Knuckles

by Patrick Logan

  Dirk wheezed and tried to answer, to ask him what the fuck he was talking about, but the only thing he could manage was froth and spit.

  “Now you and your family are going to pay, Dirk, now you and your fucking—”

  Tony lashed out with the knife mid-sentence.

  The light reflected off the blade, and Dirk saw it coming. He released his hold on the forearm around his throat and brought his right hand up in front of his face moments before the blade flayed his cheek.

  He screamed as the knife slid through his palm all the way to the hilt. Instead of pulling back, Tony pushed harder and flicked upward. Dirk heard the sound of tendons snapping as the blade cut his index finger clean off. Blood immediately spouted from the wound, a large arc of crimson, and Dirk felt his legs go weak. At the same time, the forearm tightened on his throat, and he felt darkness closing in.

  “I told you—” Tony began, but something flew across the gym—a beer bottle, maybe?—and struck him on the side of the head, cutting his words short.

  The knife fell from his hand, and the two men flanking him moved in a protective circle.

  But there was no way they could protect him. There were just too many of them, too many jean jackets and ponytails. The bikers appeared from all sides, closing in first before jumping on the two big men and descending on Tony himself.

  They must have also attacked from behind, because the forearm fell from Dirk’s throat and he fell to his knees.

  Gasping, trying to catch his breath, Dirk crawled away from the melee, leaving a thick trail of blood from his missing finger.

  “Your time is up, Tony. Sabra’s here,” someone growled, and Dirk raised his gaze momentarily to see a huge fat man walk up to Tony, whose head was bleeding profusely.

  Dirk didn’t wait around to see the inevitable result. Instead, he crawled on all fours as fast as he could, making his way to the door, Tony’s words echoing in his head.

  You and your family are going to pay.

  An image of his wife and son flashed in his mind.

  Tony may be as good as gone, but he did make that phone call…

  Desperation took over, and Dirk somehow made it to the door without further injury. Oblivious to all that was going on around him, Dirk Kinkaid pulled himself to his feet and sprinted toward his car, barely even registering the sound of sirens fast approaching.

  Chapter 22

  Chris was dumbstruck; he couldn’t believe that using the final card up his sleeve had actually worked, that mentioning that someone in Tony’s organization was undercover had actually left him and Peter Glike alone on the floor of the locker room, wounded, injured, but very much alive.

  The only explanation was that Tony had suspected as much already, and Chris’s words only served to reinforce the point.

  An image of Yori, with his long, dangling arms, flashed in his mind, and he couldn’t help the smile that crossed his lips.

  I hope that prick gets exactly what he deserves.

  A quick glance to his right revealed that either Peter hadn’t realized that they had gotten out of their predicament, or that the man simply didn’t care.

  One thing was for certain, however; Chris didn’t intend on waiting around to see if Tony changed his mind.

  In every person’s life, there is a moment… just one moment…

  Peter’s face was badly swollen, and blood still trickled out of both nostrils. His eyes were closed, his breathing rhythmic.

  Chris stood, and stared down at the beaten man, debating whether or not he should just leave him here. After all, he had money waiting for him, and lots of it thanks, in large part, to this very man.

  Just when he was about to turn, however, a thought unexpectedly crossed his mind.

  I can use him—I can use Peter.

  Sure, his face was a mess, but he was a killer, that much was certain. Chris hadn’t seen what had happened to Jermaine Pinker, but based on the way he had fallen, he wouldn’t be surprised if he was either still lying unconscious in the center of the ring or if someone had dragged him from it. One thing was clear: there was no way he was getting up on his own. The resounding crack of Peter’s knuckles meeting the man’s temple still echoing in his brain was proof enough of that.

  “Get up,” Chris demanded, and to his surprise, Peter actually pulled himself to his feet. “We need to get the fuck out of here.”

  Chris glanced around, his eyes eventually falling on the door with the ‘EMERGENCY EXIT’ sticker plastered on it.

  There was a flurry of shouts from inside the gym, one that Chris thought he recognized as Tony’s, but he did his best to ignore them. He wrapped his good arm around Peter’s waist again and together they limped toward the exit.

  If Chris’s left arm wasn’t broken, he would have reached out and pushed the door wide. As it was, however, he had to make sure that Peter could stand on his own before releasing his grip. And as he was switching arms, a thick Spanish accent drew his attention.

  “Esse, where’s the gato? Where’s the heroin, Peter?”

  Chris swallowed hard and turned to stare at two Mexicans with shaved heads standing not ten feet from them. One of them was holding a three-foot piece of wood over his shoulder like some sort of club.

  “Where’s the heroin?” the shorter of the two men repeated. At just over five-feet-two, he wasn’t much of an imposing figure, but his face was covered in so many tattoos that his skin was nearly blue.

  Chris glanced at Peter, but the man’s eyes remained downcast.

  He took the lead.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, trying to keep the tremor from his voice.

  The man with the wood stepped forward, his eyes burrowing beneath a set of thick eyebrows.

  “Where’s our fucking gato?”

  Chris saw no way out of the situation by lying, so he adopted another tactic.

  He used the same technique he had used to swindle insurance or pension checks out of the octogenarians at the old folk’s home years ago.

