When they finally saw the Thompson gunner, Lynch and Richard looked at each other wide-eyed.
“Smart thinking,” Lynch said.
The man was huge, easily over six feet, and immensely broad at the shoulders, with hands the size of beef briskets. There was blood all over him, at least a dozen bullet wounds gleaming in the moonlight, but he still struggled to raise the heavy submachine gun, his head lifted off the grass, blood trickling down his chin as he coughed up bubbles of dark, frothy blood. Lynch brought up the M76 and fired a short burst at the gunman’s head from six feet away, the full effect thankfully hidden in the dark shadows of the tall grass. The Thompson dropped as nerveless hands fell limp to the ground.
“Didn’t think they grew button-men the size of Texas steers around here,” Richard mused.
“Must have been Cranston’s right-hand goon,” Lynch replied. “But where’s that bastard hiding?”
The roar of a Cadillac’s engine answered the question. From around a low hill, headlight beams swept across the field, briefly illuminating Lynch and Richard before the Cadillac hit the straightaway. Both men brought up their weapons and fired, but the barrage of lead seemed to have no effect against the car’s armored body. Someone was firing a pistol from the rear passenger seats, and Lynch heard bullets buzz all around them as the car accelerated out of the turn and motored past.
“Where the fuck is Blake?” Lynch shouted over the noise of Richard’s submachine gun.
“You’ll see soon enough,” Richard replied as his magazine ran dry.
The Cadillac’s headlights illuminated the Gran Torino sitting in the road. Standing in the oncoming lane was Blake, holding the Browning Automatic Rifle tucked into his hip, assault-style. With the Cadillac bearing down on him less than fifty yards away, Blake began firing the BAR, walking the rounds across the Caddy’s hood and into the windshield.
The Cadillac might have been armored against small arms like pistols and submachine guns, but the thick glass and reinforced steel body panels did little to stop the full-powered .30-06 caliber rifle rounds. The cartridge was lethal at over a mile; at this distance, the Cadillac didn’t stand a chance. The radiator spewed steam and the hood was torn to scrap metal, the windshield disintegrating under the fusillade.
Mortally wounded by the bullets tearing its metal insides apart, the Cadillac howled like a crippled beast. The driver, probably badly injured, swerved past Blake, only to run the Cadillac off the road. The heavy vehicle managed to bounce across the ditch, then plowed through the field, a fantail of shredded grass and loose dirt spinning out behind the sedan along with radiator steam and spraying motor oil. Blake reloaded and blasted away at the retreating Cadillac, tearing apart the fender, trunk, and rear windshield.
Lynch thought for a moment Cranston might escape, but suddenly the nose of the sedan dipped down sharply. There was the sound of crumpling metal, and the engine raced for a second before stalling out and going silent. The tail end of the Cadillac stuck up several feet into the air, one of the rear tail lights still glowing in the darkness.
“He must’ve driven into a ditch,” Richard said.
“C’mon, we can’t let this bastard get away,” Lynch snapped.
The two men broke into a run. The Cadillac was perhaps a hundred meters ahead of them, and Blake was halfway there already. They heard the creak of tortured metal and in the moonlight Lynch saw the right rear door swing open, a figure tumbling free of the wreck. Before any of them could bring a gun to bear, there was a large muzzle flash and the boom of a shotgun. Richard jerked and twisted, dropping to the ground.
Lynch snap-fired a burst at Cranston with his M76 and ducked just as another load of buckshot whipped through the air near him. He leaned over and grabbed Richard’s shoulder.
“How badly are you hit?” he asked.
Richard shook his head. “Son of a gun peppered my leg with buckshot. Go on, get him.”
Lynch took off running as he heard Cranston fire the shotgun again, this time at Blake, who answered with a short burst of slugs from the BAR. The two men were running across the moonlit field, Cranston the faster but stumbling now and then, clearly injured from the crash. Blake was slower, but relentless in his pursuit.
