How the fuck could he be dead?
Well, he told you he had to go out tonight. He told you where those jewels came from. And you knew he was gonna do something else.
You knew it.
And you didn’t stop him.
She shakes her head again. Tries to kill the guilt in her brain. Jesus. Shit. What’s she gonna do with Aaron? The city gonna come take him away? She never, ever considered the idea of Aaron being hers. Not hers alone, anyway.
City’d laugh in her face if she went for custody.
That kid.
That poor goddamn kid can’t escape the stupid bullshit his parents keep pulling.
She knows she’s gonna cry. Not just weep. But roar and flail and beat her arms around the apartment when she gets back upstairs. Especially if she keeps drinking.
He can’t be dead.
He couldn’t have left her and Aaron like this.
She remembers the money upstairs.
***
Joe taps Saim’s shoulder. “You see those guys?” He tilts his head.
Saim looks away from Sarah’s worried face. And, yeah, he sees those guys. Outside. Across the street. Five of em, not exactly hiding. Their interest only on the bar and the fact that it’s shut down, but still has a coupla cops and a gal inside. Saim says, “I’m guessing someone wants us to know we’re being watched.”
“That or it’s a hit squad.”
Saim considers it. “Question is: Who’s the hit squad gunning for?”
They both cut a look at Sarah.
Saim says to her, “Stay here.”
He and Joe get up from their place at the bar.
Joe says, “What’re you thinkin?”
Saim unlocks the door. “Gonna have a quick chat.”
***
Sarah’s eyes go wide when she realizes the full extent of what’s happening. And what brutal end Kieron might’ve faced. She points at Saim heading outside. Shouts to Joe: “Is he fuckin crazy? What’s he doing?!”
Joe holds up a hand. Stop. The other hand rests on the butt of the Beretta on his hip. “Saim knows what he’s doing.”
“Do you know what he’s doing?”
Joe keeps his eye on the street outside.
But the answer is: Not really.
***
Saim doesn’t need to do anything to get the guys’ attention. They’re waiting for him. Five. In jeans and unremarkable leather jackets. Doesn’t really look like anyone is in charge. No hands in their pockets or jackets, but hovering near the pieces Saim knows they’ve got. They’re all checking each other, but none of em ever look to the same guy. Just thugs. Pack of dumb dogs sent out.
Saim waltzes up to em. Puts his hands on his hips. Eyeballs em. “Who’m I supposed to be talking to?”
They don’t say anything.
Saim waits. He doesn’t pull his gun or even get his fingers near the Colt. Doesn’t wanna spook the idiots. And he knows he can draw faster than any of the fuckers anyway if things go sideways.
Saim says, “Here’s the deal. You fellas leave. Go have a drink somewhere. Cool your heels. You wanna find me? We’ll make arrangements at Police Plaza. Okay?”
Saim looks around at all the random pedestrians. New Yorkers not really giving a damn since none of this has to deal with the situation directly.
One of em speaks up: “Why don’t you go away? You, sand nigger, and the otha cop. The one who sounds like a hick from the movies.” It’s a Brooklyn accent with some leftover Russian thrown in on the vowels.
So Saim says, “All right, Ivan. Ruskie pinko commie.” Working the tried-and-true method of pissing em off till they make a mistake. “You want us to go away? Me and my hick buddy?”
“Yeah, you faggots go suck each other off.”
Another says, “You can’t do nothin about this. We greased so many NYPD palms, you don’t even know if your partner’s gonna be on your side when it counts.”
Saim nods, thinking it’s bullshit and bluster. But also wondering if Schaffer sent him and Joe down here to get fuckin killed. Doesn’t matter yet. Saim says, “Here’s how it’s gonna happen—” then makes quick mental notes of the thugs. Thug A: Racist Guy who started talking first. B: Greased Palms guy. C: Has a blue polo shirt on. D: Wears sunglasses at night like a douche. E: Just, y’know, looks like a dick. “What’s gonna happen is you’re gonna go away, I’m gonna go inside and finish my beer.”
The five thugs shift their weight from foot to foot.
