by Samson Weld
“Get out of here, girls,” Osorio commanded, dark eyes boring into Kingston’s startled eyes. When the terrified women hesitated, “Get out! Now!”
They jumped up screaming while two of his men rousted them out of the living room. Osorio watched them snatch up clothes as they raced to the elevator, herded by his men. As soon as the elevator doors closed, he turned his full attention back on Kingston.
“Hi, Osorio,” Kingston said, words slightly slurred. “Why so aggressive, man?”
“You stiffed me, man,” he replied tightly. “You told the credit card company my charges were fraudulent. You caused me trouble with them.”
“Oh, man, that’s not my fault. You see, I fucked up and used my personal credit card to pay, when I should’ve used my business card,” Kingston said. He smiled, as if it was all a big joke. “My wife freaked the fuck out when she saw the charge. So I had to lie and say someone jacked our card number. We canceled the card and I had to say it was a fraudulent charge to keep her happy. You know?”
“No, I don’t know, Kingston. You didn’t bother to call me or Raphael to explain, and give us your other card to charge. We didn’t hear anything from you until you showed back up here, acting like you don’t have a care in the world.” Osorio stepped closer, looming over the stockbroker. “I don’t like your flippant attitude, either.”
“It’s no big deal, man,” Kingston said, still smiling. His eyes were a bit glazed in his alcohol and drug daze. “No problem. I’m going to pay you. We’re good, man.”
Osorio was incredulous, hand tightening on the Desert Eagle. He looked at Rojas, who looked disgusted. Consuelo just shook his head when he looked toward him. And Kingston continued grinning up at him as if he was some kind of golden child, completely untouchable.
Everything went crimson. Osorio slapped the pistol across the bridge of Kingston’s nose. Bright red blood splattered, hitting Osorio. Ruining his new suit. Osorio froze, staring at the blood on his suit.
“You ruined my suit!”
Osorio began beating the stockbroker with his pistol. The large, heavy Desert Eagle did some damage, too. Kingston cried out in shock and pain, which quickly turned to squeals and pleas for mercy. But Osorio didn’t feel merciful, or stop until Kingston lay silent.
“I think you killed him,” Consuelo said. He turned to one of the bodyguards. “Check the bedroom. Find his wallet and take all the cash and credit cards. Don’t worry, Osorio, dying won’t get him out of paying.”
Osorio stood over the bloody corpse, huffing and puffing. Kingston’s dead eyes stared up at him, a look of surprise forever locked on his face.
The rage slowly bled away. The drug lord stood straight, taking in deep breaths to calm down. Then he casually walked into the kitchen, found a dish towel, and cleaned the blood and flesh off his beloved Desert Eagle. Then he washed his bloody hands and face.
“I feel better,” Osorio said. He picked up an open bottle of Champagne, poured himself a class, and drained the glass. “I needed to blow off some steam more than I thought.”
His men nodded and grinned. Consuelo was already on the phone to his team of crime site cleaners. They’d have the penthouse pristine before long, so Raphael could host another high roller.
“Call Giorgio and tell him I need another blue suit,” he said. Glancing at Kingston’s body. “Cut off his head, put it in a bucket, and send it to his wife.”
Chapter 20
Ash sat on the end of his bed with nothing but a towel around his waist. He’d spent Saturday watching Osorio’s small ranch to see how they were reacting.
Later that night, he watched the news, checked news reports online, and tried to determine how far along the police were in their investigation. The police were being tight-lipped.
Sunday had been a long, busy day of training. It ended with him cleaning twelve different weapons, from pistols to a fully automatic CZ Scorpion EVO to an AR-15 with a bump stock. He expended a lot of ammo, so cleanup was lengthy. It took a couple hours, in fact.
Now it was time to hit his next target.
He probed the cut on his forearm. The liquid stitches were holding, despite his proclivity for steamy hot showers. The wound was still a little red around the edges, but healing well. He barely felt a twinge while working on the body bag earlier.
