Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set

by Gordon Carroll

“That’s it,” said the Detective. “That solves it. It was right there all the time.” He looked back at Dominic.

  “One last thing. I see a flaw in your logic. You made a choice between letting a spy, a traitor live or maybe saving your men. You made the right choice.”

  “He surrendered. It’s still murder, the shedding of innocent blood.”

  “The guilt is Nassif’s, not yours, he was far from innocent. Either way, by your own admission even if you did commit murder, according to your theology, you have already been forgiven by God. You should let it go before it destroys you.”

  Dominic nodded. “You’re right, but it’s easier said than done.” His eyebrows drew down. “I thought you didn’t believe in God.”

  “Oh I believe in him,” said the detective. “I just don’t like him.”

  “I could probably help you with that. He’s often misunderstood.”

  “Maybe you could…maybe you could.”

  Dominic took a deep breath. He pointed at the gun. “So what about you and her?”

  The detective looked down at the small woman, tears welling and spilling down his cheeks. He held the gun out to Dominic. “I accept.” His shoulders sagged. “I’m so tired.”

  Dominic took the gun, tucked it into the front of his belt.

  Detective Rothstein lifted the stripper’s chin with his index finger. “I could never hurt you, no matter what. If you don’t love me — I can’t blame you for that. I don’t know how I’ll live without you, but I guess I’ll just have to try.” He looked over at Dominic. How do we get out of here?”

  “This way.” He led them through the smoke and ash and heat toward the north exit, but the fires were raging now. They had to race through several spots with flames licking out at them. A section of the roof collapsed and almost buried them. The midget striper screamed and Rothstein picked her up and carried her, covering her with his coat to protect her from the heat and debris.

  Dominic tried two different hallways, both clogged with smoke and rubble where the ceiling had fallen in, barring passage. Air was in short supply now and he coughed from deep in his lungs, feeling the gunk that mucked up his breathing rattle and rasp. He broke through to the entrance area and pulled them down the final hallway where the strippers had been huddled, but as he made his way forward he saw that walls had crumbled and fires burned everywhere. The exit had to be blocked. He tried to think of the club’s layout and another possible way out, but the smoke made him dizzy and he couldn’t think of another rout.

  “This way!” he heard someone shout from down the smoky hall. The voice boomed loud and deep and oddly familiar.

  The detective, down on his knees, still held the tiny girl in his arms. Dominic pulled him to his feet and dragged him toward the voice. They pushed past burning columns and burst through a thick oily cloud of dense smoke and there Dominic saw Kid Kong, braced in the doorway of the exit, an enormous grimacing smile on his face. The beams had buckled and the only thing holding the structure up was the massive strength in the big man’s shoulders, back and legs.

  “Can’t hold this thing all day, little man. Put the move on.”

  72

  Sarah Hampton

  Enrico Da Vinci

  Dominic Elkins

  Sammy Rothstein

  * * *

  Sarah felt hands pulling at her, throwing cats left and right. Something grabbed hold of the cat in her mouth, trying to squirm and claw its way down her windpipe, and jerked it free. Hands hauled her to her feet. She could breathe again. She opened her eyes and saw Dominic standing before her, gripping her shoulders and staring into her eyes. She grabbed him, hugged him to her, squeezed him tight. She never wanted to let go.

  There were others with him. Kid Kong, Sammy Rothstein and a woman so small she didn’t look real. Both Sammy and Dominic urged them around the corner and toward the front of the club.

  Sheer chaos reigned. Fire engines, ambulances, a sea of police cars, people everywhere. Sarah didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything, not John Doe or the cats or the destruction before her. She cared only for the strong arm that wrapped her close around the shoulders and moved her forward. Dominic was alive, alive and hers. She would never let him go again, never. She loved him more than anything. Her knight in shining armor had come to save her from the cats and her mission and eternal loneliness, but then, just as it seemed that everything was going to be all right…it turned horribly wrong.

