by Adam Drake
“Report what in?” Earl asked.
“The job I was on.”
“What about it?”
Nate felt his temper rising. He couldn't flip off on these two. They may be huge, but their size was deceptive. He'd seen them draw their pistols before and they were both damned quick.
“Unger wants me to report in,” Nate said through gritted teeth. “That's all I can say about it. You know how it is.”
“No, how is it?” Wilson said, enjoying his little power trip.
Earl waved a hand at Nate. “Unger said nothing about you reporting in today. So it ain't gonna happen. Ride your bike home, Nate. If we want ya, we'll call.”
Wilson burst into laughter. “Call! Ha! That's rich! No phones, Earl!”
Earl rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know that, ya idiot.”
Wilson chuckled and shook his head. “Call! Heheh.”
Nate had had enough of this little show. He may need muscle in the future, but it didn't have to be these two assholes. He tensed up.
“Davenport! Get your ass in here!” came a booming shout from the dark bowels of the bar.
Wilson and Earl sat straighter on their stools.
Earl nodded toward the door. “Boss wants ya,” he said, serious. His eyes gave Nate's long coat a once over.
Nate entered the bar which was nearly pitch black. A column of fading sun from the doorway created a corridor of light which sliced across the huge room, revealing tables and chairs, all empty. At the other end, the door to Unger's office could be seen with more light spilling into it from another source.
He crossed the bar, mindful of Earl's gaze on his back.
At the office door, he paused. The small room was dominated by a huge oak desk with a high-back leather chair. The walls were covered in old photos of Unger posing with strippers and political figures which Nate found amusing. They both danced for money, but in different ways.
Boxing trophies crowded for space atop a filing cabinet. Unger had been a golden-gloves or something like it back in his younger days.
An ashtray on the desk caught Nate's attention. Ash and cigar stubs formed a small mountain range on it. It was shaped like a seashell just like the one Granger had.
Guess idiots do all shop at the same stores, he thought with a wry grin.
Where was Unger?
A prickling against his neck made him turn in alarm.
Earl stood there, watching him with a crooked smile.
Panic rose in Nate's chest and he was about to reach into his jacket when the other man pointed a finger.
“He's out back,” Earl said, indicating a short hallway that led outside. The back door was open, revealing a lot. Nate could see someone's legs sitting on a chair outside.
Nate nodded at Earl and headed to the back door, mindful of the other man following.
Outside, Nate found Unger sitting in a plush chair dragged out from his office.
If there was one way to best describe Unger's appearance, it would be to take a grizzly bear and shave off all its fur. Kick it in the balls, to give it a perpetual expression of anger, then stick a cigar in its mouth.
The furless grizzly looked up at Nate and talked around his cigar. “Davenport. The fuck? Sit down,” Unger said, pointing at another chair which held the door open.
Nate did as he was told. Earl took up a position in the doorway and leaned against the frame.
“Getting some fresh air, boss?” Nate asked. He didn't like how his jacket moved as he sat down, but it was long enough to still cover him almost to his knees.
Unger peered around the back parking lot. There was nothing here but bare concrete and a high fence. A column of black smoke rose up in the distance. Another fire.
“Yeah, well, there's no God-damned electricity,” Unger said “Hasn't been all day. Can't see shit. Here, look at this.” On the ground beside him were a half dozen flashlights. He scooped one up with a large knuckled hand and flicked its switch. Nothing happened. “They're all like that.” He tossed the flashlight to the ground where it clattered across the concrete.
“Phones are dead, too,” Nate said.
Unger nodded, a rare gesture from him considering he never agreed with anyone on anything. “All the damn phones are dead. All the cells, even the God-damned landline at the front.”
Nate glanced between Earl and Unger. “So you haven't got word?” He let the question hang there like the smoke which curled from Unger's cigar.
The boss raised an eyebrow. “Word about what?”
Nate gave it a second. The man didn't take the bait. “That this thing is city wide. The whole place.”
“Figured as much,” Unger said. He looked to Earl. “Didn't I say that before?”
Earl grunted in agreement.
