by Samson Weld
So much for that idea…
Four guards remained outside, everyone quite alert. Ash worried he wouldn’t get to Steinberg. The way Carpenter positioned the guards, each man could see two others. Ash saw no way to take them out one at a time.
And then baldy surprised him.
The shadowy mercenary turned back to the house. He moved up to the wall, between a pair of large shrubs, and unzipped. Ash couldn’t breathe. He looked left and right, checking the other two guards. Both were looking elsewhere.
His heart began to thunder. This was his chance.
Ash shouldered the AR-15, pulled a long, razor-sharp knife, and rushed out of cover in a crouch. He moved quickly and quietly. Baldy never heard his approach. He was shaking it off when Ash struck.
He thrust the knife into baldy’s back, angling up to penetrate his diaphragm. At the same time, his left hand clamped over the man’s mouth. Baldy’s back bowed, he froze, and then he died without a sound.
After wiping the blood off the blade on the dead man’s pants, Ash sheathed the knife and confiscated baldy’s weapon. It was a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun. Baldy had two spare magazines that went into Ash’s pockets.
Ash then headed for the front door.
Keeping to the night shadows, he moved as fast and stealthily as possible. Ash knew all hell would break out as soon as he opened fire, whether at Carpenter, Steinberg, or other men inside. The goal was to reach the money man first.
And then unleash hell.
Reaching the door, Ash paused to listen. None of the other guards had figured out that something was amiss. Yet. He couldn’t hear any activity inside. He wrapped his hand around the knob and slowly turned it.
Not locked. Hell yes…
Confidence high, Ash slowly pushed the front door open on silent hinges.
And the house alarm went off, blaring loudly in the night.
Chapter 36
Ash screamed with rage as he burst into the house. It gave him courage, reminding him why he was here.
His eyes locked on Carpenter. The man who led the attack that killed Deanna sat at the dining room table, working on a laptop. Swinging the newly acquired HK MP5 around, Ash squeezed off three five-round bursts as he charged the ex-Marine turned hired killer.
“Die and go to hell!” Ash shouted.
Carpenter proved fast. He snatched up his own weapon even as he threw himself backwards. Ash hit everything but the wily merc, destroying the table and a china cabinet behind him. Bullet holes riddled the wall, with the master bedroom on the other side.
Steinberg’s startled voice cried out. Ash wanted to empty a magazine into that wall, into that cold-blooded man. Carpenter returned fire, forcing him to dive behind for cover. Their fire ripped apart sofas and kitchen cabinets. The back windows shattered loudly in the quiet night. He heard the remaining guards’ shouts outside.
We have company coming, he thought.
Ash fired into the wall again, sending hot lead ripping through the master bedroom again. That’ll keep Steinberg down until he could deal with Carpenter.
“You’re dead meat, Wexler!”
“I’m not going to hell alone, Carpenter.”
That shut the mercenary up. Ash grinned. He imagined Carpenter wondering how he’d discovered his identity, and if Ash had told the police yet. He hadn’t, but had left a letter back home for Bellucci. It contained everything he knew. Just in case.
“The Dallas police, FBI, and ATF are all looking for you, Carpenter,” Ash shouted. “Hell, I bet Homeland Security has your number now. You will die a disgraced Marine. Shame.”
That had to sting. Marines were all about being Marines. They all self-identified as Marines for their entire lives, even long after they left the service. Once that cult got its claws in you, it never let go. So one did not bring shame upon the Corps.
And then someone opened fire from outside.
Ratta-tat-tat-tat!
Ash scrambled for cover. The fire came from the shattered back sliding glass doors. Then a second gunner joined in.
Ratta-tat-tat! Ratta-tat-tat-tat-tat!
When Ash tried to return fire, he got only a single shot off. Empty. Ejecting, slamming in another magazine, he emptied that magazine in the walls to either side of the back door.
He was rewarded with a man crying out in pain, but he was sure it wasn’t enough to take that son of a bitch out of the game.
