Bolt

by Bryan Cassiday

  Victor shook his head in disagreement, but didn’t argue. Deirdre cut across the living-room floor to the foyer that led to the front door. Victor halted after her, grimacing.

  Brody knew Victor was hurting but the ex-marine would never admit it. Like Brody, Victor kept his pain to himself.

  Brody brought up the rear to escort them to the SUV in case there were any surviving gangbangers lying in wait.

  Chapter 116

  Thunder exploded and rumbled, as the rain burst into a downpour.

  Shivering in his drenched Windbreaker, Brody stood in the driveway and watched the SUV loaded with Victor, Deirdre, Valerie, and Lyndon pull safely out of the driveway.

  Covered with goose bumps, Brody was so cold he wasn’t even aware of the smarting bullet wounds in his limbs.

  After the SUV vanished from sight, Brody returned to the living room to check on the three bodies. He crouched next to Jorge, felt for a pulse in Jorge’s neck, found none, and repeated the procedure with the other two motionless bodies, confirming his suspicions. All three were dead.

  Wedging Victor’s SIG snug in his belt behind the small of his back, Brody swiped Jorge’s MAC-10 to give himself more firepower in case he confronted another gangbanger in the backyard. As he snagged the machine pistol from the floor next to Jorge’s motionless arm, he saw a tattoo on Jorge’s forearm. The damp sleeve of Jorge’s hoodie had rolled up his arm during the shootout, perhaps when he had dived to the floor.

  Brody was expecting to see an MS-13 tattoo. It came as a surprise to him to see a CJNG tat in dark green ink. Under the gothic letters was the tat of a scorpion. CJNG was the Jalisco New Generation cartel that operated in western Mexico, he knew. In Mexico the scorpion tattoo signified the bearer was an enforcer.

  CJNG had meant business when they had sent this guy to deal with Lyndon, who should be lying dead from a sicario’s bullet right now, decided Brody.

  The question was, what was the Jalisco New Generation cartel doing in California? It had to be the blow concealed in the blue suitcase that had attracted them like flies to dung. Maybe the ten keys of blow was theirs, decided Brody, since Lyndon said he had obtained it in Cabo San Lucas, where CJNG was active, along with the Sinaloa cartel and Los Zetas.

  The Mexican CJNG must have enlisted MS-13’s aid while they were in Los Angeles to retrieve the missing suitcase.

  Brody bet it was the CJNG that had killed Sam Rakowski in Cabo. They must have thought Rakowski was in cahoots with Lyndon, who they suspected of stealing their suitcase loaded with coke. Rakowski had, in fact, been spying on Lyndon to see if he was cheating on Deirdre, but CJNG had no way of knowing that.

  Brody wondered if there were any more cartel sicarios on the Fox property. Nobody had challenged the SUV when it had driven away with Victor and the entire Fox family. You would think the sicarios would have bushwhacked it then and there and tried to kill everyone inside. That hadn’t happened.

  Which meant the sicarios were all dead.

  Or they had waited for the SUV to leave so they could search the house for the cocaine, since it was the cocaine they had come for in the first place. If there were still some of the sicarios hiding outside, they would have seen the Fox family had no blue suitcase with them when they boarded the SUV. And they would have come to the conclusion (though erroneous) that the blue suitcase was in the house.

  Brody heard a sound behind him.

  He slewed around, the MAC-10 in his hand primed.

  Dripping wet, in a yellow mackintosh with a hood, near the blown-out French windows, the wind gusting behind him, stood Peltz, a Glock 19 Gen5 semiautomatic in his hand.

  Brody lowered his weapon.

  “Peltz,” he said in exasperation. “Where the hell have you been? Where are your men? We all could’ve been killed in here. A gang of sicarios attacked us. What are your men doing out there? Watching Looney Tunes in a van while we get slaughtered?”

  “Drop the gun,” said Peltz.

  “What?” said Brody, incredulous. “There may be more sicarios around here. We got three stiffs here in the living room. See for yourself.”

  Peltz fired his Glock at Brody.

  Brody shied.

  The bullet missed.

