Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set

by Gordon Carroll

  Blood soaked my sleeve and I couldn’t move the fingers of that hand. The pain screamed something fierce, but we were alive. Max was alive. And that was all that mattered. I reached out with my good hand and gave his head a rub. His body tensed, but he allowed it. Baby steps? Maybe more?

  I found the bathroom and threw up in the toilet, a combination of exertion, adrenal dump, smoke inhalation and pure pain. Looking in the mirror I was a mess. Blood caked my face and soot and sweat reamed my nostrils and forehead and cheeks.

  The apartment was empty and I realized they all would be, due to being evacuated because of the fire next door. The buildings were packed close in the projects and the chance that the fire might spread was highly plausible.

  I had to find Jerome.

  Opening the door, I saw him entering the nearest stairwell door. He didn’t look a lot better than I did, but at least he could use both arms. For just a second, I thought he might actually be happy to see me, but then his face took on his usual blank expression.

  “We need to go,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “Yeah.”

  As I stepped into the hallway, I saw a monstrous shadow loom up behind Jerome from the stairwell. It was Owen, Clyde’s ugly cousin. He swung down with a pistol and nailed Jerome on the back of the head. I could hear the crack over all the racket outside and my first thought was that the blow must have split Jerome’s skull like an egg shell. Jerome staggered about three steps into the hallway, but he didn’t go down. Instead, he turned and faced Owen with a gun in his own hand. I thought they would fire at the same time, but they just stood there, facing off like Dukes of old, preparing to duel.

  “I knew I saw something going on up here,” said Owen. “You boys are…resilient, I’ll give you that.”

  “You’re Blood,” said Jerome.

  “West Side Slicks,” said Owen. “Born and raised, same as you.”

  “Then why Clair?”

  “That isn’t her name,” said Owen. “As to why…that isn’t for a punk like you to know. You had a job. You messed up. I fix messes.”

  “You took my Clair.”

  Owen nodded. “Now I’m going to take you.” He head checked me. “Then I’ll take him and this mess will be cleaned.”

  “Blood Battle,” said Jerome. It was more of a demand than a question.

  “It’s your right, if you want it that way,” said Owen.

  “Fists?”

  “Good with me, but it’ll hurt. Best for you, you just let me put a bullet through your brain and be done with it. Faster, less painful.”

  “Pain doesn’t bother me,” said Jerome. “I’m going to kill you.”

  “Drop your gun,” said Owen.

  Jerome dropped his gun.

  “Jerome…what are you doing, Jerome?” I asked.

  “West Side Slicks’ got a code. I challenged him, so he’s obliged to honor it. Drop your gun,” said Jerome.

  “No,” I said. “Pick yours up.”

  “Drop your gun,” said Owen. “I won’t shoot you. You have my word. But if you don’t, I’ll shoot Jerome where he stands.”

  “And after you kill him, you’ll beat me to death?” I asked.

  For the first time I saw a little smile crease his lips. “Yes.”

  “You guys are nuts,” I said. “But I have to admit, I’d kind of like to see Jerome here rip you to pieces.” I tossed my little Glock onto the floor in front of me. “Clash of the Titans. Kind of reminds me of the two big guys fighting it out in the movie The Deep. All I’m missing is beer and some popcorn. Make it fast, Jerome.”

  Owen’s dead eyes slid back to Jerome and he actually threw his gun aside and held up his fists in a classic Krav Maga fighting stance.

  My left arm was still out of commission, but my right worked just fine. I drew my Smith and Wesson 4506 forty-five caliber semi-automatic handgun from its holster in the middle of my back and put three rounds into his chest. I ran up on him and put two more through his face…just in case he was wearing a vest… which it turned out he was.

  Jerome looked at me… stunned.

  “What?” I said. “You never saw Raiders of the Lost Ark?” I searched the dead man’s pockets and took what I was looking for. “Indiana Jones has nothing on me.” I turned back to Jerome. “Come on. We’ve got a little girl to save.”

  Just then, I felt something grab my shirt at the back of my neck and I was catapulted up and over into the dark stairwell where I crashed into the unforgiving concrete of the wall. Lights flashed behind my eyes and agony exploded in my already injured left arm. I bounced off the wall, hitting the floor almost as hard. The wind left my lungs and the world swam darkly.

  Forcing my eyes to stay open, I saw an enraged Clyde charge straight at Jerome. Jerome charged back.

  Max dove under the runaway trains to stand over my body, acting as guard.

  The two of them hit with roughly the concussive force of a hydrogen bomb and then I lost the fight. Darkness swam over me, thick and suffocating, dragging me into the stairwell of nightmares, where I missed probably the greatest fight since Thor versus Hulk.

  43

  The raw impact shook both men to their cores. The scales of weight and height and sheer mass were roughly the same, but Jerome had been through a lot over the past few days, and tonight especially. Clyde stood fresh and uninjured . And so he recovered first, shaking his head and moving in on Jerome with a wide hook that connected against his cheek, reopening the tear that Gil had split in their first meeting. Clyde followed with an uppercut that struck just below his floating rib. Only the bullet-resistant vest saved him from losing his wind, but even through the padding, the concussion jarred his senses. Jerome tried to block the right that jabbed straight at his face, but he couldn’t quite get his limbs to work and the blow landed flat and hard into his nose, snapping his head back.

