by John Hart
“Maybe.” Another sip. “But you didn’t see the pleasure he took in doing it.”
“You shattered his nose.”
“Worth it.”
“You also broke off two veneers.”
“That reminds me.” French fished in his shirt pocket, pulled out bits of fake teeth, and dropped them on the table. The captain turned a little green. French threw a leg up on the table beside them. Blue jeans. Nice loafers. “Will he press charges?”
“So far, he’s not … uh … amenable to letting you slide.”
“You don’t really believe Gibson has anything to do with this, do you?”
“Two days ago? No. Never. But now?” The captain spread his palms in a way French did not like at all. “Now, his brother’s back in town, and dealing guns. Gibby’s out all hours, and mixed up with another outlaw motorcycle club—”
“Just the Angels, and only the once.”
“A naïve kid trying to help his big brother. Yeah, you told me. But it’s not that simple anymore.” The captain pushed his drink to the side, his features serious. “The night we arrested Jason on weapons violations, we picked up one of the Pagans he’d been selling to. Darius Simms, some kind of shot caller. You heard of him?”
“He says Jason shot him in the foot and leg. I read the report.”
“Not all of it.”
The tone of his voice was not a good sign. “You held back on me?”
“I’m sorry, Bill. I had to. Gibby was there when Jason shot Darius Simms. He was in the room, an accessory.”
“Accessory to what?”
“Multiple assaults? Attempted murder? The DA has it under review, and is keeping his cards close. What we know for sure is that Gibby helped Jason carry off the guns and cash, and load it all in the van. And don’t argue with me, Bill. His prints are on the guns.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“It gets worse. He was seen at Sara’s condominium. Today. This morning. Martinez found a witness.”
“Who?”
“You know better than that, Bill.”
“How solid is the ID?”
“Bulletproof. I’m sorry…”
“Who is this witness?”
“Come on, Bill. I’m over the line even being here. You know that.” The captain reached for the drink, waiting for French to shake his head, and stare off into space. Seeing what?
His wife, when she heard?
The ruin this would cause?
“Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“Only that two others were with your son when he entered Sara’s condominium, a young man we believe to be his friend Chance, and a young woman we’ve not yet identified. It’s also possible that Ken Burklow made an appearance. I’m dragging my feet on that, but Martinez is foaming about it. I think Ken will be okay, though. The witness is barely twelve, and every white man over fifty looks more or less the same. The rest of it, though … The wheels have to turn.”
“Those unfortunate wheels, yeah.”
“Do you know where Gibby is now? You don’t have to answer. I’m here as your friend. It’s just that, well, I was there on the day of his christening.”
“He’s upstairs. Asleep, I hope.”
“You might want to talk to him. Prep him for what’s coming.”
“I’ll give him tonight. Best for both of us, I think.”
“If Martinez asks…”
“You were never here.”
“Well.” Captain Martin offered an expression of unusual helplessness.
“Yeah.” French patted him on the shoulder, and guided him to the front door. “That about sums it up.”
33
Sara was awake, but afraid to open her eyes. If she did, it would be real: this place, the helplessness. But hours had passed. Her knuckles were bloody, her fingernails torn.
How long since she’d risen from that horrible, skinny, metal-railed bed?
Beyond hunger and thirst, she had no way to tell.
Where was he?
That was the worst.
What was this place? What did he want?
Him.
He.
Asshole motherfucker.
That was all she had, rage and fear, back and forth. Tears had fallen and dried, but that was over. She’d decided. She looked for more of that courage, and a sound escaped her lips, the smallest thing.
I will not be weak.
I will not die like Tyra.
* * *
Reece was behind the wall when she made that first sound. And the angle was perfect! The light on her face. Small darkness where one leg pressed against the other. It would happen soon, he thought.
She would stop pretending.
She would open her eyes.
When the moment came, Reece felt a pounding in his chest; and when she moved, he was behind the walls. She was not panicked as she’d been before, no tears or drama as she drifted from room to room touching the walls or opening drawers. In the kitchen, she filled a glass with water and drank it down. In the bathroom, she splashed water on her face, and he was there for that, too, behind the mirror, and close on the other side, watching as she stared at her reflection, bare inches between them. She would submit, in the end—they all did—but would she choose to do so? His was such a simple desire: to know as other men knew, to be drawn down, invited, to close his eyes and stab out the sorrows. He saw how it could be with Sara, the yes in her throat, and a needful rise, the velvet hinge of her un-scissored legs.
She was perfect.
She would be different.
He closed his eyes to imagine it better.
* * *
In the darkness beyond the walls of Reece’s house, three men sat in the back of a windowless van. Zachary Byrd was in charge. He had the scars, the clients, the money. The other two were hired hands, good with knife or gun, and willing to kill anything for the right price. Wilkinson and Pugh charged five thousand apiece, and Byrd was happy to pay it. His contract with X was for a half-million dollars, plus a fifty thousand kicker if he made Reece beg, and got it on tape. Of course, Reece was supposed to be some kind of tough-nut killer. He worked for X, so maybe he was. Either way …
“Why can’t we just shoot this guy?”
