No Justice: A Michael Sykora Novel

by Darcia Helle

  Nothing suspicious jumped out at him. No one hanging around. Not even an occasional car. Almost too quiet.

  He pulled away and headed to the next block. He parked in a dark corner of a lot for a fairly decent apartment building. Counting to 100, watching, nothing struck him as out of the ordinary. He jumped out of the car and headed across the street.

  A short stretch of woods and a swampy stream took him the back way to where he needed to be. He’d have more than enough time to set up and rehash his plan a thousand times in his head.

  ***

  Lotto and Wiz walked around the back of the building. They waited, listening, but heard no signs of life. Wiz peaked in the dirt encrusted window. The place was layered in darkness. He said, “I can’t see a thing.”

  “We need to get in without breaking the door or window,” Lotto said. “We don’t want him having any reason to be suspicious.”

  “No problem.”

  Within a minute Wiz had the lock picked and they were inside. Lotto flicked his lighter. The flame did little to invade the darkness but it was enough to see that the place was relatively empty. A few cardboard boxes and some funky rusted out machine were the only things left behind.

  “What now?” Wiz said.

  “You stay by the front door. I’ll hang here by the back. The door opens, shoot.”

  Chapter 60

  Michael emerged from the woodline. He stopped, taking in the area, listening and watching. He didn’t expect to see anyone but life rarely worked according to expectations.

  Cicada bugs stirred up a symphony behind him. He spotted the building he wanted a few hundred yards away. Isolated from the road and prying neighbors, the way he needed it to be.

  He left the cover of the trees and walked out into the open. The place smelled the same as he remembered. That fact pissed him off. So much remained unchanged, while so much else had been permanently altered.

  His footsteps fell silent. Even knowing he was alone, he stayed on alert. He tried to peer into the window but all he saw was smeared dirt. That didn’t matter. What was inside didn’t concern him.

  He walked around to the side of the building. The tree stood tall with its thick branches dangling over the roof. Michael hoisted himself up the tree, out onto a branch, then he dropped down onto the roof.

  ***

  “What the fuck was that noise?” Wiz whispered across the darkness.

  “How the fuck would I know?” Lotto hissed.

  They were silent a moment, then the sound came again. A sort of crunching noise outside the building, like maybe twigs snapping. Wiz walked over to Lotto and said, “You think he’d come this early?”

  “If he’s smart,” Lotto replied.

  “Want me to check it out?”

  “Quietly. We’ve got the jump on him. He won’t expect us to be here yet.”

  Wiz cracked the door open. He waited. They both heard a thud above them. Wiz slipped outside and the darkness swallowed him.

  Lotto waited inside. His finger hovered over the trigger of his Glock. Tonight he would have revenge for his boys. Then, with The Ghost gone, he’d be free to track down that whore who’d started all this. Nicki was her name. She’d die slowly. He planned on enjoying every minute with her.

  A few moments passed. Lotto grew edgy. He tensed to the sound of rustling outside. Suddenly the door swung open. Lotto raised his gun and almost shot Wiz in the chest.

  “Fuck,” Wiz sputtered. “It’s me.”

  “Might be smart to say something before you sneak up on me, dickhead.”

  “Yeah. Sorry.”

  “See anything out there?”

  “Fucking cats,” Wiz replied. “A couple wild ones racing around. And there’s a few branches hanging over the roof, probably making that scratching sound we been hearing.”

  Lotto let out a long breath. “Fuck.”

  “What if he don’t show up?”

  “Why the hell wouldn’t he?”

  “I don’t know. Just asking.”

  “Well don’t,” Lotto said. “He’ll show. So get back to your door and get ready to blow his fucking brains out.

  ***

  Michael had his gun out and ready. His hands were overheating inside the gloves but there wasn’t much he could do about that. He checked the time. Eleven o’clock. Perfect.

  He flipped open his phone and dialed the number Lott had called from. A minute later a gruff voice answered. Michael said, “Change of plans.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “I won’t make Tampa tonight. You need to meet me in Clearwater.”

  “Clearwater,” the voice repeated.

