Kill Zone: A Lucy Guardino FBI Thriller

by CJ Lyons

  Easier than taking out the trash.

  He actually considered it for a moment—a fleeting pleasure, a quiet fantasy. Most of his time at war was made up of so many moments like this: more about imagining what could be rather than actual doing. Because when the shit rained down, the doing was so automatic there was no thinking. No time for anything except remembering to breathe between the bullets and for doing whatever it took to keep his men safe.

  Seeing Mad Dog and the other Rippers, he was tempted. So damn tempted. What was the worst anyone could do to him? Lock him up? Solitary confinement? Hell, he was already there.

  No. He needed to keep the peace—couldn’t put Grams in the crossfire.

  “Where's Darius at?” No way was Andre getting into a vehicle with these punks.

  “Just across the way at Kujo’s.”

  Kujo’s was an old three story house—once white, now painted Ripper red with that gingerbread trim the Doc was talking about—that the Rippers had taken over from an old man after his wife had died, literally forcing the poor guy out of his own home. Back when Andre had been with them it was a stash house, but Darius always talked about making it his own. His “HQ” he’d called it, like he was Ruby Avenue’s answer to Donald Trump.

  “Ten minutes,” Andre said as he slid his finger away from the Beretta’s trigger. “I’ll give Darius ten minutes.”

  The three men crowded and jostled against Andre as they pushed across the street. Like they were still on the school playground, vying for the title of King of the Hill. Andre just shrugged it off.

  Darius had fortified Kujo's with metal shutters and two guards on the porch. Mad Dog nodded to them and they were granted entrance.

  The interior of the old Victorian style house had been redone in classic Ripper fashion: spray painted graffiti, disco ball spinning where the dining room chandelier used to hang, antique dining room table now serving as a catwalk where two naked women, one black, one white, danced as jeering men watched. The dining room chairs had been removed to make more room for men to stand.

  Across the hall the front parlor was jammed with sofas and chairs of every design where Rippers relaxed, getting lap dances, blow jobs, cleaning their guns, smoking meth or crack with the women, or playing video games on the large plasma screen TV that blocked the front of the fireplace.

  Different music blared from each room, competing with the gunshots from the video game and making Andre’s teeth ache. All the women were naked, even the one who greeted them at the front door like a hostess at an upscale restaurant and ushered Andre and Mad Dog to the only interior room with a proper door still on it.

  “Darius is waiting for you,” she said, eyeing Andre with open curiosity. She was gorgeous. Light skinned black or dark skinned Hispanic or some delicious mix of both. Generous breasts, thick lips and wide smile, black hair flowing down to her waist except where she had it pinned up in curls and braids and what-not to frame her face. “Can I get you gentlemen anything?”

  “Nah, Giselle, we good.” MD opened the door, motioned for Andre to go before him.

  Andre hesitated, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light and taking a look before committing. The room was a library—or had been in a past life. The floor to ceiling oak shelves were still filled with books, there was a large fireplace and elegant velvet drapes. The couch was squared-off and modern; black leather and chrome—Darius’ idea of style—and in the center of the room was a round glass-topped table with two black leather upholstered chairs. Darius waited in one chair, sipping champagne from a gold-rimmed flute. He nodded to the other chair for Andre.

  “He strapped,” MD told Darius. Andre wasn't surprised he knew; it wasn't like the M9 was small enough to conceal. Andre stood tall, daring Mad Dog to try to take the Beretta from him.

  “That's okay,” Darius said dismissively, as if he were bulletproof.

  Andre stepped into the room. Mad Dog followed and closed the door behind him, leaving his goons on the other side. Giselle moved to refill Darius’ glass and poured one for Andre, bending over as she set it down, a well-practiced seductive pout crossing her features.

  She started to sit on Darius’ lap, but he shooed her off and she sat on the couch instead, stretching her long legs in their six-inch stiletto heels along its length.

  “Andre,” Darius said without standing. “Good to see you back.” His gaze ranged over Andre’s body. “In more or less one piece.”

