The Filthy Few: A Steve Nastos Mystery

by Richard Cain

  Nastos noted how surprised it made Christian when Vince gave up their names. Judging by his uneasy glances, it clearly wasn’t part of the agreed script.

  “Let me see here,” Vince recounted. “You robbed a few street-level dealers, killed a guy in Witness Protection, knocked over a Hells Angels tattoo parlour . . .”

  Vince paused and checked over his shoulder. Not at his partner, but past him. Soon shapes emerged from the darkness, two large men wearing leather jackets with faded denim vests overtop. Nastos squinted in the low light. Something was wrong and Christian noticed it first. The men were two full-patch Hells Angels. The rival gang. Are they working together?

  Christian wheeled around. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  Vince smiled. “Easy, killer. I invited them.”

  Christian seemed completely disarmed. He took a step backward, his mouth hanging slack. While Radix and Morrison were transfixed by the exchange between the bikers, Nastos attracted Carscadden’s attention and watched the staircase for any sign of Viktor. He saw none. Maybe the staircase was too long, or maybe he wasn’t able to get down and they had no one to rely on except themselves.

  Vince explained, “This is the way it’s going down, Christian. The cops are going to shoot these other assholes to earn their freedom.”

  Christian shouted, “Yeah, and then what?” His neck veins bulged. “Is this about me? Is this about my dad handing it over to me?”

  Vince leveled his gun at Christian’s chest. “Don’t do anything stupid, Christian. Calm down.”

  One of the bikers, a tall bald man with a big red beard, jabbed a thumb at Christian. “So this is Moretti’s boy, eh?” He sounded as much disgusted as disappointed.

  “Yeah, Red. Don’t worry, he’s cool.” He turned to Christian. “But just to be sure, why don’t you grab his gun from his right pocket and hold on to it for a while.”

  Nastos’ eyes were beginning to adjust to the light. He glanced around and noted that at the back of the open area where he stood the brickwork near the top of the back wall was incomplete. It had probably been shot so many times that it was crumbling backward. If they were able to get everyone else out of the room he thought he might be able to get enough of the wall down to squeeze through to whatever was on the other side. He turned his head slowly, focusing on his peripheral vision. He was aware that eyes adjust to light conditions independently and he wanted to have some kind of night vision in case it became necessary.

  Red examined the weapons he took from Christian then stuck them in his pockets. When Vince turned back to Radix and Morrison, the red-bearded biker aimed his gun at Vince. He said, “New plan, Vince, old boy.”

  Christian spat out, “See! You fucking moron.”

  Nastos did a quick count. Christian still had one gun on him that the biker had missed, the one in his belt. Vince still had two.

  When Vince heard the gunfire discharging behind him, knowing that it wasn’t coming from the bikers provided little comfort. It meant that he didn’t have everyone accounted for, that there was someone else in the basement. Before running for cover he pointed and fired two rounds at Christian, who managed to return fire. Christian dropped forward and slapped his left hand up to his right shoulder. Vince felt a scorching pain in his right thigh and instantly felt the trickle of hot blood dribbling down his leg.

  He pumped half of a magazine up the staircase while moving to a position under the stairs. Anyone unaccounted for would have had to come from there, and if they were there, they weren’t friendly. From his darkened and fortified position he tried to keep an eye on where everyone else went. The best he could determine was that Nastos had led the lawyer south down the long hallway. The Angels retreated north and west and Christian turned the light off in the main room and disappeared. Vince hoped he was going to shoot the cops and then lie there bleeding to death in abject fear. There was no further gunfire.

  He had no idea where the cops went and it didn’t really matter. He was on no one’s side but his own so under the circumstances he could shoot at will and not be held accountable to either Christian or the Angels.

  Staying mobile was critical. To survive he had to know where everyone was without them knowing his location. He planned to move, then paused when he heard a sound from where the Angels were. Instinctively he rushed to the next room north and fired two rounds down the hallway west. He was pleasantly surprised to hear a dull thump and a grunt. He froze in place a moment to listen further, crouched back from the doorway, his gun ready to fire down range. As silently as possible he changed to a fresh magazine and saved the near empty one in his pocket. He turned his attention to his injured thigh. It was a graze but all the same it wouldn’t stop bleeding without stitches.

  Vince visualized a map of the basement and worked through it. He was the only one who had been there before and he planned to use that advantage in the low light. The electrical panel, a small 60-amp pony box, was secured to the wall next to him. It was in the northeastern-most corner of the basement, and from there he’d be able to pump rounds into most of the other enclosures. He pressed against the damp brick wall and listened. No matter what came down the hallway he was going to shoot in a right-to-left spray pattern then retreat back under the stairs, which provided the best cover within all of the crumbling brickwork. From his position of control over the stairs and the only way out, he was like spider with a cast web. When he felt a tickle on the line he could shoot from cover until he was the last man standing.

  At the sound of gunfire Morrison hit the deck, smashing one knee into the ground, both hands up in a defensive position. It was Radix who grabbed him and dragged him through the archway opposite and into the shadows, hissing, “Down, down.”

