Revenge Code

by Paul Knox

Until now.

  He was on a losing streak. But streaks don’t last forever. This game had combined bets of almost half a million. Lucky needed to win.

  “I have plenty. Just not on me,” Lucky explained to the table. “Listen, I’m feeling good about this. I have a small plane. A Cessna 400. It’s worth six-hundred grand, easy. I call it the Jolly Jumper. Rides like lightening. I’ll write an IOU.”

  The two brothers across from him stared, not amused.

  “C’mon Joe, William. I know you Daltons want a plane. I’ll throw in a year of free parking at the hanger out of goodwill, if I lose.” Lucky smiled. “Just don’t count on me losing.”

  “You know what’ll happen if you don’t produce.” Joe Dalton took a puff from his cigar, blowing a large cloud into the back room where they all sat.

  Lucky knew what Joe meant. But Joe didn’t know who Lucky really was, or what he was capable of.

  “Of course I know. Well then, is my IOU for Jolly satisfactory?”

  “I’m in.” Joe Dalton pushed a stack of chips forward.

  “Me too.” His brother William also did.

  Everyone placing bets at the table did the same.

  Including the plane, the combined pot for this single game of poker was worth almost three million dollars.

  The dealer handed the final round of cards.

  “Check,” Joe said.

  “Check,” William said.

  Soon, everyone at the table waited for Lucky to show his cards, first.

  Lucky threw his cards down. Royal flush.

  “Winner,” The poker dealer said.

  “Fellas, I think that’s enough for today, for me.” They didn’t call him Lucky for nothing.

  As he left his grumbling comrades, Lucky hummed a tune to himself, happy as ever. “I’m a poor lonesome cowboy and a long way from home…”

  Three million was almost enough to make his getaway. A couple million more, and he’d fly out of this town in the good ol’ Jolly Jumper—for good.

  But then, his phone rang. He recognized the number. M. Knight.

  “Lucky, we got a problem.”

  “We do?”

  “That detective, Reece Cannon—she knows about El Hijo Rico. She’s on the way to his place, right now.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She was just here questioning me. I didn’t say nothin’. Gave her a fake name; tried to throw her off. Didn’t work.”

  It didn’t matter to Lucky how Reece knew. What mattered was what he would do about it. He’d seen the Heatmaker’s news reports, and now Reece knew about M. Knight and El Hijo Rico. It was just a matter of time before she had them both in custody, questioning them.

  What if they gave up Lucky’s true identity? Even if they didn’t, Don Rico would.

  Don Rico had given explicit instructions: Get me out of here or I’m telling everybody who you are.

  If El Hijo Rico and M. Knight landed in jail, there was little chance Don Rico would ever walk free, even if Lucky did manage to finish off Shanahan.

  Lucky couldn’t take any chances. His identity had to remain a secret.

  He had to do something. Immediately.

  Lucky said, “Meet me at the house in an hour. Don’t say anything to El Hijo Rico. I don’t need his Columbian family finding anything out. I have a plan.”

  Then, Lucky called El Hijo Rico. “Meet me at the house. Now. There’s someone I need to show you.”

  ◆◆◆

  Thirty minutes later, Lucky paced around the Green Valley house waiting for El Hijo Rico to arrive. He marched back and forth in front of Jessie’s room, going over the details of his plan.

  One of the neighbors’ homes was empty. They were snowbirds and hadn’t yet made the trip back to Green Valley from Minnesota or wherever they spent their summers. Most of the houses on this block were in similar situations. The other neighbor was an elderly widow with hearing aids. Also, the houses had some distance between them too.

  No one would hear anything. That was why Lucky rented this particular house. That was why it was his secret, safe house—the house where he cut and packaged the cocaine from Columbia, then selling it to the Russians.

  Finally, El Hijo Rico arrived. “Who do I need to meet? This better be good.”

  “It is.” Lucky pointed to Jessie’s door. “My hostage is in there. I need you to do something with her.”

  “She’s here?” El Hijo asked with intrigue. “What are you telling me for?”

  “You want to check her out, or what?”

