CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Conor held his phone out, lighting up the face of the safe.
He spun the dial one way, then another, then another.
He glanced back over his shoulder at Fitz and Sully.
“The moment of truth,” he said, grabbing the latch.
He pushed down. It didn’t move. He tugged on it.
Nothing. He sat back and stared at the dial.
“More like the moment of goof,” said Fitz.
“Stop messing around, Conor,” hissed Sully.
A bang from somewhere in the church made them jump. Fitz put a finger to his lips, then slipped out. He stepped back inside the room in less than a minute. “The wind must’ve banged the outside door shut. I made sure it’s closed,” he whispered.
Conor turned his attention back to the safe. He shook his head. “Maybe they changed the combination,” he said.
“If they did, we’re fucked,” said Sully.
Fitz eyes narrowed. “We are not fucked. Try it again, Conor. Get that shit open.”
Conor stared at the dial. The scowl on his face turned into a smile. He directed the light from his phone on the dial again, then leaned in and spun it. Three twists later, he stood, looked at Sully, and held out his hand toward the safe. “Be my guest,” he said.
Sully kneeled.
Conor looked at Fitz. “My dyslexia kicked in. The last number was twenty-one, not twelve.”
“And I thought Sully was the dumb one,” whispered Fitz.
Sully pushed down on the latch. It clicked. He looked back at Conor, grinning. Then his gaze shifted. He stood, staring past Conor.
Conor felt hair raise on the back of his neck. He turned.
Two figures stood in the sacristy doorway.
Darkness obscured their features. They stepped into the room.
The moonlight coming through the windows illuminated their faces.
Conor recognized them immediately. It was the men who were talking to Mona at Ricky’s Pub, Derek Ryder and Johnny Tong.
After he chased them away from Mona, they had dinner with the convict, Barry Cline.
“What are you boys doing?” said Derek.
Conor took stock of the two men. Neither had a gun.
That was the good news. The bad news was that they didn’t need a gun to do serious damage.
They stepped forward and Derek pointed at Sully.
“Your sister told me you guys were up to something. I told her, ‘They can’t be dumb enough to do what I think they’re doing.
’ She said you were. I guess she was right. ”
Fitz stepped toward them. “We got here first, and there’s three of us, so who you calling dumb?”
“Do you know who we work for?” said Johnny.
“I saw you having dinner with Barry,” said Conor. “We’re not scared of that convict. Save yourself the trouble. Tell him we were gone before you got here.”
Johnny stepped toe-to-toe with Fitz. He was half-a-head shorter than Fitz, but a foot wider. He looked down at the ground and shook his head, laughing. “You have no idea of the shit you stepped in, do you? Just walk away. You’ll thank us later, believe me.”
Fitz glanced back at Conor and Sully. He winked. Then, turning back to face Johnny, he threw a left hook, twisting his hips and shoulders, putting every ounce of his strength and weight behind the punch. The crack of Fitz’s knuckles on Johnny’s face sounded like someone snapped a two-by-four.
Johnny reeled backward. He bounced off a wall and covered his mouth. He touched his mouth, looked at the blood, then raised his fists.
Conor mumbled, “Well, that didn’t work.”
Fitz said, “Shit,” and backed away from Johnny.
Conor pushed Sully toward Fitz. They could handle Johnny Tong. He’d take Derek.
Derek eyed him and said, “Really?”
Conor raised half-clenched fists and backed into the center of the room.
Derek rushed in. Conor blocked a jab. A hook axed him in the liver, sucking the strength from his legs.
He backed up, trying to catch his breath.
A kick knifed into his thigh, making the muscle hum as if it had been hit with a bat.
Derek’s eyes shined bright as he moved in for the kill.
Conor threw a straight right. Derek slipped it.
Conor slid to the side and banged a hook into Derek’s ribs.
Derek grunted and dropped his arms. Moving inside Derek’s guard, Conor threw two gut punches, then put his weight into an uppercut. It connected with Derek’s jaw.
Derek fell, rolled, and scrambled to get back to his feet.
Conor waited. He timed it. Derek was almost standing when Conor dipped his hips and stepped in. He drove his shoulder into Derek’s waist and lifted him. He ran a few steps, bent at the knees, and jumped.
Time crawled as he arced through the air.
He glimpsed Johnny Tong on the floor, covering up from an onslaught of punches and kicks from Fitz and Sully.
Then he felt the impact of the hardwood floor add to the force of his shoulder into Derek’s midsection.
Derek’s ribs cracked. Conor rolled away, leaving Derek balled up in the fetal position.
“Let’s go, Conor!” yelled Fitz. “Get the gold, Sully!”
