On the way over, I listened to the police scanner in my car; Denver was working a small structure fire on Clayton and 12th, Cherokee was clear. Aurora had a DUI over on 6th and Chambers, and a crash on 225 at the Mississippi exit. All in all a quiet weekday afternoon. Good. If I needed help it shouldn’t be far off. I hoped to do this quiet though, if they were here. No rough stuff; less chance of Tom or Amber getting hurt that way.
I snuck up on the west side of the house to a three-foot chain-link that ran along the back yard; it would be easy to hop if there was no gate on this side.
There wasn’t.
One window well on the south side of the fence in the front yard, the other on the north in the back. I checked out the front window. Drawn curtains, I couldn’t see a thing. Hopping the fence, I checked the back well. Spiderwebs filled the bottom third of the metal housing and a fat black widow lurked in the bottom right corner. I don’t like spiders. The window was yellowed and cracked, caked with milky white cobwebs at the corners. No drapes. Inside were cardboard boxes stacked haphazardly along the wall and extending out a way into the basement. Near the center of the room I saw a small section of chair legs with shoes poking out. Looking closer, I could see the ankles of whoever was sitting in the chair, secured with duct-tape. Had to be Tom. I slipped around to the back door. Unlocked. The curtains, tattered and nearly shear, hung off kilter. I could see through them. The kitchen was to the left and empty. A stairwell led straight from the backdoor to the basement and a room branched to the right. I could hear voices and laughing from somewhere in the house. The backyard was a lesson in xeriscaping. Layers of junk were piled throughout the yard, and a dilapidated swing set sat crookedly along the northeast fence.
I eased the doorknob, putting weight onto the metal to lessen squeaking from the hinges. The sun was already heating the day. Sweat popped out on my forehead. The door swung in almost noiselessly — almost. I closed it behind me, not letting it latch.
Inside the voices sounded louder. At least four in the front room. All loud. Stale cigarette smoke fought for top billing against the smell of rotting meat from a pan on the stove and old vomit on the floor that no one bothered to clean up. Buzzing flies swarmed the kitchen, laying their maggot eggs in the meat and vomit, then flying away to mate and buzz some more. I hate flies worse than spiders. Thudding steps plodded across the ceiling. There were more upstairs. How many? It wouldn’t matter if I could sneak Tom and Amber out. But if I couldn’t, if there had to be a fight, how many was suddenly very important.
I eased my .45 from its holster and tip-toed down the stairs. They were wood and they were old. I stayed to the outside edges, dispersing my weight, but still they creaked. Sweat ran into my brows and my upper lip felt slick and hot. My undershirt stuck to me like a second skin. Should have worn a vest.
The stench of the house was making me sick. The walls of the stairwell were dry-walled on both sides, opening in both directions at the bottom. There were no banisters, just holes where the railings used to be secured.
My vision was nearly shot, coming from the bright outside into the dingy gloom of the house, and worse, the dank darkness of the basement. There could have been thirty guys at the bottom of the stairs with guns pointed at me and I probably wouldn’t be able to see them. Gooseflesh rippled up my arms and my spine tingled. My heart thudded thickly in my chest. I had to fight to control my breathing. Adrenaline rushes could be helpful in stress situations like this, but they had to be controlled. Easier said than done. If I got killed here it would be the end for Tom and Amber. A bottle shattered in the front room and I almost cranked off a round. Thank goodness for finger discipline. If my finger had been on the trigger instead of riding along the slide the gig would have been up.
At the bottom of the stairs I put a hand over my eyes and let them adjust to the dark, an old trick I learned from a Batman comic book when I was just a kid. Thirty seconds and I was good to go. I could see again.
Tom sat to the left. I checked the right first. Ducking around the corner, gun tight against my chest and pointing straight out. I scanned the narrow section that ran about eight feet wide and sunk deep beneath the stairs. Nothing but junk and trash. I pied the stairwell coming back, this time my gun nearly at arm’s length. Clear, so was the rest of the basement, except for Tom. His hands and feet were taped, as were his eyes and mouth. Silver duct-tape also locked his arms, legs and ankles to the folding metal chair he was sitting on.
