She grabbed Kiki by the arm and hustled her towards the side exit, teetering in her high heel boots, and along the way she snaked her free hand down the front of her tight leather pants to the pouch right in front of her hip hollow and pulled out the Beretta 21A she kept there, feather-light but a whole lot better than bashing a bad guy with her purse, get to the door, one-way out, bang hard on it and yell: "Let us in!"
The door opened wide and there was a scared looking girl in a bathrobe standing there. Dee Dee dragged Kiki through, then pulled the door shut and said to the scared dancer: "Is there a door on the other side of the building?"
She elbowed the scared silent dancer out of the way and dragged Kiki down the hall. Kiki called back to the dancer: "Thank you! Thanks for not leaving us out there!"
Down a hallway, women screaming to each other, and there, like an island of calm in the middle of a great storm, stood Lizzy, her cellphone to her ear.
"Lizzy!" Dee called.
Lizzy waved her over, and Kiki stopped and stared at the tall blonde dancer.
"What the fuck, Lizzy?" Dee said.
Lizzy held up her hand. "Nina, can you come now? There's a gunfight..."
And then Lizzy looked at Dee and Kiki. "Help is on the way."
Nicholas Le Fronte, aka Nico
Nina turned the car sharply around and hit the siren. The light bar in the dash began to flash blue.
"Where we going? What's going on?" Nico said.
"Shooting in progress. 'bout a mile from here."
"Well," Nico said. "At last. Something I can do."
"You got the talking part done," Nina said. "This is heavy."
Nico rolled down the window. Over the siren and the racing engine, he heard the steady crack of rifle and pistol fire.
His partner whipped the squad in and out of traffic, came around turns like a stone pro on a closed track.
And on the straightaway, wrong way down the block, he saw figures outside a building, and at least one car on fire...
Mr. Smith, aka Hank
Fire...
He rolled away, felt scar tissue crack and break, the pain shut away, partially from the drugs, partially from force of long habit, and while he was down here better slap another magazine into place, wish he had a happy stick, even though they were a pain in the ass to transport concealed, but the Dawsons were almost as many rounds, and fit flush to the butt, so he inserted one, his thick fingers still able to do so, press checked the chamber just to be sure, and then rolled on his side, pushed himself up slowly and he heard the cadence of fire coming around, pointed his pistol, swearing under his breath, and Jimmy John his own self, coming around, pistol locked out and the falling brass a fountain of joy if you were a shooter, arcing up out of the pistol, and then he grabbed Hank by the sleeve pulled him up, yelled "Reload!" and dropped to one knee, slamming a mag into place as Hank took over the fire because, surprise surprise, there was at least one cool head (relatively speaking) inside that van, who was sending some heavy lead their way, but the advantage Hank had was mobility and volume of *aimed* fire, while the guy inside the van was shooting out the shattered windshield and had a limited arc of fire, and then Jimmy was yelling "Up!" and he got up, shoulder to shoulder just like the old-timey times and then Jimmy John looked him in the eye and Hank registered the shock and the sorrow and horrible, horrible guilt all at the same time and he shouted out of the slit of his mouth, "Service your target, motherfucker!" and inside, he wished he had time for his eye drops, because his eyes hurt something fierce right now, and he was probably dripping blood out of his tear ducts, that had to be what it was...
Jimmy John Wylde
Hank...oh God, Hank...
There was nothing there but a round white scar, slit for a mouth, two holes for a nose and those eyes... that was Hank, darker and fiercer and hurt, but it was Hank...and he shot like Hank, locked out in Isosocles, head tilted to the right to better line up his eye, and tracked like the turret of an Abrams.
"Service your target, motherfucker!" the scarred man snarled, and that was Hank...
I locked back on and emptied my magazine at the remaining shooter, dimly seen, in the shattered wreck of a van. I dropped my magazine and slapped another into place, scanned, listened. So did Hank.
Sirens inbound.
Screams from somewhere inside the building.
No movement from the van.
The tinkle of falling glass, the low rumble and occasional hitch of the van's motor, still idling.