  Enrico saw them come around the north end of the building. The light from the fire illuminated them perfectly. Through the scope he picked out Cinnamon, her small face magnified and centered in the crosshairs. He slid the scope up and over until the cross bisected the detective’s face. A moving target, but that presented no problem for a marksman of Enrico’s abilities. The bullet would travel in a flat downward trajectory, striking the oblivious man just below the hairline and tunneling through flesh, skull and brain in a downward path taking out gray matter until it reached and exploded the medulla oblongata at the stem of his brain. He wouldn’t even know he was dead. But Cinnamon would, and that was all that mattered.

  Enrico Da Vinci, progeny of the great Leonardo, rested his finger on the trigger and began to take up slack. Art was about to be made.

  Chuck Creed tossed a chunk of plaster and wood to the side, barely able to breathe. The smoke clung thick and heavy and felt like it had grabbed hold of his old heart in a tarry grip, squeezing tighter and tighter. He doubled over, coughed for several seconds and hacked out gobs of black spit. Sweat ran rivers down his face, soaking the hoodie and making his bulletproof vest itch beneath his shirt. His gloves were split and torn, his sweats grimed in muck and dirt and cement dust, but he was almost there. He straightened, grabbed hold of a section of cinderblock and shoved with all his strength. There came a splintering sound and a large section of wall fell outward, leaving a hole big enough for him to practically walk through. He scooped up the briefcase and climbed through, tripping on a bent piece of rebar and falling to the waiting asphalt. His sweat pants ripped at the knee and his skin scraped across the blacktop. He stayed down for a minute, unable to summon the energy to get up and run like he needed to. The fresh air helped to revive him. He swabbed his face with a gloved hand, wiping away sweat and grime, and sucked in as much air as his battered lungs could take.

  Larry Sipes, still out cold lay where he fell, as did the armored car guards. They’d been a lot closer to the blast. Chuck was fortunate he was going into the room when the explosion went off. If he’d been with the bouncer by the back door he’d have been killed instantly.

  He didn’t know who set off the bomb or why, but considered it a stroke of luck. It could only aid in hiding him from any possible suspicion; except of course that Sammy had figured the whole thing out. Well, he’d just have to take that as it came. Sammy didn’t seem to care about him stealing the club’s money anyway.

  More sirens were wailing through the night and Chuck knew he had to get going. He forced himself up and started at a slow jog down the alley to the south, feeling every year of his six plus decades. He really was getting too old for this stuff.

  Dominic helped keep Sarah upright and moving. She seemed in a kind of daze. He’d found her just outside the north exit door, lying in a ball and shrieking uncontrollably. He didn’t know what could be wrong with her, no sign of physical injury, but she was traumatized, maybe in shock. Join the club, he thought.

  Their small group pushed past firemen working a monster hose, spraying vast quantities of water onto the blaze. The moisture coated them as they went by and Dominic saw Quinn Taylor standing by and looking up across the street to the south. He had just enough time to wonder what he was staring at when suddenly Taylor pointed and shouted, “SNIPER!” at the same time ducking and reaching for his gun.

  What an idiot, thought Dominic. After all we’ve been through. He started to yell at him to knock it off when he felt the gun he’d taken from the detective being torn from his waistband
.

  Enrico watched the scene from above, his lips set in a hard line. The detective, his arm down around Cinnamon’s shoulders; her looking up at him with something in her eyes that froze the assassin’s heart. Love, admiration, respect — and he knew in that instant that she would never look at him that way. Well, she would never look at the detective that way again either.

