The blow knocks the wind out of Munchel, ramming him into the wall, sandwiching him against it. Like a true soldier he manages to hold on to the Desert Eagle. Unfortunately, Munchel’s arm is at his side, immobile, the door pinning his wrist. He can’t raise the gun, and has no leverage to push away from the wall.
A second shot whizzes through the window. Munchel jerks at the sound, but he isn’t the one who gets hit. Munchel stares at Pessolano writhing on the ground—the man’s leg looks like it has sprouted another knee in the middle of the thigh.
Another shot does the same thing to the opposite leg. Pessolano clutches at his throat, making a face like he’s screaming, but no sound is coming out. Munchel is horrified. It’s too much to watch, too much to bear. He squeezes his eyes closed and wiggles, trying to twist away from the refrigerator door. With a grunt and some hip action, Munchel frees up enough room to get his gun arm loose. He brings the gun around, shoots behind the refrigerator door where he guesses his attacker to be, the Desert Eagle sounding like cannon fire.
The one-armed man pinning him to the wall backpedals. Munchel fires at him twice more, his bullets pinging into the door as the man falls. Munchel has no idea if he hit the guy or not, but he takes a quick last look at Pessolano, sees his friend’s remaining good limb get turned into cube steak by more sniper fire, and decides he doesn’t want to be in this room any longer.
He sprints away from the big bay window, out of the living room, following the path of the chick cop through the kitchen and to a doorway. Munchel finds her in the garage, her back to him, rummaging through a large stack of boxes.
James Michael Munchel raises the big Desert Eagle. It’s time to end this.
11:53 P.M.
JACK
NOISE, FROM BEHIND ME. The Ravenswood sniper charges into the garage, and when he raises his pistol I throw myself forward.
Two shots in quick succession, both missing. The sound is painfully loud in the enclosed garage, echoing off the concrete floor. I tumble over a container of books, roll, and land on my butt, my body forcing a trench between two stacks of boxes. The single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling isn’t strong enough to penetrate the crevice I’m in, so I can’t see a thing.
I cover my head and wait for the sniper to start firing again.
He doesn’t. Instead, he starts kicking boxes, knocking them over, swearing and yelling. A crack opens up between crates, and I see he’s brandishing a knife now. One of those survival models, long and unwieldy, with a serrated blade. His face is a picture of anger and frustration.
“Come out of there, you split-tail bitch!”
I get on all fours, back away. There’s a breeze coming from my left—the broken window. Maybe I can make it outside. I crawl toward it, keeping low.
He pushes through ahead of me, cutting off my escape. He’s only a few feet away. He grins, baring yellow teeth.
“There’s my girl. Stay down. I like that position.”
If I got scared by creeps talking trash, I would have quit the Job after a week. Threats don’t bother me much. Knives, however, do.
“Where’s your friend?” I ask. I hold out a hand, touch the wall, keeping an eye on the blade.
“Casualty of war.”
I keep my voice even, keep the fear out of it. He seems like a guy who would be turned on by fear. “You don’t seem too upset about him dying.”
The man smiles. “He knew the risks.”
I stretch up onto my knees.
“Is that was this is?” I ask. “A war?”
“Life is a war. We have to fight for every little bit we get.”
“War is for soldiers,” I say. I shift my weight back onto my toes. “You’re not a soldier.”
He points the tip of the knife at me. “I AM a soldier!”
I lean back into a squatting position. “Soldiers don’t kill innocent people. They don’t threaten girls with knives. What’s your real job? Construction worker? Assembly line at a factory?”
I see that hits a nerve. The sniper snarls and rushes forward, slashing. I leap at him rather than away, getting inside the swing of the blade, throwing a hard right into his stomach and then driving him backward with my shoulder. We get tangled up, push through some boxes and up against the workbench.
I latch both hands on to his wrist, keeping the knife away. The Ravenswood sniper fights against my grip, then suddenly seems to realize he has more than one hand, and uses his free one to punch me in the face.
