Bad Beat

by Carolina Mac

  I didn’t like to think about killing Kenny Portsmith, although it had to be done, so I got back to the problem at hand. “As long as we’re clear on that one point, I’m ready for your dad and his buddies. If they want cash and a vehicle, I can give them money and buy them a used pickup or something as long as they’re out of here in a couple of hours. No way are they taking either of our bikes or the Hummer.”

  “I agree, baby. My biggest fear is that I won’t stand up to my dad the way I should. I’m Mr. Tough Guy—worked my way up to number one in the club by being brutally tough. My dad threatens me and it’s like I’m eight years old. I panic and do what he wants. Whenever he’s near me, I cave. I can’t think—I’ve been scared shitless of him since I was a kid. Must come from all the beatings he laid on me when I was younger. Probably need fuckin therapy.” He punched his hand with his fist.

  “We’ll stand together against them. They’ll think I’m a helpless girl and that will be our ace in the hole.”

  “These guys are killers, Portia. They killed guards and they won’t think twice about killing us to get what they need. I can’t see this ending any way but very fuckin bad.” He hung his head and exhaled a big breath.

  “Fuck them, Jackson. We’re going to be ready in case they show. I need some time with the rifles. Let’s head out into the desert for a couple of hours and empty a box or two.”

  “Better than sitting around here. Let’s do it.”

  ON THE WAY out of town, we stopped at a gun shop and picked up a couple boxes of practice ammo. Jackson drove out of the city, chose a deserted road far away from civilization, parked the Hummer and set up some targets. The air was hot and dry and the sound of rifle fire echoed through the desert like cracks of lightning. Angel ran free while we practiced and annoyed an armadillo she found huddled beneath a cactus.

  I emptied my first box. “I’ve got a good feel for this Remington. I love it.”

  “Just getting some practice in has settled my nerves a lot,” said Jackson.

  While he continued shooting I sat on a rock and loaded the rifle over and over until I was lightning fast. Jackson watched me, and then practiced with his Smith and Wesson, and then with the Bone Collector.

  “Sun’s going down. Almost ready for home?” I asked.

  Jackson nodded. “Time for a beer or two.”

  DUSK HAD FALLEN on Vegas when Jackson parked the truck in the garage. As we carried the guns to the cleaning table, I felt considerably more prepared for unwanted visitors than I had a few hours before. Maybe Stan and his buddies would never show up, but if they did we were ready.

  “Dinner’s on the table.” I stuck my head out into the garage. Jackson had arranged the bikes in one bay and the Hummer in the second, leaving lots of open space to work on the Harleys or clean guns, or whatever. He had thrown a mat down for Angel and she loved hanging out there in the man cave with the man.

  “Garage is all locked up.” He sat down at the table and let out a big sigh. “I feel a lot calmer than I did a couple hours ago.”

  “Angel will give us warning if she hears anything outside, and that will give us an advantage.” I set a plate of food in front of Jackson.

  “This looks good, baby. How did you cook the steaks without a barbecue?”

  “The stove has a grill built in, but I would still like to buy a barbecue for the patio. You can use it all year round in this climate.”

  Jackson polished off his steak and salad, and a mountain of mashed potatoes floating in butter. I got off my stool to put on a pot of coffee just as Angel took off in the direction of the back door growling and snarling. I tensed and froze mid-step.

  Jackson jumped off his stool so fast he knocked it over. “Turn off the lights,” he whispered, as he went with Angel to check out the yard.

  Concealing myself behind the drapes, I peered out the front window and saw no movement of any kind on the street. I tip-toed through the living room and stood at the patio door watching Jackson check the perimeter with the dog. “Anything?”

  “Don’t think so. She probably heard a noise from one of the neighbor’s yards.”

  My hands shook as I returned to the kitchen and turned the night light on over the stove. I sucked in a big breath to steady myself before I poured the coffees. Still shaky, I added cream, picked up the sugar spoon and dumped a pile on the counter. “Shit,” I mumbled to myself as I cleaned it up. Was I really ready for them or was I just kidding myself?

