by Mark Dawson
She blinked several times, then nodded.
Milton put his ear to the door to the garage, listening hard, but still heard nothing. He pushed down on the chrome lever and pulled the door open.
A gleaming grey Cadillac Escalade and a navy Porsche Macan were parked next to one another underneath fluorescent lights. The epoxied floor looked as if it had been lifted straight from the showroom with not a single mark on it. Four mountain bikes were hung on the far wall. Sets of golf clubs rested in front of the Macan.
Milton took the two stairs down into the garage and then realised what was wrong.
There was no reason for the lights in the garage to have been left on.
He was on unfamiliar ground, in a situation he hadn’t foreseen, and he had been unforgivably careless.
“Don’t move.”
The barrel of a gun pressed against the back of his skull.
Milton stood still.
The pressure of the gun increased against the back of his head.
“What’s happening?” Milton said, feigning fright. “Who are you?”
“Hands against the wall.”
Milton did as he was told.
The gun withdrew.
“Turn around.”
Milton turned and saw his assailant. The man was the same height as him, in his late twenties, with hair buzzed so short it would have been possible to set a drink on top of it. He was Hispanic, with a big nose and a small mouth, and was clean shaven. His shoulders and chest had evidently received attention in the gym. He had a small earpiece in his ear, and a mic was clipped to the lapel of his black shirt. He held his Ruger like it was not his first time, the muzzle centred on Milton’s chest.
“I have one male secured,” the man said into the mic, “in the garage.”
Milton glanced around for anything that might offer him a means of fighting back. There was nothing to hand, but he kept his thoughts focused and calm. The man had no idea who Milton was, nor what he was capable of. That was an advantage.
“Where’s the woman?” the man asked.
“Who?”
“Jessica.”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“So why are you here?”
“I’m just a friend of the family,” Milton said, his hands up, faking the fear that the man would expect.
“You let yourself in?”
“I have a key.”
“But why are you here?”
“I’m staying here tonight. I came in and saw the place had been wrecked.”
The corner of the man’s mouth flickered into a small smile. “Where’s the girl?” he repeated.
“She’s not here.”
“She was in the car with you. We saw.”
“No, she wasn’t,” he protested. “I’m on my own.”
“You’re gonna protect her?” The man shook his head. “That’d be a really bad idea.”
“Please,” Milton said. “There’s no need to point that thing at me.”
“Where is she?”
“I already told you—she’s not here.”
The man raised the Ruger so that now it was level with Milton’s mouth. “This isn’t doing you any favours, cabrón. You want to walk out of here? You need to tell me where I can find her.”
“I told you—I can’t help.”
The guy shook his head, making a show of his disappointment in Milton’s stubbornness. He stepped closer and pressed the small black earpiece with his free hand.
“Es Pérez,” he said. “Estoy en el garaje. La niña está en la casa, pero no conmigo.”
Milton took a breath, balancing himself, readying his body for sudden and violent action. His movements were small and subtle, and would have been imperceptible to anyone who didn’t know what to look for. He bent his knees a little and leaned forward until his weight was directly over his feet; he straightened the four fingers of his right hand, bracing his forefinger with his thumb.
The man smiled at Milton, both corners of his mouth turning upward this time. “You need to tell me now.”
“Okay,” Milton said. “She’s upstairs.”
The man relaxed his arm just a fraction. He reached his left hand up to the broadcast button on his earpiece. His attention flickered away, just for a moment.
Long enough.
Milton moved.
15
Milton brought his left hand up hard into the man’s elbow. The muzzle of the gun went straight up, and the weapon discharged into the ceiling. Milton followed with his right hand, striking a hard, straight-fingered jab into the man’s throat. The gun fell to the ground and the man stumbled backward, clutching at his larynx, unable to breathe. Milton raised his knee and kicked out, planting his boot in the middle of the man’s chest and sending him back into the Porsche. Milton bent down, collected the Ruger, and put one bullet into the man’s forehead. He slumped to the ground.
Milton stepped over to the man and knelt down next to him. He was wearing a Motorola TETRA radio, with earpiece and in-line lapel mic. Milton plucked the earpiece out of the man’s ear and pushed it into his own.
He overheard the conversation. “Morazán, Lòpez. Pérez está en el garaje.”
A second speaker responded: “Es Morazán. ¿Qué quieres que hagamos?”
“Revisa el primer piso y luego encuéntrate con él.”
“Afirmativo.”
Milton’s Spanish was basic, but he understood the gist of what he had heard. The man he had killed was Pérez. He must have breached the property through the side door to the garage. Morazán and Lòpez were the other men whom Milton had seen coming inside, through the front door. He had no idea where they were now, but if they were clearing the first floor, then they would discover Jessica in the laundry room before they got to him.