I whispered into his ear, “Shh. Tom, it’s me, Gil Mason, the private investigator your wife hired. Do you remember?”
He nodded.
“I’m going to cut you free, but the house is loaded with the guys that kidnapped you, and I’m here alone. So you have to be quiet, understand?”
He nodded.
“This’ll hurt a little, don’t make a sound.” I ripped the tape from his mouth. He barely flinched. He was tough. I liked him for that too. “Here come the eyes.” I jerked the tape, fast and hard, lifting a good portion of his eyebrows. He blinked his eyes, stretched his lips and jaws. I slipped the knife from my pocket and slit the tape holding him to the chair. He flexed his fingers and stretched his legs out straight.
“I’m numb all over,” he said quietly. “Do you have Amber?”
I shook my head. “I haven’t seen her yet. Did they have her here with you?”
“At first. They taped me up and beat on me for awhile. They kept asking me for something called a thumb dot. I told them I didn’t know what they were talking about, but they just kept hitting me and telling me they were going to kill me and my whole family if I didn’t give it to them. They said they killed Shane. They said they were raping Amber upstairs. I could hear them up there, laughing, and I thought… I thought I heard crying. I don’t know if it was my Amber.” His words choked off and tears rolled down his cheeks. I felt the burning rage boil, down in my stomach. Tom gathered himself and continued. “It went on forever and they kept telling me the horrible things they were doing to her upstairs… in the bedroom. I couldn’t stand it… I couldn’t stand it. I just screamed and screamed until — until I couldn’t anymore.” He looked up at me, his eyes hot. “They just laughed and kept telling me what they were doing. I tried lying to them, I said the thumb dot was at my office, but they said I had to tell them what was on the drive… and I didn’t know… I didn’t know. I haven’t heard Amber for hours.”
I put my hand on his trembling shoulder. “Tom, chances are they didn’t do anything more than give her a pinch to make her cry. I know that’s hard to believe, but it’s probably true. All they wanted was to see if you knew where the thumb dot was. You didn’t. There was no reason for them to really do anything to her… understand? No reason.”
“They’re animals,” he said from deep in his throat. “Filthy animals. Do animals need a reason to do something?”
“You’re right, Tom, they are animals. But they’re on a leash. I met their master and I don’t think he’s the kind to let them seriously hurt a little girl.”
“I pray to God you’re right.”
So did I. “We have to get out of here. Can you walk?”
Tom massaged his thighs and shakily stood to his feet. “I’m not leaving without my daughter.”
34
Laughter drifted down from upstairs. Another bottle shattered somewhere, followed by more laughter. “She’s probably not here,” I said to Tom.
“Would you leave if there was any chance your daughter was here with them?”
I sighed, reached down and took my Ruger from its ankle holster and gave it to him. “Ever shoot a gun?”
He took it, snapped open the cylinder and checked the load. “Four years in the Army.”
“See any action?”
He shook his head. “Nothing more exciting than fire-watch duty.”
“Think you can shoot a person; kill someone?”
He looked down at the gun, his jaw flexing. I knew he was thinking of his baby girl. “I’m not sure
about a person…” he looked up into my eyes, “but one of these animals — yeah.”
“Don’t go crazy. You’ve got five shots, that’s it. After that use it as a club if you have to. But don’t start anything. Follow my lead, got it?”
He nodded.
I reached for the door-popper on my belt and pushed the button. Outside I knew my back passenger’s side door, had just swung open. Max would be on his way.
“What’s that?” asked Tom.
“Reinforcements.”
The two of us padded up the creaking stairs. Several voices, very loud, were coming from the living room. I motioned to Tom that we were going to go through the kitchen, to the right, and try and take them by surprise. He looked scared, but more than that he looked mad.
