by Nick James
“Let me just leave with Dalton. You made your point. Why don’t you check with your father?”
“Funny thing, I don’t know where he is, so, I really can’t check with him. But, I got an idea you might know and your ass is going to be singing to any tune I call in just a minute here.” With that he took a half step toward Bobby, then suddenly spun halfway round, wound up and swung.
Chapter Forty-Nine
The heavy metal pipe slammed into the side of Dalton’s head. The pipe made a sickening, dull sort of smacking sound and Dalton let off a little high pitched chirp that was cut short. Reggie wound up, struck again, and bits of bone matter, brains, and blood splattered across the wall.
Jerry the driver jumped to the side, shouted, “Fucking eh,” and laughed.
Reggie swung twice more, then took a half-step back, shoved the pipe in Dalton’s mouth, and pushed back what was left of his skull. “You see that shit? Was that fucking great or what?” he laughed.
Jerry and Clint laughed, all three nodding to one another just as Bobby leapt forward. He grabbed the pistol out of Reggie’s belt at the same time he pushed him on top of Dalton. The chair with Dalton attached and Reggie on top tipped backward onto the floor. Reggie rolled off to the left, landing in the pool of blood and bits of brain matter and bone.
Bobby jumped to the right and raised the pistol as Clint took two quick strides toward him. He pulled the trigger and Clint’s head jerked back. The rest of his body seemed to follow and he landed on his back and remained very still.
Jerry was glued to the floor. Reggie stood in the puddle of blood holding the length of pipe, with a surprised look on his face. Blood and bits were splattered across his trousers and t-shirt. One of his hands was coated in blood. “Hold on man, just hold on. I knew that bastard wasn’t going to do you any good. I maybe got a little carried away, but I took him out for your own good. I wanted to work with you, but then this asshole showed up and I figured we’d just…”
“Shut up, Reggie. Just shut the fuck up.”
“Okay, man, okay. Calm down, just stay calm.”
“Where’s your father?”
Reggie looked at him for a long moment, then said, “I’m guessing he’s dead. We been fighting a losing battle with them Mexican’s ever since the old man disappeared. I don’t know what happened to him, but it couldn’t have been good.”
“Why not just make an appointment with me? You know, call on the phone, send an email, something, anything. God, why the hell did you have to go and do this crazy shit?”
Reggie scoffed. “You think I don’t know? Jesus Christ, you’re with ‘em, with Morales. You got your fancy apartment, your body guards, those women you’re screwing all night long. What the hell did I get? I’m sleeping in a different shit hole every night, always looking over my shoulder. I’m hiding man. I can’t go out in the daylight. I come back from fucking California to take over and there ain’t nothing to take over. You got it. All of it. And I’m screwed.”
Suddenly, there was a noise out in the hallway. It sounded like a door closing. Bobby looked at Reggie who was staring at the door. He’d heard it too. Jerry had turned around and was watching the door.
“Who else is here?” Bobby asked.
“No one, honest. I don’t know what the hell that was.”
Bobby raised the pistol and pointed it at Reggie. “I’m warning you. Someone comes in here and I will blow you away. You’ll be the first to get it.”
“Hey, honest, man. I ain’t lying. I don’t know who’s out there. Jerry tell him there ain’t anyone else, tell him, Jerry, tell him.”
Footsteps, definitely footsteps out in the hall.
“You’re lying. Tell whoever it is to back off or I’ll kill you. I promise I will.”
Reggie sort of smirked and Jerry started to pull a pistol out from behind his back, but he flubbed it, juggled it in his hands as Bobby turned and fired. The round blew off a chunk of Jerry’s shoulder. A cloud of bloody mist filled the air as he spun around screaming and dropped to the floor. Reggie jumped forward raising the pipe over his head just as Bobby pulled the trigger. Reggie’s throat disappeared. His head dropped at an odd angle and Bobby fired again, knocking him back into the puddle of Dalton’s blood. Jerry was grunting and attempting to crawl toward the door, although his left arm was dragging and blood was spurting out of his wound. Bobby took his time, aimed carefully, and blew off the back of his skull.