  “There’s a park on Booth Ave off of Drew. It’s closed up tight, no one around at night. Hop the fence and meet me at the storage shack. Midnight. Don’t be late.”

  “What the hell?”

  “Problem?”

  “Why the sudden change? You jerking me around?”

  “I don’t have time for games,” Michael said calmly. “I’m a busy guy. Either you want to meet or you don’t.”

  A brief hesitation, then, “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

  Michael flipped his phone shut with a smile. No doubt Lott and Wiz were already set up at the warehouse in Tampa. They truly believed he was that stupid.

  Chapter 61

  At 11:35 a faint rustling in the distance caught Michael’s attention. He lay flat on his stomach, Beretta in hand, watching. His finger caressed the trigger. His heartbeat remained slow and even.

  The darkness claimed everything more than 10 feet away. But he wasn’t particularly worried. Lott and Wiz would most likely not be looking up on the roof. They’d expect him to be inside the building. Or maybe hanging out in front. They had no reason to suspect that he knew their identity or that he’d be hiding out, waiting to pick them off.

  All that would make the first kill easy. The second one would be a little more challenging.

  A few moments passed. The cicada bugs kept up their song. Finally two figures stepped out of the darkness. Lott and Wiz, just as Michael had hoped.

  He shifted his position slightly, careful to remain silent. He took aim. Wiz first. Lott last. Let the fear swallow the bastard whole before he died.

  Michael’s finger eased down on the trigger. A cloud passed over the moon. A raindrop. The two men stood off by a stand of trees. Both armed. Both searching.

  Lott and Wiz came closer. One slow step at a time. Wiz leaned in, said something to Lott. Michael couldn’t hear the words, just the edge of a voice drifting up toward him.

  Another step. Close enough now. Lott would run. Which way? Back to his car? Into the woods? Or straight ahead, blind rage pushing him for revenge?

  Michael leveled the Beretta on Wiz’s chest. A bigger target than the head. Less chance of missing if he moved.

  Wiz said something else to Lott, then started moving away. Scanning the area. Separating to give themselves a better chance.

  Michael pulled the trigger. Wiz fell backward, as if he’d been punched in the chest. In a way he had been. Then he screamed. A sort of wail. A mixture of pain, fear, and fury.

  For a moment Lott stood riveted to the ground. Then he scrambled toward the trees, away from Wiz. At that same moment, two men Michael had never seen ran out from the trees on the other side. “What the fuck?” one shouted.

  Enforcements Lott brought along? Cops? Michael didn’t know. And he didn’t have time to sort it out. Lott had to die tonight.

  Michael slid to the side of the building. He peered down, saw nothing. Wiz continued to sputter, though his voice held little strength. A sudden shot stopped what little sound he’d been making.

  Okay, so whoever had joined their party was not a cop or a friend to Wiz. Or perhaps he was a friend who thought a quick kill was better for Wiz than slowly bleeding out.

  The clouds had grown thicker. A light rain now fell. Darkness grew deeper. Michael had lost track of where the second unknown man had gone. He’d also lost
track of Lott. He glanced around beneath him, saw nothing, and jumped.

  Landing on his feet, Michael turned to run into the woods after Lott. He came face to face with one of the strangers. Even in the dark, the maniacal expression on the stranger’s face glowed pure evil. He said, “You must be The Ghost.”

  Michael took a step back. He said, “You are?”

  “Razor,” the man said. “Nice to finally meet you.”

  The Beretta weighed heavy in Michael’s hand. He held it by his side. Unfortunately, Razor held a much larger weapon pointed directly at Michael’s chest. Razor grinned strangely and said, “I have to thank you for helping us out. Wiz would have died by your bullet but his whining was pissing me off so I sped it up. Now, sadly, you’ll have to go too. Can’t have witnesses. Nothing personal, you understand.”

  Michael kept his eye on Razor’s trigger finger. Rain was now pelting them with large angry drops. He wasn’t sure he trusted his vision, even at this close range, but it was all he had. When Razor adjusted his finger on the wet trigger, Michael dove at his feet. Razor fell backward with a thud and a furious roar. The gun Razor had been holding slid off into the grass.