I moved through the kitchen at top speed; saw the first man, it was Skull Shirt, sitting on a worn out, stained couch pushed up against the far wall from the living room window. Only he wasn’t wearing the same shirt. Instead he had on a Rolling Stones Lip Shirt, the tongue long and red. He had a bottle of beer raised to his lips when he saw me. He jerked up, his hand going for the butt of a gun sticking out of his waistband and I smashed the butt of my gun against the bottom of the bottle, smacking it into his teeth and lips. I followed it with a left hook that caught him just in front of his right ear, snapping his head to the side and putting him out.
My next target was lying on a love seat under the window, his head on one armrest, his feet propped up on the other. It was a punk I hadn’t seen before. He had red, curly hair and more piercings than a seamstress’ pincushion. He must have heard me hit Skull Shirt because he sat up and started to turn. I whapped him across the top of his curls with the boat anchor. He went instantly limp. I continued my swing and brought the muzzle of my gun to bear on the last person in the room. It was Baldy. He dropped his beer and the bottle bounced off the old, wood floor, foam gushing out the top. He reached for something in the back of his waistband.
I cocked back the hammer and put the big, black bore right between his eyes. “Don’t do that.” He stopped, frozen. “Get your hands up over your head.” He did.
I snatched a peek at Tom. He was pointing the Ruger at Baldy. Tom didn’t look scared anymore. Now he just looked mad. There were twin rosy circles dotting his pale cheeks and I could see a hint of clenched teeth between his thin lips.
“Where’s the girl?” I spoke real quiet so anyone upstairs wouldn’t hear. Baldy shook his head marginally. He looked back and forth between me and Tom.
I touched his skin with the muzzle. “Tell me where the girl is or I’ll splash your brains all over the wall.”
“He took her,” said Baldy. “She’s gone, man. She’s gone.”
I pushed the gun in, tilting his head back. “Where?” The word hissed through my teeth. My hand was shaking, I wanted so badly to pull the trigger. This scum helped in keeping a child hostage, maybe even raped her. My breathing was labored, shuddering in my chest. I had to get control, keep my emotions in check. But I didn’t want to. How much worse must it be for Tom? That helped me cool down, not a lot, but some.
Baldy closed his eyes as though he knew I was going to shoot him and couldn’t stand to watch. “I don’t know, man. I swear I don’t know. We were just watching this dude here. That’s all. I swear.”
The sound of the gun going off was so loud in the close quarters that it almost blanked my ears. A high pitched wail took the place of my hearing and nausea rolled through me with the power of a hard punch. Instinctively I looked at Tom, thinking he must have fired, but a second shot exploded to my left, and this one burned across the back of my neck and along my trapezes. I jerked to the side, my front sight coming in line with Pimple Face who was sporting an ancient looking Colt 1911, like we used back when I first enlisted in the Corps. Baldy shoved me hard in the chest with both hands and I went over backward, hitting the corner of the loveseat’s armrest on my kidney. I bounced off and fell to the floor. Two more rounds tore into the wall above my head, showering me with plaster. I fired one bullet at Pimples and heard him scream. Baldy kicked me hard in the hands and my Smith and Wesson went flying.
Tom ran behind Baldy and kept going until he disappeared around the corner. I heard him running up the stairs.
Baldy stepped close to me, pulling out a snub nosed revolver from his back waistband. “Not so tough now, smart guy?”
Before he could point it at me, I kicked him under the chin, pulled my belt-buckle knife out and jabbed it into his solar plexus. The blade was only as long as a pinky finger, but it went all the way in. I yanked it out in an arc that sliced his left inner thigh, opening his femoral artery, then looped it back over jamming it into his right inner thigh. I grabbed the cylinder of the revolver with my free hand, keeping it from being fired, jerked him forward so hard he doubled over, and plunged the small knife into his throat, slashing back and forth wickedly. The gun came free in my hand and I let his dying body drop to the floor.
Shoving his gun into my waistband, I found my .45 in the corner and turned just as two men clomped out of the hallway from the back bedroom. Both were skinny, one wearing jeans and a Wife-Beater shirt, the other in Tripp pants and a sleeveless “T”. Both held guns.
