21 Hours

by Dustin Stevens

  "Actually, I have no idea," I said.

  I could hear him draw in a sharp breath to yell again, but he stopped short. "Wait...what?"

  "I don't know who I'm talking to," I said again. "But I want to meet you."

  He exhaled every bit of breath he had on the opposite end. "You got some nerve you know that? What the hell could you possibly want to meet me for?"

  "I want to make a trade." I was on thin ice. Not because I didn't think he'd meet with me. I knew he would. More to the point that I would be walking right into a trap.

  "You got to be shitting me," he said. "You kill my partner, try to pretend to be him, disrespect me, then want to do business with me?"

  When it was all listed out that way, it did sound like I was shitting him. Nobody was that crazy.

  "Yeah," I muttered. I closed my eyes and pictured Annie. I thought of her the winter before playing in the snow for the first time, her mound of curls bunched up under a hand-knit cap my mother made. "I want to do business with you."

  The man laughed. Not in a ha-ha, somebody-just-said-something-funny sort of way, but in a it's-my-lucky-day sort of way. It was a trap. There was just nothing I could do about it. I was out of options, and I was even lower on time. "Well. alright then. You know where Pier Three is?"

  I was sitting less than a mile from it. "You mean down on the waterfront?"

  "Where the hell else would a pier be?"

  I exhaled. I was playing his game now. I couldn't lose my temper and pop off. "Yeah, I have a good idea where it is."

  "A good idea, huh?" the man said. "Well how long do you think it'll take you and this good idea of yours to get here?"

  I considered the question. Just like with Troy and Merric, I knew I couldn't walk up carrying a gun. It would be best to be in the truck as long as possible, which meant driving. At the same time, if I did somehow live to get out of there I would want my truck and the guns left untouched if I needed them. I glanced again at the dashboard and did the math backwards in my head. "I can be there in half an hour."

  "You have fifteen minutes."

  The line went dead before the words were even out of the air.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I parked at Pier Six. The drive from Twelve was quick and simple, the piers descending in numeric order every few hundred yards. Parking three away left me somewhere between a quarter and a half mile out, which was close enough to get there in time and get back quickly if I somehow survived. Far enough away to be seen arriving on foot without them taking my truck.

  Each of the piers had a little different makeup as I slid past them, though the basic premise was the same. A wide concrete base housing whatever building was needed offset by several long docks extending into the water. I remember seeing an old picture from the fifties that showed every single dock busy hauling metals and textile goods downriver towards the Mississippi. Now, they looked to be less than half active.

  Better than most industries, all things considered.

  Pier Six looked like it was still fairly active hauling lumber. A few split rail trucks were parked beside enormous cranes, their back ends filled with rough hewn logs ready to be hoisted into containers. A few piles of bark and sawdust sat in random spots around the yard and a couple of lean-to's had pallets stacked high beneath them.

  Unlike the others, there were no gas pumps anywhere. Too much of a fire hazard.

  I pulled the truck to a stop behind one of the log wagons, tucked in tight between it and a small outbuilding. The wagon looked like it had been parked for a couple of days and a heavy layer of sawdust rested against its tires. The building's front door stood sagging open and one of the windows was broken, shards of glass hanging down in a haphazard arrangement.

  Clearly nobody had been here in quite some time. The odds of anyone showing up at dawn on a Sunday were pretty low.

  I left the keys above the visor. Somebody was bound to search me when I arrived and I didn't want them getting any ideas. My shotgun called to me from behind the seat and I contemplated trying to sneak in the Luger from the glove compartment, but I opted against them both. Whatever comfort I might feel from having them with me would be offset by the ire I would raise by walking in armed.

  My eyes fell on the black money bag on the seat. For a moment I considered taking it with me, but decided against it. Any man with the kind of juice to own multiple piers and leave them sitting empty wouldn't blink at fifty thousand dollars. Besides, taking a bag that sized into a hornet's nest would almost certainly raise suspicion.