  “Drop it now,” said Peltz, preparing to fire again.

  Bewildered, breaking into a cold sweat of fear, Brody dropped the MAC-10.

  “What are you doing?” he said.

  Chapter 117

  “That’s right. Drop it, you fucking traitor,” said Peltz. “You son of a bitch, you’re in it with them, the cadre of conspirators in the FBI and the deep state.”

  “What?” said Brody, flabbergasted.

  “I half suspected it, but you played your cards close to your vest, I’ll say that for you. I couldn’t be sure. I couldn’t believe you would plot against your own country.”

  “You’re talking like a lunatic. Get a grip. I’m not in any conspiracy. We got Jalisco New Generation cartel sicarios trying to kill the Foxes and grab the blue suitcase.”

  “The cabal in the FBI turned you somehow. You’re in it with them. You’re trying to take down the president by invoking the Twenty-fifth Amendment.”

  “I don’t have anything to do with that.”

  “When did they turn you? Who got to you? I need to know everyone involved in the cabal. Right now I know the names of six members. Who are the others? Start talking, or I’m taking you out,” said Peltz, leveling his pistol at Brody’s head.

  “Don’t you understand what’s going on? CJNG wants the blow in the suitcase.”

  Peltz lowered his pistol, but kept it trained on Brody.

  “You took the secret documents because you’re colluding with the cabal,” said Peltz. “You sold out the president. You sold out your own country. Like an idiot, I trusted you.”

  Brody remembered what Special Agent Thomason had told him about Peltz—that the FBI had fired Peltz because of emotional instability. Maybe Thomason had been telling the truth. Maybe Peltz wasn’t under deep cover like he claimed. Maybe he had gone off the deep end, descended into the mental abyss of paranoia, and was seeing conspiracies in every corner.

  “You got this all wrong,” said Brody.

  “I got you down to a T. I know everything about you, Myshkin.”

  Brody started at the sound of his code name at the Elysian Fields website. How could Peltz possibly know the name he used in the chat room? he wondered.

  “That’s right,” said Peltz, watching Brody’s reaction. “I’m Caligula. Don’t you recognize me?”

  “You hacked my computer.”

  “Caligula,” whispered Peltz.

  “How did you hack it?”

  “I work at the FBI. What do you expect? We can hack anybody’s computer. We vetted you before we enlisted your aid to crack the conspiracy wide open.”

  “The FBI fired you, Peltz. You don’t work there anymore.”

  “I told you, I’m under deep cover,” said Peltz, losing his temper.

  “You’re an alcoholic with emotional issues.”

  “That’s my cover story. Only a select group in the bureau know my deep-cover mission. You’re an epileptic.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Being an epileptic doesn’t give you the right to become a traitor to your country. Do you think you deserve special treatment because you’re an epileptic?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I fucked an epileptic once. Did I ever tell you that? She was awesome. When she came, it was like an earthquake.”

  “You’re losing it. The FBI fired you. You don’t work for the government anymore.”

  “You’re a member of a subversive clandestine group on the Internet. Are your buddies in the chat room part of the cabal, too?”

  “Our group has nothing to do with politics.”

  “What are you? Anarchists?”

  “No way.”

  “Get your head straight. Nobody has the right to be a traitor.”

  “I’m not
a traitor.”

  “You joined the cabal in the Bureau that’s in league with the deep state and the vice president to take down our duly elected president. If that’s not being a traitor, what is?”

  “I’m not in cahoots with any cabal or the vice president or anything like that.”

  “You’re in a secret organization of epileptics.”

  “What’s that got to do with overthrowing the president?”

  “You’re in a subversive clandestine organization.”

  “We’re not plotting against the government.”

  “Then why do you hide in the shadows and use code names?”

  Brody sighed. Peltz had no idea what epileptics went through in life. He was too obsessed and paranoid to care.

  If Peltz was obsessed and paranoid to the point of derangement, Brody had to be careful what he said and did. A victim of his delusions, the guy could lose it on a dime and turn violent. Brody could be dealing with a time bomb waiting to detonate.

