Man Law

by Adrienne Giordano

  Sirhan charged again, leaping into the air, the soles of his boots aimed directly at Vic’s face.

  No way, asshole.

  He drew a deep powerful breath, held it and, squelching the pain in his stomach, sidestepped the airborne Arab. As Sirhan flew past, Vic lifted an elbow, spun, and slammed it to the back of his neck.

  Sirhan hit the floor and Vic pounced on him. They rolled in a tangle of flailing arms and kicking legs until they came to a stop. Vic on top, raining down punches, watching the blood spew from Sirhan’s face.

  Another roll had Sirhan on top, sending down his own fisted missiles.

  Legs. Use the legs.

  With the crazed man straddling him, Vic lifted his legs, wrapped them around Sirhan’s neck and, with everything thing he had, yanked them back toward the floor.

  Sirhan screamed, rocketing onto the wooden floor where he lay in a boneless heap. Then, like a jack-in-the-box, he sprang to his feet.

  The resilient little bastard wouldn’t give up and clearly knew his way around a street fight. Vic shot up, his breath heaving, and they faced off again.

  Sirhan tackled Vic at the waist. They went down hard and pain exploded through his tailbone.

  Vic grunted. Crap. That hurt.

  The Arab struggled to his feet. And here we go again. He rolled to his side, forced himself up and lunged forward, grabbing Sirhan at the throat with both hands and squeezing.

  He had him this time. Every ounce of rage he harbored poured through his hands as he squeezed.

  Sirhan’s dark eyes filled with hate and he narrowed them for a second before he slammed an elbow across Vic’s forehead. Twice.

  The room spun in a dizzying circle and he crashed to the floor, his head throbbing and stomach churning. Vomit rose into his throat and he swallowed it back.

  Dammit.

  He had to kill this fucker before he ran out of what little energy he had left.

  A warm stream of blood ran down his face and Vic reached up, touched two deep lacerations on his head.

  He swiped at his forehead, blinked through blood-gummed eyelashes, but all he could see was Sirhan’s shapeless form moving toward him.

  Nuh-uh. No way.

  Vic struggled to one knee, tried to raise his hands, but another blow to his jaw sent him sprawling. Down, flat on his back, the room around him darkened for a second, and his head lolled sideways as the pain dragged him to a state of oblivion.

  He shook his head to clear the fog.

  No—fuck no. The room flashed back. The blood from his forehead ran down behind each ear and his vision cleared. He rolled left just as Sirhan came crashing down with a boot. The enraged Arab raised his other boot, but Vic caught him at the toe and ankle and twisted hard.

  Sirhan hit the floor face-first and his nose splattered like an overripe tomato. Vic spun to his feet and started forward.

  Movement. Left.

  Sirhan’s mistress bolted through the open doorway, shrieking at him, her eyes filled with madness. Arm raised high and screaming, she gripped a large knife as she charged Vic.

  What. The. Fuck.

  No way he wanted to kill a woman, but he wasn’t about to be butchered either.

  He held his breath, braced himself for the next round. His fatigued arms hung loose at his sides and he tried to raise them. No juice. Damn, they wanted to fall off. And forget about the wrist.

  Forcing his body to move, he sidestepped her charge, caught her arm, spun her around and pulled her into his chest. He wrenched the knife from her hand as she screamed obscenities at him.

  “Crazy bitch,” he muttered as she tried to reach back and scratch his face and eyes.

  He shot a glance at Sirhan and found him standing across the room, the Sig in hand. The crafty asshole held the gun out, wiping a thick smear of blood across his cheek and into his hair.

  The prick was going to kill him with his own gun.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Man Law: Never give the enemy an easy kill.

  Vic raised the knife to the woman’s throat. “Drop the gun, or she dies.”

  Through a blood-splattered face, Sirhan smiled.

  Pure insanity.

  He raised the gun higher and squeezed off a round. The bullet tore through the top of the woman’s head and she collapsed in Vic’s arms like a puppet with its strings cut.

  Sirhan smiled again. “You think I cared about that whore?”

