“Hurts, doesn’t it?” He reached up and pulled at his own nose, removing the fake latex one, exposing the swollen, discolored one underneath. “Put this on to hide the bruise.”
The rubber nose bounced off of her chest. Joan blinked back tears of pain and tried to quell the ringing in her head. The camera was at his side, no longer pointed at her. Now was the time to escape.
She didn’t have the chance. Quick and savage, Vlad kicked her in the right side. Joan managed to shift so he mostly hit her arm, but the blow sent her rolling. She’d taken kicks before, by shoeless opponents of equal size. None hurt like this. Her entire arm began to go numb, and the motes she saw became blurry.
Vlad came again, grinning lasciviously. Joan tried to bat away his hand as he reached for her, but he managed a good grip on her hair. He yanked, forcing her head back.
“I’m not going to beat you to death in the alley. It won’t be that easy. I have a place nearby. Someplace private. All my tools are there. We’re going to have hours of fun.”
Joan flailed out her leg, kicking at the camera. He kept it out of reach.
“What’s going on?”
A man was standing at the mouth of the alley. Young, short hair, muscular build. He took a step towards them.
“Don’t…” Joan started to say.
Too late. Vlad pointed the camera and a second later the guy was doubling over, blood foaming from his mouth.
“Now there’s a Kodak moment.”
Joan ground her teeth together and made her decision. If she was going to die, she would die trying to get away, not cowering in a corner. She scrambled to her feet and ran for the mouth of the alley. At any moment, she expected to feel a dart penetrate her skin. It looked painful, but quick. Better than being dragged back to his place.
But the dart didn’t come. Instead, something hit her in the back of the head. Joan lost all motor function. Her world began to spin and she fell onto all fours. Vlad kicked again, his foot burying itself in her stomach and sending her rolling into a brick wall.
“Get up.”
Joan coughed, spit some blood. She sat up. “No.”
Vlad began to shake, and then went from zero to psychotic is less than a second, kicking and punching and swearing at her. Joan tried to keep her head, blocking some blows, letting others land where they didn’t do much harm, until he made the biggest mistake of his entire life.
He swung at her with the camera.
Joan met the swing with a flat palm, knocking the weapon from his hand, sending it spinning through the air and cracking against the ground. Now they were evenly matched.
Vlad, in a rage state, was oblivious to the loss of his weapon. He continued to punch and pummel, snarling like an animal, spittle spraying from his mouth. Joan saw the opening and lashed out her foot, hitting him solidly in the solar plexus. Vlad stumbled back, holding his gut.
Joan got to her feet. She hurt all over, but she pushed the pain aside. She’d beaten him once. She could beat him again.
She widened her stance. Vlad attacked. Joan spun into a reverse kick and connected solidly with Vlad’s jaw. He left his feet and smacked hard against the asphalt, landing on his back, arms and legs splayed out. His head bounced on his neck.
Joan wiped blood off her face, using her sleeve. Then she took a running start and punted Vlad right between the legs, trying to kick his testicles up into his skull. He howled, curling up into a ball. Joan knew she needed to kill him. For what he did to her. To Marty. She had to end this, here and now.
But in her mind’s eye she saw Bill, his dead eyes wide open after she’d shot him. It made her feel sick, empty. And that had been done to save Tom’s life. She hated this man cowering before her, but he was defenseless. As much as he deserved to die, Joan couldn’t find it in herself to do it. Not with her bare hands. Not like this.
As she hesitated, Vlad managed to get to his feet. He limped out of the alley, heading for the street. She thought of all the people Vlad must have murdered, and all the ones he would eventually murder if she let him get away. She thought about spending the rest of her life looking over her shoulder, wondering when he was going to try to get her again.
Joan made her decision. Maybe she couldn’t kill him, but she could take him out of the game. Permanently.