I shot the first one twice in the chest, double-tap, the slugs stopping him cold, his eyes growing big and scared; his mouth trying for a scream that would never come. The other kid was already pointing his gun at me, his face determined. I braced myself, knowing I would be hit at least once before I could return fire, and re-targeted, swinging my sights to center-mass. I saw a familiar reddish-brown blur and held my fire. Max’s jaws clamped down on the guy’s face, wrenching his head to the side and dragging him to the floor. He tried to scream, managed a muffled gurgle, before Max really went to work. There was no time to linger. The punk had played a vicious game and now he would have to pay the price.
I taught Max to always check for a scent article when the door popper activated. That’s why I keep the leather key-holder on my belt and why I dropped it when I first got out of the car. Max located the scent article and tracked me here.
I headed up the stairs. Tom was wrestling with two men. One was Pimples — he had blood squirting from his neck, I must have grazed him, the other was a stranger with full sleeve tattoos painted up each arm.
Tattoo Man was trying to get Tom’s gun from him, while Pimples punched at Tom’s head with one hand. The three of them rolled back and forth on the floor like writhing snakes.
I took two long strides and slammed the heel of my shoe straight down onto Tattoo Man’s ear. His head bounced off the wood floor with a sound like a splitting melon. Pimples stopped fighting when he felt my gun against the back of his skull. Tom got loose and jumped to his feet. He pointed the Ruger at Pimples with shaking hands.
“Where’s my daughter?” he screamed. I stepped away from Pimples. If Tom started shooting I didn’t want to get hit.
“You might want to answer him,” I said to Pimples, “he looks mad.”
He clutched a hand to his neck, blood pooling between his fingers and running down his wrist. “I’m bleeding to death. I need a doctor.”
“You’ll bleed worse if he shoots another hole in you,” I said.
I saw a room at the end of the hall with the door closed, and one on either side with doors open. “Watch him,” I said to Tom. “I’ll check these other rooms.” I went quickly through the rooms on the sides; both empty. I kicked open the door to the last room and ducked to the side. I could still hear Tom screaming at Pimples to tell him where his daughter was. I pied the room, stepping back and out, checking it in slices from outside the doorway. It looked empty except for a few syringes littered in a corner. There was a nasty old mattress on the floor with some bunched up sheets and a ratty blanket. No pillow. Something huddled under the sheets.
A cold nose touched my forearm and I nearly jumped. Max. I sent him into the room.
He ran the walls, then turned to the crumpled sheets. I gav
e him the down and he obeyed, eyes locked on the mattress, ears high. I entered the room, darting to the side, my gun out front. The closet was open and empty. I looked down at the humped sheets, grabbed a handful and pulled them away.
The girl looked to be around seventeen. She was Hispanic and naked. A fine line of drool stretched from the corner of her lips to the mattress. The insides of her arms were bruised and dotted with needle marks. Her eyes fluttered open. She looked at me, smiled, drifted back to her drug induced sleep.
I tucked the sheet up under her chin and hefted her onto my shoulder. She was as light as a puppy. I felt her thin bones through my shirt. I carried her back to where Pimples sat trying to hold his blood inside his neck with his hands.
Max heeled automatically.
Pimples looked up at me, dark circles under his sunken eyes. “Please don’t let me die.”
“You see this dog? Tell me where the girl is or I’ll let him use you for a chew toy.”
“I told him,” he said looking at Tom from the corner of his eyes, “I don’t know. We’re just small potatoes, dude. The big guy doesn’t tell us nothing.”
He was too scared to lie, besides, the thought of a cool character like Mr. Spock confiding anything important in a slug like this didn’t compute. Still, I hoped to salvage something. “What’s the big guy’s name?”
“We just know him as Mr. Black. The other dudes are Mr. Pink and Mr. Green. You know, like the dudes in that movie, Reservoir Dogs.”
I thought back to my conversation with Pimple’s friend who Max found hiding under the deck, the one with the giant gauges in his ears. He’d said they were in on some kind of computer video slot scheme. “What kind of computer scheme is Mr. Black running?”
“I don’t know, dude. I don’t know nothing. Just that it has something to do with a game or something?”
Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set Page 16
