by Pro Se Press
One deep breath and Monroe stepped in. The bed was empty, nobody was there, which meant no body was there. So she was, at least when she had left, alive. He was glad for that, and enraged at the same time. Winter was missing, but something was on the bed. He went to it and found a small black leather bag propped against the pillows atop the precisely smoothed sheets. He picked up the bag, turned it upside down, dumping the contents onto the bed.
Two things fell out. A handful of hair, long and pure white, fluttered down to the bed like a feather. A baseball landed on the sheets and rolled an inch or two. A baseball! Monroe had not expected to find that.
The hair was an obvious message, the ball was enigmatic. Monroe picked the ball up, looked closely. There was a message written on the white leather with a felt-tipped pen.
“Ninth inning, Monroe. Everybody wins eventually if the field stands long enough. You blew the save last time. Come try again.”
An Englishman of Mongolian ancestry using baseball analogies. Monroe shook his head and clenched his fists. It was Garrett Khan. Of that, Monroe had no doubt. He was taunting him over Genevieve’s death and challenging him to keep Winter from the same fate. Monroe made up his mind then and there that he would finally confront Garrett Khan face to face, man to man, one on one, and end this stupid game permanently. First, though, he had to find him. And he felt obligated to report in before he did anything. In case he failed, others would have to pick up the trail.
Mr. Nine answered on the third ring.
“What?”
“They’ve snatched her!”
“The Willows woman, I assume.”
“Yes, sir, I’m at her place now: signs of a struggle, open door, some broken glass, a bit of blood but not enough for worst case scenarios yet, and a message for me.”
“From Khan?”
“I’m ninety percent sure. It’s on a baseball. Listen to this: ‘Ninth inning, Monroe. Everybody wins eventually if the field stands long enough. You blew the last save. Come try again.’ And that’s all it says.”
“Any idea what it means?”
“I think he’s taken her to Fenway Park. It took the Red Sox decades and decades to finally win the World Series and their ballpark is one of the oldest still in use in the Majors.”
“Yes, I know my baseball history. I’m even old enough to have seen Ted Williams hit there. And you’re probably right about the message. I’ll alert the Boston FBI branch.”
“No, sir, please don’t. If the ballpark is stormed by FBI or SWAT or anybody else, Winter Willows is dead. This was a personal message, a challenge from Garrett Khan to me. He intends for this chess game we’ve had going on to end tonight.”
“I’m not stupid, I know exactly what Khan has in mind. He’ll blow you to Hell as soon as you go near Fenway and then he’ll kill Willows anyway, probably after he’s raped her too.”
“No, sir, I think Khan’s so fed up with my interfering in his businesses that his ego is demanding he kill me personally. He doesn’t trust his lieutenants to do the job anymore, not that he has many left after what’s been done to his empire in recent days. Let me go in, sir. Let me do it my way. If you don’t hear from me in a few hours, send in the damn Marines if you want!”
“Monroe, this is your last chance to end this business. I want Garrett Khan dead, dead tonight or…or you’re fired! Good luck. And I don’t care how much you argue…the FBI and Boston PD will be on standby, but I’ll try to give you enough time to do the job yourself. Now get going.”
Click.
Chapter 17: Take Me Out of the Ballgame
Monroe sped home, raced up to his apartment, taking the stairs rather than waiting for the elevator, and changed clothes as quickly as he could. Clad all in black, he grabbed the items he anticipated needing: extra rounds for the Glock, a small pocket flashlight, and a large knife suitable for hunting the most dangerous prey of all.
He hurried back to the Lexus, roared out of the garage, and headed for Fenway. No need to check directions; one could not live in Boston for any period of time and not know where that coliseum of America’s pastime stood.
It was dark and cold as Monroe arrived in the neighborhood known as Fenway-Kenmore. It was a tight, crowded area, with the ballpark sitting right in the center of town, the giant stadium dwarfing nearby businesses and apartment buildings. Monroe liked the fact that Fenway was surrounded by so much; it would work to his advantage. There were several cars rolling along Yawkey Way, the street where the park’s front entrance faces. Being the off-season, the park was not in everyday use. Events were occasionally held there in winter, but not on this night. The massive lights above the field were off, not that Monroe expected them to be on, for he had already assumed that wherever Garrett Khan had taken Winter Willows was deep inside the halls and corridors and basement sections of the stadium.
