by Don Easton
Burnside tried to look casual as he glanced around. “She don’t look like a cop.”
“Maybe she isn’t,” Alice replied. “I’m not certain about her, but I am about him. His name’s Jack Taggart.”
“Jack Taggart! Yesterday, that was … that card. Fuck!”
A stocky clean-cut man entered the bar and Jack knew then who their inside man was. He looked too out of place to be anything else. Wes is a prison guard! You’re going down, you bloody turncoat. It was no surprise when Burnside waved Wes over to join him.
Jack tried to appear nonchalant while discreetly casting glances at the table. Wes had taken a seat beside Dole and by the concern on his face and head-shaking, it was evident he wasn’t pleased. Come on, you bastard. Get over here and talk to me. Say something I can hang you with.
Moments later Burnside returned to where Jack sat. “Got a slight problem,” he said, sitting down.
“That being?” Jack asked.
“Wes is a little freaked out. He’s worried you could be a rat or a cop.”
“I thought you were the boss? Tell him to quit acting paranoid and come over so we can talk business. Either that, or maybe I should go over and talk to him.”
“He won’t talk to you until I search you. Wants to make sure you’re not wearin’ a wire. You got any objection to that?”
“Fuck no. If that’ll make him happy, then do what you gotta do.”
“Good. I’ll tell him you ain’t got a problem. Go to the can — I’ll be there in a sec.” He looked at JFD and added, “Go with him and wait’ll I get there.”
Burnside stalled until Jack entered the men’s room, then whispered to Richards and Derrick, “Stay calm and don’t gawk around. I got somethin’ to tell ya.”
“What’s up?” Richards asked.
“Fuckin’ Bruce is an undercover cop.”
Richards gasped. “No fuckin’ way!”
“Alice recognized him. Don’t look, but four tables behind you is a broad wearing a woollen cap. Could be his partner, but we ain’t sure. With him there’s no doubt.”
Derrick wasn’t convinced. “Alice’s zoned out a lot. Maybe —”
“No, he’s the guy who put her brother away. She said his name is Jack Taggart. That was the name was on the business card I shoved down the guy’s throat yesterday.”
“Mother of Christ,” Derrick said. “We already told him everything.”
“Yeah, well, the thing is, if he was wearin’ a wire, there’s no way he’d’ve gone in there to let us search him.”
“So what we gonna do?” Richards asked.
“The same thing I did to the guy yesterday.”
“Fuck, you plan on killin’ a cop?”
“Ain’t like we’d get any more time for it if we were caught. You still have your shiv in your boot?”
“Yeah, I got it,” Richards replied, tapping the handle of a steak knife protruding from the top of his boot under his jeans.
“We’ll have to wing it. Knifin’ him could get noisy if he screams. The fuckin’ guy from yesterday didn’t make a sound when I clubbed him with my piece. I think that’ll be the way to go. When it’s done, we’ll shove him in a shitter stall. If there ain’t no noise, we could leave before anyone knows what happened. If he does yell, I’ll shoot him. Same for that broad if she moves from her chair.”
Richard and Derrick nodded silently.
“Once we go in, I’ll tell JFD to cover the door and make sure nobody comes in. Derrick, you’ll search him.” He looked at Richards. “When that’s done, you say somethin’ to distract him, then I’ll cave his fuckin’ skull in.”
“What about Wes?” Richards asked. “He okay with it?”
Burnside frowned. “No, he ain’t, so I told him we were only going to search for a wire, then leave.”
“He believe ya?”
“I dunno. I gave him some bullshit that if we don’t find no wire, then it’d only be the cop’s word against ours in court. Dunno if he thinks I’m dumb enough to risk that or not. The thing is, once it’s done, Wes couldn’t say anything. He’d be in shit, too.”
“What if he tries to stop us?” Richards asked.
“If he tries to do that, I’ll waste him.” Burnside scoffed. “No way I’m going back inside. Not without a fight.”