  Andre couldn’t answer, not right away. Giselle had distracted him. It’d been a long time…too long. She smiled and blinked slowly at him, the light from the chandelier sparkling off her eye makeup. Then she reached behind her and brought out a glass pipe that she lit with a rhinestone covered lighter. Crack or meth. No wonder she was so bright and eager to please. Just a strawberry, whoring her body for another hit.

  “Who knew the trick to keeping the women in line was so simple?” Darius said as Andre stared. “Keep ‘em naked. I’m making almost as much money off the ho’s as the dope these days. ‘Cept of course for the product they inhale and the freebies for the crew. Still, not a bad business model.”

  Darius fancied himself an entrepreneur. No wonder he’d graduated to the head of the Rippers’ food chain. Andre slid his gaze from Giselle to examine his former mentor. Darius had brought Andre into the Rippers when Andre was just a kid and taught him everything he needed to know to survive... right up until the moment when Darius had betrayed him, and left Andre to rot in jail for something Darius had done. But that was just Darius being Darius. Nothing personal.

  Unlike the bangers outside, Darius was dressed in a designer suit. He wore gold rings on each finger, a gold silk shirt unbuttoned almost to his waist, gold chains draped around his neck. A cross between the Godfather and a pimp. Probably exactly the look Darius was aiming for.

  “Before we get started, Andre,” he said, in a condescending tone that made Andre itch to pop him a good left jab just on basic principle. Darius was only a few years older than Andre, but always talked like he was the shot-caller and Andre was a know-nothing punk. “I don’t do business with men except face to face. Take off the mask.”

  Giselle sat up in anticipation, eyes wide as she took one long drag on the glass. Mad Dog made a snickering noise and shifted to the side so he could watch as well. Darius leaned back in his chair and sipped champagne.

  Andre suddenly understood what a zoo animal must feel like, all those humans gawking. Except Darius and the others weren’t human. They were monsters just like he was. But where Andre’s humanity had been stolen from him, scorched away inch-by-inch, Darius and his crew had surrendered theirs willingly. Sold their souls.

  Anger seared through Andre and he wondered if the Doc was still watching his vitals. He wished he’d never left the phone on. Too late now. But this rage he felt was very different than the shame and fear and humiliation that kept him from leaving the house because he couldn’t bear for people to see the monster he’d become.

  There was none of that shame here.

  “I said take off the mask,” Darius repeated. “Now.”

  He thought he was ordering Andre. It almost made Andre smile. Because as soon as the mask came off, Andre would be the one set free.

  He nodded to Darius and peeled off his gloves. They were made of the same special compression material as his mask and the long sleeved shirt he wore. Back in Hajji Baba his Nomex shooting gloves had protected his hands, so they weren’t too badly damaged. Lost the left pinky finger, but thanks to a few surgeries and a lot of intensive rehab, both hands functioned. He folded the gloves into his pocket then raised his arms to carefully undo the mask.

  It had taken five months of PT and three surgeries to release scars and muscle contractures enough to allow him to raise his arms above his shoulders, but Andre’s audience didn’t appreciate the feat. They were waiting for the finale.

  The compression mask was custom fitted to his face and head. It couldn’t be put on or removed quickly. Andre felt like
a stripper teasing the crowd as he slowly, careful of the sensitive nubs of tissue where his ears used to be, inched the mask off.

  Giselle gasped, a high-pitched noise that echoed through the room. He didn’t blame her. It was the same noise Andre had made when he’d first caught a glimpse of his reflection. MD stepped back, his gun in his hand, looking down at it as if he didn’t know how it’d gotten there. It was pure defensive reflex. You see Frankenstein’s monster, you grab a pitchfork.

  Darius leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes gleaming. The man actually licked his lips as he imagined the hell Andre had survived. It took everything Andre had to meet his gaze—it felt like Darius was some kind of vampire, wanting to devour Andre’s pain.

  Sick SOB, that was Darius. He'd used to tie M80s to the tails of alley cats when they were kids. Laughed when Andre tried to save one only to almost get burned himself.

