by J. D. Allen
He needed to get between the huge open door and the men. Which was not likely with only one gun.
“Someone smell smoke?” Broady entered the garage from the big open door.
This was a problem. A cop. With a gun. And no respect.
“Our driver is here. That means all our players are in the area?” The Thin Man came from behind the RV.
“Yes, sir.”
Jim glanced at his watch. Hour and a half since they’d left Vegas. Little less than an hour since the call O made to Miller. He looked at the Rolls. Black smoke trailed up from the tank opening. Gasoline was burning. Fumes were building. He needed it to blow. Now.
Broady headed toward the black smoke. Zant held up a hand. “Don’t bother. That will only expedite matters. Shut the doors.”
What the hell was he talking about?
“Jim Bean,” Zant shouted. “Mr. Olsen.” He turned a circle. The smoke was getting thicker by the second. He laughed.
Jim’s blood went cold. Shit. They knew he and O were there. Maybe even planned it. Too late to go get the igniter out of the tank.
Mr. Dubai relaxed and sat facing the line of cars on the picnic table. No fear.
Jim covered his ears.
Just as Broady shut and locked the large rolling doors, effectively shutting them all in the warehouse, the mix hit its happy place.
The tank exploded. Glass and bits of the car flew like bullets. The girls screamed, hit the ground. The ex-marine thugs barely flinched. Combat vets, he guessed. Mr. Dubai didn’t move at all.
Fortunately, unlike in the movies, the explosion was not so spectacular as to take out the other cars around it. However, the flames that now engulfed the real wood and hand-tufted leather of the Rolls would grow and eventually take the entire building, given that there was little out here to stop it. The alarm of one of the other cars starting blaring its annoying horn. The echo was thunderous in the closed-off warehouse.
The burning hunk of extravagance did what burning cars do best. Mountains of thick black and gray smoke were rolling through the area. Zant didn’t panic.
“You have about fifteen seconds to get front and center, boys,” he called. He motioned Broady over. Jim saw the cop standing next to Zant, gun pulled. Boy, was he in deep.
“Ten seconds.” The eerie sense of glee in his voice made the hair on Jim’s neck stand up. Even with its large size, that part of the room was quickly filling with acrid smoke. He was going to lose his line of sight.
Jim looked at him over the hood of the Aston Martin convertible. “Let them go, Zant!” Even he knew he sounded like a beat cop in a cheap movie.
Zant’s twisted laughter echoed in the cavernous warehouse. “Or?” He jerked Erica up by her injured arm. She tried not to scream or react, but he could see the pain on her face. Jim didn’t move. Knew O was close and would wait to follow his lead.
“Not enough?” He put pressure right on the fabric wrapping the spot. Erica was dancing, trying to remove his hand from her arm. Tears were streaming down her face.
“Fine.” Zant indicated the girls huddled behind the table. “Shoot the whiny one.”
Jim heard the report, saw the golden flash through the smoke. There was screaming, but he couldn’t see who was hit.
“You son of a bitch!” That was Erica. Jim let out a breath as she shouted it, probably struggling even harder. Jim wouldn’t gamble another life. He stepped out and dropped the gun. No longer needed it. Screw the vision of Zant behind bars; he was going to kill him with his bare hands. Smoke billowed between him and Zant, leaving his vision blocked. Another piercing scream that he was sure was Erica’s echoed through the vast metal room.
“I’m coming.” He stepped closer to Zant, parting the smoke like a plane descending through clouds. When he could see, he found Mr. Dubai sitting causally on the table, Chris by his side. Chris was looking a little stressed even in her drug haze. The smug man didn’t seem too concerned at all about the fire, the smoke, Jim, or Zant with a gun. Stupid fool. He was now target number two.
Broady was pulling Lola off Connie’s dead body. He held a gun. That moved him up to target number two. Dubai could die later.
O materialized through the smoke just to Jim’s right, equally unarmed as far as Jim could tell. Knowing him, there was plenty tucked into his vest. Given the hell in the big man’s eyes and the deep-seated hate in his own heart, their odds still looked pretty good.
