32. Mac
32
Mac
I’ll… owe you one.
I tense my stomach, hardening the abdominals in preparation for another hit. The other two guys holding my arms against the brick wall tighten their grips as the fist comes flying my way. I grunt, doubling over as far as I can as the pain radiates though already-sore muscle tissue and skin.
They didn’t buy my “just out for a smoke” routine, likely a by-product of being on edge from nearly becoming a casualty at the "storage unit massacre." Their words.
“Why were you spying?” Owen barks at me, leaning down to get closer to my ear to say it. The proximity forces his beer breath up my nose. “Who sent you?
Owen is strong, but his aim is shitty and it’s obvious that his hand is starting to hurt. So far, I’ve taken a hit to the jaw and two to the large intestine. No serious damage. But a shot to the kidneys, or solar plexus—Dimitri’s favorite—would have knocked the wind out of me and is normally enough pain to scare someone into talking. Interrogation is often more about fear than it is about pain.
It makes me doubt Owen usually gets his hands dirty, and from the way his elbows flare out I know he can’t hide a punch. He strikes me as more of a bullet to the knee kind of guy. Lucky for me, this area is too suburban for gunshots and Owen is at least that smart. Also smart enough to have both guys holding me back.
“I swear, I don’t know what you’re talking about!” I say, forcing a groan. “Please, I’ve got a wife and kids—”
Sure, they didn’t believe me at first, but they’re not used to anyone sticking to their story after a beating. Most people they beat up probably haven’t gone through mandatory torture and interrogation training .
Owen’s eyes narrow at me and he steps back, rubbing the knuckles on his right hand. “Frank, take his wallet. See what kind of ID he’s got.”
I’ve been trying to figure out a way out of this. My priorities are, in order, to get out alive, to get out unidentified, to learn whatever I can from these chuckleheads, and to leave at least one of them alive as my witness—otherwise, our plan to draw out Rossi was for nothing. But I don’t carry ID on me, for obvious reasons, and I’m sure it will seem suspicious enough to put the last two priorities at risk.
So far all I’ve learned is that Rossi is either here or coming here, and is having dinner with the mayor. I’m not too surprised that they’re meeting so late. The mayor probably takes Rossi’s money and looks the other way about permitting and various minor infractions. He’s just a local official—sure, he’s at the very top, but his days are filled with meetings and proposals and budgets. He can help Rossi, but there’s only so much he can do for him.
But I don’t think I’m going to get some kind of serious insight on Rossi’s inner workings and my opportunity to listen just came to an end. So, it’s time to act. Frank is on my left, pressing his body weight into my forearm. When he shifts to the side and reaches down with one hand to access my back pocket, I make my move.
I lift my knee into his groin as he turns towards me and I let my foot land heavily in his instep. When he staggers back, howling and clutching his dick, I yank my left hand around and use it to help Bad Guy #3’s head get acquainted with the brick. It makes a loud crunch, likely his nose, and he pulls back enough that I can get my right hand free.
Owen hits me from behind just as I start pulling back, and the impact against the brick wall rattles my teeth. He’s quick, I’m quicker. I clip him in the nose with my elbow and spin. He’s right there with a 1-2-hook, one of the most standard boxing attacks, so I know about where he is in his hand-to-hand training.
I get my guard up around my face, allowing the blows to land on the backs of my vertical forearms, and move my right arm to the side to block the hook. When the next combo starts, I tuck my chin after the second impact and snake out with my right cross. It’s all about that invisible hit landing clean—they can’t see your fist coming if your elbows are tucked and you don’t wind up .
Cheek shot, swinging left hook to the chest, low kick to the knee and Owen is down, can’t catch a breath and has a concussion.
But by now Frank has recovered, and he comes at me. He places a hand on each shoulder, pushing me back against the wall and I grab his coat from behind. Before he can get his arm up to my neck, I grip the material and shove. It gives me the momentum to flip him over my leg and he falls hard on his back on the pavement.
I land on my knee as I sense an approach from behind, and #3 hits me on the chin as I turn, which spins me. I fall onto my arm, and kick out behind his leg, taking his legs out from under him. He cracks his head against the brick on his way down and lays unmoving.
Frank is coming to his feet, but I’m crouching by the time he lunges again. He’s got a mini keg in his hands—likely something he found on the ground—and he swings it at my head, but I duck into the opening the large overhead swing creates and jab my fist into his kidney twice as he passes. He drops the keg with a dull thwang, and staggers away, clutching his side. Then he throws me a look over his shoulder and makes a break for it.
“Fuck,” I mutter. I’m up and I catch him in a few steps, before he can clear the corner, and I wrap my arm around his neck from behind and spin us both, sending him crashing into Owen.
They both go down in a heap and I deliver two sharp enough kicks to their heads that it’s lights out. They’re not dead—though, I have my doubts about #3, there’s a substantial pool of blood under him—but I’ve done it enough to know that a kick that hard to the face will probably knock them out for hours.
