Clearly fed up, Bulldog raised his fist and pounded the limo’s sidewall paneling. “Hell, I can’t believe this,” he growled. “All three of us in here, and no one will go out there to face one small-ass white boy?” He looked at Shalom and Jay. “Well? Who’s goin’ out there?”
No one answered. Shalom looked at his bodyguards. Both of them skirted glances, as if hoping the other would go. He said, “You go, Bulldog. You’re the baddest muthuh here. Look what he did to Moose and Jay. No way he could do that to you. No fuckin’ way.”
Clearly emboldened by Shalom’s show of confidence, Bulldog raised his .45 caliber and said, “Ah-ight. I’m goin’ out there.” He turned to the door and shouted, “You hear me, Bruce? I’m gonna turn you into a stiff like I did that cracker shortin’ me on my stash last year. And the two bruthuhs the year before that, pinchin’ me. And the nigguh I caught doin’ my bitch last week. You hear that, muthufuckuh? Oh, yeah, in case you’re wonderin’, I killed the bitch, too. You hear that?”
Several seconds of silence passed, and still there was nothing.
“So I’m comin’ out,” Bulldog declared. “And I’m comin’ right now!”
As Shalom and Jay pointed their pistols, Bulldog cranked the limo’s handle and eased the door slightly open. He shoved his gun through the narrow gap, but there was no target. He pushed a little more. Shalom and Jay extended their arms, itchy-fingered and ready to shoot the first thing they saw.
At last, Bulldog threw the door wide. He stuck out his foot, but the instant he leaned forward, two gloved hands reached down and yanked his head over the rim. A simultaneous twist broke his neck. Bulldog’s body fell to the pavement, and the door, bounced to its apex, rebounded shut once again.
It was so unexpected and swift, neither Shalom nor Jay could react. They simply stared at the door open-mouthed and wonder-eyed. Then they looked at each other, and Shalom screamed, “He’s on the roof!”
They opened fire in an instinctive attempt to shoot through the ceiling, but being bulletproof, the shells again ricocheted back into the enclosure, one pounding Jay in the upper chest. He stopped firing and held the wound as it bled through his fingers. He looked at Shalom. “You killed me,” he said, as if resigned to his fate. “You killed me.” His eyelids descended, and he slid back to his sodden sleeping place.
Alone now, Shalom tried to concentrate. How well did he really know Bruce? Not that well. Shalom concluded this was a professional hit man. All these past months he must have been biding his time, and now the time had come. But why? It must have something to do with Eternity. Soriah sold him out. It was the only answer.
“Yo, Bruce!” Shalom called out again. “Yo, man, you got everybody. That’s it, man, I mean, that’s everybody. Jay’s in here, but he’s dead. I shot him. I mean, I was trying to shoot you, but Jay got it. Same thing with the bitches. Both of ’em, man, both of ’em dead.”
Shalom’s voice faltered, but he knew it was the only thing he had left. “I know you broke Bulldog’s neck. I mean, I wouldn’t have believed it if I didn’t see it with my own eyes. You bad, man. You’re one bad-ass muthufuckuh.”
Shalom paused to see if his tormentor would respond, but there was only silence. “What about Moose? Is he dead, too? Moose was always cool wit’ you, like Jay. I know Bulldog showed his ass, but Moose and Jay were cool. They never hurt anyone. It ain’t right.”
* * * *
Resuming his lean on the limo’s rear quarter, Trent took Shalom’s claim to heart. Jay and Moose were cool. Was it really true? If so, Trent was glad Moose still lived, but he felt bad for Jay and the two women. Time was up. “Come on out, Shalom,” he said. “Come on out, so I can finish this.”
* * * *
Not buying into being bossed by anyone, Shalom felt only disgust. “Fuck you,” he barked. “I ain’t yur bitch. I’m Shalom DaBomb! Who the fuck are you? You’re a nobody!” He snarled and spit in defiance. “You got that? A fuckin’ nobody! You come the fuck in here, and you come and get me!”
Just as the words left his mouth, he heard the door unlatch. It was right next to him, and the breach slowly widened. Shalom jumped to the curled seat in front, held his pistol high, and cocked its hammer. He was going to blast the first sign of whatever showed itself at that door.
