Phineas Troutt Series - Three Thriller Novels (Dead On My Feet #1, Dying Breath #2, Everybody Dies #3)

by J. A. Konrath

  “No.”

  “Know any blacks? Mexicans? Iraqis?”

  “Why would I mix with schlammensch?”

  I gave him a sharp smack in the nose with the shotgun barrel. “Wrong question. The question you need to ask is: why do you hate people you don’t even know?”

  He pouted. “You don’t understand our struggle.”

  “What struggle? The struggle to be a white male growing up in the United States?”

  “This is our country. We were here first.”

  “Wrong. It was stolen from the people who’d been living here for tens of thousands of years.”

  “Those were Indians. They weren’t people.”

  I considered my options. If I pulled the trigger, the world wouldn’t miss this little prick, and I doubted guilt would keep me awake at night. But it would get back to me. Kenny’s car would be traced, and my prints were all over it, and my cop friend, Jack, would put two and two together. She had done me a favor, and so had Detective Mankowski, and I didn’t want to repay them by adding to their workload.

  So instead of killing the little Nazi, I told him to get up and put his hands on the wall. He did, starting to sob again, and I set the shotgun on the floor between us, and placed the penlight next to it.

  “Turn around,” I said.

  “You’re going to shoot me in the face.”

  “I put the gun down. Turn around.”

  He peeked at me, over his shoulder.

  “Here’s your chance,” I told him. “You can try to grab the gun. Then you can keep me here until Hugo arrives. You’ll be a hero.”

  He seemed dubious. “And what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to slap you until there isn’t a square inch of white left on your racist little body.”

  “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “That’s because you’re an idiot. Have you ever been in a fight?”

  “Lots of times.”

  “I’m not talking about throwing beer bottles across a parking lot, or trading elbows in a mosh pit, or stomping on someone already on the ground. This isn’t martial arts bullshit, with rules and a ref. This is a fight.”

  He made a move for the gun, and I smacked him in the face, sending him back into the wall.

  “That’s about five square inches,” I said. “Only three thousand left to go.”

  I was in lousy physical shape, but this kid couldn’t fight for shit. He swung a punch that was so slow I could have fried an egg before it landed, and then he flinched at a feint and left his body open. I hit him in the kidney, hard enough for him to remember it the next thirty times he pissed blood, and then drove an uppercut into his chin that laid him out flat.

  Nice job, Phin. You beat up a seventeen year-old-kid. That make you feel better?

  It did, actually. A little bit.

  I checked his pulse. Strong and steady.

  Then I considered my next move. In the past, I’d broken gang-bangers fingers. You can’t shoot someone when your hand is in a splint. But my worry was less about getting shot, and more about this guy running off and alerting Hugo before he showed up.

  So make sure he can’t run off.

  You know those old cartoons where a little angel appears on one shoulder, giving advice, and then a little devil appeared on the other shoulder?

  Earl was both.

  I didn’t have handcuffs. But I did have cowboy boots.

  Without thinking about it too much, I grabbed the kid by the ankle, raised his leg, and brought a heel down on his knee.

  It woke him up, and he screamed and sobbed, and I got tired of hearing it so I left him where he sat, grabbed the shotgun, and went downstairs to wait for Hugo.

  More waiting.

  Waiting by a broken first-floor window, staring at the street.

  Waiting for my brother to come.

  How’d it feel? Breaking that kid’s leg?

  “Had to be done,” I mumbled to Earl. To myself. I was pretty sure the cancer hadn’t reached my brain yet, so Earl was more of a way my subconscious dealt with death, making my tumor an enemy that I could fight. I knew Earl didn’t really talk to me.

  And yet you just spoke out loud.

  I didn’t reply.

  You’re a cliché, Phin. When you’re a kid, you’re abused. Then you grow up to be the abuser.

  “Violence is part of my job.”

  Wrong. You chose this job as an excuse to be violent.

  “It’s all I know.”

  It’s all you’ve ever wanted to know.

  I chose not to respond. If this was a conversation I was having with my subconscious, I wanted to end it.