Three gunmen outside, one and a half inside, Ash thought. He doubted Steinberg had any experience fighting, much less actual combat and gunfight.
Steinberg, Carpenter, and Crenshaw have to die, in that order.
Loading his last magazine for the MP5, Ash studied the layout of walls, furniture, and windows. At least one of the outside guards had to be waiting by a front window, looking for a chance to nail his ass. Two more in their back, with Carpenter in the kitchen.
“Hey, Steinberg! I know all about you, asshole!” Ash shouted. “The game is up. Even if you survive my attack tonight, the police will hunt you down. You will pay for what you did!”
Cursing coming from the master bedroom made him smile. Ash tried to home in on it and opened fire into the wall again. Steinberg cried out and fell silent.
“You okay?” Carpenter called.
“Stop worrying about me and kill him! Kill him!” Steinberg cried. “A million dollars to the man that kills Wexler!”
Ash noticed an ashtray on the floor, atop a mess of ashes and butts. He hadn’t seen an ashtray in over a decade. But it wasn’t an unwelcome sight. Picking it up, he took aim and threw it at the master bedroom door.
“Grenade!” he shouted.
“Shit,” Carpenter said.
Ash took off running, heading straight for Carpenter’s position. He veered to his right, coming around the island behind his adversary. Unfortunately, the guy out front opened fire at him. That forced Ash to dive for cover.
“Watch your back, Carpenter!”
The leader of the mercenaries broke cover and slammed bodily into the master bedroom door, smashing it open. He vanished inside so fast that Ash didn’t have time to bring his weapon to bear. So instead he returned fire at the front window.
“I’m going to kill you all!” Ash barked. “You all may be ex-soldiers, but I hunt down and kill men like you for breakfast. It’s what I do best.”
All four of the remaining mercenaries opened fire on him. Ash lay behind cover, head down, while they expended their precious ammo. He smirked. The fury of their attack showed that he’d struck bone with that last comment.
Is it fear that I’ll do what I said and kill them all? he wondered. Or the fact that I called them soldiers instead of Marines?
Tossing a throw pillow, Ash covertly watched the front windows. The barrel of an assault rifle poked through and fired at the pillow, showing him where the gunman stood.
Ash gathered up his feet and rushed the front door. Everyone opened fire, riddling the walls all around him. A second later, he burst out of the house and turned on the gunman.
The merc was a big blond giant of a man. Ash emptied his magazine into him. He looked startled at first, and then embarrassed, before he died.
Casting aside the HK MP5, he raced up to the dead man and took his weapon. It was a Colt 9mm SMG, which kind of looked like a shortened M16. The dead man surrendered five full magazines, as well.
“Thanks, man,” Ash whispered. Then he shouted, “Two dead! I’m coming for the rest of you now!”
Ratta-tat-tat!
That three round burst hit Ash in the chest.
It threw him back onto his butt. Oh, and it hurt like hell. Still, the bulletproof vest did its job. Other than knocking half of the air out of his lungs, and probably leaving a nasty bruise, Ash fared well. He was alive.
Rolling to the right, while his foe opened up again, Ash came to a stop on one knee and sighted in on the gunman. The lucky son of a bitch ducked back behind the brick house just in time. Ash turned and raced around th
e other side of the house.
He’d expected to encounter another killer, but found the side of the house free of threat. Rushing up to the corner, he dropped to the ground before peeking around to find the backyard empty as well.
Where the hell are they? Did they all go inside?
Moving slowly, all senses alert, Ash headed for the French doors opening off the master. The lights were off, making it impossible to see inside. And then he heard a sound that made his blood run cold.
A car engine turning over.
“No, no, no!”
Ash raced back the way he’d come, only to catch the taillights of the Tahoe turning onto the street and vanishing behind the trees seconds later.
No…
A siren grew louder in the distance, promptly followed by two more. Time was running out. Ash quickly circled the house to ensure that no one was left behind to surprise him.