  “You fucking Benedict Arnold,” said Peltz, raising his pistol, his teeth clenched.

  “Listen to me. There isn’t any conspiracy. This isn’t about secret documents. It’s about a suitcase with ten keys of coke in it.”

  “You’ll say any lie to save your skin. Why should I believe anything a traitor says?”

  “Because it’s the truth. And I’m not a traitor. The FBI fired you because you drank too much and were suffering from paranoid mental issues.”

  “Are you trying to turn me like the cabal turned you? I got news for you. It’s not gonna work. You can mouth all the psychobabble you want, but no way is it gonna make me want to join you bunch of dirty turncoats.”

  “Put that gun away. You’re having a nervous breakdown.”

  “Did the vice president get to you? Is he the one that turned you, getting you to believe I’m nuts?”

  “I haven’t said three words to him. I never even met the man.”

  “One of his running dogs got to you, huh? One of the Secret Six? Who was it? Read my lips. You Benedict Arnolds aren’t taking over. Not while I got an ounce of breath in me.”

  Chapter 118

  Marcello flung off his wet clothes and, picking up his crossbow that lay on the ground, ran through the onslaught of rain across the front yard, howling at the storm, crossbow in hand. He felt free. Whenever he committed a murder, he felt free. The act of murder was a liberating experience that only a chosen few ever experienced in life. There was nothing else like it. Not sex. Not anything. He had shot his bolt into the teenager’s carotid artery, and she was as good as dead. Nothing could save her.

  Lying in wait, he had watched them take the girl to the SUV and depart. He knew their efforts were in vain. She would never make it to the hospital. She was losing too much blood from her pierced artery.

  Now he could get on with his mission. It turned out the true nature of his mission was the recovery of the suitcase, not an assassination as the mastro di giornata had led him to believe.

  He saw no reason to stop or chase the Foxes. What he wanted was in the suitcase, and the suitcase was still in the house. He let them go without incident. He was free to grab the cocaine that the Foxes had jacked from its rightful owner, the ’Ndrangheta. The Mexican cartel CJNG had promised to deliver the coke to them, but the Foxes had jacked it in transit to the ’Ndrangheta.

  He had murdered their daughter as payback.

  Exhilarated, he sprinted through the torrents of rain, countless wet spicules impinging on his naked flesh chilling and exciting him. He felt omnipotent. Nobody and nothing could stop him. He was Prometheus unbound, free to do anything he wanted. The secret of life had been revealed to him, and it had nothing to do with fire. The secret was murder.

  He laughed with joy as he ran through the storm, basking in the cold stings of the icy raindrops as they striated his naked flesh. He barreled around to the backyard, wondering if any more of the cartel sicarios remained alive.

  The incompetents had botched the invasion of the house. A sgarrista in the ‘Ndrangheta would never bungle an assignment as badly as these CJNG oafs had. Marcello would show these clowns how to do it—if any of them was left alive. Which was looking more doubtful by the minute. All he was finding in the backyard was corpses of sicarios strewn on the sludgy grass staring sightlessly into the mud, or into the night sky and drinking pellets of rain that filled their gaping mouths with pools that overflowed out the corners in trickles down their necks.

  Thunder clapped and rumbled, suffusing him with energy. He could feel his rib cage vibrating with the sonorous grumble. He was feeling stronger by the minute, his energy feeding off the juggernaut of storm. He and the storm were invincible. They were both unstoppable forces of nature.

  He laughed maniacally, his laughter melding with the booming thunder.

  He darted around the perimeter in search of sicarios, dead or alive. He found two more stiffs embracing the mud under their bellies. That was it. They were either all dead, or the remaining ones had taken a powder.

  He stood still in the backyard. The way was clear for him to enter the house. It was time to retrieve the rightful property of the ’Ndrangheta.

  Chapter 119

  Brody couldn’t believe his eyes. He thought he saw a nude man streaking through the rain in the backyard toward the French windows behind Peltz, the man’s raw white flesh standing out in the storm’s gloom. Unless his eyes deceived him, the guy appeared to be laughing as he approached with a crossbow in his hand. It was difficult to see in the storm.

