by Brian Drake
Wolf grabbed two extra clips from the dead gunman. His arms shook as he tried to keep the sub gun aimed at the house. He shuffled back to the stump. It seemed like the only safe place for now.
25
Chubby said, “What’s he doing?”
“Going for the other guns,” Regan said, and watched Wolf break cover and cross the dirt. He gripped his Beretta tightly and started shooting, Chubby following suit, but Wolf kept moving and reached the black sedan.
Chubby adjusted his aim but held his fire. “I can’t get a shot from here.”
Regan fired and his bullet smacked against the sedan. The car covered Wolf now. “He’ll have better hardware and all we got are these pistols,” he said. “We need those MP5s.”
That’s when the chattering of a submachine gun sent Regan flat. The slugs chewed up the front porch and sang off into the night.
“Cover me!” Chubby said. Regan popped off a few rounds as Chubby leaped off the porch. Chubby fired while Regan jumped up and followed his partner to the back of the cabin.
Wolf watched the silent cabin from behind the stump.
Soon the front door opened, and Ben Regan rushed out with an MP5. While Regan ran into the clearing, Chubby blasted from the doorway, spraying the trees and bushes around Wolf. Wolf stayed low and listened to the rounds whistle. The flash of Chubby’s weapon gave Wolf a nice target. He squeezed the trigger once and down went Chubby.
Regan reached the black car and ducked near the front fender. Wolf fired a full-auto burst. The front passenger side tire exploded, that side of the car sinking. Regan appeared around the back end and Wolf’s next burst stitched a pattern of holes in the fender.
Regan scooted back. Dust clung to his sweaty face. The tire didn’t provide enough cover and his body was visible in the gap between car and ground. The car started to shake as nine-millimeter slugs hammered the body. Regan dropped prone; scooted past the rear bumper to level his own MP5 at Wolf’s position.
Wolf reloaded as rounds split the foliage. Shards of bark peppered his neck. He held back the Beretta’s trigger and flame spit from the muzzle, sending hot stingers into the back end of the car. Regan let out a clipped yell.
Wolf reloaded again, let the dust clear, selected semi-auto and popped round after round into Regan’s prostrate form until he could no longer physically pull the trigger. He crawled on hands and knees over the dusty ground, shoving rocks out of the way, to Regan’s body. He felt through the pockets of the blood-spattered pants, removing a money clip with a few hundred dollars and cell phone. He yanked the gold chain from Regan’s wrist and wiped blood away. LOVE THY NEIGHBOR. Wolf wanted to vomit.
He took the cell phone and sat against the fender. He’d left the submachine gun at the stump, so he took the nine-millimeter pistol from Regan’s holster. He looked at the pistol a moment and remembered the shell casings he’d collected at Freddie and Sheila’s apartment. Now he knew for sure who’d killed Freddie. He used the phone to call Kiki.
A car pulled up the drive and stopped a few feet from Wolf.
Wolf tucked the Beretta nine-millimeter under his right leg, watched the new arrival.
The car switched off. Miles Kincaid climbed out. The big bald man approached Wolf with empty hands at his sides.
“Call your girlfriend,” Miles said.
Wolf dialed Kiki again and she gasped when she heard his voice.
“I couldn’t believe it! When you called, he just left. Let us go.”
“You two okay?”
“Fine, we’re going to Dad’s.”
“All right,” Wolf said, and broke the connection.
Miles said, “I’m not a monster. I only came here to do a job. I didn’t want to hurt anybody other than those scattered around this property. Now that the job is done, I’d like to live and let live, okay? Give me a minute and I’ll get you taken care of and you can give me the video.”
“Sure,” Wolf said.
Miles removed a digital camera from another pocket of his jacket and snapped a picture of dead Ben Regan. As he moved around the car toward Gambolini, Wolf put his feet under him, stood, and leaned against the car. He leveled the nine-millimeter at the bald man’s back.
Miles snapped a picture of Gambolini, rolled the body over and froze. “Wow,” he said. To Wolf: “Nice--hey, wait--”
Wolf pulled the trigger and Miles Kincaid fell atop Gambolini’s body. Wolf limped over and put two more rounds into the back of the big man’s head.
He returned to the car and collapsed. His whole body ached. It hurt to breathe. Stabbing pain in his side suggested a broken rib. Maybe a few broken ribs. After a moment he once again gained his feet and slid behind the wheel of Kincaid’s car. No keys. Wolf went back to Kincaid and retrieved the keys and started the car and drove away.