Unger's gaze fixed on Nate for several long moments, then said. “So, that thing.”
“That thing is in the bag,” Nate said.
“Done, eh?”
“Done and over.”
“No problems?”
This last question almost tripped Nate up. No problems other than I had to shoot a cop who's a known enemy of your crew. Other than that, no problems.
Nate shook his head. “None at all.”
Unger listened with interest. He took a long drag from his cigar then exhaled it toward Nate.
Earl shifted, and no longer leaned against the door frame. He looked bored.
“Is that so?” Unger asked. “No problems, eh?”
Nate blinked. What was this? He's giving me the third degree. Does he know about the path of carnage Nate had been reaping across the city? How?
“Yeah,” Nate said. He sat up a little, making it look like he was getting comfortable.
Unger stared at him through a veil of smoke. “Then why are you here, Nate?”
Alarm bells went off in Nate's head. What the hell? He found himself tensing, but made an effort not to show it. “I couldn't call it in like usual,” Nate offered. “Figured I'd let you know face-to-face before I took my out.” That sounded plausible enough.
Unger's gaze didn't flinch from Nate's. “Bit of a risk coming here, now, ain't it?”
The alarm bells had become a three alarm fire in Nate's head. He said, “Not really. Cops are busy right now. Can't even drive so I figured a visit was safe.” His hands started to sweat.
A sudden loud noise made Nate blink away from Unger in confusion. Like metal being dragged across the concrete.
Unger frowned and turned to look behind him.
From the growing gloom a man emerged dragging a large metal barrel. He stopped in front of Unger and Nate and stood the barrel up between them.
Nate's apprehension vanished. Replaced by white hot anger.
It was Morse.
“Finally got it here,” Morse said to Unger, panting heavily. “Had to drag it two blocks.”
“No one gives a shit,” Unger said. The big man hoisted himself up out of the chair and stood over the barrel, peering inside.
Nate took the opportunity to stand, too, giving him more freedom of movement.
Unger spat thickly into the empty barrel. “Well, fill it full of shit. It's gonna get dark in a minute.”
Morse nodded and gave Nate a hateful glance, then went inside.
Nat stood next to the barrel, positioning it so it was between him and the other men. “What's this for? Bonfire?”
“Kinda,” Unger said. His demeanor was hard to read. Was he hostile or had Nate misread their conversation? “Gonna have a barbecue. Cook up some of the steaks in the freezer before they go bad.” He kicked at the barrel. “Do it cave man style, over a real fire.”
Morse reappeared with a stack of newspapers under one arm and pieces of an old wooden chair under the other. He dropped them into the barrel and took the lighter from Earl.
Unger stared at Nate while Morse worked. “Was there something more you wanted to tell me, Nate?”
Morse lit the newspapers, and the fire sputtered to life. He looked from
Unger to Nate with growing apprehension.
Might as well pull this band-aid off myself, Nate thought.
“I killed a cop today,” Nate said with a smile.
Unger did a double take. “What?”
“Yup,” Nate said. “You know her, too. Victoria Lang. Or maybe that's knew her, past tense.”
The furless grizzly glared at him over the crackling fire. “You're shitting me.”
“Nope. I don't shit. Not about killing cops.”
Morse stared at Nate in amazement and stepped back from the barrel. Behind him, Earl no longer looked bored, eyes fixed on Nate.
Nate continued into the silence. “Then I killed Jonas Anderson. Tossed him through a window.”
Unger's cigar threatened to drop from his open mouth, stunned.
“After that, I paid a visit to a special friend of yours. Granger.” He glared at his boss. “Figured it was the least I could do.”
“You fuck,” Unger said, recovering from these revelations. “You fucking fuck!”
“Aren't you gonna ask why?” Nate said.
Earl went for his shoulder pistol, but Nate was quicker. From beneath his long jacket he unslung a sawed-off shotgun from under his arm. The chamber was already loaded.
The blast sent Earl flying back through the open door and sprawling onto the floor.
The cigar dropped from Unger's mouth as he looked at his dead henchman.
