Perilous

by E. H. Reinhard

  Each of the men had carried only one ID, unlike Jose Gomez, who’d carried his real driver’s license and a fake. I clicked on the map light in Sommer’s cruiser and looked over both counterfeit Florida driver’s licenses. I pulled mine from my wallet to compare. They were identical. The fakes were straight from the Department of Motor Vehicles—one-hundred-percent real cards with made-up names. Whoever had made them had access to a DMV in the state.

  We drove past the scene of the car fire. The fire truck and fire chief remained. A wrecker was loading up the torched remains of the sedan.

  I looked over my shoulder at my parents. “They had you there today?” I asked.

  “Up until an hour or so ago when they moved us,” my father said.

  I looked over at Sommer. “Where are they taking the car?”

  “That one, along with the one where we just came from, will go to our impound lot. We’ll have to have our crime-lab guys go over them as soon as they get a chance.”

  I shook my head.

  “What?” Sommer asked.

  I ran my hand over my stubble-ridden scalp. “I just have no clue what the hell we’re dealing with.”

  “How long have you been doing this?” Sommer asked.

  “Doing what?”

  “Law enforcement.”

  “On the force for fourteen years total, detective for four, sergeant for four, lieutenant for three.”

  “You were only in patrol for three years?” he asked.

  “He had a degree and was good on the beat,” my father said.

  Sommer nodded. “The point is you know how this works. Bits and pieces will trickle in. It will take a bit before you get anything resembling a complete picture.”

  “Meanwhile, people are trying to kill me,” I said.

  “Well, the number of people trying to kill you is shrinking,” Sommer said.

  “What do you mean people are trying to kill you?” Sandy asked.

  “I’ll tell you back at the house,” I said. “I’m just glad you two are safe.”

  Sommer made a left into my father’s driveway. Wakkman pulled in behind us. Two squad cars remained at the house. We parked and stepped out. Sommer grabbed the bag of phones we’d pulled from the trailer. I let my father and Sandy out of the back seat.

  “Come on.” My father nodded toward his workshop. “I’m going to cut these sons of bitches off.” He held out the cuffs around his wrists.

  “You guys want a couple coats or something?” I asked.

  “I just want these damn things off my, and Sandy’s, wrists.”

  “It’s like ten degrees out. I’ll go get your coats,” I said.

  He started for the shed. “Your blood is getting thin, boy.”

  I walked toward the house. Sommer and Wakkman followed me up the front steps.

  “We’re going to have a look through the phones quick. If we find another number, can your FBI guy try to track it again?” Sommer asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “All right. Go help those two and meet me back in here. We’ll have to sit down with them and go over everything that happened.”

  I nodded, scooped the jackets from the wall hanger by the door, and went to the workshop. I draped Sandy’s coat over her shoulders.

  “Thanks, Carl,” she said.

  My father motioned for me to toss his on the workbench, so I did.

  He pulled an angle grinder from one of his rolling toolboxes and slid the drawer closed. “Figure we can zip off the hinge pins and then slide the toothed part through.” He plugged the cord in and handed me the grinder.

  “You want me to do it, I take it?” I asked.

  “I can’t do mine myself.”

  I had him put his hands up on the bench—I looked at them laid out in front of me. His knuckles were scabbed over.

  “Nice knuckles,” I said.

  He smirked.

  The grinder zipped through the connecting pin in a breeze. I tapped it through the other side and pushed the toothed end through. My father slipped his wrist out and rubbed it with his other hand, still cuffed. “I got it from here,” he said.

  He talked in between running the grinder.

  “So what’s going on here, Carl?”

  “It looks like someone sent a hit squad out after me.”

  “Explain,” he said.

  I gave them the short version of what had happened out at Melissa’s and what took place in the time I was up north. I apologized for the damage to his house.

  “Don’t worry about the damn cabin. We’ll figure it out,” he said. “What do you know about these guys?” he asked.

  “We got a couple of IDs. I have my buddy Faust at the FBI looking into everything. You’re sure you heard another car?” I asked.

  He thumbed the button on the grinder one more time to finish cutting through the pin. He knocked it through and removed the cuff.

  “I heard it too,” Sandy said.

  “Great. So there is at least one more. You never saw anyone else, though?”

  “Just the three guys.” My father motioned for Sandy to put her hands up on the bench. “Put your wrists right here, hon. These will be off in a second.” My father looked back at me and spoke over the buzz of the grinder. “We were blindfolded some of the time, though. Do you think these guys are connected with your Russians down in Florida somehow?”

  “They have to be. The three fake IDs we got and the single real one were from Florida. Two of the guys spent time at USP Coleman, where Viktor Azarov is.”

  My father shut off the grinder and knocked both pins from Sandy’s cuffs. She pulled them from her wrists and rubbed at the abrasions from the metal.

  “So someone put a hit out on you, and these guys followed you up here is what you’re saying. What was their plan for Sandy and me?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing now.”

  “Maybe they decided to pull the plug after a couple of guys got shot?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Or Plan B,” I said.