  Honesty. And the prospect of future returns.

  “We don’t have it,” he said simply.

  The man’s face broke into a smile and he shifted the piece of wood in front of him and pointed the jagged end directly at Chris.

  “Then we have a problem.”

  “What’s your name?” Chris repeated softly.

  The man sneered, but surprised both of them by actually answering.

  “Rodriguez.”

  Chris wasn’t sure if this was a first or last name, but didn’t much care, either. The goal was to keep him talking, keep him engaged.

  Because Rodriguez wasn’t apt to brain them if he was engaged in a conversation.

  Or, at the very least, that was the hope.

  “Well, my name is Chris Davis, and my partner—well, you already know his name. And we don’t have your drugs.”

  The smile washed over Rodriguez’s face, and he took two aggressive steps forward, his colleague matching him step-for-step.

  When it looked like they were going to keep moving forward, Chris held up his good hand defensively.

  “But,” he continued, “but we can get you something better: money. Twice as much as the heroin was worth.”

  Peter looked up at him and tensed, confirming for the first time that he was actually cognizant of what was going on.

  Chris ignored him.

  “Twice as much money—think about it. One key is worth…” Chris paused, doing some quick mental math. “What? 60k? You let us go, let us out of here, and we will bring you 120.”

  The man bit his lip as he thought this over. Chris didn’t want the man to think too hard, so he continued speaking, trying to maintain the momentum.

  “You hear the sirens? The cops will be here any minute. Better you let us go, double your money and get out of here while you can.”

  Rodriguez scowled, but the fact that the first thing out of his mouth wasn’t a curse or a laugh gave Chris hope.

  “You leav
e here, where’s the guarantee that you come back, esse? You got a family, Chris?”

  Chris shook his head.

  “No. And neither does Peter. But the longer you take to decide, the more likely we are all going to be busted. Besides, if we don’t pay, you’ll find us.” He shrugged, trying to sound indifferent even though inside his heart was racing. “It’s up to you, but either way you better make up your mind quick.”

  There was a long pause, and then Rodriguez turned to his partner and said something in Spanish that Chris didn’t pick up. Then the short man lowered the broken two-by-four.

  “We will find you,” the man repeated. “You have three days, Chris Davis. Three days to meet us back here with 150k.”

  Chris bit the inside of his cheek, trying to suppress the urge to correct the man’s math.

  He let it slide. 150k was a lot of money, but he would have plenty after Will Pierce paid out.

  Chris nodded and slipped his arm back around Peter’s waist. Slowly, unwilling to take his eyes off the men, he shifted their bodies toward the door. He half expected the man to brain them despite his words, but eventually had no choice but to turn his back to them completely.

  Peter was the one to push the door open, and as he did, Rodriguez spoke for a final time.

  “And Chris, we ain’t no putas like Juan Lamas and Miguel Gomez. You have three days. Or we will find you.”

  Chris took a deep breath, and then he and Peter stepped out into the night air that was filled with the sound of police sirens.

  Chapter 23

  Dirk wrapped his bleeding stump of a finger in a wad of tissue he found in his car as he sped away from the gym. He passed several police cars, sirens blaring and lights flashing, but he didn’t slow.

  He had one objective: to get home to his family.

  It had been a mistake going undercover with Tony and his crew, as short-lived as the experience was, and it was a mistake to tell Peter Glike to throw the fight.

  In fact, everything that had happened since leaving Lauren and Timmy just a few mornings ago had been a mistake.

  Roaring down the nearly empty road at breakneck speed, Dirk somehow managed to tease his cell phone from his jean pocket. Eyes on the road, he gripped the steering wheel with his mangled hand, and then scrolled to the contacts and pressed the redial button.

  His CO answered on the first ring, which surprised him, giving that protocol dictated he wait for the second ring and then the line was supposed to go dead.

  “Dirk? That you? What the fuck is going on over there? What the fuck—”

  “My family,” he gasped, “did you hear from Lauren or Tim? Have the uniforms checked in with my family?”

  “I haven’t—Jesus, Dirk, the phones are blowing up… a boxing match with—”

  “Shut the fuck up, Trent! Tell me if you’ve heard from my family!”

  There was a short pause.

  “It’s been a few hours since the uniforms have checked in. I’ll call them now, but you have to tell me—”

  Dirk hung up the phone and threw it on the passenger seat, his heart pounding in his chest, the image of the red-faced Tony shouting into his cell phone in the forefront of his mind.

  Please… God, please…

  His foot pressed the gas pedal all the way to the floor and his Camaro lurched forward, pressing his back against the seat.

  Less than fifteen minutes later, he pulled onto to his street, taking the corner with such speed that he actually felt the right two tires lift off the ground.

  When he saw the police car just three houses down from his own, he finally allowed himself a full breath.

  Maybe… maybe Tony wasn’t calling someone, maybe the other bikers got to him first. Besides, he couldn’t possibly know that I was undercover. Maybe…

  He slowed as he neared the squad car, feeling deep down that despite their presence something wasn’t quite right about the scene.

  A car peeling down the street as he had just done should have drawn their interest. Instead, the interior of the car was motionless.