  I carried the mugs into the living room. “Let’s see if there’s anything on the news about the escape, or the pursuit.”

  Jackson fiddled with the remote, got the TV up and running, and we checked out the news on every channel. “This is American stuff,” he grumbled. “We need Canadian news to find out what’s happening.”

  “What about on our Pad things we bought.”

  “You’re right. I can Google it. I hope we have the internet here.”

  “I’m sure Pam mentioned it.”

  Jackson stared intently at his screen for ten minutes before he said anything. “Fuck,” he hollered. “This report says the police lost their trail in Alberta and they might have crossed into the US.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “DID YOU SLEEP at all, sugar?” Running my hand down his bare back I could feel the tightness in all his muscles. He was slouched on a stool at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, elbows on the counter, his face resting on his fists. “Off and on. I kept reaching under my pillow to make sure my gun was there. I’m a fuckin mess.” He stared at his shaky hands.

  “It’s just the waiting that does that to you. If they do come here, you’ll suck it up and pull it all together.”

  “Sounds like you did this before, baby. You’ve been in a lot of situations.”

  “I lived three years with Matthew, waiting for him to attack me, and I never knew when he would strike—then I waited for Kenny’s bitch to come after me—thinking there were no bases that I hadn’t covered. I let her almost kill me with a bomb. I was stupid believing I was bullet proof and could take her down in any situation—I walked right into a trap—so fucking stupid.”

  “You are never stupid, Annie. You’re the smartest woman I know.”

  “She taught me a valuable lesson,” I shook my head, “When you think you’re totally prepared, go over the plan one more time and look for holes.”

  Jackson nodded. He was not smiling.

  I put a plate of scrambled eggs and sausages in front of him and filled up his coffee. He stared into space. “Eat your breakfast, sugar. When the time comes, have confidence in yourself. You’re in top shape, a trained fighter, and an excellent marksman.”

  “You’re right, baby. I don’t know why I’m stressing so much about this. I’ve never backed down from any fight, and I hardly ever lose one.”

  “Because he’s your father, you’re letting emotions enter into it. That’s what’s screwing up your head.” I messed up his hair. “You have me for a sidekick.”

  “No better back up than you, Annie. That’s for fuckin sure.” He gave me a hug.

  I don’t know if he believes that. He might be more confident with one of his own men.

  I showered, dressed and wriggled into my shoulder holster. The Beretta was loaded. I double checked to make sure there was a round in the chamber, flicked the safety on and put the gun in the holster. Cocked and locked. I repeated the procedure with my rifle and laid it on the dining room table.

  Jackson sat in the living room checking the Canadian news on his i¬¬Pad, the muscles in his arms taut.

  “Anything recent?”

  “Can’t find any new reports. I hate not knowing what the hell is happening.”

  “Chances are they won’t come here until after dark if they have any brains at all.”

  “They’re short on brains, baby, or they wouldn’t have killed guards and be running for their lives.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ANGEL GROWLED. A long low growl rumbling from deep
down in her throat. She scrambled up from her blanket and bounded out the bedroom door. The clock read three twelve. I grabbed my clothes off the floor, tugged them on and shoved my Beretta into my waistband.

  “Jackson, wake up. Angel heard something,” I whispered and touched his arm.

  He sat up, groggy for a moment, reached for the lamp and then pulled his hand back. The room was pitch dark. He grabbed the Smith and Wesson from under his pillow and jumped to his feet. Tripping over his jeans, he shoved a hand against the wall to steady himself, grabbed this pants from the floor and tugged them on. He tore out of the room with me on his heels struggling to get my feet into my boots.

  The side door stood open when I reached the kitchen. Jackson had gone into the garage and Angel was locked in the yard, barking and scratching on the patio door. The amount of foam she had spewed onto the glass door showed her hatred for our guests. Shards of glass protruding from the smashed garage door—the one leading to the yard—sparkled in the glow of the street light. Three shadowy forms huddled in the garage with Jackson speaking in low tones. I sucked in a big breath and wiped my hands down my jeans.