To Shalom’s astonishment, a blurry glove shot over the backrest of the driver’s seat and grabbed the muzzle of his gun. A leather finger jammed the hammer and disabled the firing mechanism. Another glove gripped his wrist and pushed it backward while twisting in one quick move.
A loud snap ensued and Shalom yelped in pain. He saw his gun tossed the length of the limo, but before he could move away, both gloves collared him at the base of his jaw. He felt two thumbs pushing through the front of his neck. Getting a clear look for the first time, Shalom realized it wasn’t Bruce at all. “You’re not Bruce,” he gurgled as the pressure on his neck increased.
“No, I’m not Bruce.”
“Then, who are you?”
The corners of the man’s mouth curled upward. “Don’t you remember? I’m a nobody.”
* * * *
Trent pushed his thumbs into Shalom’s laryngeal nerves and broke through the anterior cervical nodes. With his larynx crushed, Shalom could no longer make a sound. Trent squeezed even harder while Shalom’s unhurt hand made one last effort to pry the grip from his throat.
The hand dropped when Trent severed the hyaline cartilage and pierced the trachea, ending the life of the man who had murdered two innocent women and laughed about it. Trent was satisfied this man would never laugh again. He withdrew his arms and let the dead man fall onto the bodies of his women.
During the ensuing silence, Trent spied the medallion on the rapper’s chest. It was tangled with several other dust covered necklaces that dangled from his neck. Trent felt like spitting on it but resisted the urge. Instead, he looked at the dead women. Their young faces reminded him of innocent choirgirls who might have sung at Sunday’s services.
Trent turned to leave the vehicle, but he heard a low groan. It came from the man called Jay. He was still alive. Trent side-leaped the backrest and pulled him to the pavement, clear of Moose and Bulldog. He threw off a glove and placed his hand below the man’s jaw. A rapid pulse was trying to compensate for the loss of life giving scarlet. If the bullet didn’t strike vital organs, Jay might be saved. But he had to move fast.
Trent rushed back into the limo, snatched a medical kit from the glove compartment, and then hustled back to Jay’s side. He tore open Jay’s bloodied shirt and used the driver’s water bottle to wash off the wound. Gauze and steady pressure failed to stem the crimson tide.
Trent ripped off the other glove and used his fingers to pry open the hole. After pouring more water, he spotted the round. It was lodged in sinew between the subclavian vein and the brachiocephalic artery. He figured the ricochet dulled the shot, which struck the lateral border of the first rib where it settled into the soft tissue. If the artery had been compromised, Jay would be dead, so Trent knew it was the vein that bore the harm. Even so, Jay would still bleed to death before an emergency crew arrived. The bleeding had to be stopped at once, but if he applied the necessary pressure, the slug could rupture the artery, and that would be it.
Trent pushed his thumb and index finger gently into the wound. He felt the shell, managed to grip it, and slowly pulled it out. He tossed it aside and covered the afflicted area with more bandages from the medical kit.
Blood still flowed, and Trent realized the hole had to be plugged if Jay was going to live beyond the next thirty seconds. He grabbed more gauze and hurriedly folded it into a marble-sized pad before inserting it into the gash and against the break in the subclavian vein. He pinched the wound and sealed it with medical tape. Over that, he layered gauze and bandages while providing nonstop pressure.
This would be Jay’s last chance, and Trent was committed to halting the hemorrhage. The gauze against the wound soaked red, but shortly a relieved Trent observ
ed the blotting cease.
Within minutes, Jay roused to consciousness. Eyeing Trent, he said in a weak voice, “Say, you’re not Bruce.”
“No, I’m not Bruce,” Trent replied, only now remembering the driver’s hat still rested on top of his head.
“Then who are you?” Jay’s voice was sincere, even polite.
Trent was used to being asked that question by the person he was about to kill. In that circumstance, he always had an answer. When asked by a man whose life he just saved, he couldn’t help but realize he didn’t readily know.
Then it occurred to him. “I’m somebody,” he said while weaving extra strips of linen across Jay’s chest.