He had to move. He frisked Pérez and found a wallet and a cellphone. He put both into his pocket and then checked the Ruger. It was a nice weapon, compact and well made, with a precision-machined nitride stainless steel chassis and slide. He ejected the magazine and counted the load: there were eleven rounds in the mag and another one in the chamber. He pressed the magazine back into the well, climbed the steps, opened the door and made his way back to the laundry room.
Jessica was hiding behind the upright tumble dryer. She was pale.
“I heard shooting,” she said.
“There are men in the house,” Milton said. “They’re looking for you. We need to leave.”
“But the gunshots?”
“One of them jumped me in the garage.”
“He fired at you?”
“No,” Milton said. “But he would have.”
“So?”
“So I shot him first.”
“Jesus!”
They didn’t have time for a conversation like this. There were at least two men in the house—probably more—and they were likely heading in their direction.
“We need to leave, Jessica. It’s not safe for you here. For either of us.”
He heard the sound of footsteps coming down the central corridor toward the billiard lounge. He grabbed Jessica by the wrist and pulled her through the door and into the garage. They went down the steps, and Jessica stopped in her tracks as she saw the body of the dead man. The bullet had passed through his head from front to back, and blood and fluids were leaking from both gory wounds. Milton dragged her on, taking her to the southeast corner of the garage, next to a set of shelves that held plastic boxes of junk and pots of paint. It was hidden from the door by the two vehicles.
“Stay down low,” he said.
Jessica crouched down. Milton switched off the overhead lights and took up a position behind the Porsche, at an angle that allowed him a clear line of fire to the door. He dropped to one knee, raised the Ruger, took a deep breath to steady himself, then exhaled.
He blinked slowly, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom.
There was enough light from the street shining through the window on the south wall for him to
see across the space. The door opened and the first man appeared, followed closely by a second man. Milton waited for them to come fully into the garage. He had a visual on them both: they were dressed similarly to Pérez, all in black. They were both armed, too, each toting a large handgun.
“Estamos dentro,” the second man said. Milton heard it from across the room and in the earpiece he had taken from the dead man.
The first man glanced to his left, in Milton’s direction, and caught sight of the body on the floor.
“Mierda.”
The earpiece buzzed. “¿Qué es?”
Milton changed his aim, drawing a bead on the second man. The target was too far away for Milton to risk a headshot, so he aimed into the middle of the inverted triangle between the man’s head and waist. He pulled the trigger, just once, and hit him squarely in the gut. The man’s body fell back, blocking the door. His colleague must have noticed the muzzle flash; he turned toward Milton and brought up his weapon, but Milton had already taken fresh aim. He squeezed off a second shot, and the man was drilled in the side of his torso. He stumbled forward and Milton fired again, dropping him to the ground.
He kept a running tally: four shots, four hits. Nine rounds left.
His earpiece crackled. “¿Qué es?”
Milton went over to the two men, the Ruger trained down on both of them. They were both still alive, but they were bleeding out from their wounds. Milton shot them both at close range. Seven rounds left.
He stood, took another deep breath in, and then exhaled. He felt no regret for what he had just done. Three men were dead. Another three to add to a very long list. But these men were not as helpless as some of those who had paid the price for crossing his path. These men were armed, and they had forced their way into the house with bad intentions. Milton didn’t know where Jessica’s father was, but the blood in the living room suggested that he had been hurt and removed from the premises. Milton did not enjoy violence. He never had. But here, tonight, he had been left with no choice. He would have been a dead man if he had hesitated. Kill or be killed.
He also knew that his ruthlessness would mean nothing if they did not move quickly. He frisked the two men, taking their weapons and ejecting the magazines. He pocketed both.
The radio crackled again. “¿Qué es? Pérez?”
Milton went back to where Jessica was hiding.
“Lòpez, qué esta pasando?”
The window of opportunity to get out of the house was closing. Milton had no idea how many more men were inside and outside the property. He had seen two SUVs. How many men were inside them? It was impossible to do anything other than guess, but Milton always worked on the worst-case scenario. He would assume there were at least another four, meaning that, together with the man in charge, he was looking at a minimum of five hostiles. If they came in heavy, knowing that three colleagues had gone quiet…
Milton didn’t like those odds very much at all.
“Higuaín, hemos sido atacados. Acérquese al garaje inmediatamente con precaución.”
Milton gestured for Jessica to stand. She did. She was white, and he saw that her hands were trembling.
“I need you to focus,” Milton said. “Can you do that for me?”
She stared blankly at him.
“Jessica—we need to leave. And I need your help to do that.”
She nodded. “I’m good,” she said. “I’m good.”
“The keys to the cars. Where are they?”
“Don’t know about the Escalade.”
“The Porsche?”
“He always leaves them under the seat.”
16
Milton dragged the dead bodies out of the way, then pulled the laundry room door shut and twisted the lock on the handle. It was nothing significant, but it might allow them another few seconds in the event that they needed it.
