Jack Daniels Six Pack

by J. A. Konrath

  “Who cares?”

  Swanson stares, overcome with impotence, as Pessolano shoots out a tire on the sedan. The car shifts into reverse, but Pessolano puts two quick shots into the engine, forcing a stall. The driver parks the car, kills the headlights. Swanson uses the night-vision scope, sees a portly man get out on the passenger side, opposite the rifle fire. The man has a badge hanging around his neck.

  Another police officer.

  “It’s a cop,” Swanson hisses. “He might have called for backup.”

  Pessolano slaps another magazine into his Alpine.

  “He didn’t. I’ve been watching.”

  “But he still can. I’m sure he has a radio in the car.”

  Pessolano squeezes off another shot, and the sedan’s window shatters.

  “Not anymore,” Pessolano says.

  Swanson looks behind him, in the direction of their truck. He can still run for it. He’s only killed the one pervert. He’s still one of the good guys.

  “I don’t have a shot on the fatty,” Pessolano says. “I’m changing position. Cover me.”

  Swanson continues to stare off into the darkness, away from the mayhem going on around him.

  Pessolano’s voice is soft, menacing. “During Desert Storm, we executed deserters.”

  Swanson turns back, locks eyes with Pessolano. Though Swanson knows diddly-squat about the military, he’s pretty sure that they don’t kill the people who run away. They get court-martialed, or arrested, or something less serious. He wonders, not for the first time, if Pessolano has been lying about his war record. Or if the man has even served at all.

  “Are you threatening me?” Swanson asks.

  “We started this war,” Pessolano says. “We have to end it.”

  Jen leaps into Swanson’s mind. His sweet, innocent, damaged wife. She isn’t aware of Swanson’s plan, has no clue he just killed the man who attacked her. It’s supposed to be a surprise for her birthday. He’s pictured the scene in his mind a thousand times: He shows her the newspaper, she sees that it’s finally over, that she can finally go back to the way she used to be, then he admits that he’s the one who pulled the trigger, and she embraces him, calls him her hero, and everything goes back to the way it used to be.

  Will Jen still think he’s a hero if he kills a bunch of cops? Will she understand that the only way to see this thing through is if some innocent people die?

  No. Jen will never understand that. She will never forgive him.

  “Are you going to cover me or not?” Pessolano asks.

  Swanson makes his decision. A decision Jen can never know.

  “I’ll cover you,” he tells Pessolano. “Just show me how to change scopes.”

  10:00 P.M.

  HERB

  SQUATTING IS NOT A POSITION that Sergeant Herb Benedict enjoys, and he enjoys being shot at even less. He doesn’t even have a gun to return fire, thanks to Internal Affairs. Not that it would do much good. The sniper is at least two hundred yards away, well out of range for a handgun. Herb can’t even pinpoint his location. The darkness, and the woods, make him invisible.

  Though he realizes how dire this situation is, years of experience prevent Herb from panicking. Though his heart rate is up—more from surprise than fear—he keeps a clear head and is able to focus on survival.

  He’s hiding behind the front wheel, on the passenger side, opposite of the shooter. Hubcaps and axles offer more protection than aluminum and upholstery, but he doesn’t know how much more. He needs to find better cover.

  Herb tugs out his cell, can’t get a signal. He plays the hold up the phone and wave it around game without success, then tucks it back into his jacket pocket and fingers the plastic zipper bag full of high-fiber sugar-free weight loss shake—his allotted mid-afternoon snack and what he should have consumed earlier instead of all those power bars. He briefly considers cracking it open—he’s suddenly very thirsty—but he holds off. Being a career cop, Herb has contemplated his own death many times. He’s watched his own funeral in his mind’s eye, and doesn’t want the mourners’ chatter to revolve around: “Did you hear he died with a diet drink in his hand?”

  Plus, the sugar-free weight loss shake tastes a lot like mud, with grit in it. His wife mixes one for him every morning, adding extra fiber per the doctor’s orders.

  If she added something better, like grated cheese, then he’d drink the damn things.

  Herb squints. There’s no light anywhere around. Jack’s house is roughly forty feet away, completely dark. Though hefty, and getting up there in years, Herb can move fast when he has to. But if the door happens to be locked, he’ll be stuck out in the open. And he knows he isn’t a terribly difficult target to hit.