I hold on tight, tucking my chin into my chest. He hits me on the side of the head—in the ear—and my legs give out. Then he connects with my cheek and I release his knife hand, falling backward, my consciousness slipping away.
“I don’t work in no goddamn factory, bitch!” he screams. “I’m the best goddamn soldier you ever met!”
He switches his hold on the knife so it angles down, raising it up over my head.
I’m in no condition to stop him.
11:53 P.M.
KORK
I’VE GOT HARRY in my sights. He engaged in a brief tussle with the remaining sniper, the sniper shot at him, and Harry fell onto his back, right on top of Mom. I can’t tell if either of them got hit or not. He’s still moving, but doesn’t seem to be in any particular hurry, which might indicate an injury.
Let’s make it worse.
I consider where the first bullet should go. Foot? Knee? Balls.
No. His other hand.
I’m such a little stinker.
I aim, adjusting for the wind, visualizing the shot like I learned in basic training.
Then a patch of grass explodes just a few feet to my left, accompanied by a BANG!
Phin found himself a rifle.
He obviously can’t shoot for shit. I’m less than a hundred yards away. Hell, with these guns a blind preschooler could shoot the shine off a penny from three quarters of a mile. I switch position, sight his blond head in the rear window of the Bronco, and squeeze the trigger a fraction of a second after I see him ducking down.
Crap. Miss.
No problem. He got lucky. And luck doesn’t last forever. Jack has learned that particular lesson well to night. Phin will learn it too.
I eject the round, seek out the backpack full of clips that the snipers have so graciously left me. Without taking my eyes off of Phin I select one, my fingers feeling to make sure it’s loaded. It’s empty. I try another. Also empty.
The whole bag is filled with empty clips.
Phin fires again, and it kicks up a clod of dirt only a few inches from my hip.
Rather than dwell on the misfortune of unfolding events, I decide to get proactive. I detach the night scope and stick it in my pocket. Staying on my elbows and toes, I inch backward down the slope of the small hill I’m perched on, stopping periodically to tuck down and roll left or right. Phin keeps shooting at me, keeps missing, and then I’m out of his line of fire, on my feet, and sprinting toward the woods adjacent to the road.
Shooting isn’t the only thing the marines taught me. I can also sneak like a cat.
I cut right, make my way through a hundred yards of trees, then circle back and head for the Bronco, slow and low, silent as death.
11:53 P.M.
MARY
MARY OPENS HER EYES.
She’s lying on the floor, and there’s tremendous pressure on her leg, accompanied by a dull ache.
A bullet wound?
“I need a fucking vacation.”
“Harry?”
That’s the pressure. Harry’s fallen on top of her.
“Mom? You got those codeine pills on you? Gimme about ten.”
“Were you shot?” Mary asks.
“I don’t think so. Only holes I got in me are the ones that are supposed to be there.”
“You’re on my leg, dear.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
Harry moves, and the pressure is replaced by the pins and needles sensation of blood returning. Mary sits up and rubs her leg with both palms.
Gunshots. From the garage.
Jacqueline.
Mary looks around, spies the large handgun on the floor next to the dead man. She crawls over to it, clasps it between her hands. She tries to curl her fingers around it, but they won’t cooperate.
“Give it here, Mom.” Harry takes it in his left hand and points it at the refrigerator door. “Stand back.”
Mary obeys. Harry fires at the door handle, and it shears away, releasing his prosthetic claw.
“Should have done that to begin with,” he says. “Where’s Jack?”
“Garage, with the other sniper.”
Harry puts a protective arm around Mary, hustles her into the kitchen.
“Stay down, Mom. I’ll be back in a second, right after I give that son of a bitch a lead enema.”
Harry gives her a quick kiss on the cheek, then runs off.
That’s my boy.
11:55 P.M.
MUNCHEL
THE SPLIT-TAIL is at his mercy, and Munchel likes the feeling.