Then he entered the house and checked every room as fast as he could, before turning his attention to Carpenter’s laptop. He found his stolen desktop sitting on the floor behind the table.
Carpenter had closed the laptop at the start of the attack and Ash at once discovered that it was password protected. He didn’t have time to deal with it. The police would be there shortly.
He inspected the master bedroom. Steinberg’s luggage was there, but nothing else. No wallet. No paperwork. No computer. Nothing to help Ash.
Checking the bedrooms, he found more luggage and lots of passports. Each of the mercenaries had multiple passports with fake names. He found more weaponry, as well.
Ash gathered all the automatic weapons, what little ammo he could find, stuffing it all in an olive green duffle bag. Then he ran out the back door as the first police car arrived.
Going down to the lakes, Ash kept low and followed the shoreline a good two hundred yards before turning back into the thick woods.
Tonight wasn’t a total bust, he thought. But now Steinberg knows I can hit him. He’ll be twice as hard to get to, if he even stays in Dallas.
Chapter 37
It was still early morning when Ash pulled up to his new house. The spring air felt invigorating, yet his soul felt defeated. He’d failed miserably.
Steinberg, Carpenter, and Crenshaw are all still alive.
Ash parked in the garage and then lowered the door before he pulled out the faded and stained US military duffle bag. The weapons inside rattled around. It proved heavy despite not being close to full.
Going straight to his armory, Ash pulled the weapons out. They were all chambered for 9x19mm Parabellum ammo. By design? That meant that their outfit only had to buy one kind of ammunition. Yet he remained critically short of 9mm ammo at the moment.
His phone rang. Caller ID on the screen displayed: Bellucci. Ash let it go to voice mail.
He needed to think about his situation so he sat at his desk and began disassembling the Heckler & Koch MP5. He’d fired it and therefore had to be cleaned. Besides, he did some of his best thinking while cleaning his weapons.
Getting black market ammunition wasn’t a problem. He knew people. Ammo wasn’t his real problem, just the easiest to resolve.
Ash’s eyes kept rising up to the map on the wall before him. They could be anywhere now, and that included at one of the local airports, ready to bug out. Well, Steinberg might run for his life, but he’d leave his killers behind to deal with Ash. They were playing a winner takes all game.
No, it’s a loser loses all, he thought. There will be no winners here. There will only be one man left standing.
Exhaustion washed over him. He hadn’t felt this tired, this defeated since his family’s slaughter back in LA. And now it was happening again.
I can’t believe she’s gone. Just like that. Why did they have to kill Deanna?
Long suppressed feelings welled up, threatening to overwhelm him. Ash struggled to push them back down. Why was it so hard? He had over five years of practice at suppressing his feelings, keeping the pain deep within and safe from the harsh light of reality.
Activity helped. Getting lost in the mundane was the trick. He reached down to get the cleaning kit out of the bottom left drawer. And froze. His cleaning kit and other cleaning supplies were in the bottom right drawer.
Was he slipping up? Ash couldn’t breathe at the sight before him. It was that box. The box of personal items that Bellucci had gathered from his storage. On top of that, he’d placed all of his pictures of Deanna in that drawer as well.
He wanted to close the drawer, to shut out all those terribly wonderful memories. He wanted to lose himself in thoughts of dark vengeance. But right there, staring up at him, was the last picture he’d taken with Deanna, just six weeks back.
They were at the local Ren Festival, called Scarborough Faire. Deanna was wearing a flower headband and a smile so full of joy and life on her face. They stood together in front of the jousting field.
Ash remembered that day in minute detail. They’d had so much fun. Deanna loved everything about Scarborough Faire and all the crazy characters running around in period costumes. She spoke about returning every year and maybe wearing a costume, too.
He lifted the box out and gently placed it on top of the desk. Trembling fingers opened it. He’d already looked inside a few times since Bellucci had handed it to him. A small stack of baseball cards drew his eyes. It was baseball season again. He rarely watched anymore since it always reminded him of his sons and the love of the game they’d shared with him.