Monroe parked up a small side street a two minute jog from the front entrance. He shut and locked the Lexus. The perimeter of the park was vast and there were exits and entrances all around; Monroe had no intention of trying that main entrance.
As he moved around to the side of the building, looking for an easy way in, Monroe tried to put himself inside the mind of Garrett Khan, estimating what a criminal mastermind might do to take control of a place like Fenway Park. Obviously, Monroe knew, the place had security even when closed. Khan would have to somehow replace those men with his own minions. Monroe smiled at that realization; no need to pull punches if he encountered what looked like uniformed security.
After five minutes of sneaking around the high walls of Fenway, Monroe spotted a promising possibility. A small ramp dove down at one point, the pavement snaking behind a small brick wall that jutted out a bit further than the rest of that side of the stadium. He glanced around, saw nobody, and hurried down the ramp. Behind that small brick blockade was a door, metal and locked, but not so thick as to be impenetrable. At least one of the hinges was rusty, which might make things easier. Taking that door down would make a bit of noise, but Monroe was already expected, so he doubted it would make much difference. The bad part was that Khan knew he was coming, but the good was that there were so many possible ways in that they could not all be under guard. Monroe leaned against the inner side of that brick wall, arms braced against the hard stone, and lifted his body up, kicking out with his legs as hard as he could, slamming the soles of his boots into the metal door with a resounding clang. The shock of impact traveled up Monroe’s legs and into his back, shaking him. He grunted once, took in a deep breath to steady him and reinforce his will, and tried it again. Another clang, but he felt a bit of give this time and saw some flakes of rust fall from the hinges.
“One more,” Monroe whispered as he repeated the action. The door went this time, hinges bursting loose, metal creaking and cracking, and the whole metal slab falling back and hitting the floor with a loud reverberation. Monroe stepped over the door and into Fenway Park, hoping none of the neighbors were dialing the police after hearing such a sound.
Monroe cursed himself as he entered the dark hallways of Fenway. He should have prepared more before coming here, should have had Mr. Nine see about pulling a blueprint from the ballpark’s computer system or something, or should have had at least some idea of the layout of the place. But he had done nothing like that and he had no idea how to even begin trying to find Winter, Khan, or anybody else. He was Theseus in the labyrinth and had no idea where the Minotaur waited.
“Oh Richard, where are you?”
Monroe stopped, frozen in place. The voice was coming from all sides at once, up and down, left and right: public address system. The voice was Garrett Khan’s. Monroe knew it immediately, the same smug tone from the interrogation tapes aboard the carrier Lincoln. Now that grating voice called Monroe’s name in a sing-song whine far worse than the nails-on-chalkboard analogy.
The lights flashed on, illuminating the corridors, dispelling the shadows with one swift slash. Monroe could now see perfectly well, had no nee
d for his little flashlight. But he knew that Khan could probably see him, too. Probably watching him by means of the security cameras.
“That’s it, Richard. Keep going that way,” Khan’s voice, tinny through the overhead speakers, said as Monroe continued down the corridor. “Wait till you see what fun I have for you up ahead!”
“Shut up, you bastard,” Monroe muttered under his breath. He knew he was walking into a big fat trap, but saw few other options. He had no idea what was being done to Winter, but he had to work under the assumption that the longer it took him to find her, the worse her situation might become. He kept walking, letting Garrett Khan cue him forward.
“Stop, wait there for a second.”
Monroe paused, looked up at the camera above him.
“I think you have a gun,” Khan continued. “There’s no shooting in baseball! You can’t keep the gun, Richard. Sorry, but I want you to walk a little further and you’ll find a rubbish bin around the next bend. Drop your gun in the trash and continue on please.”