  Carrying only the ceramic switchblade still lodged inside my sock, I stepped out into the damp morning air and began walking. The layer of sawdust coating the ground muffled the sound of my boots as I crossed the pier and made my way back to the street, the clock ticking down in my head. I had been given fifteen minutes. I was down to just under ten.

  Piers Five and Four passed by in order, neither of them looking like they'd been touched in eons, which made sense. If this guy was running an enterprise out of Pier Three, he probably owned the ones on either side just to make sure there weren’t too many people around.

  This wasn't a small timer I was dealing with here.

  Great.

  The clock ticked down to five minutes as I crossed onto Pier Three. I kept a steady pace going with my head angled down in front of me, my eyes flicking from side to side.

  For all their efforts at trying to remain isolated, these guys didn't know a damn thing about being inconspicuous. The pier resembled a small city. Two large warehouses lined the outer edges of either side. All four stood three stories high and were painted black, easily in the best repair of any building I'd seen all morning. Each of them was lined with fresh washed windows tinted so dark they almost matched the black paint of the exterior.

  At the back, sitting right in front of me, was a building that looked like a miniature version of Tony Montana's house in Scarface. It stood two stories tall with wrap around porches on both levels and thick columns supporting them both. A small fountain sat in front of it, shooting water ten feet into the air in a wide fan. A tangle of SUV's and trucks sat in front of the house and as I approached, I could see a handful of men begin to dot the second floor porch.

  Like the warehouses on either side, the house and fountain were painted black. Every vehicle in front of them was as well and the men standing guard were dressed in matching outfits of the same midnight hue.

  Not much imagination with this crew, that's for sure. It's not every day I'm the most colorful thing in sight.

  I rocked my weight forward so the boots hit on the balls of my feet and walked straight across the pier towards the house. It wasn't hard to figure out where this guy would be holed up, it was the only building with any signs of life. The fact that those signs of life were carrying automatic weapons made it all the more obvious.

  After a moment I lowered myself and let my feet hit the ground as normal. It didn't matter how loud my heels were against the concrete, they could already see me coming.

  Behind the house docks jutted out on either side, the low concrete rows barren. A healthy swath of dark rubber skid marks darkened the ground covering them, paths diverging towards each of the warehouses spread about the pier. There was no telling what each of them housed as they stared down at me, but it was very apparent they didn't want it sitting out in the light of day.

  The front door of the house opened long before I got there. I couldn't see it, hidden behind the peacock-tail fan of the fountain, but I could hear the hinges on the door creaking. Dawn was just beginning to break over everything, though overhead it was still dark enough for handfuls of stars to be seen.

  I swung out to the left of the fountain and circled around it, my hands by my side. I made sure to keep them out of my pockets and in plain sight as the fountain slid from my field of vision and the front door came into sight. In front of it three men stood in a tight line, only a couple of inches separating each of their shoulders. They were all whit
e, with very pale skin and hair shorn close to their heads. All three wore black cargo pants and lace-up boots. The men on either side wore Spandex shirts and the one in the middle wore a black ribbed tank top.

  Together they stood and watched as I approached. It was impossible to get a good read on their faces as they hid behind mirrored sunglasses, though their body language was somewhere between disdain and indifference. None of the men were overly bulky, instead cut from corded muscle interspersed with veins.

  All three carried some kind of assault rifle in front of them. I wasn't quite sure what they were, just knew they definitely weren't M-16's.

  Maybe Israeli, possibly Russian.

  I raised my hands a few inches, walked up the two short steps onto the porch and paused in front of them. Part of me wanted to say I was there for a meeting, but I had no idea who I was meeting with. Besides, they knew who I was. I was doing everything on their terms now.

  "You the dumbass here to see Rif?" Tank Top asked from the middle. He snapped the words out like a challenge. It was obvious he thought my showing up like this was just plain stupid.