  Except Earl kept at it.

  You think you’re better than your brother. Or better than that Nazi kid whose ass you just kicked. Why? Because you’re not racist? You think this is about ideologies? They hurt people. You hurt people. They kill people. You kill people. You’re the same kind of trash.

  “I don’t hurt innocents.”

  Semantics. Hypocrisy. Bullshit. You know what? Hugo can justify everything he’s done, too.

  “He doesn’t have to deal with you.”

  You really think I’m an excuse for your behavior? It’s okay to beat people up, to break their bones, to kill them, all because you’ve been dealt a shitty hand?

  Upstairs, I could hear the Nazi crying.

  “Keep ranting. I’m starting another round of chemo, as soon as this is over.”

  No, you’re not. We both know that’s bullshit.

  I didn’t answer.

  And you know why it’s bullshit, don’t you, Phineas? Because I’m exactly what you deserve.

  Drugs would usually shut Earl up. I had a few codeine pills left. Opiates would dull my senses, but it’s not like I could be on full alert with Earl droning on and on.

  I tugged the baggies out of my pocket, took out two pills, swallowed them dry.

  So now you’re blaming me for your drug addiction?

  I took a third pill.

  Good idea. You fight so much better when you’re high as a kite. That’s sarcasm, by the way.

  I took a fourth pill.

  Okay, this isn’t about me. It’s not about the pain you’re in, or the voices in your head.

  This is about Hugo.

  You’re scared.

  “Shut up,” I said.

  You worried he’s going to beat you up? Hurt you? Kill you?

  I reached for more pills, but I didn’t have any.

  No, you’re worried about him doing something else. Are you still blaming yourself?

  “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  Maybe you should. Why haven’t you ever gone to therapy? You’re ashamed? You were eight. He was twice your size. It wasn’t your fault.

  “I could have fought back.”

  Really? Victim blaming? You’re angry with yourself because your brother pinned you down and—

  “Enough!”

  I had my shotgun raised, and I had no idea where to point it.

  That’s how scared you are. And you blame me for the addiction. You were damaged goods before I ever came into your life, pal.

  The pills were kicking in. Earl was getting softer.

  Here’s a tip. Kick the drugs. Join a support group.

  Upstairs, I heard the Nazi crying.

  My cheeks were wet, too. I wiped them off.

  Have your little breakdown later, Earl whispered. Hugo’s here.

  I stared out the window, hadn’t even noticed that a van had pulled up next to Kenny’s totaled car.

  I waited for all the troops to storm out and rush the factory, but the only one that exited the vehicle was Hugo.

  He was… massive.

  So much larger than I remembered.

  But he was alone. And as he walked over to Kenny’s car, looking it over, his back was to me.

  I gripped the shotgun, my hands sweaty.

  I was shaking all over.

  What are you waiting for? Ki
ll him!

  Could I kill him?

  Pasha’s probably in the truck. Just kill the son of a bitch.

  Could I kill him?

  Point the gun and shoot, you idiot!

  Could I kill him?

  It wasn’t a moral question. I had no issue at all with destroying my brother. The world would be a better place.

  Maybe it would even stop the nightmares.

  But seeing him, standing there, a towering, massive giant, I didn’t know if killing him was even possible. The weapons I had weren’t enough.

  It’s a shotgun. You can kill a bear with a shotgun. Shoot him!

  What if it didn’t?

  Sirens. In the distance. Getting closer.

  Hugo turned—

  —looked directly at me.

  I froze. Feeling like that eight-year-old-kid, terrified, unable to cope with what was happening.

  You’re not eight.

  You’re a grown man.

  Shoot the son of a bitch.

  I raised the barrel, knowing it wasn’t going to work.

  SHOOT!

  I aimed for the center mass. Twenty five yards away. An easy target.

  Squeezed the trigger.

  The shotgun thundered.

  Hugo staggered back.

  Blood blossomed on his shirt and pants.

  But he didn’t go down.

  I ejected the spent cartridge, aimed, and fired again.

