
learning the battlefield. Maybe Regan would show. Maybe both Gambolini and Regan would show. Now was his chance to finish them off and keep Kiki and Sheila from harm. But he couldn’t make a fight with a pistol. He scrounged around for another weapon and he hit the mother lode in a hall closet, several HK MP5 submachine guns and full clips. Wolf slung one of the weapons over his shoulder, stuffing two clips into each pocket. The clips gave him a case of droopy drawers, but they wouldn’t be there for long.
In the living room, a leather couch sat against the front window. Wolf knelt and placed the HK on the cushions. Through the partially open drapes he had a full view of the driveway.
Presently a pair of headlamps highlighted the pathway, lights belonging to a Ford Five Hundred that jerked to a stop at the sight of the black sedan Wolf had arrived in. The doors opened. Two men with guns rushed out from the back. Another man stepped from the passenger side and looked straight at the cabin. Even in the low light of the moon Wolf knew the man’s face and the car. Ben Regan.
Regan waved the other two forward. They shuffled around the side of the house. Wolf grabbed the MP5 and raced back to the kitchen and squatted behind the island.
Wolf stayed in his squat, legs aching, lower back cramping. The back-porch door swung open and as Regan’s gunman stopped to look at the fallen body in the doorway, Wolf jumped up, firing the MP5. The sub gun spat a short burst and jammed, but one of the gunmen fell. As the second moved in, Wolf hauled out his pistol, firing; the second gunman fell, joining his dead comrades.
The kitchen door swung inward. Wolf pivoted and fired once but Ben Regan and his chubby partner struck before Wolf could fire again. Regan bashed him on the side of the head with a pistol. Wolf hit the floor hard. His vision spun. Heavy shoes pounded into his body and Regan and Chubby cursed as they kicked him. Wolf covered his face with both arms but that left his middle exposed. His ribs burned from the beating. Breath left him. Somebody grabbed a fistful of his shirt, hauled him up. Regan’s red, enraged face stared into Wolf’s a moment, then Regan brought up his pistol a second time and swung and the lights went out.
Wolf drifted in and out of consciousness. He heard voices, the levels of which went up, down, and out. His eyes fluttered open at one point, his head hanging down at his chest. Breathing wasn’t easy, as if his chest were gripped in a vice.
The next time he awoke he lifted his head a little and found his neck stiff. His head throbbed. He blinked away the fog and scanned the dark room. Feet shuffled behind him.
“Looks like he’s awake,” Ben Regan said. Regan and his chubby buddy walked in front of Wolf.
Wolf tried to move, only to find his body strapped to the chair. He swallowed but the cotton wouldn’t leave his dry mouth. He huffed something and Regan laughed.
Regan said, “You sound like a cat trying to cough up a fur ball.”
Wolf huffed again.
Regan said, “You’re not dead because my boss wants to see you. When he’s done, we have a nice shallow grave waiting for you.”
Wolf’s head fell against his chest. Regan kept talking. Wolf closed his eyes and ignored him, but the sweat on his neck and forehead--cold, despite the warmth of his body--was impossible to ignore.
Regan smacked the back of his head. Wolf groaned. Regan slapped some more. Wolf finally said, “Enough,” and coughed.
Regan laughed. “Cut the ropes,” he said.
Chubby sliced Wolf free and he and Regan hauled their prisoner upright. Wolf didn’t fight. He stayed limp, but he felt his muscles coming back to life as a vision of Kiki and Sheila replaced the unconscious fog.
Regan and Chubby dragged Wolf across the front room, down the porch, and dropped him in the dirt at the feet of another man. White-haired Teddy Gambolini reached for a handful of Wolf’s hair and wrenched up his head.
“I don’t know you,” he said. “I thought I knew all the players in this town. How did you slip by?”
Wolf said, “You’re old and slow, that’s why.”
“But I still came out on top, kid. Think about that when we shoot you.”
Gambolini let go of Wolf’s head, and Wolf let out a groan, easing to the right. His left leg snapped out, connecting with a knee or shin. A scream followed. Wolf lunged for the white-haired man’s belt and the older man’s bo
dy folded against the impact. Down he went, hard. Wolf rolled Gambolini on top of him, the surrounding gunmen shouting at their boss to get out of the way. Gambolini pushed up from Wolf, drew a fist back. Wolf clamped his hands on either side of the gangster’s head and dug thumbs into his eyes. Warm, wet fluid rushed down Wolf’s wrists and Gambolini screamed. Wolf snatched a .38 from Gambolini’s belt, letting the other man’s weight fall against him. Regan and Chubby scattered. Wolf rolled a little to the left and shot the first sub-gunner in the chest. The remaining sub-gunner ran for the car behind him. Wolf fired twice. The gunner hit the ground face-first.
Wolf rolled the still-screaming Gambolini off him. He jumped up, took a few steps, stumbled, crashed. Pistol shots nicked the ground. Wolf rolled into the sharp brush at the edge of the clearing. His sore ribs flared again. Gasping, gritting teeth against the pain, he rolled to a tree stump, let out a loud cry. He lay gasping and watched Gambolini rock side-to-side with hands covering the mess where his eyes once were. He was still screaming. Wolf aimed the .38 and fired once and Gambolini stopped screaming.
Wolf looked at the cabin. Regan and Chubby were hiding behind the porch railing, shielded by the hedgerow. The snub-nosed .38 Smith & Wesson wasn’t made for long-range work so Wolf didn’t want to waste bullets trying to get them. He scanned the lot. The cars. The bodies. The cars would make good cover and the dead soldiers had submachine guns.
Wolf pushed to his feet, and all he managed was a fast shuffle into the clearing, kicking up dust along the way. Regan and Chubby opened fire. Once, twice, then two shots together. None struck. Wolf reached the black car he’d originally arrived in. A shot smashed the upper corner of the car’s roof. Wolf scooted to the driver’s side, keeping low as he went from there to the front bumper. A dead gunner now lay only a few feet away, and Wolf scrambled toward the corpse. Propping up on the dead man’s chest, Wolf aimed the Beretta submachine gun at the house and let a salvo go that almost shook the weapon from his hands.
Return fire from Chubby flew wild. Regan leaped off the porch and Chubby followed him around the side of the house.
