by Harper Riley
There are no guards. There’s two men there. I run back.
Wasn’t it convenient how Carlos and the rest of them just up and left – no protection for the house, nothing?
Running into the back of the house, I slam the back door, lock it. Race to the basement, get out my gun, cursing myself.
How could I have been so stupid? Overthrowing me right amidst our own father’s funeral?
This has Carlos written all over it. It’s just too perfect.
No sooner am I at the bottom step then does the front door start rattling.
I crouch down just as it’s kicked in.
Chapter 27 - Gavin
When I wake up, I’m more than awake, I’m electrified.
As soon as I realize that I’m conscious, I get up, get to work.
Breakfast is bacon and eggs that’s been warming in the oven. I told Teresa not to come in this morning. I don’t want any distractions. I need to be on my A-game.
In the bathroom, I smile at myself.
Now, today, finally, it’s the day.
The past few days have been intolerable. Waiting, planning and more waiting. Getting the vans in order, dismissing Jaws’ stupid suggestions. Any longer and the next funeral would be mine.
After I brush my teeth, I whisper, “This one’s for you Mama.”
Really, now that I know what the Piccolos pulled with Hannah – kidnapping my innocent sister, I have no more doubt that they were the ones who shot Momma.
They’ve never admitted it, but really, I’ve known all along. Who else would it have been?
And now, finally, they are going to get what’s coming to them.
I put on my clothes slowly, leisurely: white Calvin Klein boxers, ivory Ralph Lauren jeans, snow Ted Baker button-up.
I survey myself in the mirror with a satisfied smile. Something tells me that after today my clothes aren’t going to be so white anymore.
I go to my safe, put in the code and take it out. My white Glock. The White Lady.
The boys are gonna just love this. It’s not every day that I bring my white gun into battle.
I step closer to the mirror, spread my arms.
Let them shoot at me. There’s a good inch of bulletproof material underneath this white button-up, same goes for my white jeans. Even my white shoes are bulletproof.
If the Piccolos wanna take me out, they’ll have to go for my head or not bother.
I put a small picture of Hannah in my pocket. In case there’s someone that needs to be questioned.
I put a knife in my other pocket, in case someone needs convincing.
I don’t like to waste bullets on convincing. Today, I may just need every last one.
I don’t check my phone.
I know Tony texted me, but I still don’t know what. I haven’t looked and I won’t. Not until this is over. I can’t have any distractions. I have to get Hannah out of there. I have to save my sister or everything is pointless.
Downstairs, Jaws and Pulse are in my black swivel chairs, spinning around.
I didn’t call them but I didn’t need to. I said, “My place at 10,” and it’s 10.
They whistle as I walk in.
They’re in all black, seem to blend into the apartment, this pure black room: black marble floors and walls, black leather seats, black velvet curtains. As Hannah liked to say the “black on black on black” room. I’ve always loved the shock I made when I caught myself in a mirror, the gleaming white beacon amidst so much black.
“You ready?” I ask them.
“Fuck yes!” Jaws says leaping up. Even his spikes have been slicked back, as if knowing instinctively that today is the kind of day that destroys even hair spikes.
“Oh, am I ready,” Pulse says, then, giving me a significant look, “But is she ready?”
I pick my white leather jacket up off the coat, put it on.
I open the fridge. There, in the meat compartment, there she is. Our weapon of sweet, sweet vengeance.
“Adrestia” is what Pulse is calling her these days, the cords and switchboards that are the bombs we’re going to blow the Piccolos back to hell with. Apparently, Adrestia was the Greek goddess of retribution.
Pulse clasps his creation, Jaws grabs an apple, we tuck it all in our wheeled suitcases, and we’re off.
The elevator is there before we are, and everyone we encounter, whose gazes follow us long as we pass, all of them know. Even the slick bald nod of a desk boy knows. There is no resisting. What we will do today is inevitable. Success isn’t a question of “if” but “when.”
Outside, the long line of vans forms a conspicuous brigade in front of my apartment building. Not regular Lionel boarders, that’s for sure. Not regular boarders at all. All white, the stereotypical white van that, in this case, are for purposes just as sketchy as they look.
The first seven vans have around 50 or so Rebel Saints tucked snuggly inside, the second-last van is where we pack Adrestia.
Finally, as we approach our van, the last one, Jaws takes a bite of his apple. Jaws. Who’s still supposed to be in the hospital.
“What the hell are you doing here eh?” I ask him, irritated with myself for just noticing now.
Mid-bite, he shrugs.
“Was more interesting than sitting through one of those hospital check-ups.”
I shake my head.
“No. No way. You get the hell out of here. You aren’t well enough to fight.”
My phone rings. It’s Pip.
“The Piccolos just arrived at the funeral, boss.”
“Great. See any guy that might be Torrie Piccolo?”
“No, doesn’t look like it, but I don’t know if they’ve all arrived yet.”
“Ok, great, thanks Pip. Keep me posted.”
“Will do Boss.”
I hang up and look on the long line of vans, my weapons of mass destruction, all waiting for my command. None of this seems real I’ve been waiting for it for so long.