  He put the cross on the detective’s hairline, pulled back the remainder of slack on the trigger, let out a third of his breath and…

  Sammy heard the shout from Officer Quinn Taylor; that single word “SNIPER!” and it all came back to him; Enrico, the trap, Chicago. He saw the same reflection of light from the scope that Taylor had and in that instant time stopped…literally. His incredible mind flashed into hyper-drive, pushing everything else into a parallel dimension of super slow motion. He shoved Cinnamon down and behind him, while at the same time grabbing the gun from Officer Elkin’s waistband. The draw went smooth, perhaps the fastest of his life, invisible to the naked eye; mind numbing speed never meant to be used by the likes of mere mortals. As his body moved his subconscious brain calculated — trajectories, wind currents, angle of moment, bullet weight, probable weapons systems, muzzle velocities, type and weight of powder, burn rate, deflection angles, geometric patterns and trigonometric solutions — the world changed to a panorama of colors and sounds that warped and inverted, turning inside out and right-side in. Sammy flowed inside and outside of his body, watching and moving from every angle and direction, his eyes taking in the information, transmitting it to his brain; his brain correlating the data and transmitting instructions to his nerves and muscles and fingers with blinding speed. The gun bucked in his hand and he saw two muzzle flashes — still in that weird dimension of stop action time — his own and one from the window across the street and above. Every detail stood out, revealed to him in glorious notes and colors and algorithms; the heavy .45 caliber bullet leaving the barrel of his gun — super heated gases following close but losing the race as they burst into orange red flame upon contact with oxygen — a streak of copper jacketed death flowing down from the assassin’s rifle heading for Sammy’s face — his own bullet, shorter, fatter and slower, spiraling straight at it as the hyper-sonic rifle round traveled a flat trajectory eating up the distance at thrice its speed.

  The bullets impacted a third of the distance from Sammy, grazing sides hard enough to spark and whip a ricochet sound to Sammy’s ears. The heavier pistol round continued on its path, its trajectory hardly affected by the contact, while the lighter, faster bullet instantly fragmented and tumbled, costing it speed and accuracy.

  Time reverted to normal and a hollow metallic spang-thud sounded to Sammy’s right. Officer Quinn Taylor went down.

  Enrico felt the familiar rock to his shoulder as the rifle fired, followed instantly by a horrible tearing jar to his system as the telescopic sight exploded, smashing back into his face and sending jagged pieces of shrapnel into his forehead, cheeks, nose and lips. He dropped the weapon, feeling blood pour down his face. He felt concussed; dizzy, disoriented and he couldn’t see out of his right eye. He staggered back, covering his face with gloved hands. He blinked several times until his vision gradually returned; a sign that the injury was trauma induced rather than actual structural damage.

  What happened?

  The answer became obvious to him. Somehow the detective had managed to fire at the same time as Enrico. He’d seen the haze of movement as he fired but his brain had been unable to grasp the connection until now. Incredible. No one could be that fast — that accurate. It was impossible. He shook his head, blood flinging about. No time for incredulity now, only for action. The plan — ruined — his art — ruined. He seethed with rage, but there would be another day. He would make his escape and live to fight again. He would not be denied his revenge, but for now he had to move.

  Enrico gathered his gear, seeing his own blood dotted on the carpet and windowsill; DNA evidence. Nothing he could do about it. The Detective might already be on his way, and now Enrico understood just how formidable an opponent he truly was. Grabbing up a last item from the desk he turned and left.

  Closing the door he made his way to the elevator, bypassed it and went to the stairs. He’d had enough surprises for one day. But he had a final surprise for them. Oh yes he did.

  73

  Dominic Elkins

  * * *

  The Chase

  * * *

  Dominic caught Quinn Taylor as he fell and dragged him back behind the engine block of a police cruiser. He’d heard the meaty smack of metal striking flesh in combat too often not to recognize it. Pulling out his flashlight he shined it down the front of the unconscious officer’s shirt. He first noticed that Quinn’s badge was deformed. Looking closer he saw a ragged hole had been punched through the center. Quickly he ripped open the shirt, seeing the torn panel of Kevlar ballistic shielding. A supersonic bullet could tear through level three Kevlar with hardly a hitch. Dominic stripped away the Velcro straps and tugged the panel up over his head. The white tee shirt had a few small tears and was lightly spotted with blood. Not a good sign. A high caliber bullet and almost no external blood could mean only one thing — internal bleeding. Gritting his teeth Dominic shredded the tee shirt to get a look at the actual wound.