  He shifts his attention to Jack’s large bay window. If he got up enough speed, perhaps he could crash through it, though the possibility of being cut to hamburger doesn’t please Herb, even though he really likes hamburger. Besides, it’s likely Jack is just as pinned down inside as he is outside.

  Herb is operating under the assumption that his partner is still alive, still okay. Why else would a sniper still be in the area?

  He considers his options. The car is trashed, as is the radio. Jack’s car is ahead of his in the driveway, along with two others—a Corvette and a sedan—but he doesn’t have keys for them. There are no neighbors in sight, though Herb passed a house maybe a quarter mile up the road. Plus, there’s always the run away screaming possibility.

  Herb guesses the sniper has night vision, and also guesses, from the previous angle of fire, that he will change positions to get a better shot. There’s also a good possibility that more than one sniper is on the premises. They could have followed Jack home from the Ravenswood crime scene. They may be lining up their shots right now, as he squats here, knees aching, wondering what to do next.

  Running away screaming is holding more and more appeal. Unfortunately, there’s no place to run. It’s thirty yards to the nearest tree, and it’s a sapling that won’t provide any cover. He’ll be picked off before he gets halfway there.

  A shot impacts the driver’s door. Then another. Only three payments left, he thinks, ducking down even lower. He touches his pants. His stitches have ripped, and blood has soaked through. When the Novocain wears off, that’s probably going to hurt.

  The tire he’s squatting beside explodes. He jerks in surprise, rocking backward onto his ass. Another shot plows into the side of his Chrysler, where he was only a second ago.

  He’s in a crossfire. No place to run. Nowhere to hide.

  Herb’s a practical guy, and he understands his chances of survival aren’t good. But he’s not ready to die quite yet. He and his wife were planning on visiting Italy for the holidays. He’s never been, and has heard the food is spectacular.

  Thinking fast, he stands up, filling his lungs, and makes a mad dash up the driveway.

  After four steps the shot comes. His whole body jerks to the left, bouncing hard into the rear fender of Jack’s car. Herb staggers, takes two zombie-like steps forward, a short step backward, and then drops to his knees.

  He moans, just once, a moan of pain and surprise, and his hands seek out the sudden dampness soaking his right side.

  Sergeant Herb Benedict thinks of his wife, pictures her kind smile. Then he stops breathing and falls onto his face, his eyes wide open and staring blankly into the dark night.

  10:06 P.M.

  PESSOLANO

  PESSOLANO WATCHES the fat cop die.

  It’s bloody.

  Counting the woman cop by the window, this brings Pessolano’s death toll to three. Not the eighteen confirmed kills he lied to Munchel about back at the bar, but not bad for his first day as a real-life mercenary. Not bad at all.

  He points the Gen 3 starlight scope at the large bay window, looking for number four.

  10:11 P.M.

  JACK

  THE SMELL OF AMMONIA spikes up my nostrils, and I wake up to the worst headache I’ve ever had. I open my ey
es, squinting against the flashlight in my face, realizing I’m on my bathroom floor.

  Mom stares down at me, her face a picture of worry.

  “You okay?” I ask her. My throat is really dry, and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

  “I’m fine, dear. How are you feeling?”

  “Sleepy. Wake me up in a few hours.”

  I close my eyes again, get another whiff of ammonia.

  “Mom! Quit it!” I reach up to push the smelling salts away.

  “Harry says you shouldn’t sleep after a head injury.”

  Harry?

  “You need to wake up, sis,” he says. “We’re still in a lot of trouble.”

  It comes back to me in a big, ugly rush. Alex. The snipers. Finding out Harry McGlade might be my brother. I raise my hand to my head and gently probe the spot that hurts the most. I touch matted hair and tape, and what might be a staple.

  “Did I get hit in the head?” I ask.

  “You were shot,” Mom says. “You’ve been out for over half an hour.”

  “That long? I remember turning off the circuit breaker. But nothing after that.”

  “You’re lucky,” Harry says. “I’m going to remember this last half hour for the rest of my life.”

