by Zoey Parker
The boardroom door is already open, as if it was expecting this.
In there, seated on the chair at the end, I wait for longer than seems necessary. They’re all probably taking their sweet ass time on purpose. Too bad. The more time passes, the more my determination grows.
By the time the three of them saunter in, looking none-too-pleased to see me, my resolve has reached a roar.
“What have you found?” I ask Clarence.
He stares at me as if I just asked him in German.
I say, “I did ask you to look into other sources of revenue.”
“That was less than a week ago,” he shoots back.
“That’s fine,” I say, “I did some of my own research.”
I address the Award of Excellence over his head, so I don’t have to see the reactions of Clarence or the others.
This time, I’m not going to let anything throw me.
“I found out that you can make $5,000 to even $10,000 per year per turbine. So, if we set up an army of say, 100 or even 1000, well, you do the math.”
I resist the urge to check their reactions and forge on ahead, “Wind power really is viable, at least to start out with. I’m sure we can branch out into other things, like real estate or other businesses, but for now, there’s no real downside. I mean, we’ve got that whole swath of land the Factory’s on, and we just made a killing on our latest shipment. We can start small, with a few turbines, thirty or so, then go from there.”
Again, there’s no response, and, when I dare check, no reaction on the three men’s faces before me.
Anger surges through me.
“This isn’t a choice,” I say, “We’ll use a bit of the money from our latest shipment to buy them, and we’ll have a plan and deals in place by the end of the week.”
And then I walk out of there, the door slamming behind me the period to my sentence.
###
In the shopping complex a few minutes down the road from our office, sitting in my car, I text him back: Yes.
I wait and wait, my anger at myself growing with each passing minute.
Why am I even sitting here waiting? This is Gabriel Pierson, for God’s sake, not just some nobody with nothing to do. He’s probably busy, won’t respond for hours. I’m wasting my time.
But I’m rewarded a few minutes later, when my phone beeps and his message appears: Meet in front of CN Tower 9 pm.
I smile at the text dopily for a minute, before a vague apprehension sets in.
Why the CN Tower of all places? Could Gabriel have found out already? How? I haven’t been going anywhere without my thick coat, sunglasses and scarf. And why not kill me in the motel room, why take the trouble to bring me all the way to the CN Tower anyway?
I text him back: Yes.
Then I slide over to the next seat, check to see that my gun’s still in the glove compartment. Sure enough, my Colt is there, shiny and tiny as ever.
I take it out and slip it in the inner pocket of my coat, the one I had custom-added; where I’ll keep the gun for tonight.
Whatever happens tonight may not be good, but I’m not going to be defenseless when I find out.
Chapter 17
Gabriel
As soon as I get her “Yes” and respond with tonight’s plans, I feel better. But not better enough to stop my surveillance. Jaws has had around-the-clock guys parked out down the street from the Piccolo house for days now, but so far, they haven’t found shit – about Hannah, about Toni Piccolo, about any of them.
So, I made Jaws get an uglier van, and come camp out here with me. And, sitting here in this piece of shit Honda from the 80s, armed with a couple of Glocks and one fat bag of Cheetos, so far, we too haven’t found shit.
No one’s even gone in or out of the house in the past four hours we’ve been plopped here. Nope, the only progress we’ve made so far is on the Cheeto bag, which is now down to a few sad crumbles at the bottom.
“Oy, Boss,” Jaws says, shoving the binoculars at me.
I lift them and, getting out of a red Porsche, see Toni Piccolo. Or some big-coated, big-sunglassed person who for some reason doesn’t want to be seen.
As I watch him close the door, I know. There’s no way it’s anyone else. That, right there, is Toni Piccolo, the man we’ve been looking for all this time, tantalizingly close and yet infuriatingly out of reach.
We can’t get past the 10-foot high gates surrounding the house.
I’ve seen those gates close enough to know that they aren’t just tall as hell; they’re electrified.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Jaws says.
I don’t respond, watch as the ungainly figure makes its way from the driveway to the house.
There’s something about this strange bulky figure… Something that seems off. Like the person is wearing a coat that’s way too big for them or something.
But just as I’m about to get it, the figure disappears in the house.
“Shit,” Jaws swears, “It’s like a cookie, rolling right under your nose. Couldn’t we follow the car next time – maybe catch good old Toni unawares?”
I shrug.
“Maybe. All I know is…”
My voice trails off as I see just who’s coming out the door.
