Time to Die: Part Four

by John Gilstrap

  “Dude!” Jonathan said. He wedged his body closer to the door. “Whatcha doin’ in there? This is the party room, right?” He pushed on the door, opening it just enough to see the shadow of a second man wedged behind the door panel. He was hiding. In the mirror on the wall over the dresser, Jonathan saw a seam of light around the closed bathroom door. That made at least three targets. And the one he could see looked Middle Eastern. Check, check and check.

  “There is no party here,” the doorman insisted. “You need to leave.”

  When Jonathan saw what appeared to be blood on the floor, he decided it was time to call an audible. “Dude, look, I’m sorry, man. Can I just use your pisser?” He pressed in tighter.

  The doorman pressed his hand to Jonathan’s chest. “No, you may not. You are drunk. You do not belong—”

  “Hey, Mindy, are you there?” Jonathan shouted.

  The doorman’s eyes flashed fear as commotion rose behind the closed bathroom door. The doorman’s hand whipped around to the back of his trousers. It was all the confession Jonathan needed.

  Jonathan shouldered the door hard and drove the heel of his left hand into the other man’s nose. Knocked off balance, the guy staggered back three steps. Jonathan hammered the door again, harder this time, to unbalance the guy in the shadow. In one smooth, practiced move, he lifted his T-shirt with his left hand, pulled his 1911 from its holster and thumbed the safety off.

  The man he’d driven back into the room recovered enough to draw a pistol, and had nearly brought it to bear when Jonathan fired two one-handed shots into the gunman’s chest. The guy was still collapsing when Jonathan pivoted left to encounter the hider behind the door. He never saw the man’s face, but he saw the gun in the man’s hand. A pistol-grip pump shotgun with a shortened barrel. Jonathan fired three times in to the shadow’s center of mass, and both the weapon and its owner fell like bricks.

  When Jonathan turned back to the first guy, he saw that he still sat upright, bleeding from his chest, his face a mask of confusion. Jonathan shot the mask through the eye.

  “Mindy, are you in the bathroom?” As he spoke, he pulled a fresh mag for the Colt out of its pouch on the left side of his belt, and brought it up the pistol’s grip.

  “Help! I—” The young voice was silenced by a slap.

  He dropped the partially spent mag into the space between the middle and ring fingers of his left hand and jammed the new one home. The whole maneuver took less than two seconds. He dropped the mostly empty mag into his pocket. Never enter a new gunfight with old ammo.

  Jonathan fired a kick that landed square on the bathroom door’s flimsy brass-colored knob.

  The panel exploded inward, launching a shower of splintered mirror.

  Mindy screamed. Her kidnapper held her by her flaming red hair, lifting her off her feet as he cowered behind, trying to get a bead on Jonathan. Black zip ties bound her hands in front of her. Motel bathrooms were not big spaces, and old shitty ones were even smaller. At a range of maybe three feet, the worst marksmen in the world would have a hard time missing.

  Jonathan went for the gun. It was a Glock—either a 19 or a 23. He grabbed the weapon at the slide, behind the front sight and he twisted it inward and up. If it fired, it wouldn’t hit anyone. As the kidnapper’s finger snapped inside the trigger guard, the guy lost his concentration on Mindy’s hair. As she moved, she opened a space that revealed the bad guy’s face. Jonathan thrust his colt through the opening till he felt hard contact with the guy’s forehead, and he pulled the trigger, opening a star-shaped hole in flesh and bone. The kidnapper left a crimson arc on the shattered green tile wall as he slid sideways into the bathtub, pulling the shower curtain and rod with him.

  “We’re clear,” Jonathan said, holstering his Colt. “Three sleeping. PC is secure.”

  “Holy shit, Scorpion, what did you just do?” Boxers nearly shouted. The cadence of his words told Jonathan that Big Guy was running.

  Without saying a word, Jonathan grabbed Mindy around the middle and lifted her off her feet. She struggled. “Let me alone!” she yelled. “Let me go!” She swung her fists as a single unit, as if chopping wood.

  Jonathan used a second arm to pinion her hands to her side. “Don’t look at the bodies,” he said, as he maneuvered her out of the bathroom. “I’m here to take you back to your parents.”

  “Put me down!”

  She’d been through a lot. Jonathan didn’t expect her to understand what was going on, and this was no time to go into detail. He just gripped her tighter and hustled across the parking lot toward the Ford. He carried her sideways to avoid getting kicked by her pedaling feet, and was a little ashamed at how quickly his grip had begun to slip. Apparently, kids are born with a wriggle instinct, and young Mindy was particularly gifted. He picked up his pace.