Lynch took off at a dead sprint, faster by far than both men and used to moving quickly over uneven ground in the darkness. He swung his path wide and to the right, hoping to catch Cranston from the flank even as Blake closed in from the rear. Cranston must have seen Lynch pursuing, because a moment later the shotgun roared again, the grass in front of Lynch shredded by the charge of buckshot. Lynch brought up the M76 and rattled off a long burst from the hip, trying to force Cranston to seek cover or slow down.
But if anything, Cranston seemed to find his second wind. While he’d been stumbling and wobbling before, the wiry man was running at a steady pace now, and he began to widen the gap between him and Blake. In contrast, Lynch saw the bigger man was slowing down, and he remembered how Blake had begun flagging after just a few minutes during their escape from Kezar Stadium. As Lynch watched, Blake stumbled hard and went down, dropping to one knee in the tall grass.
Lynch cursed and changed course, angling towards Blake, just hoping the older man wasn’t having a heart attack in the middle of an open field, miles from anything. But as he got closer, Lynch saw Blake raise up the BAR, rest the elbow of his supporting arm on his knee, and begin firing single, aimed shots at Cranston. One, two, three shots missed, before the fourth shot spun the man around and dropped him into the grass and out of sight.
As Lynch approached him, Blake planted the butt of the BAR against the ground and used it to lever himself up.
“You okay?” Lynch asked.
Blake nodded and looked around. “Richard get hit?”
“Caught some buckshot, but he thinks he’s all right. C’mon, if you can walk, let’s get this asshole once and for all.”
The two men moved at a steady pace towards where Cranston had fallen, their guns at the ready. A muzzle flash winked at them and a pistol shot rang out. Blake cursed, the BAR tumbling from his hands. Lynch brought up his submachine gun and ripped out a long burst at Cranston, who fired back twice, the shots snapping through the air just inches from Lynch’s head. He looked back at Blake and saw the big man draw his .41 Magnum, his left arm hanging limp at his side, blood running down his fingers.
“He didn’t get the artery, I’ll be fine,” Blake said.
The two men continued to advance, their guns up and trained on the spot where Cranston had fallen. Lynch heard Cranston cursing and the sounds of rustling grass, and when they finally came upon him, Lynch had a moment of unexpected pity. The BAR’s bullet had evidently hit Cranston low in the back and blown open his stomach, because a long, glistening rope of grey-pink intestine was trailing out behind Cranston’s legs. One of Lynch’s bullets had wounded Cranston in the knee, rendering it useless, and the man had tried to crawl away, only to become entangled in his own guts. Hearing the two men approaching, Cranston rolled over, gasping in pain, his horn-rimmed glasses askew, a sheen of sweat across his face.
Lynch saw Cranston’s shotgun abandoned where he’d first fallen, the man’s .38 revolver, the cylinder open and empty, sitting in the grass near Cranston’s feet. Lynch walked over and picked it up, feeling the notches in the revolver’s wooden grip. He dropped the pistol into his jacket pocket. Blake stepped carefully around Cranston’s intestines and looked down at his former partner.
“I guess you won’t be setting my kids on fire, Philip.”
Cranston just lay there panting and in pain for a moment before he spoke. “I guess...that threat was a little uncalled for...now that I think about it.”
Blake took a knee next to Cranston. “Philip, tell me the name of the company looking to buy the prototype.”
Cranston looked up at Blake. “John, you’re such a self-righteous ass, you know that? You could’ve had a taste of it. The money. There was so much damn money.”
“It wasn’t money
,” Blake replied. “It was pain and suffering and blood, printed on paper. Taking it made you just as bad as them.”
“God, you’re so damn insufferable,” Cranston groaned. “Always were. Good cop, lousy partner.”
“Who wanted the prototype, Philip?” Blake asked again.
“You know what, John? Go fuck yourself. I’m not telling you anything.” Cranston let out a short laugh, and then he cried out, clutching at the horrific wound in his gut.
Blake slowly got to his feet and thumbed back the hammer of his revolver.
“Goodbye, Philip.”
“I hope I see you soon, John. Real soon.”
