Cold Blooded Assassin Book 7: Hell on Earth (Nick McCarty Assassin)

by Bernard Lee DeLeo

  “He’s been complaining to the Governor regarding our methods,” Sonny replied. “We’re not going there if we can’t stop the pillagers by all means necessary.”

  “Chief Atkins is scared. Mayor Whitman called your Mom. She told him the same thing you said. They’re afraid this bunch will burn the wharf to the ground. They’ve already set a car on fire and a few trash containers. Mel told your Mom weapons free. Monterey PD backs any play you make, but they are not killers. Chief Atkins knows that too. I already called your Dad. He told me they’ll set a sniper’s nest in place with both Jian and Johnny. Gus and Cala will be mobile support, if needed. Nick told me all signals of life and death remain the same, except if Jian notices something you can’t see.”

  “We’ll lock and load. Please don’t leave the Grove unguarded. This could be a lure to leave the Grove unprotected.”

  “On it. Nick said the same thing. All my people will be in riot gear with automatic weapons. They can hold the line until we get help. I’ll be with them. Good luck, Jean.” Neil disconnected.

  Jean stopped the SUV. “Put on your armor. Let’s go with the MP5’s with silencers. I’ll get Mom to drive so we’ll have the werewolf with us.”

  Quinn’s phone beeped. He answered, listened for a moment. “That was Jean’s thought too, Mom. Be there shortly. Put on your armor. No… I didn’t just insult you.”

  “Trashy’s ready to go to the mattresses, huh?”

  “You know, Mom, Sis.”

  A slow smile spread over Jean’s features as they geared to go. “Yep.”

  * * *

  “Network on,” Cala reported. “Mobile assistance, ready.”

  “Sniper team in place,” Johnny said. “One bad guy already without a head - the Molotov cocktail he was going to throw cremated him. Muerto’s shot halted the mob.”

  “Marauders deploying with the werewolf,” Rachel checked in. “Trashy driving.”

  Rachel drove next to the mob and burning body. Jean led her troops out, shooting one who ran at their SUV, center mass. The MP5 9mm hollow point dropped the soon to be dead man on his back.

  “Halt! Put your signs and weapons on the ground! Kneel with hands laced!”

  A .50 caliber round splattered brain matter on the mob surrounding a masked guy who uncovered an AK47 to fire.

  “We have snipers! People reaching die! Do as ordered right now! My werewolf will help you! Sammy! Restrain!”

  For the next fifteen minutes, anyone who didn’t get on their knees, hands laced, was ripped to the pavement by Sammy the werewolf. Sammy made his rounds, nipping any who did not lace their hands. A black van raced at them from the parking lot. Rachel rammed him from the side a moment before a clip of .50 caliber hollow points ripped through the windows and interior. Quinn and Jay raced to the van, killing two survivors hiding behind the sliding side door, opposite the crash, when they spilled out of the van armed with AK47s.

  Rachel stayed low with her Glock out after leaving the wreck. “Trashy out and on the move. Get your big butt over here and protect Momma, Kong.”

  “Jay and I are approaching from both sides, Mom. We have you covered. Don’t shoot.”

  Rachel relaxed. “Come ahead.”

  “Kong and Predator have Trashy, Jean. You and Sonny stay with the mob. Don’t relax. I’ll call in the PD for scene takeover,” Quinn told her.

  “Understood.” Jean, Sonny, and Sammy watched the whining mob. “Shut your pie-holes or I’ll give our werewolf the word to help you shut-up!”

  Silence, as Sammy ran amongst them, growling and lunging. Rachel walked over with a fire extinguisher from the wreck of their SUV, Quinn and Jay at her sides. She sprayed the burning body, extinguishing the fire as the Monterey police department regulars arrived with prisoner transports. Rachel joined Jean and Sonny with her guards.

  “Damn… you never know how really close to pigs we are until a person smells roasting human. It’s sick. All I can think of is having a BLT.”

  The Monterey Fisherman’s Wharf rescue network lost focus for a few moments after Rachel’s announcement.

  * * *

  Nick stroked Rachel’s face. Her breathing returned slowly to normal. “You were an incredible mayor today.”

  Rachel kissed her longtime lover fiercely, breaking away as she felt his interest rising. “Get back, beast. You have a final community meeting to attend.”

  Nick swung his legs over to the floor. “I know. We’re making great progress. This bunch may be the last group we’ll need to deal with. Rumors abound concerning Conrad’s disappearance with his buddies. It’s a mystery. Word is, with the warlord dead, the others’ interest in mafia matters seems to be dying with him. We’re asking the local military recruiters to attend a community meeting. It’s possible we can turn some of these kids from the dark-side.”

  “If they think the only fate looting and pillaging brings is death, you may be able to convince more than a few to try something honorable.”

  “That’s our hope.” Nick dressed in black slacks, tennis shoes, t-shirt, and windbreaker.

  “You’re getting a little long in the tooth for this ninja stuff, Nicky-poo.”

  “If we’re getting the Grove in shape quickly, I need to step up my game, not retire. I’m getting you into the Governor’s office next year so the Monster Squad in the north, and my cartoons down here, won’t have to fight both the streets and the political hacks.”