  He was probably right.

  "Yeah, he's expecting me."

  Tank Top smirked. "We've all been expecting you."

  He jerked his head in an upward nod and two more men materialized from either side. I hadn't even noticed them positioned behind the enormous porch columns and wondered how many more were roaming the place. They were dressed like the others, but carried no visible weapons as they gave me a quick pat down. It was brusque and much rougher than it needed to be, but they found nothing.

  I didn't say a word. I didn't let on that I even noticed. I sure as hell didn't show any relief that they missed the knife tucked low against the inside wall of my boot.

  The men disappeared again to either side as Tank Top nodded and retreated through the front door. The Spandex Twins on either side of him parted for me to pass, then fell in behind us, encircling me in a tight triangle. As a group, we marched in lockstep through the front door and into an enormous foyer.

  The inside of the house differed in every way from the outside. Though it had the facade of a residence, functionally it looked more like a warehouse. The entire first floor was open, save a dozen or so thick support columns equally spaced throughout. The ground was concrete brushed smooth and the walls were unfinished, formed from either block or exposed wood frames. Small rooms were sectioned off in various places by chain link fence, some containing video surveillance monitors and others with boxes piled high. One even had a dozen or so cots lined tight, many of them filled with inert objects rolled in blankets.

  This wasn't an office, it was a compound.

  Tank Top led me through the center of the space, as much to show me what I was up against as to reach the elevator tucked against the back wall. He stepped inside and pressed a button to send us up one floor while the Spandex Twins stopped short and stood guard on either side. From what I could see, it was the only way in or out of the second floor.

  The door slid apart, opening me into yet another different world. Gone was the dark décor of everything else on the pier, replaced by a spacious floor plan with walls painted white and fixtures all in gold. Tank Top stepped forward onto a sparkling white tile foyer and nodded as a new pair of Spandex Twins fell in on either side of me. Off to the left was a dining room with a polished oak table and chairs, a full kitchen just beyond it. To the right was a master bedroom suite, a four poster bed just visible through the ajar door.

  As a triangle we walked forward towards a set of wooden doors. Made from some kind of dark hardwood they were hand carved with the word Lucio spelled out in script letters on the left and Rifkin on the right. They parted as we approached to reveal a sprawling office that extended the entire length of the floor in both directions.

  Bookshelves lined the wall to my back and sides, giving way to windows facing out towards the parking lot. Contemporary office furniture, sofas and arm chairs, were positioned to either side and an enormous desk sat right in front of me.

  Behind it was a diminutive man in a wheelchair. He wore a pair of tan linen pants and a white shirt buttoned to the collar, his pale head shaved clean. His fingers were steepled in front of him as we approached, his dark eyes tracing over me.

  Not what I was expecting in the least.

  His eyes searched over me for several long seconds, the room silent. "So you are the gentleman that killed my business partner, then had the audacity to call and ask to meet with me?"

  His voice was the same deep and booming baritone from the phone, seeming out of place on a man of his appearance.

  I paused before answering. The question was phrased so as to be a trap. "I didn't kill your partner, but I am the man that called and asked to meet with you."

  Rifkin stared at me for several long moments before shifting his eyes to the side. I followed his gaze to the far wall where a forty-two inch plasma television was mounted between two book cases. For a moment, the screen was nothing but dark fuzz before an image came into view.

  The video showed the interior of Merric's office, the image taken just hours before. On it, I could see myself shooting Merric before taking his cell-phone and reclaiming my knife from Vincent's chest. The video started just seconds before I dealt the fatal bullet to Merric and ended just as I was leaving, my face frozen in front of the camera.

  The barbed wire in my stomach began to twirl like a hamster on a wheel as a heavy sweat engulfed my body. All moisture fled from my mouth as I did my best to turn an impassive gaze back to Rifkin.

  Still, I said nothing.

