by Susan Fleet
The light was dimmer up here, no windows in the offices, just solid oak doors with name plates and numbers. An arrow on the wall indicated Number 201 was located to his left. He crept down the hallway and stopped at a door. A large brass plate said: HUNTER GATES, CEO. He slid the revolver out of the pouch in his sweatshirt, his hands sweaty on the wooden grip.
After all these years, the moment he'd been waiting for had arrived. A showdown with his father. He focused on the doorknob, rehearsing his moves. His heart flailed against his chest in a sudden frenzy of fear.
To calm himself, he thought: Pretend you're on COPS, the TV show.
He flung open the door, burst into the room and fired at the ceiling. The sharp report was excruciatingly loud in the enclosed space. It hurt his ears, and the odor of gunpowder filled his nostrils.
“Freeze!” he screamed. “Put your hands up and don't move!”
With grim satisfaction, he aimed the Smith & Wesson revolver at the man in the suit standing behind a desk, ten feet away. Staring at him, slack-jawed, Gates held his hands in the air, palms out. The look on his face was priceless.
Mr. Important was terrified. Too bad he didn't have a camera so he could take a picture. Now that he was in control, he studied his father's face, searching for similarities. He had his father's nose, long and straight, had the same mouth and thin lips, too.
But his father's lips were set in a grim line. “Did Donna put you up to this?”
“Hell no. She's not smart enough to figure out this deal.”
“Why are you driving her car?”
“Never mind. Show me the money.” Stealing lines from Tom Cruise now.
“In there.” Gates nodded his head at the suitcase on his desk.
Keeping the gun trained on his father, he stepped closer to the desk, an ornate mahogany relic that had to be at least eight feet long. He glanced at the suitcase. “Ain't no six million in there. Where's the rest?”
Gates gazed at him, an unwavering stare, his pale-blue eyes cold. “There's a million dollars in there. You get the rest when you convince me you'll go away and forget about Nancy.”
Anger boiled into his throat. What the fuck was this? Did Gates think he could bargain with him?
“Yeah,” he said. “Nancy Pasquarelli. You couldn't keep your dick in your pants. When she said No, you and your buddies raped her.”
A muscle jumped in his father's jaw. Bulls-eye. Mr. Important was feeling the heat, worrying about Nancy. He didn't know the half of it.
“How do you know? You weren't there.”
“Her brother told me. Told me about Gwendolyn, too. Nancy said you killed her.”
“Bullshit. I didn't kill her.” His father's gaze shifted, down and to the left.
Darin didn't believe him, but so what? He'd known all along the asshole would deny it. “Forget Gwendolyn. You got another problem to worry about.”
Aiming the revolver at his father's heart with his right hand, he took the photograph out of his pocket and put it on the desk. “Look what I've got. A picture of you and my mother. Rose Thanh. Remember her?”
Gates glanced at the photograph. “No,” he said in a cold voice.
“You don't? Gee, you two look pretty cozy in that picture. Ma gave it to me when I was six years old. She said you're my Daddy.”
Gates shook his head and laughed. “I'm not your Daddy.”
A gut-punch of fury sucked the wind out of him.
The prick was laughing at him!
_____
The minute the Honda turned onto Downman Road, Frank knew where Ponytail was going. Hunter Firearms was opposite the impound lot a mile up the street. He turned onto Downman, pulled to a stop on the gravel shoulder and punched a number into his cellphone, hoping Vobitch and his wife weren't spending their Saturday night at the opera.
“Yeah,” Vobitch said in a quiet voice.
“Can you talk?” Frank said. “The Gates case just broke wide open.”
“Hold on while I go downstairs.”
A black four-door Range Rover raced past Frank's Dodge, headed the other way, no other vehicles in sight, no curves on Downman Road, just a long straightaway. That eased his mind a bit.
“What's going on?” Vobitch said.
Talking fast, Frank told him, ended by saying, “Kenyon and David are on their way to Kenner to secure the house. I'm on Downman Road a mile from Hunter Firearms, had to hang back so Ponytail wouldn't see me. I'll be there in a minute.”