Hank's breathing, labored in the chest, wheezing through the upper lungs...
"Burn scars in the lungs," Hank said. "That's what causes it."
I stared into his eyes, the deep blue wounded wells of his eyes.
"You gotta get outta here, Hank," I said. "The cops are inbound...can you do it?"
An unmarked vehicle squealed to a stop. Nina Capushek jumped out, pistol in her capable hands, while some long-haired plain clothes guy scuttled around to the trunk and appeared a second later with a M-4, chambered a round, then tucked it into his shoulder socket like an appendage that had been there all his life...
"Jimmy? Anybody hurt?" Nina called. "You and your buddy, put your guns up. Now! Just put 'em away."
The other cop tracked on both of us.
"Tell you guy to ease up, Nina," I said. "We're putting 'em away."
Red liquid ran from Hank's eyes. He tucked his pistol back into a dangling MIC holster and slipped it into his waistband.
"Officer?" Hank said. "I have medical conditions. I need to sit down, and I need to put some drops in my eyes. May I do so?"
Nina looked at him, and to her credit, she was way fast on the uptake. She read the situation and him faster than even I, who'd lived and breathed with this guy, could do.
"Sir," she said. "Please sit down. Do you need medical assistance?"
"No," he said. "I got it."
He settled himself down gingerly on the curb, and took out an inhaler. He took a long hit, put the inhaler away, popped two pills, his hands shaking, and then took an eye drop bottle out and dropped liquid into his eyes till red streams ran down his face.
The young guy scanned the area, dropped his carbine to a low ready, looked at Hank.
"Where'd you catch it, dude?" the young guy said.
"The 'stan," Hank said.
"You need anything? Want some water?"
"Yeah," he said. "I'd like some water."
The young guy went back to the squad, came back with a bottle, handed it to him.
Nina stayed behind the vehicles and covered the van, and then the uniforms began stacking up on the street, followed by EMS. Covered by the squads, Nina and her partner approached the van, followed by two cautious uniformed pairs.
I sat on the curb next to Hank, who handed me the half empty bottle of water.
"Just like old-timey times, huh?" Hank said.
I drank some water. "Yeah. It is."
"It's a fine mess you've landed us in, Ollie."
We both laughed.
"Guns?" I said.
"I'm a medically retired federal law enforcement officer," Hank said. "Got me a fancy laminated card that says so. I can carry a weapon anywhere. No worries."
"Backstop?"
"To the nines, my friend. To the nines."
"Well, then. Here we are. Is this your idea of a near miss?"
"No. Not mine. You know better."
"So?"
He laughed, a wheezing, frightening sound. "I know you don't believe in coincidence, Jimmy John. So let's just say the Finger of God pointed me this way this afternoon. And we'll just have to leave it at that."
"Thank you."
Hank turned and looked straight ahead. "You'd have done the same for me. If you were able."
I couldn't say anything.
Dee Dee Kozak
Oh, well, fuck me silly, Dee Dee thought. She peeked out around the girls crowded in the front and saw the bouncer from Moby Dick's sitting on the curb next to som
e seriously fucked up guy, and two plain clothes cops, one of them the woman that Lizzy had waved to, moving in on the van. That is *so* not who I want to see right now...
"Lizzy? We got to get out of here...is there any other way out of the lot?" Dee said.
Lizzy said, "Yes. I'll ask Kai. There's a chain on the 2d Avenue side that he can unlock and you can drive out that way."
"Honey, if this is how you gals party, I don't know if we can hang! Let's go!" Dee followed Lizzy with Kiki in her wake.
Kiki Warren
Oh My God! This was too cool! In the course of 24 hours, she'd stolen a million dollars, been in a strip club AND seen a real gunfight...and she hadn't even really gotten warmed up yet!
I love my life. What's next?
"What's next, boss?" she said.
Dee Dee looked at her and grinned. "I'm thinking a quiet cocktail somewhere, how about you? What do you like?"
"Margaritas."
"Had a lot of those, have you?"