When I come to, I check my phone: already five minutes have passed since I talked to Pip, five minutes that I’ve been standing here, reveling in what’s to come.
This plan won’t be real if I keep on standing here thinking about it. It’s time to act.
I go to the first van, give it a thumbs-up. As it takes off, I do the same to the next, then the next.
Until only the final van and Pulse, Jaws and I are left.
Pulse gets in the driver’s seat, and I get in the passenger’s seat.
As Jaws goes to open the back door, I press the lock button. He yanks the handle uselessly, turns to the front with a dismayed face.
Through the door, we can just make out his moan, “Boss, c’mon, please.”
I open the window a crack, shake my head, smile, and wave, “Bye Jaws. We’ll send you pics.”
As Pulse pulls away from the curb and down the street, Jaws stays stock-still, his face a drooping mask of dismay.
“Kinda harsh,” Pulse comments, with a glance in the rearview mirror at Jaws’ rapidly diminishing form.
“I’ve put him in enough danger already. Not this time,” I say.
The traffic is much worse than expected. With each passing minute, I can see the vein in Pulse’s temple throbbing more.
“We’ll get there in time,” I say, though I’m not sure who I’m saying it for.
I feel like getting out of the car, striding across the tops of these cars, this hood to bumper line of cars. Or just driving over them, crushing over them like tanks.
We don’t have time for this.
“Boss, how’s it going?” Pip asks me over the headset I put on a few minutes ago.
I grin. I was starting to worry it wasn’t working. Thank God for Bluetooth.
“Traffic, we’re almost there.”
When we finally pull up to the house, we’re 15 minutes later than we should be.
“The boys are already setting up the explosives,” Pip tells me, “You just have to find Hannah.”
&nbs
p; “Ok, thanks Pip,” I say.
As Pulse pulls up to the house I now know all too well, I take out the small photograph of Hannah.
“Don’t worry, sis. I’ll see you soon.”
I tuck it back in my pocket, take out the White Lady and get out of our van.
Pulse swears when he lays eyes on my gun.
“Jesus it’s a thing of beauty.”
“You ready?” I ask.
He nods, then says “Wait a sec.”
He goes to the back of the car, opens the truck and laughs.
“That fucker Jaws texted me to check the trunk for extra guns.”
“And?” I say.
“Come over and have a look.”
I go over there and, seeing them, have to laugh myself.
Laid out there, in a neat line of three, are the masks: three ugly-as-sin droops of old man masks, the same as the one Jaws showed me.
Seeing them there, all set up neat and expectant, I almost feel bad for the guy.
“What d’you think Boss?” Pulse asks.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake... Fine.”
He puts one on and then I do the same.
“Get over here,” I say, and I take a picture of us.
“Maybe Jaws’ll take it a little less hard now,” I say, though I doubt it.
Eyes scanning all around, we make our way to the front gate, past pesticide green grass and along the no-longer electrified fence.
The front gate is already open. That’s what the first van was for, bashing the wrought-iron things open. Pip had already disabled the electricity; the rest was easy. You don’t make your gates all that hard to bash through when they’re electric in the first place.
Striding up the smooth sidewalk to the Tudor-style mansion feels surreal. This is where Torrie Piccolo was, Carlos was – maybe even Hannah was.
And today – it’s going to be all over. Today is going to change everything. The Piccolos are going to be sorry they ever messed with the Rebel Saints.
At the door, I turn to Pulse.
“Wait here.”
He cocks his head.
“Huh?”
“I have no idea what we’re walking into here,” I say, “Let me check it out first. You can cover my back. I’ll call for you when I want you.”
Pulse gapes at me like I just asked him to remove all his tattoos in one go.
“Pulse. This way we won’t be walking into a trap.”
Pulse closes his eyes, his black lids making him look terrifyingly similar to an actual skeleton.
When he opens them, he cocks his gun.
“Okay, Boss. But if I don’t get any word from you in 10, I’m going in.”
I nod, turn to the door.
If I can’t give Pulse word in ten minutes, then we’ve got bigger problems.
THE DOOR IS LOCKED, of course. I don’t knock, I kick.
There’s no alarm because the alarm was the fence and the fence is dead.
It takes a few kicks before the ornate carved thing topples.
Inside is a museum of a home, all gold paisley wallpaper and pottery that looks fragile.
There’s no Piccolos or their men – yet.
How about we encourage some to come on out and play?
I shove a Grecian looking vase to the floor. It explodes into a hundred pieces, and I smile. Looks like it really was fragile.
A shot, and the next second a bullet buries itself in the wall where my shoulder was a second ago.
I duck, looking around furiously.
Another bullet flies out, and I see it. A flick of a hand by an open door down the hallway off to the side.
The shooter’s in the basement. Where Hannah is. Of course.
As I creep ahead, eyes locked on the doorway, I yell, “There’s lots of us! If you surrender, we won’t kill you! This place is gonna blow!”
Silence, then “Gav?”
I freeze.
No, there’s no way. That voice. No. It can’t be...
“Torrie?”
She inches out of the door, gun in hand. The same gun from before.
