Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set

by Gordon Carroll

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Not exactly anyway. It’s just that look he gave me as I was running off with Keisha.”

  “Look?”

  I nodded again. “Yeah, like… like I really was stealing his little girl. Like he was trying to tell my soul that he was going to come after me… come after me and get her back.” I lifted my eyes to his. “The kind of look a father would give in that case.”

  “He’s not her father,” said Jared.

  I sat there thinking, remembering that look and the way he exploded when I told him I was there for her when we first fought.

  “Right,” I said, “yeah… yeah, I know.”

  “This guy nearly killed you,” said Jared, “and he’s still out there. You need to watch yourself until we get him.”

  “He might try to come here for her,” I said.

  Jared grinned, stretching his many chins. “Here? We’ve got a zillion cops here, Gil.”

  I shrugged. “You didn’t see that look. He really might try it.”

  “You thinking this guy is like the Terminator?”

  I touched the split skin on my cheek, wincing. “He’s tough and he keeps on coming right at you. It wouldn’t be a good idea to underestimate his determination.”

  Jared picked up the phone and told the front desk what to watch out for.

  “Satisfied?”

  “Better safe than sorry and all that,” I said.

  Jared pointed a thick finger at me. “Be sure you take your own advice and keep an eye out.”

  “I will,” I said. “Can I see Keisha?”

  “Sure,” he said. As he stood, the phone rang. I saw Jared’s eyes get big, and for just a second, I thought it was Jerome Larkin crashing through the front of the station, like Arnold in his sunglasses saying; I’ll be back. But then he sat down.

  “Hello, Senator Marsh, yes we have her,” Jared said into the phone as he sat back down. “He’s sitting right across from me now. Yes, he is a good man. Of course, we’ll take good care of her. Yes, yes of course. Thank you, sir.” He hung up. “The senator likes you.” His smile grew wider. “He thinks you are The Batman, Superman and the Flash all wrapped up in one.”

  “Not bad coming from God,” I said.

  “God?”

  I shook my head. “You’d have to see him.” I stood up. “How long till you get her processed and ready for transport back to Chicago?”

  Jared stood up, tucking his cell back into his jacket pocket. “At least a week, I’d say. Maybe longer. Depends on how efficient Chicago is.” He grinned. “Murder capital of the world, I don’t suppose their social services section is sitting around on its collective butt waiting for something to do.”

  We went to the second floor where Keisha was sitting in a chair and eating a cup of pudding. She saw me through the window and her little eyebrows drew down in a scowl.

  “Where’s my daddy?” she yelled.

  The woman police officer with her turned and gave me a suspicious look. I noticed her hand move to rest against her sidearm. Jared held up a reassuring hand and she relaxed…a little.

  “Where’s my daddy?” Keisha yelled again, and this time she stood up and dropped the pudding, as if it meant nothing at all. She walked to the window and stared at me. I saw tears well up in her big eyes and she started shaking her fists at me.

  “I want my daddy! He needs me! You get my daddy!”

  The female officer picked her up and held her close, patting her back as she walked her to the table.

  “Maybe we should go,” said Jared.

  I nodded, feeling the wetness in my eyes.

  “Poor little girl,” I said, trying not to let my voice crack, but failing.

  “She doesn’t know any better, buddy. It’s the Stockholm, that’s all. You saved her.”

  “Sure,” I said, trying to make myself believe it and feeling dirty.

  We made it out front of the police station, traffic rushing past at its usual pace a few dozen yards to the south. The day shone bright and warm in exact contrast to what I felt inside. I saw cops and people in suits walking up and down the stairs of the administration building, mindless of the two of us or our feelings. Or the fact that a kidnapped little girl sat crying upstairs, feeling like she had just been kidnapped for the second time in her short life. People ask why bad things happen to good people and the answer is always the same, sin. From Adam on down.

