The tactic seemed to surprise Dawson at first, my upper body slamming into him just beneath the sternum, the momentum lifting him from the ground. A pair of vertebrae popped in my back as I smashed into the thick man, his entire form solid. Together we toppled back through the tall grass, our bodies becoming separated as we rolled twice before coming up on our feet across from each other.
Neither said a word, malevolence flashing on our faces as we began to circle right, Dawson this time being the first to act.
With his hands formed into loose balls in front of him, his opening move was a straight right jab, followed by a second paired with a quick left cross, a class one-two combo. The first I was able to easily dodge, the second as well, following it up with a slashing hook that I aimed at his ribs, the swipe missing by less than an inch.
Moving on the uneven ground, the errant punch shifted my balance to the side, giving him just the opening he needed. A moment later an overhand right smashed down beneath my shoulder blades, another vertebra popping loudly, most of the air in my body expelled on conduct.
Feeling my back bow beneath the weight of the shot, I stumbled forward a couple of steps, keeping my feet as he stayed right with me, not giving me an inch of room to regain my bearings.
Reaching out with his left hand, he snatched at my right forearm, my upper body twisting back toward him. With his right hand he drove another overhand shot my direction, my right foot lashing out at the same time, his fist connecting just above my brow at the moment the toe of my foot smashed into the soft tissue along the side of his knee.
Both of us grunted in pain, stars erupting before my eyes as warmth traveled down the side of my face. Staggering away a few steps, I braced myself against the thin trunk of a tree, turning to see him doing the same nearby, balancing on one leg, flexing the other at the knee.
Watching him move, I couldn’t help but smile.
My injury might look worse, but his would be infinitely more costly in a fight.
Not wanting to give him the time to compute this, to call this off and reach for the gun still tucked in the small of his back, I charged again.
This time I feigned like I was going for a full bull rush, waiting as he braced himself before shifting out to the side. Without both legs to keep him from falling forward, he staggered a couple steps away from the tree, allowing me to come up on his side, driving my left knee into his thigh.
Already weakened from the previous blow, the knee below it buckled, another grunt pouring out of the man as he went to the ground, spilling forward onto his hands to break his fall.
That was what I needed.
The opening was short, but it was clear. Pushing in tight on him, I snatched the gun from his rear waistband, slashing the barrel of it across the exposed flesh of his head, shearing a strip of skin away in a jagged line.
The force of the shot pushed his upper body toward the ground, his cheek hitting flush against the earth. Given the location of it and the man’s increased blood pressure, a curtain of red fell straight down, covering the bottom of his skull and his neck before disappearing against his black shirt.
With the weapon held before me, I took a moment to collect myself, watching as he made no attempt to rise.
“Up,” I said, taking a step back, shaking my head to clear away the effects of his punch. As I did so, I could feel droplets of blood go hurtling to either side, uneven stripes left across my cheek.
I paid them no mind, my full attention aimed at Dawson.
Movement from him was slow to come, starting by simply putting his forehead against the ground before using his hands to push himself up onto his knees.
Raising a hand to the back of his head, he swiped at the wound, smearing the blood across his skin. Pulling it back, he stared at the fresh crimson painted over his palm before forcing himself to his feet, his left leg at an angle, virtually worthless.
Using the same short, uneven steps I had a moment before, he turned to stare me, a look on his face that was closer to resignation than the anger I had expected.
“So that’s it?” he asked.
Ignoring the question, I flicked the barrel of the gun to the right, back out toward the gravel bar it had all started on just ten minutes before.
Another moment passed as he stood and stared at me, waiting until I made the same gesture again before starting to move, each step slow and painful.
“What?” he asked, keeping himself parallel to me, not wanting to again show me his back. “You’re going to march me back out there and shoot me alongside my men? Or make me get into the car and die alongside those kids?”
The thought of doing both had crossed my mind, either being fitting endings to the man, giving proper symmetry to the things he had done in the preceding days, though I knew it would never get to that. No small part of me wanted to tear into him for destroying our home, for shooting my partner, but just as surely I also knew I had done my part.
Rae would take care of the rest.
“Actually,” I said, “I just wanted to say thank you, for not killing Rae when you had the chance.”
Surprise was clear on his features as Dawson stepped out into the clearing, making it no further than a step when the round hit him. Without the benefit of his bulletproof vest, the shot hit him square in the left pec, cleaving a trench through his chest, lifting him from the ground and depositing him into a heap, spreading blood spatter across the gravel.
“Though I can’t say she feels the same way.”
Watching the encounter play out in slow motion before me, I waited until the sound of the shot faded away before emerging from the trees, my hands held high overhead.
