Barnett smiled. Mouse had that right. And knowing how difficult the other American Federal agencies were to work with, he guessed he could understand the Egyptian’s problem.
“I can’t explain it, Charlie. The guy likes to talk to me.”
“Well, you’ve got Egyptian Intelligence whispering international secrets in your ear, and what have I got? Norma Jean, her mother’s cat, lawyers, and you.”
“I’m not sure what I’ve got, Charlie, but I’m tired of sitting here waiting for it,” Barnett said as he looked into the rear view mirror and saw a car with a bright red pizza delivery sign on the roof coming up the street toward them. “If we can’t find a judge, I think it’s time we dig up a little probable cause. What do you think?” Barnett opened the car door, took off his credential pack, his badge, and the FBI windbreaker, and tossed them on the car seat. Underneath, he wore his favorite Sting ‘Broken Music Tour ’05’ T-shirt, faded blue jeans, and a Redskins hat pulled low on his head.
That was when Charlie suddenly sat up and looked very worried. “Wait a minute. Where the hell are you going?”
“To do something, Charlie, to do something.”
“Jeez, you go get your ass shot-up again, the Director’ll have me for lunch; and that’s nothing compared to what Louise’ll do.”
“Time to start thinking outside the box,” he said as he stepped into the street and waved down the pizza driver.
“Outside the box? Outside the box? Shit, I’m calling for back-up.”
Five minutes later Eddie Barnett stood on the front porch of the dilapidated clapboard house wearing the pizza delivery guy’s silly paper hat, a beaded ‘Indian’ necktie, and a tomato-stained apron over his T-shirt. Under the roof overhang, the porch was in dark shadows. There was a small light fixture in the ceiling, but the protective glass globe was missing and it did not look as if they had replaced the bare dead bulb since the Nixon Administration. There was a screen door, but the screen was missing and the front door itself looked nicked, dinged, and painted a washed-out, dark green. Even in the dark, the color was something you could only achieve by slopping on cheap house paint with a large brush. Lousy paint job or not, the door was metal and it sported three shiny new deadbolt locks running down the doorjamb from top to bottom. Obviously, Billy-Ray didn’t want any visits from the Welcome Wagon. On each side of the door stood a double-hung double window. The lights were on inside the house, but there were dirty, water-stained shades covering both windows. A thin sliver of light bled out around the edges. He tried peeking through the crack, but he couldn’t see a thing inside.
He had a large pizza box balanced on the upraised palm of his left hand as he reached out and pushed the button on the doorbell. Nothing happened. He pushed it a couple more times, but still nothing. Figures! Nothing was going to go down easy tonight, so he rapped his knuckles hard on the door. “Pizza!” he called out, trying to make himself heard over the rock music blaring inside. Finally, he heard the front door rattle. The deadbolt locks clicked one after another and the door swung open to reveal a huge Skinhead standing in the doorway, glaring out at him with hard, angry eyes. The guy stood at least six foot six inches tall and two hundred eighty pounds, with a shaved head, barrel chest, and muscle definition you only get from heavy weights and way too many ’roids.’ He had Chinese characters and prison gang tats running up and down both arms, and a coiled snake tattooed around his neck and up the side of his face with its head on his right cheek, mouth open and fangs out. Cute, Barnett thought. Bet his mother just loves it, and it’s always nice to see prison was not a total waste of time. That was when Barnett began to think Charlie might have been right; maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
The Skinhead stuck his head out and glanced quickly up and down the street before he turned his malevolent eyes on Barnett and grunted, “What the hell you want?”
“Hey, man, I’m at the end of my run and I’ve got an extra pie,” Barnett shouted over the loud music as he opened the box and showed him the pizza.
“What?” the Skinhead squinted as he turned his head and looked back to the living room. “Bubba! Turn that goddamned thing down. Now who the hell are…?”
“Look, the dorks next door ordered it, but they never answered; so you guys want it? Ten Bucks and it’s all yours.”
The redneck craned his neck to look into the box, but it was too dark to see much. “Didn’t order no goddamned pizza.”
“Here, let me show you, before it gets cold,” Barnett said as he stepped forward, trying to get far enough inside to see around him into the living room.
“Hey, man,” the Skinhead edged sideways and blocked his way.
