when the Callahan and Evans boys bought the farm.”
“What line are you talking about?”
“Twenty years ago,” Jack continued, “I wrote a book
called Through the Darkness. In that book, I mentioned
a man named Butch Willingham who scrawled the
words The Fury in his own blood before dying. Wallace
told me that you spoke to Willingham’s son. All of this
brought back my memories from that time. Willingham,
that’s a name I hadn’t even thought of since my hair was
still brown. See, I believed then, and I still believe now,
that the Fury does exist. I don’t know who he is or how
he’s stayed around for over two decades, but if anything,
all these drug deaths have proved that what worked
twenty years ago works today. Butch Willingham was
one of many dealers killed during that period for
reasons I couldn’t uncover, and I got surprisingly little
help with from the authorities.”
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Jason Pinter
“I’m shocked,” I said with a grin.
“I think these murders,” Jack said, “Gaines, Evans,
Callahan, the kid Guardado—are all history repeating
itself.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “You want to, what,
write a story linking the murders?”
“Better,” Jack said, that smile coming back, sending
a chill down my spine. “I want to find the Fury. Once
and for all. There’s a reason behind all these murders.
I don’t think Kyle Evans acted of his own accord. And
I sure as hell don’t think your brother was behind it all.
I want you to help me find out the truth.”
“You really think he exists,” I said, a statement. Not
a question.
“Do you think it ended with Scott Callahan and Kyle
Evans?” he retorted.
“No.” I said it definitively. Perhaps I’d thought it all
along, but hearing Jack, a man whose instincts had
served him well for nearly seventy years, say it gave me
courage to speak it out loud. I didn’t believe Scott and
Kyle were acting of their own volition. I didn’t believe
Stephen Gaines was the Noriega of that operation. “I
want to know what 718 Enterprises is. Plus I get the
feeling my brother wasn’t as high up as Kyle thought
he was. There was someone else pulling the strings. I’m
sure of it.”
“Then we start tomorrow,” Jack said. “I want you at
the office at eight-thirty. Every minute you’re late, you
owe me ten bucks. That goes as long as we’re working
on this. And bring me a triple espresso. As long as I’m
not drinking anymore I can do my best to make up for
it with other stimulants.”
The Fury
319
“I’ll be there at eight-fifteen,” I said. Just then a large
moving van turned onto the street and pulled up in front
of our building. The driver climbed out, looking at a
manifest, and eyed us both.
“One of you Henry Parker?” he said.
“That’d be me.”
The driver nodded, went around to the back to start
unloading their gear.
“Looks like you’ve got a long night ahead of you.
Don’t be late tomorrow.”
“I won’t.”
“I know.” Jack turned to leave.
“Hey, Jack?” I said.
“Yeah, kid?”
“It’s good to have you back.”
He smirked at me, said, “I’m not back yet. There’s
a whole lot of story out there and we haven’t even
started yet.”
I watched Jack leave, then went back inside and took
the elevator to my apartment. Amanda let me in.
“So, that was Jack? How is he?”
“He’s great,” I said, my mind already starting to
think about all the threads that needed pulling. Then I
saw all the boxes waiting for us to pack up, thought
about the movers that would be up here at any moment.
Looking at Amanda, I said, “It’s gonna be a long night.”
Epilogue
The car pulled up to the chicken-wire fence and slowed
to a stop. The driver lowered the window and waited for
the guard to approach. When he came over, the driver
nodded at him, and received nothing in return but a
stone stare. One hand on the car’s hood, the other on his
side, pushing out his hip just enough so the driver could
see the semiautomatic strapped to his side.
The driver did not flinch at this. In fact, he’d seen the
same man carrying the same gun numerous times. They
knew each other by now, and the display was merely a
reminder. Not a threat, just a friendly tap on the shoulder
to let the driver know it was still there.
After a minute, the guard pressed a button on a
remote and the gate began to creak open. When it was
wide enough for the car to pass through, the driver sped
off, gravel spewing out from under the tires.
The gravel soon turned into a dirt road, surrounded
on either side by fencing, and topped by razor wire.
Several trees stood on either side of the fence, numerous
branches caught in the wire. If removed, the wood
would be shredded instantaneously.
The Fury
321
The road went on about two miles before widening
into a small field. Standing in the middle of the field was
a brown warehouse, two stories high and surrounded on
either side by trees and, beyond that, more razorwire–topped fencing. Three cars sat in the entrance in
front of the warehouse, half a dozen large men trolling
about. And unlike the guard out front, these men
weren’t shy about hiding their guns.