Jack entered the men’s room with JFD and glanced around. “We’re alone. It’s a good time to get this over with.” He held his jacket open.
“We were told to wait,” JFD said. The hostility in his voice indicated it wasn’t negotiable.
Moments later Burnside entered, along with Richards and Derrick.
This isn’t good. It doesn’t take all of them to pat me down.
Burnside directed an order at JFD. “Stand by the door. Make sure nobody comes in!”
As JFD moved toward the door, Burnside must’ve seen the look of concern on Jack’s face. “It’s okay,” he said reassuringly. “Don’t want somebody walkin’ in on us and thinkin’ we’re a bunch of queers.”
“It’s not that. Why the audience? You could have patted me down yourself.”
Burnside gave what looked like an apologetic smile. “Yeah, I know. To be honest, I don’t even wanna do this.”
“Then why bother?”
“I trust you, but Wes is fuckin’ paranoid. I went along with it to keep him happy. He said if you’re wearin’ a wire, I’m to make sure you don’t walk out. That’s why I brought the boys along. It’s for show.”
“I see.”
Burnside smirked. “You’re not wearin’ one, are ya?”
“Nope. See for yourself,” he said, opening his jacket again.
A small commotion at the door caused everyone to turn.
“I’m coming in,” Wes said, shoving JFD aside as he approached.
Jack saw a flash of anger on Burnside’s face, then he calmed and said, “Hey, you’re just in time. We’re about to get started.”
Wes didn’t reply, just looked concerned as he stood beside Burnside.
Derrick searched Jack and was thorough.
Been searched a few times yourself, Derrick?
When he was done, Derrick stepped back. “He’s clean.” He then made eye contact with Richards.
Richards promptly pointed to behind Jack. “Man, look at the size of that fuckin’ rat!”
Oh shit, you’re acting on cue. Jack moved his head and torso slightly as if turning to look, then spun back — ready to grapple with whatever was coming his way.
Simultaneously Wes yelled, “No! Stop!”
Jack caught a glimpse of the butt of a pistol in Burnside’s right hand coming down in a vicious arc toward his temple. His training told him to use his forearm to block Burnside’s arm — but that training didn’t include a third person stepping between him and his assailant.
Wes, who’d intervened from Burnside’s left side, had tried to make a grab for the gun. He didn’t succeed, but when Burnside blocked Wes across the chest with his left arm, he was momentarily distracted.
Derrick then lunged and grabbed Jack around the throat with both hands, shoving him back against the counter while choking him.
“What the fuck?” JFD yelled from his position near the door.
“He’s a cop!” Richards yelled back.
Burnside hammered Wes on the bridge of his nose with the butt of the pistol. The noise sounded like the crunch of celery as blood spurted out. Dazed, Wes wobbled on his feet and Burnside delivered a second blow. This time to the temple and Wes fell in a heap on the floor.
Jack had put his left arm across the top of Derrick’s arms so he couldn’t raise them to protect himself, then delivered his right fist to the base of his nose and upper jaw. Derrick stumbled back, holding his hands over his face as blood gushed out from between his fingers.
As Burnside was tu
rning away from Wes, Jack made a grab for the gun and managed to wrap his hand around the barrel and keep it pointed toward the ceiling.
Burnside tried to yank the pistol free while stepping back. But despite stumbling over Wes’s body, Jack clung on. Briefly their eyes locked and they embraced in a life-and-death struggle. Burnside then opted to try to gouge out Jack’s eyes, but Jack twisted and turned his head away while punching Burnside in the stomach.
Then Richards stepped in and pummelled Jack on the side of the head and rib cage. For Jack, fear and adrenalin had kicked in and the blows had little effect.
“Shank ’im! Shank ’im!” Burnside yelled, wrapping his arm around Jack’s neck and pulling him close.
Damn it, Laura! Get in here! You must’ve heard the noise! “Help!” he screamed and looked back over his shoulder at Richards. Fuck! He’s pulling a knife out of his boot!
