He moved toward the car in an angle that would make it difficult for anyone inside the car to shoot back at him. He doubted anyone would be capable of that at the moment. The explosive device in the road was strong enough to incapacitate both the car and the occupants inside it. Everyone inside was alive. But bruised, battered, and dazed. Too incoherent to offer any resistance.
He was correct in his assumptions. Through the stress–cracked armored Plexiglas of the sedan he saw dark, motionless forms slumped over in their seats. He didn’t hesitate. Walking up to the driver’s side front window he slapped the small white glob of plastic onto the window and then stepped away and to one side. There was not so much an explosion as a sharp, loud crack. Instantly the thick Plexiglas window dissolved into a thousand shards and flooded the inside of the car with its deadly remnants.
Stepping up to the open window Smitty reached inside the car, found the unlock button on the door and punched it. Throwing open the door he bent down and lifted the muzzle of his 1911 up at the same time. He squeezed the trigger four times. The roar of the gun lighting the night in swift succession was enough to make crows slumbering in the trees a thousand yards away scream in anger and rise in a black cloud out of the tree line.
Smitty didn’t care. Standing up he walked to the back door handle on the side where Gibbons was strapped in his seat and threw it open. In the night Gibbons surprised him. Gibbons was conscious enough to try and resist. A hand tucked inside his coat came sliding out fast with a 9 mm Glock in it. But not fast enough. With a swift slap across the face with the butt of the 1911,Smitty hit Gibbons with a blow strong enough to stun the man. The Glock dropped out of Gibbon’s hand as Smitty bent down and pulled the stunned lieutenant of Kirkland Barrows out of the seat.
He half dragged, half goaded the stunned Mario Gibbons away from the car and to the rear. With each step Gibbons seemed to gather more of himself together. When Smitty stopped pushing and came to a halt, Gibbons turned around and faced his executioner.
“Who the hell are you?”
“It doesn’t matter. All that matters is it’s payback time. You’re getting exactly what you gave to a friend of mine fifteen years ago.”
“Come on, let’s make a deal. All kinds of shit happened fifteen years ago. Surely we can let the past lay in the past and work out some deal here. You wanna be rich? I mean really rich? Come to work with me. I’ll pay you a ton of money. More money than you could dream of. Even more once we take out my boss and take over his business.”
Smitty’s thin lips pulled back into a cruel snarl.
“So much for loyalty, eh? You think maybe Barrows isn’t behind this little deal? Maybe I’m working for him and taking you out because he doesn’t trust you anymore. Too bad, Mario. Too bad. One bullet in the brain is a far better deal than you had your little gang do to my friend and his wife.”
“Who was your friend?”
“John Urban.”
“Why would . . . “
BOOM!
One bullet. Between the eyes.
A .45 caliber hollow point at very close range makes a messy corpse.
Turning, Smitty slid the 1911 back into the back pack and began walking through the mud back to his waiting Caddy. In the distance he heard approaching sirens. Sliding into the front seat he closed the door and slipped the gear into Drive.
And disappeared into the night.
Chapter Fourteen
Mad house.
Chaos.
People running around all over the house with guns drawn and nervous ticks making them jump at any unusual sound. Six of his best men were in the house with him tonight. More coming. Six men who know how to handle a gun or knife with the best of them.
They’d better. He had a feeling they would be needed. And soon.
“Hurry up and get those bags out to the car, Manuel! We don’t have a lot of time left! That crazy bastard is going to send men, lots of men, over here and kill us all! We need to be out at the airstrip in an hour. Do you hear me, Manuel?”
Jose Garcia stepped back from the heavy suitcase lying open on the bed and reached up a hand to his throat and felt the thick bandage hiding the thirty stitches in his neck. A third of an inch more . . . just a third of an inch with that switch–blade . . . and he’d be as dead as Mario Gibbons.
Jesus.
How?
