Jack Daniels Six Pack

by J. A. Konrath

  “What happened?” I ask. The lawn is cool beneath my legs, and my various aches and pains are a little less acute.

  “You passed out. After you jumped off the roof to save me.”

  “I landed on an azalea bush. And I landed funny.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Not that kind of funny. I think the plant got to third base.”

  “Frisky, those azaleas. Did it buy you dinner first?”

  “No. Not even a glass of wine. Where’s Alex?”

  “She ran into the woods.”

  I try to sit up. Phin helps. I’m groggy, but I can function.

  “She might head back to the house,” I say. “We have to get there.”

  “She’s unarmed.”

  “That doesn’t mean she isn’t dangerous.”

  Phin nods. “Good point. I think we can handle her, though. Let me show you.”

  He hands me the shotgun, then sticks his head in the passenger door of the truck and presses something on the dashboard. Then he walks around to the rear door and opens it up. Inside are two sniper rifles, half a dozen handguns, and box after box of ammo.

  “I couldn’t bring it back to the house all by myself, but if we both load up, we can manage. Unless Alex is driving a tank, she won’t be able to get to us.”

  “Let’s hurry.”

  There’s a metal suitcase lined with foam, with cut-out impressions for the two Desert Eagles. I tear out the foam and fill the suitcase with bullets. Phin finds a duffel bag, and we pile in the guns and more bullets. We barely cram everything in.

  I reload the Desert Eagle, Phin adds a few shells to the shotgun, and then I help him strap on the duffel bag, which weighs a ton. The suitcase and both rifles are mine to carry.

  Satisfied we haven’t left a scrap of ammo behind, we head back toward the house.

  My load is cumbersome, unwieldy, and after a few steps I have to rest. Phin urges me on. You never realize how big your lawn is until you’re hauling a hundred pounds of ordnance across it. I really hope Mom doesn’t change her mind about moving back to the city.

  “I still have to find the cell phone jammer,” I tell Phin between labored breaths. “If you cover the front, and Harry covers the back—”

  My words are cut off by the sound of gunfire, coming from the house.

  12:11 A.M.

  KORK

  THE REVOLVER IS A .38. There are five bullets in the cylinder. That’s more than enough.

  I creep into the house, silent and powerful. After a little hiccup in the plan, I’m back in control. Harry and his single-shot Desert Eagle don’t concern me. Even if he manages to get a shot off, he’ll most certainly miss.

  I slip into the living room and grin when I see the cast-iron pot with the wire attached. Idiots. Then I kneel down next to Pessolano. His pants are a bloody, sticky mess, but I manage to fish out the keys to the Bronco. I shove them in my pocket, then concentrate on the hallway.

  I hear whispering. Coming from the bathroom, behind the refrigerator.

  I pause. Shall I shoot to kill? Or is there time for a little fun first?

  I decide to play it by ear.

  I bend down low, measuring each footstep, careful I don’t make a sound. I feel most alive during moments like this. I’m in control, a hunter stalking her prey. It’s what I was born to do.

  “She’s in the house! She has a gun!”

  Dammit. That sniper idiot. I thought I paralyzed him with fear, but he must have been made of stronger stuff than I assumed. I meld into the shadows, pressing my back up against the wall.

  “Is that you, Alex?” Harry asks.

  I wonder whether or not to answer, decide there’s no harm now.

  “It’s me,” I say.

  “Found yourself a gun, huh?”

  “Yep. And I have more than one bullet, Harry. Where should I shoot you first? I’ll let you decide.”

  “Come a little closer and I’ll tell you.”

  I laugh, then take a step forward.

  “You think you can hit me left-handed, Harry?”

  “I don’t have to. Mom has that particular honor.”

  Another step. “That old lady with the crippled hands? She can’t even hold a gun.”

  “She’s not holding it. I am. She’s aiming for me.”

  I stop in my tracks.

  “Mom’s an expert markswoman. She taught Jack how to shoot. Isn’t that right, Mom?”