“I’ll still wrap it up,” he said to himself. “I don’t need it opening up if things go south tonight.”
His attack on Collins two days back hadn’t caused the pandemonium he’d expected. There was considerably more activity in and out of the ranch after he’d killed Charlie and Hector. Was he getting under Osorio’s skin at all?
Or did his failure to take out such a soft target as Collins give the bastard confidence?
He glanced at the dark window. It was just past five-thirty and the winter sun was down, with cloud cover helping. Ash needed to get his ass in gear. Time to decide what weapons to take.
He might’ve lost the element of surprise already, he thought. Osorio knew he was the ultimate target. How could he not? Even if he didn’t realize someone was seeking vengeance, he’d be looking for the man killing off his gang.
Now it was a two-way hunt.
The hit tonight called for an automatic weapon. He had both an Uzi and a MAC-10 that were easy enough to keep hidden. Longer weapons were more accurate, but the AR-15 was too long to conceal. Then there was the Scorpion. It was shorter and easier to conceal than the AR-15, while more accurate than the smaller Uzi and MAC-10.
“I’ll take the Scorpion,” he said, rising to his feet to start dressing. “That’ll sting his ass, but good.”
He chuckled at the expression. He was already starting to talk like a Texan.
Alberto Rojas wasn’t someone to trifle with. Osorio’s chief bodyguard had to go down in a hail of bullets. He couldn’t afford to give that cold-blooded killer a chance to fight back.
Just thinking about killing Rojas made Ash’s blood pressure spike. He remembered that son of a bitch’s face better than any other from that fateful day. Rojas had had such a look of wicked glee as he fired two Uzis into Ash’s car. Indeed, he was sure the Mexican thug wanted to kill him and his family, just out of pure meanness.
Taking Rojas out would feel good, almost as satisfying as killing Osorio.
Ash really only had three more definite targets: Rojas, Consuelo, and Osorio himself. In that order, if all went well. He might hit other lesser targets, but that depended on how everything went tonight. With all of his favorites dead, maybe Osorio would finally know fear and dread. He needed to suffer before the end.
He chose to wear new Levi’s jeans, still dark blue after only a single washing. Ash paired that with a dark green shirt, under a brown bomber jacket. A black ski mask was stuffed in the pocket. Scuffed up hunting boots went on his feet.
After eating a ham and cheese sandwich, Ash headed into his little armory. He put on a concealed shoulder holster, with a Glock 19 filled with hollow points. Extra magazines went into the coat’s pockets. Then he taped three sets of two magazines together for the Scorpion. If he couldn’t kill Rojas with six thirty-round magazines, then the man was untouchable.
“Let the hunt begin,” he whispered, turning off his security and picking up the CZ Scorpion EVO 3 A1.
Out in the barn, Ash tried to stuff the Scorpion under the Mercury Sable’s front seat, but it wouldn’t fit. It didn’t fit under the Mazda’s seat, either. The fire engine red Camaro stood out too much and the CJ7 didn’t have a top, so left him too exposed to the elements and casual view. So it came back to the Dodge pickup.
He didn’t like using the same vehicle for two jobs, but he had no choice. The submachine gun easily slid under the driver’s seat. Easy access, while being out of casual sight.
Ash headed out for the west side of Dallas. He would take I-30 most of the way, but the club was near Jefferson and Hampton. He’d staked the place out a few times, watching Rojas coming and going. The bodyguard tended to arrive before
eight, and leave before midnight.
Probably needs his beauty rest, he thought. I bet he eats dinner before five every day, too.
The drive went quickly through Rockwall, Garland, and Mesquite. Rush hour traffic was all going the other way. He didn’t hit heavy traffic until approaching downtown.
Here came the real test, navigating the infamous Mix Master where multiple highways came together just south of downtown, and then quickly split up again. If he screwed this up, then traffic would carry him away in the wrong direction and the entire night might be toast. He didn’t expect much traffic on a Sunday night, so was confident.