  Boxers was already in the cab and cranking the engine when Jonathan was still twenty feet away. Reading the situation for what it was, Big Guy swung back out of the vehicle and opened the back door on the driver’s side. Jonathan ducked his head, stepped high, and sort of leaped onto the back bench seat, while at the same time turning to keep from landing atop the squirming little girl. Knowing that a door slam was coming, he tucked his knees up to prevent losing his feet at the ankles.

  Five seconds later, they were on their way.

  “Leave me alone! Let go of me!”

  Boxers shouted, “Hey! Mindy, shut up! We just saved your life! Show some respect!” When Big Guy wanted to be loud, he could be seismic. They were harsh words, but they worked. Mindy fell silent, and even Jonathan felt a little stunned.

  He unwrapped his arms from around the PC and helped her sit up straight. “Are you hurt?”

  “They hit me,” she said. Some of the wind had left her sails, but she was still spun tight. Clotted blood mixed with her red hair.

  “Well, they can’t hit you anymore,” Jonathan said.

  “You killed those men.”

  “Yes, I did. They’ll never hurt anyone ever again.”

  “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

  Jonathan didn’t know how to read the emotion in her words, and he didn’t much try. At this point in a mission, his job was simple. He needed to return the precious cargo to her family and move on. He was not a counselor and he was not a soother of souls. In his experience, those who were so drawn were born with a radically different skill set than his.

  “I didn’t ask you to do that,” Mindy repeated.

  “I heard you the first time,” Jonathan said. “But it’s done anyway. Here, let me see your hands. I’ll take those ties off.” As he spoke, he lifted out the three-inch folding blade that was clipped to the pocket of his jeans and opened it with a one-handed flourish.

  The suddenness startled Mindy. She retreated from him.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” Jonathan said. “I’m just going to cut the plastic away.”

  “Stay away from me.”

  Jonathan sighed. “Fine.” He folded the knife and put it back in his pocket.

  “Who are you? You’re not the police.”

  “That is true,” Jonathan said with what he hoped was a friendly smile. “We are definitely not the police. But we are on your side. We came here just to save you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re the good guys,” Jonathan said. She didn’t need to know anything about his business arrangement with her father, and she didn’t need to know anything about his operations. These were the times when he most missed his days with the Unit, doing the official bidding of Uncle Sam. Back then, the Army psychologists would take care of the emotional damage, and all he had to concentrate on was the physical stuff.

  Right now, their biggest concern was to get rid of this vehicle and transfer over to the Batmobile, their heavily armored and wildly modified Hummer. All the screaming and shooting almost certainly attracted attention, and if anyone saw them hustling Mindy into the backseat of the Ford, they would conclude that Jonathan and Boxers were
the bad guys. So far, he heard no sirens or indicators that word of the shoot-out had made it to the authorities, but any delay would buy him only minutes.

  They’d stashed the Batmobile in the bay of a body shop owned by Marcus Glenning, a former MARSOC operator who’d lost a leg in Afghanistan and retired on disability to pursue his passion for cars in the community of residents who would most appreciate his sacrifice. Marcus and Jonathan had crossed paths a few times back in the day, and Marcus was willing to do his old friend a favor without asking too many questions. Within an hour of trading the Ford for the Hummer, the Explorer would be a pile of parts awaiting re-sale.

  Jonathan pressed his transmit button. “Mother Hen, Scorpion. Call the hammer man and tell him we’re two minutes out.”

  “Calling now,” Venice said.

  Jonathan turned to his precious cargo. “Mindy, I need you to listen to me. I need you to trust me. Your father sent Big Guy and me to rescue you from those bad men—the ones who hit you and tied your hands. Can I cut that band off your wrist now?”

  She held her hands out. He opened his knife again and carefully slid the razor-sharp blade under the plastic band, near her thumbs, and sliced it away. The deep red lines in her skin angered him. Mindy pulled her hands back and rubbed her wrists.

  Jonathan continued, “In a few minutes, we’re going to pull into a garage and we’re all going to transfer to another truck. That’s the truck we’re going to use to take you home.”

  “How do I know I can believe you?”

  “I don’t know how to answer that. Let’s start with the fact that I killed the men who hurt you. That’s got to buy me something.” He smiled, showing off his fake buck teeth. “I need you to cooperate with the transfer, okay? No more kicking and screaming, no trying to run away. We’re still in danger, and need to move quickly. Will you do that for me?”

  “Are you going to kill anybody else?”

  Jonathan scowled. It was an odd question. “I hope not. I’ll certainly try not to.” From the way she pulled back, he saw that it was not the right answer. “Let me put it this way. The only way I would kill anyone else would be to protect you from harm.”

  Something clicked behind her eyes. “So, you’re, like, my bodyguards?”

  He winked. “We are exactly like your bodyguards.”

  “Promise you’re telling the truth?”

