New York Strip

by W. J. Costello

  Naked and unarmed.

  Swell.

  The gun stared at me with an eye as black as death. The eye never blinked. Never shifted. Never looked away.

  The man breathed through his nose. Heavy breathing. The sound seemed loud in the stillness.

  His aftershave smelled cheap. Cheap and spicy. Like that stuff with a sailing ship on the bottle.

  I kept quiet. The man kept quiet. The gun kept quiet.

  What would I say? Please don’t shoot? That never works.

  Seconds passed.

  “Turn on the light,” the man said finally.

  When I turned on the bedside lamp it illuminated his face. I recognized him from the photos I had seen.

  Sam Battles.

  CHAPTER 48

  HIS EINSTEIN HAIR pointed in all directions.

  But his gun pointed at me.

  “I heard you’re trying to find me,” he said. “Well here I am.”

  Janet Steel must have told him. Told him my name. My objective. Where to find me.

  Good old Janet. I hoped to see her again. We would have a nice little conversation. Hi Janet. Remember me? Rip Lane. The man you sold down the river. Well guess what? I killed Sam. He didn’t kill me.

  Anyway that was how I imagined the conversation going. But at the moment it seemed as if that conversation would never take place.

  Sam waggled the gun.

  “Boris sent you. Didn’t he? He sent you to get me. Just like he sent all the others.”

  “Put away the gun and we can talk about it.”

  “Put away the gun? Do I look stupid to you?”

  I exercised restraint. A prudent decision under the circumstances.

  “Answer my question.”

  “Which one? The one about you being stupid? Or the one about Boris sending me?”

  “Boris. Did he send you to get me?”

  “Yes.”

  No point in lying about it.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Boris sent me to bring you back to him. Alive. Not dead.”

  “That makes it all right? Just because you bring me back alive? Boris will kill me. That’s what he wants to do. Torture me and kill me.”

  “Mind if I get dressed? I’m a better conversationalist with clothes on. That’s the naked truth.”

  It took him a few moments to make up his mind.

  “Go ahead. Put on some pants. Just pants. No sudden moves. No funny stuff. My trigger finger feels jumpy.”

  “Just make sure it doesn’t jump.”

  I pulled back the sheets and got out of bed. Slowly. No sudden moves. Just like the man with the gun had told me.

  My jeans hung on the back of a chair. I walked naked to the chair. The gun followed me across the room.

  It faced my back when I stopped in front of the chair.

  Time to make my move. Now or never.

  In one swift movement I grabbed my jeans from the chair and crumpled them into a ball and hurled the ball at the gun.

  Before Sam could fire I dropped to the floor and rolled toward him and swept his legs out from under him.

  He hit the floor.

  The gun hit the floor.

  I reached for it.

  He kicked it under the bed.

  I tried a blow to the throat. But he knew that move.

  I tried a chop to the crotch. But he was ready for that.

  The man had speed. A great deal of it.

  Speed matters. It beats strength.

  But nothing beats speed and strength together. I had both. But did he?

  I rolled over and sprang up and delivered a kick to his ribs. Not a friendly move. But I didn’t feel too friendly.

  The force of the blow knocked the wind out of him. He wheezed like a deflating tire. The sound lasted for a split second before he found an extra burst of speed and sprang to his feet like a jack-in-the-box.

  He did something tricky with his hands and I dipped low and snapped a kick at his knee. The kick missed and I immediately felt lightning strike the side of my face. The impact jarred me. It sounded like thunder. I never saw it coming. I went down like a lightning-struck tree.

  No sooner had I fallen than a savage kick sent me skidding across the floor until I slammed against the wall. The wall shuddered. A lamp fell. It crashed against my skull.

  My vision blacked out.

  Time slowed down. Like Dali’s melting watches.

  No time to rest. No stopping.

  I blinked and my vision returned.

  The floor rumbled when Sam came at me again. He charged like a bull and I dodged like a matador.

  A tumbling roll took me to the other side of the room.

  I got to my feet and dropped into a crouch and started sliding to his left. Trying to find an opportunity. Looking for any advantage.

  He started experimenting. He would try something and I would counter with something else. I had answers for all of his questions.

  My original goal had been to inflict the maximum pain in the minimum time. So much for that idea.

  Sam had the goods. He knew how to fight. Knew how to deliver pain. How to find weaknesses. How to exploit them.

  Fortunately I had been working out on a regular basis. Staying in shape. Maintaining my strength and stamina.

  I thought about going for the gun under the bed but I knew as soon as I dove toward it he would be on me like a lion on a gazelle.

  My own guns were in my suitcase. It was zipped shut. No way could I get to them.

  Sam and I circled each other. Like wolves stalking prey. Looking for an opening. Ready to attack.

  When I finally saw an opening I took it. I stepped in close and made it count. I threw my fist and put the full force of my body weight behind it. The blow hit him in the solar plexus and he went down to one knee.

  Now I wanted to finish the job. Put him down for a nap.

  I was about to deliver a second blow when he popped up and launched a flurry of combinations that knocked me back. The move was so fast I had no chance to avoid it.