The driver pulled up behind the last car. Like moths
to a flame, all six men walked toward this new arrival.
The driver shifted into Park, turned the car off and
stepped outside.
The six armed men nodded to him. He returned the
gesture. One of them, a tall, lean Caucasian man with
white hair and a chiseled face, strode up to the driver’s
side. He’d heard rumors that this white-haired man had
been on the ground in Panama in December 1989, as a
member of the Green Berets. The driver didn’t quite
know how he’d ended up here, but he had one hell of a
hunch.
“Malloy,” the driver said to the man.
“Detective,” Malloy said back.
Malloy led the driver up to the warehouse’s entrance.
He went up to a small control panel that appeared rusted
and bent. He inserted a small key into the side of the
panel. A tinny whirring noise emanated from the box,
and the panel receded, revealing a keypad and an elec
tronic monitor.
Malloy pressed both of his thumbs on the pad. A
green light flickered on. Malloy then entered a ten-digit
code on the pad. When that was complete, he opened
the door and ushered the driver inside.
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Inside the warehouse was a corridor that led to two
doors. The driver had seen t
his part of the warehouse
many times, but had never entered the door to his left.
He knew what went on behind it, but had not witnessed
it with his own eyes. Better he didn’t. Better it stayed
in his mind as long as possible.
Malloy led the driver to the door on the right side.
He opened it, led the driver up a flight of stairs. At the
top floor, Malloy inserted a key card into a slot on a
metal door. The driver could hear a mechanism unlock,
and the door swung open.
The driver entered. He turned back to watch the door
close. Malloy stood on the other side. He would wait
for the driver. He always did.
The driver turned back around. He was in a room
about twenty feet long, fifteen feet wide, with high
ceilings. Track lighting adorned the ceiling, casting
white beams that harshly illuminated the room.
At the far end of the room was a small desk. It was
uncluttered, save for a reading lamp, a desk blotter and
assorted pens and pencils. Behind the desk was a
woman of about forty-five. She was of Latin descent,
dark skin and green eyes, silky black hair that flowed
down to the small of her back. She wore a sleeveless
black top. Each arm was muscular, solid, lithe. Though
the woman’s face was beginning to show lines of age,
her body tone and the quickness of her gestures were
those of a woman half her age.
She watched him approach with a serenity on her
face, no sense of strife or impatience. He had only met
her twice before, but each time felt unnerved, like there
was something roiling beneath that calm exterior, some
The Fury
323
thing that if unleashed could tear him apart. Because of
that he never got closer than a few feet. Though they’d
met twice, he’d heard stories. The kind of stories that,
even if embellished (which over time they surely were),
must have had a ring of truth somewhere. He was taking
enough risks as it was. He wanted no part of anything
else, any part of the minimum ten men who were cur
rently in the ground because of her.
The woman looked up as the driver approached. She
stood up and said, “Detective Makhoulian. It’s been
far, far too long. Please, sit down.” She gestured for him
to sit at the table. There was a smile on her face that
made him feel queasy.
He nodded, approached and took a seat, making sure
to subtly push the chair back so it was not within reach.
He said, “With all due respect, I prefer it that way. If
I’m here it means there’s a problem.”
“Well, that really depends,” the woman said. “If I
know all I need to know, then there is no problem. The
boys. Callahan and Evans, they’re both dead, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“Then this murder of Stephen Gaines ends with
them. I’m led to believe there are no further investiga
tions into the deaths of any of those three men.”
“As of right now, no. The department officially
declared Evans’s death a clean shoot. He had a gun, and
there are numerous witnesses who concur that he killed
Callahan in cold blood. The newspapers are playing it
as a heroic cop putting himself in harm’s way. The
families would be stupid to press charges. Their
children have already dragged their names through the
mud, and any protesting on their part would only
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Jason Pinter
deepen the wounds. My guess is the families will mourn
quietly and be out of the city within the year.”
“That would make my holiday,” the woman said.
“Now, you mentioned the newspapers. This reporter
who was on the scene. Parker. I don’t like his reputa
tion, and he is one of your ‘numerous witnesses.’ The
last thing we need is for him to suddenly think he saw
something he didn’t see. Do you think he will be a
problem?”
Sevi Makhoulian unfolded his hands, placed them
palms down on the table. From the angle he was standing
at Detective Sevi Makhoulian could see the three
numbers tattooed across the woman’s toned right
shoulder.
7.1.8.
