Fuzzy Navel

by J. A. Konrath

  And it’s about to get worse.

  Mary sets her jaw and tugs, fast and hard.

  It’s like sticking her hand in a furnace.

  The door doesn’t budge.

  She eases up, tries to change fingers. Her hand is shaking so much she can’t get ahold of the handle. Mary switches to lefty.

  “Mom! I’m too pretty to die!”

  Harry again. That guy certainly is a complainer. Must be Ralph the sailor’s genes.

  She hooks her left index finger in the ring, closes her eyes, and jerks her whole arm back.

  The pain takes away her breath. But the door swings open.

  Mary releases the handle, reaching for the breaker, but the spring engages and slaps the door closed.

  “SHE’S ALMOST THROUGH!”

  Now both of Mary’s hands are trembling. She tries her right hand, then her left hand, and can’t grip the damnable metal ring. Despair mingles with anguish, and Mary curses herself for being a worthless old woman, of no use to anyone, not even able to—

  On the dryer, atop a stack of sweaters, is a coat hanger.

  She snatches it up, puts the hook through the metal ring, and pulls like hell.

  The door swings open.

  Mary reaches inside the panel and jabs at the main breaker switch, plunging the house into darkness and silence.

  11:11 P.M.

  MUNCHEL

  AGAIN WITH THE GODDAMN LIGHTS. Munchel sighs, wondering why the military doesn’t make a scope that works in the daylight and the nighttime. Then soldiers wouldn’t have to switch scopes every three goddamn minutes.

  He sits up, rubs his eyes, and sees Pessolano in the truck up the street.

  It’s about damn time.

  Munchel stands, stretches, and begins to walk across the grass toward him. The wind is still strong, and has dropped a dozen degrees, hinting at the harsh winter doubtlessly drawing near. Once he spreads the word to the soldier-for-hire underground that he was part of the Chicago pervert murders, he expects his ser vices to be in great demand, fetching premium dollars. Munchel decides that his next merc gig will be someplace warm, like Bosnia. Or Atlanta.

  Munchel pauses, briefly, at the corpse of Swanson, and grins at him.

  “You gonna eat that, Greg? No?”

  He reaches down and plucks the granola bar from Swanson’s cold, dead fingers, and tears the wrapper open with his teeth.

  Cinnamon raisin. Munchel’s favorite.

  “You want some, buddy?”

  He breaks off a corner, bounces it off Swanson’s face.

  Predictably, Swanson doesn’t protest. Though Munchel wouldn’t be surprised if the former TUHC leader did suddenly sit up and start bitching, complaining that his piece isn’t big enough, or that they should just leave the cop alone and run to Mexico, or some other bullshit.

  Munchel continues onward, and finds Pessolano poking around in the back of his Bronco.

  “You got any fleece in there, man? It’s colder than a penguin’s nuts out here.”

  Pessolano pulls a small stack of clothing from the cargo bay.

  “That don’t look too warm.”

  “It’s Dragon Skin. Tactical body armor. Stronger than Kevlar.”

  Pessolano takes Munchel’s TPG-1, trading it for a vest. Munchel rubs the fabric between his fingers.

  “It’s thin.”

  “But it can still stop an AK-47. Maybe… if Swanson had one on…”

  Pessolano stows the rifle. He looks like he’s going to start bawling again, and Munchel doesn’t think he can stomach another display.

  “He’s in a better place,” Munchel says, popping the rest of the granola bar into his mouth. “Where are the Desert Eagles?”

  Pessolano reaches into the truck again, comes out with an aluminum suitcase with combination locks on the buckles. Munchel waits, becoming progressively annoyed as Pessolano keeps screwing up the numbers. The dummy finally gets the case open, revealing two huge nickel-plated handguns, nestling in individual foam compartments.

  Munchel whistles, reaching for a gun. The damn thing has to weigh more than five pounds. You could kill a person just by hitting him over the head with it.

  “This is the Desert Eagle Mark XIX,” Pessolano says. “It uses fifty-caliber Action Express rounds — the biggest handgun bullets on the market. Same length as a .44 Magnum, but wider. It has almost eight times the stopping power of a nine millimeter. What it hits, it kills.”

  “Can it go through the Dragon Skin?”

  “I wouldn’t want to try it to find out.”

  “How many rounds does it hold?”

  “Seven. And they’re really expensive, so don’t waste them.”

  Munchel spins, aims at the house, and squeezes the trigger. The BOOM is so loud it feels like someone slapped him in the ears, and the recoil jerks his arm back.

  Awesome.

  “I said they’re expensive!” Pessolano screams.

  Munchel grins at him. “Shit, man. I’ll write you a check.”