Zant was a dead man. Jim just needed to get the civilians out of the line of fire.
“Told you they’d follow the trail and be here.” Broady sauntered around the table.
“I am impressed, Officer. You delivered. All my nuisances in one room.” He glanced at the burning car. “And you even started the fire yourself, Bean.”
“Set up,” O grumbled.
Broady shrugged. “I still have to take care of Miller. But I think with the trail of bodies you two left along the way, that’ll be easy enough.”
Zant nodded. “Fair enough. May I see your gun?” The cop handed over his gun. Jim thought that might be the moment they needed to move, but Zant pointed it at Broady’s head. “You win the prize.” He pulled the trigger before Broady could open his big mouth to protest. Erica gasped as brain matter blowback spattered her shirt.
Zant calmly tossed Broady’s gun away. “I’ve wanted to do that since he first came to my office. Slimeball. Gave me the creeps.”
Jim figured Zant was right, but to creep him out, one had to be pretty low on the evolutionary scale.
Ex-Marine Thug Guy A coughed. “Getting dark in here. Time to move, Mr. Zant.”
Zant looked at his gaudy gold watch. “Ah. Yes. It is. Mr. Dubai, are you ready?”
He gestured affirmative and got to his feet, brushing the dust from his tunic. The thugs stepped up to stand on either side of Zant.
“Kill them both. Make it look like they killed each other or something. Leave them to burn with the cars.” Then he turned away.
Keith Worth, the Thin Man, pulled Lola and Chris toward the offices. Jim saw there was a red emergency exit sign on the wall just to the right. They were all heading out that door.
They would not make it very far.
Jim assessed. Everyone was in eyeshot except for Lake. He was old, fat. Probably ran when the car exploded. Jim would worry about him later.
Another car hit its happy gas mixture. It blew. The blast and fire flash made everyone jump. Jim reacted. O followed his lead.
Both ex-marine thug guys had guns drawn but neither got to shoot. Jim guessed they got nervous seeing the boss shoot his cop flunky. The pair wouldn’t make it past this job either. Probably were realizing that they’d get it in Mexicali, when they delivered the girls. Nerves made them slow to react after the second blast.
O fired a snubby he’d been palming. Hit Ex-Marine Thug Guy A center mass. Two shots. The big man’s eyes widened. His gun fired two wild rounds before it clattered to the concrete. Sadly, his buddy followed his instinct to help. Bad decision.
With his good arm, Jim grabbed the guy’s shoulder, pulled him around. A quick tight jab to the solar plexus with the slapjack. While struggling to breathe, Thug B tried to fire at close range. Jim heard the round go by his head. He jabbed again, this time to the man’s throat. He went down, gagging and choking.
Jim headed to the door. O wasn’t beside him. He looked back and saw Thug B take one to the head. O had motives Jim did not. Years of pain. Years of effort to stop these guys from doing to other women what’d they’d done to his Chloe. Didn’t matter if this guy had been on it all along or if today was his first day on the job, he was going to atone for the sins of the masses.
“Oscar.” The big man looked up from the two dead guys. He was a blank. “More bad guys.”
He nodded. He retrieved the weapon Ex-Marine Thug Guy A no longer needed and handed it t
o Jim as he passed. “Use this, Bean.”
“Do my best.”
41
Dust and gravel pelted his head as Jim exited the warehouse. It was dark. The limo was just starting, but the RV was already on the way out of the parking lot. Oscar fired at the moving limo. Jim didn’t dare fire blankly at any vehicles. No telling what he’d hit or which vehicle Erica was in. Oscar fired wildly at the limo. Rounds pelted the doors, windows, and ricocheted into the night.
Bulletproof.
It slowed but didn’t stop. “Use grenades. Stop the limo!” O shouted as he ran toward the car.
“Grenades?” Jim looked at his vest. Two smoke bombs hung off the right side. Grenades. Not smoke bombs. Shit. Grenades, hanging off his chest as he’d started a car fire. They’d been dangling there as the cars exploded. He yanked one off, pulled the pin with the action. O was getting an ass whooping when this was over for not informing him they were live grenades.