  “Stick your head out, Alex,” Jack’s mother says. Her voice is strong and sure. “I’ll teach you how to make some mincemeat pie.”

  I back up. Maybe they won’t hit me, but maybe they will, and a .50 bullet in capable hands is not something to take lightly. I’ll sneak back outside, come in a different way.

  I head for the front door, and see Jack and Phin heading toward the house, their arms filled with weapons.

  Shit. I buzz through a few quick scenarios in my head. I shoot at them, kill one, and the other rushes the house with superior firepower. Or I get lucky, kill them both, and Harry pops up behind me and puts one into the back of my head.

  Maybe I could win with a better gun and more ammo, but a smart girl knows when to fight and when to run. It’s running time.

  Still, I can spare one bullet.

  I get down on a knee, support my wrist with my free hand, and draw a bead on Jack’s head. Then I wait for her to get within range. If she’s too far away, I’ll miss. If she’s too close, that will give Phin a chance to catch me.

  Fifty feet seems to be a good distance.

  I’m a little disappointed that it will end this way, but I can come back for Harry and the others later. Let them mourn Jack for a few weeks. Settle back into everyday life. Then I can surprise them with a return visit, after I’ve finished with the other thing I’ve got planned.

  Jack reaches the fifty-foot mark. I line up the sights.

  “Bye-bye, Lieutenant.”

  I squeeze the trigger.

  Jack remains standing.

  I missed.

  It’s the gun. The gun’s aim is off.

  Damn, that is one lucky lady.

  Phin stops, pointing the shotgun at the house. It’s time for me to go. I hurry back into the garage, hearing the shotgun thunder behind me. The sniper is on the floor where I left him. His eyes get comically wide when he sees me.

  “I thought we agreed to be quiet.”

  “I’m…I’m a soldier…” he stammers. “Soldiers don’t make deals with the enemy.”

  “Soldiers also die badly,” I say.

  I don’t have time to savor it, but I make good on my promise and manage to jam the funnel in, along with half the bottle of drain cleaner.

  His screams follow me through the maze of boxes, over to the side window. And that’s when I see Jack rush into the garage.

  Maybe her luck has finally run out.

  12:15 A.M.

  JACK

  A SHOT BURIES ITSELF into the lawn a yard ahead of me.

  “She found my gun,” Phin says. “Go, I’ll cover you.”

  I don’t argue with him. All around us is open land. The only cover is near the house. Phin aims the shotgun and fires, and I move as fast as I can, beelining for my front door. I feel like I’m running in slow motion, my feet in quicksand, each step harder than the last. But the thought of Alex in the house with the people I love makes me discover reserves I didn’t know I had left.

  I make it to my porch without being shot, wheezing and dripping sweat. I drop the gear, pull the Desert Eagle, and go in low, keeping a two-handed grip on the weapon.

  The living room is clear. I hear screaming, can’t pinpoint it.

  “Harry!”

  “We’re fine!” he yells from the bathroom. “Alex took off through the garage!”

  I rush over to the garage door, get a quick peek at Munchel on the floor, his stomach wound leaking bloody foam. He’s the one screaming.

  I look past him, see Alex heading for the side window. I fire twice, miss
ing as she dives through.

  I can’t let her get away.

  I hobble between the boxes, crouching low if she decides to fire at me, sticking the barrel of my gun out the window and jerking left and right to see if she’s hiding on either side.

  Alex comes up from below.

  She grabs my wrist and squeezes like a vise. I keep my grip on the pistol but can’t aim it toward her. I sense, rather than see, her gun hand coming up, and I reach blindly and latch on to it, stiff-arming the barrel away from my head.

  Alex tugs, dragging me out of the window, broken glass scraping against my stomach, hips, and legs. I fall on top of her, each of us trying to gain control of our weapons without letting the other do the same, my face inches from hers as we both grunt and strain.

  She rolls, swarming on top of me, straddling my chest. Slowly, inexorably, her gun begins to swing toward my face. There’s nothing I can do to stop it. I’m injured, close to passing out again, and Alex is so big and so strong and so damn evil. She’s not a human being. She’s a force of nature.