Remaining that way several moments, I made sure Rae had me in her sights before waving an arm and motioning them back down from their perch.
We still had more yet to do.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
The night was a disaster. There was simply no other way to describe it.
The feeling that Meyers Jacoby had come to rely on so much, that infusion of self-confidence and adrenaline that worked to sharpen his mind, bringing his senses into clear relief, had failed to surface. In its stead was uncertainty, doubt, a nagging feeling that refused to go away.
He had hoped that after he banished Bret Celek, told him to go off into the night, to run interference if he had to, to provide assistance if he needed to, his mind would clear.
It had not.
Despite the best efforts of the hype man, and his staff, and everybody at the Hyatt, Jacoby had made a mess out of his speech. More than once he had resorted to openly reading from the teleprompter, a faux pas that completely negated one of his greatest strengths.
Rarely was he able to conjure the conviction and passion necessary to push the room to the next level, the collective energy cresting with his appearance on stage and steadily ebbing away over the course of his talk.
By the time he was finished, the place was quiet enough to hear the sounds of plates being cleared away by wait staff, a first on the campaign, no matter how small the venue.
The original plan was for Jacoby to then remain in the hall for a couple of hours, using the speech to launch him into making the rounds, posing for pictures and talking policy with those interested.
Instead he had run off within minutes, leaving a mortified Wade Rummell in his wake to deal with things. Going straight to the top floor, he had barricaded himself into his suite, steadily working the phones, not getting a damn thing from Celek or Dawson, ignoring the repeated calls from his staff and even his wife.
Six slow, agonizing hours of the same routine had somehow passed, Jacoby more than once wanting to run out into the night himself, but not wanting to face having to get past his security, his staff, the hotel crew, and whoever else might be lurking. He had made a mess of things, and the only possible way to handle it now was to hide away, to let his people finish the job, and then worry about spin control after the fact.
Maybe feign illness, bla
ming it on bad room service. Perhaps concoct an Armed Forces Committee emergency, cloaking a statement in phrases such as classified and national security, the kinds of things that most people knew better than to press.
Until then though, all he could do was wait.
Meyers Jacoby was seated at the small table overlooking the bank window to Lake Michigan when the knock sounded at the door. Low and quick, it came as two quick bursts, nothing more.
With his chin resting on his hand, Jacoby snapped his attention toward it, remaining seated as his brain computed what it had heard. Glancing down to the phone on the table before him, he reached out and touched the screen, the same background image of the capitol building appearing, no mention of a missed call or text from anybody.
Rising from his seat, Jacoby ran a hand back over his forehead, his palm coming back wet. Rubbing the moisture against the side of his pants, he crossed to the door and pulled it open, expecting to find some combination of Celek or Dawson standing before him.
To his surprise, there was neither.
The young man before him looked to be twenty at the oldest, his black hair pasted into place beneath a burgundy bellhop’s cap. With his shoulders rolled inward, he appeared to weigh no more than one hundred and twenty pounds, both hands extended before him, a small white box balanced on them.
“Good morning, sir, sorry to disturb you,” he said in heavily accented English.
For a moment Jacoby wasn’t sure how to respond, his mouth agape as he glanced to either direction, seeing nobody.
“Um, yeah, good morning.”
“This came for you a moment ago,” the young man said, pushing both hands out toward Jacoby, “with directions to deliver it straight away.”
Feeling his stomach constrict to nothing more than a marble, Jacoby again sensed his jaw sag open. In quick order he glanced from the young man’s hands to his face and back again before reaching out and taking the package.
“Yeah, I’ve been expecting it. Thank you.”
Nodding, the young man bowed slightly before backing away, keeping himself square to the door as Jacoby retreated inside.
Pushing the door shut behind him, he reached out and turned the deadbolt on the frame, hearing the heavy metal bolt click into place before turning back for the table by the window.
The box was just a few inches square, weighing no more than several ounces. Hefting it twice in his hands as he padded back across the floor, the various things that could be tucked inside ran through Jacoby’s mind.
The real thumb drive containing everything that Grant had on him. Photographs of Wynn, Sommers, and Grant, all dispatched and taken care of. Maybe even a final bill from Dawson for his services.
As the assorted options passed through Jacoby’s mind, his mood improved, spiking as he placed it down on the table and resumed his seat before tearing away the small flap on one end and opened the top.
The majority of the box was filled with cardboard shavings, the narrow strips folded into accordion-like twists. Wedged tight into the bottom, they provided a base layer for just two small objects, the sight of them causing all blood to drain from Jacoby’s features, his mouth to go dry.