Fortunately, he was staying on I-30, so that made it a bit easier. Still, traffic proved heavier than expected, with other cars cutting him off, horns blaring. Ash drove aggressively and navigated the Mix Master to emerge on I-30 West, heading for his turnoff at Hampton Road. And then, passing under Fort Worth Avenue, he exited on the mini cloverleaf that took him to southbound Hampton.
It was a short run to Jefferson through a mostly residential neighborhood. Club Tejano Desperados occupied an old grocery store, and sat right next to the street. The parking lot on the west side remained half full, but would slowly fill up until around ten. That club could hold a lot of people. Ash parked across the street, in a Starbucks’ parking lot.
He studied the men and women loitering out front of the club. Most of them were smoking. They looked nice enough, all dressed to impress, but he knew Club Tejano Desperados was partly owned by Rojas and catered to a rather unsavory element. Latino gangbangers, smugglers, and other criminals hung out there. And it was a hub for selling all kinds of drugs. The dealers all got their product from Osorio, of course.
A lone Latina came stumbling out the front door within minutes of his arrival. She looked young, and maybe a little drunk. The poor girl obviously hadn’t mastered walking in those sky-high heels. She’d barely sheathed her shapely body in a dress so tight that even he couldn’t help but take notice from across the street.
She looked tousled and upset, and was obviously leaving in a huff.
“Uh oh,” Ash said, spotting two Hispanic men follow her out. They looked pissed, looking all around until they found her turning onto the sidewalk. Ash assumed she lived nearby. “Dammit.”
The two men started following her. They walked faster, aggressively. Their faces spoke volumes. It didn’t look good for the young woman.
“I can’t get involved.”
He watched the men quickly gaining on the woman.
Someone had to do something, right?
Chapter 21
She picked up her pace once she noticed them, but the shoes were her downfall. They rushed her, catching up and yanking her around to face them. Both sides started screaming at each other. Oddly, no one standing around outside the club paid them any attention.
She started backing away, shaking her head. Ash tensed. Thoughts of his wife and children flooded his thoughts. Then the young woman turned and tried to run. The men pounced.
“Oh, dammit,” he groaned when they grabbed her.
One of them held her arms back, while the other pounded three punches to her belly.
Fucking bastards.
Ash felt like a wound up spring. He had to stay on task, but how could he ignore two men beating up a defenseless woman? But it would ruin everything if he got involved.
That’s when her dress was ripped open to reveal her bra.
Ash reached for the door handle when they began dragging the kicking and screaming girl toward the back of the club.
I don’t think so, amigos.
Getting out of the pickup, he began walking in the same direction with his head down and hands stuffed into the coat’s pockets. Just an innocent pedestrian. No one to take note of him, or suspected anything. But once he was out of the bright lights of the Starbucks and the club, Ash crossed the street and made for the back of the club.
It proved to be a concrete drive, where the deliveries were made. With the cloud cover and no lights, it was dark and gloomy. He barely made out the three of them between two dumpsters pushed up against the back of the club.
“No, please!” she cried.
She was screaming for help while they laughed and taunted her in Spanish. Ash’s command of the language was just enough to understand just what they intended: rape.
He thought about staying back in the night shadows and telling them he’d called the police. What were the chances they wouldn’t run away? Of course, if they were armed he might just be shot. She could also be murdered to cover up their crime.
His other option was to shoot them. They were filthy rapists, after all. Probably shooting one of them would make the other run away. And he didn’t have to kill the scumbag, just wound him. But again, that threatened the possibility of a gunfight. And gunshots would certainly bring curious eyes back there to see and identify him, as well as actual calls to the police.
So with grim determination, Ash rushed them. The man holding the woman glimpsed him and called out a warning.
Too late.
Ash closed and smashed an elbow against his temple. As he crumbled to the ground, Ash planted his left foot and sent a roundhouse at the face of his compadre.