  He raised up his arm, covering his face.

  But he didn’t go down.

  I knew it wouldn’t work.

  I knew it wouldn’t kill him.

  He was unkillable.

  I racked again.

  Aimed.

  Fired.

  He took it. Just stood there as the buckshot peppered his body.

  Wait… was this even buckshot?

  Buckshot was called buckshot because it could take down a deer. But there were twelve gauge shotgun loads that contained much smaller pellets than buckshot.

  I had the vaguest memory of Kenny Jen Bang Ko, with his shotgun, shooting rats by the garbage cans.

  Birdshot.

  Kenny had loaded his gun with birdshot.

  It could kill a rat or a squirrel or a pigeon, but from twenty meters, at someone Hugo’s size…

  All it would do is get under his skin and piss him off.

  I dropped the shotgun, pulling my nine as Hugo dove across the hood of Kenny’s car and blended into the darkness.

  He was in the factory. The monster was in the factory.

  With me.

  And my immediate reaction was soul-numbing fear and a ridiculous urge to hide under the bed.

  But I couldn’t get away. I couldn’t hide.

  I never could.

  Don’t hide. Fight.

  I took half a dozen steps in the darkness, heading for the stairs.

  Shoot him. You’ve got the Smith & Wesson.

  That made perfect sense. Hugo didn’t appear to be armed, and a 9mm round to the face would kill anyone.

  So why was I running? Why didn’t I just—

  “Phineas!”

  The growl of Hugo’s voice stopped me cold. I couldn’t see in the dark, but he was only a few meters away. I felt my bladder tighten, my sphincter clench.

  You’re going to die if you don’t stop acting like a child. Push the fear away.

  “What did you shoot me with, little brother?” He’d gotten even closer. “Was that some kind of toy?”

  Fight through the fear. Shoot him.

  I could hear my own heartbeat, and I was sure Hugo could hear it too.

  Draw the gun—

  “I can hear you breathing, Phin.”

  —and shoot him.

  “You sound scared.”

  I was scared.

  Goddammit, Phin, you’re not eight-years-old anymore!

  I didn’t consider myself a brave person. I ran from love. I ran from fights. I ran from my cancer.

  Being brave was all about confronting fear, and I was all about hiding from it.

  But you didn’t have to be brave to blow someone’s head off.

  I raised the gun and fired, seeing Hugo charge at me just as the muzzle flashed.

  The shot went over his head, and he hit like a brick to the face. My vision sparked, then blurred. The gun flew from my hands. I had a thought, fleeting, that I’d just gotten knocked out. Then my body hit the floor.

  Time became a bendable, wobbly thing, pain and consciousness blinking on and off, my thoughts all scrambly and jumbled.

  Bits and pieces came back like remembered photographs. Pasha. The factory. Hugo.

  I’d tried to kill him. Failed. And now he was going to hurt and kill me.

  “You’re early,” said a fuzzy voice. I knew whose it was, and tried to get my body to listen to my brain and turn over.

  My body shunned the request.

  A lighter flicked on, illuminating a monster. Hugo was so enormous it was almost funny. He looked amused—always a dangerous look for him—and he smiled even though his chest, legs, neck, and face were soaked with blood.

  “You’re also bald. Are you a skinhead, Phin? That would be funny.”

  My tongue was cold, and I realized my mouth was sucking the concrete floor. I pushed my head away, the effort bringing up bile. I dry heaved, then laid my palms flat and tried to stop the world from spinning.

  “Face me. Let me look at you. I’ve waited a long time for this moment.”

  My body found a way to sit up. I squinted at the giant hovering over me, trying to focus.

  “You ain’t looking so good, baby brother.”

  “Where’s Pasha?” I heard myself say.

  “Where are my men?”

  I spat, my vision beginning to clear. I looked around for my gun, but it was lost in the dark. All I could see with any degree of clarity was Hugo.

  He was massive. His body a mountain. His face a slab of meat. The Zippo he held had a six inch flame, and it bathed him in flickering orange.

