Jack Daniels Six Pack

by J. A. Konrath

  Phin stumbles forward, then falls to the right, feeling the wind of another swing sail past his face. He waves his mini-flashlight, sees the shovel coming at him again, and rolls out of the way.

  Phin gets on all fours, reaches around his belt for his gun.

  It isn’t there.

  He scuttles backward until he has some room to get to his feet. His head hurts, but it’s bearable. He does a quick sweep of the floor with the light, looking for his dropped gun but not finding it, then raises the beam to view his attacker.

  Alexandra Kork.

  Now it made sense why Jack called. Alex forced her to. Once upon a time, Alex almost killed Phin. Apparently, she wants another chance.

  “Hello, Alex. You’re looking well.”

  Alex smiles, but the scarred side of her face doesn’t move. She holds up a hand to shield her eyes from the flashlight beam.

  “I like the bullet holes,” she says, pointing the shovel blade at the healed pockmarks on his torso. “Sexy.”

  Phin and Alex begin to circle each other.

  “Those your friends outside, standing guard?” he asks.

  She shakes her head. “No. Jack is Miss Popularity to night. Apparently she collects enemies. She’s got something about her that really pisses people off.”

  Alex moves in closer. Phin steps back, out of range.

  “They’re coming,” Phin says. “Two of them.”

  “They’ve been shooting at the house for almost three hours. They can’t hit shit.”

  “They’re not using rifles anymore. They’ve got handguns. If they get in the house, we’re all going to die.”

  Alex stops moving. Phin can see her working it out in her head, can see she doesn’t like the odds any better than he does.

  “What’s the situation inside?” Phin asks.

  “No ammo. No guns. Where’s yours?”

  “If I had one, you wouldn’t be standing there right now. How many people are in the house?”

  “Jack. Her mom. Her boyfriend. Her partner. And Harry.”

  Phin tries to sound casual, tries to keep the hope out of his voice. “Is Jack okay?”

  Alex smiles again.

  “Got a little crush on her, Phin? Isn’t she a bit old for you?”

  “Is she okay?” Phin asks, harder.

  “I kicked her ass, but she’s alive. Everyone in there is pretty beaten up. In fact, I shot Latham. Maybe he won’t make it, and you’ll have a shot at your secret crush.”

  Phin realizes he took too much time navigating the boxes. The men are going to bust in here any minute. He can’t afford to waste time sparring with Alex.

  “You’ve got to make a choice, Alex.”

  “Really? What choice is that, Phin?”

  “Those guys are going to come in and kill anything that moves. They’ve got Desert Eagles. You ever see one?”

  “I had one. Beautiful weapon. It can shoot a hole through a brick wall.”

  “They’re coming, and they’re coming now. You and I can go a few rounds while they’re sneaking up on us. Or we can figure out how to defend ourselves.”

  Alex snorts. “Are you serious? You want me to help you?”

  “Either help, or leave. I don’t have time to deal with you right now.”

  “The enemy of my enemy. Is that what you’re saying, Phin?”

  “Make your choice.”

  Alex stares at Phin for a moment. Then she starts to laugh. It’s a genuine laugh, and she shakes her head in obvious disbelief.

  “Life certainly throws a few curves, doesn’t it?” she says.

  Then she drops the shovel.

  11:31 P.M.

  KORK

  I DON’T TRUST PHIN any more than he trusts me. And I’m sure that if he gets his hands on one of those Desert Eagles, the first thing he’s going to do is blow my head off.

  Which, of course, is the first thing I’m going to do. I just have to make sure I get one before he does.

  I turn up my palms and say, “Okay, we’re on the same side. Now what?”

  Phin shrugs. “You were in the marines. I was hoping you’d tell me.”

  “Any good marine knows when to fight and when to retreat. We should retreat.”

  “You go ahead. Run east. I don’t think I saw them there.”

  Which probably means he saw them in the east. Or maybe not.

  This is going to be an interesting alliance.

  “Okay,” I say. “Tell me what you saw.”