  Something was wrong.

  There were a few shallow cuts and slivers of copper and lead — but no hole.

  Dominic turned him over roughly looking for an exit wound. The shot clearly went through the chest, but high velocity projectiles were weird animals and had more than once traveled a strange path before ending their flight. Nothing; only those few scratches.

  Grabbing the vest he checked the inside and found that the badly deformed and fragmented bullet had been caught up in the Kevlar after all.

  He smacked Quinn on both cheeks; good slaps that had to sting. Officer Taylor responded by jerking up and balling his hands into fists.

  “Easy,” said Dominic. “It’s okay — you’re okay.”

  “What happened?”

  “Just like you said; a sniper. Pegged you right through the badge, but it slowed the slug enough so your vest stopped it.”

  “You mean the badge saved me?”

  Dominic grinned, nodded.

  “Well — don’t that beat all?”

  Dominic called over a paramedic to check him out and made his way back to Sarah, Kid Kong, Detective Rothstein and the small stripper who were all hiding behind a fire truck. The detective tried to hand the stripper off to Sarah, but the small woman didn’t want him to leave.

  “There’s no time,” said Rothstein. “We have to get him before he gets away.”

  “It’s too dangerous,” said the stripper. “He’ll kill you. Please don’t go.”

  “I have to,” said the detective. He looked at Dominic and his eyes were fevered and bright. “We have to!” He looked around the shiny chrome bumper. “I think I hit him. Maybe not fatal, but he isn’t shooting.”

  Dominic nodded. “Let’s go.”

  They both started at a jog across the street, Dominic’s knee hampering his speed. Detective Rothstein didn’t fare much better with his pronounced limp. Dominic thought they must look like two cripples chasing a track star. He saw that Sarah was holding back the stripper.

  The detective made it about thirty steps before he stopped, his eyes rolling up into his head. He pitched forward and hit the macadam unconscious.

  Sarah, Kid Kong and the stripper ran to him.

  “What’s wrong with him?” cried the stripper.

  Dominic had already given him a once over. “Nothing physical; no holes anyway. My guess is fatigue.” He looked up at Kid Kong. “I’ve got to go; you take care of him.” He was up and running before anyone could protest.

  Dominic made it half way across the street when he saw the assassin, crashing through the front doors and running into the adjoining alley to the south. He saw Dominic at the same time, slowed, grinned, held up a det
onator with his thumb extended.

  Dominic remembered his training perfectly; shoot him in the head, and at this distance he wouldn’t miss. His hand swooped down for his gun and brushed against torn leather. Both the gun and its holster were still inside Gatling Gams where the detective had shot them from his hip.

  The assassin thumbed the detonator and a rolling ball of flame exploded into the sky. A massive shockwave slapped at Dominic, knocking him to his knees, but he saw the killer already running down the alley. Dominic jumped to his feet, his knee screaming in protest. He ignored it and pushed on, knowing the killer could be waiting behind any corner, dumpster, or even in the recesses of shadow that dominated the landscape. He didn’t know if the killer was armed but he figured any one with the nickname Death should probably be considered that way until proven otherwise. He should just stop, get more cops and a gun and then come back, or set up a perimeter and again wait for back up — and get a gun! But he didn’t have time for that. The explosion and fire would keep everyone busy for hours, there were so many dead, dying and wounded to tend to. The radio was impossible; a constant garble of interrupted transmissions and overlapping orders and requests. Still, he knew what Sarah would say about him running off alone after this guy, she’d say he was nuts and that she ought to kick his butt right out of the FTO program, but he also knew she would do the same exact thing. Because that’s what cops do.

  He felt the blazing heat of the summer night blast his face as he ran, the jangled motion of his muscles working against his injured knee as he jumped trashcans, turned corners, hopped fences. His senses were alive with fear, pain and excitement, his adrenaline pumping, charging through his system, crystallizing his vision, peaking his sense of smell, dialing in every sound, every touch of his flesh, his taste.