Like Kowalski needed to.
Kowalski rushed him. Faster than JC thought he could. Jumped through the air, trying to arm tackle him, just like he had done in their last tussle in the meeting before the raid on Henderson. JC tried to side step him just as he had before. But Kowalski’s rage had made him faster. Managed to get one hand on JC as he passed, grabbing him, spinning him around and down. JC almost landed on top of Kowalski as the agent hit the floor and tried to roll. JC took advantage of his fall and twisted, driving his forearm into the small of Kowalski’s back.
JC hoped he would hear something crack but he wasn’t that lucky. Still, it took Kowalski longer to spring up than JC thought it would. Gave him enough time to roll free. They both stood at the same time, Kowalski rushing at JC again, the agent wisely keeping his feet under him this time, preventing JC from spinning out of his way. Kowalski ducked low under JC’s arms, drove his shoulder into JC’s solar plexus, wrapped his arms around JC’s waist and pushed up with his legs. Picked the man clean up from the floor then dropped him back down, his shoulder driving deep into JC’s stomach.
All the wind seemed to exit JC’s lungs in one whoosh. JC almost thought he heard the whoosh, but then focused on his body gasping for air. Kowalski stood. JC hoped the man would start taunting him, insulting him. Give him time to pick himself up. Again, luck was not on his side. Kowalski was kicking at JC. Aiming for his head, his throat, stomping his heel onto JC’s upper body. JC raised his hands and arms up to protect his head and neck. He half-expected Kowalski to perform a classic bronco-kick or knee-drop onto his chest. JC’s lungs began to work slightly, gaining enough air to drive back the tinges of black and sparkly bursts of light that were coming into the edges of his vision. Gained enough air to roll, so he rolled. Hard and fast.
JC kept rolling until he hit something solid. The upended loveseat. Breathing again, he struggled up. Lifted the piece of furniture and threw it at Kowalski. It was slow and easily dodged. JC was still regaining his strength with his breath. Being slammed to the floor took more out of him than he expected.
Kowalski was advancing. JC didn’t have time to rest. As the man approached, JC threw a haymaker at Kowalski’s jaw. Hoping to knock him out. Or at least stun him a bit. Neither happened. Kowalski leaned back just as JC’s fist sailed past his chin. JC wasn’t prepared for the left hook to the body that followed. Or the right to the chin. Or the half dozen other punches that Kowalski threw. JC had no choice but to cover and wait for any opening he could find. Kowalski’s initial mindless rage had toned down to a disciplined attack. Something that JC was at the moment woefully underequipped for. The crash in Campbell’s car, the torture under Humberto’s watchful eye, the stress and lack of sleep. It all took its toll.
After what seemed like minutes of being pummeled by Kowalski, JC felt a pause in the beating. He shot out with a right-handed uppercut. It caught Kowalski on the left side of his face, rocking him backwards. He stood and pressed forward, aiming jabs at Kowalski’s head to get him to back up. Kowalski did but as soon as JC faltered, Kowalski reached forward. Grabbed JC by the lapels of his suit. Lifted him up, turned and slammed him down onto the glass and chrome coffee table.
The table shattered under the force of JC’s body, one of the welds on the legs giving way and breaking free. Stuck awkwardly in the now empty and broken chrome frame, JC bucked and struggled to get out. Kowalski reached for JC’s suit jacket again. JC didn’t fight it this time. Instead he held onto Kowalski with his left hand, using his aggressor’s strength to help him to his feet. He trailed his right hand behind, scrabbling over the shards of broken glass, looking for the broken free table leg.
He found it and swung it at Kowalski’s head with all the force he could muster. It cracked Kowalski in the head, opening up a gash above his left eye at the hairline. Kowalski staggered back, the blood flowing into his eye. He wiped it away, shocked. Looked at his hand, then back up to JC. His eyes widen a fraction of a second before JC backhanded him with the same table leg, catching him above his right ear.
Kowalski went down with the second blow. JC lost control of the table leg as his strength ebbed. It flew away from the fight, crashing against one of the windows in the living room, breaking it and landing on the floor as the pieces of glass fell fourteen floors to the sidewalk next to the hotel.
