by Paul Knox
That hair. Without a mustache.
She knew who Lucky really was.
Twenty
Tommy Shanahan dragged the large mattress and bulky couches out of his house by himself, but with all the angry energy he needed to release, he was practically throwing them around. It wasn’t long before all his bad memories were loaded onto a rented U-Haul trailer.
He called some drywall guys and a painter. The interior would be patched, new and different by the next time he stepped foot inside with Zaki—and Jessie.
Conveniently less than a ten-minute drive from the dump, Shanahan made a quick stop at the jail where Don Rico had been spending his days.
The prison guards greeted Lieutenant Shanahan and led him into a bleak interrogation room where Don Rico had been summoned. Waiting in a black, metal chair, Rico wore the traditional orange garb that the inmates all wore, with a white t-shirt underneath.
Shanahan didn’t hate seeing Don Rico like this. In fact, he kind of liked it. “I know you had my wife abducted. Tell me where she is.”
Don Rico smirked. “I wish. I know nothing.”
Shanahan darted around the table, getting in Don’s face. “You like solitary?”
“You can’t do that.”
“I’m sure you’ve met all my friends—the ones with the guns? They’re itching for an excuse to throw a piece of garbage like you in a hole.”
“You think I’m some big cartel guy, but I’m not. I have no connections to anyone. If I did, they’d rather kill me than let me stand trial. I’d be dead. But here I am, alive, talking to you.”
There was no question that Don Rico was lying. Shanahan had watched him sell a brick of cocaine—over two pounds worth at least twenty-five thousand dollars—to an unknown man.
The lies only added to Shanahan’s frustration. “Who carries 25k? I watched you. You’re going down.”
“Is carrying cash illegal?” Don Rico sneered.
Shanahan couldn’t hold back. He clenched his fist and swung straight for Don’s face, knocking the man half off his chair.
Don sniffed a little blood as he returned to an upright position. “You can’t do this.”
One of the guards threw the door of the room open and rushed in. “Everything okay in here?” He looked at Shanahan with wide eyes, silently asking him to take it easy.
“Like I said, you‘ve met my friends, right?” Shanahan pointed to the guard.
Don Rico touched his nose, looking at a few drops of blood, now on his fingertips. “I hope the rest of your short life is filled with rainbows and butterflies.”
Shanahan clenched his fist again, about ready to swing.
“Lieutenant Shanahan, he’s not worth it,” the guard called out.
His knuckles white, Shanahan seethingly stared at Don. “Say something worth not breaking your nose.”
“By all means, take your best shot. My trial is in five days. It will thrill my lawyer to learn that the only so-called witness assaulted me.”
Shanahan gritted his teeth, spitting as he spoke. “Who’s the man with six-fingered hands?”
Don Rico leaned toward Shanahan. “Your wife’s new lover.”
“Shanahan, don’t!” the guard yelled, rushing over and grabbing Shanahan by the arms. “We need a clean trial. Don’t ruin everything for a cheap shot.”
“Let go of me!” Shanahan yanked free and stormed out of the room.
Back in his pickup, it took a while before Shanahan calmed down enough to drive off. The guard was correct, but that didn’t make leaving any easier.
At the dump, getting rid of everything helped him let off some steam. He watched the old furniture—artifacts of tension and pain—fall into the piles of filthy, broken junk, to be buried in the earth and left to decompose.
Shanahan imagined everything he threw to the dirt burying Don Rico into years and years of prison confinement.
After dropping the trailer back at U-Haul, Shanahan stopped at a gas station to refuel his pickup.
Lost in thought about Jessie and what came next, he didn’t notice until it was too late.
Two guys approached him with ski masks covering their faces, both holding baseball bats.
◆◆◆
After talking with Penny about the new developments from yesterday, Reece Cannon returned to her desk Wednesday morning.
Next on her list was catching up Shanahan, but before she pressed call, she changed her mind and set the phone down. If he was still sleeping, she didn’t want to wake him. She’d wait for him to arrive at the office before info dumping on him.