  In any case, Brody had more urgent matters to contend with.

  Peltz was getting ready to shoot him.

  “There’s somebody behind you,” said Brody.

  “The gangbangers are all dead,” said Peltz. “I checked before I entered the house.”

  “He doesn’t look like one of them,” said Brody, trying to figure out how he could reach Victor’s SIG wedged in the small of his back without the telltale movement attracting Peltz’s gunfire.

  “What does he look like?” said Peltz with amusement.

  “He’s naked and he’s aiming a crossbow at your back.”

  Peltz chuckled. “A naked man’s behind me? Do you really think that’s gonna get me to turn so you can up and run? Now if you said a naked woman—”

  The man fired a bolt into Peltz’s back before Peltz could finish his sentence. The bolt entered through Peltz’s back, pierced his heart, and protruded from his chest, its tip smeared with blood.

  Stunned, Peltz glanced down at the bloody bolt that extended from his chest. His astonishment fleeting, he crumpled to the floor, blood pouring from his mortal wound.

  Standing on the patio in the rain, the naked man reloaded his crossbow. He was wearing a large silver crucifix dangling from a thick-linked silver chain around his neck.

  Brody had to act fast. He whipped Victor’s pistol out from behind his back, where he had snugged it.

  Dripping wet, the naked man approached the living room, crossbow in hand.

  “Who are you?” said Brody, not sure whether the guy was friend or foe.

  The guy had saved Brody’s life, but Brody had no idea who he was or who he was working for. Frankly, the guy was acting like a lunatic laughing as he ran around nude with a crossbow and baying at the storm, decided Brody.

  Marcello stepped through the French windows and aimed his crossbow at Brody.

  Brody fired.

  Nothing happened.

  The SIG’s magazine was empty.

  Marcello grinned and walked into the living room, stepping on a shard of broken glass with his bare foot.

  Grimacing in pain he jumped off the shard, yelping and grabbing his sore foot.

  Releasing the useless SIG, Brody seized the opportunity to pelt across the living-room floor to a TEC-9 that lay near a sicario’s sprawled corpse. He scooped up the abandoned pistol and dove behind a recliner, as Marcello pivoted on his good foot following Brody with his crossbow’s loaded bolt
and fired.

  The bolt struck Brody in the arm as he took cover behind the chair.

  “Give me the suitcase,” said Marcello. “Don’t bother calling the cops. The sicarios jammed your cell phones.”

  Brody replied with a wild shot he took as he was spinning in the air and sprawling for cover behind the chair. The errant shot whistled over Marcello’s head.

  Marcello hightailed it outside.

  Brody sprang to his feet and fired two shots at him. Marcello ducked around the corner of the house. Brody dashed outside in pursuit.

  He didn’t know if he had hit Marcello. Spotting a blood-tinged, rain-stippled puddle on the ground, he decided one of his slugs must have hit home. He peeked around the corner of the house in search of Marcello, but didn’t see him anywhere. Like a wounded animal, the guy might have crawled back to his lair to die, decided Brody.

  At the corner of the house, Brody noticed the telephone wire to the house had been cut and was blowing loose in the wind. It wasn’t the storm that had torn down the telephone wire, it was a sicario that had cut it. It was all part of their attempted siege.

  His nerves on end, TEC-9 in hand, Brody cast around the property for Marcello. Brody spotted more blood swirling in a rain-spattered puddle on the ground. It could have been from one of the sicarios he or Victor had shot earlier, or it could be Marcello’s.

  On the street in front of the house Brody heard a car pull away from the curb with a screech of its tires and drive away, its headlights knifing the darkness. The car sideswiped a parked car and caromed back into the street. It might have been the naked archer driving it, or it might have been someone else who was having trouble driving in the deluge, decided Brody.

  A bolt of lightning rived the night sky. Thunder cracked and roared overhead like a locomotive bearing down on him.

  If Marcello was hiding on the property, Brody had no idea where he was. He inspected the property with a fine-tooth comb, but found no sign of him. Maybe the guy had eluded him by doubling back to the house, decided Brody. He doubted it.