Out of Exile: Hard Boiled: 2

by Jack Quaid

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I’m here.’ Christine Mackler leaned against the doorframe of a small office at the side of the hangar. Her long brown hair was down. She wore a leather jacket, jeans, and boots. She strode casually across the hangar floor. Unarmed. Unworried.

  ‘I want my daughter!’ Jones yelled.

  ‘I want my money,’ she said. ‘Where’s Sullivan?’

  ‘God killed him.’

  ‘Where’s God?’

  ‘I killed him.’

  Deacon cursed, stomped his foot, shook his head.

  ‘You win some, you lose some,’ Mackler said, without so much as a shrug.

  ‘Where is she?’ Jones shouted.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t fuck around, Christine.’

  ‘You’ve lost your sense of humor, Jim.’ She nodded to Goldsberry. ‘Get the girl.’

  Goldsberry pushed the submachine gun around his body, let it hang from his hip as he pulled open the door to the small plane. Half his body bent inside it, and when he pulled Monique out, she fell to the concrete.

  Jones inched forward. He wanted to run to his daughter, he wanted to hold her and keep her safe, but the only thing keeping them both alive was the lighter in his hand and the fuel at his feet. ‘You son of a bitch!’ he yelled.

  ‘Manners,’ Campbell said.

  Goldsberry wrapped his hand around Monique’s arm, pulled her to her feet. Her hands were bound behind her, her mouth plastered shut with tape. Her hair was a mess and her clothes soiled. Her red eyes showed she had been crying, but she seemed to have no tears left.

  Jones’s sadness passed, leaving him with only the anger. ‘Untie her.’

  Mackler gave the nod, and Goldsberry produced a blade. Cut her free.

  ‘Are you okay, baby?’

  Monique nodded fast. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m going to get you out of here.’

  ‘This is all very touching,’ Mackler said. She watched the mini flame in Jones’s hand. ‘Time is of the essence. And you’re making me more than a little nervous with that lighter.’

  ‘Send her over, and I’ll give you the truck.’

  ‘Not a chance in hell,’ Mackler said. ‘Put it down first.’

  He looked beyond Mackler and Campbell, the plane, and the rest of her pricks, but he couldn’t see Sullivan anywhere.

  Mackler shot a glance over her shoulder, nodded to Goldsberry. He drew his weapon on Monique.

  ‘It doesn’t look like you have much of a choice,’ Mackler said. ‘Drop the lighter.’

  The pilot, facedown on the concrete since the shit had hit the fan, called out: ‘That won’t light!’

  Mackler turned. ‘What?’

  ‘Petrol might light, if you’re lucky. But diesel? No way.’

  He sounded legit, and more to the point, Mackler obviously believed him. She turned back, smiled. ‘Looks like your options just narrowed, Detective.’

  Jones saw the muzzle of Goldsberry’s MP5 tap his daughter’s chin. Goldsberry’s chubby fingers, covered in sweat, were around the trigger. It was a foolish idea. Going up against four heavily armed, highly trained psychopaths with a teenage girl as their hostage. His foolishness was about to get him and his daughter killed.

  But then Jones opened his eyes and saw Sullivan edging around the fuselage.

  Sullivan raised his Glock to the back of Goldsberry’s skull.

  ‘Sorry, Christine,’ Jones said. ‘I just don’t think it’s going to be that easy.’

  Sullivan pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Seventy Six

  Blood sprayed Monique’s face.

  First there was confusion. Then came panic. Sullivan dropped to one knee, fired off three quick shots toward Mackler and Campbell. They had no cover and scattered, buying him some time. He tossed the Glock to Jones; the thing scraped along the concrete. Jones caught it under the ball of his foot, scooped it up and sent a round to chase Mackler as she slid behind the Nissan.

  Monique, on her feet, screamed. Sullivan hooked onto her wrist, pulled her down. Panic and blood covered her face. Sullivan snapped Goldsberry’s MP5 from his fingers; it, too, covered in blood. He buried the butt in his shoulder, scanned for a shot.

  Mackler and Campbell had taken cover behind the Nissan; Deacon, snuck behind the other side of the plane. The pilot pancaked the tarmac.