  I cough. “I’m thirsty.”

  Harry sticks his hand out the bathroom door, and comes back with a bottled water from the refrigerator. Mom shines the flashlight on him, and I can see that he’s been crying. I take the water, oddly touched by his concern. He must really be worried about me.

  Mom puts her hand on my face, strokes my cheek.

  “One more,” she says.

  Harry vigorously shakes his head. “No. Please. Thirty-eight is enough.”

  “Just one.”

  “I can’t take it,” he says. “I’m one big hematoma.”

  “Don’t be a baby. You have plenty of blood left. Let’s try your leg.”

  Mom holds up a syringe. Harry tries to back away, but he doesn’t have anywhere to go.

  “Not that leg!” Harry cries. “The veins are all collapsed!”

  My mother doesn’t heed him, jabbing him in that leg.

  “Holy hell, it hurts so bad!”

  Fresh tears flow down his cheeks. So much for him worrying about me.

  “Harry’s such a brave boy,” Mom says. “Aren’t you, Harry?”

  He moans. “I need aspirin. A shitload of aspirin.”

  That seems like a good idea. I sit up, intent on visiting the medicine cabinet. Vertigo kicks in, making everything lopsided, and the pain gets so bad I see spots. I sip some water, try to get my vision to track correctly.

  “Is Jack okay?” Latham, from the living room.

  “She’s a bloodthirsty demon!” Harry moans. “Draining me dry!”

  “I’m okay,” I call to him. “How are you doing?”

  “Getting drowsy.”

  “Maybe he needs a transfusion,” I say to Harry.

  “Don’t worry.” Mom yanks out the needle and pats his thigh. “Harry’s a universal donor.”

  “Harry needs some pain reliever,” he says, “because he feels like he just doggy-styled a cactus.”

  Harry reaches into the vanity over the sink and finds the Tylenol bottle. He pries off the cap with his teeth, pours a bunch in his mouth, then washes them down with a beer he liberated from my fridge.

  “This might hurt,” Mom says to me.

  She sticks the needle into my arm, next to dozens of other marks. I look like a junkie after a bender from hell. There isn’t much pain, though. My throbbing head is too much competition.

  I drink more water, Harry tosses me the Tylenol, and I swallow three. Mom finishes shooting me up, and then takes a few pills herself. We help each other up. I’m still a little dizzy, but I can function. I give Harry a pat on the shoulder and he shouts.

  “Sore! Very sore!”

  I consider myself a kind person, but showing kindness to Harry McGlade takes Herculean effort.

  “Thanks for the blood, Harry.”

  His eyes soften. “Hey, that’s what family is for. We already share the same blood, right?” Then he adds, “And if you develop any kind of itchy rash in the feminine area, I’ve got some cream left over from my last doctor visit.”

  I don’t want to think about that.

  “What next?” Mom asks.

  I finish the water, toss the empty bottle in the trash can. Sort of a silly gesture, worrying about being tidy when there’s a shot-up refrigerator sticking out of the door.

  “I’m going back to the bedroom, to get my gun. Then I’m going to find a way outside.”

  “They can see in the dark,” Mom says. “They have those scopes.”

  That makes sense. The lights were out and they still managed to hit me.

  “I’ll move fast. They can’t shoot what they can’t hit.”

  Mom hugs me. I hug her back. She’s trembling.

  “I thought…” Her voice cracks. “I thought I lost you.”

  I want to say something meaningful, something poignant, but I’m getting pretty choked up too. So I settle for kissing her on the forehead and telling her I love her. Then I disengage, heading for the door.

  Harry blocks my way.

  “Gotta go,” I say.

  He holds open his arm.

  Oh God. He wants a hug.

  I brace for it, stiffening as he encircles my waist. But rather than the sleazy feeling I normally get when Harry touches me, this time it isn’t too bad.

  “Be careful, sis.”

  I give him a perfunctory pat on the back, and he whimpers in pain.

  “Your back too?”

  “She stuck me everywhere I had skin.”

  I pull away, saying, “Keep an eye on Mom.”

  He doesn’t say anything glib or smart-ass. He simply nods.

  I slip past him, switch off the flashlight, and duck into the hall.