“Great work, Frank. We grab Ponytail, maybe we'll get some answers, but I don't want you taking him by yourself. I'll head out now, be there in ten minutes,” Vobitch said, and ended the call.
Fine, but Frank didn't intend to wait for him. He'd take some precautions, though. Everyone had a gun these days, even René. Gates had more guns than he could count, and Ponytail probably had one, too.
Kelly's words echoed in his mind. Be careful, Frank.
He got out of the car, opened the trunk and took out his Kevlar vest. His head would be exposed, but the vest would protect his torso and vital organs. He took off his jeans jacket, flipped the vest over his head and fastened the Velcro straps around his T-shirt. And mentally recited the rule he’d learned years ago: Never turn sideways to a shooter. Take a bullet in the armpit, it could hit your heart and lungs and kill you.
Sweating in the heat, he struggled into the jeans jacket and buttoned it over the vest. A tight fit, but the jacket hid the vest.
Pumped with adrenaline, he jumped in the car and headed for Hunter Firearms, fueled by the fury that had driven him ever since Robbie's murder. After days of frustration, fruitless leads and dead-ends, he was about to meet Robbie's killer face to face. Darin Thanh. Darin was going in the slammer. Depending on how things went, Gates might, too.
An industrial canal ran along the right side of Downman Road, its banks lined with rusted grocery carts, discarded tires and other refuse. Rumor had it that full-grown alligators swam in the murky water. People bought them for pets and dumped them here when they got too big.
His heart accelerated as he drove past the impound lot on the left side of Downman. Almost there. The lot was closed for the night, the gate padlocked, the guard shack beside it dark and empty. Security lights on tall poles cast light over vehicles parked in ragged rows, waiting to be claimed by their owners, and two snarling Dobermans, teeth bared, prowled the perimeter of a chain-link fence topped with concertina wire.
Seconds later, he wheeled into the visitor parking area in front of the Hunter Firearms offices. Gates's Mercedes-Benz SUV and Donna's bright-blue Honda were there, both unoccupied.
He parked beside the Honda and considered his options. His mission was crystal clear. Capture Darin Thanh. But he had no idea what Gates would do when Darin confronted him. Two armed men with nothing to lose, anything could happen. Vobitch was on his way and he’d probably call for more backup before he got here, but that might take a while.
Should he race inside, find Gate's office and take them by surprise? Probably not. He'd never been in the office building, didn't know the layout.
He needed a psychological advantage. Maybe flashing blues would give it to him. He activated his emergency lights. Mind games. Anyone in Gate's office could see them, which eliminated the element of surprise. But the office building was only one part of the Hunter Firearms complex. For all they knew, more squad cars could be parked outside the other buildings and they were surrounded.
Humid air hit his face when he got out of the car. He turned to the Honda, squatted and let the air out of two tires. If Darin intended to make a fast getaway in the Honda after he got his money, he was in for a surprise.
Adrenaline flooded his veins. Time to get Darin.
Knowing he was wired, he took a moment to collect himself.
Focus and stay alert. Gates is armed and so is Darin.
He drew the SIG from the holster at the small of his back. Reassured by the weight, one round in the chamber, fourteen more in the magazi
ne, Frank approached the entrance with purposeful strides.
The door was unlocked. He stepped inside.
_____
Enraged, Darin stared at his father. Fury exploded inside him.
“Don’t laugh at me, motherfucker!” he screamed. “I’ll blow your fuckin head off! Admit it. You're my father!”
“Bullshit! You're no son of mine. You think I want some half-breed for a son?” Gates gave him a condescending smile. “Is that what this is about? Little boy lost hunting for Daddy? How pathetic. Don't look at me, kid. You're someone else's brat, not mine. Your mother slept with hundreds of men. She was a prostitute. Get over it.”
A geyser of hate spewed into his throat, bitter as bile. Strangely, it cleared his mind and sharpened his vision. An eerie calm settled over him.
His hands were steady as a rock as he raised the Smith & Wesson. Bad enough the prick had abandoned Ma when she got pregnant. Now he was dissing her. The motherfucker didn't deserve to live.