  “Two men. They’re wearing vests, and each has a Desert Eagle. They took them out of the back of a Ford Bronco parked down the street.”

  “Any more weapons in the Bronco?”

  “I couldn’t see.”

  “Keys?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did they put their rifles in the Bronco?”

  “I heard rifle fire, but didn’t see any guns.”

  Which means the rifles might be abandoned on Jack’s property somewhere. Why did the shooters ditch their rifles? Out of ammo? Or do they figure they’ll finish the job with the handguns, then pick them up later?

  I can remember where the shots came from. If I did a perimeter check, I might be able to find a rifle. And unlike those knucklehead snipers, I hit what I aim at.

  I stare at Phin. Of course, he may be lying. Maybe he knows where the rifles are, and plans on getting one for himself.

  Detente is a bitch.

  “How about a third shooter?” I ask.

  “I only saw two.”

  Phin lowers his eyes to the floor. He’s looking for something.

  I bet it’s a gun. He must have had one, and dropped it during our scuffle.

  “We need a plan,” I say, moving a bit closer to him. If he finds the gun and makes a move for it, I’ll punch him in the throat, break his windpipe.

  “I’m all ears.”

  “They have two choices for entry. Front door, and the patio door. Patio door is thick glass, might be tough to break through. Front door is smarter. Two shots at the lock and a swift kick, and they’re in.”

  “Maybe they’ll split up,” Phin says. “Each take an entrance.”

  “The house is dark. They might shoot each other. Did they have night-vision scopes or goggles?”

  Phin shakes his head. “Not when they were chasing me.”

  “Then they’ll probably stick together. We need to get inside, set up an ambush.”

  Phin points his light to the left, moving the beam across the workbench. He rushes to it, grabbing Jack’s .45 that I threw there, pointing it at my head.

  “It’s empty,” I say.

  He pulls the trigger. Nothing happens.

  “Sorry,” he says. “Had to make sure. No offense.”

  “None taken. Check around for a crowbar, or something to pry the door open.”

  He searches the workbench. I come up beside him and also search. We keep an eye on each other, in case one of us finds a potential weapon. I see Phin’s eyes linger on a hammer.

  “The door is steel,” I say. “Hammer won’t help. If you pick it up I’ll grab the shovel again, which is longer and heavier and can do more damage.”

  “I’ll attest to that,” he says, rubbing the bump on his head.

  We both leave the hammer alone. In the dust under the workbench is a rusty old car jack. The handle is a removable lug wrench, steel, two feet long. It’s not a crowbar, but one end tapers, like a screwdriver. I put a hand on it the same time that Phin does. Together, we bring it over to the front door.

  “It isn’t big enough for both of us,” Phin says, indicating the bar.

  “You’re the big, strong man,” I say, releasing my grip. “Be my guest.”

  I hold the flashlight, and Phin sticks the flat end into the doorjamb, under the still-protruding chain saw. He gets a solid, two-handed grip on the bar, and leans back.

  The muscles in his arms and back bulge, twitch. Phin’s a good-looking guy, and it’s been a long time since I’ve seen a
man without a shirt. On impulse, I trace my finger across his lats.

  He flinches, spins around.

  “Easy, tough guy. Just admiring the view.”

  His eyes are hard. “Don’t touch me again.”

  “I’m too ugly for you, huh, Phin? Can’t handle a few scars?”

  “You were ugly long before you had the scars, Alex.”

  Asshole. When I get my hands on a gun, my first shot is going to remove his sanctimonious balls.

  Phin goes back to it. The door frame creaks…bends…then the door pops inward, and I’m highly amused to see Jack Daniels burst through the doorway and descend on Phin with a knife clutched in her hand.

  11:36 P.M.

  JACK

  I SEE AN ARM RAISE UP, moving to block my knife, and I adjust the arc, getting in under it, aiming for the neck—

  It’s Phin.

  I try to put on the brakes, but momentum drives my strike onward. Phin’s eyes get wide and he jerks his body sideways. The knife tip nicks his chin, and then I bump into him and he catches me before I fall onto my face.

