She grinned at Dominic. “Let’s go get you an arrest.”
11
Dominic Elkins
* * *
Sink or Swim
* * *
Dominic didn’t like the grin his FTO flashed him. She was a different kind of woman, obviously older than him; athletic build, not that physically attractive, but she carried herself in a way that demanded respect.
The guy looked big, but he had a beer gut that appeared soft, and a nice long ponytail that would be good for grabbing if the need arose. The bartender had told his FTO the guy had a warrant, so now his job was to see if it was true, and if so, make the arrest.
Simple enough.
Except for the mass of people. The place was so packed and rowdy, Dominic had a hard time focusing. His eyes kept shifting to the stages even though he knew the danger would be from the crowd.
The noise level—roughly that of a Concord jet—and those stupid flashing lights and colors had a strobe effect that gave him a headache—and what in the world was that woman doing with those golf balls—it wasn’t possible—and did the big guy with the pony-tail just spot him—and the woman on the red stage was no—no—no way—not even—and pony-tail reaching into his pocket—and those strobes—flashing and splashing and then roving on and on—and the smell of alcohol and sweat and other things—strange other things that he didn’t even want to think about—and they were still too far away, with too many tables between them, to see what he was reaching for—and the woman with the six guns firing caps at the ceiling and then at people in the crowd—and pony-tail looking right at them now, his lips mouthing words that Dominic couldn’t make out—and his hand almost out of his pocket but it stuck— something in his hand stuck—and the woman with the boots and guns had spotted him and was play shooting at him—and now the lights were flipping on and off on and off on and off—the colors overlapping—warping into strange combinations that tricked the eyes—and the noise—and his hand came out of his pocket as he stood, knocking his chair over as he did—and he stretched out his hand—pointing something at Dominic—too late to go for his gun—and the naked woman with the guns popping them one after another—blowing him kisses and shooting the gun—and the strobes faster and faster—onoffonoffonoffonoffon—and Dominic dove over the last table and hit pony-tail square in the chest—his hand reaching for the gun in pony-tail’s hand—and they were crashing on top of the table—wood splintering, chairs flying, mugs and shot glasses smashing—a fist clipped Dominic’s temple—and then the two of them were on the floor—feet everywhere—the sound louder than ever—and he crushed in on pony-tail’s wrist—felt the bones grind and mush—and he smacked it on the floor—again and again and the gun went skittering away—and someone stepped on Dominic’s head, smacking it into the floor—and Dominic grabbed the pony-tail and rolled him, their bodies cutting through the legs like wheat sheers—tumbling everyone they hit so that bodies were scattered across the floor—and Dominic was on top of pony-tail and he punched down smacking the man’s forehead so hard his eyes rolled up—and someone kicked Dominic in the right kidney—and someone else hit him in the shoulder with a beer bottle—and Dominic flopped pony-tail over onto his face and cuffed him behind the back just as the steel-tipped toe of a workbook swung at his face—and he caught it with both hands—twisted—felt the knee joint pop—let the kicker’s momentum carry him along—his body crashing into other bodies while Dominic stayed sitting on top of pony-tail—and bouncers were wading into the mix—and someone pulled Ms. Boots and Guns from the stage—and Dominic saw his chance—hauled pony-tail up to his feet—ducked another beer bottle—and saw his FTO knocking people down left and right with her baton—using short wicked arcs that took out shins, forearms, ribs—and he made it to her side just as she smacked a bearded man on the collarbone with a sound that could be heard even over the blare of the music and the roar of the crowd—and she saw him— a gleam in her eye—a gleam he had seen in soldier’s eyes as they lost themselves to the lust of battle—and where she had looked plain before now she looked different—charged— energized— full of life—excitement—and she leaned close-closer-closest-shouting in his ear—but with the clamor it was as if she were whispering to him—only to him that they had to go—and they were moving toward the exit—the two of them—knocking people out of their way—kneeing, punching, throwing—and the sound of her night-stick as it crunched and snapped and popped and thudded was a kind of music all its own—and then the way was clear and the door shoved open and they were out in the night air—and they were safe and alone and they had their prisoner—and…
“…and I told you to make the arrest, not start a riot,” she said; only she didn’t look upset at all.
“He reached for a gun,” said Dominic. “I didn’t have any choice.”
“You thought he had a gun and you charged him anyway?”
“There wasn’t time for anything else.”
She pulled out an object from her back pocket, flipped a switch that illuminated the small laser light with a pig’s face on it. It blasted out “bam-beowww”. “This is what he pulled from his pocket, the Pig Shooter, remember?”
He took the little flashlight, jerked ponytail around and shoved it in front of his face. “Is this what you had? I could have shot you, I almost did shoot you.”
Ponytail, who had gained a measure of consciousness but still looked spacey, grinned and said, “Oink-oink.” His breath smelled ripe with beer and he only had three teeth in the front.
Dominic felt like punching out the last three; he didn’t like nonuniformity. It must have shown on his face because his FTO put a hand on his shoulder and smiled.
“Relax, Rook. Check him for ID.”