Jessica was already in the back of the Porsche, as he’d instructed her. Milton got into the front, turned the key in the ignition, and the big engine rumbled to life. He pulled the seat belt across his body and clicked it home.
He pressed the button in the car’s control panel that lifted the garage door.
“Buckle up.”
Jessica did as she was told.
Milton rolled the car out of the garage. Both this garage and the one in the opposite wing were accessed by paved driveways that met in the middle, in a Y shape, and then ran down between the front lawns to the road. The first of the black SUVs had been placed at the end of the drive so that it blocked the way to the road. The second SUV was on the move, and, as Milton watched, the driver turned the wheel and parked nose-to-nose with the first one so that the obstruction was complete.
Milton turned to his right, to the house’s open front door, and saw a man there.
The man aimed a suppressed pistol in their direction.
“Down!”
The suppressor deadened the sound of the shot, but did not silence it. Milton flinched as the round punched a hole through his window, passed through the cabin and punched a second hole through the window on the opposite side.
He flung himself upright once more and stomped on the pedal, and the Macan responded, firing forward and sending a spray of gravel up behind it. The force of the acceleration pushed Milton back into the seat. He steered down the driveway and, at the last moment, swung the wheel hard right. The Macan chewed across the lawn, clipped the back of the second SUV, and kept going.
He kept the accelerator pinned to the floor. He roared by his abandoned GTO and raced out of the neighbourhood.
17
“You okay?” Milton called back.
Jessica didn’t reply; Milton looked into the mirror and saw the young woman sitting up again behind him, her face as white as snow. She had her left arm extended forward, using her hand to brace herself against the back of Milton’s seat.
“Hold on.”
Milton retraced the route that they had taken to get to the house. He kept his eyes on the rear-view mirror, finally easing his foot off the pedal when they were on the Summerlin Parkway. He waited for his heart to slow down. He had been in situations like this more times than he cared to count; the adrenaline always managed to find him.
“What’s happening?” Jessica said. “Those men… my father…”
Milton pushed down on the pedal and picked up speed.
“The blood…” she said. She didn’t finish the sentence.
“It looked like there was a struggle,” Milton said. “Someone was hurt.”
“My father. I don’t…” She stifled a sob. “I don’t understand why that would have happened.”
“You said your dad worked for the casinos.”
“Yes.”
“Would he have any enemies?”
“No,” she said. “None.”
“Your brother?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“He’s supposed to be at the airport?”
“Yes. Meeting us there.”
“Call him.”
Jessica took out her phone, touched the screen and then held it to her ear. She waited, saying nothing, her face in the mirror increasingly concerned. She took the phone away from her ear and shook her head.
“Nothing?” Milton said.
“Straight to voicemail.”
“Is that unusual?”
“I don’t know… he’s not always the easiest to get hold of, but he should be waiting to hear from me.”
They were approaching the off-ramp for North and South Rampart Road. Milton checked the mirror. There was nothing behind them. The earpiece he was still wearing—he had forgotten that it was still there—crackled into life, and Milton looked in the mirror again.
“¿Hola?”
He recognised the voice: it was the man he had heard before, presumably the man who was in charge.
“¿Y tú? ¿Quién eres?”
Milton arranged the in-line mic so that it was just below his chin. “I don’t speak Spanish.”
> “You are Señor Smith.”
It was a statement, not a question, and designed to catch him off-guard. Milton was wise to it.
“You found the bill of sale?”
“It was in your car.”
“It was.”
Milton watched the mirror. Still nothing. He saw Jessica’s face, her expression quizzical. He ignored her.
“You killed three of my men, Señor Smith.”
“They shouldn’t have pointed their guns at me.”
Jessica looked as if she was about to speak. Milton held her gaze and shook his head.
“I would very much like to know who you are.”
“And I’d like a date with Jessica Biel. Neither of those things are going to happen.”
The man chuckled. “You’re funny, señor.”
“I’m hilarious. What do I call you?”
“My name is Oscar. Shall I call you John?”
“Call me whatever you like.”
“You have the woman, John? Jessica Russo?”
Milton could hear the sound of a car’s engine behind the man’s voice and checked the mirrors again. “That’s right.”
“How much is she worth to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“How much for you to bring her back?”
Milton looked back again. They were in the middle lane of the three-lane freeway. On their left, four cars back, he saw what looked like an SUV. Its headlights were bright, and although Milton could not identify the make, he could see its size. In the lane to their right, the same distance behind them, he saw the first vehicle’s twin. Same size, same shape, same bright lights.
Shit.
“Ten thousand dollars,” Oscar said.
Milton watched the cars approach, taking their time as they worked into position. They were patient, not doing anything to attract attention, just slowly reeling them in.
“No,” Milton said.
“Twenty?”
“I’m not selling her out.”
“Fifty?”
“You’re not paying attention, Oscar. It’s not happening.”
“You’ll make an enemy out of a man like me for the sake of the woman?”