  “Look,” said Jared, “don’t be stupid about this. You saved her from the monster that kidnapped her. The guy murdered her mother, killed who knows how many others, tried to kill you. Probably did very bad things to her that we don’t even want to know about. Just because she’s five and doesn’t know any better is no reason for you to get down on yourself. Now keep your mind in the game, Gil, because like I said before, this guy, this BAD guy, is still out there. You see him, you shoot first and talk later, understand? You don’t think about how that girl’s crying and calling him her daddy. You don’t hesitate. You shoot and put him down till he ain’t a threat no more. You got me, buddy?”

  And right there I saw the old Jared Darling burning through, clear of the pounds and the desk and the political correctness that a command position had imposed on him. The Jared Darling that, with a dynamite dog, had hunted down three armed robbers in a swamp and shot it out with them, taking a round in the thigh and wounding two of them before they surrendered.

  I nodded and shook his hand. “I got you, Jared, and thanks.”

  I still felt dirty as I turned for my car, but I also knew in my mind that he was as right as right could be. It’s just that sometimes getting your heart to come around to your brain’s way of thinking is hard, especially when you keep seeing a little girl’s tears running down her cheeks and hearing her cries in your ears.

  23

  Jerome started stealing cars at nine and he’d done nothing but improve his skills since then. He could get into and steal almost any vehicle in less than three minutes. He wasn’t pretty and finesse was never his forte. Jerome utilized a combination of brute force and unfailing nerves.

  The 2010 Nissan Sentra, with its light blue fading paint, would draw no attention, even sitting across from the Aurora Police Station and Court House. His plan was simple, like most, only he didn’t realize that his usually trustworthy sense of tactical brilliance was being compromised by his emotions. He checked to make sure the gun held a round by pulling back slightly on the slide and seeing the back casing shining out at him. He only had the one gun, but he planned on taking more from the cops he would kill. He waited, his usual patience not working like normal. His leg kept bouncing up and down and his hands clenched over and over. He had to shake his head every few seconds to get Clair’s face out of his head. He kept seeing her being carried away, crying out for him…and the white man holding her, the dog by his side.

  The steering wheel creaked and groaned beneath his tightening grip and he had to shake his head brutally to stop himself from getting out of the car, rushing inside and killing everyone he saw. Of course that was pretty much his plan anyway, but he had to wait for a lull. It wouldn’t help Clair to get shot to pieces before he even made it to her. There were cops everywhere, but he would have the element of surprise on his side. That and the inherent chaos that would follow his first shots. The possibility she wasn’t in there never entered his one-track mind. She was there…he could feel her. And he would make them pay. He would take her and they would be like before. He would protect her. He would save her.

  Tears leaked from his eyes. He couldn’t seem to stop crying.

  Jerome took a deep breath, let it out, took hold of the door latch.

  Stopped.

  The white man that stole his baby was standing on the steps talking to a fat black man.

  The tears stopped.

  Jerome’s leg stopped bouncing, his fingers perfectly still.

  He watched as they shook hands. The black man walked back up into the building. The white man went to a black Esc
alade. Jerome saw the dog watching him from the back window. They were across the street and the window was only down a little, but Jerome saw the dog watching him. It had the same look in its eyes that Jerome saw staring at him in the bathroom mirror a few hours ago.

  Good.

  For just a second, Jerome thought the dog would somehow tell the man he was here and the battle would begin. But of course dogs couldn’t talk to people, even Jerome knew that, and the man drove out of the parking lot and headed west on Colfax.

  Jerome followed.

  Without him even realizing it, his plans had changed.

  Jerome drove past the driveway, well back from the Escalade. He traveled up a ways before making a “U” turn and driving back. He saw the mailbox at the end of the winding asphalt. He went back up the road till he found a little turn-around and parked.

  Clair’s sleeping face floated behind his eyes, her little thumb stuck in her mouth. He smelled her breath, felt the warmth on his cheek, twirled her curls between his fingers.

