by Brian Drake
O’Brien ran to the driver’s side, yanking open the door. He reached across the dead gunman, yanked the emergency brake, and looked at the frightened boy on the floor of the passenger side.
The boy pointed over O’Brien’s shoulder.
“Look out!”
O’Brien waited for bullets to tear into him as he spun around.
“Hey!” Stiletto shouted, raising the M-4 over his head.
O’Brien lowered the shotgun.
Police arrived first to secure the scene and kept Scott and O’Brien apart while they waited for an F.B.I. supervisor. Once they were cleared, the supervisor told them to get the Avila boy to the hospital. They waited outside the examining room while a nurse checked the boy. Stiletto paced anxiously.
“We can’t stay here,” he said.
O’Brien handed him the keys to the car. “Don’t get caught.”
Chapter Twelve
The numbers were falling fast now.
Stiletto punched the Club Fugazi address into the F.B.I. car’s GPS and followed the voice commands to the address on Green Street. He circled the block a few times. Well past four a.m. now so the streets were virtually empty, as were parking spaces near the club. The neon lights out front still blazed and flashed a colorful glow across the street. Nobody on the street seemed part of any elaborate security display. He made one final orbit, noting the side alley and back exit, three cars clustered near the exit.
Stiletto drove around front once more and parked near the entrance. A doorman was sliding a chain lock through the handles of the front door. He ignored Scott. Then he saw the shotgun and put up his hands. Stiletto clubbed him with the butt stock, dragged the unconscious man out of the way, pulled the chain out, and pushed inside.
The place was well-lighted and spotless. . .and empty. Bar stools stacked, dining chairs placed on tables, all debris associated with a night of club revelry cleared from the dance floor. A staircase on his right led to a private office where he heard voices even though the door was closed. Stiletto kept the shotgun beside his leg. At the top of the steps, he kicked the door open. It slammed against the opposite wall. Stiletto went in with the shotgun at his hip. He zeroed the muzzle at a man seated behind the desk in front of him.
The man didn’t seem surprised.
The other man in the room, McCormick, went for a gun, but froze when the man at the desk snapped his fingers.
“Speak of the devil,” the man said. He was pushing 70, large and rotund, nose bent, age spots dotting his face. “The ex-boyfriend. Super assassin.”
“Mr. Califano, I presume,” Stiletto said. “Where’s Ali?”
McCormick grinned. “Nowhere you’ll ever find her, Mr. Hero.”
Stiletto stiffened as the cold snout of a gun touched the back of his neck.
Califano said, “Just in time, Inspector Clover.”
McCormick came forward and jerked the shotgun out of Stiletto’s grasp. He handed it to Clover, who put away his own pistol and jammed the 870 into Scott’s back.
McCormick searched Stiletto and collected the Colt and Buck knife. He stepped back.
Califano said, “Your lady says you’re some kind of hot shot secret agent. I think she said that to put a scare into us. She spooked McCormick. Right, McCormick? Heh, heh. I think you’re funny. Barging in here only to get stuck up by a beat cop. Hey, Clover?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take this garbage out of here.”
Clover, prodding with the shotgun, forced Stiletto back down the stairs and outside.
Stiletto stopped on the sidewalk.
“Now what?”
“Turn left. Down the alley.”
Stiletto’s hiking boots scraped the pavement as he followed directions. The alley was dark, with only a slight spillover from the street lamps illuminating the space. It was enough. Part of a broken pallet stuck up out of a Dumpster.
Stiletto spun around, dropping low, slamming a fist into Clover’s solar plexus. As the cop cried out and doubled over, Stiletto pulled the board from the trash and smashed it over the inspector’s head. The board split on impact but the cop dropped flat, unconscious.
Stiletto picked up the shotgun. He reentered the club and climbed the steps to Califano’s office.
The Outfit boss sat alone, lighting a cigar. He stopped mid-puff, incredulous at the sight in the doorway.
“Still laughing?”
