Blu Heat

by David Burnsworth

  “To clean up loose ends.”

  “And who are the loose ends?”

  She did not reply.

  He said, “Exactly. We all are. You, me, Carraway, Angelica, and anyone else we might have talked to.”

  She said, “What is the end game?”

  Brack said, “The way they’re playing it—everyone dies.”

  Blu and the kid sat across from Patricia in the large conference room of Patricia’s office building.

  She said, “SS Logistics is a dummy organization.”

  Pelton said, “It figures.”

  “But we traced down what happened on all those dates from the calendar—robberies. All of them.”

  “So we have a theft ring,” Blu said. “But why risk a high-profile hit?”

  “I believe it’s like we thought,” the kid said. “To send a message. Skip must have pissed someone off.”

  “How does that help us?” Blu asked.

  “Not sure,” Pelton said, “but I know a guy who owns a pawn shop. I suggest we start with him.”

  Patricia said, “What if he’s in on it?”

  The kid said, “I don’t have any other ideas at the moment and I’d like to keep moving.”

  With his daughter on the line, Blu was having trouble focusing.

  Patricia asked, “What are you going to do?”

  Pelton said, “It’s called gamble. If Big Al can’t help, we can always start posting all the details we know. I’m sure that will get his attention.”

  “Not with my daughter’s life on the line,” Blu said.

  “Don’t you see the irony in all of this?” Pelton asked. “You’re the resident expert on kidnap victim recovery, and these idiots probably know that. So what do they do? They kidnap your daughter.”

  Blu asked, “So what are you saying?”

  “These guys are in this all the way. They probably know even more than my aunt here about what really happened in Mexico—what you and your partner did down there. Yet they are willing to risk the same fate. This is bigger than you and me and the Hollanders.”

  The kid was right, and Blu didn’t want to think about the fate of his daughter, if she were still alive.

  Chapter Nineteen

  After a call to the pawn shop to make sure Big Al was going to be there, Brack stopped and got his dog. He didn’t know when he’d get another chance to see him and thought the road trip might be good for both of them. Shelby ran out of the house and they wrestled on the driveway for a few minutes.

  Trish walked over to them. “Are you sure it’s safe for him to be with you?”

  “I’m just going to a pawn shop in North Charleston and then I’ll bring him back.” Maybe he shouldn’t have told her that, but he didn’t want to lie.

  She said, “Doesn’t sound safe to me.”

  “We won’t be gone long. Two hours tops.”

  Shelby barked, ran to the truck, and barked again. Maybe he was tired of Trish’s professional groomers and constant attention.

  “See,” Brack said. “He’s ready for a road trip.”

  Trish didn’t look like she was buying it.

  He opened the passenger door and Shelby jumped in, barking again.

  Brack gave his dog a hug.

  Shelby rewarded him with face licks.

  Trish said, “How about if I come with you?”

  He said, “After all that’s happened I need some time with my dog. Alone.”

  Relenting, she nodded. But concern showed in the lines on her face.

  He shut the door, went around the truck, and got in the driver’s side, a small voice in the back of his mind telling him to be careful. The voice sounded a lot like Trish.

  They drove thirty minutes to North Charleston, the truck windows down so Shelby could smell the fresh air, classic rock playing on the stereo. For the brief trip, things were back to normal. He and Shelby were best buds again—just two single guys out on the town. Carraway followed a few cars back.

  The PI had decided to take out some stress at a shooting range just down the road from the pawn shop. Brack had to give Carraway credit. With his daughter in the hands of who knows what kind of sadistic bastards, the guy kept his cool.

  They parked in the mostly empty lot of Big Al’s Pawn, the only vehicle there being Big Al’s worn-out Suburban. Brack helped Shelby out of the truck and held the door for him to enter the shop.

  Carraway passed, giving them a wave. He’d made Brack promise to call him at the slightest hint of trouble.

  Big Al sat on his usual stool behind the counter, a quarter-ton of pawn star. He smiled and waved at Brack.

  Shelby worked his nose around the store.

  Big Al waved. “Brack! Good to see ya. You need a piece? I’ve got two nineteen elevens for you to look at.” He wheeled himself down the counter to the firearm display.

  “I’m shooting a .357 Python these days.”

  “Revolver? They don’t hold enough lead for a shooter like yourself.”

  “True that,” Brack said.

  “But I gotta admit, that’s one helluva stopper. Good choice. You got it on you? Can I see it?”

  Brack said, “Maybe next time. Reason I called is I was wondering if you might be persuaded to answer a few questions off the record.”

  Big Al laughed. “Everything’s off the record in my shop.”

  Even the merchandise, Brack suspected.

  “If someone were running a theft ring, how would they go about fencing the loot?”

  Shelby barked, not the friendly bark either.

  Brack looked at his dog, who growled at a door that led to a back room. To Big Al, he said, “What’s back there?”

  Big Al’s face flushed. “Uh, nothin’. Just more junk.”

  Shelby kept up his barking and growling and clawed at the floor by the door.