  “You kidding me?” El Hijo walked over to the door and opened it. “Well, look at that. She’s pretty.”

  As Lucky picked up the baseball bat from against the wall, he heard Jessie frightfully gasp. Then, when Lucky hit El Hijo over the head with the bat so hard it cracked his skull, he heard Jessie’s muted scream from behind the duct tape.

  El Hijo Rico immediately went limp and crumbled to the ground, lying there in the doorway. Blood started dripping from his head to the floor.

  Jessie screamed through her nose with a parched, scratchy sound. She started hyperventilating, struggling to breathe with her mouth taped shut.

  “If you calm down for a moment, I’ll take the tape off so you can breathe. And I’ll get you some water. Even with all this nonsense, today’s actually been very fortunate for me. I’m in a good mood.”

  Jessie nodded.

  Lucky went to the kitchen and grabbed a water bottle. Then, he stepped over the dead body of El Hijo Rico and removed the tape from Jessie’s mouth, letting her drink.

  “I’ll be back later to let you use the bathroom. I’m a little busy at the moment, as you can see.”

  “Do you even…does it even…” Jessie’s eyes stared at the lifeless man on the ground.

  “Do I care? Not really. I’ve seen too many dead bodies in my time. Some much more gruesome than this.” Lucky put the cap back on the bottle. “Hope that was enough for now.”

  After re-taping Jessie’s mouth, Lucky went out to the garage and found a tarp which he rolled El Hijo Rico’s body onto.

  Lucky dragged the tarp with the dead body through his house and into the garage. As he lifted him into the back of his extended cab pickup, he realized how hard it was to move dead weight. Thankfully, El Hijo Rico wasn’t extremely heavy.

  But then M. Knight appeared, opening the door that led from the kitchen into the garage.

  “Lucky? You in here?” M. Knight called out.

  Lucky didn’t like being walked in on. That was an unwelcome surprise.

  M. Knight was early.

  Feeling around his waist, Lucky grabbed the gun that he always carried, concealed.

  “There you are.” M. Knight approached. “What chu doin’?”

  “Lifting something. Come over here and help me,” Lucky said, pulling out his gun.

  Without another word, he shot M. Knight squarely in the chest. Twice. The sound of the gun echoed loudly in the garage against the concrete floor and bare walls.

  M. Knight was a big guy. He didn’t immediately go down. Instead, he started grunting and coming at Lucky.

  Lucky felt fear at that moment. He glanced around and noticed a small pile of scrap wood on the ground. A couple 2x4s from some previous construction project were close. Lucky grabbed one, just in time to swing at M. Knight the same way he swung the bat at El Hijo Rico.

  The 2x4 cracked over M. Knight’s head, and finally, his eyes rolled back before he fell to the ground, smearing blood over the concrete.

  Getting M. Knight into the backseat of the truck was a whole ‘nother story. Lucky lifted with all his strength, but he couldn’t do it.

  Finally, he had an idea. He found a floor jack in the garage and somehow rolled M. Knight’s body onto it. Then he jacked him up. Lucky alternated between pulling from one side and pushing from the other until he wiggled and finagled the giant inside.

  At least I won’t have to give M. Knight a cut of my profits anymore.

 
; Then he mopped up the puddle of blood and hopped in the truck. The late afternoon sun spilled into the garage as the door opened, and Lucky squinted.

  It would be dark by the time he found a good spot in the desert to dump these bodies.

  Fourteen

  After watching a man having been murdered in front of her, and then hearing the two gun shots twenty minutes later, Jessie began to lose the little hope she’d had.

  She was bait. Bait for the murdered man. Bait for the drug operation. Like a worm on a hook. It was only a matter of time before she was sleeping with the fishes.

  The white walls around her blurred, and she tried to focus on a clear desire to live, to see her family, to escape somehow.

  What would her dad have said, back when he was alive? He’d have known what to do.

  The bedtime stories she heard as a young girl came to mind. They were heroic stories, not filled with the typical rainbows, pink princesses and unicorn imagery that most girls heard.

  They were filled with action, triumph and cunning.