  ‘We’re moving!’ Sullivan yelled.

  He saw Jones push out from behind the truck and unload what was left of the clip into the Nissan. One round exploded the windows, the rest buried themselves in the body. Campbell and Mackler would need balls of steel to poke their heads out.

  Sullivan wrapped his hand around Monique’s tiny wrist. ‘Let’s go.’

  He stepped out, shot off a couple of rounds, hit fuck all. Jones had Mackler and Campbell pinned down. The truck was twenty feet away. Nothing but open ground between them. Sullivan half jogged, half ran, keeping his shooter aimed at the plane, just waiting for Deacon to grow impatient and poke his bulldog face out. It didn’t take long. Deacon stepped out from behind the aircraft.

  Sullivan fired: missed.

  Buried a round into the engine.

  Deacon took cover again.

  They reached the truck. Sullivan swung the door open. Monique climbed in.

  Jones tossed the Glock. ‘I’m out.’ Monique threw her arms around him. Then a round cut through the windshield and slammed into the headrest between them.

  ‘Crank it up! Let’s go!’ Sullivan yelled.

  Jones turned the key, the engine roared to life, and he threw it in gear. ‘Keep your head down, sweetheart.’ He floored the bastard.

  Jones saw Mackler swing her MP5 up and over the trunk of the Nissan. Campbell, on the other side, did the same over the hood.

  Jones shot a quick glance at Sullivan’s submachine gun. ‘Are you out of bullets or what?’

  Sullivan swung out of the truck, saw Deacon by the plane, took aim at his skull, took a breath, and squeezed the trigger. The round cracked through the air and blew the back of Deacon’s head all over the plane’s white paint job.

  He tossed the weapon. ‘I am now.’

  There was no time to celebrate.

  Campbell took aim.

  ‘DOWN!’ Sullivan yelled.

  Bullets pounded the truck, tearing into the metal, through the grille, and burrowing into the engine block. There was a snap. The engine revved hard and loud but lost speed. Jones pumped the gas.

  Clutch.

  Gear.

  Gas.

  The gunfire died, the truck rolled to a stop, footsteps surrounded them.

  Sullivan and Jones, heads under the dashboard, shared a glance.

  They were fucked.

  Chapter Seventy Seven

  Sullivan was taken out of the hangar, over the road, and into the empty office of a defunct airline.

  Jones and Monique were already on chairs in the hangar, flexi-cuffed, with their hands behind their backs.

  None of their futures looked bright.

  The pilot pointed at the bullet hole in the side of the plane.

  ‘Can you fix it?’ Mackler asked.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Can you be a little more definitive?’

  ‘I can fix it.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Two hours?’

  ‘If you do it in one, that’s an extra twenty thousand to you.’

  ‘I can do it in one.’

  Chapter Seventy Eight

  Sullivan had been in this position before: strapped to a chair, hands flexi-cuffed behind his back, some nut with bad intentions circling him. It wasn’t a position he was fond of.

  Shards of light blasted through the windows of the sprawling open-plan office. Dust hung in the air or settled on the rows of empty desks.

  Campbell lit a cigarette, paced in front of Sullivan with a half smile on his face, as if he were struggling with the words he wanted to say. He finally pulled over a chair and sat in front of Sullivan
, knee to knee.

  ‘I thought you were one of us,’ he said.

  ‘One of what?’

  ‘I thought you wanted to make these fuckers pay for everything they had done to you?’

  ‘By stealing their money?’

  ‘You take what’s most important.’ Campbell smiled. ‘We tried it all the other ways. Protests, strikes, and the unions?’ He shook his head. ‘Hell, they’re even more corrupt. Politicians and the bosses of this state have had their hands in the pockets of hardworking cops for far too long. Then, instead of going after criminals, Jim Jones goes after cops? His own kind? Do you know how hard it is for a twenty-year veteran to find another job after being booted from the DPD on corruption charges?’

  ‘I suppose it doesn’t look too good on the résumé.’