Head to toe black, wide black-jeaned hips, thin black-shirted waist. My Tony with a y. Torrie Piccolo. No jobs, no questions, no meeting in public. Of course. It all makes sense now.
I take off my mask, don’t lower my gun. She doesn’t lower hers. She looks as dismayed as I feel. Tony, my Tony.
“You knew...” is all I can come out with, faced with the horror before me.
She can’t even look at me; the words seem to jerk out of her against her will.
“I’m sorry— I wanted to tell you— I just— My family—” She shakes her head, her eyes desperate. “I never wanted this.”
I cock the rifle.
“Where’s Hannah?”
She stares at me as if I’ve shot her already.
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb. I know about her and Carlos. How you sick people tricked my sister and took her, how she’s in the basement, going to be sent out with the latest shipment of girls.”
Torrie shakes her head, her eyes still wild.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I stride up to Torrie, the liar, the bitch, put the muzzle on her forehead.
“Don’t lie to me!”
She’s still holding her own gun but she seems unaware of it. She gapes at me, looks as unsure if I’ll actually be using this gun on her as I am.
“I’m sorry, Gav.”
“Give me the gun,” I demand.
She hands it over without a word.
I tuck hers in my back pocket, lower my gun and grab her arm, “Take me there. To the basement.”
She nods and we descend the staircase.
It’s strange, this same acquiescence in this entirely different context.
I watch Torrie carefully. Who knows what other tricks she has up her sleeve, this liar I thought I knew.
But this shell of a woman slumps down the stairs in clumsy resigned steps with her head hung. At the bottom, she sweeps out her arm.
“Here’s the den. I don’t know what they told you, but here it is.”
A greyhound leaps up and runs at me, barking.
“Hey Jane,” Torrie says.
I aim the gun at the growling thing.
Torrie steps in front of it, says, “Gav, not Jane, please.”
I look away.
This is a distraction. I don’t have time for this.
“Hey Pip,” I say into my headset, “Any reading on the house - where Hannah is?”
“No, but I can get one. Hang on a sec, Boss,” he says.
While I wait, I turn my attention to Torrie, who’s still regarding me with a cowed expression.
“If anything’s happened to my sister, I swear...”
“Boss, she’s in a back room. It’s attached to the basement, but it doesn’t look like there’s a door. The room’s attached to the back wall.”
I look around the room. Back wall, back wall....
“Which one is the back wall?” I ask Torrie. I don’t have time to figure out which wall is facing what.
Torrie gestures to the far one, where there’s an armchair and a desk. I stride up to it, strike it.
It’s hollow. There’s something on the other side.
I scan the wooden walls furiously, for a hidden door, a lever, anything. But there’s only a stupid ugly armchair and a rickety side table. I can’t shoot through the wall, I could hurt Hannah.
Maybe there’s a back way in, but do I have time to find it?
“Is there a back way to the room behind here?” I ask Torrie.
She just shakes her head. “What room?”
“Shit.”
I kick the armchair and it shifts. There’s a line on the wall behind it, a groove. Oh yes.
I shove the armchair over more and soon a low door is revealed. It’s like one of those pet doors, with a flap, except this one is big enough for humans.
; I crouch down, stick my head through the flap and my heart freezes in my chest.
Hannah. My sister. There she is, in the corner of this hidden room, curled up in a ball on the cement floor.
I crawl in.
“Don’t follow me. Don’t move,” I tell Torrie.
I run to Hannah.
Her bruised eyes are closed, her cracked lips are parted – but she’s breathing. She’s alive.
I carry her to the doorway flap, push her through, then crawl in after her.
Torrie’s looking at Hannah like she’s a ghost.
“Gav, I had no idea, I...”
“Shut up,” I say, then, to my headset, “Hey Pip, you there?”
“Yup Boss.”
“I got Hannah. Tell the boys they can let ‘er blow in five minutes.”
“Okay Boss.”
When I turn to Torrie, she’s sitting on the armchair, eyeing me placidly.
I point the gun at her.
“What are you doing? Get up.”
She shakes her head.
“I won’t let you. This is my home, my life. If you’re going to blow it up, then I’ll get blown up with it.”
I scan her face, the set parallel of her mouth and eyes. She’s dead serious.
“Did you ever consider that now that I know who you really are and just what you’re capable of that I may be entirely fine with that?”
She meets my glare with one of her own.
“So, do it then. Go. Leave me here to die.”
The certainty in her voice enrages me.
I pick up her struggling form with one hand, then Hannah’s limp one in the other.
But Torrie is thrashing so much that she falls to the ground.
Splayed there, she grins with what I just realize now too, “You can't take both of us.”
“Three minutes Boss, you’re out of there, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, Pip, almost. One second.”
I take a step then check over my shoulder. Torrie hasn’t budged.
“Torrie, be reasonable.”
“I am being reasonable. What you are suggesting is to destroy my entire life. I may not agree with the way my family has done business or continues to, but they are just that – family. That’s something I thought at least you could sympathize with.”
She glances at Hannah’s slumped form, who flutters open one eye, “What...”