Racist Guy says, “We should just go away?”
Saim says, “That’s what I suggest.” He shrugs as the words come out.
“You can’t protect them forever, raghead. So let’s just see what happens.”
Fireworks explode in Saim’s brain: Them. Sarah. Aaron.
Saim shrugs again and backs away. Toward the door. His eyes bounce from one asshole to the other. They give him canine looks. Real asshole canine looks.
He knew a Chihuahua once. An old boyfriend’s mom had the thing. Little fucker. Wanted attention all the goddamn time. Happy dumb tail wagging. Slobbery face. Yipping yapping. Clicking clacking on uncut nails as he ran around and tried to garner affection from everyone.
Happy little moron.
Till mom gave the four-legged bastard some toast—toast—then goddamn. It would growl and snap and bite. Still dumb as hell, but now it had toast it wanted.
The looks the Russians are wearing remind Saim of that stupid, snippy fuckin dog.
He keeps his eyes on their hands.
***
Saim slips inside.
Joe says, “How’s it lookin?”
Saim says, “How many mags you got?”
“One full, plus the one in the Beretta. They took our mags from earlier.”
“And I got two. So it could be worse.” Saim locks eyes with Sarah. Walks to her. Says, “Please get behind the bar. And keep your head down. Grab a phone. Call—”
Bullets shatter the front windows.
Screams fill the street outside.
Chihuahuas and their goddamn toast.
Saim unceremoniously tosses Sarah over the top of the bar. Then he ducks down with Joe. They kick over THE THING’s oft-abused tables. Tuck in behind em. Use em as makeshift barricades. Or at least shields that’ll postpone their getting dead.
Saim screams at Sarah. “Stay behind the bar. Get down. Do not come out. Find the phone. Call 911.”
Sarah collects herself. Crouches on the floor. “How’m I supposed to do that? You tell me I gotta find the phone but I can’t come out unless I want my head blown off.” She wipes her hands on her pants. Looks around. Doesn’t see anything except exploding glass and new holes being drilled by bullets.
And where’re Saim and Joe’s phones?
On the bar counter. Next to their drinks. All of which are getting exploded by hot lead.
Great.
Saim peeks his head out around the table. He’s greeted by more gunfire. Mostly handguns but at least one submachine gun. Probably a Russian PP-2000—compact little 9mm thing that’ll ruin your day.
Saim wishes again they had a shotgun on their side.
The wood floor splinters near where Saim’s face was a moment before.
Joe says, “Well?”
Saim says, “Well, they’re still pissed at us.” He pulls his Colt. Makes sure there’s a round chambered and ready to fly. “Wait till they reload.”
“Then next to the windows, where the solid wall is.”
Saim nods. “I go left.”
Joe nods.
For a heartbeat, there’s no noise.
Saim and Joe get up. They crouch-run to the solid walls. Slam themselves against fresh protection while the thugs reload their weapons.
Saim takes a look. Sees sunglasses-at-night idio
t trying to lock a new magazine into his PP-2000. No wonder the guy thinks he’s so cool. Living proof that gun laws aren’t working.
Saim aims out the window. Sunglasses Asshole catches the movement. He turns his face and his gun in Saim’s direction. Saim greets him with three fat .45 slugs barked from the Colt. Two in the guy’s chest. A third that destroys the lower half of the bastard’s face. Teeth and bone fly. Dude’s tongue whips around like a wet pull-cord on a toy.
One down.
Joe brings his sights to bear on the Greased Palms thug. The thug not paying attention or noticing that Saim and Joe moved. So he’s got his gun up with two hands. Joe sends four 9mm rounds his way. The bullets hit along his side and burst out his chest. Four little geysers of blood paint the air with red ropes.
Two down.
Saim and Joe gotta move.
Gotta keep the Russians on their toes.
But where the fuck’re they supposed to move to?
Saim says to Joe, “Check if you can find an emergency exit out the back or something. We can’t sit here. I’ll cover.” He takes a shot at Blue Polo guy. Mostly just to keep the prick back. The thug goes scurrying behind a car.