And then Sheriff Landy appeared, approaching her desk. “We need to talk. Walk with me.”
Reece stood. “Good morning, Landy.”
“Good? Let’s get some coffee. I could use a cup before my next meeting.”
Reece cringed, thinking he must’ve seen the recent news report.
In the break room, the coffee maker was on, but the pot was cooked and empty.
“I guess we need some more.” Landy looked at his watch. “I don’t have much time before my meeting. I need to grab a file. Will you make some? I’ll be right back.”
Reece made a strong pot, hoping a fresh cup of joe would ease the lashing she was about to get.
Apparently not.
Landy returned a minute later, just as the machine finished brewing, and the smell of fresh coffee flooded the area, disguising the bitterness she’d soon taste.
“Thanks for the coffee, Reece. You’re off the investigation.”
“What?” Reece gasped.
“You deliberately disobeyed direct orders, again. But I’m not suspending you. Find something else to do.”
“You can’t take me off this case. Shanahan is a friend. I have to—”
“That’s exactly why you’re off. Your judgment is clouded. You’re too close to the victim. I’m putting Chief Gomez in charge of all this.”
“Gomez? He’s practically retired. Isn’t he chained to his desk? He’s a chief, Landy. He doesn’t do field work.”
“He’s going to work this investigation. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to talk my way out of the mess you’ve gotten this department into.” Landy walked off, leaving Reece standing there, shocked.
A million things ran through Reece’s mind as she shuffled back to her desk and plopped down. Could she really back off this case?
No way.
Just then, Penny came rushing up. “Shanahan is in the hospital!”
Reece jumped, about to bolt for her Jeep. “What happened?”
Twenty-One
The first attacker swung a baseball bat at Shanahan. He barely saw it coming. Dodging within centimeters, the metal bat clanged against his pickup, leaving a nice dent.
Shanahan’s gun was in the pickup. He hadn’t been wearing it while dumping the furniture.
The second attacker swung next, who also wielded a bat, and it pounded Shanahan over the side of his back.
“Uhn.” Shanahan slammed against his truck. As Attacker One began getting ready for another swing, Shanahan glimpsed something that shook his bones more than any bat could.
The man he’d been searching for was standing right in front of him. The man with strange hands was seconds from splitting Shanahan’s head open.
Shanahan quickly reached out and grabbed the bat, yanking it hard. They struggled for a second, fighting for ownership.
Attacker Two took the opportunity to hit him again. “Ahh!” Shanahan yelled.
However, Shanahan knew physics. He wasn’t a martial arts expert, by any means, but he had an innate ability to internalize momentum and force. He utilized the additional force of being struck by Attacker Two’s bat, ripping Attacker One’s bat out of his hands while falling to the ground.
Attacker One went to kick him, but Shanahan used the weapon he now held to bash the side of his calf. He fell to his knees in pain.
Attacker Two swung again. Shanahan used the bat as a shield. It almost looked like a
sword fight for ten or fifteen seconds as Attacker Two continued to swing. Shanahan fended blows, while lying next to his truck in the gas station parking lot.
The action paused while Attacker Two caught his breath, and Shanahan sprang to his feet. He hopped over the hose still plugged into his gas tank, and in mid-air, quickly turned back to face the advancing enemy.
Shanahan landed on the ground, and Attacker Two again hesitated for a split second, unable to quickly move around the gas line that Shanahan jumped over.
Seemingly now with the upper hand, about to swing, Shanahan was suddenly pushed forward by Attacker One, behind him. Attacker One had gotten up and limped around the pumps while the other two men had been bat-sword fighting.
Shanahan stumbled forward, tripping over the gas hose, which shot out of his tank and over his back, tangling him. Then, Attacker Two hit him again, cracking ribs, before repeatedly kicking Shanahan in the face, which still bore the scabs of a shattered clay lamp.
