Final appearance. The thought was beyond depressing. All the vitality had suddenly drained from his body. With shaking hands, he punched in her phone number.
He heard the line connect and then he heard the phone ring.
The ringing sounded like it was underneath his feet.
He looked down.
One of the bushes was ringing?
Beyond weird.
When her phone went to her voice message, the ringing stopped.
His eye caught a flash of silver.
He bent down.
It was a phone.
Her phone.
Not only her phone but also the silver watch he had given her.
Confused and panicked, he picked up the items and stowed them in his pocket.
Did her mother catch up with her just as she was about to come inside? Did she drag her away? Did Yasmine lose her phone in the process?
He could understand her dropping the phone in the middle of the fray, but why would she lose her watch?
Standing on the sidewalk, he frantically searched in all directions for a sign of what had happened to her just as the sun rose from the horizon.
Yasmine, where the fuck are you?
Maybe he should just go over to her house and . . .
Why the hell her watch?
Be logical, idiot, he said to himself.
He thought for a few moments and kept coming to the same conclusion. She had left him her phone and her watch as a sign . . . hoping he’d find them. Her watch especially, something so cherished that she’d never let go of it voluntarily.
She was in deep trouble.
But how could a girl like Yasmine get into deep trouble?
A mugger?
A pervert?
A kidnapper?
His mind was whirling a mile a minute as his heart thumped in his chest.
And then his brain hit upon something, a micro flashback as to what brought him to Coffee Bean in the first place.
Crazy, gun-toting, asshole Dylan and his loony band of followers . . . the way Dylan had acted like he owned the fucking Starbucks, him going nose to nose with him.
But surely Yasmine wouldn’t do anything to offend him. She certainly wouldn’t face off against him.
But he couldn’t get them out of his mind . . . especially the whacko blonde that Dylan had been with . . . the look on her face the day they saw each other at the bus stop . . . the pot in her purse . . . the anger in her eyes when he had turned down getting stoned with her at her house.
What was her name?
Cam . . . Cameron. Gabe never did get her last name. She was scary-ass loco, the type of girl who’d seek revenge . . .
His throat suddenly seized up . . . what if . . .
Shit!
Think, you moron! Think!
With his heart palpitations going full force, he dropped his music folder and his instincts took over. He took off running now in boots not made for track and field.
Didn’t matter. He was galloping full force in the direction of the bus stop.
Chapter Thirty
The group was a block away from the bus stop, walking through Greendale Park and its vast copses of trees and shrubbery. There looked to be around five of them—more or less: Gabe’s thinking was still muddled. Putting on a final burst of speed, he flung himself into the tight crowd, throwing his arms around Dylan and another dude with long hair and acne, both of them shorter than he was, especially since he was wearing three-inch heels. Their faces registered utter shock.
“Hey, what’s going on?” Gabe asked.
Dylan recovered quickly, creating space between the two of them, pulling the tiny figure he was gripping out of reach. Gabe may have been frazzled, but he was coherent enough to notice the barrel of a .22 S/W revolver pushed into her spine.
“This is what’s going on.” Dylan yanked Yasmine’s hair, turning her head around so that Gabe could see her terrified face. They locked eyes and hers were wet, pleading with him to do something. Then something hard appeared on the back of his own head.
He heard the telltale click.
And when that happened, an eerie calm suddenly washed over his body, just like the way he felt when he had attacked the mugger a year ago . . . or when his dad used to shoot at him to get him used to the sound of whizzing bullets. His brain instantly transported into a zone he rarely visited—that of his father’s son. His heartbeat slowed as he regarded the situation with newfound clarity.
Dylan had jerked Yasmine’s head forward so that Gabe could no longer see her face. He said, “You had fun with my girl. So now it’s time for payback.” He pushed the gun deeper into her spine. She let out a garbled yelp. “You can come along if you want.” A sickening smile. “You can hold her arms down while we gangbang her.”
Gabe shrugged carelessly, his mind working faster than his mouth. Thinking before he spoke, listening to his father’s voice in his head.