  The characters from her dad’s stories would find a way to get that razor from the bathroom.

  They’d get that razor, and then they’d slip it into a pocket without Lucky seeing. They’d use the razor to cut the zip ties.

  Lucky had said that he’d be ‘back later’ for a trip to the bathroom. In a story, that opportunity would be the turning point when the trapped character would grab the razor.

  And then she’d escape.

  ◆◆◆

  The last rays of light shone on the horizon behind the multitude of saguaro cacti, as Lucky laboriously dug a grave. He had to dig a deep grave, lest the coyotes find and unearth the bodies.

  Most amateurs just dig something shallow. The bones of their victims eventually become discovered, and the perpetrators caught.

  Not Lucky. He knew what to do. Six feet, no less. He had all night if that’s what it took.

  After the sunset, for light, he turned on the beams from his pickup, which blinded him to his surroundings. It didn’t matter. If anyone walked by, he was simply digging a hole. Digging for gold. The bodies were still in the backseat, hidden.

  He flipped on the truck’s radio, blasting Margaritaville by Jimmy Buffett, and grabbed a gallon of water. After drinking heartily, he set the jug next to his hole.

  He shoveled dirt. And shoveled some more.

  Sweating profusely, Lucky endlessly clamored on. Digging such a deep hole was back-breaking work, but the end justified the means.

  Fifteen

  Parked alongside the rain gutter outside El Hijo Rico’s apartment, Reece scoped her next target.

  The large, spotless building complex looked spacious, and the few people enjoying the cooler, early night air dressed fashionably in cute sweaters and clean shoes. The paint was crisp and the well-lit atmosphere felt worlds away from The Chef’s dingy dwelling.

  Ethan arrived shortly in an official SUV. They wasted no time, and both swiftly advanced to the apartment.

  No sounds came from inside, and only the echo of their knock reverberated from behind the wood door.

  “We don’t need a warrant to bust in this place, right?” Ethan asked.

  “Since our kidnapping victim could be murdered at any moment, and there might be destroyable evidence in there, we’re getting inside.”

  Ethan fumbled with the lock, picking it with his kit. “I wish Shanahan were here.”

  Reece impatiently peered down the outside corridor before turning back to Ethan. “We’d be inside already.”

  “Don’t rub it in, boss.”

  A couple minutes later, they were finally inspecting the inside of the apartment. No one was there.

  In contrast to the flashy exterior of the building, the interior of El Hijo’s place was drab and bare. There were no pictures on the wall, and almost no furniture. The place looked temporary.

  A large TV sat in the living room with a single couch, and a dirty plate rested on the counter.

  Reece discovered some clothes hung in the bedroom closet, but there wasn’t much else in the entire unit.

  “Smells like pizza. Makes me hungry!” Ethan followed his nose.

  “He was here recently.” Reece shuffled through the bedroom closet and then reached above the clothes to the top shelf.

  “Here’s the culprit,” Ethan called from the kitchen. “An empty pizza box in the trash. Must’ve been lunch or an early dinner. Wonder if there’re leftovers.” The sound of the fridge opening caused Reece to shake her head in disbelief.

  Ethan called, “Yup, here they are.”

  “Keep looking. Somewhere besides the fridge.” Reece left the bedroom and walked into the living room as Ethan opened a drawer in the kitchen.

  “Boss, isn’t this the Galaxsea logo?” He pulled a business card from the top of a small pile of notes and pens. “There’s a phone number on the back.” He handed the card to Reece.

  She didn’t recognize the number—but immediately called it.

  ◆◆◆

  M. Knight felt his phone vibrating from the inside of a bad dream. In the dream, he’d been bleeding, shot twice by Lucky, and then hit upside the head with a piece of wood.

  Opening his heavy eyelids, he realized the vibration was real. His burner phone was going off in his pants pocket.

  Coming to, he felt a cold, dead body underneath him. And his entire body was in pain. Intense, radiating pain.

  His tomb was the cab of a pickup, and it was now pitch-black, sometime at night.