Barnett only had a second to look, but inside the room, he saw two more Skinheads sitting on a couch watching The Roadrunner on the Cartoon Channel, as slack-jawed and mesmerized as Barnett’s four-year-old nephew on a Saturday morning. Unlike his nephew, however, those two had two semi-automatic pistols and a sawed-off shotgun lying on the couch between them. The heavy metal music continued to blast away from the boom box sitting on a chair in the corner, although no one appeared to be listening. Beyond the couch, he saw barbells, a bench, and weight plates scattered across the floor, along with an open crate with at least a dozen 9-millimeter pistols inside. On the floor near the couch lay three torn canvas moneybags with Annandale Bank and Trust printed on their sides in colorful green letters.
“Ah, come on, man,” Barnett got all whiny as he gave the big Skinhead his biggest pizza delivery-guy smile. “A Giant Supreme is twenty bucks. You’re getting it for half price. Even a dumb grit like you can do that math.”
The Skinhead frowned as his pea brain absorbed what Barnett had just said. “Whadjou call me? A dumb grit? Come ’ere!” he growled as he reached through the door’s non-existent screen, wrapped a big paw around Barnett’s throat, and yanked him inside the house with one hand.
“Hey, Billy-Ray,” he looked back over his shoulder as Barnett dangled in the air in front of him. “Lookie what I got — pizza, with extra asshole!”
Barnett could hardly breathe as he turned his head and looked inside the living room. Voice rasping, he managed to say, “Federal Officer, Curly. Thanks for inviting me inside, and wouldja look at that: evidence of a criminal nature, lying right out in plain sight. Well, guess what? You’re busted!” He still had the pizza box in his left hand and mashed the pie into the Skinhead’s face. “You got the right to eat pepperoni,” Barnett told him as he reached behind his back, pulled his .38 from its holster, and cracked the Skinhead on the side of his head with the butt end. “You got the right to a headache,” he continued, as the Skinhead let go of Barnett’s throat and wobbled backward. Still, the big bastard didn’t go down, so Barnett smacked him again, even harder. The big redneck blinked and his eyes glazed over, but somehow, he was still standing! Finally, Barnett popped him a third time, flush on the temple. The Skinhead’s eyes rolled up in his head and he toppled over backward like a felled tree. Barnett finally looked down at him and smiled. “You also got the right to stay on the floor… and you got the right to bleed.”
By then, Barnett figured the two Skinheads on the couch would have pried themselves away from the Cartoon Channel long enough to grab the shotgun and a pistol or two; so he dived inside the room, rolled across the floor, came up kneeling with the .38 leveled at them, and smiled. He had seen Bruce Willis do that once in a movie, and he had always wanted to try it. Besides, under the circumstances, being a moving target might not be a bad idea. Fortunately, he need not have worried. They may not have put a warning label on it yet, but prolonged exposure to good cartoons and bad dope clearly had a negative effect on the brain, especially ones that were congenitally stupid to begin with. The two Skinheads remained mesmerized by the cartoons. The one on the left finally frowned and looked over at the FBI agent, irritated that he had suddenly popped up out of nowhere and interrupted something really important. As it all began to register, he gave a furtive glance at the shotgun lyi
ng next to his hand.
“Don’t even think about it, ‘Mo’,” Barnett extended the .38 toward him.
The other Skinhead hadn’t even gotten that far. He was too busy being confused.
“That’s okay, ‘Larry’,” Barnett told him. “You just sit there.”
That was when he saw something move in the dark hallway behind them. It was Billy-Ray Perkins coming back from the kitchen with a couple of beers. He saw Barnett, stopped, and began edging his way backward. He was a tall, thin biker with a long, graying Fu Manchu moustache, countless scars and tattoos, and a greasy ponytail. Dressed in his formal evening attire of dirty blue jeans, a ripped T-shirt, and an Outlaws Motorcycle Gang leather jacket, he had his meaty right arm draped lovingly around the neck of a fat hooker. When he saw Barnett, he dropped the beers, and a box cutter suddenly appeared in his other hand. He took a fist-full of the woman’s hair, pressed the blade against her throat, and ducked behind her.
“Billy-Ray?” Eddie asked. “Is that you hidin’ behind that fat hooker? I can hardly see your skinny white ass back there. And wastin’ all that good beer? Shame on you, boy!”
“Not you again, Barnett,” Billy-Ray growled. “Back off or I’ll cut the bitch, man, I swear.”