  ‘Half those poor fuckers had trouble applying for the unemployment, let alone anything resembling gainful employment.’ He put his hand in his pocket and took out a department-issued taser. ‘In light of the recent engine trouble with our current mode of transport, Mackler is pretty keen to find out if you . . .’ he casually pointed the taser Sullivan’s way, ‘blabbed about where you and Mr. Goody-two-shoes were going before you rolled through the door. Mackler believes, and I have to agree with her, that you won’t exactly be forthcoming with information.’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Then,’ he spoke hesitantly, ‘I may have to torture you, just a little.’ Campbell held the taser as if he were presenting it to Sullivan. ‘Are you familiar with this device?’

  Sullivan nodded. The X26 Work Horse Taser.

  ‘Painful bastard, it is. Then you would know that some of the sissy-na-nas out there don’t really like police officers using them as a way to, you know, put a dog down. They say that continual use of the device may, depending on the victim’s age, height, this, that, favorite color, and whatnot, and this is not really proven, cause a cardiac arrest, most commonly known as a heart attack. They say the magic number is fifteen buzz hits in the torso area for periods of about five seconds. I don’t know how they’re coming up with these numbers, because, really, who are they testing these on?’ He pointed the taser at Sullivan again. ‘You’re a big guy, and on your best day, I think you could take the lion’s share of those fifteen hits, but you’ve been very busy today and you’re starting to rack up those miles.’ He dragged the tip of the taser down Sullivan’s cheek.

  ‘You want to know if we called O’Conner, or any of the bosses at Major Crimes, before we rolled up here?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘They should be here any minute.’

  Campbell smiled; it was all teeth. ‘I want to believe you, Angus, I really do. But I wouldn’t be doing the due diligence properly if I didn’t find out for sure.’

  He dragged the tip of the taser down Sullivan’s neck, circled it around his chest, settled it just under his heart.

  Sullivan clenched his teeth.

  Campbell squeezed the trigger.

  Chapter Seventy Nine

  Fuck.

  Chapter Eighty

  Electricity passed through him.

  Every muscle stiffened.

  Sullivan couldn’t move. He screamed through his teeth, a god-awful howl.

  Sullivan had known pain. But not at that intensity and speed.

  Campbell eased off the trigger. ‘Whoa!’ He was excited. ‘How do you feel?’

  Sullivan pulled a couple of huge breaths. ‘Burnt.’

  The X26 pushed into his heart. Campbell pulled the trigger and sent 2,600 volts into Sullivan. His body stiffened, his jaw clenched shut. He wanted to kick loose, yell, scream, and fight; the electricity froze him. All he could do was sit there and cop it.

  He sent his mind elsewhere, sent the pain elsewhere. Buried it deep and focused on something good and from long ago.

  Snippets of memory.

  Small things. A laugh, a smile. Meaning little separately; combined, meaning a happier life and a world lost.

  He couldn’t hold the thought and snapped back to reality.

  His vision was fucked. He tried settling on Campbell, but there were three of him, and they were all making Sullivan nauseated. He closed his eyes and let his chin drop to his chest. Electricity bounced around his body, from organ to organ, like some internal pinball machine.

  For the next five minutes, Campbell hit up Sullivan with long blasts of electricity. They pushed through his chest and into his heart.

  Then the battery unceremoniously died. Campbell looked at the thing in his hand and tossed it aside. ‘Fourteen hits,’ he said. ‘Not too shabby.’ His head tilted. ‘But you don’t look so good, Sullivan.’

  Sweat ran down Sullivan’s face, dropped from his chin. He was taking breaths in short little bursts. There was a pain in the right side of his jaw that traveled down his arm and leg. No matter how hard he tried to push his mind elsewhere, he was in the present… and he was having a heart attack.

  ‘Looks like those protest groups were right,’ Campbell said. ‘We must practice taser safety.’ He stood and watched Sullivan struggle. ‘It’s a shame. I really did hope you would come with us. Being on the run suits you.’

  Sullivan didn’t see Campbell leave; he heard the door shut and was alone in the dusty office. It was his first heart attack, and he panicked. He knew he had to slow his heart and his mind, limit the damage. He had been chewing painkillers all day. There was a bottle in his pocket. Sullivan had always thought taking painkillers for a heart attack was bullshit. With his chest feeling like it was in a vise, he was willing to give anything a go.

