“If you say so,” Joey said.
“I say so,” she said.
Chapter 24
The brownies were perfect. Slightly crisp at the edges and gooey in the middle, barely firmer than the batter. Ryan ate three generous squares, about a third of the pan, and then settled back in the recliner. Found a show about conspiracy theories and of course got sucked into it.
In sum, aliens of some sort could be blamed for many of our problems. Aliens were running everything on the global stage. Billionaires, along with key governments of the world, were working with them in a strange partnership. The aliens originated from a secret location in Antarctica, from the ruins of a great civilization under the ice. It was unclear if they were aliens from another world, the last survivors of Atlantis, or plain old fallen angels. All were viable options. Maybe they were all mixed up. Also unclear was why, being so advanced, they had failed to stop the global cooling that covered their continent and cities with ice.
Anyway, more recently Hitler had sent some submarines and discovered them hiding under the ice. Then the Americans had destroyed the Nazis and taken over the partnership with the aliens.
Fun times, all in all. The show lacked only a few Bigfoot sightings tossed in, and the creepy soundtrack from the original Unsolved Mysteries playing in the background.
Rosie came in and unloaded the clean dishes from the little dishwasher. She could only stand to watch a few minutes of the alien show before retreating back to the office.
***
The rented Toyota eased to a stop at Main Street. The motel’s office was back and to the right of it, and Fall River Storage with its decorative fences freshly strung with Christmas lights was almost straight ahead. A few cars passed and then the Toyota crossed the road to the driveway and turned left toward the office building. The car turned wide and parked, nose-out, and both passengers got out.
***
Matt Ryan was half asleep when he heard someone enter the office. The door opened and closed. There were voices. Both seemed to be females. Rosie and someone else, speaking low and calmly. He figured it was someone checking on their unit and picking up their new key.
Sharky raised his head from his section of the big sofa. He stared at the closed door to the office. His nose worked slightly. He wasn’t alarmed. More curious than anything.
Ryan watched him for a moment, reading his behavior. Then looked back at the TV.
***
Rosie froze when the Quiet guy took a gun from his coat pocket and pointed it at her. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.
The blonde girl’s polite mannerisms were gone now. She wasn’t smiling. Her mouth was a straight line. Her eyes were somehow narrower at the edges and wider at the center. Closer to cat eyes. She told Rosie to get in the bathroom. Rosie didn’t budge. Just stood there trembling behind her desk. Not defiantly. She was petrified. In shock. Suddenly a nightmare from the news or a movie was coming true, right there in her little office in their quiet town.
Then the blonde lowered a steel bar from her jacket’s sleeve, like an extension of her right arm. She moved around the desk and grabbed Rosie’s sweater with her left hand and started pulling her around the desk.
Rosie began quietly hyperventilating. She couldn’t have screamed even if she’d wanted to. Her heart was pounding out of control. She stumbled and swayed as the blonde girl pulled her to the bathroom.
The pitch of the girl’s words were low and under control, but full of nastiness. Vile threats laced with crude insults. If Rosie wasn’t in that bathroom in five more seconds, she’d get clubbed over the head with the steel bar.
Rosie heard the words and comprehended the threat. But she had to be moved along. She felt completely helpless. Her feet and legs refused to cooperate. Like she was trapped in her own body.
***
Sharky lowered his head to the sofa. His eyes were still raised, fixed on the wall between the office and living room. Then he raised his head back up again, ears pricked, nose working a little harder this time.
“What?” Ryan asked him over the sound of the TV.
Sharky replied with a low sound, halfway between a growl and a whine. It started low and deep and ended high and nasally. More concern than fear or outrage.
Ryan told him to stay and stood up from the sofa. Turned and took one step toward the office door.
Then he froze.
There was a thump. Through the wall. Roughly from the office bathroom, which was just on the other side of the shower stall in the apartment’s bathroom. A few yards away, muffled by wood framing and sheetrock. Not a huge crash, but substantial enough to resonate slightly in his own body.
Another thump.
Louder. Heavier.
His mind sped up instantly. Adrenalin began coursing through his veins, speeding up his heart, heightening his awareness. The sound of the TV faded off behind him. All of his consciousness became focused on the office. The door was roughly a yard in front of him. One long stride away. On the other side of it, he didn’t know who or what awaited him.
But it wasn’t good. That much he knew for sure.
Something was happening.
At best Rosie had taken a fall. At worst she was being attacked. What troubled him most in that instant was the lack of at least a hint of a scream or a pleading cry.
He heard nothing beyond the thumps.
In a long second of paralysis, his mind started working overtime, conjuring up various options and scenarios. His field coat was hanging on a hook by the door. The Kimber .380 was in the coat’s right pouch pocket. The AR-15 was still on the sofa, partially wedged between the back and seat cushions. But he was already on his feet, facing the door. One yard away. The rifle was behind him. He would expend seconds turning back, bending, reaching, and retrieving. Raising the weapon. Then opening the door left-handed. Giving it a push. Easing into the room. Mindful of the rifle’s muzzle.
No time.