  Her gun bears down on my forehead.

  “After I kill you,” she says, “I’m coming back for your friends and family.”

  I’m not scared.

  I’m enraged.

  I hear a yell—a bone-chilling, animalistic yell. It’s coming from me. And then I open up my palm, letting the Desert Eagle drop, flexing my biceps and grabbing hold of Alex’s hair and yanking her head so hard I give the bitch whiplash.

  Alex falls to the side, off of me, and I shove her gun hand away and get my knees under me. Then I make a fist with my left hand and hit her square in the nose.

  I can feel the cartilage crack under my knuckles. Her gun goes off, shooting into the night sky well over my head. She rolls with the punch, and I scramble to my feet, ready to lunge in under the gun and rip out her heart with my bare hands.

  But she doesn’t attack. She runs.

  The monster runs away.

  I scan the ground, find the Desert Eagle, and snatch it up, but she’s already sprinting around the corner.

  “Jack!”

  Phin, at the garage window, shotgun in his hand. He looks sort of fuzzy around the edges, and I feel my legs start to wobble.

  “Make sure she doesn’t get back in the house,” I tell him.

  Then I go after her.

  12:17 A.M.

  KORK

  I’M STILL SEEING STARS from where Jack popped me in the nose, but I don’t let it slow me down. I run around the back of the house, adrenaline pumping, rounding the other side, sprinting straight for the Bronco. I quickly look back, see that Jack is fifty yards behind me.

  She’s per sis tent. I’ll give her that.

  She also has a bigger gun, and by now so does everyone in the house. I’ve got to get the hell out of here.

  I slide on my belly across the hood of the truck and through the broken windshield. I wiggle myself into the driver’s seat, push the key in the ignition, and have a bad moment when the truck doesn’t turn over.

  It’s the battery.

  I check to my right. Jack has stopped less than thirty yards away. She’s in a shooter stance, aiming the big Desert Eagle at my head.

  I kill the headlights, press the gas pedal, and crank it again.

  The truck roars to life. I make a U-turn, burning rubber on the street and kicking up dirt and grass when the wheels go off the road.

  I duck down right before Jack puts three shots into the driver’s-side window, peppering me with bits of glass. I keep the pedal pressed down, feel the tires grip the asphalt again, and continue to stay low until I’m at least two hundred yards away.

  I tap the brakes when the road reaches an end, jerk the wheel right, and speed down the street and through a green light. Then I force myself to slow down.

  I raise a hand to my nose, wipe away some blood, and it causes a spike of pain. I check the glove compartment, find a box of tissues, and wedge a wad up each nostril even though it makes my eyes water.

  It hurts. But my ego hurts more. I had her. Had her. But when it came time to punch her clock, I got greedy and tried to draw out the moment, talking when I should have been pulling the trigger.

  It’s not entirely my fault. There were unforeseeable circumstances. If it weren’t for those idiot snipers, I’d still be back at the house, controlling the situation, having some fun.

  But what’s done is done. No point dwelling on the past.

  Besides, this isn’t over yet.

  Not by a long shot.

  12:23 A.M.

  JACK

  I WATCH ALEX TEAR DOWN the road, and the Desert Eagle all of a sudden weighs a hundred pounds. I let the gun drop to my side, and a strangled sound that’s a cross between a laugh and a sob comes out of my mouth.

  She’s gone. Alex is gone. And everyone I care about is still alive.

  I walk back toward the house, but I don’t feel weak. I don’t feel hurt at all. For the first time all night, I feel pretty damn good.

  I meet up with Phin on my front lawn.

  “We’ll get her,” he says.

  I meet his eyes. “I know.”

  We enter through the front door. Harry is standing guard with a Desert Eagle. He blows out a big breath when he sees me. “That was some pretty intense shit. Who needs a beer?”

  “I could use something stronger,” Phin says.

  Harry nods. “Mom has some codeine, and I think there’s vodka left.”

  “We’re not out of this yet,” I say. “We still need to find the jammer and get some help.”

