by Rick Jones
The guard approached with his weapon held forward for a possible quick burst.
A privet hedge stood before him, the shrub trimmed to resemble a perfect globe.
As soon as he rounded the bush with his weapon poised to kill, he saw something lying on the ground. It was a hoodie. As soon as he prodded it with the point of his weapon, a hand closed over his mouth and a blade ran across his throat, opening a wide gash as the lips of his wound pared back to reveal the workings inside the man’s throat. The guard’s eyes rolled up into his sockets, and then his knees buckled as his life quickly slipped away.
Kimball, on his bad knee and calf, laboriously dragged the man into the shadows about twenty feet from the shrub, laid him close to the fence, grabbed the assault weapon, and waited for guard number two, who had just rounded the corner of the house.
His hoodie remained by the shrub. Without it he felt naked. In fact, he was feeling quite vulnerable.
The second guard approached.
When the guard didn’t see his counterpart, he immediately went into a crouch position and directed his weapon in Kimball’s direction. Though it was clear that he didn’t see Kimball since the guard called out his companion’s name.
“Mitch,” he whispered. “Where you at, man?”
Silence.
Then louder as the guard took prudent steps forward. “Yo, Mitch. Call out, man.”
Kimball gripped the weapon tight. Beside him the man continued to bleed out from his throat, a horrible wound.
“Miiiiiiittch.”
The last thing Kimball wanted to do was use the assault weapon. He wanted to do this quietly and not alert Cooch, especially when he had a tear in his calf and a bum knee. But he knew he had no choice now that he was limited.
Kimball raised the weapon and drew a bead with the guard in the crosshairs.
The guard came closer, unaware of Kimball’s presence but suspected. “Miiiiiiittch.”
Taking shallow breaths, Kimball slowly squeezed the trigger and sent off a volley of fire. The mouth of the barrel lit up as several rounds traversed the distance between them and punched holes in the guard’s chest. The guard danced like a marionette being manipulated by a drunken puppet-master, then he eventually fell with the weapon by his side.
Standing on a gimpy leg, Kimball limped his way to his hoodie, put it on, lifted the hood, and once again felt whole.
On his bad leg, Kimball headed toward the house knowing that Vinny Cuchinata would be waiting for him.
#
Vinny Cuchinata and the Well-Dressed Man recognized the sound of gunfire, albeit it a short burst, but live fire, nonetheless. Cooch immediately shut off the lights to the room and slightly peeled back the drape. Outside, his two guards were lying on the ground. Both were unmoving.
“Son of a bitch,” he said,
“What?” asked the Well-Dressed Man.
“He’s here.” Cooch let the drape fall back into place and grabbed his six-shooter. Then he issued an order to the Well-Dressed Man. “Deal with him.”
The Well-Dressed Man removed a firearm from his shoulder holster, a Smith & Wesson, exited Cooch’s office, and closed the door behind him.
As the Well-Dressed Man moved deeper into the house with deliberate caution, he heard Cooch engage the lock to the office door, locking the Well-Dressed Man out.
That’s when the lights to the house went out.
#
Kimball had disabled the power to the house by turning the main circuit breaker off to the box. They were inside. He was outside. Now he had to find a way in without getting his head blown off.
He limped quietly along with his left leg growing cold. He could feel the blood of his wound saturating his jeans and clinging to his leg. The wound, however, was scorching hot with pain. And his knee, having been hyperextended, didn’t feel much better.
He stayed close to the shadows, sometimes finding refuge amongst a clump of bushes, and considered his options. Both front and back doors could be manned, he considered. But this was an obvious conclusion.
But all houses have many entrances.
He checked along the base of the house. Along it were several encasement windows that led to the basement. One, to his delight, was open. As broad as Kimball was, as tight as the squeeze would be for him to shrug his way through the opening, he managed. As soon as he was inside he saw the steps leading up to the first level. So he took them, his footfalls soundless as drops of blood from his wound marked his trail as if he were leaving bread crumbs.