I cross my arms as I consider my next move. I could leave them here, like this. Except for the dead one, obviously. The other two would wake eventually, limp to a hospital to be treated for serious concussions. No bodies, no crime scene. But dead men tell no tales, and they don’t give descriptions of the guy that jumped them to their boss.
But, really, what would they say? If they remember anything at all in spite of the head trauma, they could give my height, build, a rough description of my face… As long as Wesley wipes the video footage of anything that may be around, they’re no t likely to actually find me. It may send Rossi into hiding, thinking someone else is after him, but so might killing the rest of his men.
As a sniper, close-range killing isn’t my specialty. And even the black-market type of silencers do not make guns silent. At most you shave off 50 dB, which still brings the shot to about the level of a vacuum cleaner. And I don’t like how in the open we are. I’d have three bodies to take care of and a potential crime scene. I can’t exactly take them with me—there’s barely enough trunk space in a mustang to fit a suitcase. There is a dumpster 10 yards away that’s a viable option, but the time it would take to drag three grown men one by one and hoist them over the side leaves me too open for discovery.
I pocket the phones, wallets and the three guns I find. #3’s name is—was, he’s starting to go cold—John Powell. Unfortunately, he is going into the dumpster tonight. If anyone comes across two men passed out, they’ll call for an ambulance. They can’t find a dead body, too.
When I’m done, I take a pause to catch my breath, then keep circling around the building, looking inside for Eleanor. The table where we were sitting is empty, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I keep scanning, stopping short of walking into any light streaming out through the large windows, and find Rossi at a table with the mayor, over by the bar. And me without my rifle.
I turn around and retrace my steps, knowing that continuing around the front of the structure puts me near the road, under street lamps, and well within view of any remaining patrons.
I pull out my phone from the three new acquisitions so I can look casual to anyone who might notice me now. A quick scroll catches me up—some worried messages from Wes wanting to know what’s going on, and a few from Dimitri.
Dimitri
She is secure.
Every cell in my body is screaming at me to get in my car and drive home. But this isn’t finished; I still have a problem. There’s a body in the dumpster and two men passed out. My mind goes to Felix, but then I pause.
What if I made my problem into Rossi’s problem?
What kind of man has the mayor and police force in his pocket? One who works outside the law. One who prefers delegation. One who doesn’t like getting his hands dirty. One who thinks he can buy his way out of problems because he has more important things to do.
That’s the kind of man who uses a cleaning service.
I hope I’m right about this.
Owen wears a large diamond stud in his ear. I reach down and tear it from his lobe, and the move jostles his head, but doesn’t wake him. As I come around the side of the building, I have to avoid a new, fresh pool of blood that I had nothing to do with.
There are only about a dozen cars in the lot, and most of them are low to mid-tier sedans that probably belong to staff. Of the cars left, it’s not hard to pick out which one belongs to Rossi—the pearly white Escalade with a license plate that reads KING J. I use the diamond to carve TRASH into his window, then leave the earring stuck into the front of the driver’s handle.
I head for the mustang. I left my keys in my coat pocket and my coat at the table. I can’t exactly walk back inside and ask if they found it. I’m rumpled, probably blood-splattered and I definitely look like I’ve been in a fight. But if I were a betting man, I’d bet on Dimitri every time. And I find the key fob on top of the back right tire.
It’s only when I’m sitting in front of the steering wheel that I finally take a full inhale, which my stomach protests heavily. But there’s no time to catalog injuries. I have to get back to my girl. She needs me. She’s probably terrified, confused…
I place the key in the ignition and my foot on the brake. Then, I stop.
My urgency and panic around Eleanor is clouding my judgment. Dimitri got Eleanor out and I’m sure by now she’s home safe. But my blood is pounding so loudly in my head and the need to get my hands on her—to prove to myself that she’s in one piece—is so overwhelming that I’m not thinking clearly.
I need to stay. I need to watch to make sure he takes the bait and finds his men—both to know if we’re going to have trouble with the police and if he takes it as the message it was intended to be. I need to follow his car back to where he’s staying, since he’s clearly not at his home.
Eleanor or the job. The job or Eleanor.
No. That’s the wrong way to think about this. The job is what is going to help Eleanor. It’s not or , it’s both . I can’t protect her without finishing this .
I put the car in gear and ease out of the parking lot, driving straight across two lanes to park across the street at the edge of the pharmacy’s lot. From here, I’ll be able to see him exit the restaurant and follow him.
It plays out like a fucking movie scene. Rossi and the mayor exit the building, clapping each other on the back, and the mayor places the end of a cigar into his mouth to chew on. Once he reaches his door, Rossi goes still, his back to me as he stares down at his window. The mayor circles around, sees it, and tilts his head back to laugh.
I smirk at that. I’d been going for subtlety, the “could have been a mistress” approach, in the very slim chance I’d gotten the wrong car. I know Rossi recognizes the earring, though—he pockets it, instead of tossing it aside, and turns his head. With one more handshake and a firm pat on the shoulder accompanied by a conciliatory expression, the mayor saunters off, getting into the back of the car that stops at the entrance to pick him up.
