Devil With a Gun

by M. C. Grant

  Entering the living room, I see a woman tied to a wooden chair in front of a small portable television that’s broadcasting QVC without sound. And if that doesn’t count as cruel and unusual, I’m not sure what does. The rest of the room is empty.

  When I appear in front of her, Bailey’s eyes grow four times their normal size. Her face is red and puffy with signs of bruising on her cheeks and forehead. At one point, she must have struggled.

  I wink at her, slip the Beretta into my pocket, and replace it with my switchblade, Lily. Vivid blue tape has been wrapped in a thick band around her head, sealing her mouth. I slide the thin blade into the gap behind her ear to slice an opening before attempting to peel it off. Freeing her mouth, I leave the tape that’s become stuck firmly in her hair to be removed when we have more time.

  Bailey works her jaw, wincing as her tongue tends to the dried and broken skin of her lips, while I slice through the rope and plastic straps that hold her to the chair.

  When I’m done, I ask if she can stand.

  “You shouldn’t have come,” she says as she pushes herself slowly out of the chair. Her body is stiff and her muscles tremble from fatigue and stress. “This is a trap.”

  “I know,” I say, “but it’s a trap for your father.”

  “You think Lebed’s gonna care?”

  “I’m banking on it.”

  Bailey stands up straight and groans as electric pins and needles course through her muscles.

  “You’re either very brave or very stupid,” she says.

  “Yeah,” I agree. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

  Bailey cracks a smile, but it fades just as quickly as it bloomed. “My dad was never going to come, was he?”

  I slip the knife into my boot and retrieve the Beretta. “Let’s talk about that later. Preferably over a beer in a nice little pub run by a very large and protective friend of mine.”

  With a grimace, Bailey swings an arm around my neck so I can hold part of her weight.

  “I could really use the toilet,” she says.

  “No time. Sorry.”

  A boisterous cry erupts from the street, followed by the unmistakable crunch of something overly large and metallic being overturned.

  “What’s that?” Bailey cries out.

  I grin. “Just some friends causing havoc.”

  A whoosh of gasoline catching fire is followed by the sound of breaking glass. Voices begin to rise in chants and protest. Every riot begins as a party.

  “That’s our cue,” I say.

  Apparently, it’s also somebody else’s: bursts of automatic gunfire erupt on the floor above us, followed by the stomping of panicked feet, screams of pain, and loud Russian voices. More glass shatters, and the downward concussion of a second explosion nearly knocks us to our knees.

  Bailey looks at me in blood-drained panic, her face reflecting what I already know: we’re in a war zone.

  “We need to move,” I say, trying not to show that I’m just as frightened as she is.

  With Bailey leaning against me for balance as her legs work out the kinks of being strapped tight to a chair, we head quickly down the hallway toward the apartment door and the stairwell to the street beyond.

  Two feet from the end, the door is suddenly kicked open by an ugly thug armed with an MP5 submachine gun. His scalp is partially singed and the only thing that delays him from squeezing the trigger is his surprise over seeing two women rather than the man he was likely told to expect.

  Everything in that moment screams at me to run and hide, pull the covers over my head and pretend there are no monsters under the bed—but I’m expecting it. Pinch warned me about the overwhelming impulse for flight and how, in times of war, we need to disable that core hard-wired instinct. He also said that was why so many battle-weary soldiers have difficulty returning to civilian life; once that switch is disabled, it can be a difficult thing to reset again.

  Shoving Bailey behind me, I snap the Beretta into a two-handed grip and fire three shots in rapid succession at the intruder’s center mass. Each bullet hits the man’s chest and expands to nearly double its size, sending him flying backward into the door across the landing.

  My first thought is, Oh shit!

  But my second is, No blood.

  The man sits up, his chest oozing white stuffing from a ballistic vest. If I’m lucky he’ll have a broken rib or two and find it difficult to catch his breath, but that will only slow him down.

  Cursing in Russian, the thug recovers faster than I’d like and, still sitting, brings his MP5 to bear.