He likes the look of defeat on her battered face. Of submission. She’s resigned herself to death at his hands.
But he’s not ready to kill her yet.
He backhands her, and she doesn’t even try to block it. Such a far cry from the cocky cop who almost shot him.
Munchel grins. It’s always been a secret shame of his that he hasn’t ever had sex without paying for it. But he’s going to now. Her face is all bruised and puffy, but she’s got good legs, a nice ass. He’s going to ride this bitch like—
“Hey! Rambozo!”
Munchel whips his head around. Sees the man with the bionic hand standing in the doorway. In his real hand is Pessolano’s Desert Eagle.
“I wanted you to see it coming,” the man says.
Munchel backs away, his hands up in protest.
The man fires six times in rapid succession.
Miraculously, the first five shots completely miss.
Unfortunately, the last one doesn’t.
It drills Munchel in the stomach, and feels like getting hit with a miner’s pick. Munchel doubles over, dropping the knife, falling to his knees, and then to his side. He curls into a fetal position, clutching the fire in his belly. This isn’t like the other time he got shot, that wussy slap in the back. This is awful.
He lifts a hand to his face, sees the blood.
But I’m wearing body armor, he thinks. This isn’t fair.
“You okay, sis?” The man bends down next to the cop, helps her up.
“I’ll live. Where’s Mom?”
“I’m here.”
Munchel looks left, watches an old broad come into the garage. They all share a group hug. It’s a big happy goddamn Walton family reunion, and he’s lying here in agony, bleeding to death.
“Help me,” Munchel whispers.
The bionic guy walks up to him, squints. “You’re lucky I suck lefty. I was aiming for your head.”
“It hurts.”
“I can fix that,” the man says. “Don’t worry. I won’t miss this time.”
Munchel feels the barrel press against his forehead. His bladder lets go, soaking his fatigues.
“You…you have to help me,” Munchel states. “You’re a cop.”
“She’s a cop,” the guy says. “I used to be a cop, but they kicked me off the force for not following the rules.” The man grins. “I’m not big on rules.”
Munchel’s entire being is focused on the cold steel between his eyes. This isn’t how things are supposed to end.
“I’m begging you. Don’t kill me. Please please please don’t kill me.”
“Do me a favor. When you get to hell, give Hitler a kick in the balls and tell him it’s from Harry McGlade.”
He cocks the Desert Eagle.
“No!”
“Harry, don’t.”
The split-tail. She won’t let him do it. Thank God.
“You want the honors, Jackie?”
“Don’t waste the bullets. Alex is still out there.”
“Gotcha. How about I use the chain saw? See what this guy had for breakfast?”
Munchel starts to cry.
“Go find the cuffs, Harry. Check the kitchen.”
“Your house, your rules.” He hands the gun, butt-first, to Jackie the cop, then trots out of the garage.
“Call an ambulance,” Munchel whines. “Jesus, it hurts.”
“That might be a problem,” Jackie says. “Some assholes cut the landlines and are using a cell phone jammer.”
“Roof,” Munchel says. “Pessolano threw it on the roof.”
“Where on the roof?”
“Somewhere over the garage. Switch it off. Call for help.”
“Was it just the three of you?” she asks.
“Yeah. Me, Pessolano, and Swanson.”
“If there’s another one of you idiots out there, I might get killed, and then I’ll let Harry go Black and Decker on your ass.”
“I’m the last one. I swear. Find the jammer.” Munchel moans. It feels like he swallowed a hot coal. “Jesus, the pain is getting worse.”
Jackie pats him down, taking the Desert Eagle from his holster, and his wallet from his back pocket.
“James Michael Munchel,” she says, reading his driver’s license. “You have the right to remain silent.”
Munchel tunes out her spiel. He doesn’t give a hoot about his rights. He’s focusing on something else. Something only a few feet away.