Nate racked another round into the sawed-off's chamber and leveled it at Unger. “Go on, ask me why.”
Unger glared at Nate with rage, but refused to do what he was told. No one told him what to do.
“Why?” asked Morse with a meek voice.
“Cause you had Chris killed. Raped and killed. Didn't you?” Nate asked.
Unger clenched his fists at his sides, wanting to get close to Nate. Become that boxer of old, again.
Since he didn't answer, Nate said, “I'll tell you why. Because-.”
Wilson flew through the back door pistol firing.
Nate felt a bullet hit him in the chest on his left pectoral. It was like getting kicked by a mule. But he stood firm and shot at Wilson who was firing as quick as he could pull the trigger.
Nate's shot hit the henchman right in the face spraying blood and brains everywhere. Wilson flopped to the ground.
Unger made a move toward Nate, but Nate pointed the sawed-off at him as he racked a new round, stopping the big man in his tracks.
“You gonna answer me?” Nate said, gasping for breath. His chest blossomed with incredible pain. Part of his left arm had gone completely numb, but he still had a firm grip on his weapon.
Morse had stood rooted to the spot during the entire exchange, hands in the air, terrified. When Unger refused to speak, he said, “He was gonna talk.”
“Bullshit!” Nate said. “He would never have talked.” The thought of Chris, his old friend, as a rat was too impossible to consider.
“Maybe,” Unger finally said. “Maybe not. He was in for murder. Twenty years. Who knows what he would have said to get that reduced. He knew a lot of shit.”
Nate could barely contain his rage. “So you had him killed. Didn't you? On the chance a loyal soldier might squeal?”
Unger shrugged. “It's how it's done. Couldn't take the risk.” He said this in a matter-of-fact way, like he was describing how to properly smoke a cigar.
“Why Caleb? He wasn't a threat to you.”
Unger's eyes flashed with anger. “Oh, no? Brother of the guy I had offed? It was only a matter of time before he figured it out or someone told him. Had to be done.”
“Had to be done, huh?” Nate said and shot Unger in the knee.
The big man collapsed to the pavement shrieking in pain.
“Like that?”
Unger clasped at his ruined knee, blood gushing over the ground. He was surrounded by a half dozen cigar butts, the ones he'd smoked that day. “Fuck you, Nate! I should never have taken you on. Shoulda slit your throat myself!”
“Yeah,” Nate said. “You really shoulda, Unger.” He shot his boss in the face.
“Oh, God!” Morse said, looking down at Unger. His hands were still in the air. “You're crazy! Why did you do this? This isn't how shit gets done!”
Nate racked another round and pulled open his shirt to reveal a flat metal slug nestled in his bullet proof vest. “Why did I do this? That's a good question, Morse.”
His gaze went over the darkening horizon. Two more columns of smoke had joined the first. Far in the distance he heard rapid gunplay. Someone else must have been settling scores, too.
There is opportunity in chaos.
“I'll tell you why. Because I believe this is the start of a new era.” He leveled the shotgun at Morse and smiled. “And I'm going to be the one leading the way.”
Then he fired.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Wyatt
Brass knuckles in hand, and an angry fire blazing in his chest, Wyatt stood up. His ankle hurt like a son of a bitch, but he didn't care. All he wanted right now was to make Casket hurt. And hurt bad.
Across the waiting room, both Casket and Scarface noticed his change in demeanor. Casket slowly reached around his back and kept his hand there. He made a motion at Wyatt with his free hand. Come on.
But before Wyatt could move the doctor suddenly appeared in front of him, blocking his view of the Feral Kids.
“This is your friend who was stabbed, yes?” the doctor said, looking down at Ethan.
Wyatt blinked in surprise, trying to push aside his anger. “Yeah, he's been cut bad. Been bleeding out for a while now.” Was he babbling? After so long it seemed a dream that an actual doctor was right here, looking to help.
The doctor knelt down next to Ethan. He put his fingers against Ethan's neck. “How long ago was it?”
Casket was still motioning at Wyatt, come on. “What? Oh, uh, this morning around eight-thirty I think.”