  I immediately grab Bailey’s hand and rush back toward the living room before throwing her screaming, terrified body onto the ground as if she’s a skim board and we’re going to do a little sand surfing.

  Bullets zip inches above our heads as I desperately shove Bailey around the corner, where the large appliances in the kitchen next door will offer some protection.

  Not giving her time to catch her breath or allow panic to freeze her in place, I point at the window that overlooks the street.

  “Open the window,” I yell.

  “There’s no fire escape on this side,” Bailey protests.

  “Just get it open,” I yell back. “Smash it if you have to.”

  Bullets are racing down the hallway, spraying the far wall and destroying everything in their path. The living room begins to fill with white dust from disintegrating plaster as the gunman slowly makes his way up the hall toward us. He’s angry, injured, and firing without discretion, knowing that we have no place to run or hide.

  Before reaching us, his magazine runs empty. I hear it eject and hit the floor with a metallic clang. In the next instant, a fresh one is snapped into place.

  Knowing I have to act before he can slap the charging handle forward to fire again, I launch myself across the floor directly into his path. He’s standing in the middle of the hall, staring directly ahead, not down, but when he spots me on the floor, he smiles through bloody teeth—until I fire.

  The hollow-point round hits his ankle with such explosive force that his foot is nearly ripped clean off the bone.

  I don’t wait to watch him crumple to the ground—the piercing intensity of his scream tells me I’ve bought a little time.

  I scramble back to Bailey’s side and help her shove the window open to its full height. Below us, the wrestlers are cheering the fiery destruction of an overturned car. The smoke is thick and black. In the distance I can hear sirens approaching from all directions.

  The heat in the room is too intense to be coming just from the burning car, however. I glance up and see the entire fourth floor also ablaze.

  Pinch.

  Change of plans.

  That’s why only one gunman appeared at our door and not four. Pinch must have scaled the fire escape and entered via the roof to take on the Russians before they moved on me. Pity one got away.

  Pressing two fingers between my lips, I release an ear-splitting whistle—the same one my mother always gave me hell for and which my father taught me to perfect.

  Two of the wrestlers look up and wave.

  “Form a net,” I call down. “I need you to catch someone.”

  Bailey looks at me in abject terror. “You’re not serious.”

  “The police are on their way, the hall is blocked by an angry and armed Russian, and we need to get out now. You’re first.”

  “But—”

  I don’t let her finish as I drag and push her to the window ledge until she’s balanced precariously on her knees.

  Down below, the wrestlers have linked their arms to form a human net. Their bulging biceps make it resemble a small inflatable bed.

  “Close your eyes.”

  Bailey’s eyes grow wider.

  “Close them,” I say. “It’ll be over soon.”
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  Bailey closes her eyes and I shove her out.

  “Don’t move, bitch!”

  Shit!

  I turn around to see the Russian thug sitting on the floor, a river of blood leading from his right foot into the hall. His submachine gun is aimed directly at me, and despite the pain glistening on his face, his aim seems true.

  “Drop the gun.”

  I drop the Beretta.

  Smoke is filling the room from above, but I’m beginning to doubt I’ll have to worry about it.

  “Who are you?” His accent is thick and cumbersome, the English words practically choking him.

  “A journalist,” I say. “Your boss doesn’t want me dead.”

  The man spits on the floor. “My orders are clear. No one leaves alive.”

  “That why he killed your friends?” I glance up at the ceiling. “Leave no witnesses?”

  The man looks confused for a second before clarity returns to his eyes. “That is not Red Swan. It is short bastard in black. His corpse will be crispy by now.”

  “Just like yours, then,” I say.

  The thug’s finger twitches on the trigger as I dive to one side and pull the knife out of my boot. The first spray of bullets misses me completely, finding the open window where I stood and sending a shower of glass and lead over the street like lethal fireworks. But as the gun circles back, I realize the distance between us is too great for a knife to give me any advantage.