He heard feet running out in the hallway. Many pairs of feet. He crouched alongside the empty desk pushed into the corner, pointed the pistol at the door, and waited.
The End
Thank you for reading Corridor Man 5: Finger, hope you enjoyed the read. Hiding in a corner with four bodies in the room and voices out in the hall doesn’t sound too promising. If you enjoyed the read and would like to leave a review just click on the links below.
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Don’t miss the sample of Welcome:Jack Dillon Dublin Tale 1 written by Mike Faricy under the pseudonym Patrick Emmett on the following page.
Patrick Emmett
Welcome:
Jack Dillon Dublin Tale 1…
Published by Credit River Publishing 2016
Copyright Mike Faricy 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior and express permission of the copyright owner.
All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Welcome is written by Mike Faricy under the pseudonym Patrick Emmett.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank the following people for their help & support:
Special thanks to Nick, Roy, Julie, Mittie, and Toui for their hard work, cheerful patience and positive feedback. I would like to thank family and friends for their encouragement and unqualified support. Special thanks to Maggie, Jed, Schatz, Pat, Av, Emily and Pat, for not rolling their eyes, at least when I was there. Most of all, to my wife, Teresa, whose belief, support and inspiration has, from day one, never waned.
I can resist everything except temptation.
~Oscar Wilde
Welcome:
Jack Dillon Dublin Tale 1
Chapter One
Dillon woke just after six in the morning. He did a quick check with his eyes still closed, trying to remember the later part of the evening. His mind suddenly jumped forward with the news flash. He forgot to pack. He slowly opened his eyes and his next thought was related to the leopard print sheets and hint of perfume. The perfume seemed heavy, lilacs in spring, a lot of lilacs. Close by. Where was he and whose bed was he in?
He cautiously rolled over and stared. She probably wasn’t too unattractive, even asleep, drooling and giving off a soft, continuous snore. The black eye mask sporting sequined blue eyes and covering half her face made it difficult to tell.
She was blonde, apparently a natural blonde if he remembered correctly. He was trying to recall her name while at the same time appraise her figure. He gradually recalled the shoulder tattoos, the pierced nipples and the blue stone the size of a dime piercing her navel. He glanced down and his eyes rested on the tattoo about four inches below her navel, a long-stemmed cherry and then in perfect penmanship the words “Jimmy’s Playhouse”. Unfortunately, his name was Jack. Jack Dillon. US Marshal Jack Dillon.
It started to slowly come through the fog of the previous night as he studied the woman snoring next to him. A few of the guys in the office had thrown a little impromptu going-away party. Nothing too big; after all, he’d be back from Dublin on Sunday. He remembered his pals had all hurried home to their wives aro
und 8:00. Since he didn’t have anyone to hurry home to he sat at the bar for just one more. Now, the end result of that decision was softly snoring next to him. What the hell was her name? Kerri, Karen, Kathy, Kristi, Katie? He was positive it was something that started with a K.
“Mmm-mmm,” she sort of half-groaned then seemed to twitch her lips as she reached over and touched him. She ran her tongue back and forth across her teeth and frowned, no doubt tasting the remnants of a half-dozen Brandy Manhattans. In the next moment she groped with her hand, working her way across his chest then suddenly down between his legs, pausing as a puzzled sort of frown crossed her lips. She sat up, ripped her eye mask off and half-screamed, “Who in the hell are you?”
“Umm, Jack Dillon?” he said, not sounding all that sure.
“What are you…? How did you…? Did we?”
“I think so. At least I’m pretty sure. Umm, you were really good. I think.” He added that last bit hoping to sort of smooth things over.