Blake pointed his Magnum and squeezed the trigger. The muzzle flash lit up Cranston’s face as the bullet smashed it apart.
Blake turned and walked away as police sirens wailed in the distance.
TWENTY-THREE
One week later, Lynch sat in Steiger’s office holding a fat envelope filled with cash. It was thirty thousand dollars in one hundred dollar bills, the remainder of his payment for services rendered. Steiger had given an identical envelope to Richard, who sat next to Lynch, the Texan’s wounded leg stretched out before him.
“I can’t tell you two how grateful I am that you saw this ugly business to its conclusion,” Steiger said.
“Man takes on a job,” Richard replied, “he stays to make sure the job’s done right.”
While Blake and Lynch had been finishing off Cranston, Richard had hobbled his way to the Cadillac and searched the vehicle. He’d found the fifty thousand Cranston had taken from Blake, as well as a briefcase filled with documents. Those documents pointed towards Thomas Delaney, one of Steiger’s rivals in the defense technology business. Apparently, Cranston had been pragmatic enough to retain some incriminating evidence, so if he was ever caught by the police, he’d be sure to take Delaney with him.
Unfortunately for Cranston, Blake got to him first.
After getting back to San Francisco and getting everyone’s wounds tended to by a doctor willing to keep quiet for a substantial amount of cash, the three men had laid low while Steiger read over the documents. Several meetings were held with Delaney, including one where Richard, Lynch, and Blake were in attendance while brandishing firearms. Eventually, Delaney agreed that the best course of action was to sell his company to Steiger at a fair (perhaps too fair) price. Yesterday, the two businessmen had signed the requisite papers, giving Steiger ownership of Delaney’s company.
As for Philip Cranston, the papers didn’t know what to make of what happened. Roth’s involvement became little more than that of an innocent man with an unfortunate gambling habit, who got caught in the middle of a war between two criminal elements. Oddly, the police never identified who killed Snyder, Cranston, or any of his hired thugs, although smart money was on Syndicate heavies from Vegas and further east. The running theory was that Cranston’s operation had gotten too big for its britches, and he’d been eliminated as a result.
Now, feeling the thick wad of bills in the envelope, Lynch found he was incredibly conflicted. He’d broken countless laws, scattering bodies all across the Bay area, and at the end of the day, the man responsible for it all, Delaney, went unpunished. Steiger had given Delaney a check for an impressive sum of money, and Delaney agreed he’d move to Miami by the end of the month. Lynch didn’t think Roth would feel this was justice befitting Delaney’s crimes.
On the other hand, Lynch was sleeping better than he had been in a long while. And, the money in his hands was enough to set him up nicely for the foreseeable future. A little voice in the back of his head reminded him, and not for the first time, that he’d felt more alive running and gunning in San Francisco than he’d felt in all the months since he’d returned from Vietnam. Between the thrills and the cash, it wasn’t such a bad way to live, was it?
Lynch’s attention returned to Steiger, who stood up from his chair, signaling the end of their meeting. Steiger shook Lynch’s hand, as well as Richard’s. Blake, his left arm still in a sling, led the two men out of the office. Lynch glanced back over his shoulder and saw Steiger had already turned his attention away from them. He stood with hands clasped behind his back, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the great expanse of concrete, asphalt, steel, and glass stretching as far as the eye could see. Lynch imagined Steiger saw himself as a real captain of industry, even after performing a hostile takeover at gunpoint.
As they reached the building’s main entrance, Blake stopped and offered Lynch his hand.
“I guess you Army boys aren’t so bad, after all,” Blake said with a smile.
“For an old Devil Dog, you held up your end pretty well,” Lynch replied, shaking Blake’s hand.
Richard shook his head in mock bewilderment. “You military types sure do like tickling each other’s fannies. Must be all those cold nights huddling together in your foxholes.”
Blake gave Richard a deadpan stare. “Even with one busted paw, this Devil Dog can still knock you on your ass, civilian.”