How could anyone take down Mario Gibbons so easily? Two cars blown to bits. Eight men dead. Mario drilled between the eyes with a .45 caliber bullet. The back half of his head gone. Lying in a muddy ditch beside the road leading to his farm house. The cops were going berserk. The rumor was a task force of FBI agents were flying in to take over the investigation. And the boss . . . the boss was going nuts! Never seen the man that crazy! Threatening to kill everyone if nobody found this ghost who was killing every one.
Time to leave, Jose. Time to get the hell out of town. Move back to Mexico. Take the money—take a few loyal men—and leave. Back in Mexico City he could set up an operation, a bigger operation, than what he was running here in the States. He had contacts down there. Knew people. People more than willing to let him set up business. For a cut, of course. A substantial cut.
No matter. He would at least be alive. Alive and rich. Staying around here any longer and he was positive he would be dead within twenty–four hours. He no more trusted Kirkland Barrows than Barrows trusted him. Knew the moment he walked out of that library holding his bleeding neck he was a dead man. Dead whether he found the ghost and eliminated him or not. Barrows didn’t like people who failed him. And in his eyes Jose Garcia had failed him. Failed badly.
So leave, Jose. Throw as much cash from the big safe in the bedroom wall as you could pack and get the hell out. Lying on the bed was a big suitcase filled with one hundred dollar bills. Lots and lots of one hundred dollar bills. A few moments before he had emailed a broker in the Philippines to wire two million dollars to an off shore bank in the Bahamas. Two million of Kirkland Barrows’ money.
“Manuel! Are the cars loaded with the trunks and suitcases?”
He winched in pain as he threw a dozen more stacks of hundred dollar bills into the suitcase. Downstairs he thought he heard something smash—like maybe a table lamp was tipped over—but thought nothing of it. He could care less about the furniture. About anything other than getting out with as much money as possible.
“Manuel . . . goddammit! Did you hear me? Are the cars loaded up?”
Silence.
Anger flashed like a hot bolt of electricity through him. Throwing the last packet of hundreds into the suitcase he turned and started walking to the bedroom door.
“Christ, do I have to do everything around here? Manuel! Manuel!”
Silence again.
Then sound of something very heavy falling down the stairs. Thumping and rattling as it hit every step of the stairs until it hit bottom. Even then Garcia didn’t think anything about it. People were running all over the house dragging suitcases, boxes, bundles of clothes—anything and everything could take with them on the private plane waiting for them. Reaching for the door handle he threw it open angrily and took one step forward.
A fist flashing a set of brass knuckles bright and shining came out of the darkness in the hall and smashed directly into Garcia’s nose. A bone rattling, cartilage breaking, blood splattering blow that staggered the dark skinned man five steps back into the bedroom screaming in pain.
An open palm slapped him across the face with a vicious blow. Knees giving out on him he tried to resist—tried to fight. But useless. Useless. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t breathe from the blood of his busted nose flooding into his throat. He felt rough hands grab him; half pick him up and drag him back into the room.
“Evening, Jose. I’m so happy you were home tonight. I have a proposition I want you to consider. One I think you’ll find most reasonable.”
“Auugghhh! My nose! My nose is broken!”
“So it is. But you’re better off than your frie
nds downstairs. Much better off.”
“Huh? What do you mean?”
“They’re not going to help you, Jose. Forget about calling Manuel again. He’s in no position to help anyone. None of them are.”
And then the truth finally lit up Garcia’s brain. The ghost! The ghost who blew away Mario! The ghost who killed all the entire Hellion’s gang! The same one who killed two of his best men and burnt down the warehouse! Here! Here in his own house!
“Don’t kill! Please! Don’t kill me! I’ll do anything. Anything you want me to do if you’ll let me live! Please! Please! Don’t kill me!”
“I’m glad to hear that, my friend. Very glad to hear it. I’ll take your word for it. You want to live. So here’s the deal I have in mind. Go to the police. Go to the police and specifically ask for Detective Joseph Abrams. And confess. Confess and tell everything. Everything about your dirty little business. Everything about what Kirkland Barrows is into—who he’s bought off—who’s in his pay. Everything. Got that?”