Tired, hurt, broken and bloody, Shanahan couldn’t give up. The thought of Jessie and what she might be going through kept him moving.
If Jessie was alive somewhere, scared and alone, he would survive. He had to.
Jessie needed to be reunited with her son, and he with her. She didn’t deserve the hell that found her, had taken her away, and Shanahan needed to set things right.
He reached out and pulled Attacker Two’s ankles, sending him to the ground on his back.
Then, Shanahan rose to his feet and turned, swinging the bat at Attacker One—the kidnapper with strange hands—who had still been standing behind him. The bat hit Attacker One in the shoulder, no doubt, breaking it.
Attacker One yelled out in pain and backed away.
Shanahan heard movement behind him. He ducked, just in time to avoid his head being smashed by Attacker Two, now back on his feet.
Whiffing nothing but air, Attacker two stumbled forward from his massive swing. Shanahan yelled in rage as he turned and swung the metal weapon, hitting Attacker Two. Right in the skull.
Death called again.
Shanahan hadn’t necessarily meant to kill the man, but that was the outcome of metal to bone. It had never been Shanahan’s intention to kill a man at a gas station while refueling his pickup.
As onlookers approached, some on their phone with 911, Shanahan’s adrenaline ran out.
Lightheaded and dizzy, the last thing he saw as he collapsed to the ground, unconscious, was the man with strange hands disappearing—for the second time this week.
◆◆◆
Reece Cannon stood in silence next to Shanahan’s hospital bed. He appeared to be sleeping.
“You didn’t come,” he said softly, without opening his eyes.
“I was there, Shanahan—just late. The vigil was beautiful.”
Shanahan didn’t respond. He remained quiet and still.
Reece continued. “I had a lead I followed.”
“It’s okay. I understand. At least one of us is making progress.” Shanahan opened his eyes. Reece couldn’t see any remnants of hope in them.
She said, “You killed one of the attackers. The department is digging for info on the guy.”
Shanahan whispered, “The one who got away had extra fingers.”
“We’ll find him. Someone wants you off this investigation. I think it’s a man named Lucky.”
“What makes you so sure?”
Reece patched the holes in Shanahan’s knowledge about everything she’d discovered. She told him about El Hijo Rico’s connection to M. Knight, Casino Del Sol, the cocaine in the green Lamborghini, and the driver with an accent and tattoos.
As she finished expounding the details, Sheriff Landy arrived with Chief Gomez. While Landy had an average, medium build, Gomez had the look of a marshmallow.
Chief Carlos Gomez was a jolly snowman, yet serious and even cold when necessary. His name could easily have been Frosty. He’d been a part of the Pima County Sheriff’s Department for ages, much longer than Landy had, who’d only been first elected seven years prior.
And now, at least a decade and change older than Landy, Gomez neared retirement. Reece would be at his retirement party, as would every deputy in Pima County. Gomez was a loved man.
“Tommy boy, you keep leaving a mess to clean up. What happened to your smarts?” Gomez’s sarcasm was laced with compassion.
“Gomez.” Shanahan almost grinned, before he began coughing, grabbing at his ribs in pain, and finally staring up at the ceiling with a look of pure anger.
Shanahan’s rage was palpable, beneath the bandages on his face. The room felt so thick with his emotion, Reece was surprised there was enough space for the three of them to be standing there.
Landy spoke. “I can see you’re not in the talking mood. I don’t blame you. I just wanted to stop by and offer my condolences. Gomez is taking over the case for Reece—”
“What?” Shanahan shot Landy a concerned-bordering-on-disgusted look.
“It’s my prerogative. Reece has this entire thing on the news, and I don’t want anything jeopardizing Jessie.”
“Reece knows what she’s doing.”
“What’s done is done. Gomez is fully capable. I’m glad you’re alive, Shanahan. I’m looking forward to a full report as soon as you get out of here. I’ll be back to talk later. Take care.” Landy gave Shanahan a head nod before turning to Reece and shaking his head no. He left the room.