  He crouched, rock solid, until he felt so much carbon dioxide in his lungs that he was becoming light-headed. He brought the crook of his elbow over his mouth and allowed himself to exhale through pursed lips. He then opened his mouth wide to suck in air as quietly as possible. He had never been so scared in his life, knowing full well what an embarrassment he was to the uniform. It was Radix who always knew what to do, when to do it. He was ashamed that he might have killed Radix in exchange for escape and betrayed the only person who was on his side.

  “What do we do?” he whispered.

  “We get the fuck out of here or we die trying. Which way did Nastos go?”

  “No idea.”

  “Shit.”

  Morrison listened intently, hearing subdued moans from the next room. “You hear that?”

  “Yeah.” Radix paused. “He sounds hurt.” He crept to the doorway, pulling Morrison. “Let’s rush him.”

  “What?”

  “Come quietly.”

  Morrison felt himself being pulled along. He had no idea how Radix knew where he was going. They started slowly at first then lunged into a room, pushing Morrison out wide. He felt himself crash into a person who left out an oomph. Morrison felt his fists flying automatically. He grabbed the figure by the neck and threw wild punches. A gun hit the ground with an unmistakable sound then the man Morrison was fighting launched himself down the hallway and disappeared.

  Morrison dropped to the floor sucking air, his fists aching. He heard the sound of a pistol being racked and the universe came to a grinding halt.

  “Nice one, Morrison. We’ve got a chunk.”

  The sudden and explosive sound of gunfire had sent everyone scattering. Nastos grabbed Carscadden by the scruff of his jacket and dragged him south down the brick corridor into a side room. There was no direct light. The catacombs were a black maze.

  There were sounds of more gunfire, the briefest flashes of light. The entire time Nastos sucked up tight against a wall and began feeling around to determine what kind of room he was in. There were cast-iron pipes hanging down from the ceiling, in some areas lower than six feet from the floor. If Nastos and Carscadden had been
walking or running at full height they would have smashed right into them but they had instinctively kept their heads down out of fear of the gunfire.

  “Carscadden, come here.”

  “What?”

  “Here.” He found Carscadden and placed his hand up to feel the piping. “We’re going to keep our heads down. We’re going to be as quiet as we can and try to get out of here.”

  “Which way is out?”

  Nastos scanned left and right. His eyes were adjusting to the dark but not fast enough. “The stairs are that way, but no thanks. There must be another way.”

  He snuck up to the doorway where they had come in and watched. There were shadows moving in the area of the staircase but he couldn’t be sure of what he was seeing. Then he heard something close and ducked back. “Carscadden, someone’s coming.”

  They drew back into the room, Nastos wishing he had a brick or an improvised weapon. When a figure appeared at the doorway they both lunged. Nastos grabbed the figure by the throat and brought up his knee hard and fast striking the man in the head as hard as he could. All he could do was hope that the man didn’t have a gun. It was frantic and clumsy, made worse by the fact that he and Carscadden had no time to plan and could not speak to work together for fear of giving away their position. Nastos grabbed the man by the face and, with the nose as a landmark, determined front and back, forced the man to the ground face first then knelt on his back. Carscadden frisked down his right arm and retrieved the gun.

  “Nastos, I’ve got it.”

  Nastos leaned over the dark figure. “Who are you?”

  The man remained silent until Nastos punched him in the ribs. He grunted, “Christian. You happy?”

  “Thrilled.”

  He took the gun from Carscadden. He tried to manipulate it in his hands to determine how many rounds they might have but found it slick to hold. What’s wrong with this thing?

  He handed the gun back to Carscadden and frisked Christian while whispering, “You have anything else on you?”

  “Just a bullet hole. Vince the fucking traitor put one into me before I returned the favour.”

  Carscadden said, “That explains why the gun is slick. It’s covered in blood.”

  Nastos replied, “You’ll have to forgive me for not giving a shit.” He ran his hands up and down Christian’s body. There were no other guns, just a cellphone, which he pocketed.

  “Carscadden, cover the doorway. Look out and tell me what’s going on down there.” He turned his attention to Christian. “Where are you hit?”

  “One in my right forearm.”

  “Poor baby,” Carscadden chimed in.

  “I’m going to try to be careful,” Nastos said. “But if you make a sound you’re worth more to me dead than alive.” Nastos leaned Christian over and unclasped his belt before sliding it off of his pants. He put Christian’s arms behind his back and tied them there with the belt. Christian swore a few times but was quiet enough.

  They heard shouts and more gunfire. It seemed to echo from every direction and despite their efforts there was no way to tell where it was coming from.

  Nastos hissed Carscadden over. “Here, make sure he doesn’t move.” Nastos took the gun, emptied the mag and counted all of the bullets. There were nine in the gun and one in the chamber. He reloaded and wiped the blood from his hands on his pants.

  There was a loud clang then the sounds of chains dropping. Soon the entire downstairs was lit up as if by magnesium flares. Nastos shielded his eyes as they stung from the light. He appraised Christian. He had certainly been shot. There was blood everywhere, including a trail that led into the room.

  Vince’s deep voice boomed. “Radix, Morrison? Whichever one of you takes care of the other gets out of here alive.”