JC knew if he called for Joan she would come out shooting. Save him. But he couldn’t do that. Couldn’t put her in a position to kill a Secret Service agent and the storm of trouble the aftermath would bring. Plus, he had made promises. Vengeance for Catherine Marcus. Justice for Jacob Meier’s murdered son. Safety to Franklin Adams. Promises to Lisa Harrington and Lorraine. Needed to sort things out with Duke. Not all the promises were explicitly spoken. But they weighed on him as if they had been.
JC stumbled forward, pushing Kowalski back down as he started to get up. Made his way to the kitchen. Avoided the knife drawer. Grabbed the heaviest dish he could find and flung it at Kowalski’s head. His plan was a disgraced Kowalski, so wracked by shame and remorse over what he had done combined with what would happen to him that the man leapt from the hotel window to his death. Head trauma could be explained away once the head had splattered itself on the concrete below. Knife wounds could not.
JC missed with the first plate. Connected with the second. And the third. Kowalski dodged the fourth, regaining his senses. Fixed his eyes on JC and came into the kitchen slowly, dodging and batting away whatever JC threw at him. JC gripped the beautifully solid butcher block cutting board with both hands. Cocked it over his right shoulder.
Kowalski paused. Just out of range. Both men panting heavily.
“Put it down, JC,” Kowalski said in between breaths.
“Can’t,” JC said.
Kowalski had slowed his breathing a bit. “Put it down and we’ll go our separate ways. Just like Duke offered. You keep the money. We both walk away.”
JC looked at him. Still panting. “Really?”
Kowalski put his hands on his knees. Exhaled heavily. Wiped the blood from his left eye again. “Yeah. There’s no winning here tonight. For either of us.”
JC nodded. He wouldn’t be able to keep up the fight much longer. But he wasn’t about to trust Kowalski. This fight needed to be finished. Now. JC dropped his hands. Leaned forward. Cutting board pointed at the floor. “Okay,” he said.
Kowalski nodded, then stepped forward, his training taking over, trying to apprehend a suspect. Exactly what JC was hoping he would do. JC’s wrists pivoted, the cutting board held vertically. JC let it slip slightly so that he was holding it firmly in the middle. Making it appear as if he was slowly dropping it.
Kowalski was watching JC’s eyes. Not his hands. JC’s eyes hardened. Kowalski paused. Too close.
JC brought the cutting board straight up, the edge slamming into the nexus of Kowalski’s jaw and neck. Barely missing his voice box, it deeply injured his throat. Came close to breaking his jaw. For a second, Kowalski couldn’t breathe.
JC took that second to bring the opposite edge of the cutting board hard onto the top of Kowalski’s head in a vicious downward strike. Only problem was, Kowalski was already moving backward slightly from the momentum of the neck strike. He looked up just as JC was bringing the cutting board down. Tried to move even more out of the way. JC tried to correct his trajectory, but his fatigue wouldn’t let him. JC tried to adjust but there was no time. Luck was with him for once in this fight. Instead of missing Kowalski entirely, he smashed the cutting board onto Kowalski’s nose, turning the bone inside into powder.
Kowalski fell to the floor, backwards. Blood flowing down his face. JC stepped forwards, trying to swing at the agent with the flats of the cutting board. Pure instinct forced Kowalski to scrabble backwards on the polished concrete floor. JC stepped forward again, trying to get close enough to hit Kowalski with the cutting board. One good whack and JC knew it was lights out for Kowalski.
Kowalski knew it too. Just as JC stepped forward
, Kowalski’s foot shot out, kicking JC in the stomach. He doubled over, dropping the cutting board. It clattered into the dining area, under the table. As he tried to recover, JC spied a heavy sculpture lamp on the opposite side of the sofa. Started moving towards it. Maybe having his head splat on the sidewalk isn’t going to work. Maybe it has to happen here. Crush his head, throw him out the window then burn the room. Not ideal, but…
JC didn’t make it to the lamp. At least not the way he intended. Kowalski stood up behind him, hit him in the side of the head, spun him around. Grabbed his lapels and with another roar tried to throw him across the room. But Kowalski’s strength wasn’t what it was when the fight had started.