  “Come on, John. Let’s go get your head fixed up,” Sandy said. “I’m sure these sheriffs want to hear our story.”

  My father led us from the shop and slowed when we approached the cabin. “Shit,” he mumbled. He pointed at the broken windows and bullet holes.

  “A sheriff and I were inside. We took fire from both sides. The sheriff was hit.”

  “What sheriff?”

  “Kinnear.”

  “I know a couple of the local sheriffs up here. I don’t know him, though. Is he okay?”

  “I’m not sure. The EMTs got to him pretty quick, though.”

  We walked up the stairs and through the front door.

  “Son of a bitch,” my father said. He stood in the entryway and looked left to right at the bullet-ridden interior of his home.

  I looked at Sandy. She held her hands over her mouth and stared inside. “You were inside here when this was going on?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Geez, Carl.”

  My father pointed. “Is that my HK on the table?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did it do?”

  “Probably saved my and the sheriff’s lives.”

  “Good. Where is Callie?”

  “With Melissa, Jeff, and Tommy, back at Jim’s parents’ place up here.”

  “They are safe?”

  “Yeah. I have two sheriffs holding down the fort.”

  “You should call your sister and tell her your father is all right,” Sandy said. “You know how she’ll get if you don’t do it right away.”

  I nodded. “I called her already, but I told her I’d call her back when we got here. I should probably do that.”

  My father looked at the sheriffs sitting at the kitchen table. “I think these guys want us to run through what happened, Sandy.”

  “They can wait until I clean you up,” she said.

  “That’s fine, ma’am,” Sommer said.

  Chapter 33 - Viktor

  Viktor
lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, dehydrated and weak. He hadn’t received as much as a scrap of food or a drip of water for two full days. His stomach no longer growled from being hungry. His body had seemed to accept the fact that death was inevitable if the starvation continued. He hadn’t been out of his cell or seen another person, aside from glimpses of whoever delivered empty trays through his food door. The last empty food tray had come through the slot a couple hours before. The shift change always occurred shortly after. He imagined that whoever Darryl would send would be someone from the graveyard shift. His forty-eight hours were up, and then some.

  Viktor had had an uninterrupted two days to think. He considered every possible scenario dozens of times. His final decision was made sometime the day prior. All he needed was Darryl’s contact to enter. His mind went back to rehashing his plan.

  A bang came from the other side of the door. The food slot opened, and a man spoke from the other side of the door. “Hands behind your back against the wall.”

  Viktor rolled from his bed and obeyed though that wasn’t the normal operating procedure. He assumed the man to be the one Darryl had sent.

  Viktor took his spot facing the back wall.

  The key clanked in the door. Viktor heard it open, a man enter, and the door close. He felt someone grab his wrists and link them up in cuffs behind his back. He was pulled backward by the chains on the cuffs and seated on the bed. A guard stood before him. Viktor hadn’t seen that man before. He was a little over six foot, with jet-black hair and a matching black goatee. The guy was thick—more farm hand than bodybuilder. His nameplate read Oscar.

  “Well? Are you ready to make the call for payment?” the guard asked.

  “Oscar? Is that your first or last name?”

  The guard smiled. “What are you going to do? File a complaint?”

  “No, I was just wondering.”

  “Keep wondering, then. Are you ready to make the call, or are you choosing door number two?”

  Viktor wanted to keep the guy talking. He slid his fingers into the waistband at his hip. “What’s behind door number two?”

  “I find a creative way for you to commit suicide in your cell.”

  “I’ll make the call,” Viktor said.

  “That’s what we thought you’d say.”

  “How am I supposed to call if I’m cuffed and don’t have a phone?”

  “I’ll dial on my phone and hold it next to your face.”

  Viktor nodded. “How much are these guys paying you?”

  The guard smirked.

  “I’m serious,” Viktor said. “I’ll double whatever you’re getting. I have a way this can work out for the both of us.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

  “You let me use your phone so I can make a couple phone calls. That’s it. After that, I’ll make sure you get your money.”

  “Sounds like a good deal. There’s one problem with that, though.”

  “What?” Viktor asked.

  The guard unbuttoned the top of his brown shirt and pulled it to the side. A black swastika tattoo covered the right side of his chest. He smiled. “I’m not for sale.” He buttoned his shirt back up.

  Viktor shook his head. “Everyone is for sale for the right price.”

  “Not everyone.” The guard rubbed his black goatee. “You are going to pay me, though. Just a little bonus so I don’t mention this to Mr. White.”

  “Waylon is dead,” Viktor said.

  “Not Waylon—Darryl Stills. They have a little thing here. Whoever is in charge takes White as their last name. You’re kind of new here. I could see how you wouldn’t be privy to that kind of information.”

  “Darryl Stills, huh? Thanks.”

  “For?”

  “Nothing. I just forgot his last name. Let’s get this over with.”

  “What’s the number?” the guard asked.

  Viktor gave him Yury’s cell number. He continued working with the piece of fence metal in the keyhole of the cuffs behind his back. He felt a click through the cuff on his left wrist.