That bastard. Tall stooping figure, with a face like he’s constantly been kicked in the balls, it’s him. Carlos. The guy who tricked my sister. The guy who isn’t going to survive tomorrow if he doesn’t give me what I want today.
“Oo, bingo,” Jaws says softly, gripping his gun.
I turn on the car, and wait.
I watch as he slouches to his car and into it.
I watch as the gates creak open and he pulls out of the driveway, his green Mercedes stopping a bit down the road off to the side.
Jaws and I exchange a delighted grin.
It’s as if the dumb bastard’s asking for it.
Slowly, we drive up behind him, stop just at his bumper. Honk.
I stick my hand out the window, shoot off his side mirror. As he spins around, I stick my head out, yell, “What did you do with my sister, fucker?”
He freezes, staring at me, that usual glare impossible to read.
On the other side, Jaws’ head is out the window too.
“If you come quietly, we may think about taking it easy on you,” he yells, shooting me a smirk to indicate that he just lied through his teeth.
Carlos clearly got the hint. Slamming on his gas, he takes off.
Jaws slams on the gas too, and I start shooting, aiming at both his wheels. The Italian shithead won’t do us any good dead. I need to know what he’s done with my sister.
But the shots hit the back of his car, and after another few turns, things already don’t look good. We’re nearly losing him. These rich people residential roads are too empty, and Carlos’ Mercedes was built for speed, is flying along like he’s on a highway, while our bulky van, which was built for fun times in the ‘80s, totters along behind.
When the lime speed demon turns onto a commercial road, and then the 401, however, I begin to have hope. The highway is bumper to bumper with cars. Carlos is only a few ahead.
We are the spider advancing toward the fly: the highway is our web. It’s only a matter of time now.
Jaws pulls over to the far right lane, goes onto the shoulder and starts zooming ahead.
Horns are blaring, we’re zipping past car after car, nearing the green target.
But the green target won’t give up without a fight.
It swerves into the middle lane amidst shrieking brakes and blaring horns. But the new lane is just as bad as the old one, because the highway is the web, everything is on our side and our advance is relentless.
We’re almost beside it now. I’m rolling down the window, getting out my gun to prepare.
The green car swerves back to the right lane, then right again, onto the shoulder. Right in front of us.
I lean out the window and shoot. The green car jerks, bu
t keeps going.
“Time for righty,” Jaws says delightedly as I lean out again.
The sound of a gunshot and I duck just in time, a bullet whizzing by my cheek. I lean out, but now we’re careening onto an exit, following the green car around a huge bend.
By the time we get to the main road, Carlos’ car has skidded over two lanes and is turning in front of a building complex.
“No way…” Jaws whispers.
He’s clearly thinking the same thing I am: Is the bastard actually dumb enough to lead us right to his lair – the Piccolo office we’ve been trying to find for months now?
When Carlos pulls his Mercedes up to the front of a black-glassed building, which is one of the possibilities we’ve narrowed it down to, leaps out and runs in, we have our answer: Yes, yes he is.
Jaws pulls up to the building right behind him, and we run in after Carlos.
The lobby is a black-walled, black-floored box with neon green plants, a Morgan Freeman desk man, and, by the elevator, Carlos.
Seeing us, he takes off to the corner of the room.
We follow him.
There’s shouting somewhere – hell, my own heartbeat is shouting: You’ve got him! Just a bit more now!
I throw myself forward faster.
We’re so close. We can’t let him get away now.
Through the door are stairs. The slam of his footsteps above us echoes down, the explosion of shots fast behind. Ducking, we dash up the stairs after him.
The ascent is a wheezing, gasping, race to the death. Carlos is fast, but gradually, his harried curses and stumbled steps grow louder.
We’re gaining on him.
As we reach the fifth or so floor, mid-run Jaws turns to me, his eyes glittering excitement, his hair spikes literally standing on end, “Can I, Boss?”
I scan his face. He’s barely breaking a sweat, the gym rat bastard.
If anyone’ll catch that Carlos piece of shit, it’ll be Jaws.
I nod.
“Be careful.”
Jaws nods, his whole face lit up now, and sprints up the stairs ahead of me.
A few second later, there’s the bang of shots, then an “Ouf!”
“Jaws?” I call, but the only response is a scuffling sound.
My legs spasming with fatigue, I throw them ahead more.
“Jaws?” I call again, the question coming out a strangled cough, “Jaws, you good?”
For a few terrifying seconds, there’s no response; only the diminishing sound of footsteps.
