by R. A. McGee
Porter squeezed the trigger and shot the team leader through the face. Fitzhenry was dead before he hit the gravel.
“What are you, an idiot?” Porter said. The shot echoed between the two warehouses. Porter worked his jaw, trying to unplug his ears and stop the ringing. He worried that someone would hear the shot, but then realized no one was left to notice.
Fitzhenry said Porter had taken out all his guys. There weren’t any other guards in the compound. Charles the assistant was asleep on the floor, the chef was three buildings away, taking care of breakfast. That meant Schmidt had to be behind the door of the last building. Collecting himself, Porter tried the door handle, found it to be unlocked, and stepped into the big building.
Fifty-Nine
It was an anteroom, running fifteen feet deep into the building and the entire length. The room was comfortably furnished, with a small television on the wall and a large, horseshoe-shaped desk against the outer wall. Two monitors sat on the desk, as well as a picture of Charles the assistant and a woman.
In the wall separating the room from the rest of the warehouse space was a single, heavy looking door. Porter saw a place to use a key card. He pulled out Charles’s and gave it a swipe. The door unlocked with a hiss, then popped and slid open. Porter looked through the threshold.
From the doorway he saw more junk. Glass cases sat lined up like soldiers, battle flags from the Civil War hanging inside. There were old flintlock pistols, muskets, and complete outfits displayed on mannequins. Old boots lined the baseboards, and there was even a cannon in the corner.
This space had drywall instead of metal walls and several large, fluorescent lights above. The lights gave the place a sterile feel, but it wasn’t. It was dirty. Unkempt. The faint odors of sweat and urine burned at Porter’s nose. Seeing no one from the doorway, he continued into the room.
As he moved in, Porter noted a large leather sectional in the middle of the room, opposite a wall with a bank of televisions. A quick scan of the room showed him that he was alone, save for the person sitting in the loveseat. The man was enormous, completely filling up a seat that was made for two people. His back was to Porter.
Porter walked up behind him.
“Charles, have you fixed this damn air conditioner yet? I’m stewing in my own juices over here. I just took a shower yesterday, I don’t want to have to take one again today. Charles?”
Porter stepped around the side of the sectional. The big man saw him and started.
“Who the hell are you? How did you get in here? This place is only for me.”
“Charles gave me the key card,” Porter said.
“He wouldn’t. Charles wouldn’t do that. He’s my assistant. I pay him well for his discretion.”
“That’s something you’ll have to take up with him. Are you Otto Schmidt?”
“Of course I am. This is my house. Mine. You need to leave, I’m calling my guards.” Schmidt picked up what looked like a garage door opener with a red button and pressed it.
“About those guards of yours.” Porter shook his head no.
“What’d you do to my guards? Where are they?” Schmidt pushed the button again, then hit the unit with the palm of his hand.
“They’re gone, Otto.”
“Don’t you call me that. It’s Mr. Schmidt to everyone.”
“I’m not everyone,” Porter said.
“Lousy good-for-nothing guards. Can’t believe they just left me like that. I think I pay pretty good.” Schmidt tossed the remote aside. He fixed Porter with his sweaty glare. “I already asked you once, who are you? Don’t make me ask again.”
“I’m just a guy. What I want is more important.”
“Fine. I’ll play. What. Do. You. Want?” He enunciated every word and his jowls moved as he spoke. His face was red from the exertion of talking and there was a wet spot on his tent of a t-shirt.
Porter’s stomach turned. “I want to know what you did with the girl.”
“What girl?”
“Don’t try to pretend you don’t keep kids here. What did you do with the girl?” Porter said.
“I’m not pretending anything, you ignorant bastard. I can’t keep track of them all,” Schmidt said with a sneer. “What girl are you talking about?”
Porter’s face flushed and he almost flew into a rage. Then from what looked like a closet, a little, dark face peeked around the corner at him. He composed himself. “Danny?”