  Murder welled up inside his heart. Deep and dark and hard.

  The white man’s face replaced Clair’s and he could almost feel the man’s throat between his fingers. The white man would know where Clair was and how to get her and Jerome would make him tell.

  A few cars swished past as the sun worked its way behind the swelling mountains to the west. The low breeze picked up a little, turning from hot to not quite so hot, but not yet cool. The day sounds were slowly changing to night sounds, but not the night sounds of Chicago. Jerome had come to enjoy Colorado, with its lack of screams and shooting his native city offered. Colorado’s night sounds were subtle. Crickets, cicadas, bats flapping and insects buzzing. Up here, even the subdued city sounds of Denver were obscured so that nature truly took over. It felt nice, peaceful.

  What Jerome was about to do was not peaceful, but he was at peace with it. He would torture the white man, then he would kill him and then he would go get his baby.

  Looking up toward the hog back the white man had driven up, Jerome saw pine trees and aspen and lots of others he didn’t recognize.

  Once the sun was fully down, and the headlights of cars below had slowed to about one every ten minutes or so, Jerome got out of the car and started up the long, twisting driveway.

  The gun in his hand.

  24

  While Gil and Jared were still speaking outside the police station, Max smelled the enemy. The same man the Alpha fought and that he had tracked and attacked at the car. He stood up and looked out the window of the SUV parked in front of the Aurora Police Station. His nose caught the man’s spore as it drifted about on the wind. His incredible brain worked in concert with the millions of scent receptors sprinkled throughout his muzzle and sinuses to exclude other scents while honing in on his prey. People were everywhere, exuding sweat, smoke, gas, carbon dioxide. Cars, trucks and buses zipped along, spewing exhaust, kicking up dust, muddying air currents. Trees and plants and insects added their own deposits. Max sifted through them all until he locked in on the target.

  There, sitting in a car across the street from the Alpha and the man he was speaking to, sat the enemy.

  The Alpha stopped speaking to the fat man and began to walk toward Max.

  Max ignored the Alpha, staring at the bad man.

  The bad man watched the Alpha cross the parking lot, oblivious of Max.

  The Alpha opened the SUV’s car door and got in.

  Max did not move, he did not blink. Max stared at the bad man.

  The bad man’s head turned toward Max.

  They locked eyes.

  Max’s hackles did not rise, he did not bark or growl or whine.

  Their eyes told each the other’s intentions.

  Max continued to watch the man as the Alpha drove away.

  Max never lost sight of the bad man until they turned up the driveway leading to the house. But he knew the man was not gone. He would be waiting… hunting.

  Good.

  Max exited the car as soon as the Alpha opened the door. He put his nose to the wind and scented long and hard.

  Nothing.

  The man was not close.

  But Max knew he would be coming.

  Max followed the Alpha into the house to make sure it was clear… that the man had not somehow beaten them here and hidden inside. But his scent was not here either. Max nuzzled Pilgrim, making sure he was okay, and then slipped out the pet door, ignoring the food the Alpha put in the bowl.

  Moving past the driveway and the short stretch of grass to the west, he went over the crest and started down the sloping hill, into the scrub and the dark. Taking in all the smells of the looming night, he still did not detect the man. But that was okay, the hunt was on. Max caught the scent of a raccoon, a small herd of antelope, over a dozen rabbits, and even a group of three coyotes not far away. The rabbits, antelope and raccoon meant nothing, but usually the coyotes would stir Max’s blood, a pale substitute for the Great Gray Wolf he longed to wreak revenge on. Not tonight. Tonight Max wasn’t hunting coyotes or even wolves.

  Tonight Max hunted man.