  You’ve got a choice here, Phin. You can roll over for him. Or you can fight. What’s it gonna be?

  Hugo leaned closer, squinting at me. “I asked you a question. Where are my men?”

  All during my childhood, defying Hugo meant terrible consequences.

  But he’d already done the worst he could do. And I’d survived.

  Maybe I wouldn’t survive this. But I’d made my peace with death.

  It was time to make my peace with fear.

  I was done with being afraid.

  “Remember the last thing I said to you, before they took you to juvee?” I said. My voice was surprisingly calm.

  Hugo snickered. “You said you were going to kill me, the next time you saw me. So what are you waiting for?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  The knife came out of my back pocket like it had been greased, and the blade opened a millisecond before I jammed it into Hugo’s inner thigh.

  Hitting the femoral artery would do the job. Even as big as Hugo was, he’d bleed out. But his legs were like oak trees, the muscle so thick I only got two inches of blade in, and then he backhanded me hard enough to give me my second case of whiplash that evening.

  My upper body snapped back and slammed into the floor like I was on hinges, the world went dark, and a huge hand grasped my shirt and jerked me to my feet like I was a toddler.

  He let go of me and took a step back, leaving me on wobbly feet.

  Then he raised his fists, the size of hams, in a boxer’s stance and took a shuffle to the side.

  “You want to fight. Phineas? Let’s fight.”

  I took the hit on the side of the head, rolling to the ground. My brain was receiving forty messages at once, all of them pain. I got on all fours, watching him approach, the lighter still in his hand.

  I squinted at him, and he seemed to walk towards me in slow motion. He was huge, my brother. Hugo had six inches on me, and over a hundred and fifty pounds, all muscle. In the bes
t shape of my life, rested and younger and healthy, I wouldn’t have been able to take him in a fair fight. In the shape I was in now I didn’t have a Big Mac’s chance in a fat farm, to quote an old acquaintance.

  But who said I had to fight fair?

  I patted down my pockets, found the things I’d taken from the gangbanger. Brass knuckles. A bottle of lighter fluid. I slipped on the knucks and held up a fist so Hugo focused on that.

  “Really? You think a toy like that will hurt me?”

  With my other hand, I popped the plastic cap on the lighter fluid, took two quick steps toward him, and squirted the liquid at his lighter.

  There was a fireball, and he was momentarily engulfed in flames. I squeezed the rest of the fluid onto his legs, and as he began to pat out the fire I threw the hardest, fastest haymaker of my life, catching him on the jaw with the brass knuckles, knocking him to one knee.

  Hugo swatted me, backhanded, with the force of a car accident, and I went rolling to the floor, losing the bottle.

  While trying to smother the flames, Hugo only succeeded in fanning them, and he staggered back into an old desk and that caught fire as well.

  I pulled my spare knife from my other pocket, then took a quick look around the room, now that it was easier to see, searching from my 9mm.

  Hugo tore off his shirt, damp with blood, and beat out the fire on his pants. Smoking, bleeding, he looked like he’d stepped straight out of hell.

  “Since we’re related, I’ll give you a break,” Hugo said. “What should I break first?”

  He advanced, and I backed away an equal distance. Shot, stabbed, burned, and I might have broken his jaw, and he didn’t seem the tiniest bit bothered.

  “A leg or an arm?” he asked. “I once broke a guy’s arm, then pulled the bone out through the skin. I bet I could do that with your leg.”

  I swung the knuckles at him, and the punch bounced harmlessly off his shoulder. Hugo started to laugh, sounding almost like a dog barking. I remembered that laugh from my youth, every time he’d done something to hurt someone, usually me.

  I wondered if Pasha had heard that laugh.

  Through the haze of pain and exhaustion and fear, I became very pissed off.

  Pulling myself inward, drawing air into my lungs and holding it, I sighted on his meaty head and forced myself into a reverse kick. Pivoting my hips around in a quick snap and extending the leg, I focused and let my body perform what was, for me, a familiar motion.

  I connected hard with his face and drove him backwards, the doggy laughter dying in his throat.