His finger curled around the trigger. Gently squeezed. When the shot sounded, he didn't even blink, just squeezed the trigger again.
Both bullets hit Gates square in the chest. He reeled back a step, a look of amazement on his face. Grimacing, he bent forward over the desk, his left arm extended, reaching for something.
Suddenly there was a gun in his hand. Then, a gunshot.
“Hah!” Darin gasped. Searing pain burned his left shoulder.
The motherfucker shot him! Enraged, he gripped the revolver in his right hand and pulled the trigger again. The shot went wild, but Gates slid backwards off the desk, slowly, his fingers splayed, grasping at nothing. A thump sounded as he collapsed on the floor.
Darin clenched his jaw, fighting the agonizing pain in his shoulder. Jesus! Never in his life had he endured pain this bad. It felt like a giant cat was clawing his shoulder, his left arm dangling uselessly by his side.
But screw the pain. He'd show that cocksucker.
With the revolver in his right hand, he circled the desk. Gates lay sprawled on the carpet. The motherfucker wasn't laughing now, blood oozing from his lips, his eyes open but unfocused, glazed with confusion. A snub-nosed revolver lay on the floor near his left hand, his fingers twitching spasmodically.
“Pay for your sins, motherfucker!” Darin raised the gun.
But then he noticed the red-and-blue lights flashing outside the window. He turned and looked outside. Parked beside the Honda was a Dodge Charger with flashing lights on the front and back windows.
Flashing blues meant only one thing. Cops. Fuck!
He glanced at Gates. Daddy was a goner, blood gushing from his mouth now. He slid the revolver into the pouch in his sweatshirt, circled the desk and closed the suitcase. Only a million bucks, but better than nothing. Gritting his teeth against the excruciating pain in his shoulder, he hauled the suitcase off the desk, towed it to the door and stopped.
Where were the cops? How many were there?
He took out the Smith & Wesson and opened the door.
_____
Holding the SIG in both hands, Frank stepped inside the office building and stopped, his senses hyper-alert, his mind focused like a laser beam.
Get Darin Thanh.
The building was utterly silent. The air was cool, a welcome relief from the heat, and scented with the fragrance of flowers. Suspended from a vaulted ceiling, globe lights illuminated a two-story atrium. To his left facing the door was an information desk, but no one was there to offer any information. Behind the desk on the left-hand wall, lilies and other sweet-smelling flowers decorated a rectangular rock garden. On the wall to his right near the entry door, an office directory was posted inside a glass case beside an elevator.
Frank eased over to the directory. CEO Hunter Gates, Room 201. He assumed the office was on the second floor, but he didn't want to take the elevator. Ahead of him, seven stairs on an open stairway went up to a landing and doglegged right. Seven more stairs would take him to the second floor. Was Darin with Gates in his office? If so, he couldn't hear them.
From his position beside the right-hand wall, he could only see part of the second floor. The offices appeared to be laid out around a square hallway bordered by a waist-high safety partition.
He heard loud voices and froze. Then gunshots, two in quick succession and seconds later, a third.
The shots seemed to have come from an office on the right-hand wall facing the visitor parking lot. Gates's office, Frank assumed. He ran to the staircase, crept halfway up to the landing and stopped.
Above him, footsteps pounded down the hallway. Tense and alert, he waited, aiming the SIG at the hallway above him.
Darin Thanh came running down the hall toward the stairs, his black hair pulled into a ponytail, his face sweaty, towing a suitcase with his right hand. Blood stained the shoulder of his gray sweatshirt and his left arm hung limply by his side. Only ten yards away now and closing fast, he held a snub-nosed revolver in his left hand.
“Police!” Frank shouted. “Drop the gun!”
But Darin didn't drop the gun. He dropped the suitcase, shifted the revolver to his right hand and approached the staircase above Frank.
His gut clenched. Two seconds and his life could be over. No cover on the open stairway. Standing above him, Darin had the advantage. Tunnel vision drew his eyes to Darin's. They were every bit as scary as Sweets had described in the interview room. Baleful and full of hate. The stone-cold eyes of a killer.