Richards straightened, then positioned himself to ram the knife under Jack’s rib cage and up into his liver.
Burnside twisted his body sideways to prevent Jack from kneeing him in the groin. As he did, Jack used the momentum to carry the spin further and they fell through the door of a cubicle.
Jack’s goal was to wedge himself with his back on the floor between the toilet and the wall while holding Burnside in his own headlock as a shield to protect himself from Richards. He succeeded — sort of. In falling to the floor, he bashed his rib cage against the side of the toilet, knocking the wind out of him. Gasping, he still clutched the gun barrel, but his and Burnside’s arms were pinned between their bodies so that despite their struggles, the pistol remained pointed at the wall behind their heads.
Jack glimpsed Richards’s face above and kicked out with his feet to try to stop him from using his knife. For a moment he thought it had worked, until a hand reached from underneath the wall of the cubicle beside him and grabbed him by the hair.
He tried to resist, but was unable to stop his head from being yanked through the opening into the next stall. He heard Laura screaming from the bar area and knew she was fighting her own battle as he tried to twist his head and break the grip on his hair.
Richards was staring down at him now, and Jack saw the determination in his face — then saw the knife coming down to his throat. He jerked his head again in an unsuccessful attempt to break free. I’m going to die.
A second later blood splattered across his face and sprayed up the sides of the cubicle as Richards raised the knife for a second time.
Chapter Forty-Three
Laura had seen Burnside speak to Jack after returning to their table. She then saw Jack glance in her direction before heading into the men’s room with the man with bushy orange hair.
Anyone watching would have thought it was only a glance, but for Jack and Laura it conveyed a message. Years of undercover together had honed their skills. If Jack’s face looked intense, it translated as danger. A swallow meant a strong fear for his life. Fingertips slightly raised as he walked indicated he was being forced by someone with a weapon. No indications, which was the case now, meant he wanted her to stay put and wasn’t concerned enough to request help. As unconcerned as you can be when you’re with murderers.
Burnside, Richards, and the third man then entered the men’s room. Okay, is this one of those situations where they simply went in to light up a joint?
Seconds later she saw the clean-cut man, a guy she figured for a prison guard, heading to the men’s room as well. He paused at the door as if trying to decide whether to enter. He looks scared … like something’s going on. He’s going in. Oh, man.…
There was a guy drinking by himself at a table close to the men’s room. He was dressed shabbily and had a dirty white beard. She went over. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know the time would ya? I’ve been waiting for my friend to show and thought she’d be here by now.”
“Yeah, I know the time. It’s time for another beer!” He gave a toothless grin that broadened when Laura smiled back. “Sorry, I don’t have a watch,” he added.
“Mind if I join you? I hate sitting by myself. I’ll buy ya a beer.”
His nicotine-stained fingers fondled his near-empty glass. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”
Laura took a seat and listened for any sounds coming from the men’s room. She hadn’t had time to place her order before she heard one man yell at another to stop.
“Jack’s in trouble! Men’s room!” Laura said loudly when she clicked the transmitter button hidden in her sleeve. As she started to rise, she lifted the bottom of her sweatshirt to reach for her pistol holstered over the front of her hip. She was about to grasp the handle when a blow to the back of her head sent her sprawling across the table.
“You ain’t goin’ nowhere, you fuckin’ cunt!” her assailant, a woman, screamed.
Laura rolled over in time to deflect a second blow with her forearm, then tried to stand, but the woman flung the weapon — a beer bottle — aside and lunged, using her body to pin Laura to the table while yanking her hair and clawing at her face.
Laura reacted by grabbing her around the waist and rolling off the table. She was hoping to land on top — but didn’t. The woman ended up sitting on her chest, which meant Laura was unable to grab her pistol.
“You put my brother in jail. Now it’s payback time, bitch.” Laura’s assailant sneered down at her, then pressed her thumbs hard into Laura’s windpipe.