  “I never considered it possible.” Rachel turned to prop her head in hands with elbows on the bed in support. “What do you think about being first man?”

  “Trailer Trash Momma in the White House, huh? I’d kill a few people to see you get there and bring Momma out on the media.”

  Rachel laughed. “Yep. Think of it. The number one assassin in the world in the White House with Trashy.”

  “I like it, babe. You’ll have to excuse me. I need to pave the way to the Governorship. You know the old saying, ‘you need to break a few eggs to make an omelet’.”

  “With bacon.”

  “Absolutely.”

  * * *

  Ahhh… they’re so sweet when passed out cold, Nick thought, as he glided to the first target in the warehouse. The shot he administered would keep each man unconscious while a scene of gangbanger debauchery could be set into place. Nick paused only moments in the dark between his victims, making sure no movement stirred his intended scene participants. Nick gripped each one’s mouth while plunging the syringe concoction into their neck.

  His last candidate for the staged gangbanger eternity show, Nick flipped onto his stomach, pinning the man beneath him. “Hello, Gumby. I have a question for you from Conrad. Did someone try to take his place?”

  “Conrad dead, man! Unless you talk to dead people, no way you questioning me from Conrad. Nobody taking his place. He went troubleshooting with the mayor and got aced.”

  Nick injected him. “Thanks, kid. Happy trails to you.”

  “I got them all guys. Come on in. You better stay with Cala in the van, Jian. This scene making may be too hard on your sensibilities.”

  “Fuck you, Muerto!”

  “That’s the spirit. Let’s get ‘er done. I’m thinking Bushmills on the deck tonight and at the beach tomorrow morning.”

  “After these last few days, I’m with you, brother,” Gus stated. “Coming in now.”

  The four men worked together, building the scene with bodies and hypodermic needles. When finished, the scene built in what must have been an entertainment area, appeared to be four young thugs partying too hard. After positioning, Nick injected each shot from their own hands, with his companions moving away, knowing the imagination and expertise Nick brought to his actions. Nick moved each dead manikin slightly before perusing the scene from a distance. Finally satisfied, he made a safe call as if at home plate in a baseball game.

  “We’re good to go. It’s Miller time.”

  “You’re drinking Yuengling beer, Muerto,” Johnny said.

  �
��It’s a euphemism of a time past, Kabong. Do you want to get on the McCarty deck or do you want to argue about the refreshment labels?”

  “Just for that, I’m having the Bud and Beam brothers.”

  “At the bar down the street… maybe.”

  Johnny enjoyed Nick’s reply with his companions. “Elitist snob.”

  “We’ll make labels for the Bushmills and Yuengling that read Bud and Beam. How’s that?”

  “I’m tellin’ John.”

  “We have a deal. John doesn’t make fun of my cartoon mask and I don’t disrespect his favorite refreshments. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  * * *

  A quiet, less than somber, comfortable aura settled in on the McCarty deck in the early hours of the morning.

  “Rachel for Governor of California? Wow, Muerto, you do have imagination.”

  Nick sipped his Bushmills. “Save your negativity, Cala. Rachel can do it. We need to keep her alive. First the Governorship, and then the Presidency.”

  “I’m a lock,” Rachel added. “I’ll have Nick sanction the competition, until we have nothing left confronting me but leftist losers who have trouble remembering their own names.”

  “That actually defines your entire slate of competition, dear,” Nick said.

  “Yes!” Rachel pumped her fist. “I’m POTUS!”

  The End

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  Chapter: Extra: Bonus Novel

  Hard Case

  Book One

  HARD CASE

  by Bernard L. DeLeo (Author) & RJ Parker (Publicist)

  Copyright 2012 Bernard L. DeLeo

  This e-Book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. ·This e-Book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All rights reserved. No parts of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written authorization from Bernard L. DeLeo.

  This book is a work of fiction.

  Chapter One

  John Harding

  He hit me a glancing blow I pulled away from. His follow up roundhouse kick I deflect with my left wrist. All the time, I’m watching my man. Tommy gives me the signal to go down. I take a hard right, slipping it a little, and drop to my knees. My opponent, big, dark, with a gold tooth, smiled down at me. He didn’t even wear a mouth guard. That’s confidence. He’s sweating in the heat. I’m a little hot myself. We’re throwing hands and feet in the middle of around thirty well dressed men and women. Tommy’s making bets for us. I’m a big guy too, six foot five in my bare feet. My weight runs around two fifty, so this guy I’m tussling with has about thirty pounds on me and maybe an inch.

  How I got to doing what I do is a long story. I spent time in uniform, and six years in special ops. In younger years growing up my old man and me had to travel a lot. He whipped me good and often. Only thing was… I got to liking it… not so much the beating as the pain. When I hit fourteen we lived in an old shack of a place near the Mahoning River in Leavittsburg, Ohio. My Pa came home drunk deciding it was time for another beat down. It was. I broke his jaw and then his arm. While he lay screaming in pain I kicked him right in the nuts as hard as I could. Pa quieted down then.