  Ah, that’s wack. My dream ain’t a dream.

  The burning in his chest quickly brought him back to reality. He felt weak and needed help. And he needed someone to shut off the headache-inducing 70s music blasting from the speakers. M. Knight wasn’t rock music’s biggest fan.

  So, naturally, he answered his phone. Whoever was calling could probably help, and also take care of his Lucky situation.

  He swiped the little green circle on the screen. “Yeh?” he quietly said.

  “M. Knight?” came the woman’s voice from the other end.

  “Fug.” M. Knight immediately hung up. He recognized that voice. It was Detective Reece Cannon.

  How’d she get this number?

  ◆◆◆

  Reece saved the number in her phone. “That was M. Knight.”

  “Are you sure?” Ethan asked.

  “I recognized his voice. It’s one of a kind, just like him. He’s connected to the Columbian smuggling. We’re picking him up, now, before he conjures up some magical alibi.”

  “I’ll follow you there, boss. Except, I just want to bring something up. I know you’re not forgetting about Shanahan…right?”

  Reece grimaced. “We’re not missing the candlelight vigil—or M. Knight. I’ll do the arrest paperwork later tonight.”

  Moments later, on the way to Galaxsea with her lights flashing blue and red, Reece called Kevin Kelvin. She had quite a bit more info for a second news report.

  “Okay,” Kevin said, “so I’m reporting on this mysterious Lucky and someone named El Hijo Rico who goes by the alias of Jose Garcia, and lives in the apartment complex you told me?”

  “Don’t forget that there’s a man with strange hands. Shanahan initially reported seeing him during the kidnapping.”

  “Are you sure Shanahan was seeing clearly? Wasn’t he hit over the head?”

  “He’s sure of it. The man had and extra finger on each of his hands. Twelve fingers. This is all we have, Kevin. Help me out.”

  “If you believe it, Reece, I trust you. Hey, by the way, is there a good time we could get back—”

  “Now isn’t a good time. But…maybe we can get dinner after this case is over and Jessie’s been found, safe. Maybe.”

  “Great! Okay, well, I’ll get this info on the news. I’ll report on it while standing in front of the candles and everyone. Viewers will eat this right up. By the way, are you going to be there tonight?”

  “I’ll be there.
Talk soon.”

  In his SUV, Ethan followed behind Reece as she sped to her father’s infamous night club. Traffic was clear, and Reece was determined to arrest M. Knight, getting him put away once and for all.

  Finally, she thought.

  Sixteen

  Tommy Shanahan found that driving around like a madman didn’t help in the search for his wife. No matter how intense his frustration felt, he had to actually get something done.

  After a long day of pouring his soul into the Columbian case, scrutinizing every detail of Don Rico’s investigation, his mind didn’t want to admit that his body needed a solid night’s sleep.

  Reluctantly, Shanahan drove back to the house where it all began. Struggling to keep his eyes open and on the road, he hoped the candlelight vigil would give him the energy to keep moving.

  However, there was something else he needed to do to let go of the pain. He had to get rid of every single thing that reminded him of the break in.

  He wanted it gone. All of it.

  He would load up the couches, the kitchen table, the bed and mattress, and take them to the dump. He’d get rid of it all, and when Jessie was found, safely home, they’d go and pick out new stuff.

  New stuff for their new life.

  It had been four days since Shanahan had tasted a drop of whiskey, the longest he’d been dry in many years. He felt like a wreck. His body hated him.

  Maybe part of one night’s sleep could be justifiable, to recharge his batteries and think acutely. A small rest, and then clearing out the old would prepare him for what came next.

  And he’d never drink again.

  Tomorrow he planned on confronting someone he hated more with every passing moment. Don Rico. If Don Rico knew something, there was nothing that could stop Shanahan from ripping it out.

  Shanahan turned the corner, pulling onto his street. In a delirium, his house looked like the center of its own galaxy. Dozens and dozens of his neighbors held lit candles, flickering like stars caught in the gravity of his situation.

  The last of the day’s light shone over the mesquite and palo verde trees, painting the sky in deep blue and purple hues.