He turned the knob to the door at the top of the stairs ever so slowly. So slow, in fact, to the naked eye it didn’t look as if the knob was rotating at all.
Then he opened the door a hairbreadth.
The kitchen.
He opened the door wider, hoping that the hinges wouldn’t give him away. They didn’t.
Then he stepped inside. The kitchen was high-end with state-of-the-art appliances with fancy marble tiles that adorned the walls and floor. Through the wide opening into the dining area he could see an elaborate dining table, a twelve-seater, with ornate carvings on the legs. It was the best that blood money could buy, he thought.
Kimball moved quietly into the dining area with the point of the assault weapon directed in front of him. His heart thudded. His mind raced. And adrenaline coursed through his veins which seemed to dull the pain in his knee and calf, but not completely.
The house was pooled in shadows with some shades darker than others. But in a recess against a wall in a room that appeared specifically for entertaining guests, perhaps a Game Room of sorts, stood the unmistakable shadow of a man who, at least by Kimball’s guesstimate, was aiming his firearm at him.
Kimball didn’t wait as he dove and rolled behind a pair of velour lounge chairs. Three shots rang out from the recess, the muzzle flares giving away the man’s position as his rounds pierced the chairs that sent fluffs of stuffing into the air.
From the floor Kimball raised his assault weapon, leveled the barrel, aimed the weapon in the direction of the flashes, and pulled the trigger. Bullets stitched evenly across the wall and across the recess, with a single round hitting true.
The Well-Dressed Man stumbled forward on legs that struggled to keep him upright. Then in a final attempt as he gagged with a bullet hole to his throat and a hand to his neck to stem the flow, he shot off the remaining balance of the ammo in his gun. The bullets went errantly wild as Kimball remained on the floor covering himself up. The glass in picture frames from hanging photos along the walls smashed from the impacts and rained down on Kimball. And then the Well-Dressed Man fell to the floor with the new air passage in his throat gurgling with a horrible wetness, until the moment he expended his final breath through the ruin in his throat.
Kimball got to his good knee and listened. He didn’t know how many were left. Nor did he know where Cooch was laid up.
So he investigated the house, clearing it.
Then he came upon a long hallway with a single door at its end.
Cooch’s office.
Kimball took silent steps toward the door. He was grimacing. The pain in his knee and calf were growing worse, almost debilitating so, his gait now a severe limp.
A sound behind the door.
Kimball stopped. And listened.
Nothing.
Yet time appeared to move at a very slow pace.
Then the sound of footsteps on the other side, the footfalls barely heard but were assuredly there.
Kimball raised the point of the weapon at the door lock assemblage, and moved closer.
He was ten feet away.
Five.
His blood continued to drip along the floor, allowing evidence to mark his journey.
Then he was but an arm’s length from the door, the knob just a reach away.
And then the face of the door exploded from multiple gunshots as splintered wood peppered Kimball while bullets zipped and buzzed by him with the sound of angry wasps. Kimball fell back against the wall
as holes continued to punch through the door. Then in response that was more out of self-preservation rather than retaliation, Kimball raised his assault weapon and fired off a long burst that destroyed the door’s lock. Then the weapon jammed. The internal trigger locking. And Kimball knew little about firearms to correct the situation.
Another shot, a single round, this one hitting and taking out the plaster by Kimball’s head.
Then two additional shots rang out, both missing. Then, the sound of dry clicking. The cylinders in the pistol had run empty.
With the point of the weapon’s barrel, Kimball used it to open the door.
Cooch was standing before him with a concerned look. And Kimball sized him up with a look of subdued anger. One was holding a dry firearm, the other a jammed weapon.
Cooch saw the trail of blood behind Kimball and immediately saw his advantage.
When Cooch laid the pistol on the desktop, Kimball dropped the weapon on the floor and limped his way into the room.
“Perseverance and determination will get you there all the time,” said Cooch. “It was the motto I lived by. It also seems to be yours. You and I,” he said, pointing at Kimball and then to himself, “seem to be made of the same cloth, yes?”