In the next second he was continuing his progress toward the office door, almost involuntarily. Like a jerk of a knee or an elbow. He felt himself breathing harder. His limbs were already getting light from the adrenalin. He barely felt the doorknob as he reached and turned it. His shoulder brushed the door as he leaned away, opening the door into the apartment on its track and threading himself through the opening.
He turned his head slightly when he was halfway through the doorway. Saw two people. The blonde girl from the Toyota who had waved. And a guy.
The guy wasn’t imposing at a glance. Maybe five-ten, a hundred and fifty pounds. Thin, dressed in baggy jeans and sneakers and a nylon ski jacket. Black watch cap on his head. His back was to the front door. He was facing Ryan. His right arm was raised and there was a boxy black pistol in his right hand. A Glock. Likely a nine-millimeter. No safety. Just a firm pull of the trigger.
Three yards separated them.
Ryan’s mind raced faster still. Something like a silent highlight reel of memories flashing before his mind’s eye, dredged up and forcing themselves to the forefront. A mashup of hundreds of confrontations. Mostly hockey fights. Ranging from youth to high school to the last fight that had gotten him kicked out of college once and for all.
Then the on-ice fights began to blend with random brawls. Parking lots after games. The park by the river. Parties. Bars near campus. Dorm hallways. All different locations. All similar outcomes. Him standing over someone. Getting separated. Broken up and shoved aside by multiple guys working together. Then walking away, mostly unscathed. Breathing hard. Cooling off. Regaining control.
Not one of those memories involved a pistol.
Point blank.
A nervous trigger man with a shaking arm. A fraction of a second away from sending a supersonic projectile into his body that would mushroom and carve a nasty wound channel through soft tissue and vital organs.
He couldn’t see Rosie.
The door to the bathroom was on the other side of the desk and a filin
g cabinet. The door was open. That’s all he knew.
Way in the back of his mind he understood the simple fact that the safest fight would always be the fight that never took place.
But deep down he understood that evasion was impossible now. The assault had already begun before he entered the room. Once in the room, only two legitimate options remained.
Comply or fight.
And compliance wasn’t a real option. Not outnumbered, and not when weapons were involved. Certainly not when large sums of money were involved. Compliance in such a situation would only lead to him being shot on his knees as opposed to being shot on his feet.
Some would say run. Hide. Find help. But there was no instant help available. And Ryan wasn’t a fast runner.
So it was time to fall back on his old ways and trust his instincts.
Time to fight.
And if he had to fight, there was only one way proceed.
Fight to win.
Not fairly and not mercifully.
Fairness and mercy belonged in other arenas, within the parameters of good sportsmanship and friendly competition. A million miles away from armed robbery.
So it was fight to win.
Victory or death.
And let that victory be completely lopsided.
***
“Where’s the money?” the girl said. Her voice was shaky and strained. Her stress was through the roof.
Ryan moved his eyes from the shaky gunman to the girl. She had a pry bar in her right hand. Her chest was heaving under her unzipped jacket. Her eyes were wild. She must have reeked of fear and aggression to Sharky’s keen nose. Ryan could see it written all over her. Clear as day.
“Where’s the money?” she repeated, stepping forward a little so that she was close behind the gunman’s right shoulder.
Ryan didn’t answer. Just stood there glaring daggers. Reading her. Sizing her up.
“Where is it? Give it to us and we’ll let you live.”
“Sure you will,” he said.
“Tell me where it is.”
“Behind me.”
“Where?”
“The apartment.”
“Where at?”
“Bathroom. Under the sink.”
“Go get it,” she said. “No games, and you’ll live.”
Ryan took a deep breath. He’d lived one way, with one attitude, for thirty-six years. He wasn’t about to change now. Make me wasn’t a snide joke, it was a way of life. Maybe some old dogs learned new tricks. But he wasn’t willing to try.
He said, “Get it yourself.”
Chapter 25
A long few seconds passed before the blonde girl replied. Clearly she was accustomed to giving orders and getting quick results. She was tense and wasn’t sure how to react to Ryan’s defiance.
“Want to get shot?” she asked, still standing behind the guy’s right shoulder. Keeping a buffer between herself and the bigger guy who was refusing to cooperate.
Ryan said, “No.”
“Go get it.”
“Do I look like a servant?”
“You got a death wish, asshole?”
“Not really. I’m just not impressed by a nasty little bitch like you.”
“Go get the money,” she said. “I’ll be two steps behind you.”
“Get it yourself.”
“Is it really in there?”
“Yeah.”
“Is there a second floor? Is it upstairs?”
“I told you, it’s in the bathroom. Are you deaf on top of stupid?”
“Okay,” she said. “On your knees, asshole.”
Ryan kept his eyes locked with the girl’s eyes as he said, “Your boy is scared shitless. He can’t even aim that gun. He’s already tired of holding it. That means you’re both royally screwed.”
The girl smiled. All she could see was a big bumbler in sweatpants, unarmed, outnumbered. Trapped in a small space with two armed assailants. She couldn’t see the big picture beyond the intensity of her greed. The money had blinded her.
Worse, she didn’t know her enemy.