Harry returns with a pair of handcuffs. Jackie snicks a bracelet onto his wrist, and then they drag Munchel across the floor over to the workbench.
Perfect, Munchel thinks.
Harry tries to pull Munchel’s fist away from his burning gut. Munchel fights it as hard as he can.
“Please! I’ll bleed to death!”
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll get the stains up with some bleach.”
Harry wrestles his hand away, but again the cop stops him.
“Just cuff the other end to the leg of the bench. It weighs a ton. He’s not going anywhere.”
Harry obeys, locking the cuff around one of the metal pipe legs, above a crossbeam so Munchel can’t lift the leg to escape.
But Munchel has another way to escape. The real reason he wants his hand free is because he spotted something under the bench, next to a cat litter box, only a few feet away.
A revolver.
Munchel should be able to reach it if he stretches. Then he can shoot away the cuffs, kill everyone in the house, and use Pessolano’s truck to get to a hospital.
But he can’t do it while he’s being watched. Everyone has to leave the garage first, give him a little privacy.
James Michael Munchel groans again, biding time until he gets his chance.
MIDNIGHT
JACK
MUNCHEL’S DESERT EAGLE is predictably empty, but Harry’s has two bullets left. After I make several threats, he reluctantly gives me one.
“This sharing thing is new to me, sis.”
I eye him. “You accepted this whole sister thing pretty quickly, don’t you think?”
He shrugs. “Give a starving man a cracker, it’s a banquet.”
That’s more insight than I thought Harry capable of, but I figure we can hold off on this discussion until we get our blood tests. And I have a couple of drinks in me.
“You okay?” I ask Mom.
She nods. “I’m going to check on Latham and Herb. Which one of you is going on the roof?”
“Jackie is.” Harry chews his lower lip. “Heights scare me, Mom.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Give me a break. Do you remember riding in a helicopter not too long ago?”
He nods. “I remember. It scared me.”
“I’m not leaving my mother alone, McGlade.”
“I’ll watch her.”
“I’ll watch her. You’ll get your ass up on the roof.”
“We can play rock, scissors, paper, to decide,” Harry says.
> “That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s fair. You ready? On three.”
I can’t believe I’m doing this. “Fine, Harry. One…two…three.”
I hold out my fist. Rock.
Harry holds up his metal claw.
“Paper covers rock, Jackie. I win.”
“That’s not paper!”
“You want to discriminate because I’m differently abled?”
I consider popping him in the nose with my rock, but that isn’t going to get him on the roof. I turn to my mother for support, but she shakes her head.
“You kids work it out amongst yourselves,” she says.
I consider calling Harry a name, like sissy or coward, but I hold off. The sissy coward just saved my life, so the insult probably won’t stick.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll go.”
“Don’t be sore, Jackie.” Harry raises his prosthesis. “Want to try two out of three?”
I stick my finger in his face. “Just protect Mom, McGlade.”
“No problemo.”
I give Harry my back, leaning down over Munchel. Ignoring the perp’s protests of agony, I turn him over and unbuckle his holster. Then I slide it off of him and cinch it around my waist. There’s a surreal quality to my actions, the combination of unremitting pain and fatigue. This has been an intense night, and it isn’t over yet.
The Desert Eagle goes in the holster, and I take a deep, steadying breath.
“I’ll need help getting up on the roof,” I say to McGlade. “Or do I have to ask Mom to give me a boost?”
Harry smiles. “I’m here for you, sis. Let’s do this.”
“What about him?” Mom asks, indicating Munchel.
I look at the holes in the garage door, and the broken window on the side wall. Too many ways to see inside here, too many angles Alex can attack from.
“He stays here. But I want you in the bathroom, Mom. It’s safer.”
The three of us walk back into the kitchen, keeping our distance from the living room window. But the lights are on, and I catch a glimpse of the dead sniper lying by the front door in an incredibly large pool of blood.
Jack Daniels Six Pack Page 117