The Latino ducked, cursed venomously, and shoved his captive into Ash. The poor girl wailed in terror, but Ash only had eyes for the would-be rapist who was reaching toward his waistband behind his back. Catching the girl, he spun and dropped her to the ground.
“Stay down!”
Ash continued to spin, while throwing himself at his foe. The Mexican’s hands came back around, a pistol in the right. He dropped low and threw a punch at it. Striking his gun hand’s wrist, Ash forced him to drop the weapon. But the Latino smashed a fist into the side of Ash’s head.
Black and white flashed behind his eyes, but Ash planted one knee and kicked out at the other guy’s legs. That forced his opponent back, giving Ash the reprieve he so desperately needed.
He noticed the girl still on the ground and staring incredulously at him.
“Take off those stupid shoes and run!”
She cried out, but Ash had other problems. The first guy was starting wake up. The other Latino now had a knife and was grinning evilly. By the way he held the knife and carried himself, Ash could tell he knew he knew his way around a knife fight.
So Ash pulled his Glock 19. “Never bring a knife to a gunfight, amigo. Drop it.”
“Watch out!” the woman cried before finally running away.
The first Hispanic man was charging him. Ash jumped to his feet and swung the pistol. The other guy ducked and tackled him, driving his back into the concrete. The Glock went clattering out of reach. The second Latino barked a laugh as he rushed forward to end the fight, permanently.
Using their momentum, Ash forced them to roll upon impact. That surprised the man grappling with him, allowing Ash time to drive his knee up between his legs.
“No bambinos for you,” he hissed in the guy’s ear. And then he rabbit-punched him.
While the first man writhed and gagged on the ground, the other went after Ash. He had to scramble to his feet, duck, and dart aside to avoid disembowelment.
Quickly looking around, Ash spotted the young woman reaching the street. She turned away from the club and vanished. So, no one would be calling the police or coming around back to help. He didn’t want police involvement, but could use a little help.
“I need a new job,” he muttered.
He continued looking around on the ground, and recognized both pistols. It was impossible to tell which was his in the dark. Either would serve him well, but the closest one was ten feet away.
“No, amigo, you need a gravestone,” the Latino sneered.
The other man sucked it up, stood up, and glared daggers at Ash. They spoke in Spanish, too softly for Ash to hear what they planned. Then they both held out knives, grinning as they moved apart.
Ash looked toward the street and forced his body t
o relax. He said, “Finally! The police.”
Both Latinos looked. Ash didn’t hesitate. He threw himself at the closest pistol. They shouted and charged him. Ash hit the ground, snatched up the heavy weapon, and rolled onto his back.
Finger on the trigger, he almost shot them dead. But instead stopped.
“Drop the knives.”
They obeyed, hands up. Ash stood up and pointed away from the road. He was back in control and everyone knew it.
“Run. Don’t come back, or I will shoot you.”
“Take it easy, my friend. Just a misunderstanding,” the first one said. “We’re all friends here.”
“I said, run.”
They did. Right at him.
Ash ducked under a right cross and then slammed his knee into the guy’s ribs. Spinning away, he brought the pistol around to smash into the other stupid jerk’s head. However, he tried to get back up even as the other stumbled at him while holding his ribs.
These bastards won’t give up.
Fed up and aching, Ash pistol whipped them. He took his time, too. He practically bashed their skulls in. He left them in pools of blood, moaning and groaning pathetically.
Taking both pistols, he returned his Glock to its holster and stuffed the other under his seat after returning to his pickup.
The crowd in front of the club hadn’t noticed anything amiss. Disgusting.
Ash shook his head, staring at the dark alley behind the club. It was a sad world when he had to go out and save innocent people instead of the police.
Chapter 22
Bellucci pulled into her assigned spot right at six o’clock after a quick trip to the store. Her apartment was all lit up. Rocco liked every light on, even during the day.
Her first instinct was to go in and start turning lights off, because they were living on a single income. But that would just start another fight, reminding him of his “inferior” jobless status. And it was their date night.