“Sure, sure! Find this detective. Confess. Confess! Everything! Sure, sure. I’ll do it! Just let me live, just let me live. Please!”
The dark eyes of Smitty watched the blood splattered face of Jose Garcia for a moment or two and then smiled. Smiled the wicked smile of a cannibal about to feast on fresh game. Smiled the cold smile only the Angel of Death could smile.
“I think maybe I should emphasis the importance of this little deal, my friend. Cement the agreement in such a way that you will never, never back out.”
“No . . . .!”
A hand came out and grabbed Garcia’s right hand and pulled to one side and down. The last remaining lieutenant of Kirkland Barrows dropped to his knees in sheer pain—but his eyes stared in horror as Smitty wrestled his hand down onto the wooden end of the bed and held it there in a vice like grip. In the ghost’s other hand was a machete. An old, well worn, rusted blade of a machete. Lifting the blade up and up and up until it was posed over the ghost’s head with a sudden snap of motion the blade came down hard and fast toward Garcia’s wrist.
Jose Garcia screamed. Screamed like he had never screamed in his life. He heard the thump of the blade biting deep into the wood of the bed railing. He felt pain. Much pain. Too much pain. Not able to take anymore his brown eyes rolled up into his head and he keeled over in a dead faint.
Smitty left the rusty blade of the machete cleaved deep into the wooden banister of the bed frame. Stepping over the motionless Garcia he stepped up to the bed, flipped the suitcase stuffed with one hundred dollar bills closed and zipped it shut. Gripping its handlehe pulled the heavy bag off the bed and started walking toward the bedroom door. Half way there he paused and turned to look at the unconscious form lying on the floor. And smiled. Wickedly.
Jose Garcia still had both of his hands. Attached and functional. The only thing missing was the right index finger. Only a bloody stump remained. The rest of the finger lay on the carpet in a pool of blood at the end of the bed. Eyeing the slowly reviving form on the floor the smile on his face widened.
“Make sure you keep your promise, my friend. Go tonight. Right now. You don’t and I’ll come back. Doesn’t matter where you run to. Doesn’t matter where you hide. I’ll find you. And then I’ll show you what you can really do with a machete. Goodbye, Jose. Nice meeting you.”
An hour later Jose staggered out of his house. A bloody towel was wrapped around his right hand. His nose and most of his face was black and blue. The wrappings around his throat soaked with blood. Behind him the house was full of dead bodies. Six dead bodies. All shot through the head. He hadn’t heard a thing. Hadn’t heard a thing! Stumbling . . . whimpering . . .he staggered down the steps of the house and somehow made his way to the waiting yellow cab setting at the curb with the door open. Falling in, too weak to sit up and close the door, bleeding again from his finger, eyes filled with pain. He could only squeak out a sentence to the white–faced cabby.
“The police station. Take me to the police station! Now, dammit! Now!”
Chapter Fifteen
The telephone beside his bed.
Ringing. Ringing incessantly. Ringing and ringing.
With a growl Kirkland Barrows sat up in bed and took the phone off its receiver and glanced at the number flashing in tiny green light. It was Jose Garcia’s private number. What the hell . . . !
“What, dammit! Did you get the job done? Did you find the bastard whose been screwing with us? Who killed Mario?”
“It’s over, Barrows. All over. You’re history.”
Color drained from Kirkland Barrows face. That voice. That voice! It wasn’t Garcia’s. It wasn’t any that he could recognize. Soft. Almost a whisper. Yet filled with . . . filled with so much menace. Fumbling around in the dark he finally found the switch on the lamp beside his bed and clicked it on and rolled out of bed.
“Who the hell are you? What do you want from me?”