  “Phin and I will take care of it,” Harry says. “Don’t bogart the vodka.”

  They head outside. I head to the bathroom, and Mom embraces me.

  “Is she gone?” she asks.

  “Yes. I still need to go outside, guard Phin and Harry.”

  I look at Herb, who is sitting up. His color has returned. He’s trying to open a pickle jar.

  “Don’t eat those,” I say, taking the jar away.

  Herb frowns. “Harry said they were good.”

  I ask Mom to find something else for Herb to munch on, then go to Latham. I touch his forehead, and he opens his eyes. His fever has gotten worse.

  “Did the good guys win?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “I wasn’t worried,” he says. “Not with you here to save us.”

  “Ambulance is coming soon,” I tell him. “We’re all going to be okay.”

  “I love you, Jack.”

  “Love you, Latham.”

  “Love you more.”

  “No, I love you more.”

  Herb’s mouth is occupied with what appears to be a wedge of cheddar cheese, but he says, “For crissakes, I’m trying to eat here. Kiss him already.”

  I smile, kiss Latham, and then hurry back into the kitchen. The screams from the garage have stopped. I take a peek. Munchel is dead. Then I go outside and witness the spectacle of Harry on Phin’s shoulders, reaching for the veranda.

  “Dammit, Phin, push!”

  “You want me to climb up there on my own, then pull you up?”

  “Could you do that? Please?”

  I lend two hands to the cause, and we manage to get McGlade onto the roof. And he had the audacity to comment on my weight. Everywhere I touch him, it feels like pizza dough.

  “What’s it look like?” Harry calls from above.

  “No idea,” I answer. “But it’s probably around front.”

  I turn to Phin. “Any wants or warrants out on you lately?”

  “I don’t think so. Worried about fraternizing with a known criminal?”

  “Hell no. I was going to talk to a judge friend, get everything dropped.”

  Phin smiles. “Can that apply to any future indiscretions I may commit? There’s a liquor store near my house just begging to be robbed.”

  “Thanks, Phin.”

  I give him a hug, since this is the Night of a Thousand Hugs anyway. His skin is freezing.

>   “Aren’t you cold?” I ask.

  He holds me tighter. “Not anymore.”

  “Hey!” Harry yells. “I found a tennis ball! You play tennis, Jackie?”

  I pull away from Phin, feeling a little awkward.

  “I think Latham has some shirts inside. I’ll get you one, when Harry comes back.”

  “Thanks.”

  Harry farts around on the roof for a few more minutes, then yells, “Got it!”

  He tosses the jammer down. It’s a black box, about the size of a walkie-talkie. I hit the off switch, and pull out the battery just to be safe. Then I turn on my cell phone and see those beautiful signal bars.

  I call 911, give the operator my badge number, and request as many cops as possible. I also ask for six ambulances, and for an APB to be put out on a red Ford Bronco with a hole in the windshield.

  Then I go to find a shirt for Phin, and a change of clothes for me.

  The first cop arrives in four minutes. A minute after that, six more cops arrive. Then the ambulances come. All the swirling lights on my front lawn make it look like a Fourth of July fireworks display.

  I give some very brief statements, and then oversee the loading of my friends and family into the ambulances. Mom. Latham. Herb—who fights with the paramedics to hold on to the cheese. Phin. And Harry.

  “Mom invited me over for dinner next week,” Harry tells me as they’re strapping him to the gurney. “It will be nice to hang out with you when someone isn’t trying to kill us.”

  “Looking forward to it,” I say.

  “Does she like flowers?” he asks. “I’ve got forty-nine Mother’s Days to make up for.”

  “She loves flowers, Harry.”

  Only after Harry is carted off and everyone is safe do I allow my guard to ease up and finally let them put me into an ambulance of my own.

  “I have a cat,” I tell one of the paramedics. “He isn’t good with people.”

  “We’ll catch him, make sure he’s okay.”

  “Might be wise to call animal control, let them help you.”

  He passes along the info, then takes my vitals.