  The Russian realizes this, too.

  “I would rather kill you with bare hands,” he says as ripples of flame suddenly burst across the ceiling. “But we run out of time.”

  He raises his gun again just as a black blur bursts through the doorway and slams into him with a shoulder block that would make any NFL couch proud. The gun sails out of the Russian’s grip as the blur circles behind him and locks a skinny forearm around his throat.

  The Russian’s eyes bulge as the intruder squeezes tight.

  “You should leave,” says the blur. “Now.”

  To my surprise, it isn’t Pinch.

  It’s my Good Samaritan.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  “Does it matter?”

  “I find it odd.”

  “Odder than standing here while a building burns to the ground around you?”

  The Russian thrashes his legs in panic as the life is slowly squeezed from him, my Samaritan’s boney forearm locked in a merciless vise.

  “Don’t kill him,” I say. “He’s only a gun for hire.”

  “He wouldn’t give you the same courtesy, and I don’t like who hired him.”

  “We need to talk,” I say.

  The man nods. “But let’s pick a better time. The stairwell should be clear if you go now.”

  “Are you coming?” I ask.

  “Right behind you.”

  I find the Beretta and slip it back into my jeans as I take off down the hall. The cracking timbers sound like breaking bones, and the fire cackles at my back.

  Thirty-Three

  I rush down the concrete stairs, taking them two at a time, grabbing the sticky handrail to propel me across each landing and down toward the next. At the same time, pounding feet are rushing up from below and I wonder if it’s Frank, and if so, what his face will reveal when he sees that it’s me.

  I hope he’s not too disappointed.

  I round the next bend just as an armed Russian comes into view on the stairs below.

  He raises his gun before I can reach the Beretta, and I know he’s going to shoot despite my hands reaching for the sky in a sign of surrender.

  His trigger finger whitens in the moment before his right eye implodes and the back of his skull is smeared across the wall.

  I only hear the gunshot’s echo, no louder than a cough, after I watch him die.

  It came from behind me.

  As I turn, Pinch reaches underneath my coat and removes the Beretta. He’s holding a silenced pistol in one hand as he pockets the Beretta and hands me a lemon-scented disinfectant wet wipe.

  “That’s the last one,” he whispers into my ear. “Everything go OK with Bailey?”

  “She’s outside,” I say, struggling to find words.

  “Join her,” he says. “And use the wipe. It’s best to have clean hands.”

  I feel him move away. By the time I complete my turn, he’s vanished again.

  Not entirely knowing why, I use the napkin to clean my hands. The ritual is oddly soothing and I rub the disinfectant deep into my flesh as I quickly finish my descent.

  Outside, I take hold of Bailey’s hand and tell the wrestlers to disappear.

  “You’re sure?” one of them asks.

  I nod. “I appreciate all you’ve done, but I don’t want you getting in trouble with the police. I’ve set up a tab at Bulldog’s, but just remember that I’m a poor working stiff.”

  Red and blue lights are rushing toward us from both ends of the street.

  “You just want all the firemen to yourself,” says the wrestler with a smirk.

  I can’t help but smile. He could be right. Looking around at the chaos they’ve created, I ask, “Where’s the other guard?”

  The wrestler returns my grin and winks. “The cops’ll find him.”

  As the wrestlers disperse in one direction, Bailey and I cross the street to vanish into the open-mouthed crowd.

  Better nobody knows we were here than try to explain why we were.

  Thirty-Four

  Bailey insists we stop at Scissors & Sizzle before continuing on to the Dog House. The owner, Marjorie, lives above the salon and after one look at Bailey and her tape-strewn hair, opens the shop without question.

  Bailey sprints to the bathroom then joins Marjorie at one of the sinks at the back. I make sure the front door is locked and the window blind is firmly closed to block out interior light.

  I have no idea what the Red Swan is going to think of the mess we’ve made of his building or what he’ll do about me springing his trap, but I know it’s best if we’re surrounded by friends rather than on our own.