Eyes wet and burning, he looked through the once treasured cards. Most of the players were Dodgers, from the twins’ favorite team. Underneath was a bright red, oversized envelope. A birthday card. That stopped him cold. He continued simply staring into the box.
For a second, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even think. The handwritten address screamed at him. Specifically, the name “Wexler” written on two places. The upper left hand corner read: Dale Wexler. And it was addressed to the “Wexler Twins,” which Dale was wont to do for some strange reason. It used to tick Milly off since the boys had names.
It wasn’t what was written, but how it was written. Ash had forgotten that Dale wrote his “W” so distinctly. It reminded him of something he’d recently seen, and now it clicked into place.
His phone rang. Bellucci again? He let it go to voice mail. Ash didn’t want to speak with anyone who wanted him to act reasonably. He didn’t need anyone talking him out of something he hadn’t even decided on yet.
He quickly used his phone to log into his old cloud account. He pulled up the forged insurance payout authorization and compared the signatures.
The word “Wexler” was written the exact same way on both the envelope and the forged document.
Oh my God…
Dale was the one! He had forged the paperwork. There couldn’t be any doubt about that. How had he gotten involved in Steinberg’s scheme?
Was it coincidence that Dale had come to Dallas at this time, just when assassins had appeared?
Not likely.
Ash looked up the number to the Hyatt Regency at Reunion Tower. The woman at the front desk proved quite helpful. Yes, Dale Wexler was staying at the hotel. No, there was no dental convention at their hotel, but she gave him a number to a city agency that could direct him to the correct venue.
Hanging up, Ash sat back in stunned silence for a moment.
“My brother is helping the man who killed Deanna,” he muttered. “He works for Steinberg.”
It was so painfully obvious, but how could he? How did he know Steinberg? Why help him cover up a murder? His own family! Did Steinberg have something on Dale?
None of it made sense. Dale was a dentist, and a not particularly successful one at that. He didn’t travel in the same circles as a billionaire businessman.
“Nothing makes sense,” he whispered to himself.
His phone rang again. It was Bellucci. What was her problem? He didn’t pick up.
Ash stomped into the kitchen
, going straight to the cabinet above the fridge. He pulled down a bottle of scotch.
“Ah, my good friend,” he said, pouring a double shot into his glass.
Johnnie Walker. My best friend.
He started to pour another, but stopped when he realized the photo of him and Deanna at Scarborough Faire was still in his hand. Why hadn’t he put that back? It hurt too much to look at her joyful face. Yet, he couldn’t not look. So beautiful. So gentle and loving. Deanna deserved better.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he croaked out, eyes burning, tears flowing. “It’s all my fault. My life is death and violence. I should never have started anything with you.”
All the emotion, all of the feelings of despair, came up. Ash couldn’t stop them, and they overwhelmed him.
Chapter 38
“Ciao bella!”
Bellucci froze next to the coffee machine. She slanted narrowed eyes over at Detectives Tucker and Hawkins. They grinned back at her, with Tucker wagging his eyebrows as he looked her up and down with relish.
“Hey, Bellucci, how about me taking you to lunch today?”
She shook her head woefully. Men!
Tucker was her type: tall, dark, ruggedly handsome. But he was married with two kids. And that made him off-limits. Hawkins was divorced, but twenty years too old and a hundred pounds too heavy. Hell, Hawkins’s son was just two years her junior and was a Plano cop.
“How about remembering you’re a married man,” she said. Bellucci filled her cup before picking it up and turning toward the two men. “You’d think neither of you had ever seen a woman before.”
Their eyes dropped to her hips and legs.
“Not like…”
“It’s just a friggin’ skirt,” she snapped. “I had to go to court this morning. Okay? I wear a skirt when I have to testify.”
Bellucci wore a nice outfit. Nothing overtly sexual. The white blouse wasn’t even that tight, though the dark gray pencil skirt might’ve shrunk a little the last time she washed it. But the skirt fell below her knees, so they shouldn’t be sexualizing it. She accessorized with dark hose and heels.