That was when Mo’s left hand moved an inch or two toward the shotgun. Using his off-hand, Barnett grabbed a lamp off the table next to him and flung it at Mo’s head. Instinctively, the Skinhead forgot about the shotgun and raised both hands to catch the lamp. As he did, Barnett pointed the .38 at the bridge of the Skinhead’s nose. “I could have shot you, Mo, and if you drop that lamp, I surely will.” This time, the guy froze, his eyes riveted on the pistol. Barnett turned the revolver back on Billy-Ray, and began walking toward him, one eye on Billy-Ray and the other on the two clowns on the couch, as they all heard the sirens of police cars converging on the scene. It wouldn’t be long now. One way or the other, Billy-Ray would do something before that happened, and they all knew it.
“Get back, Barnett, I’ll do her; I swear I will!” he growled.
“A piece of garbage like her? That’s okay by me,” Barnett answered. “You do her, and then I do you. One-for-one, so we can keep the cosmic trash in balance.”
“Say what?” the fat hooker frowned. “Hey, man, you can’t…”
As Billy-Ray was thinking it over, Barnett inched closer, extended the .38, and pressed it against his forehead. Billy-Ray didn’t like that at all. He jumped as if he had touched a high power line. “One last thing, though,” Barnett added. “When you do cut her, don’t go getting any blood on my Nikes. These are the new Kevin Durant model, the ones with the glow strips and titanium springs. That would really piss me off and I’d probably shoot you two, maybe three more times in various body parts just for spite.”
Billy-Ray’s eyes crossed and he began to sweat as he stared down the barrel of Barnett’s .38. Finally, he swallowed and whispered hoarsely, “You wouldn’t do that, Barnett. You’re a cop, that wouldn’t be right.”
“Who said I was a cop? I’m FBI, and our rules are different. The President declared DC an official free-fire zone, man. Nobody cares if I shoot you or her.”
“Free Fire Zone? You’re freakin’ crazy, man.”
“Yeah, maybe I am. So, here’s the thing, you can go ahead and cut her, or you can drop the knife and let her go. Your choice, Billy-Ray, but make it quick. My shift’s over in five minutes, then it’s a new workweek. That’ll screw up this week’s bonus so I gotta shoot you now.”
They stood there eye to eye for a long moment glaring at each other, until Barnett heard the box cutter clatter on the linoleum tile floor. That was when Charlie, two more FBI agents, and a dozen DC city cops rushed into the room from various doorways and windows, guns drawn, and began cuffing everyone — Billy-Ray, the two clowns on the couch, the big Skinhead lying on the floor, and the fat hooker. She proved to be the toughest bust of all, screaming at the cops and at Barnett most of all. “You filthy bastard, you coulda got me killed. He was gonna slit my throat, and you just stood there and told him to go ahead and do it. You son of a bitch!” she went on. “And what did you call me? Cosmic trash? I’m calling my lawyer. I’m gonna sue your ass!”
Barnett ignored her as he picked up the box cutter and the sawed-off shotgun, and headed out the front door. One of the cops, who was trying to pick up the Skinhead lying on the floor, looked at the blood streaming down the guy’s face and asked, “What the hell hit this big goober, Eddie?”
“A low-flying Giant Supreme,” he answered as he reached down, picked up one of the pizza slices still inside the box, and took a bite. “Not half bad. A little cold, maybe, but not bad,” he added as he walked out the door onto the front porch. Behind him, the FBI agents began examining the crate of guns and bank moneybags. Some of the DC cops hustled the gang out to their waiting police cars, while the rest began searching the house.
Barnett took a seat on the front steps, set the sawed-off shotgun and box cutter on the step next to him, and took another bite out of the pizza, as a half-dozen TV remote trucks converged on the house, honking, blocking the street, and cutting each other off as they ran over curbs and yards jockeying for position. The truck doors sprang open and reporters with cameramen toting mini-cams and light bars ran toward the house, elbowing each other like jammers in the Roller Derby. Barnett shook his head as Charlie came out, holstered his Glock, and sat down next to him. “Want some pizza?” Barnett asked as he held out the slice of Giant Supreme.
Charlie looked at the slice and rolled his eyes. “The bimbo’s right, Eddie,” he said. “You really are crazy. How come you didn’t just shoot that clown?”
“Too goddamned much paperwork.”
“Paperwork my ass! You keep this up, you’re gonna get yourself killed.”