  10:13 P.M.

  KORK

  I OPEN MY EYES and wonder where I am. I try to lift my hands, and see I’m chained under a sink. My body hurts all over.

  I must have been a bad girl. Father punishes us when we’re bad. He calls it Penance. I’m afraid of Father, afraid of his punishments. I feel like crying.

  Then my mind clears. I’m not ten years old anymore. I’m all grown up. And this isn’t our house. It’s Jack’s.

  I’m in the kitchen, all alone.

  Anger replaces fear.

  My eyes sting. I rub my face on my shoulder, wipe away some blood. My forehead is cut. My head aches. My right hand still stings from when the gun was shot from my grip. None of the damage is serious.

  I test the pipe I’m chained to. It’s cold, metal, two inches thick. A drain trap, under the sink. I give it a hard yank. Then another. It’s solid.

  I scoot up closer, rest my head on the bottom of the cabinet. It smells like dish soap and moldy sponges. I can’t see very well—so I work by feel, palpating the U pipe, seeking the joint. I think righty tighty, lefty-loosey, and lock both fists around the octagonal coupling. It isn’t a pipe wrench, but it’s all I have.

  I twist. My hands are strong, from thousands of fingertip pushups while in Heathrow. My arms are bigger than most guys’. But the pipe doesn’t want to cooperate. It refuses to turn, preferring instead to dig a nice trench of skin out of my palm.

  I twist and twist until it feels like my veins are going to burst out of my temples. The joint won’t budge.

  I stop, then spend a few minutes trying to use my handcuff chain as a tool, levering and turning and pulling.

  My efforts leave me with sore wrists, but no closer to escape.

  I close my eyes, let the solution come to me. I broke out of a maximum security prison for the criminally insane. I should be able to get out from under a stupid sink.

  Voices, elsewhere in the house. I make out a few words, but they don’t interest me. I’m not the only one trying to kill Jack and her family. But I don’t believe those jokers outside po
se much of a threat to my plans. If they had any skills, everyone would already be dead. They’re jackals. I’m a lion. Lions don’t fear jackals.

  I feel the pipe, higher up, where it meets the sink. The joint here is plastic, bigger, the size of a peanut butter jar. And it has nubs on it, to grip when attaching the drain to the pipe. I form my fingers around them and twist.

  Red and yellow spots form in my vision, and my head begins to shake. I strain and strain until my entire world is reduced to five square inches of force and pain.

  I release it and forcibly exhale. My hands are trembling.

  But it moved a fraction of an inch.

  I crack my knuckles, then go at it again, a smile enveloping half my face.

  10:15 P.M.

  JACK

  I’M GRATEFUL I CAN’T REMEMBER being shot, because that might have made me reconsider my actions. Though I’ve never used a night-vision scope, never even saw one in real life, I’m familiar with how they work, thanks to Tom Clancy movies. The hallway is pitch-black to me, but to the snipers I am an easy target, glowing bright green.

  Thanks to Mr. Clancy, I also have an idea how to mess with their aim.

  I stick out my left hand, reaching for the wall. When my fingers graze it I run forward four steps. I lift the flashlight up to chest level, switching it on and pointing it through my bedroom door, out the window. Then I immediately dodge right.

  The light will temporarily blind anyone peering through a night-enhanced scope, causing a bright flash. If someone has a bead on me, they might reflexively shoot when the light goes on. Hence the change of direction.

  The shot doesn’t come.

  I toss the flashlight into the bedroom, toward the far corner, and jog toward the window in a crouch. I duck down, beneath the pane, safe. Then I feel around the floor. I find my dropped Kimber.

  Hurt isn’t strong enough a word for the feeling in my head, and my stomach isn’t happy with the bottle of water I chugged. I rest for a minute, slowing down my breathing, picturing what I need to do next.

  Unlike my Colt, the Kimber is bigger, badder, and more accurate. This is the gun I use in marksman competitions. I need to get outside, locate the bastards, and get within a hundred feet of them. Once they’re within range, my handgun is more effective than their long guns. They’re using bolt action, single fire, and it takes a few seconds to load each bullet. My .45 holds seven rounds, and it shoots as fast as I can pull the trigger.