by Mike McCrary
He flies up the stairs with all the grace of a pregnant yak. He skids across the hardwood in the second floor bedroom on his knees, stumble-rolling into position in front of the sniper rifle perched at the ready. His breath is heavy, partly from running upstairs, mostly from the knowledge there are armed whackos in his yard.
He presses his eye to the scope, views the perfectly manicured yard. It’s empty. Still. Peaceful. It’s almost as if the plush grass is waiting for war as well.
Remo grabs his cell. He takes a big swallow, saliva hard to come by. “What do we do now?”
“Well, maybe you come outside with the money.”
“It’s nice in here, Dutch,” says the shaky Remo.
Along the tree line, Dutch has taken cover with a good view of the front of the house. This isn’t the first time Dutch has stormed a house, though usually it’s a crappy apartment or some half-ass meth shack in the middle of nowhere. This is a significant step up in tax brackets, but the same school of thought applies. This is a good spot, thinks Dutch, for now.
Ferris waits a few trees over soaking up the details of the house, listening to and observing the landscape trying to calculate the best play here.
Chicken Wing is yet a few more trees down, Glock in one hand, .357 in the other. These are the times that make the man tick.
Ferris gives a look to Dutch, almost telepathic communication firing between the two brothers. It’s clear they don’t like any of this. Chicken Wing just wants to hurt someone
Dutch replies, “Why don’t you come outside? Haven’t seen you in years.”
Remo just stares through the scope, completely frozen. He heard Dutch’s words, but his focus is on not pissing himself. He knows coroner’s reports, what they read and how they circulate around the city
The deceased pissed his pants before he was killed.
Not how a man would prefer to be remembered.
32
Remo has the rifle’s sight plastered so tight it’s nearly become part of his eye.
Sweat beads, verging on pouring.
Heart pounds hard against his ribs.
He moves the rifle from side to side trying to keep aim on them, trying to keep up with the Mashburn brothers. They change positions, improve their positions, constantly moving behind trees, making it damn difficult on Remo.
Not the Mashburns’ first rodeo.
Outside, Dutch’s eyes alternate between his brothers and the house, trying to get a read on the situation. Where’s Remo’s head? What does he have going on inside that house? Aside from the language, Dutch uses the tone he would take with his mother as he speaks to Remo. “Just toss out the fucking money and we can go grab a beer down the road. Have a laugh about all this.”
Remo knows that’s not so subtle a code for he’s a dead man no matter what. Replies, “Sorry, I’ve got a thing later.”
There’s a crunch of brush behind Dutch. He turns, the local sluggers have arrived. Dutch would smile if he believed in it. Dutch is fairly confident the advantage is now firmly in his favor no matter what that asshole has waiting in that house. Dutch tells Remo, “Tell you what. I’m going to send Chicken Wing to the front door, and if you’re less than hospitable . . .”
Remo adjusts his sight. His eyes bulge as he sees Chicken Wing step from the tree line. Remo takes a little bit of pride in the fact that his handiwork has left Chicken Wing looking like he got his ass kicked by a bad man. He exhales deeply, says back to Dutch, “If he’s cool, I’m cool.”
Chicken Wing takes a couple of steps forward from the tree line into the front yard, toward the front porch of the house. He looks around; coast is clear. Gun in each hand, he begins walking, moving out onto the lush front lawn.
From his second floor vantage point, Remo’s finger tickles the trigger, fumbles a bit. He looks away from the scope, wipes the sweat away and then goes back again. Thinks, I really should shoot this guy.
It’s harder than he thought.
Chicken Wing keeps walking at a steady pace. Not in a rush, but not a slow walk either. The steady, determined march of a killer. His mind dances with the heart-warming thought of blowing Remo’s face off. It’s beautiful day. He looks back to Dutch, gives a toothy grin and a shrug. This is going to be sooo damn easy.
A loud crack of gunfire sounds out.
The single shot explodes into Chicken Wing’s shoulder. The impact spins him around, but he remains on his feet. The Glock flies from his hand, landing softly in the grass. The shot echoes, followed by eerie quiet.
The whole world seems to disappear.