Joe says, “What about the basement?”
“Basements are always a death trap.”
“Right.” Joe grimaces. “I’ve seen the movies.” Then he’s off, past the bar.
Saim shouts to Sarah: “Find a phone yet?”
Sarah shouts back: “No, but I’ve almost been killed a dozen times. This is fun. I bet you and your partner are fuckin great party guests.”
Saim grins. She’s pretty good. Tough. He can see why the bartender liked her.
Bullets pound the wall next to Saim’s head. Chunks of brick and wood fly off. He ducks under the window. Thinks a moment. Pretty sure he’s got four rounds left in the Colt’s mag. He makes his way to the THE THING’s front door.
He can hear sirens incoming. Cops. The good guys.
Maybe.
He remembers what that asshole said: We greased so many NYPD palms, you don’t even know if your partner’s gonna be on your side when it counts.
Saim grunts. “Fuck it.” Throws the front door open.
Blue Polo’s only about twenty feet away. Straight ahead. Standing behind a car. If Saim had still been ducked under the windows inside, it woulda been good cover. Now, not so much. And the guy shows off a look of dumb surprise.
Saim gives a cheerful, “Hello!” Then puts a bullet in Blue Polo’s neck.
He turns back inside. Lets the door close behind him. “We got a phone? We got a way out? Anything?”
“Got a door,” Joe says. He’s standing in front of it.
“Fan-goddamn-tastic. And we got sirens. Backup’s almost here.”
“Them sirens is music to my ears.”
Joe kicks open the emergency exit.
Racist Russian and his dick-looking buddy are right there.
Waiting.
Two shots ring out.
Joe takes both bullets. One in the leg. The other in his side.
Before Joe can even fall, the Racist has him in a headlock. Gun pressed against the cop’s temple. He uses Joe for insurance. The two thugs walk into the bar.
Saim motions for Sarah to stay put. Stay hidden. He lowers his gun. Doesn’t drop it. Says to the Russian fucks: “Cops’re gonna be here in a minute. A whole lot of em. They don’t like it when people shoot their buddies in blue. What you should do is, put my partner down. Give yourselves up. Otherwise, you’re making a real bad career move.”
Racist Guy says, “You don’t get to talk your way out of this one, faggot.”
Dickface says, “Yeah, faggot.”
Saim says, “You a parrot?”
“No you’re a... You’re—”
Saim says to Racist Guy, “I can see why you don’t let him talk too much.”
Racist Guy says, “Now I get to tell you what’s gonna happen.” He nudges Joe forward. “We have a bargaining chip. A hostage. You let us out of here. We maybe let your friend go.” Racist Guy taps his pistol against Joe’s head. Hard.
NYPD cruisers skid to a halt outside the bar. Their flashing lights turn THE THING into a nightmarish red-blue pulsing club. A dozen armed cops stomp the pavement and take up ideal firing positions. One of em on a bullhorn says, “This is the New York City Police Department. We have you surrounded. Come out with your hands up.”
Joe laughs. Winces. “They’re singin your song, you Russian pricks.”
Saim shouts to the cops outside: “I am Officer Saim Dajani of the NYPD. My partner, Officer Joe Leonard, is being held against his will and he is wounded. We need EMTs. And snipers, maybe, if you guys wanna kill these assholes.”
There’s a moment of panic on the Racist Guy’s face. Then he sneers. “This is bigger than you think, raghead. You aren’t listening to me. We’ll get the woman. Doesn’t matter what you do.”
Saim says, “Why don’t you tell me what you want with her.”
“She and that fuckin bartender. They took the boy away from his real mother. And mother’s got herself some powerful friends now. But the bartender’s rotting in hell. She will soon too.”
Sarah stands up. Exposed. “Fuck you. Don’t you go near Aaron.”
Saim bites his lower lip. Says, “That was not the smartest thing—”
Racist Guy says to his dickface pal, “Alexei, keep your gun on the cop.”
Alexei obliges. Aims the barrel of his MP-443 at Saim’s forehead.