I got a lot of enemies, Gabe. You gotta be careful. If you ever do get in a jam and can’t reach me, start thinking of a plan. And once you’ve got a plan, don’t ever, ever think about the consequences. Just act.
He picked up his pace, forcing the guy who held the gun to his head to walk a little faster. The others fell into step.
“Honestly, Dylan, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never did anything with your girl.” Gabe’s eyes swept over the crew. Six instead of five. Four dudes, two girls—Cameron and a brunette. “I don’t even know which one your girl is.”
Cameron says something. “You are such a liar—”
“The blonde?” Gabe walked faster. “The one who called you an asshole?”
Dylan momentarily flinched.
“Look,” Gabe said. “I didn’t know she was yours. And I certainly didn’t fuck her. I’ve seen your babe twice. Once when I first met you and once at a bus stop.” Gabe pointed straight ahead. “That bus stop as a matter of fact.”
Where the fucking bus wasn’t due until twenty minutes.
Think of a plan, and then act on it.
“It was like six-thirty in the morning.” Gabe tried to keep his voice even. “I was waiting for the bus. She had bought some shit and invited me over to her house to have a smoke. Apparently her parents leave very early for work.”
Who do you attack first? The one with the piece on Yasmine’s back or the one whose gun was pointed at your gray matter?
Dylan said, “She said you doped her up and raped her.”
“Give me a break, dude, do I look like a guy who needs to rape for pussy?”
“He’s a fucking liar, Dylan,” Cameron screamed out. “You saw the marks.”
“What marks?”
“Where you tied me up—”
“You believe that shit, Dylan?” Gabe laughed. “C’mon, you’re a smart dude. I didn’t go to her house, not because I was dissing her or anything. I didn’t go because I had a record audition at eight in the morning with a major R and D guy from a big label—”
“You raped me, you asshole!”
“—chance of a lifetime, dude—”
“You fucking tied me up and raped—”
“—and no pussy is worth missing an opportunity like that.” Gabe could tell Dylan was digesting the contrary information. “You can believe what you want, bro, but I’ve never touched her. I earn my pussy honestly, dude. Rape is for losers.”
Dylan’s eyes were wavering now. Gabe was almost at a jog.
“Besides, anything I need, my dad gives free of charge. Why would I rape if I can have as much pussy as I want any time, any way?”
“Yeah, I forgot.” Dylan was sneering now. Maybe it was not so good to bring up Dad. “You’re the one whose father is a pimp.”
Gabe affected a casual shrug. “It’s true. His name is Christopher Donatti. One of your posse must have an Internet connection on his phone. Look him up.”
You probably go for the gun at your head. By now, the dude’s arm might be getting tired from holding
it up that long.
Besides, he was no help to Yasmine if he was dead.
“I’m serious,” Gabe goaded him. “Look him up.” He spelled the last name. The sun was rising in the sky and it was getting close to seven, the appointed hour of the bus’s arrival. The park was still empty, but it wouldn’t be long before people came to walk their dogs and do other shit. Dylan had to realize that as well, so Gabe knew he had very little time. They were walking through a maze of trees, still somewhat hidden.
One of the dudes with short spiked hair and a weak chin had pulled out an iPhone. Out loud he said, “Christopher Whitman Donatti.”
“That’s the man.”
He read, “Adopted son of the late Mafioso boss Joey Donatti, head of the Charino gang in New York and Chicago—”
“Guess who took his place when Joey died,” Gabe said.
Weak Chin’s voice stammered for a second before he read on. “Served six months in Piedmont Penitentiary for the murder of Cheryl Diggs when he was eighteen, released six months later when new information was brought to light.”
“That is true.”
“Arrested twice in connection with the deaths of Leon Graciano and Paul ‘the Pick’ Lorelli. First charge he was acquitted, last charge ended in a mistrial due to the death of a state witness and lack of evidence.”
Thank you, Dad, for being a psycho.