Dominic found a wallet in his back pocket and pulled out a Colorado ID that showed a picture of a younger, cleaner version of their suspect. “It says your name is Reginald Thomas Dempsey… the Third.”
“You hit me in the head,” said Reginald Thomas Dempsey the Third. “That hurt.”
“You shouldn’t have pointed a… anything at me.”
“You hit me in the head for pointing a piggy face at you? That ain’t right, man. That’s why we call you fuzz, pigs. Oink-oink.”
“Run him for warrants,” said his FTO.
Dominic went to the data channel on his radio and asked for clearance and drivers on Reginald Thomas Dempsey the Third, and gave the dispatcher his date of birth.
The dispatcher came back saying that he was clear of warrants, but that his driver’s license showed suspended for DUI.
“He’s suspended,” said Dominic to his FTO.
“Go figure. No warrants?”
Dominic shook his head.
“He hit me for nothing,” said Reginald Thomas Dempsey the Third.
“At least he didn’t shoot you,” said Sarah. She shined her flashlight on Dominic’s face. For the first time, Dominic felt a small trail of blood dripping from his hairline and down his cheek. “Besides, looks like you got a couple of lumps in yourself. That’s second degree assault on a police officer.” She grinned at him. “And that’s a felony, son.”
“I didn’t hit him once,” said Reginald Thomas Dempsey the Third. “I swear.”
Dominic started to agree, to say the crowed attacked him, but Sarah held up a finger, stopping him.
“I guess that would be your word against ours,” said Sarah. “Of course we’ve got the evidence written all over my partner’s face here, and blood don’t lie, buddy.”
“I didn’t do nothing!”
Sarah stepped in, face to face with him. “You’re drunk and you thought it would be funny to harass the cops with your little piggy toy. Well it didn’t go the way you hoped and you got a little boo-boo, tough. So, what you’re going to do is take a hike and we’ll both forget this little drama ever happened. Right?”
“Yeah, yeah, that sounds okay,” said Reginald Thomas Dempsey the Third.
“Take off the cuffs,” she said.<
br />
Dominic wasn’t sure he liked this; after all he had hit the guy. It didn’t seem right to threaten him to keep quiet. He considered saying something, but didn’t. He took off the cuffs.
Reginald Thomas Dempsey the Third rubbed his wrists. “Can I have Piggy back?”
“Don’t push it,” said Sarah.
He nodded and walked away.
She tossed the piggy flashlight to the rook. “Souvenir.”
“I didn’t get an arrest,” said Dominic.
“That’s okay. I saw what I wanted to see.”
12
The assassin
* * *
Contract
* * *
Enrico Da Vinci took pride in many things, but his heritage most of all. As a direct descendant of the great Leonardo Da Vinci, he knew from an early age that greatness awaited him. An artist of sorts himself, Enrico became a master of his craft. There were differences of course. Leonardo painted in oils and sculpted in marble. His tools were the brush and the chisel. Enrico did not use a brush or a chisel. His tools were the high-powered rifle, the rapid-fire automatic and high grade explosives. He painted in blood and gray matter and screams. And though the actual physical display of his works were quickly washed away and hidden from the public, they lived eternally in the lives and minds of all those who were touched by them.
Enrico had killed eighty-nine men, eleven women. Enrico never missed. He never killed anyone he didn’t mean to kill. He had never been arrested, never even questioned for any of his many crimes. No record of his fingerprints or DNA existed. No one who knew what he did had ever seen his face and lived.
The underworld and law enforcement agencies knew him only as Death, for he moved as the Juggernaut; unstoppable, unknowable, a myth to many, a scourge to others. He murdered without consideration of wealth or status or rank. He killed the high and the low, the lawful and the lawless. No Don nor OG nor head of the CIA was safe. If hired to kill a king or a peasant or a president; no matter the security, seclusion or even divine intervention, the target would die.
Death was his art and so the name proved fitting.
Enrico sat at a table with a wide umbrella next to a pool of the newest and most expensive resort in Dubai. Scores of beautiful women lay around the pool, taking in the sun, their bodies all but naked, in sharp contrast to Middle Eastern standards. He tapped a few keys on his laptop and fifteen contracts popped up. He scrolled through each. He amassed great wealth over the years and invested wisely. Enrico could have retired years ago. He no longer needed to kill for money. He continued for the beauty of it.
His art.
He opened a file, looked closer, not certain he had read the description correctly. Enrico tapped a long index finger against his finely cultured lips; perfection — no — no not quite. The pictures were clear and of excellent quality; a close up of her face — perfect; and a picture of her standing with other women — he felt his breath catch — the imperfection grabbing his attention; or rather the perfect mixture of the two.
An old saying came to mind, that for true art there must be some flaw or lack of quality in the midst of perfection. Never before had the saying proved more fitting.
Beauty and grotesqueness merged together in one human form to create a masterpiece that could not be ignored nor forgotten.
He looked up and again saw the banquet of raw flesh that offered itself to him as though on a platter. He had planned on picking one or more to satiate his appetite later tonight, but they would no longer do.
He read through the woman’s dossier.