  “Have a seat.” Darius gestured to the champagne flute waiting for Andre.

  Andre slid into the empty chair. Darius took his time, examining Andre’s face up close. The missing ears. The mouth, half the size it used to be, carefully reconstructed from muscles re-routed from Andre’s shoulder. The nose with its nostrils fused to Andre’s cheeks. The heaped up scars, like ugly pink worms, that crisscrossed Andre’s scalp. The shiny skin with no hair where they’d used shark cartilage to grow artificial skin when the original grafts failed.

  The face that would make Frankenstein’s monster look like a beauty queen in comparison.

  Darius nodded and raised his glass. “To coming home.”

  Couldn’t argue with that sentiment. Andre raised his own glass, touched it to his lips but didn’t try to drink—he did best with a straw, otherwise he tended to dribble. “Coming home.”

  “You eating, Andre?” Darius asked. He wasn’t concerned about Andre’s diet, he meant was Andre earning money.

  “I do okay.” Gram’s house was paid off and the VA took care of his medical bills. Between his pension and Gram’s social security, he was able to keep food on the table and the heat on for the two of them. Didn’t need much else, and it was more than most folks around here had. Honest folks, at any rate.

  Andre pretended to sip his champagne. The bubbles tickled the sensitive skin the surgeons had used to create his new lips. It was a weird feeling, painful, yet not painful, kind of like an electrical tingling.

  “Government should give you a million dollars. You risked your life for their little war and they send you home looking like that—I were you, I’d sue or something.” Darius sensed Andre’s attention drifting and snapped his fingers at Giselle, who slithered off the leather couch to join them. She stood over their table, her breasts at Andre’s eye level, her expression blanked by the drugs as if she wasn’t really even there.

  Andre was used to going without a woman for long periods of time. Stationed in remote combat outposts with a few dozen men, sex and death the main topics of conversation, no running water, no electricity, long boring duty followed by short bursts of intense live-or-die adrenalin, there was no choice but learn to endure it. But he still hadn’t gotten used to the idea that he might never have a woman again. At least not without paying one to sleep with a monster. And he hadn’t gotten that desperate, not yet.

  As Giselle leaned over him, refilling his glass that didn’t need refilling, he raced past desperate to outright surrender. Ready to beg. His mouth went dry and all the blood in his body seemed to rush below his belt. He shifted his weight, sliding his chair forward, to hide his obvious erection. Felt like a goddamned schoolboy who couldn’t control himself.

  Darius chuckled. “What do you say, Giselle? How much money and crank would it take for you to go down on Andre here?”

  Giselle’s gaze caught Andre’s and her expression turned to pity mixed with revulsion. She blinked and stood up quickly, turning to attend to Darius.

  Pity. Quick fire way to smother any arousal. From her jerky movements and the way she brushed up against Darius, he could tell she was trying to distract him. Afraid he’d order her to fuck Andre, knowing the consequences if she refused. Her entire body trembled and a line of sweat slipped down the length of her spine.

  Andre felt sorry for her. At least he could defend himself against Darius and the Rippers. She, like the other women here, was trapped. By addiction. By weakness. By the very fact that she was a woman and the Rippers treated all women the same: as objects to be used up and cast aside once they were done with them.

  “What did you want, Darius?” Andre broke the tension by asking. He was tired of the damn power games.

  Darius blinked, glanced at Andre then Giselle as if considering, then finally jerked his chin, dismissing Giselle once again. Andre caught her arm. She flinched, but he didn’t let go, instead pulled her to him. She glanced over at Darius in panic, but Darius smiled at her fear.

  “We each build our own prisons,” Andre whispered into her ear. He hoped the Doc didn’t hear it—it was Callahan’s favorite homily.

  He released Giselle. She hurried back to her spot on the couch, this time hunched in the corner where she sucked greedily on the glass pipe.

  Darius rapped his knuckles against the table, commanding Andre’s attention. “Got a job for you. Remember how good you were building those bang-bangs for us back when?”