The doctor looked up at Wyatt in alarm. “He's been bleeding this entire time?”
“Yeah, I couldn't get him to the hospital, you know. No ambulances or phones.” Was the doctor mad at him?
The doctor motioned for some orderlies to bring over a gurney. Gently, they eased Ethan onto it. Ethan was completely limp. Wyatt couldn't tell if he was breathing anymore.
The doctor used a stethoscope on Ethan's chest. Then he quickly barked an order at a nurse and she placed a hand-pumped rebreather over Ethan's mouth and started squeezing. The doctor stood over Ethan and placed his hands over the middle of his chest and pushed down, hard. CPR.
Oh, God! Wyatt thought staring at what was happening in total disbelief. He can't die! Not now! Not after I brought him all this way!
The doctor pressed down over and over on Ethan's chest so hard that Wyatt feared he'd break some ribs.
The surrounding people went quiet, watching.
A movement tore Wyatt's eyes away from his dying friend. Casket and Scarface were pointing at Ethan and pantomiming laughter, enjoying the scene.
Wyatt stood frozen. He looked to Ethan's face, covered by the rebreather. The doctor worked frantically.
He didn't know how long it was, but after a while Wyatt realized the doctor had stopped. The doctor shook his head, reached to Ethan's face at his vacant open eyes and gently closed them.
No, no, no, this can't be happening, Wyatt thought. A rush of emotion surged through his body. This can't be happening! He got him here to the clinic! He can't die now!
The doctor turned to Wyatt with a somber expression. Over his shoulder Casket and Scarface were guffawing silently, slapping each other on the back.
“I'm sorry,” the doctor said. “Your friend has passed away. If he'd had gotten here sooner, or if we had electricity, we might have-.” But the doctor didn't get to finish before Wyatt suddenly lunged forward.
Wyatt knocked the doctor aside as he charged at Casket.
Casket, expecting some sort of reaction, suddenly whipped out his large knif
e.
People screamed.
In an instant, Wyatt crossed the distance between them and collided with Casket. Casket tried to stab at Wyatt, but the old hobo caught his arm with a vice-like grip.
Wyatt's momentum pushed them back against a wall where people leapt out of the way. As they hit the wall Casket head-butted Wyatt in the cheek causing him to see stars, but the hobo kept on fighting. He smashed the Feral Kid in the face with the knuckles.
Casket suddenly collapsed to his knees, the knife wielding hand going limp.
Scarface punched at Wyatt's back like it was a punching bag. Wyatt grunted with each hit. Calmly, he reached down and took the knife from Casket's hand. Then he slashed backward with it and a red line appeared across Scarface's throat.
Wide-eyed, Scarface stumbled back, clutching at his neck where blood geysered from the wound. With shock he locked eyes with Wyatt, who watched him coolly, and tumbled to the ground, gasping.
Wyatt spun around to face Casket. “This is for Ethan, you shit.” He jabbed the large knife straight into Casket's face, right to its hilt.
Casket fell to the ground, dead.
Wyatt stood, gasping, a strange calm washing over him.
The massive guard ran in from outside and took in the scene. Quickly, he unholstered his pistol and pointed it at Wyatt with both hands. “Drop the knife!”
Wyatt looked about in a daze. Casket dead at his feet with the knife sticking out of his head. Scarface convulsing on the ground in a widening pool of blood.
“Drop the knife, now!”
“You better do as he says,” Wyatt heard someone say. He looked over at Ethan on the gurney.
Ethan was looking at him, alive as ever.
“Ethan?” Wyatt said, confused. “But you're dead! I saw you die!”
Ethan shrugged. “Yeah, well shit happens. Least I died wearing nice shoes. Better than most can say.” No one seemed to notice that he was speaking, all eyes on Wyatt. “But what good would all of this have been for if you joined me now?”
Wyatt blinked in confusion, then looked at the pistol pointed at him. He willed it to shoot.
“Don't do that,” admonished Ethan's corpse. “Your time isn't now. You know that. There is still work to do.”