The little girl nodded her head, then ducked back into the room when Schmidt shifted to look at her.
“Her? You want her? You can’t have my slave. I paid good money for her.”
“Slave?” Porter said.
“Yes, slave. I like to have one around. It makes me feel like I’m in the good old days, like things are the way they should be.”
“Still waiting for the South to rise again, huh?” Porter said.
“God willing.”
“I’m pretty sure God isn’t on your side, but whatever helps you get through the night,” Porter said. He looked toward the closet, again catching a glimpse of Danny.
“It’s time for you to go,” Schmidt said.
“Or what?” Porter said. “Unless one of those cannons over there works, you’re fresh out of luck.”
With that, Schmidt lurched in his couch. For a split second, Porter wondered if Schmidt was going for a weapon he’d concealed. He’d discounted the prospect, because the man thought he was protected. Porter raised his pistol.
The man struggled back and forth again. He wasn’t reaching for a gun, he was getting up.
Finally on his feet, the behemoth kicked his stubby leg at the coffee table in front of him, sending it flying out of the way. “I said your black-ass needs to leave.”
“Shit,” Porter said, out of surprise rather than concern.
Schmidt leaned forward, getting his bulk moving, his momentum carrying him straight at Porter. Porter stood his ground, as the man barreled toward him. At the last moment, Porter took a small step to the right. As Schmidt lumbered past him, Porter pointed the pistol at the back of the man’s knee and fired.
The report of the bullet was almost deafening. Although the room was large, it wasn’t large enough to make the sound any easier on Porter’s ears.
Schmidt fared far worse. The bullet had blown out the front of his kneecap. The man wriggled on the floor, too big to even reach down and grab his injured leg.
“You son of a bitch. You coon-lovin’ son of a bitch.”
“Coon-lovin’?” Porter said, baffled at the phrase. He’d never heard that one before. He wasted little time putting his knee in Schmidt’s back, keeping him from even trying to roll over.
“Hurts, doesn’t it?”
Schmidt roared obscenities, calling Porter even more names he’d never heard of.
“Say some off-color shit to me again, I’ll screw my gun into your ear and turn your head into a canoe. You got that? Huh?”
Schmidt started to growl, until finally he was silent, if not quiet. His breathing was like a laboring elephant.
“I’m taking the girl, do you understand? Nod your head if you do.” Porter kept one knee in the man’s back and his hand gripped Schmidt’s collar. His pistol was pointed at the base of the big man’s skull.
Schmidt nodded.
“There is nothing you can do to stop it. Got me?”
Schmidt nodded again. “Don’t kill me.”
“Too late, that’s happening,” Porter said.
“Don’t, you son of a bitch. I have money.”
“That’s not gonna do you any good right now,” Porter said.
“I’ll give it to you. All of it. Just don’t kill me.”
Porter glanced up at the corner. Danny was peeking around the corner with her hands covering her ears.
“How much?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“Wrong answer,” Porter said, pressing the gun into the man’s sweaty head, taking the slack out of the trigg
er.
“I don’t know, go count it yourself. It’s just a little bit. I pay my guards with it. And I want a damn refund,” Schmidt bellowed, as if someone else could hear him.
Porter eased off the trigger and stood. From what he could see, Schmidt’s leg looked like a chicken cutlet. “Where?”
“Behind the damn bar.”
Porter looked at the bar near the wall. He looked down at Schmidt. “Don’t go anywhere.”
Porter stepped behind the bar and dug through the cubbies and drawers until he found a sizeable stack of cash, neatly banded as if it had recently come from the bank. Much neater and cleaner than the wad he’d taken from Hector, but a larger amount.
He looked around until he found a trash can. After dumping out all the candy wrappers, he put the bills in the bag and tied the top.
In the interim, Schmidt had begun trying to crawl toward the door. The effort had made his breath sound like it belonged in a lumber yard.