  “Hey, son, good to see you.” Jackson’s father gave him a rousing slap on the back.

  “What do you want?” Jackson growled.

  “Is that the best you can do? Your old man came all the way to Vegas to see you and the girlfriend,” he chuckled.

  “How did you find me, Dad?”

  “Wasn’t that hard. Had a buddy of mine in Toronto put a chip in your bike. That way, I always know where my little boy is in case I need him.” He threw back his head and laughed. “Wouldn’t want to lose track of you now that you’re in the money.”

  Jackson wouldn’t have told him I have money.

  “Quit fuckin around, Stan. We need to eat and sleep,” said the taller of the other two men.

  “Tell shorty to make us some food.” The words came from a second man in the shadows.

  Anger flashed through me like a lightning bolt. I flicked on the kitchen light. “Nobody calls me shorty,” I snarled. “I’ll make you something to eat, and pack food for the road, then the three of you are leaving. That’s my best offer.”

  “Well, well, looky what we have here. This is an added bonus, ain’t it?” The tall skinny man with salt and pepper hair, pushed past Jackson’s father into the kitchen. He was dressed in clothes two sizes too big for him and hadn’t washed in days. The reek of body odor gagged me as he moved closer.

  “Don’t lay a hand on her,” Jackson yelled charging towards the door. The other man blocked the doorway to the kitchen. He was in his early forties, a muscular, stocky build with a bushy beard and a nasty scar under his left eye. Red mud caked the front of his clothes hinting he had recently crawled through a culvert.

  “Or what, kid? Don’t tell me you’re gonna stop me.” The skinny guy laughed. “Long time since I had a woman, and never in my fuckin life one that looked as good as her.”

  He grabbed me by the arm and spun me around, trying to kiss me. His bony fingers dug into the flesh on my upper arm. His grasp was like iron, his breath like road kill. I twisted and fought, but I couldn’t shake him off. He kept pulling me towards him as I was struggling to break out of his grasp.

  “Let go of me,” I yelled and kicked at him.

  “Not until I get what I want.” He grinned, showing me nicotine stained teeth.

  When he made a grab for my hair to pull my face close to his, I reached behind me with my left hand, pulled the Beretta out of my waistband and squeezed off a round into his eye.

  Blood and brain matter covered my shirt and my hair before the con collapsed in a heap at my feet. A blood pool radiated out from the hole in his skull forming a red lake around him on the tile floor. My ears rang from the report and the air in the kitchen reeked of gunpowder.

  “One down,” I said grabbing a tea towel to wipe off my face and arms.

  The second convict grabbed Jackson by the hair and pushed him through the door holding a gun to his temple. Needles pricked the back of my neck when I heard the click and knew the gun was cocked. “That wasn’t a smart move, missy. You just made things a whole lot uglier,” he barked. “Stan, get her gun.”

  Stan was an older version of Jackson. Tall, good looking, dark hair, graying a little at the temples. A razor wire tat circled his neck. His smile belied warmth as he walked towards me. His eyes dark, cold and dead told the true story.

  “Give Stan the fuckin’ gun, sweetheart, or I’m gonna’ shoot your boyfriend.” The bearded guy pressed his weapon tighter against Jackson’s head.

  “You wouldn’t let him shoot your only son, Stan? Would you? What kind of a shit father does that?” I yelled, waving my gun arm in the air to distract Jackson’s dad. When he flicked his glance upward, I buried the heel of my boot in his groin. He groaned and bent forward to grab his nuts. Clutching the barrel of the Beretta in my fingers, I brought the butt down hard on the back of Stan’s head. He went down like a stone, face first onto the kitchen tiles—right next to his buddy.

  Jackson took advantage of the confusion to elbow the bearded guy in the ribs. He turned and tried to wrestle the gun out of his hand. The convict’s biceps were huge, and he outweighed Jackson by at least a hundred pounds. Jackson couldn’t out muscle him. As they were struggling and grunting, I hollered, “down, Jackson.” When he dropped to the floor on his belly, I put a bullet in the bearded guy’s face.