  Michael twisted his position, fighting to get his arm loose. The knife Michael hadn’t seen caught his denim shorts, pinning them to the ground but missing his leg. Michael didn’t waste time wrestling for the handle. The Beretta remained firmly in the hand he’d wrestled loose. He fired into the side of Razor’s head.

  Chapter 62

  Lotto had gotten himself all turned around. The complete darkness, the rain, the unfamiliar grounds. He was no longer sure whether he was running toward the street or further into the park.

  Watching Wiz go down had stunned him. He’d taken off for the cover of the trees, trying to figure out where the shot had come from. That fucking Ghost. He’d set them up. Lotto was ready to rip the man apart with his bare hands.

  But then more craziness. Razor and Hulk had come out of nowhere. What the hell was going on? Then Razor had put a second bullet into Wiz as Hulk came jogging after him. Fucking Frankie wanted them dead. That son of a bitch! Was he in on this with The Ghost?

  Lotto had taken off running. No way was he taking on all three of those crazy bastards at once. Not by himself. And he was by himself. He’d lost all his boys. Fucking Ghost. This was far from over.

  A bullet sang out somewhere in the distance. Razor? The Ghost? He wasn’t about to go back to check it out. He kept running.

  The rain had soaked through his clothing. His sneakers squished on the wet ground. He slipped on a patch of leaves and fell face first into the dirt.

  Lotto pushed himself to his knees. He spit a mouthful of sludge. Why the hell was this happening to him?

  He’d lost hold of his gun in the fall. He was scrambling on the ground in search of it when someone shoved him from behind. The size of the hands meant Hulk had found him. Lotto didn’t want to turn. Didn’t want to look. He closed his eyes and waited for the bullet.

  An enormous foot kicked him in the kidney. Lotto groaned in agony. “Turn the fuck around,” Hulk demanded. “I don’t shoot no one in the back.”

  For an insane moment, Lotto thought that if he refused to turn around, Hulk wouldn’t shoot him. He could postpone the inevitable. Kneel here in the mud until he figured a way out.

  Lotto said, “Why are you doing this? What the hell is the problem?”

  Hulk kicked him again. “I said turn the fuck around!”

  Lotto turned. He sat in the mud, staring up at Hulk. His massive frame somehow loomed even larger out here in the darkness. Lightning cracked, temporarily illuminating Hulk’s face. No emotion. The same glare that seemed a permanent fixture on the man’s face.

  “Frankie says you’ve become a liability,” Hulk said. “Look at it this way, you’ll be joining the rest of your friends.”

  “How the hell did you find us here?”

  “GPS tracker. Bobby stuck it in your pocket when he patted you down at Frankie’s. Like I said, you’re a liability now.”

  Lotto managed to find the irony in the situation. Hulk had said a total of a dozen words to him over the years. Now the man was suddenly feeling chatty. Maybe he could use that to his advantage. Keep Hulk talking. His gun was on the ground beside him. Less than a foot away. If he could distract Hulk, he’d have a chance. At least he’d go down fighting.

  “I’m no liability,” Lotto said. “My problems ain’t got nothing to do with my thing with Frankie.”

  “You killed Isabel.”

  Lotto didn’t reply. He wasn’t sure where the conversation was turning. Why did Isabel matter?

  “She was one of my favorites,” Hulk said. “Taught her everything. Had her at 14.”

  “She was out of the business when she came to live with me.”

  Hulk shrugged. At the same time thunder rumbled. In the absurdity of the moment, Lotto linked the shrug with the thunder. Like Hulk could shake the earth with his massive body.

  “You messed up a lot,” Hulk said. “Too much attention. Frankie’s had enough of you.”

  Hulk grinned, like he’d never been happier. Then, as he aimed his gun, he said, “This won’t hurt a bit.”

  Lotto squeezed his eyes shut tight. A crack. Not thunder this time. But nothing. He felt nothing.

  Lotto waited. Had he been wrong? Had that been thunder? How long was Hulk going to drag this out?

  Finally he opened his eyes. Confusion was quickly replaced by relief. Hulk lay sprawled on the ground.