  The last time he’d snapped off a pair of flexicuffs, he was younger and fitter. He pulled at the plastic. They cut into his wrists. Blood rolled down onto his palms, dripped off his fingertips. He closed his eyes, took a breath. The pain cut through his shoulders and ran up his back. His face went red. Veins popped on his neck. A grunt leaked through his gritted teeth.

  And then, the flexicuffs snapped.

  His chest felt as if it were going to cave in on itself.

  Sullivan fell to the floor.

  His fist pushed into his pocket. Pulled the bottle out. Fucking childproof lock. Then the lid was off, pills in his hand, pills in his mouth.

  Chew.

  Swallow.

  Chew.

  Swallow.

  Chapter Eighty One

  Sullivan stumbled out of the derelict office. Sunlight hit him like a kick in the balls. The pain in his chest had numbed to a dull throb, the sweat that covered him had cooled, and his dizziness was all but gone.

  Hangar fourteen was across the road, and Mackler’s vehicles were lined up outside it. Sullivan stumbled over the first of them. The doors were locked, and he put his elbow through the driver’s side window and popped the trunk: empty. He did the same to the next two vehicles, and in the trunk of the third he found a small lock box with a silenced Beretta and two clips. He rammed one in and was ready to rock and roll.

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ!’

  Sullivan jumped, turned. It was Campbell.

  ‘I didn’t see you there,’ Sullivan said. ‘You almost gave me a heart attack.’

  Campbell dropped his eyes to the Beretta, and the smile left his face. ‘We were all so jealous when you took out Wilson and his whole fucking crew, almost single-handedly. A hero among cops, you were; a hero!’ Campbell reached behind and pulled a Glock from the back of his waistband. He tossed it into the dirt and held up his fists. ‘How about giving me a shot at the champ?’

  Sullivan pulled the Beretta on Campbell and put two in his chest. He took a step and buried another round in his skull.

  ‘Not in the mood.’

  Chapter Eighty Two

  There was a tremor in his gun hand. Sullivan tried straightening it out with a couple of deep breaths and willpower. Neither worked, and he was running out of time. He peeked around the corner of the hangar. The plane had been repaired, and the pilot was fitting the casing back on the fuselage. They
would be air ready in minutes.

  He shifted his eye line to Monique; she had taken a couple of whacks across the face. Nothing major, but it was enough. Mackler stood behind her, iPad out, finger swiping through the news updates.

  Jones was tied to a chair, beaten black and blue. Broken nose, busted lips, probably a few missing teeth. His TV looks fucked for life; Campbell’s handiwork.

  Sullivan stepped out, gun up, Mackler in his sights.

  ‘HEY!’

  Shit.

  The pilot had spotted him and, sometime in the past hour, had grown some balls. He had an MP5 up and on Sullivan.

  Sullivan shifted his aim. ‘DROP IT! DROP THE FUCKING GUN! DROP IT!’ he yelled.

  The poor bastard had obviously never held a weapon before, and with Sullivan coming at him like that, he shit his pants and threw the thing to the ground. But Sullivan had lost the element of surprise, and when he reassessed the situation, Mackler was behind Monique, a gun to her head, a sweaty finger on the trigger.

  Taking a shot was too dangerous. Sullivan couldn’t guarantee what Mackler’s trigger finger was going to do once her nervous system was shattered.

  ‘Nice of you to show up,’ Jones said.

  ‘Don’t you start.’ He shifted his gaze to the pilot. ‘Cut him free.’

  The poor cokehead did so, and the Internal Affairs cop pushed himself to his feet and scooped up the MP5. He took aim at the woman who had a gun to his baby girl’s head.

  ‘You’ve lost, Christine,’ he said. ‘Let her go.’

  ‘As soon as I’m in that aircraft and landed in a safe and secure location, she’ll be set free.’

  Sullivan shifted his aim and fired a round into the pilot’s leg. He hit the deck.

  ‘And who’s going to fly it?’ Sullivan said. ‘Him?’

  Mackler pushed the muzzle deeper into Monique’s temple.

  ‘Please,’ Jones said. ‘Let me have my daughter.’