  The guard walked the phone to him and held it against Viktor’s cheek. “You tell him the amount and read him this account number.” The guard pulled a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket. “It’s to be transferred immediately. If you say one other thing, this gets bad real fast.”

  The guard took a step back. Viktor held the phone against his face and shoulder. The phone rang in his ear. The paper with the account number sat on his knee. Viktor took the loose cuff that was around his left wrist and held it like a knife in his right hand behind his back.

  “Hello?” Yury answered.

  “I can’t hear you.” Viktor looked at the guard. “I can’t hear anything through this phone.”

  The guard leaned in to take it, and Viktor let the phone drop to the bed. His hands flew from behind his back. He grabbed the guard’s head with his left hand and swung his right fist, holding the cuffs, into the side of the man’s head. The point of the cuffs made direct impact with the guard’s temple. As soon as he made contact, he held the man behind the head and used him to get to his feet. Holding on to the guard’s head, Viktor kneed the man in the groin and then pulled his face directly into the point of Viktor’s knee. The guard dropped to the ground, and Viktor stomped on the back of the man’s head. His face bounced off the floor. As Viktor continued stomping, a blood pool grew. Viktor stopped before the man died, but his injuries would put him out of work for months—plenty of time for Viktor to not have to worry about the guard anymore.

  Viktor pulled himself back onto the bed. He grabbed the guard’s cell phone and brought it to his ear, breathing deeply.

  “Yury? Are you there?” Viktor asked.

  “Yes. What the hell was that?”

  “No time to explain. What is going on? Is it done?”

  “Not yet. I’m taking care of it myself. The so-called team that was hired didn’t pan out. I had to fire them.”

  “All of them?”

  “The cop took care of a couple. I took care of the rest. They ruined a perfectly good opportunity. This probably would have worked better if it was handled in house.”

  “I didn’t want it coming back at me while I was dealing with a court case.”

  “I know. It just could have been handled better. These guys weren’t pros.”

  “I had to take what I could get, Yury. So, you’re taking care of it yourself now?”

  “It’s underway. It should be done within a couple hours.”

  “Good. I have a couple names for you. I need some leverage on these guys. Do you have something to write with?”

  “Sure. Let me just grab my little pad here. I’m ready.”

  “First is a Darryl Stills. He’s some white-trash Nazi that’s in here. I need him neutralized. He also has a buddy named Kenny. I think his last name is Winter.”

  “Inmate as well?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that it?”

  “No.” Viktor went to the floor and dug through the guard’s pockets. He removed his wallet and slid out his driver’s license. “I also need the same treatment on an Anthony Oscar. He’s a skinhead guard here.”

  “Got it. I’ll relay the message.”

  “Okay. I don’t know when I’ll talk to you again, Yury. Just get everything taken care of.”

  “Will do.”

  Viktor clicked the button to hang up. He wiped his prints from the cell phone and tossed it onto the floor. Viktor took off the guard’s belt, pulled down his pants, and removed the guard’s keys. Then Viktor unlocked his cell door and pulled it open. He tossed the keys on the floor, and they slid and came to rest next to the guard in a pool of his blood.

  Viktor sat down on the bed and put his right hand behind his back. He clicked the left cuff back around his wrist and waited. Sooner or later, someone would see the open cell door on the security-video feed or notice it while making rounds. They would see the open cell door and one of their guards facedown i
n blood. Ten minutes passed before anyone came.

  Viktor heard keys jingling and boots thumping the floor. Guards with shields filled his doorway.

  “Get on the ground!” a guard called.

  Viktor obeyed.

  “We need medical!” another guard shouted.

  They pulled Viktor from his cell. He went along quietly.

  A guard pressed Viktor face-first into the wall of the hallway. To his left, a couple of medical staff jogged toward him. The two went into Viktor’s cell to attend to the injured guard. Another man in a suit headed toward him. He seemed to be some form of authority figure.

  He stopped next to Viktor. “I’m Deputy Captain Holcomb. What happened here, inmate?”

  “I was in my cell. The guard asked me to get against the back wall and place my hands behind my back, which was weird because we normally use the slot for that, and our hands are cuffed in front. I obeyed his order either way. He then entered, cuffed me, and tried to rape me. I was forced to defend myself.”

  “He tried raping you?” the deputy asked.

  Viktor nodded. “The guy is a Nazi too. He showed me a giant swastika tattoo on his chest before he pulled his pants down. Your guards have been starving me for days.”

  Holcomb went to look in the cell.

  The deputy asked if the guard had been found with his pants down. Another guard confirmed. Holcomb asked about the tattoo and received another confirmation. The chief deputy then asked why the guard was in the cell in the first place. No one answered. Viktor watched another person from the infirmary wheel a stretcher toward his cell.

  He faced the wall and smirked thinking of the plan he’d executed.

  They’ll suspend the dirty guard pending an investigation, and the mention of being starved will ensure my meals in the future.

  Viktor could barely contain his smile.

  Darryl and Kenny will be my biggest supporters if they want their families to stay alive.

  All that remained was getting himself out of the SHU. Viktor had an idea.