JC stumbled and scrambled, landing half in and half out of the Parisian club chair The General had been sitting in a short ten minutes earlier. His first thought was getting to the lamp.
Until he saw a glint of something metal in between the arm and the cushion of the chair.
There, stuffed so deep it was almost invisible until the cushion was depressed with the heavy weight of a body, was The General’s snub-nosed Smith & Wesson Model 36. Handsome cocobolo wooden grips. Loaded with high pressure, +P .38 Special ammunition, JC hoped, because the man had always claimed it was.
Later, in the aftermath and the second guessing, JC would wonder when The General had put it there. He hadn’t seen it in his hand when he stood. In fact, he hadn’t seen it at all after The General had made it clear he was holding it. He must have stuffed it there before he stood up. At which point, he had already decided to walk away and leave the two to fight to the death.
But right now, JC wasn’t concerned about that. He reached forward, wrapped his hand around the hard wooden grip. Not warm, not cool. But so comforting to him at this point in time. Squirmed around until he was standing. Between the chair and the ugly metal lamp he thought was his last ditch effort at winning this fight. Raised the gun. Pointed it at Kowalski.
Realization was slow coming to Kowalski’s face and movements. He slowed but didn’t stop. When he did, his body registered his understanding with slumped shoulders and spine.
“The General?” he rasped, throat injured from the cutting board, lips sticky with blood from his smashed nose.
“Yeah,” JC managed to say. Waved the gun to indicate Kowalski should back up into the kitchen. He did. Reached the table and stopped.
“Not there. Go to the bedroom door.”
Kowalski went slowly. Stood in front of the bedroom door, turning as he did. JC put the revolver into the waistband of his pants at the small of his back. Pushed the table forward. It made a terrible grinding noise, digging small trenches into the polished concrete. He didn’t stop until Kowalski was pinned against the bedroom door.
“This’ll never work,” Kowalski said. Voice sounding strange because of the trauma to his nose and throat.
JC turned away from him. Went back to the living room. Found an appropriately sized chair.
“You can’t kill me,” Kowalski continued. “You’ll never get away with it.”
JC leaned over the back of the chair, put his hand under the backrest. Lifted, twisted and flung it against the window.
“You’ll spend the rest of your days either on the run or in jail. Kill a Secret Service agent? They’ll never stop hunting you.”
Most of the glass broke. However, the window frame was old and well built. JC picked up the chair. Backed up and threw it again.
“You hear me?” Kowalski’s voice was rising. Panic taking hold.
Enough of the wood and glass fell away to the street that JC was satisfied. Picked up the chair and moved it out of the way. Went back to the dining room. Drew The General’s kind gift from his waistband. Waved it towards the window.
Kowalski didn’t move.
“Push the table away from yourself, move around it and stand by the window.”
“The hell I will,” Kowalski spat.
From the other side of the bedroom door there was a metallic knocking sound. The barrel of silenced gun lightly rapping on a solid wooden door. “You heard the man,” Joan’s muffled voice said through the door.
In JC’s experience, most people faced with the choice of dying right now or prolonging their life by even a minute or less will generally choose the latter. Kowalski was no different. He pushed the table away from himself. Walked around it. Through the kitchen area. JC stepped back, keeping a fair amount of distance between them. And the gun pointed at him.
Kowalski stopped in front of the window. “Now what? You gonna shoot me?”
“No,” JC said. “You’re going to jump.” He lowered the gun to his waist, but still pointed at Guy.
Kowalski shook his head, a dejected smile on his face. “That’s your plan?”
“Secret Service agent, lost his mind, murdered a US Senator. In a moment of clarity, the remorse overwhelmed him. He checked into a hotel under a pseudonym, destroyed the room, cut his own shoulder because he was a psycho and then jumped out the window.” JC paused, pretending to evaluate the story. “Yeah, I think it’ll sell.”
“You really think I’m going to jump?”