Then there’s a gurgled cough, and, “Yeah.”
Next thing I know I’m in front of a ragdoll version of Jaws. He’s slumped, the pool of his own blood from his twisted leg growing.
He tries at a smile, then gives up, grimaces.
“Bastard got me, but I got him too. You can finish him, Boss.”
I’m hardly hearing him. All my attention is on his upper left thigh, where he’s balled up his jeans to try to staunch the blood.
Jaws gives his head a painful-looking shake, then strains his head up so the scar on his neck is visible.
“Don’t be an idiot, I’ve had much worse. Go now – you may not get another chance.”
I don’t move.
If his reminding me of the last time I nearly cost him his life is the way to get me to leave, then it’s not going to work.
Jaws’ eyes are boring into mine.
The footsteps above are getting quieter.
Jaws shoves his hand in his pocket and gets out his phone. He jams some buttons, then presses it to his mouth and says, “Pip, my man. Yeah, why don’t you come on down? Yeah, maybe make it fast-like, got a bit of a situation.”
A pause, and then three worms of irritation wiggle on Jaws’ forehead.
“No I don’t know where we are, can’t you just track the call?”
A sigh, then the worms disappear.
“So, you’ll stop by? Yeah, maybe disable the elevators first. Yeah, yeah, the Boss is just going actually.”
Jaws shoots me a significant look, and I do.
I go. I go without looking at him. Because if I do, if I take in that beet red color his face’s taken on, then I won’t be able to leave at all.
I leave my friend, so I can find my sister. So I can end this.
I run up the stairs after the sound that’s now nearly inaudible, but I can still just make out. Footsteps, high, higher up.
The only other sign that I’m headed the right way, that Carlos didn’t dash into one of these other floors, is the occasional dribble of blood.
Jaws must have got him good.
On every level, my legs protest more, and I push them on harder.
Chunks of thoughts occur to me, all dismissed indiscriminately:
How many flights is this now? 20? 30? 60? How many more can I take?
Throwing myself up another flight is always the answer. However many it takes. I have to do this.
Every new thought is a new ratchet of pain, my feet now throbbing remote sacks of meat.
And yet, the one thing driving me forward, that sound, that pitter-patter of footsteps, is getting the slightest bit louder every flight.
Until it vanishes altogether.
I race up the next flight and immediately see why: I’m at the Penthouse. There’s nowhere else for Carlos to run now. I’m here.
I throw open the door to a desk that looks very recently empty: the guestbook’s page is still half-turned, the swivel chair twisted to the side.
I take out my Glock, scan the area once, then again. There’s a hallway with several doors, any of which he could be behind.
Now, which door contains the fearful little shit that I’m going to put down like the dog that he is?
My gun stops at the first door, which is as good a guess as any. After all, Carlos just got here, didn’t have hours to plan out where to hide.
I kick open the door and a shower of bullets greets me.
I lunge behind the desk.
Guess door #1 it is.
My breath is harried with exhilarated fear. I inhale, then exhale. Inhale, then exhale, then throw my arm out and shoot at the door.
“Where’s my sister, Carlos Piccolo?” I yell.
A series of bullets from several directions fly an inch over my head.
I freeze.
One gun can’t shoot from several directions.
“Not here,” a male voice yells back.
“If we let you go, then go!” another voice yells.
I pause there, crouched behind the desk.
Should I take the voices up on it? There’s clearly several of them, all of them armed.
A new volley of bullets votes in favor of going.
My knuckles are white on the gun.
I swear.
I’m so close. I’m so fucking close I can practically hear his strained wheezy little breath.
My phone rings, more shots explode beside me, and I pick up the phone.
“Not a good time,” I say.
“It’s Jaws. Pip is almost here, but the boys won’t be for another 10. You good?”
Some shots fly by my other cheek.
“Yeah, I will be,” I say.
A pause, then, “Uh, is that you coming down the stairs?”
I curse.
“No.”
Jaws lets out a nervous whinny of a laugh, then says, “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“I’m coming,” I say and hang up.
Looks like the decision’s been made for me.
I lift my hands, rise and run.
“I’m going!”
And then I do.
I run back to the door like a smart coward, like a strategic fool. Like a good friend.
Sometimes I hate doing the right thing.
As I race back down the stairs I raced up mere minutes ago, I make a promise under my breath, “You’ll pay for this Carlos Piccolo. I don’t care if it’s the last thing I do; I’ll make you pay dearly for this.”