Trent noticed Moose had also regained consciousness, and he was sitting up against the limo. He had witnessed the entire procedure while holding his broken wrist with his able hand. Moose asked, “Why’d you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Why’d you save Jay’s life?”
Trent finished wrapping Jay’s torso and then stood up to answer Moose’s question. “Jay never killed anyone, right? He doesn’t deserve to die.”
“What about Shalom and Bulldog?”
“They’re dead, and they deserve to be dead.”
“Why didn’t you kill me?”
“Are you a murderer?”
“Hell, no. I’m just a dumb-ass moose.”
Trent nodded. “So was Bullwinkle,” he said.
The door to the stairwell opened, and the limo’s chauffeur stumbled out. Appearing dazed and disoriented, he was hardly able to stand. Moose pointed with his unbroken hand. “Look, there goes the real Bruce.”
Trent recovered the driver’s coat, and after taking off the hat, he handed both to the original owner. “Thanks for letting me borrow these,” he said.
A clueless Bruce muttered, “No problem.”
As Bruce was putting his coat back on, Trent added, “The cell-phone in your coat... You’d better call nine-one-one for Jay.”
“Okay,” Bruce answered. “But...”
“But, what?”
“Can I have my boots back, too?”
Trent retrieved his sneakers and removed the boots. “Now make that call,” he stressed.
* * * *
Moose watched the man who called himself ‘Somebody’ walk casually away. He kept watching until the man vanished from sight. Then he stared at Bruce and Jay. They were staring back. Several seconds of silence prevailed until he asked, “Who the fuck is Bullwinkle?”
Chapter Thirteen
Assassins and Rosebuds
After finding a restroom to clean off the gore, Trent relished the streets of Manhattan, relieved to be out in the open. He had never been claustrophobic, but the experience in the underground parking lot seemed to affect him somehow. Perhaps it was a lingering symptom of his flashback in Frisco. If it hadn’t been for Samantha...
Yes, Samantha. Trent regretted leaving San Francisco without speaking to her. He hoped she understood his decision not to assist that weird friend of hers. But Trent shook his head because he wanted to clear it, not cloud it further. Right now, he treaded the East Coast, and that meant a drop-in on sweet Susie Quinn. He’d worry about Samantha when he made it back home.
Within the hour, Trent arrived at the entrance to Susie’s high-income high-rise. He searched the rose garden at the building’s base and spied a perfect bud. A swish of his hand severed the stem, and the crimson gem was his.
* * * *
Inside his taxicab, Armin Gull could hardly stand the rising heat of the midday sun. He endured it with no complaint, and he was glad that he did. The man for whom his cousins waited had finally appeared. Armin turned around to tell them. They were popping and cleaning their blades, he guessed, to keep themselves occupied. To Ali, he spouted, “The rose garden!”
Ali responded, “I said keep your eyes on the building.”
“Yes, but look.”
Armin pointed through his open window. Ali and Jamir turned and viewed the man in the rose patch half a block away. He was plucking thorns from the stalk of a flower. Scowls no longer twisted their faces, and the stilettos no longer held their attention. They sheathed the blades, returned them to their coats, and took out their .45 calibers. After dispelling the clips, they checked their full loads, and then snapped them back in.
* * * *
Trent entered the building and walked with his rosebud into the elevator. It was a carefree ascent until the panels attracted his eyes, and he remembered the one he split in St. Paul. As it did then, the smell of shorted circuits filled the enclosure, and phantom fumes heated his skin. It was another flashback! His pulse kicked into overdrive. Adrenaline rushed through his veins. Again, the mirage of attackers returned. And every second the cab raised him higher, the more real the specters became.
Punches struck his stomach, and strangleholds bound his neck. Trent swung his arms to block the ghostly blows, and his fingers pried chokes that weren’t there. He labored to breathe, and perspiration dripped from his brow. Vertigo forced him against the wall.
The elevator’s deceleration slowed the delusion, and swooshing doors swept his mind free. With a forearm to his forehead, Trent blotted the sweat and then leaped from the cubicle. The hallucination was done. Or was it? Shall his elevator expectations consist evermore of angry apparitions?