Complete shock rips through Chicken Wing. This doesn’t happen. For a fraction of a second he thinks, so this is what it feels like. Fucking sucks to get shot. This is as close to empathy as Chicken Wing has been or ever will be. His shoulder seeps, a bloody mess.
Dutch and Ferris’s surprise quickly turns into hostility. Their brother is a headache and an unquestionable fuck-up, but he’s their brother and they take exception to anyone shooting one of their own.
Up in his second floor perch, Remo can’t find his breath. He can’t believe he did it. “Holy shit!” He’s excited, taken back to that little kid at the carnival in Cut and Shoot,Texas, who knocked over milk jugs with a baseball.
Remo finally understands what all the fuss was about, why so many of his clients take pleasure in shooting the people who piss them off. So this is what it feels like to shoot an asshole. Pretty fucking sweet.
Chicken Wing holds his shoulder with his .357 hand, twirling in circles in the front yard trying to shake loose the pain. Sucks in through his teeth with hard, short breaths. Blood slips and spills through his fingers. Seeing red, he releases an inhuman war cry from deep inside. Wounded animals sound more pleasant than this. The hollow, angst-dripping wail cuts through the air. The streaming, blistering sound that pours out from Chicken Wing is the stuff of mythological beasts.
Remo looks on from above, boyish excitement fading. It’s become abundantly clear he has simply awoken a sleeping, psychopathic giant.
Fuck.
Chicken Wing’s wail continues as Dutch and Ferris spill out from the trees. They don’t hesitate as they open up heavy suppression fire. Sporadic waves of bullets pelt the second floor. Dutch wraps Chicken Wing up in his arms, moving him along while blasting away.
Remo’s eyes snap wide open. Bullets whizz by him, popping and zipping through the walls and windows. He pulls himself back up to the rifle, shielding his eyes from the flying glass. Before he can get his eye to the scope, he sees through the blown out window three hard-hitting, tougher than leather thugs spill from the trees armed for war, storming toward the house. Big as linebackers, armed like a SWAT team, they fall in behind the Mashburns. Remo hasn’t seen these cats before, doesn’t know who they are. This new, united army thunders headlong toward the front porch, big guns and bad attitudes at the ready.
Remo’s world slips into slow motion—they say that happens during car wrecks and times of personal danger. His thoughts explode, compress, then explode again.
This is how his dad died.
This is how he’s going to die.
This is how his son will remember him, pissing himself before dying a horrible death.
What was it Hollis told him before he left?
Oh yeah, something about shooting and not hesitating.
Remo forgets the scope and just starts firing, ripping off shots as fast as he can, shrapnel, glass and bits of house bouncing around him.
Bullets churn up the front lawn by the fistful. Most of the shots miss the impending doom coming Remo’s way, not even slowing them down to a jog. Then, one lucky shot lands. A leg is knocked out from under one beefy thug. Actually, it’s almost blown off at the knee. Remo takes the time to aim and fires another while the thug’s a stationary target. The high velocity round plugs the thug in the chest, sending him hard to the grass.
Remo doesn’t waste time on the victory. Spit flies from his mouth as he releases his own bat
tle cry, firing with all he has until…
Click.
Click.
Fumbling for a reload, he hears sounds from downstairs.
Beating.
Kicking.
Ramming at the front door. Glass smashes, the sound muffled by a pillow-top mattress covering the window.
Remo scrambles to the stairs, shotgun in its tactical sling bouncing like a badass handbag. He takes the stairs as if they weren’t there. About two steps from the bottom, the front door takes a blast from a 12 gauge, the door knob flying past Remo’s head. Another shotgun blast takes out the deadbolt.
A thug punches through, door flinging open to reveal a wall of a man brandishing an AR-15. He looks like a badass…right up until the point he’s met by a shotgun blast from Remo. Just like it did at the range, the Mossberg flies from Remo’s hand, but stays close thanks to the sling. He scrambles to get control of it again.
The thug falls back through the door onto the porch, body flops like a side of beef. Ferris and Dutch watch the body land, blood pouring from the wounds. Dutch motions for Ferris to go around back with the remaining local muscle.