“Is that true, Gomez?” Shanahan asked.
“I’m afraid so. But if you don’t say anything, I won’t say anything.” Gomez looked at Reece and winked.
Reece took a big breath of relief. If Gomez kept her in the loop, she’d have a much better chance at investigating without Sheriff Landy finding out.
Reece and Gomez stayed a little longer but Shanahan mostly stayed quiet, glancing menacingly at his bandages, and testing his ability to sit up.
Occasionally he mumbled, “I’m going to find him.”
Gomez whispered to Reece before leaving, “Shanahan is starting to get a reputation. He’s still alive—but I can’t say the same for his attackers. He fought off two guys with bats, bare-handed, and then kill one of them with his attacker’s own weapon. He’s got a tough body and a good head.”
“I think he’d do anything to see Jessie again. Honestly, Gomez, that’s what I’m worried about.”
“Me, too. Maybe we should let him rest.”
Finally they left, letting the broken man sleep.
Twenty-Two
Blindly trusting the casino valet guys to contact her wasn’t good enough for Reece. She wanted one of her own to keep a lookout for Lucky and the green Lamborghini.
She called the perfect man for the job, Deputy Ethan Wilson.
On the other end of the line, he asked, “So, I’m looking for a tan-free white guy with tattoos, and a different, vacation-y white guy with a straw hat and mustache?”
“A mustache like Tom Selleck.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. It’s a mustache. That’s all. And a fedora.”
“One of those hats like Avril Lavigne used to wear?”
It was Reece’s turn to ask, “Who?”
“That pop star from the 2000s. You know, Complicated, Sk8ter Boi…”
“Do you listen to songs called Sk8ter Boi, Ethan? If you do, that’s great, I just didn’t know—”
“Anyway, there’s no place around to get a decent bite to eat. This casino is in the middle of nowhere. Why do people drive this far?”
“Figure that one out and you’ll make millions. Then you can gamble it away.”
“If I made a million, I’d open up a restaurant-gym. A whole chain of ‘em. We’d serve lots of meat, and everything would have tons of protein. And we wouldn’t fry anything. No fat in the whole place—well, except avocados. Plus, the gym side would be top notch—”
“Keep an eye out, Ethan. And don’t say anything to Landy. You know he took me off this case?”
“I heard. And you got it, boss. If I see anything, I’ll call you.”
◆◆◆
Shanahan awoke, practically jumping out of the hospital bed. He’d had another nightmare.
Jessie had been screaming for him, drowning, trapped under a sheet of ice. Like a frozen lake or something. As hard as Shanahan pounded the ice, he couldn’t reach her.
He grabbed his ribs. They hurt, but the pain was only temporary. He focused on blood flowing smoothly through his veins, and healthy breath delivering oxygen and nutrients to his swollen body. He trained his mind to ignore the pain.
Closing his eyes, he breathed steady and even. All the numbers that floated in his photographic memory, and images of the last week, he pushed out of his consciousness.
Rage was changing the man. He controlled it. The pure emotion began focusing his decisions, tuning them to what really mattered at that moment. And Tommy Shanahan was filled with rage.
He wanted to imagine the sunlight just outside the hospital walls. But instead of the warm, yellow sun, he felt a hot, red fireball consuming him. He heard a sound in his mind. Like a low hum or tone, it was a steady sound. But unlike a monk’s Om chant, it sounded like paper ripping.
Distorted and gritty, his soul began tearing. Instead of trying to hold it together, like someone else might do, he embraced the darkness that lay within the abyss.
There was no waiting. There was no staying put. There was no mercy.
There was nothing but death.
Nothing would heal him until his hands felt the blood of his enemies spilling over the earth like the old memories he had discarded hours earlier.
He would take revenge.
That was his mantra, the reason for breathing this single, controlled breath that steadied his clear intent.
That was his new law, his new code.
Revenge.
◆◆◆
Jessie had thought for hours and hours about how to get the razor from her robe pocket. She came up with a plan.