He drove slowly down the hill and dialed Kiki a third time.
“Wolf?”
“Coming over. Need a doctor.”
“I’ll get one here,” Kiki said, “but Dad just told me that Thorne and McNab got away.”
A chill straightened Wolf’s back and he stomped the gas.
Kiki kept talking, but Wolf cut her off.
“Listen, if you don’t hear from me in an hour, send help to my place at Lake Wyatt.”
“Wolf!”
“And promise you’ll take care of Sheila.”
“Calm down. Let me--”
“Promise me you’ll take care of Sheila.”
She remained silent; then: “Of course, I will.”
Wolf took a deep breath and gripped the wheel tight. “Good-bye, Kiki.”
Wolf pressed the brakes and the car skidded to a stop. He rolled out of the car with the engine still running, stayed on hands and knees, momentarily stifling a groan, and then rose to his feet. He limped up the steps to his cabin. The door was open a crack. He shoved the door open and it banged against the wall.
He saw Ava’s body right away. Near the television. On her back. She’d been shot several times. No pistol in her hands. She hadn’t had a chance to grab one of the hidden guns.
Wolf dropped to hands and knees and crawled to the body. He brushed hair from her forehead, wiped away a speck of blood, lowered his cheek against her cheek. Her skin was still warm. He moaned.
“Nice try, sport,” a voice said.
Wolf raised his head. Joe Thorne emerged from the kitchen. McNab appeared behind him. They both held pistols and Wolf saw that neither gun had come from his stash.
Joe Thorne said, “The cops missed some of my boys and they were able to provide some distractions while Skinner and I split.” He smiled. “What were you thinking?”
Wolf inched away from Ava’s body. “You didn’t have to kill her.” He stopped against the wall. An inch from his right hand was a heater vent.
“You look pretty rough,” Thorne said. “Been busy?”
Wolf stared at Thorne.
“Lost for words?”
McNab grabbed a can of gasoline from where it sat on the table, splashing the fluid around the kitchen, living room. Thorne cracked a smile. He followed McNab to the door. Skinner splashed more gasoline along the entryway and pulled a Zippo from a pocket. He struck the spinner and let Wolf see the flickering flame.
Thorne said, “So long.”
McNab dropped the lighter and the gasoline caught fire, spreading fast, licking up the walls. Wolf felt more sweat on his skin as the room heated up.
Wolf struck the break-away vent and grabbed the high-capacity automatic hidden there. He spun around.
“Hey, Joe!”
Thorne and McNab turned and Wolf opened fire, shifting his aim. Thorne and McNab twitched as slugs punched through them. They fell in a heap. Flames attacked their bodies, consuming them. Wolf fired the last round and dropped the gun.
Fire covered the walls, ate at the carpet, swept across the ceiling. Wolf stood up, took a few shaky steps, and fell hard. Smoke stung his eyes and heat licked his skin. The door seemed a million miles away,
blocked by flame. He looked at the front window. The only way out. He coughed and shut his eyes tight and crawled to the T.V., felt for the break-away panel, tossed it aside. He grabbed the hidden Glock and with squinted eyes blasted the window. Glass shattered. Air rushed in. With a roar the fire intensified and Wolf screamed as flames touched him. With another loud cry he dug knees and elbows into the carpet and forced his body forward. He wasn’t dead yet. Maybe he still had a chance to escape.
26
ONE WEEK later.
Wolf had spent most of his time in bed, banged up, but patched and healing thanks to a doctor he often used for such emergencies. A doctor who never reported to the police.
John Callaway and his crew took care of the mess. The shooting at Sanborn’s townhouse was lumped in with the cabin battle. A gang fight related to the Brock and Webster murders, with the history between Gambolini, Regan, Scarlatta and Califano front and center. The F.B.I. promised an inquiry on the New York end, a certain U.S. attorney needed to provide some answers once a particular DVD surfaced, and Wolf decided that he’d like to visit New York and actually find Califano and Scarlatta. Once he was back on his feet.
The fire at Wolf’s Lake Wyatt cabin was called an “accident” but since the cabin had been “empty”, the only damage was to the property. Callaway again took care of the bodies. Thorne and McNab were buried as John Does. Ava remained in the morgue.
After another few days Wolf was able to walk and joined Sheila for a visit to Freddie’s grave.
The cool afternoon breeze ruffled tree leaves. The fresh air felt good. Wolf held Sheila close with his left arm, supporting his right side with a crutch. She leaned on his shoulder.