  “Two down,” I said softly as I punched 911 into my cell phone and gave the address. I threw my arms around Jackson and hugged him tightly. “You okay, sugar?”

  He hung on to me and buried his face in my hair. “I love you, Annie,” he whispered.

  Sirens wailed louder and louder as the police approached our new neighborhood. I flicked the outside light on over the front door and stood on the step waiting for them. Two cruisers careened into the driveway and four officers jumped out hurtling past me into the house with guns drawn.

  As I turned and re-entered the kitchen, my heart stopped, my shoulders tightened and I let out a scream. I staggered into the island and held on. Stan was gone from the kitchen floor and there was no sign of Jackson.

  “Are you all right, Miss? What’s the matter?” The second officer put his hand on my shoulder and steadied me while his partner called for the medical examiner.

  I tried to speak and nothing was coming out of my mouth. My hands shook uncontrollably. One of the officers filled a glass with water and helped me take a couple of sips.

  “Jackson’s gone,” I shrieked, “his father took him.”

  The officer stared at me trying to get a read on the situation. “Let’s start at the beginning. I’m Officer Johnston, and this is my partner Officer Rodriguez.”

  Officer Johnston was a rotund man in his fifties, with a pleasant face. Officer Rodriguez was Hispanic, stocky muscular build, with short black hair and a mustache.

  We sat on the stools in the kitchen and I related the whole story, starting with the escape from Millhaven Penitentiary, in Ontario and ending with the two bodies on the floor. I supplied them with the Sergeant’s number at the OPP. Johnston verified my story while Rodriguez questioned me.

  “So where are your husband and his father?”

  “I don’t know. But I do know, he will kill Jackson. He won’t think twice about killing his own son, if it suits his purposes,” I sobbed. “You have to find them. Please hurry.”

  Another emergency vehicle arrived from the coroner’s office, followed moments later by a black sedan transporting two detectives from the homicide squad and then the crime scene van pulled up. I retold my tale to the detectives and watched while the bodies on the tile floor were photographed and prodded by the Medical Examiner. My kitchen would be off limits for a while.

  “You’re saying that you shot these two convicts, Mrs. Talbot?” confirmed one of the detectives—the tall bald one.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten your name already. I’m losing my focus. I�
�m so worried about Jackson. Yes, I shot them. I had to. They were going to kill my husband and me, take our vehicle and make a run for the Mexican border.”

  “My name is Detective Shannon, and my partner is Detective Crocker.”

  I nodded, recalling the names they’d already given me.

  “You must be a crack shot. These are both clean kills,” he said, looking skeptical.

  “I practice,” I said, glumly.

  He bagged my Beretta and tagged it for evidence. “You didn’t touch the bodies, did you?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Do you have people searching for Jackson?” I asked, laying my cheek down on the cool granite counter. Blackness was creeping into my head, and I knew fainting wasn’t far off.

  “Do you want to lie down, Mrs. Talbot? You look pale.”

  “I have to look for Jackson.” I stood up a little too quickly and grabbed onto the counter top for support. I eased back down onto one of the stools hoping my head would clear.

  “The Feds are looking for him. Because the escaped prisoner is Canadian, this is a Federal matter,” he said. “We need you to go into your bedroom and change your clothes. We need to bag the ones you’re wearing for evidence. Then please sit in the other room while we clean up the evidence in here. Would you mind doing that?” He pointed towards the living room. When I looked up, I saw Angel, frantic at the patio door.

  “I’ll change and then sit on the patio with my dog.” I pulled myself gingerly to my feet with the help of the counter top. I headed for the bedroom and tried to think while I stripped off my blood-spattered jeans and t-shirt. My desire to take a shower was strong but time didn’t allow for luxuries like being clean. After pulling on a fresh pair of jeans and a sweatshirt I retrieved a spare Beretta from my nightstand drawer, shoved it into the waistband of my pants and pulled my shirt over it. I shoved cash and credit cards from my wallet into my pocket, rolled up the discarded clothes and returned to the beehive of activity in the kitchen.