Kiki had to blush, look down. "No."
"Hey, you girls!" someone called.
Kiki looked over and saw the most creepy looking old Chinese man in a wheelchair, grinning at her and waving her over. "Come here, girl! You! Come here?"
"Me? You don't want to talk to me!" Kiki said.
"Sure! You don't need to be afraid of me! Come here now!" the old man insisted.
Curiosity killed the cat, or the Kitten, but it had also taken her far in her career, so Kiki stepped up to the old Chinese man.
"What do you want?" she said.
"You want to make some money?"
"Shut up! Perv! No F-ing way!"
"Not that, stupid girl! Are you stupid? You don't look stupid. You look very smart. Are you smart or are you stupid?"
"I'm smart," Kiki said.
"Here," the old man said. He held up a flash drive. "You know what this is?"
"Yes."
"You take it. You know how to e-mail?"
"What am I, retarded?"
"E-mail address on the drive. You see?"
Kiki looked at it. "Yes, I see."
"Easy job. You take this, you upload to that e-mail address. Drive wipe itself. I give you $100."
"What is it?"
"You don't need to know."
"Hah," Kiki said. "You don't know what I need and don't need." She tossed the flash drive back into his lap. "Keep it."
"Okay, $500."
"No." She turned away and saw Dee glaring at her. She looked over her shoulder at the old man, still grinning, waving good bye to her. He called over one of the waitresses, buff body like a weight lifter or a Crossfit queen, and started his rap with her.
"What was that all about?" Dee said.
"Am I wearing a sign that says 'hacker' on it?" Kiki said. "Guy wanted me to load a virus or something for him."
"Really?"
"For real."
Dee gave the old man a hard look, then back to Kiki. "Well, you do look like that hacker chick in the movie."
Kiki laughed. "Cool!"
Tony Po
This is not so good, Tony thought. Those killers had come for him. Why else would they be here? And he was still holding the data. He needed to get rid of it. Lance was not an option; he would tell, and his minder would be back from the door soon and prevent it.
So who?
The tall red-haired woman, the dancer, she came by, holding a big bag with a rolled up pad on it. He clutched at her for a moment.
"Beautiful girl?" he said.
She looked at him, and she was beautiful -- brilliant blue eyes and red hair, tall and lean with huge breasts over a flat belly. She stopped and leaned over him, and the kindness in her face took him off guard; she didn't look like a dancer, she looked like... a goddess.
"What can I help you with?" she said.
Tony shifted gears; this was unlooked for. "I...I need some help." He held up the flash drive. "I need this e-mailed to the address on it, please. Right away. Or there might be trouble."
She took it in her hand without hesitation, smiled. "I'll do it for you. What's your name?"
"Tony."
"Okay, Tony," she said. "I'm Lizzy. I'll do it in just a little bit."
"Thank you, Lizzy, very much." He paused. "I'm sorry, you don't seem like a dancer."
She touched his cheek. "Oh, I'm a dancer all right. I'll see you later..."
He watched her go, and his usual licentiousness was held in check. "I hope so," he murmured. "Be careful, beautiful girl..."
Mr. Smith, aka Hank
This was a fine mess. Mr. Smith hunkered into himself, accentuating his weak and injured appearance, while police and EMS and fire fighters bustled around, taping off the scene, detectives tapping and pointing uniforms to work, the press arriving along with a crowd, and he just sat and tried to think through his next steps.
Which would require a whole lot more than a two-step, that's for sure. He'd broken cover, procedures, tradecraft and more than a few traffic regulations right here. It was going to take some undoing.
Jimmy John was deep in a heated negotiation with that woman cop. Powerful energy around that woman; her broken nose drew his attention. Why didn't she get that fixed? Wasn't quite the same as his issue, but in the same genre. Hers was the easy fix.
But then, maybe she didn't want to get it fixed. And that was a statement in and of itself, wasn't it? Women were funny that way.
She led Jimmy over to where he sat on the curb. "Mr. Smith?" she said.
"Yes, officer."