Laura had been in that same circumstance many times. At the academy they’d trained for it. She clasped the woman’s wrist with one hand and struck her solidly on the elbow with the heel of her other hand, knocking her face first onto the floor, while still holding on to her wrist.
Laura’s training would’ve made it easy to wrench her assailant’s arm behind her back to gain control and then handcuff her. A scream for help from Jack told her she didn’t have the time.
Forget the niceties. Laura twisted the woman’s wrist further — locking her elbow. She then bent over and stomped on the elbow with her foot. The crunch and scream of pain that followed said she was no longer a threat. It was then that someone else jumped on her back, putting her in a headlock while wrestling her to the floor.
For a moment Laura felt fear clog her throat and had to fight to keep the tears from clouding her vision. The fear she felt wasn’t for her. It was for Jack. She’d never heard him yell like that. The panic in his voice said the situation was dire — and it was her job to protect him. A job, it appeared, that she’d failed.
She put both hands behind her head, using her fingers to clasp the back of her attacker’s head while simultaneously shoving her thumbs into the eye sockets. The attacker emitted a sickening gurgle of a scream — then was off her. Laura saw that it was Lorraine Dole.
Two of Wilson’s men arrived, and one grabbed Dole by the hair and flung her to the floor. One of Dole’s eyeballs dangled from its socket like a wayward grape. His partner looked momentarily stunned at the sight of the two injured women.
Laura didn’t care. She glimpsed Wilson and Van Dusen entering the bar with guns drawn. “Follow me!” she yelled, then kicked the men’s room door open and burst inside with gun in hand.
Two of the bad guys stood at the open doors of two cubicles, but stepped back when she rushed in. The clean-cut man was sprawled on the floor. Good, Jack, you got one of them. She heard the command from the officers behind her, yelling for the two men to raise their hands. She ignored them. Her focus was on the fight taking place inside the cubicles.
She first saw Richards on his knees, holding Jack’s bloody head by his hair. Oh, God, no! In his other hand Richards held a knife raised high. Her finger started to squeeze the trigger, then she hesitated. The knife handle is above his fist? He’s holding the knife by the blade!
“Shoot ’im!” Jack screamed, flailing his head like a madman trying to break free.
“Drop it!” she yelled.
The order was likely unnecessary. Richards had the dumbfounded look of a person in shock. He slowly loosened his grip and the knife fell to the floor. The tendons in his hand had been severed and the blood continued to flow. He let go of Jack’s head and held his hand.
Laura realized what had happened. Richards had tried to stab Jack but missed and hit the tiled floor. The sudden jar caused his hand to slide over the sharp edges of the steak knife, slicing it open.
“For Christ’s sake, shoot him!” Jack yelled again, still flailing his head.
Laura picked up the knife. “It’s okay, I’ve got it,” she gasped, still panting from her fight in the bar.
“Not him! Burnside! He’s got a gun!”
Laura turned in panic, but Wilson rushed past and entered the stall ahead of her. He stuck the muzzle of his pistol in Burnside’s ear. It had the desired effect. Burnside let go of the gun and slowly put his hands up. Wilson then grabbed him by the back of the collar and flung him face down on the floor outside the cubicle.
Richards was being handcuffed by Van Dusen, so Laura turned her attention back to Jack. He was lying on the floor wedged between the toilet and the wall. His face and throat were mottled with blood and one of his eyes was so swollen that only a slit remained.
“Oh, man! You okay?” she asked.
He gazed up at her. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. He gingerly felt his ribs, then his face. “Do I look okay?”
“No … you don’t. Your face …”
He put a hand up to his swollen eye. “Shit, Natasha’s going to be so pissed off.”
“What happened?”
“I took a few punches.” He pulled his shirt up, raised his head, and looked at his torso. “Guess I wasn’t knifed. I was pounded so much I wasn’t sure.” He then grabbed the rim of the toilet and wriggled his way out.
“Jack, maybe you should get checked out,” Laura suggested as he slowly got to his feet.
