Chapter Nine
CAIN
Istop my Lincoln Continental outside the vet’s place.
I get out of the car and walk to the trunk, where my belongings wait.
I pull a thick black coat over my shoulders, tucking my pistols into hip holsters.
I keep the grenade in my pants’ pocket and the shotgun in my hand.
My pocket probably isn’t the safest place for a grenade, but danger never bothered me much.
It’s dead quiet outside in the street. No lights show inside the vet’s or the loan buildings. The building I saw the men enter, the other night, has no signs hanging above the door. The windows are covered by what looks like newspaper and the door is made of wood.
I can’t see in and they can’t see out. They’re making it easy for me.
I stop at the front door, reaching for the handle. I’m older and rusty, but these bastards hurt my Enya. They’re going to suffer for it. As she told it, it was a bald fuck and a Mohawk-guy who laid their hands on her. At least now I know where to aim my rage.
Let’s get this over with.
I pull down the handle and push on the door.
It opens without needing any force. Three cots are set up in the entrance hall, with a box TV hanging from the wall.
A few office chairs line the wall, with an L-shaped desk against the wall.
Linoleum lines the floor, with thick layers of dust turning its gray into a muddy brown.
I step inside and two sets of eyes immediately fall on me.
“Who the hell are you?” the bald man asks. His friend reaches for the weapon on his hip. I thought I’d have some time to chat, but I guess we’re getting straight into it.
With a flick of my wrist, my leather jacket pools at my feet. The shotgun is aimed at the man drawing his weapon. I squeeze the trigger, and he collapses to the ground. In an instant, my shotgun is trained on the bald fuck’s shiny head, before he can clear leather.
“Jimmy or Timmy?” I ask.
His eyes are wide, and an audible gulp has his throat rising and sinking.
“J… Jimmy,” he says.
“Hand’s where I can see them, Bucko,” I order. He lifts his hands above his head. His fat face is jiggling, shaking at the threat of my gun.
“Where’s Dominic Dresden?”
“He’s in the back,” Jimmy’s staring down the barrel of my shotgun.
“Where’s Timmy?”
“I don’t know,” his voice is despondent. Fear bleeds into every word. He is terrified, like he made Enya feel. What a low-life son of a bitch.
“Who the hell are you?” he asks finally.
I don’t answer his question; instead I pull the trigger.
There is no point holding a conversation with a dead man.
Behind Timmy’s desk, a door leads further back into the small brick building.
I rest the shotgun in a shoulder holster that is belted across my tattooed chest. I have run from this body for so long, from this life.
But, I’ll admit there’s nothing like the thrill of being back in the thick of it.
It’s an injection of adrenaline straight to the heart.
I am enjoying the threat of death hovering over my head, another catalyst to the enjoyment of it all.
I draw my silver pistol, and press my ear to the door. I can’t hear a thing on the other side, but they know I’m coming. Those shotgun blasts would’ve woken the dead, given the eerie silence that engulfs this place.
I raise my pistol to the door, and kick a heavy boot against the handle. Wood splinters on my impact, exposing a short hall with a closed door on either side, and another at the back.
If it was me, I’d be holding a gun down the hall, waiting for movement. I guess Dominic Dresden isn’t too bright. I step into the hall, approaching the shut door closest to me. I make it three steps before I hear a grunt behind me.
I don’t even have time to turn, before the weight of a wooden baseball bat connects with the back of my head. My vision lurches sideways, the guns fly from my hands, and I scrabble to regain my composure. The second swing of the baseball bat connects with my jaw, dropping me to the ground.
Ah, fuck, that hurts. Come on, Cain, you’ve got this. You need to get to your feet quickly, before he can— I can’t finish the thought before there’s another grunt and a boot strikes me in the belly.
A barrage of vicious kicks strike anywhere they can land. Timmy swings the baseball bat wildly, hitting any part of me he can reach. I’m out of touch and out of my depth. I haven’t been in a fight in eighteen years, and even then, I generally kept my distance.
Copper coats my tongue, as Timmy’s onslaught continues.
“Who the hell are you?” Timmy shouts.
“Fuck you,” I reply, and am met by a shoe to the mouth. I crumble onto my back, looking at the ceiling.
“I’m not gonna ask you again, bitch,” he presses the end of the baseball bat into my sternum, leaning all his weight into it. “Who are you?”
“They used to call me an angel,” I struggle to get the words out, with my lungs being crushed.
I slap the edge of the bat digging into my flesh.
Timmy’s positioning and footwork can’t keep him up, and he tumbles on top of me.
He fumbles for the bat, but I’ve got my gun in my hand.