Undeterred, Trent moved onward and crossed the hallway. But when he turned the corner, he discovered someone else knocking on Susie’s door. He paused to see what this was about and observed a relatively small man with shaggy blond hair and thick-lensed glasses. He was dressed in loose-fitting clothes that included an oversized sweater in spite of the warm day.
It occurred to Trent that it might be the scientist Susie talked about, Dr. Jason Benson. The big forehead between his glasses and untidy hair convinced Trent he was right. The scruffy man looked upset as he waited for the door to open. It didn’t, so he knocked again. His stressful manner and the lack of response at Susie’s door gave Trent a bad feeling. He stepped into view and asked, “Are you Dr. Benson?”
The man jumped. “Who are you?”
“I’m a friend of Susie’s, that’s who. Are you Benson or not?”
“Why, yes, I’m Benson. Um... Dr. Jason Benson, actually.”
“Well, you’ll forgive me if I just call you Benson.”
Benson nodded sheepishly.
Trent scowled at the man. “So what do you want with Susie?”
Benson wasn’t listening. His magnified eyes were staring, and to Trent it made him look like a goofy character from a Japanese cartoon.
“I know you,” Benson suddenly claimed. “You’re the man who killed Jeremiah Flint and Topu Tacau at the Flip Flop Club, aren’t you?”
“Who told you that?”
“The girls told me. They told me everything. Susie got you out of there, and it’s a good thing, too, because if she didn’t, Toka would have killed you, that’s for sure.”
“Toka? Who’s... Never mind, that’s enough about me.” Trent pointed his rose at Benson’s face. “What about you? What are you doing here?”
“I came here to warn the girls. They’ve got to give up their supply of Eternity, right away.”
“Slow down, man. Warn the girls? Why? What’s going on?”
“Soriah knows about the leaks.” Benson lowered his voice. “He knows it’s me. He’s cracking down on unauthorized users. The Global Girls are the only ones I gave it to. They have to give it back. Or else.”
Trent didn’t care about Benson’s problems, but he did care about the girls, especially Susie. “Or else, what?”
Benson turned his head in a frantic search down the hall. “Specials will come. I’m risking my neck just being here.”
Trent noted the man’s anxiety. He remembered Susie saying they’d have to kill her to take the drug away. It didn’t bode well. He asked, “If Specials are coming, why are you here?”
“Because I was at the club last night. It was opening
night for the return of the Global Girls since, well, you know, since that night.”
“Yeah, I know about that night. So what happened?”
“All the girls returned their supply except for Susie. She never showed up, and she doesn’t answer her telephone.”
Trent’s gut filled with fear for the first time in his life. He wriggled the doorknob and stuck the rose’s stem through a buttonhole at the top of his shirt. After snarling “Get out of the way,” he delivered a powerful kick, and the door flew wide in a gust of pulverized paint and wooden splinters.
Trent rushed in with Benson right behind him. He called out, “Susie, are you here?” and then ran to the master bedroom. When he reached it, his heart dropped. There was Susie, lying face up on the bed in a bathrobe, her dark skin beaded in sweat. Though the front of her body looked undamaged, the mattress was a slosh of blood. Trent hollered, “Susie!” and shot to the bedside.
Susie slowly opened her eyes, but they were glazed and unfocused. “Trent? Is that you?”
“It’s me. What happened?” He scanned her from head to toe and found a gash in her side. He shouted to Benson who remained in the doorway, “Someone stabbed her! Quick, give me a rag, a sheet, anything!”
Benson snatched a towel from the bathroom. Trent placed it on the wound but realized it wouldn’t help. Susie was dying. “What happened?” he asked again. “Who did this to you?”
Susie turned her head to Trent. “I knew you would come.” Her voice was barely audible. “I knew you’d come back to me.” She raised a blood-smeared hand, and Trent held it against his chest.
“Who did this to you?”
“I waited for you, Trent. I waited for you, and see? Here you are.”
“Susie, no, you didn’t have to wait for me.”
“Oh, baby, didn’t you know? I’ll wait for you, forever.”
Trent was at a loss for words. He watched helplessly Susie’s eyes close and her breathing discontinue. “No, Susie, please,” he beseeched, “don’t die.” His tone faltered. “Please...don’t die.”
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