  Jerome wrapped Clyde in his long arms, and head butted him three times — smack — smack — smack — blood flew and bone crunched before Clyde shoved forward with one hand and back with an elbow, breaking the grip and creating enough space for him to deliver two fast hooks to Jerome’s ribs and a third that came up high, hitting him on the exact spot on his cheek as before. Lights flashed like exploding stars behind Jerome’s eyes and he punched down with a swinging hammer fist that struck between Clyde’s shoulder and neck juncture. Clyde crumpled, his knees unhinging and his body going limp for just an instant before he came to and ducked to the side, just in time to avoid a knee that would have crushed his face.

  Jerome, dizzy and unsteady, didn’t let it stop him. He jumped forward, both feet leaving the floor as he swung in and down with a powerful Superman punch that whacked Clyde on the side of the head. Clyde smashed into a wall and bounced off to take another punch on the opposite side of the head. Still standing, Clyde ducked down into an instinctive fetal ball, hands up to protect his face and head, elbows nearly touching his thighs as he tried to move feet that no longer felt sure. Five hard body punches landed, each taking their toll. Clyde ducked lower and shot forward, grabbing Jerome’s legs just above the knees and pulling them in tight against his chest. He drove up and in, taking his fellow giant off his feet and down onto his back, with Clyde on top.

  The floor was hard concrete and five hundred pounds of man flesh was a lot of weight to absorb. Jerome’s head smacked hard against the unforgiving surface and he almost lost consciousness, giving Clyde the opportunity to climb up over Jerome’s legs and gain the mounted position. From this vantage point, he started raining blows down into Jerome’s face. Jerome found himself in roughly the same spot that Clyde had been a second before, with his arms and hands covering his head and face, trying to fend off a swarm of lethal missiles. Jerome managed to grab hold of a wrist, and even though it cost him three hard blows to the face, he held on as he hooked one of Clyde’s heels with the toe of his shoe. He bucked hard, up and to the side, throwing Clyde off balance and rolling him over his shoulder. Jerome followed the roll and no
w he was on top, in a reverse position, except that he was in Clyde’s guard, Clyde’s legs wrapped around Jerome’s midsection.

  Clyde couldn’t believe that Jerome had managed to throw him. But now that Jerome was on top, he wasn’t about to chance letting him be there for long. He shrimped to the side, released his foot lock, and pushed-kicked Jerome off of him.

  Both men made it to their feet, breathing hard, blood leaking from fresh wounds. They circled warily and then their mutual hatred pushed past their training and they charged, both titans shooting their arms and hands forward. Neither man attempted to block, and as if by silent agreement, they grabbed each other’s throats. Skill no longer mattered here. Now it was muscle against muscle… will against will… as fingers and thumbs crushed in against necks packed with hard slabs of meat and tendons and muscle. Veins, pulsing thick and blue with pressurized blood, stood bulging on their foreheads and temples as incredible force sought the end of human life. They circled, sweat streaming, teeth clenched, eyes hot and red and locked… staring in the most primal of battles, life and death. No quarter would be asked or given. The giants were silent now as every ounce of their beings warred. Bones creaked and ligaments stretched as each drove in. Finally, the circling stopped and they simply stood, grinding in with the very last of their stores of energy.

  Until one man’s strength… failed.

  44

  Over four hours had passed since she first placed the samples in the Maxwell 16, but finally, the results lay before her.

  She shook her head. “You knew all along didn’t you, Gil?” The man was smart. Sarah had three PHDs and still she had no idea how Gil could fit together the pieces of the puzzles he put together. Another reason to love him. Like with the Double Tap Rapist. Numerous police agencies had set out to catch him, but it took Gil Mason to bring an end to his evil.

  Rubbing her eyes, she printed out the findings. It had been a long night and she still had to clean up, but first she had to call Gil.

  Well, at least this might help end whatever he was doing in Chicago and get him back home. At the thought of seeing him again, her fatigue vanished. She picked up her cell and called him. She thought about FaceTiming him, but she looked a wreck, so instead settled for mere audio.

  The phone rang and rang.

  The first of the press calls started at about seven the next morning, and by eight, at least fifty reporters were waiting outside.

  Senator Marsh put on his best smile as the horde barged into his office. He’d had Keisha, and the couple playing her aunt and uncle, brought in on rush notice. They were standing with him as reporters started asking questions.

  He was upset because he hadn’t been able to get hold of Clyde since last night, but he kept it well hidden. This wasn’t the time to let the press get wind that anything was amiss.

  Gil Mason had alerted the press to the rescue before he’d landed with the girl in Chicago. He’d managed to hold them off for a time, but it was too big a story for them to lose interest. So now both he and Keisha were being put in the spotlight for the world to see.