“Damn,” Monroe muttered, but he kept going, around the bend, drew the Glock from the holster as he walked, let it slip from his hand into the garbage can, and continued on his journey as the weight of the gun caused the papers in the bottom of the barrel to shift and settle.
“Very good, we’re almost at our first stop. The real fun is about to begin!”
A minute’s walk later, Monroe found a double door on his right.
“Stop right there, Richard!”
There was a click, a whir, the sound of automation as the doors slid open. Brighter light flooded out into the hallway and Monroe blinked at its brilliance.
“Come on in!”
Monroe stepped forward into the light, into the newly-revealed room. His mouth dropped open in horror at what he saw. It was an underground batting cage. The room was large and round and in its center was an area separated from viewers by a steel mesh fence, high enough to almost touch the ceiling. Inside the cage was a pitcher’s mound upon which stood a pitching machine. A convenient means of practice for a Major League ballplayer, but the situation here had been twisted into a nightmarish parody of America’s pastime. There was no seasoned slugger standing with bat ready at the plate, no Mighty Casey this time. Instead, a pole had been erected just behind the plate and a captive bound to the tall stake. Winter Willows, her long white hair cascading down around her shoulders, had been roped to the pole, hands behind her back, ankles tied as well. She was naked from head to feet, and her face was a clear and sincere picture of absolute fear.
Monroe rushed forward, hit the mesh fence, fingers grasping the wire and shaking furiously, trying to rip the steel and gain entrance to the cage. The struggle was futile.
“Richard!” Winter screamed.
“Damn it,” Monroe called out, “I’m coming!”
“Batter up!” the overhead voice of Garrett Khan rang out, taunting and sneering. “Oh, wait…she’s already up! In that case, let’s play ball!”
Monroe’s fingers tightened, the cage rattled harder, faster, but the mesh was strong and his efforts fruitless. The pitching machine started to hum. The monster was coming to life and the would-be savior was locked outside.
Winter screamed again and the robot threw a strike. Monroe watched in horror as the small white sphere shot through the air and struck, slamming into Winter’s bare left shoulder. Winter closed her eyes and winced as the ball hit, tears flooding into her eyes at the pain. The ball fell to the floor at her feet. Monroe watched as the shoulder turned an alarming shade of red where a dark bruise would surely develop in little time.
Monroe shook the cage again, his eyes staring hard at the ceiling as if looking for God while simultaneously crying out for the woman’s torment to stop.
“Khan, you animal! Leave her alone!”
“But Richard,” the voice that was not God’s called back, “the fun is only beginning…”
And the next pitch came. It flew and it hit. Winter’s nose exploded in a gush of blood, rivers of dark red spurting out like a bursting cloud and running down her face, into her mouth, curving down along her neck and staining her breasts.
“Two strikes!” Garrett Khan said from his unseen hiding place. “Can we make an out that easily?”
The machine purred, the leather-bound bullet was ejaculated, and the point of impact was Winter’s ribs. The ball hit with a sick cracking noise. All the air left Winter’s lungs in one agonized wheeze. Her head rolled forward and her eyes closed, chin resting in the center of her breastbone, blood from the shattered nose still trickling along its crimson course.
“You bastard,” Monroe said, his voice rasping and growing hoarse, “if you’ve killed her…”
“And she’s…out!” Khan shouted.
Monroe shook at the cage again and this time it did budge. In fact, the side upon which he pushed and pulled suddenly fell in, opening a door for him to step through, as if some remote mechanism had unlocked it. Monroe rushed in, went straight to Winter, and checked her pulse. She lived. He pulled his knife out, quickly slashing the ropes that bound her hands behind her. Released, she fell forward as Monroe caught her. Holding her up, he knelt down, slit the ties around her ankles and stood up again. From Winter’s throat, Monroe could hear a low gurgle, a choking. He reached around her, slapped her hard on the back. Her mouth opened and blood poured out, but he had cleared her airway and she began to breathe on her own again. She was barely conscious, moaning, trembling. Monroe moved her off to the side of home plate and let her body sag to the floor. He took off his jacket, folded it into a pillow, and placed it under her head to keep her from choking on blood again.