“I’m nothing like you.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, kid. When you look into a mirror you’d see me. And do you want to know why?” Cooch paused, then. “When I was your age I killed people too. And we can both stand here and justify our actions no matter how heinous they may be, thinking we did the right thing to move ourselves along. But in the end it comes down to a simple equation: We kill people. It’s what we do, you and I . . . It’s what we’re good at.”
Kimball staggered into the room on a badly wounded leg.
Cooch smiled. “You’re hurt. My guys do that to you?”
Kimball nodded. “Actually, I did it to myself.”
Cooch then raised his hands and moved them as if he was weighing the air. “So now what? You plan to finish me off for the sins I’ve committed?”
Kimball remained quiet.
“You think you’re the first one to ever take me on?” asked Cooch. “You think I am where I am by letting punks like you just walk into my house with a half-assed agenda that could never be fulfilled?” Cooch opened a drawer to his desk and removed a smaller version of a sledge hammer, one that could be handled with one hand, and tossed it on the desktop with a heavy thud next to the pistol.
“Is that what you used to destroy Johnnie Deveraux’s hand?” Kimball asked, looking at the formidable weapon.
“That and a few other things,” he answered. “Like arms, legs, a few skulls. But you know what gets me off more than anything else? I like to smash a man dead-center on his shin bone. You ever see a man’s leg break between the ankle and the knee? I mean, a clear break. To most people it makes them sick to their stomach to see. To me, however, it makes my day.” He picked up the weapon. “But you,” he said, gripping the handle tight, “I’m going to make unrecognizable. I’m going to smash your face and fingertips into paste. Even your father won’t be able to recognize you by the time I get through with you.”
Kimball responded by taking a few steps back when Cooch rounded the desk.
“You can’t run, kid. You can barely walk.”
Kimball reached inside his hoodie and pulled out his knife. With a few quick swings the blade was ready for action.
“You got real good with Billy-the-Blade’s knife, I see. Too bad your efforts are about to become a waste of time.”
Cooch moved closer with the hammer held high.
Kimball countered by keeping himself out of striking distance, the knife in his hand like a slingshot compared to Thor’s hammer. But on his gimpy leg Kimball knew his options were few, if he had any at all. Sooner or later they would have to converge.
And converge they did.
Cooch crossed the room with incredible speed and brought the hammer across in a sweeping arc, the hammer’s head missing Kimball as he ducked to the side, with the hammer striking the wall. The metal head smashed and drove a deep groove along the surface and destroyed a wall stud. But Cooch was quick and gathered himself before Kimball could lash out with the point of the blade. His bad leg was keeping him back, his counter motions slower than he would like them to be, which gave Cooch the obvious advantage.
“What’s the matter, kid? Bad leg keeping you down?” Cooch lifted the hammer and brought down in a blinding strike, the hammer missing Kimball by less than a few inches and pile-driving into the hardwood floor, causing the wood planks to bend and break at the point of impact, which drove the ends of the boards upward.
Kimball swung his knife as soon as the hammer missed him, the blade catching Cooch along the arm and slicing deep. Cooch reared back and screamed, the wound inflicted a debilitating one. He dropped the hammer, the muscle to hold its weight was severely damaged.
Kimball saw the hammer fall. And so did Cooch. It was the Holy Grail of weapons. The scepter of rule to whoever wielded it. As soon as Kimball reached for its handle, Cooch came across with his knee and hit Kimball square in the face. Kimball fell back, dazed, as a sea of internal stars circled inside his head.
Cooch grabbed the hammer with his weak hand, and lifted it.
Kimball, able to shake the cobwebs, yet smelling the copper of his own blood as his nose bled profusely, forced himself to his feet and charged Cooch, with his large frame bowling the kingpin over.
A struggle ensued for the hammer. Kimball had no idea what happened to the knife, the weapon lost after he was kneed in the face. They rolled on the floor like passionate lovers lost in their own frenzied fervor that was more bestial in nature, with each having a grip on the handle.