Rossi watches him go, the lines of his shoulders taut. As soon as the dark SUV turns off the lot, Rossi turns on his heel and heads for the back of the building. He stops and peers into the window of a black coupe on his way and I make a note of the make and model. It’s probably Owen’s.
He disappears from my line of sight for about a minute and when he comes back around, he’s red-faced and talking on the phone. What I wouldn’t give for a bug right now.
I’ve got to follow this hunch. I start my car as Rossi gets into his and I speed dial Felix.
“Yo.”
“Felix. I need your help.”
There’s a laugh. “Another favor? You are suddenly very bad at your job, amigo. ”
“It’s just information this time.”
“Knowing me is becoming very expensive for you.”
I roll my eyes and navigate out onto the main street, leaving a car between me and Rossi’s SUV. “Just let me know if you got a cleanup request at Rouge Elephant. I’m not asking who, I just want to know if you were called.”
Felix runs his mouth sometimes, but he doesn’t ask questions—not ones he expects answered, anyway. It’s why he’s still in business. But I can hear the curiosity in his voice when he says, “You know I don’t give out information about clients.”
Fuck. This is not a good idea. I could just ask him to clean the scene for me, but knowing if Rossi asked him to do the same is worth more to me. It tells us a lot about his connections. It also tells me a little more about Felix himself. And I can’t stick around to see if his team is the one that shows—I won’t recognize them anyway and I’ll lose my chance to follow Rossi.
“I’ll… owe you one.”
There’s a long silence—that’s probably only a few seconds—and a low laugh. “No shit?”
I turn on the same street Rossi did. “One favor, something that doesn’t put me or mine in danger, you feel me?”
“Done. Okay, I got the call like 30 fucking seconds ago. A cold one and two for the ER. I’ve got guys there in about two minutes.”
“Thanks, Felix.”
“Does this mean we’re actually cleaning up after you? Not that I’m opposed to some double dipping, especially when it means I get paid and a sharpshooter in my pocket.”
“Is the answer to that question what you want as your favor?” I shoot back.
The answering chuckle this time is a much darker sound. Ominous. “Definitely not. I’m going to save that one for a rainy day, huh amigo ?”
Yup. Bad idea. “Talk to you later, Felix.”
“Don’t lose my number.”
As Rossi drives further into suburbia, I have to put more distance between us. So much that I almost miss the driveway he turns down. I drive right past it, but catch sight of the back of the white SUV before the garage door closes fully.
That’s odd. A house in this neighborhood never showed on his financials. I send a pin of the address to the group chat as the lights in the house come on, proving he’s moving through the rooms that lead out from the garage.
Time to head for home. I can’t be away from her any longer. The desperation grows the closer I get. It adds lead to my foot, makes me blow through a few stop signs. I barely get the key out of the ignition before I’m up the front steps and inside .
“Eleanor!” I bellow, slamming the front door behind me.
But it’s Dimitri’s face I see coming around the corner. He’s sliding leather gloves onto his hands and has a roll of trash bags tucked under his arm. He takes one look at me and moves between me and the stairwell. “Stop, James. You cannot go to her like this.”
I’m seconds from hitting him with the fist my hand just formed when he stepped in front of me. I’m not even thinking rationally about why Dimitri would try to come between us, I only know that nothing is going to keep me from her a second longer.
“The fuck I can’t.”
“My brother, stop! Listen to me. You will scare her. She is already frightened, fragile. And you are wearing the blood of several other men.”
As he approaches and lays a hand on my shoulder, I inhale and follow his gaze down to my shaking fist. With a jerking motion, I open my palm. Was I really going to hit him?
His voice is uncharacteristically understanding. “Wash your face. Calm your eyes. She needs you, but not like this.”
I grumble a little at that—suddenly he’s some sort of expert on what she needs?—but go to do as he recommends. When I look in the mirror, I understand. My face is splattered and there’s a dried patch at the corner of my mouth from some kind of internal bleeding. My knuckles are bruised and the skin is broken and colored with more than just my own blood. My jacket is torn at both shoulders and my light-colored shirt is ripped and stained. My eyes are wide, wild, angry.
I remove my jacket and splash water on my face, using the hand towel to scrub anything remaining.
When I emerge, Dimitri is gone. Judging from his outfit, he was taking care of some of his own dead bodies. I immediately connect the dots. The large pool of blood at the restaurant…
Well, luckily there’s a cleaning crew on it.
I climb the stairs two at a time until I’m on the third floor. The door is closed, but light is spilling out from underneath. She likes to sit in the middle of the bed, but she’s not there this time. I hear the shower running .
It doesn’t even occur to me to knock, and it makes me feel like a chump when she startles at the sound of the door opening. She’s sitting on the floor of the shower, naked, and the water is falling on her back like rain. The steam is thick, so I know she’s been in there a while.
“Mac? I… I think there’s something wrong with me.”
Oh, Hell.
I don’t bother with my clothes—I step into the shower.