  He drew an X across his chest with his finger. “Cross my heart.”

  Mindy thought some more, then nodded. “Okay, then. I’ll trust you.”

  Jonathan bladed his hand and held it out. “Let’s shake on it.”

  She smiled as she took his hand and shook it.

  “Great,” Jonathan said. “Now, one more thing. Don’t talk to anyone other than Big Guy and me. There might be people in the garage, and I don’t want you getting involved in conversations.”

  Her eyes grew larger. Jonathan took that as a yes.

  “Hey, Boss,” Big Guy said from the front seat. “We’re here.”

  They pulled around to the back of the body shop, where Marcus Glenning had left two bay doors open. The one on the right was empty, and the nose of the Batmobile peeked out of the one on the left. Jonathan wasn’t sure what Glenning had done with his employees—or with himself, for that matter—but the place was devoid of people. Boxers slipped the Ford through the opening and pulled to a stop.

  “Okay, Mindy, here we go,” Jonathan said. He opened the door on the driver’s side and Mindy slipped out right after him. Ten seconds later, they were inside the rolling fortress. Ten seconds after that, Boxers cranked the engine and they were on their way.

  “Score another one for the good guys,” Boxers said.

  They drove north and west for over an hour to a roadside rest stop near the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Mindy said nothing along the way, and Jonathan made no effort to get her to talk. She’d seen a lot and endured a lot, and the fact that she was safe now—a fact that she likely did not believe one hundred percent—wouldn’t do much to diminish the nightmares that lay in her future.

  Big Guy pulled into one of the regular slots and threw the transmission into Park. Only one other car sat in the lot.

  “We’re almost done, Mindy,” Jonathan said. “I’m going to introduce you to one more person, and that person is going to take you to your parents. Are you ready?”

  Mindy stared at the back of the seat in front of her. If she’d heard him, she made no indication.

  “Mindy?”

  “I heard you.” She turned her head to face him. “Why is this happening to me?”

  Jonathan recognized his cue to say something wise and soothing. If only he owned those words. “You know what, Mindy?” he said with a sigh. “There are a lot of bad people in the world. You just happened to cross paths with them. Sometimes, there is no why.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “You killed those men.”

  Jonathan let the words hang. Then he opened his door. “Come on,” he said. “I’m going to introduce you to one of the nicest men in the world, and he’ll be much better at answering your questions.” As he spoke, one of Jonathan’s oldest and dearest friends unfolded himself from a slightly worse-for-wear Kia sedan and walked toward the Batmobile. The man wore a black suit, a clerical collar and a big, kind smile. His name was Father Dom D’Angelo.

  Jonathan stepped down out of the Hummer and turned to help Mindy do the same. She looked frightened again. “Mindy, this is Father O’Malley, a man I’ve known since I was in college.”

  With a trim build, thick black hair and dark brown eyes, Dom looked like an Italian movie star. He stooped to get eye-to-eye with the little girl. He didn’t reach out a hand, and he kept his distance. In addition to his role as a priest and pastor of Saint Katherine’s Church in Fisherman’s Cove, he was also a licensed psychologist. Jonathan figured that the distance he kept had something to do with the psychologist part.

  “Hello, Mindy,” Dom said. “I know you’ve had a really rough few days. Are you ready to go home?”

  Mindy looked up to Jonathan. “I thought you were going to take me home.”

  Jonathan stooped down, too. “That’s not something I can do,” he said. “That’s for Father O’Malley to do.”

  “Is it because you killed those men?”

  Jonathan glanced to Dom, who arched his eyebrows. You’re on your own.

  Jonathan said,. “Sort of. Besides, Father O is a much nicer man.” He sold it with a smile.

  Without warning, Mindy threw her arms around Jonathan’s neck and hugged him. “I want you to take me.”

  Jonathan was stunned—both by the suddenness of her move and by the pressure he felt behind his eyes. He returned the hug. “You’re safe now, sweetie, I promise,” he said. He kissed the top of her head and eased her away. “Do you think for a minute that I would put you in the care of someone I didn’t trust?”

  “Please?” Her lip trembled.

  “I can’t,” Jonathan said.

  “Hey, Mindy,” Dom said, rising to his full height. “Time to say good-bye to Scorpion and say hello again to your parents. We’re only about an hour away.”

  Jonathan stood, too, and turned away. It made no sense to prolong the inevitable. Besides, if he ended up shedding a tear, Boxers would never let him hear the end of it.

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by

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  Copyright © 2016 John Gilstrap, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This book is a work of fictio
n. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LYRICAL, LYRICAL UNDERGROUND, and the Lyrical logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  First electronic edition: May 2016

  ISBN: 978-1-6018-3701-1

  ISBN-10: 1-60183-701-1