Dylan’s eyes were flitting from object to object. The dude was definitely on something, but he could still understand the enormity of what Weak Chin was telling him. Gabe could see Dylan faltering, hesitant about going up against the son of a real, live bad guy.
“Donatti now owns publishing houses and numerous real estate concerns in New York and Nevada.” Weak Chin swallowed and said, “Doesn’t say anything about owning whorehouses.”
Gabe’s sigh was exasperated. “Are you a real dumb fuck or are you just playing the part? My dad’s a fucking felon, dude. He can’t own things like that. All his casinos and whorehouses are in my mom’s name. Teresa McLaughlin Donatti. She’s in there somewhere, right?”
The kid didn’t answer.
“And guess what. My name really isn’t Chris. It’s Gabriel. Gabriel Matthew Whitman. And I know I’m in there, too, because I’ve googled my dad like a million times. Now are there any other questions I can answer about my family?”
No one said anything, and now was the time.
Abruptly he stopped walking and ducked, causing the guy behind him to overstep and trip, the gun in his hand now safely over Gabe’s head. In a swift fluid motion, Gabe grabbed the dude’s hand and in a single twisting motion, wrested a Luger 9 mm semi from his grip. He looked up just in time to see the barrel of Dylan’s piece aimed at his chest. He heard a scream and thought it might be his own. Yasmine had whipped around once the gun was off her back, her elbow knocking into Dylan’s hand a fraction of a second before the gun exploded.
A bullet whizzing past his body.
Which didn’t faze him much except that it was a loud motherfucker.
The noise and kickback caused Dylan to jump backward, giving Gabe just enough leeway space. Within a beat, he was in perfect position, behind Dylan with the semi in his right hand pushed into the nape of his neck, digging deep into the skin, pointed upward into his cranium. With the boots, Gabe was a good four inches taller than Dylan. “You move, dude, you’re a fucking corpse.”
Before Dylan could process, Gabe grabbed the .22 with his left hand, then immediately switched guns, feeling more comfortable with the .22 on Dylan and the 9 mm in his free left hand. It simply had more rounds, in case he had to use it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the guy with long hair and acne guy reach into his pocket. With his left hand, Gabe shot at him, the bullet narrowly missing his arm. The .22 in his right hand was still on Dylan’s neck.
To the dude with long hair, Gabe said, “Did I give you fucking permission to move?”
The guy was shaking, nursing his arm.
Maybe he grazed him. Good if he did.
Gabe screamed, “Answer me, motherfucker!” He fired off another shot in the vicinity of the asshole’s head. His voice was soft this time. “Did I give you permission to fucking move?”
“No,” he whispered.
Gabe was calm. “If anyone moves, he’s future fertilizer.” He looked at Cameron. “That includes the ladies. Do we understand each other?”
No one spoke. Gabe suddenly became aware of a piercing throb in his right side. Someone must have punched him in his ribs. His eyes and the gun in his left hand traveled from face to face to face, constantly moving so no one was ever out of the picture. Then he realized the reason he was here in the first place. To Yasmine, he said, “Get the fuck out of here.”
She didn’t budge, either refusing to leave him alone or paralyzed by fear.
“Go, Yasmine! Run!”
Instead she shook her head, stubbornly remaining rooted to the spot.
Fucking lunatic! She really was a cuckoo bird, as crazy as he was, with some misplaced notion of going down with him. Gabe kept his right hand on Dylan’s neck and continued to move the gun in his left hand from person to person.
If she wouldn’t leave, at least work with her then. He said, “What time is it, Yasmine?”
“I don’t have a watch.”
“Right. Take my phone out of my pocket.” Gun going from person to person to person.
She did as told—deftly and swiftly. “Twelve to seven.”
Ten minutes to go. Good thing he had taken the time to put in his contacts. Otherwise all they’d have to do is pull off his glasses and he couldn’t see a fucking thing.
“Yasmine, grab the girls’ purses.”
“You’re robbing us?” asked the dude with the weak chin and short hair.