Barnett looked down at the shotgun and the knife, then up at the horde of reporters charging at them, and frowned. Camera lights came on, flooding the front porch and blinding them as the sharks crowded in, leaning forward with their microphones and shouting questions at them. For the first time, a look of real concern crossed Barnett’s face.
“You don’t think she really has a lawyer, do you?” he turned toward Charlie and asked.
###
If you enjoyed the read, you can purchase a copy of Aim True, My Brothers at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00GBFJ1IA.
In addition, you can visit my web site and learn more about my other novels at http://billbrownthrillernovels.com.
HIGH PRAISE FOR THE AUTHOR’S EARLIER NOVELS:
Burke’s War: 4.5 Stars on 175 Amazon Reviews.
Robert Kruger, Amazon Reviewer: “5 Stars! His characters are perceptively drawn, multifaceted, and fully defined. The prose is smooth flowing, descriptive, and convincing. The final scenes are heart stopping action — among the best.”
Amazon Reviewer CAH: “5 Stars! Excellent! Don’t know how a follow-up could match it — but I plan to find out.
Robert Smith, Amazon Reviewer: “5 Stars! One of the better books I have read in a long time.”
The Undertaker: 4.3 Stars on 221 Amazon Reviews.
Passion Reads: “5 Stars! An awesome must read! This one had me jumping in, head-first. From the beginning to the end, I was kidnapped and taken for an exciting and thrilling ride. And to top it all off, it was hilarious.”
Book Pleasures: “5 Stars! Great fun! It is a thriller with enough action, intrigue, humor and romance to please the most jaded reader. My recommendation? Buy this book and have some quality entertainment time. You won’t regret it.”
Amongst My Enemies – 4.3 Stars on 206 Amazon Reviews.
Crystal Book Reviews: “5 Stars! This is not just another war story! It takes the reader to the heights and dregs of the human condition… speeds along like a Ken Follett or Eric Ludlum novel of old. For those who love adventure and thrills, this novel will leave you breathless and wanting more from this skillful writer. Splendidly written!”
Book Pleasures: “5 Stars! An entertainin
g historical thriller! Reminds me of Jeffery Deaver’s Garden of Beasts and Frederic Forsythe’s The Odessa File. It provides one answer to the eternal question: What must good men and women do when evil walks among them? Dean Koontz has made a career answering this question.”
Thursday at Noon: 4.4 Stars on 118 Amazon Reviews.
The New Yorker: “5 Stars! A thriller in the purest cliffhanger vein… (The) technique is flawless. It could only have been learned by way of a thousand Saturday afternoon matinees.”
Publisher’s Weekly: “5 Stars! Writing in the vein of Forsythe and Follett, Brown has produced a fast paced thriller…”
Worldwide Library, Rave Reviews: “5 Stars! (A) mesmerizing tale… Brown is adept at making the unlikely seem all too real… explosive, fast paced action.”
Winner Lose All: 4.5 Stars 127 Amazon Reviews.
Glynn Young, Amazon Reviewer: “5 Stars! An exciting, riveting read that explores courage and treachery, love and fear. Another crackerjack novel of World War II, following last year’s Amongst My Enemies. The reader is right there, carried along for one wild, breathtaking ride.”
Tanya, Amazon Reviewer: “5 Stars! If you want a really good story, one that pulls you into the action, then this is the book to read. Winner Lose All is a WWII era drama with a strong list of characters, both the good guys/bad guys, and some you just can’t decide where they fall in this tale of intrigues. It’s a non-stop adventure.”
Aim True, My Brothers: 4.8 Stars on 60 Amazon Reviews.
G. C. Whitney III, Amazon Reviewer: “5 Stars! Another Superb William Brown Thriller! He continues to amaze me with his writing. This story held my interest from beginning to end and, unlike some more famous authors, he didn’t jump around from one timeline to another, which confuses the reader. I loved the story and, as is the case with most of his plots, it made sense throughout. Another 5-Star effort by William F. Brown.”
Cold War Trilogy:
Cold War Trilogy is a boxed set of three of my best-selling action, adventure, thriller novels — Winner Lose All, Amongst My Enemies, and Thursday at Noon. Together they have 262 Kindle Five Star Reviews, an average of 4.4 Stars each. “If you like fast-paced spy novels and lots of mystery, and action, this set will prove some great reads. They are three of my favorite stories, with good pacing, twisting plot lines, and some of my nastiest and most evil bad guys. See if you don’t agree.”
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