  He helps himself to the box of bullets, popping the clip and adding two more. Seven plus one in the throat. Pessolano says something, but Munchel can’t hear him through the ringing in his head.

  “Huh?”

  “How do you want to do this?” Pessolano yells.

  Munchel considers it. Everyone is holed up in the hallway, behind the refrigerator, except for that crazy bitch with the chain saw in the garage.

  “We bust in the front door,” he says. “I’ll take the house. You take the garage.”

  Pessolano nods, then he spends a minute untangling his bulletproof vest, trying to get it on. He’s like a child, unable to find the armhole. This convinces Munchel that Pessolano is lying about his military experience. Munchel doesn’t have a problem with lying. He lies to his mama, about when he’s going to visit her next. He lies to his foreman at the English muffin factory, about being sick when he’s actually just hungover. He even lies to hookers, telling them he works for the CIA. But Pessolano’s lies are dangerous. Munchel is supposed to trust this guy with his life, have full confidence that Pessolano has his back.

  How good can he watch Munchel’s back when he can’t even put on a simple vest?

  Munchel decides he isn’t going to work with Pessolano again. True, the man has some cool weapons and equipment, but someone of Munchel’s professional stature shouldn’t associate with amateurs.

  Munchel straps on the Dragon Skin, finishing before Pessolano does. He spreads his hands, to show Pessolano how easy it really is, and then hears a gunshot come from the trees behind him. At practically the same time, he feels a slap in the back.

  He drops to the ground, crawling to the other side of the truck, adrenaline raging. Pessolano scurries beside him.

  “You hit?”

  Munchel nods. He allows Pessolano to turn him around, examine his back.

  “Vest stopped it. You hurt?”

  Munchel shakes his head. It feels like he’s been snapped by a rubber band.

  Holy shit, he thinks. I actually got shot.

  I got shot and I survived.

  He can picture himself in a seedy bar in South Africa, playing poker and drinking rotgut with a bunch of other mercs, casually mentioning how he got shot on his first job. A crazed smile appears on his face.

  “He’s in the woods,” Pessolano says. “If we rush at him from two sides, we can flush him out. You ready?”

  Munchel nods, feeling invincible.

  “Let’s do it,” Pessolano says. “On my count.”

  Munchel doesn’t wait. He stands up and charges straight into the trees.

  11:18 P.M.

  PHIN

  PHIN RETREATS INTO THE FOREST, moving fast. He’s lost one-sixth of his ammunition, along with the element of surprise. All he’s gained is the secure knowledge that his recently acquired revolver sucks. He’d been less than fifty feet away, aiming directly at the man’s head. The bullet hit the lower back instead.

  At least the gun d
idn’t explode in my hand.

  From the short amount of time he’d observed the two men, Phin didn’t get the impression they were cops. They aren’t soldiers either, despite their camouflage outfits. And Phin doesn’t recognize them, though he didn’t get a good look at their faces.

  But it really doesn’t matter who they are. The only thing that currently matters is that they’re coming after him. And they have much better guns.

  Phin ducks under some low-hanging branches, jumps over a fallen tree, and finds himself in a small clearing. He jogs around the edge of it, kicking up dead leaves. Then he cuts back into the woods and heads back toward Jack’s house, approaching it on an angle.

  He steps onto Jack’s property, on the southwest corner of her house. It’s completely dark. He can hear the men fumbling through the forest behind him. Phin jogs across the open stretch of lawn, energy fading. When he reaches the window by the garage, Phin considers his options. He can go for help, but by the time help arrives the yahoos with the Desert Eagles might kill Jack.

  Of course, she might already be dead.

  He can continue to play hide-and-seek, try to pursue his pursuers. But Phin has no training, no military experience. He can fight, and he can shoot, but that’s the extent of his commando skills.

  Or he can break into the house, grab Jack and whoever else is inside, and try to herd them all to safety.

  That seems best. Phin fishes out a pocket flashlight, attached to his key chain, and peers in the garage window. He sees stacked cardboard boxes. Phin strips off his T-shirt, wads it up against the glass, and smacks the cloth with his gun. There’s noise as the glass shatters, but not too much. He clears away the big pieces of glass, spreads his shirt over the pane, and climbs inside, wiggling between the wall and the boxes.

  Phin holds his breath, listens. Hears nothing.

  The boxes are all various sizes and weights. He tucks the revolver into the back of his jeans and wastes a few minutes finding his way through the cardboard maze, picking up, climbing over, and shifting all of Jack’s crap. When he finally makes it to the middle of the garage, a space opens up, and he sighs in relief.

  That’s when someone hits him in the head with a shovel.

  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.