  Brack pulled his revolver. “I’m not believing you.” To Shelby, he said, “Heel!”

  Shelby stopped growling, went to Brack’s side, and sat on his haunches.

  “You sell me out, Big Al?”

  Big Al looked down. “I work for them. I’m sorry.”

  Brack kept his pistol trained on Big Al, who, for a man with access to unlimited firepower behind the counter, did nothing. With his free hand, Brack dug out his phone and texted 911 to Carraway.

  Brack tapped a last button on the phone’s glass, dropped it, and grabbed Shelby’s collar.

  The entrance and back doors opened almost simultaneously.

  Shelby barked again.

  Two men entered carrying pistols, one from the front door, the other from the back door Shelby had barked at.

  The one from the back door, a giant who could have played the Hulk, said, “Go ahead and drop the cannon while you’re at it. And if that dog comes a foot closer, I’ll shoot it.”

  Shelby kept growling and barking, fighting against Brack’s hold of his collar.

  Brack lowered the Python and said nothing. All these guys needed were to be provoked and he and Shelby were dead. Chances were good it was inevitable anyway.

  The one behind Brack, from the front door, said, “Thank you.” He had an English accent. “Now be a good chap and kindly tell us where Angelica is.”

  “I don’t know.” It was a true statement. He didn’t know where the Jamesons had taken her. Brother Thomas had loaned them his car and some money and told them to leave town with the girl.

  “Who does?”

  “I’m not sure,” Brack said.

  The Englishman said, “Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

  Shelby barked.

  The giant stepped forward and punched Brack. Hard.

  The punch did two things. First, it hurt like hell—Brack saw stars. Second, it caused him to let go of Shelby’s collar.

  Shelby jumped an
d locked his jaws on the giant’s wrist.

  Half dazed, Brack reacted as quick as he could. He got in the sightline of the Englishman so he couldn’t shoot Shelby. And then he grabbed the giant’s right hand, the one holding the pistol, with both of his hands.

  The Englishman said, “Stupid Yank.”

  The giant tried to free his hand from Shelby’s teeth, but the dog held on.

  Brack held on to the giant’s other wrist with everything he had, trying to wrench the pistol out of his hand. The guy held onto it like a vise. There was no loose skin for Brack to get leverage. The guy was all muscle.

  The giant grunted and was finally able to fling Shelby off, although some skin stayed locked in his teeth.

  Brack took his attention off the giant in time to see his dog slide across the worn linoleum floor and behind a rack of tools.

  The lapse in Brack’s focus gave the giant a clear shot with his now free hand, which he used to punch Brack repeatedly. The hits were like baseball bats slamming into his face. All Brack could think of was that he couldn’t let go of the guy’s hand or he’d shoot Shelby.

  Shelby lunged again.

  The Englishman said, “Get out of the way and let me shoot the bugger!”

  Brack held on, working to get some leverage.

  The giant tried to kick his legs out from under him.

  Brack, punch drunk now from all the blows, did the only thing he could think of. He got firm footing, and drove a knee up with all his strength.

  It worked—a direct hit to the giant’s genitals.

  The giant fell forward just as a blast came from behind.

  Brack felt the bullet whiz past his face and watched it put a hole in Big Al’s forehead.

  The giant continued to fall, letting go of the pistol, which Brack took control of and spun around as he dropped along with him.

  The Englishman turned and ran, and Shelby ran after him.

  Brack yelled, “Heel!”

  Shelby slid to a stop as the Englishman flung the door open and flew out the exit.

  The giant groaned and Brack turned and shot him in the leg.

  He screamed, grabbed his leg, and rocked back and forth.

  The screeching of tires could be heard. Through the dirty store windows, Brack saw a fast-moving black SUV exit the parking lot and accelerate down the street.

  Shelby ran over to Brack and licked his hand. Then, he went over to the back door and barked again.

  Brack raised the pistol, but the tone of the bark was not alarm. Brack could tell the difference. It was the one that said, “Female.”

  The giant continued to writhe on the floor of the shop.

  Brack picked up his revolver and slid it down the waistband of his shorts. “If you try and get up, I will shoot your other leg. Do you understand?”

  Through gritted teeth, he said, “Yes.”

  Brack went over to Shelby. “Heel.”

  Shelby stood beside Brack and lowered onto his haunches.

  Brack pointed the pistol forward as he opened the door.

  The room was dark.

  Shelby darted inside.

  Brack reached against the wall and found the light switch.

  Sitting in a chair, gagged and tied up, was a young woman maybe twenty years old, dark hair and suntanned skin. She looked at Brack with Blu Carraway’s eyes.

  Shelby gave her a friendly bark.

  Brack said, “Hope?”

  The woman nodded.

  The jingle of the front-door bell alerted them that someone had just entered the store.

  Brack said, “Heel!”

  Shelby sat on his haunches beside the woman. He wasn’t going anywhere now that he found a female on the premises.

  Brack turned, and with the giant’s Glock out in front again, eased through the door into the main area, ready to shoot someone else.

