Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set

by Gordon Carroll

  The knife was a Global, eight-inch Chef’s Knife. Majoqui had seen one in a fancy store in Los Angeles years ago. It was priced at over a hundred dollars. At the time, Majoqui had thought it ridiculous, but now that he’d used it on meat, he had to admit it was well worth the money. He’d just taken off the old man’s thumb with it and even the joint hadn’t given him the least bit of trouble. The man had screamed and blubbered through the dish towel stuffed in his mouth, but it was too muffled to make it much beyond the enormous kitchen they were in. The woman was nearly played out, so Majoqui slapped the man hard across the face, to make sure he was paying attention, then walked behind the woman’s chair and jerked her head up by the hair. He laid the knife to her throat and slid it across. The man screamed and shook as his wife bled out before him. Majoqui let her lifeless face drop to the table — the same table where she and her husband had been drinking coffee just a short while before.

  It was time for the children.

  Majoqui sighed. He did not take pleasure at the suffering and death of others. But in truth, it did not bother him greatly either. It was simply something that had to be done. Majoqui had not made this man cheat Mara, that had been his own choice. And choices — all choices — have consequences.

  He laid the knife down on the table in front of the man, fresh with his wife’s blood, and looked up toward the stairs in the other room. The stairs led to the children’s rooms. The man saw the look and screamed louder, his voice going guttural as he rocked his chair back and forth. Majoqui couldn’t make out the words, what with the gag and him having only a stump of a tongue, but he well understood the sentiments. The man’s face was flushed with blood — nearly purple — with thick veins standing out on his forehead and at his temples. Sweat slicked his skin and his shirt was soaked. Good, the message was getting through. He would take the knowledge to Hell with him.

  Majoqui turned his back on the man and started for the stairs. It was as he passed the island in the center of the kitchen that he heard the sound — just a rustle of clothing — but it was enough — because there should have been no sound. He started to turn when the first bullet hit him, low in the back, square in the kidney. It felt like a hard punch and he spun with the force of the impact. The second and third bullets plowed into his stomach, stealing his wind and blanking his mind. He doubled over and to the side, hitting the cold granite of the counter and bouncing to the tiled floor — not quite sure how he’d ended up there or where or who he was. There was more gunfire, the small pieces of copper-jacketed lead sizzling over him at scorching velocity.

  Clarity forced itself over his befuddled state — it was the detective — the one in the business suit — who he’d shot in the chest — had he been wearing a vest? No. Majoqui had seen the blood. But Majoqui was wearing a vest and it suddenly dawned on him that most or possibly all of the hits he’d just taken had probably been stopped by it. He shook his head and pulled the gun from his waistband. He dragged himself across the floor by his fingertips, careful to keep the island between the downed officer and himself. It was hard because he only had the one eye and he had to crane his neck at an impossible angle to see the island. When he was on the other side, he struggled to a kneeling position. Quickly he checked himself. His fingers came out from under the vest with slight smears of blood, but nothing else. If the bullets had actually punctured him, he would be pouring his blood out just as the banker’s wife’s blood had poured from her throat.

  The counter was only about four feet high and Majoqui hazarded a peek over the edge, but the bark of a gun and shattered pieces of granite sprayed his face, stinging his forehead and tapping against the bandage over his eye. He ducked down. This was taking too long and so many gunshots might be heard, even through these walls. Police might be on the way.

  Majoqui got down on his belly and crawled to the edge of the island, thinking that if the detective were still on his back, he might not be able to see over his own body to where Majoqui was. He saw the man; there was much blood — too much blood for him to still be alive — stupid American police — why couldn’t they die like they were supposed to? He was lying on his back, just as Majoqui had thought. He was breathing hard, his chest and belly rising and falling fast and shallow. He held the gun with one hand, the barrel swinging back and forth weakly. At that angle, the detective would be able to see him if he stood, but not while he hugged the floor on his stomach.

  In the prone position, Majoqui took careful aim. He fired five times. There was more blood and then the detective wearing the business suit was still. Majoqui crawled over to him, taking no chances. When he was close enough, he shot him again, this time in the side of the head.