“I’ll be back for you, Winter,” he whispered, “I promise.” And he kissed her gently on the forehead.
Laughter came from behind. Multiple voices raised in filthy chuckles. Monroe stood and whirled, the hunting knife still in hand. His eyes met three faces, faces that fronted heads that sat atop large bodies. Monroe knew who they were though he had never seen any of them before: thugs, beaters, brawlers. These were the sort of men who lived to break bones and separate teeth from jaws, the kind hired by men like Garrett Khan when they did not want to get their own hands dirty with the blood of their enemies. They stared hard at Monroe, almost salivating like pit bulls, clearly men who thrived on violence. They all had Louisville Sluggers in their hands.
“Well hurry up then,” Monroe snapped, too high on rage and adrenaline to feel fear. “Don’t make me wait.”
The middle thug in Murderer’s Row barked something in Russian, commanding the men on either side of him to advance on Monroe’s position. Monroe could tell by the approach that the men he faced were brutes and not finesse-fighters, tough but clumsy men who lacked the training of experienced field agents. That, Monroe, decided, would work to his advantage.
They both came at once, the two bats thrust forward and down to strike Monroe in the front of the body. Monroe thrust his feet out in front of him, let gravity take him down, and landed well below the overhead swish of the two bats, using the heels of his hands to cushion his impact with the floor. Outnumbered three to one with two of them right on top of his position, Monroe knew he had to lessen the odds against him as fast as possible. His right hand, wielding the knife, swept out and he cut the goon on that side in the calf. The blade was sharp, sliced deep, going through pants and thick flesh and muscle. Blood immediately soaked the pants. The big Russian crumbled to the floor next to Monroe. There was no hesitation or any idea of mercy with the next move. Monroe thrust the knife again, plunging it between the fallen man’s ribs, extinguishing the flame of life.
As the first thug died, Monroe heard the second man’s bat coming down at his head. He rolled, dodging the blow but forced to relinquish the knife in the process, unable to pull it from the dead man’s ribs and move clear of the descending bat at the same time.
He scrambled to his feet, stood and blocked the next bat-blow with his hands, managing to wrap his finge
rs around the barrel of the bat and push it back into the face of the attacker. The wide Russian nose crunched flat and bled as Winter’s had when the ball had struck her. Monroe then brought up his knee, connected to the batter’s groin, and stepped aside as the body hit the floor. A quick sideways kick to the man’s temple ensured that he would not get up anytime soon, assuming he lived after such a blow to the head with the hard toe of Monroe’s boot.
Now the third Russian remained, this one obviously the leader. He stepped toward Monroe. As the two still-standing combatants met, Monroe’s mind was working in two directions at once. His conscious attention was on the man about to swing the bat at his head, but a fraction of his mind was already planning ahead, analyzing the situation and the information he had so far. That sector of his brain, as the minds of experienced agents often do, was not thinking so much in word-based thoughts but rather in a series of quick, intuitive flashes, putting two and two together and then adding another two and so on until the circumstances and the status of the chessboard were understood. At that moment, Monroe knew what he had to do and realized what chance he had to take: a big risk, but worthwhile if it succeeded.
He dodged the first swing of the last Russian’s bat, then ducked and lifted the bat dropped by the previous opponent. He stood quickly, blocked the next shot, and the two bats collided in midair with a loud crack, moving like dueling swords but thundering like battering rams against big oak doors.
The two bats crashed against each other a dozen times and then Monroe made the move that would, he suspected, decide if he would live to come face to face with his true enemy or die a fast and irrevocable death right then and there.
As the Russian’s bat came swinging at his head, he let his own bat fall just to the left of where it should have been to block, turned his head just slightly to the side to keep his face from meeting wood, and let the Russian deal a blow to his skull. Monroe felt the impact and it hurt, stinging and vibrating, but it had not been enough to knock him out, and that was what he had been counting on. He let himself fall to the floor, let his body hit with a dull thud and did not move once he was down. He knew, from past experiences in treacherous situations, how to feign unconsciousness, knew how to let his body go convincingly limp, knew how to be still, and knew how to make it look very, very real.