  But Wiz was dead. Neither of the two remaining possibilities was good. Lotto reached for his gun just as The Ghost stepped out from behind a tree.

  Chapter 63

  As Lott reached for his gun, Michael said, “Don’t do it.”

  Lott froze. His arm lingered in the mud, inches from the gun’s barrel. He said, “I thought for sure Razor had you.”

  “So did he.”

  “You’re damn good.”

  “Move one more inch toward that gun and I’ll blow your hand off.”

  Lott pulled his hand to his side and rose to his full height. Michael said. “Tell me about Frankie.”

  “Frankie?”

  “I don’t need an echo.”

  “You’re after Frankie?” Lott asked.

  “I’m after an answer.”

  Lott folded his arms over his chest. Maybe he thought that would help stop the bullet. Or in his mind it made him look tougher. He said, “Why the hell should I tell you anything? You’re gonna kill me anyway.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  Lott stood silent. Lightning flashed close by. Finally he said, “I’ll take you to him.”

  “No way am I dragging you along with me,” Michael said.

  “Then no deal.”

  As much as Michael wanted to get out of the area before the cops showed up, he wanted the information more. He said, “Why are you protecting the guy? Seems he sent his two thugs out here to kill you.”

  “That’s why I said I’d take you to him,” Lott said. “I want to see the bastard suffer.”

  “Tell you what. You tell me where to find him or I’ll blow your foot off.”

  “I ain’t no snitch.”

  Michael shot Lott in the right foot. Lott howled, hopped off the ground and landed on his ass in the mud. Michael said, “Now tell me where to find Frankie.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Michael shot the other foot. Lott screamed. Michael watched dispassionately. Ordinarily he only did quick kills. Lott, though, was different. This almost made him happy, which he acknowledged was somewhat sick. He said, “Your hands are next. Or maybe your knees.”

  “Shit! No! Fuck it hurts!”

  “Then tell me what I want to know and this will be a lot easier for both of us.”

  Lott rocked back and forth in the mud. His voice had lost its bravado when he said, “He owns an apartment house on Green Street in Port Richey. Old rundown brown building. Uses it for business. I don’t know wh
ere he lives.”

  “Would he be there now?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Where does he hang out?” Michael asked.

  “Fuck, I don’t know!”

  “You can do better than that.”

  Lott groaned. His rocking motion had led him close to his gun. His hand crept toward it, his fingers touched the edge.

  Michael put a bullet through the back of Lott’s hand. As Lott howled, Michael said, “I warned you about that.”

  Lott moaned, cursed, and cradled his hand, “Just kill me already.”

  “Where does Frankie hang out?”

  “Please! I don’t know!”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Forty year old freak,” Lott said. “Ponytail. Brown hair. Skinny.”

  Lott’s voice had grown weak, like he was close to passing out. The man was apparently not as tough as he’d pretended to be. Michael said, “Got a phone number?”

  “It’s on my cell,” Lott said.

  “Hand it over.”

  Lott awkwardly dug in his pocket with his good hand. Finally he got hold of his phone and tossed it to Michael. “Crazy son of a bitch,” Lott muttered.

  “One other thing,” Michael said. “Why Nicki?”

  “What?”

  “Why did you want to kill her?”

  “You’re fucking insane.”

  “Probably. Now answer the question.”

  “Isabel,” Lott said. “She talked to that bitch -”

  Michael drove his sneaker into Lott’s bloody foot. When Lott’s shrieks had died down, Michael said, “Her name is Nicki. Not ‘that bitch’.”

  Lott mumbled a few curses. Michael said, “Back to Nicki.”

  “Isabel talked to… Nicki… at the shelter,” Lott said between gasps. “Some counseling bullshit. I figured she’d given up everything…. How we met, what I did, all of it. I couldn’t chance the… Nicki going to the cops.”

  “How you met?”

  “Yeah, Nicki probably told you all about it.”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “The fucking pain is horrible man,” Lott whimpered.

  “I’m sure it is. And Isabel, your girlfriend that you brutally murdered -”

  “I didn’t kill Isabel. No way could I go through with it. Wiz, he did it for me.”

  “And that somehow makes you a better person?”