I press it against his chest, and fire three bullets in a row.
His weight collapses on top of me.
I take a moment to regain my composure. That’s three. How many more can there be? The beds would suggest none. I don’t see Dominic Dresden, an infinitely wealthy criminal, sleeping on a cot with his grunts. But, who knows when it comes to the criminal underbelly?
When I find my strength, I roll Timmy off my body.
I grab my pistols, before sliding them into their holsters.
I grab the grenade from my pocket, pull the pin but leave my finger in the gap, and walk through the hall.
The first door has a small blue sign with white writing: BATHROOM.
If he’s hiding, Dominic will be in there.
If he’s not, there’s only one door left.
I walk over and knock. I don’t have the strength in me to kick another door down after Timmy’s thrashing. My body’s aching from the baseball bat’s blunt force. A sharp, stinging pain shoots through my skull. Eighteen years away from this life has dulled me.
“Enter,” Dominic’s voice comes from behind the door.
I push it open and step inside. Dominic looks hard from the start. He’s got a gun fixed on the door, and it follows me all the way to his desk. His chiseled jaw is twisted in a scowl, and his half-shut eyes stare at me angrily.
As he scans the tattoos on my body, I see his gaze shift from fury to terror.
“It can’t be,” he says, slack-jawed.
Dominic’s office is bare-bones, like the reception room. There isn’t much in the way of furniture; mainly his desk, the leather chair he’s sitting on, and a laptop. Enya told me Los Angeles is his base of operations, so why bother spending money on a rental he’ll only be in for a few weeks?
“It is,” I reply. I don’t recognize him, but there are very few people who run in his circle, who don’t recognize one of the Angels of Death.
“But you all died,” he stammers, lifting the gun to my head.
Good thinking; if he’s going to shoot me, he’d better confirm the kill.
“A couple of us made it,” I reply.
“Well, today another Angel meets his maker,” Dominic spits. He’s sitting cross-legged, wearing a white suit with a floral t-shirt beneath it.
“Do you feel in control with a gun in your hands?” I ask dryly.
“I do,” he says. “And you’re not going to do a thing to change that.”
“Sure,” I raise my hands into the air, grenade in one and the pin dangling between my fingers in the other. “Go ahead, pull that trigger.”
“You’re fucking crazy, man.” Dominic jumps to his feet, recoiling away from me, or rather from the grenade I’m holding.
“You pissed me off. So, put the gun down, and let’s have a little chat.”
“I’m not putting the gun—”
“Answer me this,” I cut him off. “I’m standing at the door, right?
If I toss this grenade in your direction, you might manage to fire a bullet, maybe two, before I get out that door.
Sure, you might even hit me. It could be lethal, but let’s face it, you’ll be too busy pissing your pants to have a decent aim.
Once I release the grenade, you’ll have five seconds to get out of this room. More than enough time, right?”
I pause, giving him a moment to think. It’s a gamble, one he’d have to be willing to stake his life on.
“Right,” I answer for him. “Five seconds to clear this room and make it out the back door? Easy when your life’s at risk.
What happens when you get outside, huh? You’ll be facing me again, this time thanking God for your survival while I’m the one holding the gun.
And trust me, Dominic Dresden, I don’t miss. ”
Dominic pauses again, before eventually setting the gun down on the table.
“Good boy,” I say. “Now, I want you to come here.”
“What?”
“Get your ass over here,” I order. This time Dominic doesn’t hesitate. He walks around the desk and towards me.
“Get on your knees.”
He does so.
“A quarter of a million dollars.” I take Dominic’s face in my hand, squeezing against his jaw until he screams out in pain. I jam the thin end of the grenade into his mouth until the striker lever’s firmly set. “Such a measly sum of money for your life.”
Dominic’s eyes start welling with tears, and he shakes his head. When the grenade’s firmly in place, I take a few steps back into the doorway. I draw my pistol, in case he tries anything funny.
“Seamus Garraway’s debts are clear, do you understand me?”
He groans and nods, the tears in his lids spilling freely now. The threat of death is always a good way to get a point across.
“Mister Dresden, I’ll also give you another friendly warning for nothing. If you, or any of your men ever lay a finger on Enya Garraway again, I’ll ensure your last days on this earth will be far worse than anything hell has to offer. Do you understand me?”
Dominic nods his head slowly as not to agitate the explosive between his lips.
“Good.”
I don’t linger. Every muscle in my body is burning from Timmy’s savage beating. I keep a pistol in my hand as I walk back down the hall and out of the building. When I get back to my Lincoln, I hear the grenade go off. Whether Dominic survived it isn’t my problem.
I just want to get home. I just want to sleep.