She took three steps and launched herself into the air, aiming her flying kick at Vlad’s back. He fell, face forward, onto the sidewalk. She ran to him, knowing what she had to do, wondering if she had the courage, the stomach, for it. Fate made it easier. Next to Vlad, in the gutter, was an empty beer bottle. She broke it against the pavement and grabbed Vlad’s head by the hair, turning it to face her.
Two pokes, and Vlad’s green eyes were gushing red. His screams were shrill, almost inhuman. Joan released him and he scrambled to his feet, bleeding and howling and permanently blind, his hands clamped to his eyes. He ran straight into traffic.
Joan watched it happen as if it were slow motion. Vlad staggering into the street. The sound of the horn. The screech of brakes.
The bus hit him head on. Vlad’s arms reached out and grabbed the bumper as his legs went under the front tire. He wasn’t dragged, exactly. It was more like he was erased. Pinned between the wheel and the street, Vlad’s lower half was scraped away, leaving a wide streak of gore for almost thirty yards, like a big red skid mark.
Joan limped out of the alley, holding her side. She followed the trail up to the bus. The driver had gotten out, staring at Vlad in utter disbelief.
“He just jumped out. He just jumped out.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” Joan placed a hand on his shoulder. “He was trying to kill me.”
The driver looked at Joan, dazed. Vlad’s upper body was still pinned under the tire. His lower body was… gone. Joan watched as his face contorted, his mouth opening and closing like landed fish. The pain must have been unimaginable.
Then, after a moment, the twitching stopped.
Joan turned on her heels and walked away. She hadn’t gotten half a block when someone honked from the other side of the street. Tom. He parked and hurried to her, his face awash with concern.
“Are you okay?”
She nodded, unsure of her voice. At any moment, Joan felt as if her legs would give out.
“What happened?”
“Vlad.”
Tom looked around, focusing on the traffic back-up. “Where is he?”
“He… caught a bus.”
Tom reached out to her, took her hand. Joan hurt in a dozen places, and her emotions were fried. She made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sob, and then she hugged him. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, patting her back, rubbing her hair, rocking her gently to and fro.
“I talked to Roy. They saved the VP. You okay?”
“Remember what I said earlier, about it being anticlimactic?”
Tom nodded.
“I take it back.”
Joan buried her face into his chest, letting go of the fear and pain. They stood like that, embracing each other, until the ambulance came and scraped up what was left of Vlad. The horrors of the last few days, and the emptiness Joan realized she had been feeling for years, all seemed to melt away in Tom’s arms. For the very first time since she moved away from home, she felt safe.
And it was the best feeling in the world.
“I want them dead.”
Phil had never heard his father so upset. He stared at the speaker phone, trying to imagine the look on his face, but none came to mind. There was no precedent for it.
“Dad, calm down, we’ll have another chance.”
“Have them killed, Junior. Hire mercenaries. Pay the Mafia. I want them hunted down and gutted like deer.”
It unnerved Phil more than he cared to say. Dad was always a pillar, a rock. But his voice was cracking and he seemed to be losing all control.
“We’ll get them, Dad. We’ve got the airports covered. We froze their credit and their bank account
s. I’ve got people in LA tying Joan and Tom in with the murder of her assistant. And we also have Abe in custody.”
“Is he giving anything up?”
“So far he’s not saying anything. We can only hold him for 48 hours without pressing charges.”
“Then charge him with something, dammit!”
“He really didn’t do anything, other than disturbing the peace.”
“Make something up! Use your brain!”
Dad went on a coughing jag, and Phil poured himself some Scotch. For the first time, the very first time, he was beginning to doubt his father. It scared Phil, because it was like doubting himself.
“Dad, I’m taking care of it. You need to rest. The operation—maybe it’s left you a little unnerved.”
There was a pause. Phil wondered if he had perhaps pushed too far. When his father finally answered, his voice was small, quiet.
“This is our dream, Junior.”
“I know, Dad.”
“Thirty-five years in the making. We’ve sacrificed so much. Even with a new kidney, I won’t be around forever.”