  My hands came up to block the blows. He slammed me against the wall and pounded furiously. Left. Right. Left. Left. Right.

  I felt like the slabs of meat in Rocky. Bloody. Bruised. Damaged.

  But not for long.

  I head-butted Sam in the face. A perfect move. Done with precision. It took him by surprise. He had expected punches or kicks.

  The element of surprise always gives you an edge. Strike the enemy at unexpected times and in unexpected ways. No point in meeting strength with strength. Or speed with speed. You want to win with the least possible effort. That means attacking an unprepared enemy.

  Blood sprayed from Sam’s nose and he stumbled back.

  I lunged at him. The force propelled him onto the bed.

  We wrestled on it. Rolling over and over. Grunting with effort. A tangle of flailing limbs.

  We made a mess of the bed before we crashed to the floor. We rolled from one side of the room to the other. Slamming into furniture. Knocking over lamps. Bleeding on everything.

  My arm hooked around his neck and pulled him into a headlock. I squeezed with all my strength. Tighter. Tighter. Tighter still. Like a python.

  The pressure cut off his air supply. He had no chance to breathe. His body thrashed like a man in an electric chair.

  After a while the thrashing slowed down. Then it stopped. His body went limp.

  Time to get the gun.

  As soon as I reached under the bed I felt hands on my shoulders. They dragged me away from the bed. Away from the gun.

  Then the hands turned into rocks. The rocks rained down on me. A pounding rain.

  The possum plays dead when confronted with danger. It rolls into a ball. Eyes shut. Mouth open. A little grin on its face. Though it likes to play dead, it can also deliver a nasty bite.

  Sam had played possum. Pretending to be unconscious. Waiting for the right moment to deliver his nasty bite.

  I rolled away f
rom the pummeling and lunged to my feet. With one bound I landed behind him and unleashed a powerful right. It blasted his kidneys and sent him crashing to the floor. His head bounced like a rubber ball.

  My bare foot stomped on his back. Then kicked him in the side. I grabbed the back of his shirt and jerked him up and spun him around and punched the wind out of him.

  He staggered and fell back against the bedside table. His arms blocked my fists of fury until one finally smashed into his gut.

  When he gasped and doubled over I grabbed him behind the head and brought his face down while I brought my knee up. They connected. Hard.

  His head shot back. Blood flowed.

  A kick to the gut sent him sprawling.

  Another kick sent him to the floor.

  Moments later I had the gun. A Beretta Nano. Accurate under the right conditions.

  CHAPTER 49

  “GET UP, SAM.”

  His eyes rolled back in his head.

  “I said get up.”

  The smashed face grimaced.

  “I’m getting up. Just give me a minute.”

  He propped himself up on his elbows. His eyes swept the room.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I said. “You’re out of moves.”

  “Says who?”

  “The Beretta.”

  “The Beretta?” A laugh. “It’s not even loaded. No way would I let you get your hands on a loaded gun. I’m not stupid.”

  “That’s an old trick. It’s not going to work. Got any others up your sleeve?”

  “One more.”

  “Go for it.”

  “Watch out for the man behind you.”

  “Cute.”

  “I had to try.”

  “Get up.”

  That took some effort. He grunted to his feet. His knees almost buckled.

  “I’m up. Now what?”

  “Walk to the phone. No sudden moves. No funny stuff. My trigger finger feels jumpy.”

  “Just make sure it doesn’t jump.”

  He walked with a limp.

  “Am I supposed to phone somebody or something?”

  “I want you to unplug the wire. Unplug it from the jack and unplug it from the phone. Then toss it onto the bed.”

  “You’re going to choke me with a wire? Why not just shoot me?”

  “You talk too much. Just get the damn wire.”

  “It’s hard to take a naked man seriously.”

  “Unless he’s got a gun.”

  “Good point.”

  “You always this talkative?”

  “Not really. I guess you bring out the best in me.”

  “Shut up and get the wire.”

  He bent over the bedside table and unplugged the wire from the jack. Then he unplugged the other end of the wire from the phone.

  “Good. Now toss it onto the bed.”

  The wire landed on the bed.

  “Turn around and lie facedown on the bed.”

  “This is getting a little weird.”

  “Shut up. Lie facedown with your hands behind your back.”

  The wire bound his hands. A pillowcase gagged his mouth.

  I left him lying facedown on the bed while I put on jeans and T-shirt and boots.

  “Grunt once if you can breathe with that gag.”

  One grunt.

  I put the gun in my waistband and smoothed my shirt over it.

  The closet doors squeaked when I pulled them open. The closet seemed like the best place to keep Sam while I attended to other business.

  In the bathroom I found a plunger. I unscrewed the rubber cup from the wooden stick.

  “Let’s go,” I said and hauled Sam off the bed.

  He tried to speak through the gag. No words came out.

  When he got into the closet I shut the closet doors and threaded the wooden stick through the handles.

  “Don’t go anywhere, Sam.”

  “Mmmph.”

  “That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day.”

  The bathroom mirror showed a beaten and bruised man.

  Better bruised than dead.

  Bruises heal. Death doesn’t.

  Sam looked worse than I did. I had gotten the better of him. Not by much though.