Wilkinson had small eyes and a wound of a mouth. Frowning at the question, Byrd said, “You know why.”
“The client says slow and bloody, I get it. But why does he care?”
Byrd thumbed a knife’s edge, and sheathed it. “I guess this Reece guy stepped on the wrong toes. What does it matter?”
“The wrong toes. Ha!”
That was Pugh, as thoughtful as a murdered cat, but good with locks and alarms. Byrd sheathed a second knife, frowning. “Listen up, and let me be clear. We do this like I said. Screw it up, and I’ll peel your face like a potato.”
Wilkinson was smart enough to nod, but Pugh was still grinning like his dick was a jack-in-the-box and Miss America was turning the crank.
Byrd scowled at them both, but on the inside was smiling.
One night’s work …
Half a million plus …
* * *
Reece had always had a powerful imagination. He could look at a woman and know how they would be together, whether she wanted it or not. If the target was a man, he knew exactly how the man would scream, and what bribe or debasement he might offer up to make the pain stop. For Sara, he imagined the time she would need to adjust and accept. If it took weeks, that would be fine. Even months. It wasn’t just her looks. It was the way she moved and smiled, something about the soul, and Reece had never cared about the soul. It would require patience, and for Reece that was hard.
For Sara, though …
He played it out: the carrot, the stick. Almost blissful, he opened his eyes.
Amber lights were flashing in the silence.
Someone was on the grounds!
In a sudden panic, Reece spun from the two-way glass, crabbing sideways in a mad dash for the security ro
om. He took the next corner too fast, tore skin on a nail, ignored it. At the monitors, he bent over the controls.
He’d been so careful!
But the cameras didn’t lie: three men over the wall, and moving fast, single file as they neared the house.
Not cops, though …
If cops knew about Reece, they’d have come in tactical squads.
Simple thieves?
He discarded the thought as soon as it surfaced. The house was lit up like Christmas, three cars in the driveway.
Private contractors, then.
A three-man crew.
Reece’s first thought was X, but X didn’t know about the girl. He couldn’t.
Other enemies?
Reece did know violent men, but, like him, they ghosted in the cracks, and killed in quiet places. So maybe it was X. In the end, it didn’t matter. This was Reece’s home, and his home was a killing place. So he watched them come, three men, moving like pros, one directing the others. They drew down in a patch of cover, but there was no such thing as cover, not here. Every camera was night-capable, with intersecting lines of sight. Reece watched for another moment, then thumbed a switch, unbolting the side door.
* * *
Byrd was feeling cocky. An easy climb, up and over the wall. No dogs or automatic lights. When Wilkinson and Pugh settled into the darkness beside him, Byrd gestured with an open hand. “West-side corner.”
He went first, and the others followed, crossing a final stretch of open ground, then settling into darkness beneath a pair of French windows. Pugh grinned in the gloom. “Walk in the park.”
But Byrd had checked the windows, and knew better. “Polycarbonate windows. Steel frames and armored hinges.”
“Bulletproof? Come on, man.”
“Nothing has changed.” Byrd cut off the complaint, but he saw the look that passed between the other men. Armored glass cost money, lots of it. Now they worried about other countermeasures, greater risk. “We knew he was rich when we took the job. I’m sure he has nice furniture, too. So stay cool. Do the work.” He gestured north along the wall. “Side door. Forty feet.” When they got there, he said, “Pugh.”
Pugh examined the lock. “Four-ton dead bolts. Hardened steel cylinders. Drill plates, probably. Ball bearings…”
“Alarmed?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Do it.”
Pugh unfolded a packet of picks and bypass circuits, then put pressure on the door handle, just in case. The handle turned, and Byrd shook his head, disbelieving.
Easiest half million ever …
* * *
Reece gave them five seconds to clear the door, then triggered a circuit to close and seal it.
No handle on the inside.
No access to the hinges.
Reece waited for that to sink in, then triggered the second door.
* * *
“Byrd, what the hell just happened?”
Byrd waved Pugh to silence, drawing a pistol as he did so. The floor was mortared flagstone, the walls concrete. Thirty feet down, a second door had just slammed shut, and it looked every bit as solid as the first.
“I don’t see any nice furniture.”
“Can it, Wilkinson.” Byrd pointed at the second door. “Pugh, check it out.”
The second door was solid steel, exactly like the first, nine feet tall, and faceless. “We’re not getting through this,” Pugh said.
“Talk to me.”
“Hardened steel in a recessed frame. I’d need an oxyacetylene torch and at least thirty minutes.”
“Jesus. You want a sandwich with that?”
“You see the cameras?”
Byrd did: one mounted high at each end of the hall.
Wilkinson said, “What do we do about this, boss man?”
Byrd studied the trap they’d sprung: thirty feet of concrete, stone, and steel. “I’ll figure something out.”
“I would love to believe that.”
“I’ve been in worse places,” Byrd said.
But he was wrong about that, too.