But Darin was wounded. His right hand, the hand holding the gun, was shaking. He had a suitcase full of money and wanted to get out of here fast. Only two ways to do that. Take the stairs or the elevator.
Over Frank’s dead body. A jolt of adrenaline energized him.
He rose to his feet, faced Darin and raised the SIG. “Put the gun down and get on the floor!”
“Fuck you!” Darin took aim and fired.
The bullet slammed into the Kevlar vest, almost knocked him over. Stunned, Frank grabbed the handrail with his left hand to keep from falling, gripping the SIG with his right, gasping for breath.
By the time he recovered enough to get his feet under him and looked up, Darin had disappeared.
CHAPTER 43
Sprawled on the carpet, Gates tried to get his breath. Strangely, he felt no pain, only enormous pressure, as though a cement mixer was sitting on his chest. When he shut his eyes, flashes of white light zig-zagged across the inside of his eyelids. Better to keep his eyes open. If he closed them, he'd be gone.
The unthinkable had happened. His brilliant plan had failed.
The blackmailer had shot him. Little boy lost, looking for Daddy.
Saying that to him had been his fatal mistake. He remembered Rose, of course, a pretty Asian girl, docile and eager to please. He even recalled the night she told him she was pregnant. When he said the baby couldn’t possibly be his, she had turned and left the cheap motel room without a word.
Maybe he really was the kid's father. How ironic. Yearning for a son all these years and he already had one. The kid didn't look like him, had those slanty eyes and long glossy black hair. But he might have inherited his smarts. And he was a gambler, no doubt about that, kidnapping his family, then blackmailing him.
With a supreme effort, he raised his hand to his mouth, glimpsed blood on his fingers and let his hand fall to the carpet. His chest hurt now, his breath coming in shallow gasps.
He thought back to that night with Rose in the motel. Even if he’d been certain the kid was his, and even now he wasn’t, what could he have done? Marry an Asian prostitute? Impossible. He would have been the laughing stock of the New Orleans business community.
Where was Rose now, he wondered. Would the kid give her some of the money or keep it all for himself? One thing was clear. The kid loathed him. He'd seen the hatred in his eyes right before he shot him.
And now he was dying. Shot to death by a son who despised him.
But Emily didn't. Emily loved him.
&
nbsp; A moan escaped his lips, the pain coming in relentless waves. The ugly stories from his past were sure to come out now.
What would Emily think? Would she hate him too?
_____
Ignoring the pain in his chest where the slug punched the vest, Frank crept up to the landing, turned right at the dogleg and stopped two stairs shy of the second floor hallway. The staircase bisected the side of the square that paralleled the parking area.
He peeked around the safety partition. No sign of Gates or Darin, no sounds of running feet. To his left at the far end of the hall, a thin shaft of light spilled out the door of the corner office. Crouched below the safety partition, he side-stepped down the hall, his SIG at the ready. No telling where Darin was, but he wouldn’t be able to escape in Donna's car.
Frank reached the office at the end of the hall and stopped. The door was ajar, only open a crack, but it made him pause. He put his hand on the door and pushed. He heard a moan, faint at first then louder. He pushed the door wide open and stepped into the office.
Facing the door was a wide mahogany desk, the chair behind it pushed to one side. Another moan rose to a shriek. His guts turned to ice. He ran to the desk and looked behind it. The air left his lungs in a whoosh.
Gates lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling, his eyes wide with confusion. Beside his left hand a snub-nosed revolver lay on the carpet. His shirt was soaked with blood. Two slugs had pierced the left side of his chest, one near the clavicle, another below it near his heart. Bright red blood oozed from his mouth and trickled ran down his chin.
Frank knelt down beside him. Gates looked at him, his eyes glassy, his face ashen. Blood gushed from his mouth as he whispered, “Tell Emily—” Grimacing with pain, he said, “Tell Emily I love her.”
His body went limp and his eyes lost focus, cloudy with the milky film of death. Frank rose to his feet. Gates was dead, but Darin wasn't. Darin had killed Robbie, the most brutal murder he’d ever seen. The fury rose up inside him like a black cloud. Now he was going to get the bastard.