  Radix shouted, “Fuck you, shithead.”

  Nastos shook his head. Radix was too easy to bait and give away his position. He refused the temptation to peek out of the room. Instead he moved within the room and tried to see as far down the hallway as possible. Everything looked different in the light. He could see the bottom of the stairs and how far they had run in the dark. Most of the interior walls were non-supporting, only bricked up to the floor joists or to the pipework. Quickly he sucked back deeper in the room when he heard, then saw, one of the Hells Angels bikers barrelling down the hallway following the blood trail.

  He frantically waved Carscadden back. He took three quick breaths and punched out into the hallway putting rounds down range. Big Red clutched his chest and careened against the wall while returning fire. Nastos pulled back into the room, his right forearm numb with pain. He passed the gun over to Carscadden. He’d been shot, not fatally, but with the searing pain and an open fracture to his forearm he couldn’t fire another round.

  Carscadden took the gun, his face pale with fear but determined. He punched out into the doorway and blasted off a few rounds himself. Eventually the gun locked back, empty. Carscadden held it up and stared at it. “That ain’t good.”

  Nastos hit the release to move the slide forward. “Locked back they know you’re empty. At least this way they can’t be sure.”

  Carscadden peered out again into the hallway. “The one with the red hair is dead.”

  Nastos gripped his arm again, cradling it to his side. “So one more Hells Angel plus Vince. We might just make it out of here.” After a brief search he found a loose brick and pried it from the wall to use as a weapon of last resort. Then he remembered the cellphone that he had taken from Christian, who was barely lucid. He brought it out but saw that there were no connections bars, no signal strength.

  29

  Vince buried his eyes into the crook of his elbow and flipped the main breaker on the electrical panel. He counted sixty seconds before he heard an eruption of gunfire and shouts from the other side of the basement. He turned the lights off again and when he opened his eyes they were still adjusted to the dark. Since he planned on moving soon he took the opportunity to speak. “Morrison, Radix, no shit. Whichever one of you shoots the other gets out of here in one piece. You hear me?”

  There was no answer; they weren’t going to take the bait a second time. He exited the room through the back door and began circling around toward the staircase. He heard more sporadic gunfire but wasn’t sure where it could have come from. He had heard gunfire and dull thuds. He could not be sure who had been hit or how many. With the unknown element on the staircase he decided that it was time to move and use his home field advantage. The hallway was generally a rectangle around the centre room. There were rooms on the outside walls, each with a large doorway but also with a small squeeze-through area from room to room. It was possible to work his way all the way around either by the hallway or by snaking through the rooms.

  He decided to do a counter-clockwise circle, going room to room from where no one would expect him. He crouched low, taking one step at a time in slow, measured paces.

  Vince slid out his second pistol, keeping one pointed in front and one in back as he crept sideways through the catacombs that he had memorized years ago. This was where the bikers had initially run. They might have moved and been involved in the shootout he had heard when he had turned the lights back on. When he found them he’d gladly sacrifice his position before . . . He stopped and held his breath. Yes, he could hear groaning. He closed both eyes, positioning his head then bringing both guns to bear. He paused then opened up. Muzzle flash was nearly enough to illuminate the man slumped against the back wall. After three rounds he was able to save one gun and shoot with just his right hand.

  He stood still. He heard whispers coming from down the hall but could not tell from where exactly. It was time to turn his mind to the awful truth. Someone had come down the stairs after him and he had no idea who it was. It had to be more Angels. As far as he knew, they could have brought the entire clubhouse.

  There was no movement
coming from down the hallway. He was in the enviable position of having no friendly fire to worry about plus having about one hundred rounds on him. Remembering that, he knelt down and topped up both guns before slowly creeping to the main hallway, the game trail from where he planned to snipe at anything that dared move for the staircase.

  With no more ammunition and back in darkness, Nastos took a moment to consider the few options he had. He took off his own belt and wrapped it tight around Christian’s open mouth, gagging him. “Carscadden, we’re going to walk toward the stairs, using him as a meat shield. I’ve had enough of this place.”

  Carscadden took a moment to answer. “Let’s do it.”

  Nastos cranked Christian’s arm behind his back hard enough to lift him up on his toes then shoved him forward. Christian would have heard the plan but wasn’t in much of a position to disagree. When Nastos felt Carscadden’s hand on his shoulder he began to move slowly, sucking up tight to the right wall.

  Nastos recalled that there was a doorway on the right then another further down on the left. If they could get to the room on the left it might be worth it to dump Christian there hard enough for him to make a distracting sound then make a quiet move for the stairs. His mind was racing with options, few of them good — like what if they ran right into someone who had a loaded gun?

  Nastos could feel Christian’s reluctance to walk first into the unknown. With each step, Nastos had to shove harder and harder as they went. Christian was quickly proving himself to be a liability, which was likely the idea. They made it to the room on the right and Nastos backed in, pulling Christian behind him. He pivoted quickly when he heard a sound behind him. There was gunfire, loud and close as if it came from everywhere. The explosions of light cast hideous shadows against the walls then disappeared leaving visual echoes. Christian slumped forward and Nastos dropped to the ground.