Saim says, “Alexei? I’ve been referring to you as Dickface in my head. Glad that mystery’s solved. Who’s your buddy? The racist, homophobic jackass holding my partner?” Saim tries to deflect attention away from Sarah. “Who you guys working for? I’ve seen you in action. I know you ain’t the brains of this little operation.”
Dickface Alexei doesn’t bite.
Racist Guy says, “Sarah. You know what you did was wrong. Taking a child.”
Sarah says, “I didn’t take anything. But you, fuckball, you stole Kieron from me. You stole Kieron from Aaron.”
“That decision was made above my head. I’m just here to clean up.”
Saim looks to Joe. The two speak with their eyes.
Saim’s eyes say: Tell me you got a knife or something you can jam into Racist Guy. Make him scream and drop you so you’re outta the line of fire. Then I can put some bullets in Alexei and take Racist Guy in for questioning.
Like they’re gonna have a magic Hollywood way outta this.
Joe’s eyes say: Dude, I got nothin.
***
Sarah knew standing up was a bad idea.
She did it anyway.
These two cocksuckers. The Russians. Shooting at her. Shooting at these cops who came to tell her about Kieron.
Her Kieron.
Now the tears hit her. They steamroll down her tired face. She can feel em. Warm and wet. She hates it when they hit her lips, cuz then she’s gotta taste em too.
But she remembered one important thing that Kieron told her.
And she did find it behind the bar.
***
Racist Guy’s in the middle of a speech about how Saim and Joe and Sarah need to pay for what they’ve done and blah blah blah Mother Russia and they have no idea what’s coming and—
Sarah brings up the shotgun.
A big scary motherfuck. Remington model Express 870 Tactical Magpul pump. The one with no papers and no registration. The one Kieron was worried about the cops finding when Saim and Joe first walked into THE THING.
Nobody moves. Nobody breathes.
Sarah racks the shotgun. Pumps a round into the chamber. That sound—that fuckin sound—it’s the voice of God. Tells people to pay attention. And she ain’t doing it to make pretend the sound itself is a deterrent. She�
��s doing it cuz she plans to blow Racist Guy’s head right the hell off and turn it into drippy confetti.
Saim’s lightning. He uses the distraction. Brings the Colt up. Tries to think of something witty to say. Can’t. Fires twice at Dickface Alexei. Both bullets find a home in the thug’s head. One goes through an eye. The other hits dead center at the brow and turns the back of Dickface’s head into splattery brain bits. Could be mistaken for strawberry jam, the way it slides down the wall.
Sarah keeps the shotgun on Racist Guy.
Racist Guy panics. Says, “I’ll kill the cop. I swear I’ll kill the goddamn cop. And if you shoot at me, bitch, if you shoot at me you’ll hit us both.”
Sarah says, “Ain’t birdshot in here, dumbass. Shotty’s loaded with slugs. Cops’ll be lucky to even find teeth if I decide to pull the trigger.”
Saim says, “Smart thing to do here is give up.”
Racist Guy says... Nothing. He says nothing for a minute. A full minute.
Saim and Sarah with both their guns on him the whole time.
Then he says, “I ain’t telling you nothin.” But he moves the pistol away from the side of Joe’s head and lets the Kentuckian slide to the floor. “You can’t shoot me now. I give up.” He puts his hands behind his head.
The Russian now worried for his life.
With good reason.
Saim swoops in like a bat outta hell. He shouts, “Clear. Move in.”
The rest of the NYPD does. Takes positions.
EMTs rush to Joe and the cop keeps telling em, “I’m okay. Just sew this shit up.”
With all the Blues piling up, Saim stands over Racist Guy. He motions for everyone to stay back. He leans in to Mr. Racist’s ear. Says, “Faggot is a pretty fuckin terrible thing to call a gay man. You even know what it means?”
Mr. Racist says, “You’ll suck cocks in hell, faggot.”
Saim smiles. Nods. Drops his empty mag. Puts a fresh one in. Racks the slide. Motions for everyone to back away from his prize again. He fires the Colt once into Mr. Racist’s crotch.
Bartender Page 11