“You’ll always be around. I’m your legacy.”
“Cut the sentimental bullshit. I’m the one who started this. I want to be around to reap the rewards. If I can’t be there to see you take the oath, it was a waste of my whole life.”
“I spoke to the Secret Service. They don’t even know that there were any assassination attempts. We can try again soon, same plan. There will be another chance later this month.”
“First we have to get rid of those damn clones!”
Another coughing fit. Phil drained the scotch and reached for the bottle.
“Maybe I should come down to the house, visit for a few days.”
His father was silent.
“I’ll free up my schedule.” Phil thought out loud. “I haven’t seen you in a while, anyway. Maybe we can throw the ball around, like old times.”
“We never threw the ball around.”
“Yeah, well, it’s never too late to start.”
His father’s voice became very cold. “I don’t need you to worry about me. I need you to do your fucking job.”
“I’ll see you in a day or two. Bye, Dad.”
He hung up the phone and called his travel agent to book the flight. Dad was wrong. Phil wasn’t worried about his father in the least.
He was worried about himself.
1 cordless drill
1 portable step ladder
1 funnel
1 crowbar
9 cans foam insulation
1 20# bag powdered cement
2 rolls duct tape
1 caulking gun
1 gravity knife
2 M18 Taser guns
1 can Guard Alaska bear repellent
1 aluminum police baton
4 Kevlar vests with trauma plates
Tom looked at the equipment spread out on the motel bed. Bert and Roy arrived the day before Joan and Tom, and had done the shopping.
“It’s a good thing Springfield had an Army surplus store.”
Joan seemed unimpressed. “This is all we’ll need to break into Stang’s place?”
Roy nodded. “Bert and I checked the place out. Security is tight, but can be beaten. The only rough spot will be Stang’s assistant, Jerome Huntington. Did a background check. Would you believe that guy was a Navy SEAL?”
Tom could believe it. Not too many people in the health care industry carried pistols. Besides, there was something about Jerome, some sort of vibe he gave off, that frightened Tom.
“Shouldn’t we get some guns or something?” Joan gave Tom a nervous glance. They’d left theirs in LA rather than risk taking them on an international flight, and Roy had lost his in the river. Illinois had a mandatory waiting period to buy firearms, so they couldn’t get any by tonight.
“The taser is almost as good. It shoots two probes up to fifteen feet away, a hundred feet per second. Sends a pulse that completely overrides the skeletal muscles, causing uncontrollable contractions and massive disorientation for up to 15 minutes. Even works through a bullet proof vest.”
“And I’m fine with this.” Bert picked up a can the size of a small fire extinguisher and read from the label. “Shoots a thick fog of blinding pepper spray up to twenty feet away, guaranteed to stop a rampaging grizzly or your money back.”
Tom wondered who would be alive to receive the refund if the product didn’t work, but he kept that to himself.
“Bert and I got you a police baton, Joan.” Roy handed her an aluminum billy club with a black rubber grip, roughly two feet long. “We figured, with your martial arts background.”
Joan palmed the weapon and did something very fast with her fingers that made it twirl. Tom detected the tiniest trace of a smile on her lips.
“This will do,” she said.
When 2am finally rolled around, they loaded up the gear and drove to Stang’s place. Tom parked off road in a copse of trees about a mile away. The night was windy, and dark in the way it never got in the city.
They hoofed it the remainder of the way, ducking in the ditch alongside the road when the infrequent car drove past. It was slow going—the equipment was heavy and everyone was nursing injuries. Even though he was cold, Tom’s hands were sweating in his latex gloves. There was no doubt that Stang would recognize them, but none of them were keen on leaving fingerprints.
The iron fence around the perimeter of the mansion was for show rather than security. Roy was able to pry a bar loose and they all slipped through, onto the grounds. The house and lawn were reasonably well lit. After a brief discussion, it was decided the northwest corner of the building would be the best approach. Not only was it harder to see things on an angle, but most of the windows on those two sides appeared to have their shades drawn.