At first Cooch was on top, and then Kimball, each besting the other only to lose the advantage a moment later.
But when Kimball saw an opportunity, just a sliver of a proffered moment in time, he brought down the point of his elbow to Cooch’s nose, smashing it. Cooch’s eyes rolled and his grip loosened enough on the hammer for Kimball to claim as his own.
Kimball rolled off him, the young man winded as he labored to his feet. Then he leaned against the wall and used it as a crutch. His leg was in agony. And walking on it would be close to impossible. So with hammer in hand, he almost had to hop to where Cooch was lying.
But Cooch wasn’t lying anywhere. He was standing before Kimball with his chest heaving and pitching from uncontrollable anger. In his hand was the butterfly knife. “You’re out of your league, kid.” He held up the knife. “After I’m through with you, then I’m going to cut up your father and that whore cousin of yours. Going to dice them up into pieces so small I’ll be able to feed the fish in the harbor for decades to come.”
Kimball gripped the handle until he was white-knuckled. “I don’t think so.” Then he stood away from the wall and waited for the charge. “And so that you know,” he added, “I want my knife back.”
Cooch held up the knife. “You want it back?” he said. “You can have it.” And then he charged Kimball screaming like a mad warrior, the knife held over his head.
In Kimball’s mind everything seemed to move with a speed much slower than possible. Cooch came at him as if his motions had been retarded by the slowness that often accompanied a bad dream. He could hear Cooch’s rage sound off with a deeply hollow timbre as if a vinyl record on a turntable was on its slowest setting. And he could clearly see his advantage.
Kimball brought the hammer across in a horizontal arc and connected with Cooch’s ribcage, the blow lifting Cooch off his feet and through the air a good four feet before his body landed and slid another few feet across the floorboards, before coming to a complete stop. Kimball stood over him with the hammer in his hand. And Cooch, although cogent even though he was trying to crawl to nowhere in particular, eventually turned over onto his back and stared up at Kimball. As he lay there, he started to laugh rather drily. And when his lips pulled back and skinned his te
eth, Kimball could see the blood that coated them.
“What now, kid?” he asked. His laughter was now more of a cackle, and then he began to cough up blood. “You going to do me in?”
Kimball remained unmoving.
“I had your mama killed. I gave it a thumbs up. I just wish I was there--”
Kimball came down with the hammer, sending blow after blow into Cooch’s face until the bones collapsed, leaving nothing but a bowl-shaped hollow that was filled with the gore and paste of gray matter and broken bones.
Kimball didn’t understand why. He simply responded to the man’s words as something dark rose from the core of his very being. There was no thinking, no time to feel remorse or contrition or the possibility to evaluate his sin. There was only unbridled anger.
When he was done he stood there taking in deep breaths of air, calming air, as the darkness within began to settle. His clothes were spattered with minute drops of blood in the form of a spray pattern. As was his face beneath the hood.
In agony he returned to the kitchen, found a candle and lit its tip---not in homage, but to mask his sins. He turned on the gas stove and blew out the pilots. In the distance he heard the wail of sirens. The gunshots had prompted calls.
He found his knife, his prized possession, a trophy of his victory, and left the area as quickly as his leg would allow. Just as he exited the front gate and managed his way into a copse of trees across the way, and just as the swirls of blue and red lights turned onto the avenue to approach the estate, the house ignited into a fireball that rose heavenly as a mushroom of fire, and then into black smoke.
Kimball watched as the police officers cordoned off the area. Fire trucks quickly arrived on the scene. And crowds began to gather. In the wake of this confusion as Cooch’s estate burned to the ground, Kimball Hayden labored his way into the shadows almost tortuously so, and disappeared into the night.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Two Weeks Later
Four bodies were found at the scene of Vinny Cuchinata’s estate---presumably a retaliatory strike against Cuchinata’s regime from a Boston-based mob for his attempts to push his way into their territories. Of course this was all assumption on the part of the media. And though nothing about it was ever said in the Hayden household, Kimball suspected that his father knew the truth.