Before leaving, Ferris gives Chicken Wing an Are you okay? glance. Chicken Wings waves him off. Not the time to baby the man. Rage erases all the pain of his blown out shoulder. Ferris and the thug take off around the house.
Dutch and Chicken Wing take positions on either side of the front door, Dutch calling out to Remo. “You are a cocksucker. That much is certain.”
Remo listens as he rushes to the Hollis approved pillar for cover. Remo barks, “Aren’t we way past name calling . . . cunt?”
At the back of the house, Ferris and the thug round the corner into the small backyard overlooking the beach. The sun setting over the water would be gorgeous if not for the bloodthirsty criminals and hostile gunplay.
Remo keeps his head on a swivel. He can make out movement on the porch, also the shadows moving around back. He knows they’re coming at him from all angles.
“You’re boxed in Remo. Give this up,” calls out Dutch.
Remo’s breath shortens, blood pressure elevates. The walls are closing in.
Dutch keeps up the talk. “All we want is the money.”
“It’s all in nickels now. That okay?” Remo smirks to himself. It’s good he can still crack wise.
Dutch shakes his head with a wry grin. Funny man, that Remo. Chicken Wing is not amused. His ravaged shoulder has robbed him of his sense of humor.
Dutch replies, “We’re going to come in there, and we are going to kill you. Or, we can make one last deal. Give us the money . . .”
Remo is all ears.
“And I won’t chop up Sean.”
Remo’s blood turns to ice.
He closes his eyes tight, wishing he hadn’t just heard his son’s name come from Dutch’s mouth. A bad situation just blew past worse on its way to unimaginable.
Dutch keeps working him. “What did you think? We wouldn’t find out. That’s cute. I haven’t seen him myself, but I hear he’s a real nice looking boy. Why don’t you come on out? You decline and everybody dies in a very nasty way.”
Remo can only listen. He has no angle to play.
“How about I drag you along so you can watch what I do to the boy? That’s a better idea. Yeah, I like that. Whatcha think, counselor? Sound like a plan?” Dutch talks like a man who knows he’s holding every card in the deck. Except the money card, which Remo stole from him.
Ferris and the thug stand at the back, guns ready to blast open the door. Ferris has to strain, but he can hear Dutch from the front porch. He holds tight, waiting for some kind of sign from Dutch.
Dutch checks his .357, wondering which bullet will be the one to blow Remo’s brains out. “Your call, counselor.”
Remo’s lost, thoughts racing around his head at breakneck speed.
How did it get to this?
What have I done?
I’ve put Sean and Anna in danger.
What do I fucking do now?
“Remo? You still with us buddy?” Dutch is giving the performance of a lifetime. “You can save your boy’s life right here and now. I hate the countdown drama, but I guess there’s a reason it happens. I’m giving you a three count. If you don’t come out, well . . . the math on this is simple.”
Remo closes his eyes and listens to Dutch countdown.
“One . . .”
Ferris and the thug listen with bated breath from the back of the house.
“Two . . .”
Weapons up.
Fingers on triggers.
Chicken Wing is so ready, .357 itching to go off.
“Remo? There’s not gonna be a two and a half.”
Remo takes a deep breath. The only thought in his head is for his son, his Sean. Probably should have been his only thought for years. Not that Sean wasn’t on Remo’s mind, but it wasn’t enough. Even Remo knows that.
What Dutch doesn’t know is that before he threatened Sean, Remo may have lost focus. If this was only about Remo, he may have slipped up, fucked up. But somehow, when it’s about something bigger than Remo, he finds a new level of concentration. Caring about someone more than you do about yourself does that to a man. Remo has been forced to think beyond Remo, beyond his future, his career, his wealth. He has been forced to understand that what happens here is going to affect something he truly cares about. Even if he could give a fuck or less about himself, he cares about Sean. Remo may have made a mistake without Dutch’s careless threat, but the only mistake made here today was by Dutch.
He dragged Remo’s boy into this, that asshole, and that fucking changes everything.
Remo’s eyes snap open.
He exhales with a focus he’s not known before today.
He grips the shotgun tight.