Between the fence and the house was about an acre of carefully maintained grass. They took it in a sprint, moving as fast as they could. Midway there Tom tripped over a recessed sprinkler head, the step ladder clattering to the ground before him. Roy and Joan helped him up, kept him going. When all of them finally had their backs against the cool brick wall of the mansion, they took a few minutes to catch their collective breath. Tom listened to the wind, expecting at any moment to hear a police siren approaching. None did.
They began the break-in. Roy pointed out the first annunciator. It was a large metal box, the size of a medicine cabinet, painted white and attached to the wall about ten feet high off the ground. Inside was the horn, and a big one by the look of it.
Tom set the ladder underneath and climbed up to get started. There were slats cut into the box, like vents in a school locker. Using a penlight, Tom peered through a slit to see the cover lock. It was wired. Opening the box would set off the alarm.
Bert handed up a can of aerosol foam. Tom attached a tube to the nozzle and stuck it through the slats, filling up the annunciators horn. The foam was used in basements and attics to seal cracks and leaks and prevent heat loss. It dried quickly and had excellent insulating properties.
When the throat was full, Tom used two more cans to completely cover the outside of the horn. Then he sealed the vents with caulk, drilled a hole in the top of the box, and used the funnel to pour in dry concrete. That would fill in any remaining pockets of air inside the box.
The principle was simple. Sound traveled through the air in waves. By replacing a gas with a solid, the sound waves had no way to escape, and were effectively muffled. It would be like trying to scream with your head under water, except powdered concrete and foam insulation were quite a bit denser than H2O.
After getting the knack of it, Tom was able to finish the second and third annunciators quickly. When he was done, he found Roy and the others at a first floor window. They’d completely covered the glass in duct tape.
It was no longer a question of finesse. They were simply going to jimmy the window open. The alarms would go off, but hopefully they’d been dampened enough so that no
one would hear them. The duct tape was to prevent the glass from shattering and making noise. Tom and Roy shoved their crowbars in the window jamb and jacked it up. There was some soft creaking when the pane splintered. Tom found the magnetic switch, recessed in the frame and fully open.
“Check the annunciator.”
Bert walked under the nearest one and cocked up an ear.
“I hear a faint whining sound, really quiet.”
They were in.
Tom eased himself through the window and onto the carpeted floor of a dark room. He briefly flicked on his penlight. Shelves. Books. A library. Tom made his way to the door and put his ear to it. No sound. He gripped the handle and turned slowly, easing it open. It let out into a hallway. To the right, around the corner, was a faint light. Tom motioned for the others to follow.
The hallway ended at the foyer. The wall sized aquarium glowed blue, peppering the grand staircase with streaks of muted light.
Tom went up quickly—the stairs were a bad place to get surprised. The taser felt comfortable in his hand. It was lighter than the revolver he’d been carrying, but his muscle-memory treated it like any normal gun; finger on the trigger, ready to point and shoot. In the darkness, the horrific pictures on the wall looked even worse. Shadows seemed to intensify the many expressions of pain. Tom ignored them, pressing onward.
Movement, at the top of the staircase. A pair of glowing eyes stared down at him. Functioning on instinct, Tom leaned to the side and fired. The two probes hissed through the air and made a faint crackling sound when they found their target. Tom climbed the last few stairs, taking a look.
On its back, four legs sticking straight up in the air, was a cat. It jerked every few seconds as the gun continued to pulse.
“You get him?” Joan whispered from behind.
Tom turned off the juice and pulled out the probes. He reloaded them into the gun barrel. The cat went limp, but it seemed to be breathing fine. He changed the gas cartridge and checked the battery. The feline rolled onto its feet and stared at them, one eye crossed. All of its fur seemed to be standing on end, so it kind of resembled a porcupine.
J.A. Konrath / Jack Kilborn Trilogy - Three Scary Thriller Novels (Origin, The List, Haunted House) Page 48