“I told you not to go anywhere,” Porter said. He raised his pistol and shot Schmidt in the side of his good knee.
A roar pulsed through the room. Schmidt tilted, like a turtle on its back, and snarled. “You son of a bitch. You dirty, greedy, nigg—”
“Say it,” Porter interrupted. “Go on.”
“Dammit,” Schmidt said, controlling himself. “Can’t you just leave? You got what you want.”
“Not yet,” Porter said under his breath
He caught a glimpse of the tiny face looking around the corner again. He walked over to the closet, but discovered it wasn’t that at all.
A tiny cot lay on the floor and a single, bare light bulb hung overhead. The girl obviously slept there. She didn’t flinch or try to run as he approached.
“Danisha? Danny? Hi.”
“Hello.” Her face looked the same, but her hair was no longer in the braids Porter had seen on the billboard.
“Danny, I’m a friend of your grandmother. Her name is Miss Leona, right?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, good. I promise I won’t hurt you. Don’t be afraid,” Porter said.
“I’m not afraid.”
Porter looked at her and knelt so he could be closer to her height. “Why not?”
“Because the knight saves the princess. He never hurts her. That’s not the way stories work.”
Porter smiled. “You think I’m a knight?”
“Yes. You don’t have a sword, but you are big and tough. And you’re here to save me. That makes you a knight,” Danny said.
Porter’s next words caught in his throat and his eyes stung. He cleared his throat. “Are you okay, sweetheart? Did he hurt you?”
“No, he didn’t hurt me. He was just mean. Mean like a dragon. See, he even sounds like a dragon.”
Schmidt was roaring in pain, screaming a non-stop stream of profanity. He had used every slur Porter had ever heard, and some he hadn’t even known existed.
“Don’t worry about him. He won’t hurt anyone else. I promise,” Porter said.
“Good.”
“Are you ready? If so, I need you to follow very close behind me. Grab my shirt and don’t let go, okay? I have to be ready in case there are more dragons.” He felt a small but strong hand grab his shirt tail. He led her out of her small space into the large room.
“You can’t take her, she’s mine,” Schmidt said as Porter walked past him. “You can’t.”
Blood from Schmidt’s injuries was pooled around him. His hands had gotten into it and as he clutched at his face in pain, the result was an amateur war-paint job, making him look even more unhinged.
Porter kept going, taking Danny to the entry door.
“Get back here, you son of a bitch. Girl. Girl, get over here. Girl! I own you. Get over here, now!” Porter felt Danny pull closer to his legs as he walked out of the room. They made it to the door and Porter swiped Charles’s key card.
Porter waited for a moment. He wouldn’t be careless now, not when he’d just found Danny. As the door shut behind them, Porter saw Otto Schmidt rolling like a beached whale. He would be going nowhere.
Once they were all the way into Charles’s office, with the door shut behind them, Porter turned to look at Danny. “You’re very brave, do you know that?”
The little girl nodded her head proudly.
“I need you to be brave for one more minute, can you do that?”
“One minute?” Danny said.
“Exactly. Count to a minute and I promise I’ll be right back.” Porter sat the bag of money down at her feet.
“Sixty?”
“Your grandma was right, you are very smart,” Porter said.
He stepped back through the door to Schmidt’s room, the sound of a sing-song voice counting up from one behind him.
Schmidt had managed to roll himself onto his back, but his legs hadn’t made it the entire way and were tangled up underneath him.
Porter walked over to the man, looked down at him, and raised his pistol. Schmidt stopped grunting when he saw him.
Porter thought for something, anything to say to the man. He could think of nothing.
So he pulled the trigger.
Sixty
“Thirty-six, thirty-seven…”
“Okay, sweetheart, I’m back,” Porter said, rushing back to the girl. “I’m sorry about all the stuff you had to see in there.”
“Is the master dead?”
“Did he make you call him master?” Porter said.
“He told me to call him that.”