  Pipe bombs. Incendiary devices. Andre had a gift for making them, setting them in just the right spot. Big enough to scare whoever the Rippers wanted scared, aimed so they wouldn’t kill. The Rippers weren’t afraid of killing, but in this city gang killings were noticed big time, bringing the wrath of the cops, the media, and worst of all, the old ma’ams.

  When you had grams raising not just one but two, sometimes three generations, nothing got them hot and bothered more than an “innocent” getting killed. The old ma’ams did not believe in collateral damage and when they hit the pavement the Rippers’ income stream would dry up for weeks.

  So the Rippers learned to play the game. Kept their trigger fingers in check, mostly, in exchange for free rein to run Ruby Avenue. It was a win/lose situation in the long run, but with so many mouths to feed and clothe and raise up, the old ma’ams only had so much energy to spend on a fight.

  “I’m out of that.” Andre set his glass down a bit harder than he needed to.

  “Things have changed around here. We’re partnering with the Mexicans now.”

  What kind of fools were they? Andre wondered. Mix in the Mexicans and all of a sudden you got bodies hanging from streetlights. No one wanted that kinda shit on their streets. Not for the first time he wished he could find a way to get Grams the hell off Ruby Avenue. But she’d never go, never leave her home. "Never surrender," was how she put it.

  Andre shrugged. “What’s it gotta do with me?”

  “We need men with your talents. We’re gonna deal with the Gangstas. Once and for all.”

  He did not like the sound of that. Last time the Rippers and Gangstas went to war an entire block burned down. Andre frowned, his facial muscles bunching. Frowning hurt as much as smiling. It used too many muscles, stretched too many raw nerve endings, so he tried not to do either. He stood. “You got plenty of soldiers. You don’t need me.”

  Darius smiled, the kind of smile you didn’t turn your back on. “You’re right. You’re right. Only reached out to you because we go back and I wanted to give you a chance to get right with us. Do what you’ll probably end up doing anyway.”

  “What the hell you talking about?” Andre was tired of this riddle-me-this bullshit. “All I intend to be doing is taking care of my Grams and minding my own damn business.” He turned and stalked toward the door.

  “Raziq.”

  Andre froze. Every muscle in his body quivered as adrenalin and fury sliced through him. He turned back. “What did you say?”

  “Raziq. Towelhead working with the DEA. Busting us right and left. Mexicans want him dead and gone.” He raised his glass to Andre. “Could be the start of a beautiful relationshi
p.”

  Andre’s stomach churned with the urge to run away from this madness. But every other part of him, parts long numb to any feeling, parts he thought were dead, they fired to life at the thought of revenge.

  “Rashid Raziq?”

  Darius nodded. Again with the smile. He slid Andre’s champagne glass towards Andre. “Word is he’s the same guy set that school on fire, killed all those girls and your soldier buddies. Same guy that left you looking like something the dog chewed up and crapped out.”

  Andre downed the entire glass, half of it running down his chin and onto his shirt. He couldn’t think. All he could do was feel flames licking his skin, hear the roar of the fire and the screams and his own blood-curdling cries of pain, and all he could see was Raziq’s face, smirking as his men mowed down Andre’s squad.

  Andre sat the empty glass down, his fingers clenched around it even as his mind raced half a world away. “Raziq,” he whispered. He raised his eyes, met Darius’ gaze. “I’m in.”

  Chapter 11

  They were almost to the County 911 Communications Center. Lucy fumbled with her phone, calling Nick, avoiding Haddad’s question. It was way too early in the case to start assuming the worst about Fatima and the baby.

  Nick’s phone went to voice mail. Probably in the shower getting ready for their date night. Damn, she’d rather tell him in person that she had to cancel. Leaving a message was easier, but she knew how much Nick was looking forward to The Nutcracker. It didn’t feel right, taking the easy way out, so she simply said, “Call me when you get this. Thanks, love you.”

  Haddad hunched over the steering wheel, easing closer to Walden and Raziq in the Tahoe. “They’re slowing down,” he muttered as they approached Lexington. “Why are they slowing down?”