  Standing, Majoqui pulled the magazine from the butt of his gun. There were three bullets left and one in the chamber. The spare magazines were in the hospital bag on the other counter. He pried the gun from the dead detective’s fingers, then stripped two other magazines from a leather holder on the man’s belt. These bullets were nine millimeter, whereas the gun he’d taken from the police officer at the hospital was a forty caliber. They were not interchangeable. Still, two guns was not a bad thing.

  Majoqui saw that the bank president had overturned his chair and was struggling to get free. Majoqui had no fear of this. The tape that bound him was strong and the man was not.

  The guns felt heavy in his hands. He was very tired and he ached everywhere. Still, there was more to be done. He would not be able to take the time he had with the wife — no — he would have to do this quickly now.

  The acrid stench of cordite and blood hung heavy in the air. He sighed again, shook his head and took a deep breath, hoping to clear his head. He put both guns in his waistband and started up the stairs for the children.

  7

  Tamera Sun threw off the covers and sat up in bed. She was tired — bone tired — and her feet still hurt, but she could not sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the man with the doctor’s shirt and the bandage. He had looked so sad, so hurt and lost. Or was she just projecting?

  Miranda snuggled up close to her, purring. Tamera picked her up and rubbed her cheek against the downy like softness of the kitty’s fur.

  Kansas and her family were just one state away, but they might just as well be on Jupiter. She was dead to them; ever since she drove away with Kyle. He was two years older than her and had been kicked out of his parent’s house after he was arrested for dealing some fake meth to an undercover cop. Tamera didn’t take drugs. Oh she’d experimented, some pot, a little coke, a couple of X-pills at raves and the like, but no meth, or crank, or ice, nothing that would turn her into a junky or meth whore. If Kyle had been into real meth, she’d never have gone with him, but the phony stuff didn’t really bother her. That had been almost two years ago and Kyle was long gone, taken up with that fake blond, Susan Fletcher, with her pouty lips and perfect bubble butt. Her mom and dad wouldn’t take her calls and all her letters had been returned unopened. She’d thought about hopping a bus and just showing up on their doorstep, but the thought of her father’s stern face and her mother’s shaking of the head put an end to that. It wasn’t that her father was mean or that he’d beat her, but she knew she’d disappointed them and that they felt betrayed. They were proud people and proud people took things like that hard.

  At least she had Miranda. Miranda loved her and she loved Miranda back. Miranda kept her from being lonely. Only there was another kind of loneliness, a loneliness that Miranda couldn’t help.

  He seemed so gentle, so kind. His voice was soft and his eye, that smooth, mellow brown. She didn’t feel foolish for giving him her number like she had. She didn’t even feel shame at his rejection. She was just sorry that he wasn’t interested; sorry that they would never get the chance to see where things might have gone. Tamera hated missed opportunities. She felt that most of her life had been made up of just that and she didn’t want to spend another minute missing what might be. She’d always been a good judge of character,
except maybe for Kyle, and she’d gotten some kind of vibe from the guy in the doctor’s shirt that made her feel… safe. At least he could have told her his name, then she wouldn’t have to keep thinking of him as the guy in the doctor’s shirt or the guy with the bandage or the guy with one eye. She decided to make up a name for him. She would call him… Simon… Dr. Simon.

  She hugged Miranda close to her and said the name over and over.

  I parked a few houses down the street from the banker’s place. Cops never park right in front of anyone’s house. It’s an ambush thing — we don’t like them. Of course seeing the Denver car and Billy’s black SUV in the driveway made a lie of my claim. Kids! I just shook my head and started toward the front door, keeping to the shadows as much as possible, because…well… just in case… habit. I walked up the three stairs to the front porch and angled myself off to the right of the door before knocking softly. It was after four in the morning and I didn’t want to wake the children.

  No answer.

  I knocked again, a little louder this time.