  Not liking the odds of a knife against a gun, Vic adjusted the woman’s body, trying to prop it up as a shield.

  Sirhan laughed.

  The burning wrath flying through Vic should have incinerated him. He loathed this maniac in a way he never thought possible.

  Then at the doorway, Monk spun into the room, gun raised.

  A soaring burst of energy thundered through Vic. “To your right,” he yelled.

  Too late.

  Sirhan whipped toward Monk, pointed his gun, and fired. Monk howled, grabbed his stomach and fell to the floor.

  “Vic…Vic,” he growled, writhing on the floor. He bit his lower lip and grimaced before sliding his gun across the floor.

  Grab the gun.

  In one quick motion, Vic dropped the woman and dove to the floor, slamming his forearm against the hard wood. A raging pain shot through his already banged-up wrist as bullets whizzed above him. Shit. Broken. He rolled to the gun, grabbed it with his good hand and came to his knees firing.

  Blam. Blam. Blam.

  Sirhan’s head jerked when the first bullet caught him under the chin. The second disappeared into his ruined nose. The third bullet blew the top of his head off.

  He fell like a bag of shit.

  Vic dropped to his elbows, shook off the aches plaguing him and said a silent thanks for practicing shooting with his non-dominant hand. He stole a look at his friend and charged to his side. Blood soaked Monk’s shirt, converting it to a darker shade of tan.

  Not again. Fuck. Not again.

  He tore at the shirt to inspect the wound and Monk winced. “Ah, crap, that hurts. The son of a bitch better be dead.”

  “You bet. One-way ticket to hell.”

  Vic scanned Monk’s bare stomach. Just above his waist and to the right was a clean bullet hole.

  “Listen,” he said, “I need to roll you to your side. See if the bullet exited.”

  Monk nodded. Vic stripped off his undershirt and wadded a corner into a knot. “Bite on this.”

  He opened his mouth and Vic placed the knot of fabric between his teeth. Monk clamped down and closed his eyes.

  As gently as possible Vic rolled him over and Monk howled from pain.

  “Sorry,” he said, “but it’s a clean exit wound that isn’t bleeding.”

  No major organs hit. Thank you. The tension in his shoulders shattered. Monk probably felt like shit, but he’d be all right.

  He tugged his shirt from Monk’s mouth. “You’ll live, asshole.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Yeah, well, at least the little bastard didn’t try to kill you with your own gun.”

  Monk forced a smile and closed his eyes. “It hurts too much to even laugh.”

  Vic squeezed his shoulder and waited for him to open his eyes. “Here’s the deal. I’ll get you to the car, but it’ll hurt like hell.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll kill you for it later. With your own gun.”

  Vic grunted. “Everybody’s a comedian. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “The bodies are piling up.”

  Vic closed his eyes. He couldn’t look at Tiny’s head. Not with chunks of brain matter hanging from his open skull, the other half matted and sticky with oozing blood.

  Tiny swiped at the red liquid dripping down his neck. “Damn blood won’t stop.”

  Vic flinched. His subconscious screamed at him to wake up, but sleep held him hostage in that half asleep, half awake state where the images are abundant and all too real.

  Dreaming.

  He had to be drea
ming.

  “Tiny?” He heard himself say.

  “Yeah, it’s me. I’m still here, but the bodies are piling up. Just look at ’em.”

  Tiny motioned toward the stack of bodies behind him. Stacks and stacks of bloody bodies, some with bullet holes, some with slashed throats and all with their eyes open. Sirhan sat on top, laughing.

  “Who’s next?” Tiny jerked his thumb to where Gina, the kids, Mike and Roxann stood. “Will it be one of them?”

  Vic clawed his way from the dream and came awake with a gasping breath.

  Holy shit.

  His gaze darted around the plane’s cabin, took in the dark leather seats and beige walls. His heart pumped like it would beat itself to death. The corporate jet. Vic had fallen asleep on the flight home.

  “What?” Monk unbuckled his seat belt and, trying to protect his taped-up midsection, rose from the seat.