Stiletto fired once. The blast opened Califano’s chest and neck, blood and torn flesh splattering the desk and carpet. Califano’s body tipped forward and his face landed on the desk with a thud.
No McCormick. Where was he?
Stiletto hustled to the dance floor, looking around frantically for a clue. Pito’s notes had said the club was where they’d stashed the physicist, Tina Avila. Had they stashed Ali here too?
A door across the floor said Authorized Personnel Only. Stiletto ran to it, yanked it open, and followed a staircase to a basement hallway. Doors along the hall read Storage but a door at the end was open and Scott heard McCormick talking. He started slowly in that direction.
“He showed up all bad ass Mr. Hero, but he’s fish food now.”
Ali: “I don’t believe you.”
“Here’s his gun. It’s a nice one.”
“He’ll want that back.”
McCormick laughed.
“Don’t kill him, Scott.”
“What?”
McCormick started to turn as Scott bashed him on the side of the head, splitting skin open, the gash bright red. McCormick groaned, staggering a few steps before he fell on the floor, the .45 sliding across the floor. Stiletto collected his knife from one of McCormick’s pockets and cut the bonds holding Ali to the chair. She rubbed her wrists and went to McCormick. He hovered between staying awake and passing out.
Stiletto turned to the other woman in the room, Tina Avila, who looked at him with wide eyes.
“Your son is safe,” he told her.
Ali left McCormick to pick up Scott’s gun.
“Where’s the F.B.I.?” she said.
“It’s just us, Ali.”
“Good.” She raised the pistol.
McCormick was easy to kill after all.
Stiletto drove the F.B.I. car around to the back parking lot. Ali and Tina waited for him there. He transferred the M-4, ammunition, and flak jackets to another car, a white Cadillac, placing the gear on the back seat as he spoke.
“Take O’Brien’s car and drive to F.B.I. headquarters, tell them you’re waiting for O’Brien. They should be able to reach him.”
“Where are you going?” Ali said.
He handed her the keys. “Fairmont’s place.”
She kissed him on the cheek and she and Tina climbed into the government car. Stiletto watched them drive away. He eased into the Cadillac and started the motor. He wondered if it was Califano’s car. Probably. He found some humor there. He also expected the guards at Fairmont’s place would recognize the car. The confusion might provide an advantage.
Stiletto pressed the pedal to the floor as he started up the final incline to Fairmont’s place, the engine letting out a satisfying growl as the rear wheels dug in and propelled the Cad at Fairmont’s gate like a raped ape.
The metal gate screeched and scraped against the car. When he heard a klaxon blare from the house and spotlights popped on throughout the property, he knew his arrival had not gone unnoticed.
He continued speeding up the driveway, the house growing in size as he approached.
Stiletto veered sharply left, off the paved driveway and onto the grass, as a Jeep rounded the side of the house and came his way. The Cad’s tires kicked up earth. He sped toward the trees clustered along the estate wall. Pot shots nicked the Cad. At the trees Scott spun the car perpendicular, rolled out, and stayed low for cover as the Jeep closed in. Opening the back passenger door, he grabbed the M-4, slung the shotgun across his back, and filled pockets with magazines and spare shells. He reached the cover of the tr
ees as the Jeep arrived. Four gunmen jumped out.
Scott fired full-auto, sweeping left-to-right. One gunman fell and the Jeep took the rest of the salvo, windows shattering, tires popping. He moved from one spot to another, the earth under him dry, the tree branches not very thick. Return fire cut branches in two and the bits plopped nearby. One gunman lay flat on the grass near the wrecked Jeep, low-crawling Scott’s way. Stiletto stitched the shooter with a burst and he stopped moving.
Stiletto moved left, staying close to the wall where there was enough of a gap between the wall and trees to move. He had to keep his head down for lower branches. Return fire behind him came nowhere near.
The brush thickened and Stiletto stopped. He couldn’t just plow through anymore. He dropped flat at the edge of the grass. The two gunners had left the Jeep and were stepping gingerly toward the tree line where he had been previously.