The tension is wire tight.
Everything that happens from now on, happens really fucking fast.
“Three.”
33
Blam!
The hinges blow off the back door.
Remo whips around, leveling his shotgun. The back door is kicked loose from the frame, sending it slamming and sliding along the kitchen tile. In the same moment, a crash sounds from a front window as Chicken Wing dives through, hurling himself into the mattress, ripping free the nails holding it in place. Chicken Wing rides the mattress down to the hardwood floor. As he slides with the pillow-top mattress, he manages to come up with his .357 pounding.
Chunks fly off the pillar Remo hides behind.
Ferris and the thug flood the room and Remo opens fire, trying to hold them back. Ferris and the thug dive in two different directions as they scramble for cover.
Dutch steps through the front door. Remo is now completely surrounded.
Chicken Wing continues laying down hammering fire, and Remo spins from the pillar letting loose a shotgun blast that misses wide.
Chicken Wing’s shot doesn’t miss.
His bullets cut the air, Remo catching a bullet in the center of his Kevlar vest. It spins him like a top. Better than being shot without a vest, but still hurts like a bitch. Another shot from Chicken Wing hits Remo’s arm and pain explodes, burns throughout his body. His teeth grind as white-hot pain spreads from his wounded arm. His shotgun falls down to his side.
Ferris comes up behind Remo, sawed-off at the ready. Remo collapses to a knee holding his arm, still trying to find some air for his lungs after taking that bullet to the vest. As he falls to his knees, Chicken Wing unleashes a reckless barrage of .357 fire while screaming like a banshee. His uncontrolled blasts miss Remo as he thrashes from side to side.
They don’t miss everyone, however.
.357 slugs tag Ferris in the chest and face tearing thick, fleshly ice cream scoop style wounds.
Chicken Wing’s .357 clicks empty.
Ferris tumbles dead in a heap to the hardwood. What’s left of his head bounces off the floor.
Chicken Wing stops cold. Stunned. I just killed my brother. Th
at reality grabs hold, twists and strangles the youngest Mashburn’s simple little head. Remo sees an opening. Now or never. Summoning every fragment of strength he has left, ignoring the greatest pain he’s ever felt in his painless life, he pulls his battered body up. His feet slide and scramble to find traction as he flees down a hallway. Dutch unleashes a flurry of fire, blasts churning up the floor behind Remo’s scampering feet. The thug follows suit, blasting away.
A blood trail winds behind Remo as he slips into a room at the end of the hall. He slams the door behind him, bullets tearing through the walls. Remo stands in his home office, a room lined with thick books, random office supplies and other lawyer shit. A large, solid oak desk sits at the back of the spacious room, a long window along the far wall. Remo locks the door, wedging a chair quickly under the knob.
He regards the blood pouring from his arm. No time to fuck with it. He rushes to the heavy desk. With everything he has left in his tank, Remo pushes the desk over, toppling it to the floor. He slips down, taking cover behind it.
Back in the living room, Chicken Wing is a manic mess, his eyes flooded with tears of anger.
Chicken Wing screams silently as he holds what’s left of his dead brother. His mouth is wide open, but nothing comes out. His face is a dark red, veins bulging and popping from his neck and forehead.
Dutch, cold and inhuman, allows Chicken Wing a second to grieve. That’s it. He storms over, slapping the taste from Chicken Wing’s mouth as he barks new orders. “Not now. Pull it in.” Chicken Wing pushes the tears down, controls his breathing. Dutch loads the .357, shoves it back in Chicken Wing’s hand saying, “Everything inside you right now, use it. Feed on it…and kill him.”
Huddled behind the office desk, Remo reloads the Mossberg with his good arm. Pumps. Grits his teeth. The sound of something wicked plowing down the hallway shakes him to the core.
A guttural scream from Chicken Wing gains power as he stampedes down the hallway. Stripped of all human traits, the primeval Chicken Wing slams his body into the door with all that he is, zero regard for his shoulder wound. He plunges his full weight into the door repeatedly, bloody smears from his arm’s hard contact with the wood covering the door. He steps back to get a running start and lands a solid foot to the door.