  We both stumble backward, and then I tense up and lift up the knife again when I see Alex standing directly behind him. She’s smiling her half smile.

  My energy is nearly gone, but I struggle with what little I have left, fighting Phin to get at the murderer over his shoulder.

  “Easy, Jack!” Phin says, holding me back. “We called a truce.”

  A truce? Is he out of his mind?

  Alex steps closer, pinches my wrist and twists, making me release the knife.

  “We can kill each other later, Jack,” Alex says. “Those idiots outside, they’re getting ready to come in. They’re armed. We aren’t. We need to come up with a plan, and quick.”

  I can’t believe this. And maybe if I wasn’t so damn tired and banged up, I’d stage a protest. But it makes a warped kind of sense. If the snipers break in, we have no way to defend ourselves. Alex is actually the lesser threat. For the moment, at least.

  “Don’t trust her,” I say to Phin, keeping my eyes on Alex.

  “I won’t.”

  My chest feels damp. I glance down and notice Phin is bleeding on my shirt. I touch his cheek.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Does it hurt?”

  He smiles. “I’m tough.”

  “I know. Thanks for coming.”

  “We’re friends. You call, I come.”

  I’m strangely moved by that, but being a hard-edged homicide cop I respond with a strong, curt nod. Phin, however, holds me closer, actually hugging me. I give him a perfunctory pat on the back, wondering what the hell he’s doing, but not minding it terribly much. His skin is cool to the touch, and he’s got the barest hint of aftershave, something that smells like pine. No, it actually is pine. I brush a pine needle out of his hair.

  His breath is on my ear, soft and warm. He whispers, “I dropped a .38 somewhere in the garage.”

  I nod, slightly so Alex doesn’t notice. Then we mutually disengage.

  “Hey, sis! You kill the bitch yet?”

  Harry, from the living room.

  “There’s been some, uh, complications, Harry,” I say over my shoulder.

  “What complications?”

  Harry’s not going to be pleased. I’m not either. Phin and I lead the way back into the house.

  “Hey, Phin,” Harry says. “Welcome to the rave. You bring the Chex Mix?”

  “Hi, Harry. What’s with the refrigerator door?”

  “I’m neurotic. My shrink says I have a hard time letting go.” Then Harry notices Alex, and his eyes narrow. “What the fuck? You make a deal with Satan?”

  “The snipers are coming,” I say, and the words taste lousy on my tongue. “We need her help.”

  “What we need,” Harry says, “is to pound a stake through her heart, cut off her head, and bury the body on hallowed ground.”

  “We can finish up our business later, sweetheart,” Alex says to Harry. “Where’s the circuit breaker?”

  I stare at her, suspicious. “Why?”

  “They’ll probably come in through the front door. We soak the carpeting with water, strip the covering off the end of an extension cord, wrap it around something metal, and put it in the puddle. They walk in, we hit the breaker, fry both of them.”

  “They teach you that in psycho school?” Harry says.

  Alex coolly regards him. “I should have cut your tongue off instead of your hand.”

  “Why don’t you come over here and say that, so I can bounce this refrigerator door off your goddamn—”

  “Enough,” I interrupt, giving Harry the palm. I actually like Alex’s idea. “What if they’re wearing rubber-soled shoes?” I ask.

  “One of us stands by the door with a hose, soaks them when they come through the door.”

  “Won’t it trip the breaker?”

  “Circuit breakers are tripped when there’s resistence or surges. All we’re doing is running current. It will work.”

  “We need to hurry.” Phin is staring out the front window. “They’re coming.”

  “Get the hose and the extension cord in the garage,” I tell Phin and Alex. Then I hurry to the kitchen, turn on the sink, and fill a six-quart cast-iron pot with water. It’s really heavy, almost too heavy to lift. But I muscle it out of the sink and carry it at waist level, waddling to the front door. I spill the water all over the floor and set the pot down.

  “Got the hose,” Alex says. “Phin is stripping the extension cord. I don’t think he trusts me with a knife.”

  “I wonder why.”