  Still nothing, only… I thought I heard something; like maybe a footstep. I listened closer. Outside, morning birds were starting to chirp and whistle and crickets sounded off. But inside, all was quiet, all except… I stepped closer to the door… my head inclining in, trying to listen… my ear close to the ornate wood… closer… closer…

  A hole punched through the door just above my head, splinters of wood peppered my forehead and face. I jerked back as three more holes filled the space my head had just occupied. Light from inside poured out through the neat, round holes like laser beams. Somehow my gun was in my hand and I fired two shots back in answer.

  I toggled my radio mic and demanded the air for ‘shots fired’. Dispatch already knew my location and would be sending Denver cars.

  Tactics required that I wait for backup, but the reality was, a friend and colleague was in there. And if he wasn’t fighting, then he was either dead or hurt; not to mention there were children inside.

  No more holes were punching through the door, so I clenched my teeth, took a step back, and smashed into it with my shoulder. The door was solid, but I’m five-ten and a little over two-hundred pounds — none of it fat. The door frame gave, slapping the door inward hard. I was inside, scanning with my gun sites. There was a flash to my right and I ducked as a bullet shattered a standing lamp next to me. There was another gunshot and I fired at a blur of movement as it darted out the back door on the far side of the kitchen. I was about to give chase, when I heard the whimper from the stairs. I made my way over, trying to cover everything with my gun as I did. What I saw made my mouth go dry. A little boy and a little girl, both lying on the stairs, dropped like sacks of grain, their hands, feet and mouths duct-taped. The girl’s arm looked like it was broken. They both stared at me, their eyes big and filled with fear.

  I held my finger to my mouth, trying to keep them quiet; hoping my uniform and badge would let them know I was here to help. I plucked them up from their haphazard positions on the stairs and laid them on the landing. The girl cried out when I sat her down, probably because of her arm. Then I left them. It was hard, they both started crying and screaming beneath the tape, but I had to make sure it was safe. And I had to see if there was anyone else I could save.

  I called dispatch again, telling them I had one suspect that ran out the back door toward the East and to have Denver start setting up a perimeter. I made my way to the kitchen, sweat running down my face, my heart racing in my ears. I wasn’t scared — not then — not till later — I was mad. Enraged. I thought of my own daughter.

  Billy was first. He was shot to pieces. Then the Denver officer; most of his face was gone. The banker was next. His ears had been cut off and one of his thumbs was missing. He’d been shot point blank in the top of the head; his thinning hair showed gunpowder stipple burnt into his scalp. It looked fresh; blood still oozed from the wound.

  But then I saw his wife… and suddenly… I was scared. I was used to bad stuff — the aftermath of battles — I’d been through two messy wars and seen plenty on the streets — but this — this was something completely different. This was like something from a nightmare — like something from Hell.

  Sirens sounded in the distance, coming closer. Good. Because suddenly… I didn’t want to be alone in that kitchen anymore.

  8

  Tamera had just drifted off to sleep when her phone jingled the Lady Gaga song that she reserved for unknown callers. She picked up and heard Dr. Simon’s voice. She knew him instantly because she’d been replaying their conversation over and over for the past few hours in her head.

  “Hello,” he said. “I’m the man you met earlier tonight; the one with the bandage on my eye.”

  “I know,’ she said. “I was hoping you’d call.”

  “I’m sorry it’s so late…”

  “I don’t care,” she broke in. “Do you want to come over?”

  “Yes,” he said. “But I’m in trouble… I… need help.”

  Tamera closed her eyes and smiled. “I can come get you. Where are you?”

  He gave her an address. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said.

  “I won’t. It’ll take me about half an hour to get down there.”

  “Good.” He hung up.

  Tamera threw on some clothes and grabbed her purse and keys. She lived in Gunwood, near Colorado Boulevard and Cherry Street, just a few blocks from the diner where she worked. She gave Miranda a kiss on the nose and locked the door of her apartment behind her. Gunwood was a rough neighborhood. It was the smallest city in Colorado, only one point six square miles, but it had more bars, strip clubs and massage parlors than any three cities in the state. She hopped into her 1991, yellow, VW Beetle and pumped the gas peddle five times before starting her up. The engine backfired twice and then she was off and running. A large, round peace symbol made of purple plastic hung from her rearview mirror, swaying back and forth.