  Dirk pulled right up next to the car, and realized that there was something else off about the scene: the windows appeared tinted. But from his years spent in squad cards, he knew that squad car windows were never tinted.

  The car came to a screeching halt, and he realized that the driver side window wasn’t tinted. It only appeared that way because the interior of the glass was coated with a thin layer of blood. Through a clean streak in the thick sludge, Dirk caught sight of a uniformed officer’s slumped figure, a gaping hole in the side of his head.

  He didn’t even bother looking in the passenger seat; he knew that both of them were dead.

  Dirk’s body suddenly went numb, and yet he knew by the wind rushing by his face that at some point he had exited his car and was now sprinting, running full-tilt toward the door of his house.

  He was shouting, too, yelling the names of his wife and son, tears streaming down his face.

  Some of us have lives, families, even children…

  The front door to his modest home was ajar, and Dirk didn’t stop as he burst through the opening. He was moving so quickly that he nearly slipped on the trail of blood on the tiled foyer.

  “Lauren! Timmy!” He yelled between sobs.

  Dirk found his wife in the family room, lying peacefully on the couch, her hands folded on her lap, her eyes closed.

  Her throat had been cut from ear to ear, and her blouse and the front of her jeans were soaked with her blood.

  “No,” he moaned, collapsing onto his knees. He started to crawl toward her, a slow process given the way his body hitched uncontrollably. Head down, he reached for his wife’s ankles and pulled himself up before wrapping his arms around her knees.

  Dirk rested his head on her shins. As he did, he spotted his son, Timmy.

  The boy was lying on his back behind the suede love seat, a single bullet hole in the center of his forehead. Unlike Lauren, his eyes were open.

  He collapsed on the ground again and then slowly faded into unconsciousness.

  ***

  Dirk watched from the shadows as the police sirens cut through the night, audible even before their lights could be seen. Supervising Officer Trent Godwin was the first to arrive and he rushed through the front door of the house, much like Dirk had done nearly a half hour ago.

  A minute later, Trent stumbled out again, his face so pale that even Dirk could clearly make out his expression, even from his vantage point in the park more than seventy feet away.

  The man coughed, spat, then grabbed his phone, quickly dialing a number before bringing it to his ear. Several other officers had since arrived on the scene and tried to comfort Trent, but he shook them off.

  Dirk felt the familiar buzz from the phone he held in his hand, the burner that the force had given him before going undercover. Instead of answering, he simply stared at it. The display informed him that the number was restricted, but despite this, he knew who was calling. It was the same person who had ensured him just a day ago that his family would be safe, the same man who was now standing outside of his house, his dead wife and only child inside.

  Dirk dropped the phone to the ground and then smashed it with the heel of his boot. Then he wiped the tears from his cheeks, and turned his back on his home, on the life he used to live.

  A vision of the man who had done this to him, the one who he now knew to be Chris Davis, his dark, handsome features, etched itself in his mind. He had no idea how, but Chris had found out that Dirk was a police officer, and he had told Tony as much to save his own skin.

  Tony was equally, if not more culpable, but Tony was also dead. Dirk had no doubt that he had been murdered either at the hands of his own men, or by the Mexicans, or the newest crew in town, whoever was destined to take over the heroin drug trade in the region.

  But none of this mattered to him now. Those things meant something to Tristan Owens, but Tristan Owens was dead.

  Tristan D
evon Owens had died in the house with Lauren and Timmy.

  Only Dirk Kinkaid remained, and that man only had one directive: to seek revenge on Chris Davis, no matter how long it took.

  Chapter 24

  Chris Davis glanced around nervously, his heart racing like a jackhammer in his chest. He didn’t like the idea of being back at this place.

  It had been three days since the massacre at Tony’s Gym, and the last thing he wanted to do was to show his face here again.

  Peter clearly felt the same, judging by the way he was crouched in the back seat, a dark hooded sweatshirt pulled low over his eyes.

  Chris shook his head in frustration. He was here primarily for Peter, because of Peter; the least the man could do was have his back.

  They waited for the clean-up crew to finish for the day, leaving in their white van with the words “Neat and Tidy” emblazoned on the side.

  Then they stayed in the car for another half hour until the last police car left for the night.

  Chris suspected that they would be back; given the chaos that had ensued, and the implications not just for the local PD but for the entire tri-county area what with the parties involved, they wouldn’t stay away for long.

  But Chris didn’t need ‘long’.

  His eyes darted to the bag of cash on the passenger seat.

  One hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

  The amount was unfathomable just a few days ago, but today it was only a third of what he had to his name.

  Still, for a man who had previously been forging one dollar bills, there was a nagging part of him that kept whispering to grab the cash and bolt, leave Peter to fight his own battles.

  He took a deep breath and tossed the bag of cash into the backseat.

  “You’re carrying this,” he said, then opened the door and stepped out into the moonlight.

  Walking gingerly over the shattered glass that either the Cops had forgotten or simply missed while raiding the place, he made his way around the side of the building to the back door. A final glance around the empty parking lot confirmed that it was still empty, and Chris stepped inside the gym for the last time, gesturing for Peter to follow.