In reality the two of them were in the worst spot. They had willingly shut themselves into a small space with a total stranger. The nervous guy with the gun, obviously the subordinate, had his back to the door, blocking their nearest exit. Poor planning made for poor execution, turning their escape route into a one-way street. Effectively making it a feeding slot into a lion’s cage which they had eagerly fed themselves through, then foolishly shut and blocked behind them, making of themselves victims of their own plot.
He wasn’t trapped with them.
They were locked in with a lion.
Two little lambs tethered to a stake.
“Five seconds,” Ryan said.
“What?” the girl snapped.
“You got five seconds to walk out of my place. Otherwise you’re leaving in a body bag.”
“On your knees,” she repeated.
“How’s your pale friend?” he asked her. “I’m assuming the service will be a closed casket deal.”
“On your knees!” she shouted so loud that her voice cracked.
Ryan didn’t budge. He didn’t flinch. He knew to comply and drop to his knees would only get him knocked on the head with the steel bar. And if he was going to be shot, it would be on his feet, moving forward. Not cowering on his knees.
But Joey did budge. He flinched. A tiny reaction, lasting barely a second. His eyes rolled right, trying to look out the corners, back to where the shout had come from. In a barely perceptible way his torso leaned away from her, closer to the front door. Body language experts would point out that he clearly wasn’t enjoying himself and didn’t feel comfortable with her. He was stressed to the max. Scared of the bigger man, scared of the girl, scared of getting caught. He wanted out of there. The gun was getting heavier and harder to hold level. His right arm was out straight and his weight was on his heels rather than the balls of his feet. Bad shooting posture, and bad defensive posture. And on top of all that, he was still thinking there might be a dog, out of sight, in the space beyond the door behind the big guy. That would imply a dog and a guy to deal with at once, when one or the other alone was more than he wanted to deal with.
In the instant after Joey flinched away from the girl and leaned toward the door, Ryan reacted. He saw the opening, like a hole in a defensive front. The guy with the gun had flinched. Ryan had not. He was scared for Rosie and Sharky and a little for himself. But more so he was quietly enraged. Two days in a row of bullshit. Scumbags showing up and trying to steal. His home and business in the crosshairs.
Instead of flinching away and cowering, he went on the offensive.
His right foot flexed and he pushed off hard, leaning, charging, hurling himself forward from one foot, then the other, all of his two hundred and forty pounds suddenly exploding toward two people who barely outweighed him together. The gunman’s right hand had dropped slightly and moved fractionally to the right, creating a small gap in his defenses. Ryan saw the small gap. He saw it the way Alexander saw a gap in the Persian line, and likewise he intended to exploit it and inflict devastating consequences.
Both of Ryan’s ears began ringing when the gun went off, but his left ear got it the worst.
He ducked his head away as the rest of his body surged forward, his long arms went out, his left hand pushing the gun right of the gunman, away from himself, away from the gunman’s body, widening the gap between his two-forty and the guy’s one-fifty. His full weight hit the guy, his forearm leading, his Timberland’s digging hard against the thin carpet for traction and drive.
The guy was already on his heels. He flinched away from Ryan’s big forearm and his weight combined with Ryan’s hit the girl. All three went back until the girl hit the far wall, hard. She exhaled forcibly, the wind knocked from her lungs. Her small legs buckled under all the weight, and all three spilled over to the ground like a human domino.
Then Sharky arrived.
Ten seconds streaked by in a blur. Ryan’s ears were ringing. He knew Sharky was there, but barely heard him snarling. Everything was distorted. There may as well have been a rowdy hockey crowd cheering like crazy in the background.
Years had passed since his last significant fight, but it all came back to him in a flash. Like riding a bike. A pro surfer catching a wave after a layoff.
More like a dormant volcano suddenly blasting its top and destroying everything in sight. Ryan surfed the wave of rage like a pro, reigning blows onto the guy as he maneuvered himself to a kneeling position, his weight crushing down on the guy’s torso. He barely felt his fists smashing into bone and flesh. He only stopped because of his eyes, not his sore knuckles. The damage was brutal. He’d been swinging with everything he had, harder each time. The rage and strength was incredible. Big breaths, big swings. The gunman was ruined. A vicious ground and pound. No referee to stop it. The victim of a mismatch that never should have happened.
He stopped swinging and backed up and got to his feet, sucking wind, practically floating on adrenalin. The girl was still under the guy. The guy looked dead. Not even knocked out and snoring. Battered and motionless. The girl was screaming bloody murder, legs and arms flailing, trying to get free. Equal parts fear and pain. Sharky had her right calf in his jaws. Just squeezing and snarling, shaking his head and tugging with his whole body. Like he was trying to rip her leg right off.
Ryan remembered the gun. It was on the floor. He spotted it, a foot away from the girl’s right hand. He kicked it so that it went skidding under Rosie’s desk. Out of the equation.
Then he raised his eyes to the bathroom doorway, to the scene he didn’t really want to see. Rosie was there. On her face and stomach, arms limp at her sides. Her feet were sticking out of the bathroom, maybe a foot or so into the main office area. A dark spot in her blonde hair. Deep red, almost black. Not a lot, but enough to make Ryan’s insides turn over in dread.
I Warned You_Welcome to Fall River Page 18