“I’ve got what I want, Barrows. Mario Gibbons is dead. His goons are dead. Most of Jose Garcia’s trusted goons are dead. And about now Garcia is blabbering like a madman everything he knows to a detective named Joe Abams. By tomorrow morning both a county district attorney and a Federal district attorney will be reading Garcia’s confession. By lunch time tomorrow your place will crawling with local, state, and federal agents and you’ll be behind bars. Make sure you are arrested. Make sure they take you alive. You need to pay for your sins. You need to suffer for all the wrongs you’ve done to people. Try to run, Barrows . . . try to skip town and I’ll find you. I’ll find you and ship pieces of you, one piece at a time, in a box wrapped with pink ribbons to the authorities. Understand?”
“Who the hell do you think you’re . . . .”
Click.
Barrows lowered the phone from his ears and stared at it. Stared at it until he heard the sounds of men running up the stairs. Someone pounding loudly on the bedroom door.
“Enter, dammit!”
“Boss! Boss! Just got the word! Jose Garcia is at the police station and talking. And Taggert is singing as well. They’re telling the cops everything they know. We need to get out of here, boss. We need to leave now!”
“Give me your gun,” Barrows snapped back, stepping forward and extending his right hand toward one of the gunmen.
“What?” the gunman said, growing white from fear. “What are you gonna do with it?”
“Give me your goddamn gun and then get out of here! Go to the library, clean out the safe, divide what’s in there with the rest of the men and beat it. Get the hell out of here. Now, dammit! Now!”
One of the gunmen handed Barrows a Glock. Barrows took the gun in one hand and then threw the bedroom door closed and locked it. Stepping away from the door he looked down at the black piece of death. Be damn if he was going to allow the cops to arrest him. Be damn if he was going to jail! Be damn if he was going to allow some freaking ghost dictate to him!
Slowly the barrel came up toward his right temple. Slowly he curled an index finger around the trigger. He pushed the muzzle into his temple and closed his eyes. Yeah. It had been a good run. A good life. He had built an empire. Made lots of money. Lots of money.
Yeah. It had been a good life. A really good li . . .
***
Sitting in an unmarked Crown Victoria in the darkness down the road from the only known entrance to Kirkland Barrow’s compound, Joe Abrams and Noel Sergeant sat in the darkness and kept their eyes on the dark lane leading into the compound. They’d been sitting in the car for four hours. Over the radio they heard the squawk come in about the bombings. About the death of Mario Gibbons. A half hour later they watched as dozens of cars came and went out of the compound frantically. An hour later Joe’s phone rattled in his coat pocket. Answering it he heard the news that Jose Garcia was at the station asking for him. Demanding to see him immediately.
The desk sergeant said Garcia was a bloody mess. It looked like someone had used a chain saw on him. But the hood was refusing medi
cal help. Refused to leave the station. Wasn’t budging until he talked to Abrams.
He was reaching for the keys in the ignition when lights appeared approaching them coming out of the compound. Lots of lights. Sitting back Joe and his partner watched as cars and trucks came out one after the other. A dozen of them. Stunned, the two looked at each other in amazement. It looked as if the entire gang of Barrows had decided to skip. The whole crowd.
Joe turned and blinked a couple of times at his partner and started to open his mouth to say something. But stopped when his cell phone began ringing. Fumbling for it he flipped it open and lifted it to his ears.
“Abrams.”
“It’s clear. You can go inside the compound now. You’ll find his body up on the second floor. First bedroom to the north.”
He recognized the voice. The soft, almost whisper quiet voice.
“Find who, Smitty?”
“Barrows. He decided he’d rather punch his own ticket instead getting arrested and sent to prison. In the library you’ll find an open safe. There’s six accounting books there. Names. Dates. Figures. Barrows didn’t trust computers. Didn’t trust the internet. He kept all his records the old fashion way. More than enough evidence to make arrests. Lots of arrests. Make sure you arrest them all.”
“I will . . . Johnny. I will. Johnny . . .Johnny . . . why don’t you come in. You don’t have to do this anymore. You can come in. You can change your . . . “
A Dish Served Cold - B R Stateham Page 7