One of the gunners pulled ahead and parted leaves and branches; Stiletto shot the man behind him. As the man fell, his partner pivoted and tried to make the Jeep, but he collided with the dead gunner and tumbled into the grass. As he stuck his head up, Stiletto put a bullet through his left eye. The man jerked once, a spray of red hanging briefly in the air as he fell.
Stiletto ran along the tree line as it circled the property, leading closer to the house. The klaxon finally cut off. Somebody else was inside, and probably not just Fairmont.
How many more?
Where was the guy with the Doberman?
Scott broke right and ran across a patch of grass to the patio. Somebody fired at him from an upstairs window. He landed hard on the concrete as he rolled, the slung shotgun digging into his back. He hoped the roll didn’t damage the barrel. He came up on one knee near a glass table, which shattered into a trillion pieces as gunfire struck. Stiletto ignored the glass that bit into his cheek and blasted the man in the upper window, leaving him hanging half out with a trail of blood and tissue trailing down the outer wall.
Stiletto’s next salvo burst through the patio door. The M-4 locked open, empty. He slapped in another mag. A dog growled and barked. The Doberman raced out of the house, paws landing on broken glass as he charged at Scott. Stiletto fired once. The Doberman yelped and tumbled across the patio, coming to a dead stop inches from Scott.
How many more?
Only one way to find out.
He entered the house, using a couch for cover as he scanned the room. Nobody. Fairmont had a taste for expensive furnishings and decorations judging by the high-end seating and walls covered with a Rembrandt and Picasso. Scott moved down a short hallway to another sitting room. More of the same and still no hostile contact.
As he climbed a winding staircase to the second floor, Stiletto heard a voice from an open doorway at the end of the hall. He advanced in that direction. The voice continued. A one-sided conversation. A man on a telephone. Stiletto stepped through the doorway.
Max Fairmont stopped talking. He said into the phone, “Rollins, he’s here!”
Stiletto fired once and turned the hand holding the phone into a bloody stump.
Fairmont fell out of his chair, screaming, clutching the stump to his chest as he curled up on the carpet, his white shirt now soaked red. Stiletto didn’t even leave the doorway. He took aim and put another round through Fairmont’s head. The screaming stopped. Fairmont lay still, blood soaking into the carpet, bits and pieces of him splattered all over.
Scott’s ears rang from all the shooting but his hearing wasn’t so damaged that he didn’t notice engine noises from the front of the house.
Stiletto raced down the stairs to the front, where he parted a curtain. Four carloads of armed men exited their vehicles. One of them shouted commands in Farsi. Stiletto didn’t need to look too hard at the leader to know his identity.
Shahram Hamin.
One spare mag for the M-4, loose rounds for the shotgun, and his pistol. Against seventeen hardened Iranian operatives toting AK-47s. Stiletto shook his head. This was going to be a whopper.
He slipped from the window and hustled to the kitchen where he followed a door out to the garage and another to the side yard. Across the grass sat a mother-in-law unit, complete with front windows. Hamin would lead his men inside the main house first, and then spread outside for a search. All he had to do was nail one of them for a chance at an AK and fresh ammo.
Scott left the garage and ran for the unit. . .
Somebody started shouting and gunfire followed, kicking up earth around him. He crashed into the door, the solid wood unyielding. More gunfire slammed into the small house. Scott twisted the doorknob and rolled inside.
Automatic weapons fire punched through the windows. Scott stayed low and crawled to a bed against the far wall. The shooting intensified, a non-stop volley of hot lead that shredded the walls, punched into the bed. Scott kept his face in the carpet.
Stiletto looked around. No back door, no back windows. He crawled over the debris-strewn carpet to a bathroom. He dug out his pen-flash and shined the light. No windows there either. Voices outside. Getting closer.
Running into the mother-in-law unit now seemed like the dumbest thing he’d ever done.
Stiletto looked at the front windows and watched the enemy approach. Two of them, AKs at the ready.
If this was his last stand, he was going down with a gun in his hand.