  It put a hitch in his plans, but only a little. He’d turn this to his advantage, just as he had everything in his life. He’d started as a Blood, something that should have kept him out of politics from the beginning. Instead, he’d used it. First, to rise in power, then, as a pity card; poor boy from the hood makes good, isn’t America great? All while running the entire gang effort to take over the town from the inside. He’d been an OG for decades, having never left the Bloods, simply playing the game and learning how to best take advantage of the system. And then, once becoming a senator, using the clout and authority to have access to when and where the police were going to be so that his men could be elsewhere. He was able to move the police and DA’s office to crack down on the other gangs, keeping the Bloods quiet and playing it on the down low. Eventually, the others were beat down to where it was easy for them to sweep in and take everything over.

  It also gave him the tactical advantage of having his own private army. And Alvin Marsh never missed a chance to use his advantages, but always from the shadows. There was only a select handful of people that knew who the boss really was. Clyde, with him from the start, was his second in command and his greatest enforcer.

  The only glitch in his rise had been his one weakness… women. Clyde constantly chided him about it, but Clyde was never a man for the ladies. Alvin had always had a way with women. They loved him and he loved them back. Always discreetly, he’d never hurt his wife that way, not if he could help it anyway. In all the years that they’d been together, she’d only been suspicious that one time, and he’d managed to charm her out of her fears like he charmed everyone. But Alvin knew himself to be a great man, destined for great things. And great men were too big for any one woman. How could a man as intense as he was be content with just one woman? Even Baskin Robbins understood the truth. They served the greatest taste treat in the world, ice cream, but did they offer just one flavor? No, they offered thirty-one. All the great men knew this truth. Gandhi, Muhammad, Kennedy, Clinton. The important thing was not to hurt the woman you loved most with your excursions. That, and not allowing your tastes to ruin your career. And in politics, that was something very dicey indeed. Money helped, of course, and the power, but even then there were sometimes complications, and that was where Clyde came in.

  Alvin Marsh was anything but stupid. He understood that there were consequences to actions, and so today, he would face those consequences. Keisha James would have her moment in the sun. She would appear before the cameras and hear how brave she was and afterward he would pat her on the head, kiss her goodbye, and she would leave with the man and woman Clyde had picked out to be her aunt and uncle, the Claytons. And they’d turn her over to Clyde, who would take her somewhere safe and kill her. No one would find her body. That, of course, was supremely important in this day of DNA and ultra science. They would take her to a local crematorium and her ashes would be spread out over the Chicago River. The consequences would be over on that particular chapter of his life.

  The Claytons walked into the room with little Keisha by their side. He saw her eyes searching the room and understood she was looking for the man that had killed her mother and taken her. Jerome Larkin was dead, but she didn’t know that. He saw no reason to burden her with the information. The fire in the projects and subsequent collapse of the building had been ruled an accidental fire, started by an addict too high to know better. His contacts in the upper echelons of government would make sure that no one looked into the details and so it would stay that way.

  All that remained was to finish this press conference. In a way it was funny, because as always, Marsh would use this to his advantage. Gil Mason had intended this to cause a problem for him, and in one way it had. He’d had to delay getting rid of the evidence, that is Keisha James, but in the most important way, it would actually help him immensely. He had decided that this would be the perfect time to announce his candidacy for President of the United States of America. Yes, America was great indeed.

  A smile broke on his face as he stretched out his hands, welcoming both the press and little Keisha James as she walked toward him with the Claytons.

  Turning back to the crowd, he felt a sudden terror flip-flop his belly, making him physically stagger, the smile faltering for the first time in his career. Standing to his right was a grinning Gil Mason.

  45

  The camera lights flashed and popped and clicked as Senator Marsh nodded at me. I let the grin widen and nodded back. Just two old buds, meeting up in front of the world.

  He snapped back fast, I have to give him that; a professional politician to the core. The smile returned and his hands continued to take all the crowd in.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, and it was the best Morgan Freeman of them all, full of rich bass tones, melodious and smooth and classical. “Thank you all for coming today. The real reason we are here is to pay our respects to just
ice.” He reached down and placed a fatherly hand on little Keisha’s shoulder, looking down on her with a mixture of pride and humility. “This little angel has been restored to us, the citizens of Chicago, safe and sound. Her mother was murdered and she was kidnapped three years ago by a gang member named Jerome Larkin. I became aware of her plight through my charity organization, The Marsh Foundation. Since then, we have worked tirelessly to restore her to her family.” He held his hand out to the man and woman standing by Keisha James, shaking their hands in turn. “The Claytons,” said Marsh. “Little Keisha’s aunt and uncle. Her only surviving relatives.”

  He then turned to me.

  “And this is Gil Mason of Sheepdog Detective Agency, working out of Colorado. His firm aided us in securing Keisha and bringing her back to us.” He shook my hand and I shook it back, smiling for the cameras like a good boy.

  After that, Marsh finished his speech. Questions were asked and answered and then the press was led out of the room. Keisha gave me a dirty look as her pretend relatives took her to a side room. Marsh told his security detail to wait outside while he spoke with me and we were alone, just the two of us.

  As soon as he turned to me, the kid gloves came off and the true Alvin Marsh appeared. Not the slick politician. This was the old-time Blood gang-banger. Seeing the real man, I knew his police record had to have been doctored. There was no way he’d only had a few minor violations. No, this man was a killer.