"This isn't the kind of thing I can just cut you loose from. I apologize for that. But Jimmy knows you, we've got your ID, and I can see that you have some medical things you need to tend to. Do you need transport from EMS or can someone drive you down there?"
"I'm fine. Really. I've got all I need in my motel room. I've been living with this a long time."
She nodded. She never let her eyes turn from his. "Okay. Your call. I'm going to have one of the uniforms drive you by your motel. You take all the time you need. He'll bring you down, and you can give your statement. Do you have a local attorney you want to use?"
"I have an attorney, but he's not local."
"Fine, whatever you need."
"I can set up a phone link with him. Would that be okay?"
"Sure. We have conference phones down there. I can put you in one of those rooms for the interview."
"I'll drive him," Jimmy said.
"Rather you didn't, Jimmy," she said. "Stretching things here. Just do it my way, 'kay?"
"I'm good, Jimmy," Mr. Smith said. "It's fine."
"Off the record?" she said. "We should be able to get your gun back to you pretty quick. Nobody but the baddies hurt, and I don't think the strays hit anything but some cars in the lot, and those might not have been yours anyway. We'll need test fire samples, a spectograph and image of the barrel and chamber, we'll get it back to you."
"I can still carry, right?" Smith said.
The cop tapped her toes together, grinned. "Won't be me pulling your claws, tiger. You go right ahead. You can back me up anytime."
And for the first time, in a very long time, Mr. Smith felt the flush of something like true warmth wash over him.
Nicholas Le Fronte, aka Nico
"Why'd you let him go?" Nico said. "I could have taken him down, knocked this out."
"Respect. Something I think you'd understand, but then, I've been known to overestimate you," Nina said.
"Fuck you, Nina. Really. Fuck you. I'm not judging you, I'm asking you so I can figure out what your rules are. I'm trying to play this the way you want, and you don't exactly go out of your way to inform me, do you?"
He shook his head in disgust.
"Ease up, cowboy," Nina said. "Yours not to question why..."
"Yeah, yeah, mine just to ride and die. I remember that one."
"Sometimes you actually impress me."
"Fuck you."
"He's Old School, that guy. And he's a fr
iend of Jimmy's, and I got his ID, so he's not going anywhere. He was in some pain and instead of tying up EMS, he can deal with it himself. Guy like that, who handle himself like that? He won't take kindly to anyone trying to coddle him."
"True, that," Nico said. "Caught him some shit, that one."
"What causes those kind of burns?" Nina said.
"Probably an IED. Caught in a troop carrier or a helo, or just in the blast. Or a truck. I knew a driver for KBR, got knocked out by the concussion when his truck caught on fire after getting hit by a roadside IED, he got cooked, most of his face looked like that."
"You'd think they'd have plastic surgery to deal with that."
Nico looked at her nose, started to say something, reined himself in just in time.
"When it covers that much territory, there's only so much they can do," he said. "Hard to build, and it takes time between surgeries to recover."
Nina stared off into space. "Yeah. All right. Let's get back on the job we set out to do. We got bigger fish to fry."
"You're the boss."
"Now you're learning."
Lance T
"Are you telling me those guys came for him?" Lance said. He was squared up on the mostly silent Hmong bodyguard slash wheelchair pusher.
The bodyguard shrugged. "Probably."
"Probably? What the fuck you mean probably? You get the boss on the phone, we're going to talk..."
"No. He doesn't want to talk on the phone. You promised him that Mr. Po could stay here. Mr. Po stays here. The boss will call you when he wants to talk to you."
"Get him off the floor. I want him up in the room...no, hell no. I want him out of here."
The bodyguard shook his head no, stolid to the end. "No. He cannot go. He must stay here."
"Then get him upstairs. In the room, both of you. And I'm talking to your boss."
"No problem, Lance T, no problem," Tony Po said. "You right, I need to be elsewhere. C'mon, we go!"
And the long-suffering Hmong bodyguard wheeled the old man to the freight elevator.
Lance watched them go. I don't need this shit.
He picked up a phone.
Too Wylde Page 12