He was running as he threw it. Tossed high and long like a football pass. He hoped his throwing aim was better than his shooting aim. His intention was to land it just in front of the moving car, not on it.
Bull’s-eye. It blew. The limo met the percussive explosion and jerked up and to the right, hard enough to lift the front tires off the ground.
O was there when it landed. The front tires were lost to the grenade’s explosive pressure, leaving the limo stranded. The sunroof opened. Lake stood and leveled an MP5 at O. He held it too loosely, and the powerful kick sent the rounds far afield. He was no better than Jim with a gun. Comical, really. Bad guys who can’t shoot. But then again, the guy was a dry cleaner by day.
Then there was O. He fired once from the snubby, on the run, and created a new orifice on Lake’s face. He fell over the windshield, feet still in the sunroof.
Jim caught up, ran up on the trunk, pulled what was left of Lake out of the opening in the roof. O was there. It was quiet. Jim stood over the sunroof, looked in. Empty. He quickly stuck his head in enough to see that the windshield was blown out. The driver slumped to the side on the seat. Jim’s aim was better than he thought.
“They’re all in the RV,” Jim concluded. Which was well down the service road. Too far to chase on foot. A third explosion rocked the warehouse behind.
O smirked. “I think we can catch them.”
Jim was already on his way back into the building. “Get the door, would ya?”
“Of course.” O headed to the big rolling doors. Jim headed to the Aston Martin. He may never be an FBI agent, but he was about to play Bond, only the guy with the Double O moniker was going to be the passenger.
Holding his breath, he busted the steering column. Jim Bean did have some talents, and that hot little ride was purring in about twenty seconds. O got in. The bounty hunter looked like a caricature in the convertible car. A G.I. Joe action figure in a Lego car. He took possession of the gun tucked at his waist.
Vegas PD had to be getting close. “Miller will have convinced someone to come. Let’s just hope they bought his story and they arrest the right people.”
“If there’s anyone left to arrest.” Jim looked at O at that. His face was still veiled in hate. “You know he’ll still have power locked up. Even in the tightest security. That’s if he ever serves jail time. Fuck face owns this town, Bean. We need to end this tonight. Now.”
Alexis. That was why he needed Zant alive. Jim had been so wrapped up in the urgency of extraction, he hadn’t considered if Zant had set them up to be in that warehouse tonight, he’d known Jim was involved with Erica all along. Alexis was already in danger. Being hunted. There was no time to explain it to O.
Jim refocused on driving. “I need some info from Zant, O. I need him alive. Give me two minutes anyway.”
They caught the RV about two miles south of the Showgirl. O shot out the back tires. The lumbering RV swerved and skirted off the side of the road. Jim and O sped past as the tat-tat-tat-tata-tat of rapid fire left a hole or two in the Aston.
Jim slid the car around. They were now face-to-face with the RV. The Thin Man shot through his windshield from behind a huge steering wheel. The round shattered the front glass of the Aston Martin as well. O fired back.
They spun around again, like some kind of modern joust with automatic weapons and hollow-point bullets instead of wooden poles.
Jim saw a hint of blue lights in the distance. The cavalry. Once the cops got there, Jim would not be able to question Zant. “Shit. Take ’em all out. I don’t care. Give me one minute to question Zant.”
“I’ll try.”
Jim had stopped behind the RV, off to one side. There were no windows on it to give the asshats a good angle to fire from. “Three of them. Four girls. They’re gonna use the girls as shields.”
The side door opened toward Jim and O. “You can have your girls, Olsen.” It was Zant. The door blocked him, but Jim knew it was him. “Let us take the car. You keep the girls. I’ll forget this all ever happened. We’ll be all square.”
“I find that my trust level for you is low, Zant,” Oscar answered.
“Jim knows I keep my word. Don’t you?”
He didn’t answer. Considered their options. Girls in the RV. Guns in the RV. He needed the guns out.
Zant shouted, “She’s going to be a dead woman, Bean. I’ll find Alexis. You cross me and she’s dead.”