It didn’t seem to work. She gave a frantic glance at the digital clock on her dresser: 6:27. For the first time he noticed the framed photo of her standing next to a very large man. She wore a bikini, a very small bikini, small enough to show at least the top of her cherry tattoo. The guy wore swim trunks, navy blue. He didn’t appear all that fat. In fact, upon closer examination he didn’t seem to have an ounce of fat on him, anywhere. He had a squared chin, a direct gaze, abs in a definitive six-pack pattern, a massive chest and a muscular arm wrapped around her shoulder. His hands looked to be about the size of ten-pound hams.
“Oh God, he’s going to be really pissed off if he finds out,” she said. “Don’t you dare tell anyone, but you better get the hell out of here. Jimmy will be home in an hour.”
“Jimmy? Home?”
“My husband,” she said, rolling out of bed. She yanked the pillow out from underneath Dillon’s head, tore the leopard-print pillow case off and dropped it on the floor. She did the same with her pillow then tore off the sheet covering Jack’s knees and tossed it on the floor.
“He’s taking the red-eye in from Vegas. They land just after seven. He has to grab a taxi home, but well, if you know what’s good for you, for both of us, you better get the hell out. What’d you say your name was?”
“Umm, Jack,” he said, and held out his hand as if they were meeting at a church social function for the first time instead of staring naked at one another after a night of debauchery.
“Kitty,” she said, briefly shaking his hand. She quickly gathered up the sheets and pillow cases from the floor, gave a furtive glance around, then called over her shoulder as she hurried out of the room with the bed linens. “You better get dressed. Jimmy had a fight out at the MGM in Vegas two nights ago. He lost, so believe me, he won’t be all that happy.”
“A fight?” He had just pulled his boxers on and was casting a quick look around for his other sock.
“He’s a heavy-weight, up-and-coming they say, that is if he can control that awful temper of his. Jimmy DiMucci.”
Jack decided he didn’t really need to find his other sock, and pulled his trousers on. His undershirt was on backward, but so what. He pulled his shirt on, figured he could button it in the car. Then thought, God, my car, where is it?
He hurried out of the bedroom, stuffing his feet into his shoes along the way. She was in a small laundry room down the hall. He stopped halfway to the front door and watched as she stuffed the load of bed linens into the washing machine. Somehow along the way she’d managed to slip on a black thong. The lacy design tattooed across her backside seemed to awaken a hazy memory. He’d already forgotten her name, again, and took a wild guess.
“It was nice to meet you, Katie. Maybe we could hook up sometime when…”
“It’s Kitty, dumb ass, and don’t hold your breath. Hey, just to be safe, maybe do a quick look around for a taxi unloading a big guy with two black eyes before you leave the building.”
That sounded like traveling music. “Nice meeting you,” he said, and hurried out the apartment door.
It was three flights down to street level. The front door looked about a hundred years old and had a large, oval-shaped window of beveled glass. Jack gave a quick look out the window, glancing up and down the street. Things appeared to be fairly quiet at this hour, so he opened the door, glanced left and right, then hurried down the half-dozen steps. He spotted his car halfway down the street in the middle of the block. The right front tire was resting up on top of the curb.
“Hey,” someone screeched.
He half-jumped, glanced around and then looked up to the third floor in the brownstone. Kitty was leaning out of an open window, wearing just her thong and a sneer.
“You forgot your coat, dumb shit,” she yelled, and tossed a navy-blue blazer out the window. A car drove down the street and honked, presumably at her hanging out the window. Dillon took a couple of steps and caught his blazer before it fluttered to the ground.
“Don’t even think of calling me, ever,” she shouted then slammed the window closed.
Chapter Two
“Here’s to you, Dildo.” Gary Olson raised his glass of sparkling mineral water in a toast.
“Yeah,” Brian Douglass added. “I don’t know how in the hell you managed to pull this off, but well done, Dildo.” He raised his glass as well and toasted Dillon.