* * *
As soon as Reece got bored, he gassed them. The process wasn’t pretty. Pumped into a confined space, most incapacitating aerosols caused vomiting, seizures, or death, sometimes all three. Reece used a mix of methyl propyl ether and bovine anesthesia, a concoction perfected by a Mennonite serial rapist who liked to creep about in the dark and spray it into open windows. Reece found it acceptable, but only if the odd death was not a problem. He’d never use it on Sara, for instance.
But for these guys …
When all three were down, Reece pumped out the gas, rolled in a pallet dolly, and wheeled them outside to a concrete ramp, then down to a basement room equipped with surgical lighting, trench drains, and hydraulic tables. Metal shelving held the preferred tools of his trade, not just the scalpels, scissors, and saws, but forceps and towel clamps and organ holders, bone mallets and chisels, curettes and skin hooks and rib spreaders. Reece had trephines and Stryker saws, all kinds of retractors and hemostats. Ironically, he’d never used the room. Like the space upstairs, it was intended for special occasions and special people.
But these men had come, intending harm.
That made them special enough.
* * *
When the screaming started, Sara was curled in a corner beside the bed. She thought maybe it was a nightmare, but the sound went on and on, and sounded like a soul being torn apart. She covered her ears, but nothing helped. And when the first scream stopped, another one began.
A different scream, she could tell.
A different scream and a different soul.
* * *
For Reece, the first two were mostly mechanical. He took some time, but not as much as he normally might.
The first one, he skinned alive.
The second took four tourniquets and a bone saw.
“Can I assume you’ll answer my questions?”
Reece peered down at the last man living, naked as a newborn, and sheeting sweat as he bucked against the restraints, frantically trying to force words past the ball gag in his mouth.
“I beg your pardon.” Reece leaned close, amused.
But the clock really was ticking.
He removed the gag, and the words poured out. “Anything! I’ll tell you anything you want! But please, please don’t, not like them, dear God, Jesus Christ, not like them…”
Reece waited for the tears and silence. Both came quickly. “I have questions,” he said. “If you answer them for me, you won’t die like, you know…” Reece tipped his head at the dead men on the other tables.
“Anything! Please!”
But Reece shushed him like a child. He already knew the answers. This was more about confirmation. “You came here to kill me?” The man dipped his chin, still sobbing. “X hired you?” Another nod. “Any special instructions?”
“F-fifty thousand. Fifty extra if we … if we…”
“It’s okay,” Reece said. “I asked the question. There is no wrong answer.”
“Oh, Jesus…” Sweat sheeted the man’s face, dripped into his eyes. “Fifty thousand if we made you beg.”
“For my life?”
“For the pain to stop.”
“Ah. I see.” Reece pointed his chin at the dead men on the other tables. “Something like that?”
“He wanted it on film.”
“That explains this.” Reece picked up a video camera he’d found in one of the dead men’s satchels. “How much was the contract?”
“Half a million.”
“Plus the fifty?” Reece frowned deeply. It was insulting. Fiddling with the camera, he wedged it onto a shelf, making small adjustments.
From the table, the bound man said, “Nothing personal, right? You know X. You understand how he is. It’s just business.”
“I do know X, that’s true.” Reece spoke distractedly. Video cameras like this were new to the market. He had little experience with
them.
“So we’re good, yeah? Just business.”
“Well, I don’t know that we’re good…” Still distracted. Reece checked the lighting, tweaked the angle of the camera. Satisfied, he rolled out a fresh tray of surgical gear.
“Whoa! Hey, man! Come on, now! We had a deal! You said you’d let me go!”
“Actually”—Reece pointed with a skin hook retractor—“I said I wouldn’t kill you like them.”
34
It took hours for Reece to dismember and bag the bodies, then bleach-clean the tables, floor, and instruments. It was grim work, but he needed that time to think about X. A voice inside argued that time alone would solve the problem, that X would, in fact, be executed very soon. As resolutions went, it was simplistic. X was the most vindictive man Reece had ever known, the proof of which now filled two chest freezers in the corner, each bit of body neatly bagged and taped and stacked. Of course, those three men were only the beginning. Reece had seven places he considered safe, and X could not have known he’d choose this one for the girl. He had to assume, then, that X had dispatched as many as seven teams. The specifics didn’t matter. The implications did. X wanted Reece found, tortured, and killed; and cost was not an issue. That risk wouldn’t simply disappear once X was executed. He had money, lawyers, access to dangerous men. He’d put a contract on Reece’s life just to make a point.
A laugh escaped Reece’s lips, but sounded more like a high-pitched, disbelieving titter. In X’s world, there were unspoken rules and unforgivable sins. Reece was a dead man walking, and starting to feel that way. How much money did X have? Hundreds of millions? A billion? No one could escape that kind of reach. He’d spend his life afraid and running.
Sweet Jesus, he thought. Is this how it feels?
He couldn’t simply run. X’s people would find him, no question. Besides, Reece had too much pride for that. Too much faintheartedness, too—that was becoming sadly evident: the liquid insides, a certain weakness in his limbs. He had to get ahead of this, of X. Reece tried to think it through.