  Vic shifted, raised his right arm to wipe the sweat from his face and clunked himself with the temporary cast on his wrist. Ow. If his face weren’t so banged up, it wouldn’t have hurt.

  Fucking nightmares. Fucking Sirhan. Suddenly, the torment of the last weeks balled itself into a flaming mess in the pit of his stomach and every moment of anxiety he’d corralled burst free. Gina, Lily, Tiny, Baldridge, Conlin. Sirhan.

  One by one, he could feel each compartmentalized piece snickering at him as his emotional armor fell apart.

  “Nightmare?”

  Vic, still seated, opened his mouth to speak, but a screaming roar came out.

  What the hell? The sound of his own yelling careened in his head, but he couldn’t stop. Make it stop.

  He pushed out of his seat to work off the anger, but his knees buckled and he crumbled back into the seat. Crap. Total fucking meltdown.

  “Goddammit!”

  He stared at the seat in front of him, tried to focus on the brown leather, but the rage kept coming. Taunting him. He tensed his forearms and released. Nothing. Shit. Move. He had to move or he’d tear something apart.

  “Vic,” Monk yelled. The sound of his voice penetrated, but nothing registered except the swirling, scorching anger. Vic lifted his leg and rammed his foot into the seat in front him. The seat broke free and flew against the wall.

  He inhaled through his nose and focused on getting his quaking body under control. Relax. Get it together. Concentrate.

  Staring up at the ceiling, he ignored the caged-in sensation overtaking him. Trapped. In this fucking plane. He needed to get out. Get out and fucking pummel something. Crazy, ballistic fury spewed through him and his eyes bulged with the pain. Ah, shit. He opened his mouth, sucked in air and a wheezing sound filled him. Dammit. Nothing. His chest so tight and squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. Goddammit, he couldn’t get any air.

  “Vic,” Monk yelled louder, but he knew if he came too close he’d get an ass whooping.

  The cockpit door opened and one of the pilots stuck his head out. “What’s wrong?”

  Monk moved toward the cockpit and blocked the pilot before he came out. “We’re fine. I’ll take care of it.”

  As fast as his injury would allow, he hustled back and stood over Vic, snapping his fingers in front of his face. “Are you awake? Look at me.”

  Awake? Yes. I might be dying. Fucking elephant on my chest. Vic gave his head a solid shake and stared at the wall. He gripped the arm of his seat until stinging pain shot through his arms. Alive. Good. He inhaled a burst of oxygen and his battered lungs did their job. Air. Not dying. He let his heaving, spent body sink back into the chair.

  “Are you all right?”

  No. “Meltdown.”

  “Yeah. A grand one.” Monk patted his shoulder. “Take it easy. I’ll get you something to drink.”

  Monk winced from moving too fast and slowly walked to the galley.

  On his way back, the plane lurched, and Monk handed him the bottle of water before sliding into his seat to buckle up.

  Vic glanced down at his dangling seat belt and did the same. They’d just killed people and they were buckling up for safety. Ironic, but he wasn’t sure why. Maybe someday he’d laugh about it.

  “We’re almost home,” Monk said. “Maybe another hour.”

  Outside, the dark sky called to him and he stared out for a second. Goddamn blackness. Drowning in it. He checked his watch. Twenty-three hundred hours.

  “We did the right thing,” Monk said. “The world will literally be a better place without Sirhan and his pack.”

  And who was Monk trying to convince? Vic wasn’t sure. He hated the entire sordid thing. The smell of blood, the death. His stomach pitched, and he swallowed. He couldn’t stand it anymore. Too much had happened over these weeks.

  “I’m done.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t watch people die. The nightmares, the living on the edge and getting banged up all the time. I’m done.”

  “You need a break.”

  Vic closed his eyes. “Yeah. A permanent one.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Bet your ass. I’ve got a shot at a life here and I’m not going to blow it.”

  “Gina?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, o-kay.” Monk sounded skeptical.

  “You lost a marriage to this life. When you think back, was it worth it?”

  “Hell, no. Which is why I don’t think back.”

  Vic sat forward. “I don’t want to feel that way, and I can’t let her go before I even know what will happen.”