  I take one end of the hose, and hand the other to Harry. “You’re on squirting duty. Make sure you stay out of the wet spot.”

  “I always do.”

  I bring the hose down the hall, peek in on my mother.

  “You okay?”

  Mom nods, but she looks terrible. She hands me the flashlight. I check out Latham and Herb. Both are semi-conscious, and they also look terrible. Then I make the mistake of peeking at the vanity mirror, and I look worse than everyone. Sort of like DeNiro at the end of Raging Bull.

  “Oh, Jacqueline,” Mom says. She reaches up to touch my face, and I flinch away.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

  It’s the truth. All of the pain has sort of combined into a dull ache. Unpleasant, but bearable. Maybe I simply don’t have any energy left to devote to hurting.

  I give Mom a quick peck on the cheek, and then it’s on to the laundry room. I set the flashlight on the dryer and turn off the water valve that leads to the washing machine. I unscrew the hose coming out of it, attach the garden hose, then put the water back on.

  “Dammit, Harry! Quit it!”

  Harry is apparently soaking Alex. If I had a sense of humor left, I might have smiled at that.

  “Tell me when to hit the power,” I call down the hallway. “How are you doing, Phin?”

  “Power cord is stripped. I’m plugging it in.”

  “Wrap the stripped end around the cast-iron pot, then step away.”

  I fight the circuit breaker door, manage to get it open, and poise my finger above the main button. A wave of vertigo hits. I ride through it without losing my balance.

  In the silence that follows, I have a chance to think about a lot of things. One of those things is retirement.

  Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to be a cop. It didn’t take a psychoanalyst to figure out that my desire came from my parents. My mom was a cop, and she was my hero. My dad wasn’t in the picture, and his absence left a void in my life. I wanted to emulate my mother, and I became a control freak as a defense mechanism. The more control I had in my life, the less chance of being surprised, of getting hurt. My desire to protect myself, and my mother, evolved into a desire to protect others.

  After a few years on the Job, I realized I couldn’t really protect anyone. It wasn’t any particular incident that stood out, any key moment that led me to this conclusion. It was just the day-to-day grin
d of seeing people getting hurt, all the time, without being able to save them.

  I accepted it. If I couldn’t protect them, then at least I could catch the ones who were hurting them.

  I’ve caught a lot of bad people in my twenty-plus years as a cop. I know I’ve done a lot of good.

  But now, here I am. I became a cop to protect others, and now I can’t even protect the handful of people who are more important to me than the rest of the world put together.

  Alex was right. It’s my fault we’re all in danger. If anything happens to Mom, or Latham, or Herb, or Phin, or even Harry, I won’t be able to live with myself.

  I make a decision. A big decision. If we get out of this—no…when we get out of this, I’m going to hang up my gun. Retire. Draw a pension and get married and gain weight and spend life enjoying it instead of trying to fix it.

  “Jackie!” Harry yells. “Alex just ran out the back door!”

  No real surprise there.

  “Phin went after her!”

  “Did he finish the wires?” I call.

  “No!”

  Dammit. “Mom! I need you!”

  Mom shuffles into the laundry room.

  “Press the breaker when we tell you to.”

  I trade places with her, holding open the panel door until she can get her finger on the button.

  “I don’t like this plan,” she says.

  There isn’t time to argue. I hurry back into the living room, spy the extension cord in a tangled pile on the floor.

  A noise at the front door—someone trying the knob.

  “Hurry,” Harry says. He’s got the hose in his hand, bent in a kink.

  Something slams into the door. It shakes, but holds.

  I find the end of the cord, stripped to bare wires. I reach for the cast-iron pot.

  Three gunshots, incredibly loud. The door rattles.

  I wind the wire around the pot handle, then scurry off the damp section of carpeting just as the door kicks in.

  Two men in camouflage dress storm into my living room. They each have a huge handgun. One is wearing yellow aviator sunglasses. The other is the sniper I saw at Ravenswood, which seems like so long ago.

  “Now!” I scream.

  Harry hits them with the hose. The lights go on. There’s a spark, a crackling ZAP, and the smell of smoke and ozone.