Porter knelt again. “No one is your master, Danny. You never have to say that again, okay?”
“I know he isn’t my master. I just called him that, so he wouldn’t get mad. In my mind, I always called him something different.”
“What did you call him?” Porter said.
Danny looked around, then she motioned Porter to come closer, so as not to reveal her secret to just anyone. She cupped both hands around his ear and whispered, “Fatty fat-fat.” Her smile exposed her front tooth, which had grown in considerably since her billboard picture.
Porter stood and smiled. “Okay, sweetheart, stay close. This next little bit, I need you to close your eyes for me, okay?”
Danny nodded and slammed her eyes shut.
Porter led Danny through the next door, into the breezeway. Fitzhenry was still dead as a doornail, the inside of his skull painted along the gravel ground.
He hoped Danny kept her eyes closed.
He opened the next door and made sure nothing was waiting for him. Then he turned and looked at Danny, her eyes dutifully closed. “Okay, you can open.”
“Is Charles asleep?” The girl pointed to the assistant’s motionless body in the middle of the room.
“Yes. When he wakes up, we’ll be gone,” Porter said.
“I didn’t like him either.”
“Hold tight,” Porter said, and continued through the building until he got to the utility room. He stepped through the cracked door, saw the lowered staircase, and shouted for Ross. The accountant’s face appeared in the opening in the roof.
“You okay? I heard a gunshot a while back.”
“Hey man, let’s get out of here,” Porter said.
“But what about the girl?”
Danny peeked around Porter’s legs and looked up at Ross through the doorway in the roof.
Ross saw her and froze, his mouth agape. His chin fumbled as he tried to find words, but none came out. He ran down the metal stairs, stopped in front of Porter, and said, “Can I hug her?” He looked at Danny. “Can I hug you?”
Danny looked at Porter and nodded. Ross scooped the small girl up off the ground and squeezed her, weeping the entire time.
Nearly twenty seconds elapsed, then a small voice said, “Mister? Mister, you’re squeezin’ me.”
Sixty-One
Porter grabbed Ross by the shoulder and shook him until he set Danny down, his face wet with happiness. “I can’t believe you did it. I can’t believe
you did it.”
“Believe it. Now we have to go. There may be another shift of guards coming soon. Is that guy up there still out?”
“Yeah. He’s breathing, I checked a couple times, but he hasn’t moved.” Ross wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand.
“Go cut him loose, then meet me back down here,” Porter said.
“Cut him loose? Are you serious?”
“If he’s out, he won’t be able to do anything about us being here. He can’t tell anyone. He hasn’t seen our faces, so he couldn’t dime us out regardless. Cut him loose. If he wakes up, so be it. If not, oh well,” Porter said.
“What do you mean, ‘if he wakes up?’ Why wouldn’t he wake up?”
“Some things have happened since I’ve been gone. I had to…” Porter looked at Danny, who was holding his leg and looking up at him. “…handle a couple things. You feel me?”
“I think so,” Ross said.
“I think it’s best if I cover our tracks. If the guys who are sleeping don’t make it out, I’m not going to cry for them, but at least we can cut him loose and give him a sporting chance.”
“Fair enough. What about the Mattress King?”
“He’s not making it out,” Porter said.
“Good.”
Porter handed Ross his Spyderco knife. “Go cut him loose and get back here quick.”
Ross took the knife and headed up the metal stairs. Porter knelt down to speak to Danny again. “Okay, sweetheart, I have to take care of a couple things. You can’t be with me for this part.”
“But I want to stay with you. It’s safe when I’m with you,” Danny said.
“Don’t worry, you’re safe. I need you to go with my friend, for just a couple of minutes. Can you do that?”
“The squeezer?” Danny said.
Porter smiled. “I’ll tell him not to squeeze you too tight, okay?”
“You’re coming back soon?”
“Super fast. Deal?” Porter stuck out his pinky finger. Danisha did the same, and they hooked them and shook them.