The two men smiled at each other and shook hands. Richard and Lynch exited the building and walked out into the parking lot. Richard still bore a hint of a limp from the buckshot wounds in his leg, but he was healing well. The two men approached their cars, Lynch’s Jeep looking positively decrepit next to Richard’s Mustang.
Reaching their cars, Richard stopped and offered his hand to Lynch. “Well, partner, it was nice working with you.”
Lynch shook Richard’s hand. “You too Richard. Any time you need someone to watch your back, look me up.”
“Especially if the price is right?” Richard asked, raising an eyebrow.
Lynch patted the money in his coat pocket. “I have to admit, it beats selling surfboards for a living.”
Richard chuckled and opened the door to his Mustang. Climbing inside, he turned and gave Lynch a wave.
“Happy trails, amigo.”
Richard shut the Mustang’s door and turned over the engine. With a roar, he accelerated away, and within moments, was nothing more than a blue speck merging into traffic.
Lynch climbed into the CJ-5, and then glanced back towards the vanishing Mustang.
I wonder if I can get one of those in red, he thought.
Author’s Note
I first conceived of SAN FRANCISCO SLAUGHTER while writing my debut novel, KILLER INSTINCTS. Jamie Lynch was the uncle of William, my main character, and as the novel progressed, more and more of Jamie’s backstory, especially his relationship with the retired mercenary known as Richard, took on a life of its own. I began to envision the young Jamie Lynch, fresh from the war in Vietnam, as a prime candidate for a series of books set in the early ‘70s, smack in the middle of the “golden age” of Men’s Adventure fiction.
Writing KI was a long process, taking me over a year, and during that time, I drafted the rough outline of what would become this novel, and wrote the first chapter (the dream sequence). Although the story changed over time, the basic premise, including all the main characters, stayed the same, and I planted a few “Easter Eggs” in KI which some readers, who’ve read both novels, may notice.
I had two basic goals in mind while writing SFS. The first was to write a very classically-inspired Men’s Adventure novel, something that hearkened back very strongly to those series written in the ‘60s through the ‘80s. Many of the protagonists in those stories were Vietnam veterans who’d come back to the “real world” after the war, but couldn’t get the hunger for danger and excitement out of their blood. I’m also writing this story at a time when our own veterans are working to find a place for themselves back in the civilian world. While this book is in no way a meant to be a commentary on current events, the stories of these veterans – some of whom have been in the military their entire adult lives – have been on my mind during the writing process.
I also wanted to write a story that helped tie together the three generations of Lynch men (Thomas, Jamie, and William) in order to form a continuous
timeline in what I casually refer to as the Lynch Legacy. Someday, much further down the road, I hope to extend that legacy back into the Great War, perhaps as far back as the Napoleonic War. Of course, I might eventually tire of typing “Lynch” over and over again…
In conclusion, I want to thank everyone who has purchased one of my books over the years, especially those of you who have left reviews or given me valuable feedback. Writing is an evolutionary process, and it requires learning what works and what doesn’t in order to improve. I also want to thank my beta readers, who all provided invaluable insight into the book, as well as my good friend and fellow author Dan Eldredge, who is always my first source of counsel on a new project.
And now, off to plan the Hangman’s next adventure...
Contact Me
My Blog: postmodernpulp.com
Facebook: facebook.com/jack.badelaire
Twitter: @jbadelaire
Email: [email protected]
Mailing list for new book announcements:
http://postmodernpulps.blogspot.com/p/mailing-list.html
Works by Jack Badelaire:
The COMMANDO Series (WW2 Adventure Pulp)
Operation Arrowhead
Operation Bedlam
Operation Cannibal
Operation Dervish
The Train to Calais (short story)
The HANGMAN Series (‘70s Men’s Adventure)
San Francisco Slaughter
Killer Instincts (vigilante revenge thriller)
Renegade’s Revenge (western novella)
Spiders and Flies (fantasy novella)
Nanok and the Tower of Sorrows (fantasy short story)
Rivalry – A Ghost Story (horror short story)
Hatchet Force Journal #1 (fanzine)
San Francisco Slaughter Page 13