Neither said anything.
The wind picked up and blew some leaves across the front of Freddie’s headstone.
Kiki used her pass to get them into the morgue in the bottom level of County Memorial Hospital.
The attendant checked his clipboard, leading her and Wolf to a storage locker with Jane Doe #45772 scrawled in a slot. Pulled the handle, slid the tray out. A filled body bag lay on the tray. The attendant reached for the zipper, but Wolf intercepted his hands. Kiki asked if they could be alone a few moments. The attendant nodded and walked away.
Wolf paused with hands on the zipper.
“You don’t have to,” Kiki said.
He pulled the zipper down and saw Ava’s cold, dead face, her eyes shut. Her body was blackened from the neck down. Wolf swallowed hard. His hands shook.
Kiki rubbed his back.
Wolf brushed Ava’s forehead one last time, then pulled the zipper closed. “What do I have to do to claim the body?”
“We can sign for it right now.”
“I want her cremated.”
She rubbed his back some more. “Are you going to keep the ashes?”
“No.”
She gave Wolf a squeeze.
“Thanks, Kiki,” he said. “For everything.”
With the urn containing Ava’s ashes on the seat beside him, Wolf powered the Chrysler up and over the mountain to San Isabel, a beach town on the coast. He’d promised Ava the most dazzling beach she’d ever see, and he meant to deliver.
No clouds in the sky, the sun shining bright. Wolf stopped the car near a rocky cliff overlooking the ocean. He stood at the edge a few moments, watching the crashing waves. Seagulls circled above.
Wolf twisted off the top of the urn, extended his arm, and scattered Ava’s ashes over the rocks below.
Wolf didn’t do much over the next few days except sit on the deck and stare at the sky. Smoking didn’t interest him; eating didn’t, either, but he forced himself to choke down something at least once a day.
A Saturday. Four days since Ava died. Wolf sat beside the window with a cup of tea in his chipped mug, and finally decided what he needed to do. He drank down the rest of the tea, gave it a look, and gripped it like a baseball. He flung the mug at the wall where it struck, splitting in two. The pieces landed on the carpet far apart.
Wolf filled a briefcase with the cash from his wall paintings, packed a change of clothes, and returned to the table where he wrote a long letter to Kiki and her father. He sealed the letter and took the stairs to the lobby and found the building manager in his office. Wolf told the small man that he’d be gone for a while and paid his rent for the next twelve months.
On his way out, he dropped the letter down the lobby mail slot, loaded his bag and case into the Chrysler, and hit the road.
He had no idea where he was going. He just needed to get away.
Having the Callaways close gave him a sense of family. Ava had given him the hope of a different kind of connection, but she was gone. Kiki and John remained, but his relationship with them existed only in the shadows. The personal link he needed wasn’t there.
He hoped they would understand.
If he was going to be alone, he wanted exactly that. To be alone.
Wolf took a southbound onramp to the freeway and followed the sun out of the city.
A Look At: The Termination Protocol
The Termination Protocol is the first book in the hard-edged, action thriller series — Scott Stiletto.
The United States is under siege, and the enemy has help from the White House!
Scott Stiletto is one of the CIA's toughest assets, a veteran of numerous missions, an operative with compassion and ruthlessness in equal parts.
His enemy is the New World Revolutionary Front, a terrorist organization seeking to overthrow the government of the United States and install their own puppet—a willing puppet, who is already very close to the president he wishes to replace.
With freedom and justice hanging in the balance, Scott Stiletto gives no quarter. He will give the enemy a one-way ticket to hell!
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Brian Drake
About the Author
A twenty-five year veteran of radio and television broadcasting, Brian Drake has spent his career in San Francisco where he’s filled writing, producing, and reporting duties with stations such as KPIX-TV, KCBS, KQED, among many others. Currently carrying out sports and traffic reporting duties for Bloomberg 960, Brian Drake spends time between reports and carefully guarded morning and evening hours cranking out action/adventure tales. A love of reading when he was younger inspired him to create his own stories, and he sold his first short story, “The Desperate Minutes,” to an obscure webzine when he was 25 (more years ago than he cares to remember, so don’t ask). Many more short story sales followed before he expanded to novels, entering the self-publishing field in 2010, and quickly building enough of a following to attract the attention of several publishers and other writing professionals. Brian Drake lives in California with his wife and two cats, and when he’s not writing he is usually blasting along the back roads in his Corvette with his wife telling him not to drive so fast, but the engine is so loud he usually can’t hear her.