  I took what money he had, some clothes, and his car. Heading South, I found a place down in Texas called Plano where I hired on at a fast food joint. I stayed in the back of an old man’s junkyard. Pete, the junkyard owner took a liking to me. He helped me get a driver’s license and birth certificate. That’s when I became John Harding and a very young eighteen-year-old. Pete told me the service would be a good place to get my GED and some money saved. The Marines needed a few good men. They took me anyway. Nothing much was happening back in 1997; but I went Recon and saw some neat foreign places: Kenya, Kosovo, and the Philippines. It turned out I had a penchant for learning languages and the Marines began training me in a few helpful ones… helpful for them. Nine eleven hit about the time my four years were up. At nineteen I was in Afghanistan. Being a vet by the time they started doing special ops in Iraq I thought it best to hone the only damn skills I’d managed to attain.

  Now I’m out, sort of, and free lancing with odd jobs. I tried getting into the extreme cage stuff but the referee was slow stopping my first fight and I killed a guy. It was bad publicity for the sport so they told me I needed a cooling off period. Tommy saw the fight. He recruited me. Tommy Sands grew up in East LA. He’s the guy Barrack Obama said his grandma used to hide from on the street. Tommy and me hit it off right away. He’s smooth with the side bets. We have an understanding. He knows the pain don’t bother me much. I know he don’t mind watching me take some. The impromptu money fights are more my style anyway. It allows me the leeway for my other enterprises.

  Here I am, making a little money. I get up at a slant, sliding inside another kick. Stumbling around a little while my new buddy attacks, I keep Tommy in sight while I’m slipping punches and covering up. Then I see her: Tess Connagher, my other sometime employer. She ain’t happy. She’s standing with her arms folded across her chest in that I’m irritated as hell look she does so well. Tess is about five foot seven and a hundred thirty pounds of well educated Boston confidence. Long red hair, green eyes, and just a few freckles, Tess looks like just what she is: a lawyer. I throw a few left jabs to keep my sparring partner on his toes while I locate Tommy. I see him. Tommy nods.

  My left hook catches the big man coming forward, a real hurtful shot in the solar plexus. His hands drop. My right smashes him flush on the left temple. He crumples in a heap, rolling with sightless eyes to his back. The crowd is groaning because I’m not the favorite. Tommy looks at the other fighter’s handler. The man nods his head angrily. I stretch out my arms, watching the crowd closely. I strip off the thin fight gloves and stuff them in my waistband. Every once in a while one of our patrons gets upset at the outcome and decides to change it. Tess is coming toward me, her body language announcing she’s upset with me. A thirty something, pasty faced guy in the front ring of people reaches into his suit. I have his wrist in my fist the next split second, having covered the distance while my eyes were still registering his movement. Tommy covers my play.

  The man’s girlfriend, a nice dressed blonde starts screaming. Tess gives her hair a yank and she quiets down. Pasty face is on his knees with his wrist in my vice when I relieve him of the Glock he was pulling on us. I hand it to Tommy and let the man up. Tommy pops the clip and checks the Glock chamber before handing the piece back to the guy. He won’t be allowed in the circle again.

  “You get our money, T?”

  “Yeah, John. Hey, I thought I told you not to bring the girlfriend along when we’re entertainin’.”

  “I heard that!” Tess calls over her shoulder as she gives blondie a helpful push toward her boyfriend before w
alking over to us. “You stink, Hard-head.”

  “Sorry, Tess, I’ll use more Sports Stick next time.”

  “Can we get out of here?” Tommy pulls on my arm. “We’ll treat slinky to a coffee somewhere else but I think we need to go now.”

  “Slinky…” Tess starts in on Tommy but we’re already heading away from the parking lot in the Embarcadero and Fifth Avenue area of Oakland, Ca. Tess follows, cussing out Tommy all the way over to our cars with Tommy laughing at every jibe.

  We all know each other. Tommy’s my manager and agent. I hate the business stuff. I’m no gamer. He knows my skills and how to market them. Tess’s firm uses us when they need something more potent than a lawyer or run of the mill PI. Usually it’s protection or a skip trace. I back their play while they do the investigations. When one of their clients skips out, they find the location and I handle the retrieval. I’m good at tactical stuff. Much to Tess’s dismay, Tommy’s real good at bartering for our fee.

  I’m a killer. I don’t take life too seriously, mine or anyone else’s. Tommy keeps me in line like they used to in the service. Tommy trusts Tess to yank on my reins when I do work for her firm if I start going overboard on a case – if she gets close enough. Tess and me been around the block a few times. She’s seen the look. I don’t kill randomly but I’ve killed folks no one knows I’ve killed. They were dangerous. I’m not getting paid to die. I listen to what Tommy and Tess have to say where it concerns my civilian life. I weigh the pros and cons. Then I take care of business. One time Tess had a client - some slimy drug dealing pimp who wanted more from Tess than her services as a lawyer. When the firm kicked free of the pimp, Tess got her tires slashed, weirdo calls, and then her cat Pretzel was gutted. The pimp came around the next day at Tess’s office asking how her cat was.