He ran to the windows and fired the M-4 full-auto. The chests of the two Iranians split open and sprayed bloody mist everywhere. The M-4 ran dry and Stiletto discarded it. The shotgun next filled his hands. Iranian agents were running for cover. He pumped the action; fired; pumped; fired. Two down, one miss. He pumped and fired again. Third enemy down. Return fire zipped through the walls. Stiletto let another blast go and dropped to reload, feeding the Magnum cartridges one at a time. He moved steadily, as if programmed. His fingers didn’t shake and his heart rate remained normal.
He rose to point the Remington out the window once more. An Iranian only a few steps away tossed a road flare through the window frame. It bounced off the wall behind Scott, the small house filling with an orange glow. Scott blasted the thrower in the belly. He landed on the grass wailing in agony.
The flame spread along the back wall to the roof, thick smoke filling the space. Stiletto wiped his eyes and held his breath and fired two more loads. He didn’t even see if he’d scored any hits. He dropped to the carpet again and exhaled, sucking in more air, coughing, retching.
Hands grabbed him, hauled him across the carpet. Stiletto reached for the shotgun, but grabbed only air as the hands dragged him outside.
A blow to the back of his head dropped him flat but he didn’t lose consciousness. His vision spun and his body burned with pain. More hands stripped off the topcoat and snatched his pistol.
More rifle butts hammered into his back. He yelled out, too battered to move. The blows landed again and again.
“We need him alive!” Hamin commanded. “We take him back to Tehran.”
The beating stopped. He was lifted by either arm and dragged toward the cars. Sweat stung his eyes and made his blurry vision worse.
The hands let him go and he fell at somebody’s feet. He couldn’t lift his head.
“We have plans for you,” Hamin said, standing above him.
Another sound broke through his shaky consciousness. Unmistakable. The whipping rotor blades of a helicopter.
The Iranians scrambled, cars starting, Hamin shouting orders. Scott was lifted once again only to be abruptly let go. Gunfire filled the air. Men screamed.
A voice from the chopper echoed from a loud speaker:
“This is the F.B.I. You will drop your weapons and surrender. . .”
Darkness wrapped around Stiletto and he passed out.
The F.B.I. chopper hammered above, the rotor wash blowing like a hard wind. Leaves and yard debris flew everywhere. As his men fired on the chopper and men in the chopper fired back, Shahram Hamin ran for cover behind one of the cars. His second lieutenant
, Harum Mahmoud, landed beside him.
Sirens. Revving engines. More federal cars sped onto the property, the cars stopping on the grass, armed agents pouring out to engage. A spotlight from the chopper lit the property almost like day.
Mahmoud said: “What do we do?”
Hamin saw the keys in the ignition and gestured for Mahmoud to get in. Mahmoud climbed in back. Hamin took the wheel.
“We go to the wall and we jump,” Hamin said. The engine roared to life. Hamin floored the accelerator.
“They see us!”
Stray shots thumped into the car. The headlamps picked out the Jeep that Stiletto had fired on earlier. Hamin steered for it. He stopped the car beside the wreck, and the Iranian agents jumped out to help themselves to the dead men’s weapons and ammo. Mahmoud fired at pursuing F.B.I. agents as Hamin pushed through the brush to the wall. He slung the submachine gun and hauled himself up and over. Mahmoud followed a second later. They broke into a run down the slope.
“Now what?” Mahmoud said.
Hamin pointed out another large house close by. “They’ll have a car.”
Hamin saw good fortune as they neared the street. Gunfire from the Fairmont house and the echoing voice from the chopper were loud and clear in the cul-de-sac below, and people were outside their homes to get a peek at the action. Some were still dressed, others in robes and slippers.
At the sight of the two armed men, some screamed and ran back into their homes. Hamin and Mahmoud ran to the house on the left, where a man and his wife stood near a black Porsche Cayenne. The man froze in place as the armed Iranians rushed across the yard; the wife screamed and ran for the front door. Hamin fired a few feet in front of the woman, concrete chips pelting her legs, and she stopped long enough for Hamin to grab her around the neck and rotate to face the husband.