He mouthed the words trust me to O. His friend hesitated, then stepped to the side.
Jim emerged. “Look, fine. I got no beef past these two. Give me the girls. You take the car.”
“Drop your guns where I can see them.”
They did. Oscar looked none too happy. “You know he’s going to blow our heads off when he gets in the car,” O whispered.
“Won’t get that far.”
Zant and Mr. Dubai eased from the RV.
“Wait, boss. What do I do?” Keith, his skinny self, stuck his head out the door.
“I’ll get you out.” Zant and Dubai hustled toward the car, guns trained on Jim and O.
“You won’t make it long enough for that,” Oscar said, his voice silky and scary. He stepped toward the RV.
“You shut up.” Keith then fell, flailing for balance, out the door. Pushed from inside. Probably Erica. O acted. Retrieved a gun from the ground. Fired at the car. Hit Dubai in the chest. Keith regained his composure and tried to fire, but Jim threw his knife, penetrating the meaty part of his hand between his thumb and finger. Erica jumped down and kicked the gun away as he rolled.
Zant was trying to push a very wounded Mr. Dubai off the driver’s door of the Aston. Selfish bastard right to the end. Jim stalked up and took the little freak by the neck. “Is she being hunted?”
Zant shrugged. “Fuck you. I can still make this all you. I own the department. I own her.”
Jim was tired of this guy. Oscar had the right idea. Kill them and let the chips fall where they may. “Tell you what, Andrew.” Jim pulled the last grenade from his vest. Zant’s eyes got big, further exaggerating the fishy look of his little mouth. “I’m going to put an end to all this. Right now. I don’t give a shit about my pathetic life, and you know it. You used that fact to manipulate.”
“Now, Bean, I’m—we can negotiate this.” He was trying to back up, crawl away, but Jim had him by a good forty pounds. Used his good arm to press him harder into the car door.
“No. No more negotiating for you.” He pulled the pin with his teeth and pushed the grenade down Andrew Zant’s five-hundred-dollar slacks. He counted, “Three.”
Zant’s eye got huge. “She’s fine,” he stammered. “In the Keys, last I was told. Haven’t touched her. Too valuable. I swear. The boy’s my kid.”
“Two.” He lifted the man and pushed him back into the car and ran as fast as he could the opposite direction. He kept counting in his head.
”One!” He hit the gr
ound and covered his head to protect himself from flying Aston Martin debris.
42
Annie sat quietly in his lap, her purr the sweetest sound on the planet, her tail softly brushing his arm. Most of his body hurt. The surgery on his shoulder had been a success for the most part. His doc was worried over range of motion. He wasn’t. His door was hanging crooked in its frame from the SWAT team entrance. The busted thing was also letting in a great deal of heat. Oscar was reading over the instructions for the new one on the floor.
“Why do they make this so complicated?”
“Why are you reading directions? Just hang it.”
“You want it square?”
“I want it closed.”
Ely pushed open the broken door and waltzed past Oscar with a small salute. He plopped on the couch across from Jim’s chair. “How’s the wing?”
The question made Jim move his arm a little. “Hurts like hell.”
“Good. Glad to hear it.”
Jim and O exchanged glances.
He shrugged. “Pain is healing, cleansing.”
“I’ll take those healing killers any day, then.” He nodded at the prescription bottles on the coffee table.
“Your choice, man. In Nam, I let the pain be a pathway to enlightenment.”
Jim guessed the Viet Cong did not offer Vicodin to their prisoners. Jim was happy to have the pills.
“Anyway, dude. Mrs. Lake called.”
“That can’t be good.”
“She wanted us to know that she’s donating most of ‘the bastard’s’ money to women’s shelters and asked if there was any other organizations that keeps girls off the street and away from that shit. I gave her Sister Nora’s number. Told her the church was friendly to street people.”
Jim had managed to keep the sister’s name out of the police statements. It left some holes, but the prosecutor who had taken all their statements had said it was the worst clusterfuck of a case he’d seen in years. What were a few holes? Whatever. He’d believed them for the most part and was working all the angles to make the charges stick.