  "So again I ask," Rifkin said, "so this is the man that killed my business partner, then had the audacity to call and ask for a meeting with me?"

  My tongue felt like a wedge of sandpaper in my mouth. "Yes.”

  Rifkin kept his fingers pointed upward in front of him. "So you lied to me."

  I said nothing.

  He kept his eyes locked on me for several long seconds, a morose look on his face. Finally he turned his gaze to Tank Top and nodded.

  In one quick movement Tank Top shot a flat palm strike into my stomach. All of the air escaped my lungs in a burst as I doubled at the waist, the smooth hardwood floor filling my vision. He jerked my right arm back behind me, extending my hand up and away from my body. I tried to stand and pull my arm free, but the Spandex Twins appeared on either side and forced me to continue staring at the ground.

  "You see, I do not deal with men I cannot trust," Rifkin recited as if scolding a child. "You chose to start this off by lying to me, so until I have wiped the slate clean there is no way I can trust you."

  I felt Tank Top grab my pinkie by the base and squeeze it tight, a practiced move that extended my finger to full length as the nerves inside it screamed in protest. A moment later a metal sleeve slid down over it and clenched.

  Excruciating pain tore through my arm as I gasped, stars dancing before my eyes. My entire body wracked with shock as I remained bent at the waist, four boots staring up at me. Just a second later, Tank Top released his grip and my arm fell back to my side. The boots slid back away from my field of vision, replaced by the bottom half of my pinkie lying bloody on the floor.

  Twenty-Seven

  My body's first reaction was to cradle my hand. I jerked my right hand down and attempted to wrap my left around it, only to have it jam it against my cast. The room swayed in several tight revolutions as my eyes bulged and I gulped in deep breaths of air. Without realizing it, I dropped to a knee and drew in ragged gasps, droplets of blood hitting the floor in a random pattern beneath me.

  "Maurice, take care of that," Rifkin said from somewhere above me. His voice still possessed the same rich baritone, though it sounded bored.

  A pair of hands grabbed me beneath the armpits and roughly hauled me to my feet, my boots slamming down beneath me. A moment later Tank Top appeared and stuffed a wad of fresh gauze into my hand, motioning for me to cover the wound. Beneath me
, the other Spandex Twin sprayed some sort of solution on the blood droplets and wiped them up with paper towels.

  Despite the pain searing through my body, this display told me two things. One, that Rifkin was OCD about cleanliness. Two, this was not the first time this sort of thing had happened.

  My mind alternated between courses of action. The initial shock subsided a bit, giving way to the throbbing pain. Incredulity pulsed through me and I wanted more than anything to leap over the desk, dump the bald bastard on the floor and use my knife to smear his blood over every square inch of the place. Another part of me knew they were three armed men surrounding me that would cut me down before I even made it to, let alone over, the desk.

  The final part, the part that spoke louder than the others, was telling me this wasn't about me right now. This was about Annie.

  I pinched the insides of either check between my teeth and wound the gauze around the stump of my finger. Blood soaked through the first few layers and it wasn't until the padding was over a quarter inch thick that it remained white. I used the entire ball that Tank Top gave me and tucked the end down inside the previous layer.

  "You are right Mr. Rifkin. I shouldn't have lied to you.”

  The words surprised him. I could tell by the look on his face that it wasn't the reaction he was expecting and I silently chalked up a point in my favor. At this point, I would take anything.

  His eyebrows rose in unison. "Usually it takes at least two fingers before people receive the message."

  "No need for that," I assured him. "Message received." The words tasted bitter coming out of my mouth, but I managed to say them with a straight face. I'd been through too much to do something stupid out of pride or anger.

  Rifkin nodded to the men and they retreated a half step away from me. Close enough to still keep me from trying anything, far enough that we could talk freely. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it and regarded me again. His eyes lingered over my attire, the state of both of my hands and the robin's egg protruding above my left temple. "What the hell are you doing here?"