The three of them were seated in a corner booth at Spitzer’s, a trendy bar on New York’s lower east side. They worked together, US Marshals all three of them. The occasion was Jack’s evening flight to Dublin on assignment to escort Mr. Daniel Ackermann back to the US. Ackermann, a fugitive banker wanted on a series of Federal charges, had fled the States back in 2012 and disappeared. He surfaced in Ireland in early 2015. Two years of legal wrangling had finally come to an end. He’d been detained in Dublin after attempting to flee to parts unknown using a false passport. Jack’s assignment was to make sure Ackermann returned to the States safe and sound.
“The thing none of us can seem to figure out, Dildo, is how you managed to snag this gig. Time in Dublin, all expenses paid, compliments of the US Marshals Service. How’d this happen?” Olson said.
Jack smiled, sipped his Coke and wondered if women in Ireland got tattoos like Katie or Kathy or whatever her name was? In truth, no one was more surprised than he was at receiving the assignment. His boss hated him, his pals had been chomping at the bit to get the nod, but somehow it fell on Jack Dillon’s desk. He wasn’t about to question it.
“Don’t make it sound like a vacation. I’ve got to contact the Dublin cops the moment I arrive and turn right around and bring this prick back to serve his sentence. Seven years I might add, plus whatever they tack on for fleeing. I’ll barely have time to adjust to the time change over there. Five hours, I might add.”
“Contact the Dublin cops? Are you kidding? They’re meeting you at the airport, probably the moment you step off the plane. Christ, they’ll probably have someone lined up to carry your suitcase. Contact the Dublin cops, that’ll take all of thirty minutes, and then you’ve got a couple of days left to try and hit every pub in Dublin and find some woman stupid enough to spend the night with you.”
“I’m missing my mom’s birthday, for Christ sake, and, I might add, I’ll be working the weekend.”
“Breaks my heart…not,” Douglass said and shook his head.
“Look, guys, what can I tell you? Old pain in the ass Dahlquist looked at his staff and decided he’d better send his very best. Naturally, that was me and he…”
“Come on, the bastard hates you,” Olson said.
“That’s putting it mildly,” Douglass added. “Then again, he hates all of us.”
“Maybe he’s had a change of heart,” Jack suggested and then thought again, it just didn’t seem to make sense.
“Dahlquist’s got a heart?”
“I know, I know. I’ve been trying to figure it out, too. Then I started thinking, a six-hour flight from JFK to Dublin, with free wine
should give me plenty of time to ponder the complexities of the situation. I’ve put in a request with the airline to have a beautiful blonde seated next to me.” He immediately conjured up a foggy image of the woman he met last night. Her tattoos, the piercings, shaved in the shape of a martini glass. Her name started with a K; if only he could remember it he could…but then just as quickly he remembered the framed photo next to her digital clock. He’s an up and coming heavyweight, if he could just control his temper. He decided not to go there.
“I don’t believe it,” Olson laughed.
“It could happen. Never hurts to ask.”
“Stop it,” Douglass said. “It’s that banker you’re bringing back, right?”
“Yeah, Ackermann. Daniel Ackermann. He and his Russian partner made off with close to three hundred million. They were named in about a hundred-and-fifty-count indictment. Bank fraud, money laundering, wire fraud and conspiracy. The FBI arrested them in 2007, and Ackermann was released on a ten-million-dollar bond. Obviously with three hundred million in his pocket a ten-million bond would keep him in line. Jesus. He pled guilty to all counts in 2008 and was sentenced to seven years. They continued his bail at the time of sentencing and he was out on self-surrender, if you can believe it.”
“You can’t make this shit up,” Olson said.
“Yeah. Amazingly, he failed to show at Fairton federal prison to begin serving his term, surprise, surprise.”
“Gee, and he seemed like such a nice guy,” Douglass laughed.
“I guess it was a girlfriend…”
“Imagine that.”
“…who turned him in. The reward was something like twenty-five grand.”