  Chapter Twenty

  Blu looked at the giant writhing on the ground and the fat guy with the hole in his forehead. He could smell the gunshots in the air. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes from the time he’d received the text. Yet, the place had the same “aftermath of war” feeling the kid’s bar had when he’d shown up after Skip got shot.

  At that moment, Pelton came through the doorway from a room in the back, face all busted up, pistol drawn and trained on him—again.

  Blu said, “Easy, Brack. It’s just me.”

  Pelton pointed the pistol away from Blu and toward the front door. “You see anyone else outside?”

  “No.”

  “You know, that’s the second time you show up after all the work is done.”

  Blu smiled. It was fake. His missing daughter weighed heavily on his heart.

  Pelton said, “Well, we better get out of here.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  The kid still had the pistol up, cocked and locked and ready to fire.

  Blu recognized the signs. Pelton was still jacked up from whatever had just happened. It was sort of like being in shock. He would come down in another minute or two.

  As if an afterthought, Pelton said, “Your daughter is in the back room.”

  Blu said, “What?” He ran past Pelton, flung the door completely open, and saw his daughter still tied up and gagged.

  A medium-sized dog with a short beige coat and pointed ears stood next to her and growled at him.

  From the other room, Pelton said, “Heel!”

  The dog stopped growling.

  Blu held out a hand for the dog, who took a sniff and then gave his fingers a lick. “Good dog.” He gave the animal a pat on the head and untied his daughter.

  Pelton’s dog helped by licking her hands and sandaled feet.

  As soon as she was free, she hugged Blu.

  He held her tight. “I’m so sorry.”

  Hope tried to speak. “I,” breath, “was,” breath, “so scared.” She gasped, “I heard them say they were going to kill you.”

  The dog gave a bark and a nudge.

  His daughter seemed to snap out of whatever shock she was in. She knelt down and stroked the dog’s neck fur. He spun around in her arms causing her to actually giggle.

  Blu left his daughter with the dog and went back in the other room.

  Pelton had his phone to his ear with one hand, and the pistol in the other, watching for anyone to dare to enter the store.

  A police siren could be heard in the distance.

  Blu took another look around. Carnage followed this kid around like skunk spray. It wasn’t something that could be easily washed off.

  Knowing the police would arrive at any minute, Blu realized the kid was going to need help with this one.

  To Pelton, Blu said, “You wanna give me the gun?”

  The kid looked away from the front window. His dog was still with Hope. He said, “No.”

  “Come on. The police are about to enter. We don’t want to spook them any more than this scene already will.”

  “That English bastard may come back.”

  “I doubt it,” Blu said, “but if he does, we’ll both shoot him.”

  Hope walked up to Pelton and put her hand on his shoulder. “You rescued me. I will never forget that.” She kissed him on the cheek, which almost sent Blu into convulsions, and said, “Let me have the guns.”

  The kid turned to her, then looked at the Glock in his hand. He frowned, released the clip, ejected the round, and handed it to her. Then he handed over his Colt revolver.

  She took the pistols and set them on the counter. “Do you have a leash for your dog? I think we need to make sure he doesn’t get tangled up with any of the police officers.”

  “In my truck.” He handed her the key fob.

  Blu watched his daughter, unaffected by her kidnapping or putting on a go
od act, go out to the pickup and return with a leash.

  The dog let her clip it on him and let her lead him away from the window. She sat on the floor in a corner. The dog lay on her lap and let her scratch his fur.

  Ten seconds later the police stormed in like a wrecking ball.

  Blu and the kid held their empty hands up.

  One of the officers took one look at Pelton and said, “I should have known.”

  It was times like this that Blu was glad he had a low profile. The results from the job in Mexico would have gotten him the needle in the U.S. But that was what rich influential clients were for. When they’d finished scrubbing all the electronic files, Blu’s name was but a footnote on a DMV registration for his Land Cruiser.

  He would need to call upon his friends again if his name got too deep in the paperwork on this one. Same with Pelton’s. He owed him that much for saving his daughter.

  Pelton didn’t answer any of the officer’s questions, just asked for his lawyer.

  Blu explained what he knew about the gunfight, which wasn’t much.

  The owner of the pawn shop, the dead fat guy, had live cameras and an elaborate recording system. Blu and the police watched in awe at the pummeling the kid took from the giant. His dog, the docile one in the corner with Blu’s daughter, showed no fear as he chomped down on the giant’s wrist. They saw the kid’s nut-crippling knee to the giant’s crotch and the other assailant shoot the fat man before running out. And finally, the kid putting a round in the giant’s knee.

  One of the officers said, “Jesus.”

  The three of them watching the video turned and looked at the kid, who gave them a smirk and took a long drink from a can of Coke.

  The giant was hauled away in an ambulance. It took the two medics and two officers to load him into the meat wagon. His feet stuck out beyond the end of the stretcher.

  An overhead crane would be needed for the dead pawn-shop owner.

  The surveillance system in the shop also had audio. So everything spoken had been recorded. That along with Hope’s testimony gave the investigators who showed up no alternative but to release Pelton and Blu, with the stipulation that they be available for further questioning.