  She was so happy and excited. Just before drifting off to sleep she had prayed to the universal deities of the cosmos that she would meet him again. And just like that, he’d called. Vaguely, she wondered what kind of trouble he was in, not that it really mattered; everyone was in trouble from time to time. Most of the time she was in trouble herself. If it wasn’t her parents or Kyle, it was rent or the utilities, or the Beetle’s engine acting up, or Miranda sick or coughing up hair balls. In her few short years of living, she learned that trouble was the natural state of humankind and that suffering was the consequential result of that trouble. Tamera considered it her job to help stop some of the suffering, whenever she was able; just like she’d done for Miranda, and look how well that had turned out.

  She was out of Gunwood in no time and into the city of Denver. It was getting close to five in the morning and the first of several stages of rush hour was starting. There seemed to be a lot of cops out. She’d already passed three police cars and she’d seen several small groups of police officer’s walking past stores and along the sidewalks.

  Tamera turned east from Colorado onto Seventh Avenue, stopping at every stop sign; and there were a lot of them. To the north, she saw more police cars, their lights flashing like exploding flowers.

  They were pretty.

  Majoqui lay beneath a jumble of bushes in the backyard of a large house, about seven blocks from where he had run. He checked the cell phone he’d taken from the banker. The cell phone had a password, but the banker had told him what it was even before Majoqui had sprayed the pepper spray into his wife’s eyes and mouth.

  The woman, Tamera, had said she would be there in thirty minutes; it was almost time.

  It was amazing all the things cell phones did. They acted as clocks and calendars and notebooks and… practically everything. Amazing.

  His left kidney hurt where the detective wearing the suit had shot him, so did his face. He still wore the bullet proof vest. It had served him as well as the Saint Christopher amulet had. Perhaps the ol
d witch woman’s spells were still working for him. He would have to leave her a gift when he returned home; perhaps some chickens, maybe even a goat, along with some money of course.

  Majoqui had been surprised when the police officer had smashed through the door of the banker’s house. He’d heard the knocking and dropped the children, then he had shot several times through the door. He expected to have killed whoever was standing there. He was an excellent shot after all, with natural talent, but instead, the man had crashed through the door and ,surprise of surprises, it had been the same police officer who had shot him in the chest earlier that evening. The one who had a monster the others called a K9.

  The sight of the police officer had un-nerved Majoqui and that was not something easily done. He had barely had time to kill the banker before running out the back door and into the darkness of night.

  Twigs tickled the back of his neck and some form of insect was making its way across the bare skin of his ankle. But it was better than lying in a ditch filled with human excrement and the stench of rotting animals. Still, the experience had only reinforced his earlier belief that killing police officers was generally bad business. He hardly thought that this much would be made of the killing of a simple banker and his family. No. He knew that the swarm of police was because he had killed one of their own and that they would not rest until they had exacted vengeance; until they had made an example of him. It was the same in every culture; Mara was no different. It was the reason he’d been sent to kill the banker and his family. The only difference was that Majoqui knew himself to be the best. He had never failed and he had always escaped. Tonight would be no different. The spirits watched over him and if they proved to be too busy to watch over him, he would do what he had to do himself.

  His eye was the worst now. He kept trying to open it without thinking and the stitches would pull and tear at his skin. He no longer wore the bandage; white was not wise to wear when hiding in the dark, and he had found it made him look most frightening while torturing the banker and his wife. That and talking through his teeth added terror. Majoqui had looked at himself in the banker’s bathroom mirror after he had tied them up and gagged them, but before he’d cut out their tongues. He hoped he would look more like himself when the stitches and wires came out and the swelling went down. He had always been considered quite handsome by the señoritas and he would not want this to change. Of course most women were like his mother — whores. Giving their bodies away to men — but never for free — no, they always wanted something in return; money, jewelry, food, gifts, even time — but always — always something. Still, he enjoyed them and would not be happy if he were left horribly scarred.