  Luck had been with me. Luck and skill. It takes both to defeat a worthy opponent.

  Transporting Sam back to New York would be tricky. I would have to exercise a great deal of caution. The explosives expert was as dangerous as explosives themselves.

  I stood at the bathroom sink and splashed my face with water. Blood washed off my face and pinkened the water in the sink.

  The white towel I used to dry my face ended up with red stains on it. Most of the stains washed out with soap and water.

  The maids would wonder what had happened in the trashed hotel room. An elephant stampede? An earthquake?

  Midnight. An early start to my day. I usually wake up at five a.m. I usually get eight hours of sleep.

  It would be a long day. A hard day of travel. I would need to stay awake. Alert. On guard.

  Coffee. I needed some.

  Breakfast too.

  I went downstairs. In the hotel lobby I walked past half a dozen people reading books and magazines and newspapers. I exited the hotel and hustled across Emerald Coast Parkway to the Waffle House.

  “Coffee,” I told the waitress. “Glass of water. Fiesta omelet.”

  “Hash browns with that? Waffles? Any sides?”

  “No thanks.”

  After breakfast I returned to my room. I brushed my teeth. I showered and shaved and dressed. I put my toiletry bag and the Beretta in my suitcase and took out my own guns and zipped the suitcase.

  I holstered up. Glock Twenty-two in hip holster. Glock Twenty-seven in ankle holster.

  “Come on out, Sam,” I said when I pulled open the closet doors.

  He played along nicely. No grunting. No kicking.

  When he got out of the closet I searched his pockets.

  No wallet.

  No phone.

  No lint.

  I found a set of keys.

  “I’m going to take off your gag for a moment. I want you to answer some questions. Keep your answers brief. Got it?”

  He nodded.

  I took the gag from his mouth.

  “What kind of car you drive?”

  “Nissan Altima.”

  “Color?”

  “Silver.”

  “Where’s it parked?”

  “Around back.”

  A gagged Sam returned to the closet. The closet doors squeaked shut. The wooden stick slid through the handles.

  Outside in the parking lot I walked around back and found the silver Altima parked under a cluster of palm trees. The license plate caught my attention. A Louisiana plate. A pelican in the middle of it.

  Sam had moved from New York to Louisiana.

  Louisiana. Not far from Florida.

  I pictured the sequence of events that must have taken place the previous afternoon: Sam is home in Louisiana. He gets a call from Janet. She tells him about me. My name. My objective. Where to find me. Sam gets into his car and drives to Florida. He finds my hotel. He parks. He breaks into my room and points a gun at my face.

  Something like that had happened.

  Sam’s car gleamed under the bright parking-lot lights. It sat alone in the second row. No other vehicles around it.

  Nothing happened when I unlocked the passenger door. No alarm. No explosion.

  In the glove compartment I found Sam’s wallet. He had left it in the car. A smart move. No chance of losing it during the break-in.

  His wallet contained several photos of his wife. I took a moment to thumb through them.

  Then I looked at his driver’s license. A fake driver’s license. Sam’s photo with somebody else’s information.

  Fake credit cards too.

  Sam had changed his identity.

  No wonder I had had trouble finding him.

  The car
contained piles of garbage. Empty soda cans. Fast-food wrappers. Old newspapers.

  When I opened the driver’s door a flattened Coke can fell out onto the blacktop.

  I opened the trunk lid and bent over and looked in.

  More garbage.

  Big surprise.

  The car had an emergency trunk release. That would be a problem. I needed to take care of it.

  I found the trunk-release cable and tugged on it. A solid cable. I needed something sharp to cut it.

  “Got a pair of scissors?” I said to the clerk in the hotel lobby.

  “Sure. Here you go.”

  The scissors did the trick.

  I checked to see if the back seats of the car folded down to allow access to the trunk.

  They didn’t.

  Good.

  Back in my room I picked up my suitcase and checked on Sam.

  “Everything okay in that closet?”

  “Mmmph.”

  I exited the room and returned to the car. I set the suitcase on the back seat. Then I headed back to the room.

  The next step would be risky. I had to get Sam out of the room and down the stairs and out the building without anybody seeing him. The gagged mouth and bound hands would cause alarm.

  “Time to go, Sam. Come out of the closet.”

  We made it tens steps down the hallway before a door creaked open and an elderly couple appeared in front of us.

  I took immediate action. No hesitation.

  I spun Sam around and put my hand behind his head to hide the back of the gag from view. I put my other hand behind the small of his back to hide the wire that bound his hands.

  Then I dipped him and pretended to kiss him.

  The elderly couple froze. They stood staring at us.

  So I squeezed Sam’s ass.

  The couple disappeared into their room.

  Their door slammed shut.

  The coast was clear.

  Sam and I made our way to the exit door at the end of the hallway.

  He no doubt found it ironic that he had moments earlier come out of the closet.

  CHAPTER 50

  “GET IN.”

  Sam looked from me to the open car trunk to me again. He shook his head and grunted. His wide eyes showed fear.

  “You’re getting in there one way or another. No doubt about that. You can do it the easy way or the hard way. Your choice. What’s it going to be?”