Gabe peeled off a bullet in his direction. “If I hear your voice again, it’ll be the last thing on earth that you’ll ever hear. Got it?”
No response.
To Yasmine, he said, “Take their purses.” At the sound of his voice, she sprang into action. Once she had them in her possession, he said, “Okay, dump their shit in the bushes . . . just throw everything all over the place. Toss it, throw it, kick it. Whatever.”
She did what he told her to do.
When she was done, he asked, “What time is it?”
“Eight to,” she answered.
“Okay, okay. Now go into the dudes’ backpacks and throw their shit all over the place like with the purses. Got it?”
“Got it.”
Yasmine was absolutely perfect. Act first, question later. She dumped out three iPhones and a BlackBerry, four wallets, two crack pipes, several sheets of cigarette rolling paper, several dime bags of weed, a couple of bags of crystal meth, a bag of crack and several bags of E, powders and other pills Gabe couldn’t identify by sight, plus books and schoolwork. She took out the cash and the credit cards from the wallets and dumped them randomly, giving Gabe just enough time to see the bus at the curb.
Immediately, he grabbed Yasmine’s arm with his left hand, the two of them jogging backward, his right-hand gun aimed at the gang.
“Enjoy your scavenger hunt,” he hissed.
Then he turned them both around and stuck the guns in his jacket, the two of them running like the wind until they were at the curb, Gabe pounding on the closing doors of the bus until they opened, and he and Yasmine stepped inside. As soon as they were relatively safe, Gabe discovered his heartbeat, feeling adrenaline pouring into his body. He was shaking harder than Yasmine, who had the presence of mind to pay for the both of them.
They made their way to the back and found two empty seats. Wordlessly, she handed Gabe his phone. He was shaking so hard, he almost dropped it after he punched in the numbers.
The first time the call went to voice mail.
He depressed the green button and tried again.
Please answer. Please answer. Please, please answer.
And when the line connected, Gabe had trouble getting the wor
ds from his throat. “Peter . . .” He was panting. “Peter, I’m in trouble.”
It took a moment for Decker to recognize the breathless voice. “Gabe?”
“Yeah, sorry. It’s Gabe.”
Decker’s brain went to high alert, but his voice remained even. “Where are you?”
“I’m on the . . .” Gabe was wiped out and winded. “I’m on a bus . . . on . . . God, I don’t even know where I am. Hold on . . . let me read a street sign.” He gave Decker the road and read off an address. “Can you please come get us?”
Us?
“I’m on my way.” Decker had just started to pull into the station house driveway. He put the car in reverse and drove out of the parking lot. “Are you in physical danger right now?”
“Maybe.”
Decker placed the red light on the roof of the car and turned on the siren. “How imminent?”
“I dunno. I think we’re okay right now.” He heard the siren in the background. Never had a G-sharp slide sounded so good. “Where should we meet up?”
“You stay on the bus and I’ll catch up to you. I’m about five minutes away. Stay on the phone, okay?”
“Yeah. I’m still here.”
Decker could hear muted conversation—clipped words and a lot of breathing. Even with the siren and lights, it took him a little longer to reach the bus because of morning traffic. He said, “I’m right behind you.” He turned off the siren. “Get off at the next stop.”
“Okay.”
The big behemoth chugged away for several blocks until it pulled up to a bus bench filled with working people. Decker got out of the unmarked, stood by the passenger door, and waited. Before long two figures emerged, holding hands.
Gabe absolutely towered over her.
When he and the girl got close enough, Decker saw that her eyes were red and swollen, and she looked a lot younger than the seventeen-year-old girl that Gabe claimed to have been seeing.
She also looked familiar.
And then Decker placed her: the Persian girl at the deli, not the one who was flirting with Gabe, but the youngest one who looked about ten and supposedly sang opera. And suddenly everything fit together. He opened the back door and the two of them slid inside. She was trembling and burst into tears as soon as she clicked on her seat belt. Gabe was shaking. He looked pale and wan.
Gun Games Page 25