“Kinda hoping you don’t, to tell you the truth,” JC said, a crooked smile stretching across his battered face.
“What about your promise? You said you were going to beat me to death.” Kowalski was trying to edge away from the window as he talked. JC extended the gun fully. Pointed at Kowalski’s head.
“You’re going to break your promise?” Kowalski said, grasping at straws. “Murder an unarmed agent with a gun belonging to a general in the US Army? Your former commanding officer? That’s all kinds of trouble you don’t want, JC.”
JC heard the bedroom door open behind him. Saw the movement off to his left. Heard Joan’s two-tone whistle, high falling to low. Saw Kowalski turn. His left temple presenting itself to JC like a giant bullseye.
“Maybe,” he said.
Then he pulled the trigger. Dropped the revolver on the zebra skin throw rug as pieces of Kowalski’s brain and skull sprayed out the window and fell to the sidewalk below. Kowalski’s body slumped towards the window. JC leaned forward as it fell, giving it an almighty push. Kowalski’s lifeless and slightly twitchy body fell, end over end, down the fourteen stories of the historic Roosevelt Hotel.
“Maybe,” JC said again, to the emptiness of the night air and the falling Kowalski, “but I can live with it.”
JC leaned out to see what happened to the body. Ten point dive, ten point landing, in the middle of the sidewalk, right on Kowalski’s head. The force of the fall and the weight of his body behind him made his head splatter like a hair-covered watermelon.
Forensics would likely find the hole from the entry wound. The round edges it made wouldn’t match up with the damage from the fall. Further examination would reveal bruising inconsistent with a fall.
JC didn’t care. He knew there would be more than enough people clamoring to close the file and keep it quiet. A judicious hack, a quiet visit to the coroner’s office and the file would say whatever he or anyone else would want it to.
Joan walked over. Took JC’s hand. Kissed him on his bruised and bloodied cheek. He looked worse than she did.
“Let’s go home, baby,” she said softly. “See what the kids are up to.”
JC nodded. Considered setting the room on fire to hide the evidence of him being there. His blood, hair, probably chunks of skin, were all over the room. Joan’s as well. But the hotel was too beautiful to damage just for a minor bit of evidence that could be hacked or threatened away. Or simply buried.
Commotion from the street rose up through the window. JC looked out the window, exposing as little of himself as he could. Karen Garcia was standing over Kowalski’s body. She was surrounded by eight men who appeared to be Secret Service agents.
“That was fast,” he said under his breath.
Garcia appeared to be arguing with them. She was gesturing up to the room, then around to the front of the hotel.
The men were arguing back, one in particular. She started to walk towards the lobby entrance but was blocked by one agent. He was denying her access to the hotel. One agent pulled out his badge and stuck it in Karen’s face. She knocked it away.
“We should go, JC,” Joan said, still holding his hand.
He continued to watch. The lead agent seemed to be wearing what looked like a sling for an injured arm. JC squinted at him and the other agents. Then, from around the front corner of the hotel, another Secret Service agent approached. JC easily recognized him. Agent Oldham. Good.
The other group of agents jogged away from the crime scene towards the front of the hotel. Sent away by Oldham, apparently.
“Yeah, let’s go,” JC said.
The two made their way across the broken room, strewn with glass, furniture and plates.
“Gypsies?” Joan said as they crossed the room. “Really, JC? I mean, half that story was BS anyway, but Gypsies?”
“I was pressed for time,” JC said.
“Well, the next time you feel the burning need to start telling people my life story,” Joan said with a smile, “do me two favors? Make it all up, not just parts. And don’t mention Gypsies again.”
Joan opened the door. Walked hand-in-hand with JC down the hallway, both limping. Both bruised and battered and bloody.
A door opened behind them.
“Hey!”
JC turned as Joan raised Kowalski’s silenced pistol.
Duke stood there, a Benelli semi-automatic shotgun in one hand and a Cobray M11/9 submachine gun in the other.
“Am I still on the team, or what, boss?”
“Where’s Lorraine?” JC said, smiling. Glad his friend had been there.
The Fixer, Season 1 Page 42