“I don’t think so. Parker and I have spoken numerous
times over the last few weeks. Parker’s only concern was
finding his brother’s killer. He did that, in Evans. As far
as Parker is concerned, the case is closed. I do have
sources within the industry that will tell me if that
changes.”
“You don’t sound convinced,” she said. Her eyes
narrowed. Makhoulian found his palms sweating. He
wiped them on his pants, hoping she didn’t notice.
“Parker has a reputation as a young bulldog. He
was involved in the death of Michael DiForio a few
years back.”
“That’s right!” she said, now beaming. “DiForio
thought Parker had stolen from him. He even went so
far as to hire Shelton Barnes.”
“That’s right.”
“And look how that turned out.” She smiled. Mak
The Fury
325
houlian did too. “Bodies like Callahan, Gaines and
Evans can disappear without many tears. The families
bury them, the city moves on. They were insulated.
Parker has friends. I never authorized the hit on Parker
at his apartment. That was Evans acting alone when he
realized Parker was getting too close. We do not move
unless we are forced.”
“I understand that. If I hear anything…”
“You will let Corporal Malloy know before you take
another breath.”
The woman stood up, revealing her full height, full
frame. She was a shade under six feet tall. She extended
a grip, which the detective took. She clasped Makhou
lian’s hand, fingers digging in until the detective
winced. Her eyes were locked on Makoulian’s, the
pupils wide, burning. For an instant, Sevi Makhoulian
feared for his life. Then the grip loosened. The woman
turned around and sat back behind her desk. As he stood
up to leave, Sevi Makhoulian noticed one more thing
sitting upon the nearly empty desk. A small black rock,
no larger than a pebble. It had a rough surface, the color
of coal.
With nothing else of note, Makhoulian knew it was
not there by mistake.
“Is that it?” the detective asked, pointing to the
small stone.
“I expect to be able to begin shipments within six
months,” the woman continued, ignoring the question.
“Right now I’m taking your word that we can resume
without any further interruptions, issues or problems.
If I feel for one moment that you’re holding back from
me, or information is coming faster than you can relay
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Jason Pinter
it, I will detach your head from your body with the tips
of my fingernails and find someone useful. Do you
understand me, Detective?
”
“I do,” Detective Makhoulian said, looking at that
small black rock. “And I give you my word when I say
that they have no idea.”
* * * * *
Acknowledgments
You don’t write one book, let alone four, without some
incredible support, advice and a heaping helping of
good old-fashioned luck. Many people have been in
my corner from day one of this journey, while many I’ve
been fortunate enough to meet along the way. If I
actually thanked everyone who had any positive impact
on my first four books, this page would run longer than
a Charlton Heston movie. So here’s the condensed list,
the people who’ve had the biggest impact (and the
people who groveled the most).
A sincere, knees-on-the-ground, we’re not worthy
thank-you to Joe Veltre, my agent, and Linda McFall,
my editor. Joe and Linda have had tremendous input on
every book, have made me a better writer and a better
author, and their passion and guidance resonates on
every page. If you’re able to find my books, read them
and enjoy them, they deserve the credit.
My thanks to the MIRA team is unending. I owe a
debt of gratitude to Margaret O’Neill Marbury, Donna
Hayes, Dianne Moggy, Heather Foy, Michelle Renaud,
Andi Richman, Craig Swinwood, Don Lucey, Adam
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Jason Pinter
Wilson, Emily Ohanjanians, Ana Luxton, Maureen
Stead, Jayne Hoogenberk, Ken Foy, Katherine Orr,
Loriana Sacilotto and Stacy Widdrington. Having seen
the publishing beast from inside the belly, I can appre
ciate these folks even more.
Just recently I’ve begun working with the MIRA
U.K. arm as well, and it’s wonderful to see that my pub
lisher’s expertise and enthusiasm literally cross oceans.
Thank you to Catherine Burke, Belinda Mountain,
Oliver Rhodes, Selma Leung, Darren Shoffren and Ian
Roberts for introducing my work to a whole new con
tinent of readers.
I’ve been fortunate to work with some great publi
cists both here and abroad. Susan Schwartzman, Sophie
Ransom and Grainne Kileen have helped spread the
word with incredible tenacity. You make my job a whole
lot easier.
Thanks to Paddy McDonald and Paddy Breathnach,
who saw something in my work that made them
believe that it could translate to another medium. I
hope you’re right.
Jonathan Hayes, a talented author in his own right,
was a tremendous help on the forensics side. If I ever
The Fury (2009) Page 31