  Jerome followed the thin road that wound up and around the steep hogback. He wasn’t about to waste the strength it would take to try and go straight up the mini-mountain. Instinctively, he understood he would need his energy. The white man was not weak and the dog wanted to kill him. Jerome saw it in the beast’s eyes. Jerome had never really been afraid of anything in his life, but something about the dog terrified him. It wasn’t the wounds, or the animal’s strength. He’d had worse wounds, fought far stronger opponents. No, the monster-dog triggered something primal that affected Jerome on a subconscious level that his simple brain could never hope to understand.

  It didn’t matter. Jerome would kill the dog and the man. He would kill everyone on the planet to get Clair back.

  The altitude and the slope took its toll and he found himself breathing hard and leaning forward as he continued up into the dark. He had no way of knowing how far the road went or who all would be there, but this also was unimportant to Jerome. Only Clair mattered. The man would tell him how to get her back before he died. Jerome wasn’t smart. But the white man at the top of the hill was smart and he would know. Clair was smart…so smart. She was only a little girl, but she was already smarter than Jerome in so many ways. And she was good. Her heart was good. Jerome was not good, he had never been good. His own mother had told him…many times…his mother and the men that stayed with her.

  Jerome’s dead sister’s face floated behind his eyes; at least he thought it was hers. So often now, his sister’s face mixed with Clair’s so that he couldn’t be sure who was who. It didn’t matter. They were both good. Jerome had not been there to save his sister, but he would be there for Clair.

  When the white man had run away from the car with her he had almost shot him, but the distance was too far and he was afraid he might hit Clair, so he had stayed and fought the Bloods until the police came and then he ran. He tried to follow the white man and Clair and the dog, but they were gone. He knew he had to keep himself from being found or he would never see Clair again and they would kill her.

  Because that was the one fact that Jerome knew for certain. The Bloods wanted her dead. Jerome didn’t know why the Bloods wanted her dead, but he knew it to be true. They had come for her twice in Chicago. They hadn’t cared about Jerome. One of the men he let live for questioning (until he was done with him) had told him so. He said they were sent to kill the little girl and that if Jerome got away, to let him go. So long as they got the girl.

  His side hurt and he had to stop for a second and hitch over with his hands on his knees. He felt dizzy and shook his head. He took deep breaths, in and out, until the dizziness passed. Then he stood straight and started again. His heart beat so hard and fast in his chest, he thought it might explode through his ribs. He wanted to stop again, but he didn’t know how long he would have before they would move Clair. The white man was waiting for h
im at the top of the hill. So he forced himself on, completely oblivious to the silent death that had been stalking him for the past ten minutes.

  Max came up behind the man about fifty yards up the road from the mailbox. He hadn’t tracked him, there had been no need. The smell of sweat and blood were strong and he was so noisy it would have been harder for Max to have not found him.

  The right hamstring offered the best target. He could be there and gone, hidden by the dark before the injury even registered pain. The femoral artery lay just under the skin beneath the thigh, with no bone or thick muscle to protect it from Max’s teeth.

  Saliva filled his mouth at the prospect. And once the man fell to his knees, his throat would be exposed. Max knew from his previous battle with the man that he was strong and fast, so he would not take the chance of letting him grab hold of him.

  In and out, back and forth, speed and concealment, until the prey bled out before him.

  Max moved with the grace and silence of a cheetah on the prowl, not that it was needed. The man was clumsy and noisy. His gait staggered, his breathing ragged. Max could hear the man’s heart slamming beneath his ribs.

  Up and around they went until they were less than a hundred yards from the house. Max slid around the base of a large pine and crouched as the man again stopped and bent over, trying for air.

  Ten feet away, Max readied, his eyes taking in everything, seeing ten times better in the dark than the man. His nose smelled the blood in the veins, millimeters beneath flesh. His ears took in the rapid heartbeat, the labored lungs. His eyes locked on three different targets — hamstring — bowels — throat. His other senses catalogued and filtered the necessary inputs, expertly excluding extemporaneous data.

  At this instant, Max was the perfect missile of destruction that both nature and nurture had honed him to be.

  The man took a final breath and stood.

  Max launched.