  Monk shot him a grin. “A sane man wouldn’t, but no one ever accused you of being sane.”

  He held up his middle finger and Monk laughed.

  “She’s good for you,” he said. “Steady. Not a lot of drama. She does what needs to be done and doesn’t make a fuss. You’re not good with fuss.”

  Vic snorted. “No shit there.”

  But was it too late? Would she even want to take the chance? Could he convince her he could stick?

  He had to. He just lived through hell so they could have a fighting chance. He couldn’t let her call it quits. No way.

  If it took the rest of his days, he’d prove to her he could make changes.

  Chapter Thirty

  Man Law: Never let a good woman get away.

  Gina stood at the base of her battered oak stairs practicing her deep breathing. In the next hour she could treat herself to a lakefront bike ride—alone—and think some things through.

  First, she had to get these kids moving and out of the damned house. “Matthew, just put your shoes on. Uncle Michael will be here in five minutes and I’m not in the mood for his yelling.

  “Bad enough I’m yelling,” she muttered to herself and went back to the dining room table to help Lily clean up her puzzle.

  A knock on the back door. Could be Billy. Her dearest brother refused to do away with the round-the-clock security until Vic gave the all clear. Not only did the man break her heart, she had to wait for his approval to lead a normal life. And who knew when that would be? She clamped her teeth together.

  She went to the door, pushed the curtain to the side and jumped backward. Her head reeled as every emotion plowed through her body.

  Vic.

  Home.

  Safe.

  A sudden rush of relief flooded her. She bent over, braced her hands on her legs and let the joy settle in. She’d allow herself this one minute of happiness before the overwhelming sadness of Tiny’s death landed on her again.

  She stood tall, tugged at the bottom of her shirt and opened the door. The man looked like a truck had run him down. The worst of it was his face. Two large gashes on his forehead with stitches, a fading bruise on the lower left side of his jaw and his bottom lip appeared to have been split. His short hair had grown a half inch since she’d seen him last, and dark shadows lay under his eyes.

  “Hi.” She waved him in. “You’re a mess.”

  He half smiled, and his gaze drilled into hers as he crossed
the threshold. She inclined her head toward the cast on his right arm. “What happened?”

  “I broke my wrist.”

  “Rough trip, I guess.”

  She really didn’t want to know the details. Or did she? He wouldn’t tell her, anyway.

  He smiled, but not his normal high-wattage one. Even his smile was worn out.

  “I didn’t see you in the office today,” she said.

  “Mike and I had some business out of the building, and then I had a doctor’s appointment.” He held up his broken wrist. “They had to put the cast on.”

  “Vic!” Lily rushed from the dining room doorway, her eyes filled with a light Gina hadn’t seen in the past twelve days.

  She hurled herself at him and he backed against the counter to absorb the brunt of the attack. He caught her but winced at the effort. That had to hurt.

  A breath of air seeped from Gina’s body, taking with it the initial happiness that came with seeing him. A couple of weeks ago this little scene could have been the start of something special. Now she didn’t know what it was. She smiled in spite of herself. Her little girl wore a grin, and sometimes that was all she needed.

  “How are you, sweet pea?” Vic hugged Lily tight.

  “I’m good. I missed you. Did you get my messages?”

  Gina straightened. Lily had called him? She had no idea.

  “I did,” Vic said, “but I was out of the country. I got back late last night, so I couldn’t come by to see you.”

  “That’s okay. I’m just glad you’re back. Uncle Michael is taking us for pizza. Do you want to come? What happened to your face?”

  She grabbed Lily from behind. “Honey, let’s not bombard Vic with questions. Let him breathe.”

  Their eyes connected again and held. Something about him had changed. His eyes seemed different. Not as intense. Maybe Tiny’s death had broken him. Of course, she’d never know, because Vic didn’t talk about his feelings.

  “She’s okay,” he said, hugging Lily again. “I had a little accident, but I’m fine.”

  The front door slammed.

  “I’m here,” Michael yelled. “And I’m double parked. Let’s get it in gear.”