Finally he sat back, the last morsel of information contained in the file consumed, so that he was free to stare at her face, her breasts, her arms and legs and feet and hands. She would be his Mona Lisa, his Sistine Chapel, his Pieta.
His Last Supper.
In her he saw something that all of his past targets had lacked. In her he saw the heart of art. Cinnamon Twist did not describe a work of art. Cinnamon was art itself.
He looked at his watch: 2:30 pm. Dubai drifted eleven hours ahead of Colorado; it would be 1:30 am there.
He took up his cell phone and began making arrangements for his trip to America.
13
Dominic Elkins
* * *
The Dream
* * *
They made it to the rooftop, only instead of a helicopter they repelled from the belly of a giant dragonfly that sobbed and cried as it buzzed overhead saying “What have you done? The voice of your brother’s blood cries out to Me from the ground.”
Dominic turned to Lance Corporal Sam Walker to ask him if he saw what Dominic saw, but Sam stared straight ahead with blood pouring from a neck wound. Sam said, “Am I my brother’s keeper?”
“Yes,” said Dominic, stunned. “Yes, we all are.”
“From the ground — from the ground — from the ground,” cried the dragonfly as it flew away, its powerful wings making the top of the building quiver beneath them.
Sam nodded, each movement sending a spray of blood squirting from his neck. “Save me, brother — save me — save me from the bars — from the bars of butter.”
Dominic didn’t understand. “Bars of what?” but Sam was gone then and Dominic stood looking over the rest of his troops; Tom, Blake, Eddie, Maurice, Bam-Bam, Ward and Justin. They all stared at him with dull lifeless eyes, and each sported a mortal wound.
“Are you our keeper?” they asked in unison.
“Yes,” said Dominic. “I’m your brother.”
“Our blood cries out — out — out,” they chanted. “Save us from the butter.”
Second Lieutenant Nassif stood at attention behind Dominic; he put a hand on his shoulder. “Send them in,” he said. “Send them in — it’s time — time for the trap.” And he laughed.
“From the butter—save us from the bars of butter,” they chanted in one hollow voice that seemed to come at him from everywhere.
“We have a job to do, Staff Sergeant,” said the Lieutenant. “It must be done. You have your job — and I have mine. Send them in — send them in.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Dominic heard himself say. But when he looked at his men again they were already running for the vent. “Wait —,” he tried to say — but in the way of dreams his voice turned to empty breath that no one could hope to hear.
There must be another way, he thought, as the men began to drop into the vent, but no other way presented itself so he tried again to shout at them — to make them stop — to make them wait, but it was too late. And then came the blood — so much blood — a sea of blood geysering out of the vent his men had disappeared into. Thick and hot and filled with the rancid smell of rusting metal. It shot out in torrents, covering everything and rising like a living tide, surging around his ankles, his calves his thighs — up past his hips. More blood than his men’s bodies could hope to hold; more than the terrorists and the hostages — future blood; the blood of those who would die because of his failure in the here and now.
The words came from behind him. He turned, gun in hand, knowing what must be done. But a lifetime of training held him back, told him it was wrong, told him there must — must be another way.
Wrong.
His finger tightened on the trigger, but he had waited too long and he saw the muzzle flash, felt the impact of the copper jacketed bullet as it smashed into his chest.
The pain snapped him awake and he sat up in bed, sweat beaded on his flesh, the sheets soaked, hearing the echo of the shot and the chant of his soldiers as they faded away into nothingness.
He scrubbed his face with his hands and looked at the glowing clock on the nightstand, 0415. He had slept for exactly two hours. He could have tried for another fifteen minutes, but his heart still thumped so fast and strong in his chest that he knew sleep was done for him. He made his way to the bathroom and started the shower.
He felt tired and grumpy and in no mood for a nit-picky FTO, which is the way Sarah had described Quinn Ta
ylor, the dayshift Field Training Officer he would be coupled with today.
Too bad; his mood didn’t matter squat. In the Field Training Program you put up with whatever your FTO doled out or you’d get flunked out of the program and there would go your job. And Dominic wanted this job. He wanted it bad. Over the last few days he’d gotten a taste — and he liked it.
No.
He loved it.
Since his discharge he’d felt… flat… dull… as though a glaze had formed over his life making him slow, sluggish, as though life had lost its luster — its meaning.
The last few nights had changed that. Back in the action; almost like combat.
To his mind there were three worlds; the old world — war — kill or be killed, constant danger, expecting death at any moment and watching others die just as quickly. A world he knew, where brotherhood and loyalty meant more than just words, where a keen sense of tactics and physical abilities, combined with discipline, willpower and razor sharp reflexes made the difference between life and death. A world he understood and where he fit. But it was also a world that he knew would sooner or later kill him. Next; the new world — civilian — where all his skills and instincts were meaningless; where people he could destroy with a twist of his wrist or a kick to the throat could flip him off and call him a baby-killer, or spit in his face and he wasn’t allowed to do anything about it. A world with no justice, no fairness, just wanton disrespect, rudeness degradation and filth. A world where he would die slowly — but die just the same.
Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set Page 74