  With Marjorie busy tutting her tongue and snipping her scissors over the mess of tape in Bailey’s hair, I pick up the salon’s phone and dial Kristy.

  “It’s me,” I say. “You can let Roxanne go now.”

  “I’ve been watching the news,” says Kristy in a tone that manages to mix both concern and uncertainty. “Is that you?”

  “Depends. Is it about a lottery winner who’s moving to the Bahamas to soak up the sun and be fawned over by half-naked sex gods who make a bottomless Long Island iced tea?”

  “No, it’s about a street riot that seems to have set fire to a building containing an illegal arsenal. The police are warning everyone to stay clear because bullets keep going off in the blaze. And there are bodies inside, but it’s too dangerous to retrieve them. Even the firefighters are having to wear bulletproof vests.”

  “Now why would that make you think of me?” I ask.

  “Roxanne was talking about her sister while you were gone. Well, I say talking, but it’s more like ranting. You didn’t tell me she’s possessed. I’m scared to get too close to her in case she tries to bite. Is she on drugs?”

  “Open the door and unlock the handcuffs; she’ll run away.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. But first, tell her that her sister is safe, and if she wants to see us we’re heading down to the Dog House. But also tell her to be careful. You too.”

  “Me?”

  “Just don’t talk to any strangers. Some bad men might come looking for me.”

  “Oh, Dix, what are you into?”

  “It’s OK. I’m handling it.”

  “Not very well! A man tried to shoot you in your own apartment!”

  “That’s d
ealt with.”

  “So this is new trouble?”

  I hesitate. “Kinda.”

  “You need to talk to Frank.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “It might be time.”

  “Keep safe, sweetie. Our baby needs an auntie.”

  I inhale sharply, my voice filling with unexpected emotion. “Are you—”

  “Not yet,” says Kristy, cutting me off. “But I will be.”

  So long as I don’t bring angry Russian mobsters to your door, I think. Jesus, what have I done?

  I hang up the phone and walk to the sink where Bailey is having the last of the gunk washed from her hair. Looking down at her, I suddenly begin to laugh.

  “What?” Bailey asks, horrified.

  “You’ve just escaped the clutches of a mad Russian mob boss and what’s the first thing you do?” I ask. “Go to a hair salon. How frickin’ girly is that?”

  Bailey’s mouth is caught between a pout and a smile. “I’m a hairdresser,” she says. “Besides, some of those wrestlers were cute.”

  I laugh even louder.

  “I like you Ms. Bailey Brown,” I say. “You’re my kind of gal.”

  I turn to Marjorie. “Is there a TV around?”

  She points to a small flat-screen mounted near the row of industrial hair dryers that still look like they belong in the 1950s. The remote is attached to the wall beside the TV with Velcro.

  I tune into the local news and am rewarded with a full-screen image of black smoke and steam billowing from the building we recently exited. Firefighters pour on the water. The fire appears to be mostly extinguished, but the top two floors have been gutted. The camera pans down to focus on an attractive Asian woman with

  perfectly symmetrical eyes, seductive lips, and overly wide shoulders. Her face is serious to let us know this isn’t the weather report.

  I notice her lips moving before the words scroll across the bottom of the screen. Because of the noise usually generated by the full-helmet hair dryers, Marjorie has the TV set to display closed captioning.

  Authorities are saying they have no explanation for what started the initial melee that is believed to be responsible for spreading the fire to the building. One witness has described the events as spontaneous hooliganism, and indeed the police did find one man hog-tied and stuffed in a nearby garbage can. We’re told that man has been taken to the hospital in police custody and will be facing several weapons charges after his injuries have been treated. Despite rumors currently trending on Twitter under the hashtag SFAttack, police are adamant there is no terrorist connection being considered at this time. However, authorities on the scene are also reluctant to offer any explanation for the large arsenal of ammunition that has been igniting inside the building. Nor are they saying anything about what are believed to be numerous bodies still inside. One reliable source has claimed there may be as many as twelve—