Conor stood. The room rolled under his feet, and he dropped to a knee.
He looked around. Johnny was on his hands and knees with Fitz standing over him.
Sully was across the room, sticking his head inside the safe.
They’d be out of here in a minute. They’d ride away into the night with the gold.
He’d drive home to pick up Julia. It was all going to work out.
Then Johnny Tong jumped to his feet, shoved Fitz out of the way, and ran toward the open safe.
All Conor could do was watch. Sully was on all fours with his head inside the safe. He yelled, “Sully!” as Johnny kicked the safe door. The door slammed shut on Sully’s head. When it swung back open, Sully fell backward onto the floor. He landed flat on his back, motionless.
Johnny shoved Sully’s body aside. He looked in the safe. “There ain’t nothing in here,” was all he managed before Fitz kicked him in the face. The door to the safe swung wide. Conor stared into it. It was empty.
Fitz picked up Sully from the floor. He walked stiff-legged across the room, struggling with Sully’s dead weight. “C’mon, Conor. We gotta get him to the hospital.”
Conor led the way, opening doors for Fitz on their way out of the church. He helped Fitz lay Sully in the back seat of Fitz’s Bronco. Sully’s eyes were open, but sightless. He stepped away as Fitz started the Bronco. A gust of wind rattled leaves and shook trees up and down the street.
Fitz stuck his head out the window, squinting into the wind, one eye nearly swollen shut. “C’mon!” He slapped the side of his door. “Get in! Let’s go!”
Conor shook his head. “You take him to the hospital. I’m getting the guys who did this to him.”
“We already got the guys who did this,” said Fitz, pointing at the church. “We beat the shit out of them.”
Conor backed away. “Not Derek and Johnny. The guys who sent them.”
Fitz squinted, confused. He put the Bronco in gear, then said, “Get to the hospital as soon as you can,” and squealed away. Conor turned and ran toward his motorcycle.
There was no gold.
Sully was hurt bad.
And Julia was waiting for him.
But he had to set things right with the guys who were responsible for this shitstorm. Those old codgers spinning their webs at The Red Fox, Duck and Artie.
The wind squalled and rain spat as he kickstarted his bike and pulled into the street. Fitz heard about the gold from Duck and Artie. Those old crooks had to be the ones who sent Johnny and Derek. And now they were going to be joining Sully in the hospital.
The ride to The Red Fox went by in a blur. Needles of rain pricked his face as he opened the throttle.
He parked on the sidewalk in front of The Red Fox just as the skies opened up, dropping buckets of rain. Shoving the front door open, he looked around. The bar was packed. His gaze settled on Duck, smoking alone at his table by the front window. Conor shook the rain out of his hair and walked over.
“I know you,” said Duck, sliding a chair out. “Keep an old man company.”
Conor watched him pull a twenty from his wallet.
“I’ll get you a beer,” Duck said, waving the bill at the bartender. Conor kept his expression flat as Duck winked and said, “I love beer, but it gives me gas something awful.”
The bartender walked over and put a bottle of beer on the table in front of Conor.
Duck grinned and tapped his cigarette in an ashtray. Conor grabbed Duck by the arm, pulled him up to his feet, and said, “We gotta talk.”
Duck prattled on as he pulled him through the crowd toward the back of the bar.
“Aren’t you Mickey Monroe’s son? How is he? Always wished I could help him.”
“You know, the bartender is following us. You better be careful. Mike’s a big boy, and he can get riled up.”
“Slow down, son. I’m an old man.”
There was no line in front of the men’s room—a miracle for a Friday night. Conor kicked the door open, pulled Duck in with him, and slid the deadbolt. He faced Duck, looking him up and down.
“I’m no queer, if that’s what this is about,” said Duck.
Conor noticed the closed door on the toilet stall. He banged on it.
“I’m taking a dump here. How ’bout a little courtesy?”
“Artie! It’s that Conor Monroe kid. He pulled me in—”
Conor kicked the stall door open. Artie sat on the toilet with his pants around his ankles.
His eyes opened wide as Conor grabbed the sides of the stall and kicked him in the face.
Artie’s head cracked against the wall behind the toilet.
He slumped forward, head hanging between his knees, his pants pooled down around his ankles. Conor shut the door.
“You have my attention,” said Duck, his eyes flat.
Conor poked him in the chest. “Did you send Derek Ryder and Johnny Tong over to the church tonight?”
Someone banged on the locked door and yelled, “You okay, Duck?”
Duck looked at Conor. “I don’t know how you heard about what’s in that safe, but it’s mine. You and your friends have no right to it.”
The pounding on the door started up again. Conor stared at Duck. “Tell him you’ll be right out.”