At the top of the box sat Bret Celek’s ring, the same one he was perpetually twisting, a movement that never ceased to drive Jacoby mad. It was positioned so that the unique insignia that had been engraved on the side was facing forward, a small smear of blood covering it, making what had happened to its owner obvious.
Allowing his eyes to slide shut for a moment, Jacoby raised his face toward the ceiling. Bret Celek could be a pain in the ass, and at times he had proven less than effective in performing his job, but he did not deserve this.
For a moment Jacoby remained stoic, not moving an inch, before pushing a breath out through his nose and forcing himself to look down at the second item tucked inside the box.
Bright white, it was a simple notecard, the top half folded down. Taking it up, Jacoby peeled back the flap, a single line of blue ink scrawled in a woman’s handwriting staring back up at him.
Turn on the television.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
I doubted there was any chance Meyers Jacoby would pick up a call coming directly from my line, so I placed it from Bret Celek’s phone instead. Hanging onto it was a risk, providing something for him to try and trace, though once our conversation was finished I had every intention of wiping it clean and destroying it, snipping away one more loose thread for Jacoby to try and use to continue being an unwanted presence in our lives.
How I had come to be in possession of the phone was nothing short of pure luck, the kind of thing that any decent plan needs a fair bit of to come off successfully.
If we could even call what we had put together a decent plan.
In the aftermath of the events in the woods, we had discussed briefly trying to clean up the scene. For the better part of ten minutes we had debated whether or not we should gather the bodies, which then brought on questions of what to do with them or where to stow them.
In the end, given that none had a single fingerprint or shred of physical evidence tying them to us beside the bullets imbedded in their flesh, we opted to leave them where they lay. In quick order we stripped them of anything useful, Rae and I doing a quick trip through the group while Skye waited out on the road, pretending to be keeping a watch for traffic while in actuality shielding herself from having to see what was going on behind her.
The men had all been traveling light, loaded for battle and little else. None of them carried identification or money, not that either of us particularly cared for such things. Nowhere was there extra weaponry beyond the bare essentials, none stowing food or water, it very apparent that they had planned for a quick trip and nothing more.
In another time such a slight might have brought about extreme offense, though such days were long past me.
If Rae felt any of the same she went about her business without showing it, just as she always did.
Moving quickly, I started with the body in the woods, the idea to work my way in while Rae and her bum leg stayed close to the Taurus. We allowed ourselves five minutes maximum to collect everything that might be of use before moving on, intending to find whatever vehicle they had arrived in thereafter.
There was still work to be done on the evening, and their ride had to be in better shape than the van.
The first body took me just over thirty seconds to clear, finding a Beretta to match the one I had taken off of Dawson and a ceramic switchblade. Neither did I have much use for, leaving them both lying on the man’s back, his body still face down in the dirt.
From there I went on to Dawson, finding what would change the entire trajectory of the evening in an instant.
Clipped to the outside of his right hip was a cell-phone, the implement protected by a hard case attached directly to his belt. Despite lying in a twisted heap, the majority of his body weight pinning his torso to the ground, the covering had done its job, keeping the phone inside secure.
The moment I extracted it, all previous thoughts of whatever else I might find on his person bled away. In their stead was a myriad of other notions, the list topped by abject curiosity as I thumbed the phone to life and began scrolling through.
All told there were more than twenty missed calls in the log, all of them originating from one of two numbers. Neither had a name assigned to it, though it was obvious that the two belonged to Celek and Jacoby.
For a moment the idea of calling them back, of just letting them hear my voice, of perhaps even gloating a bit, came to mind.
Just as fast it passed.
Clearly they were calling for an update, unaware of what had transpired or perhaps even where we were. The longer that remained the case, the better positioned we were for the rest of the night ahead.
Leaving the call log behind, I went into the text message bank, finding only a single entry.
Keep this phone on. En route now. Celek.
In total it took me just a few seconds to process what the message said and what it meant, all other concerns falling away, Dawson’s lifeless body left in a pile where it laid.
“Rae,” I said, turning and striding back across the gravel toward her, watching as her head appeared from the backside of the Taurus.
Walking her way, I pressed a random button on the phone to cause the backlight to come on, stopping just a couple feet away and extending it at arm’s length for her to read.
On sight she seemed to accept and process things in the exact manner I had.
“What time was it sent?”
Checking the time stamp on the bottom, I said, “Sixteen minutes ago.”
Reaching out toward the backseat of the Taurus, she hooked a hand inside the hem of her tank top, using it to open the door. Unceremoniously, she dumped everything she’d been holding into the rear well, like me no longer caring about whatever we had taken from the men.
“Skye!” I yelled, the young girl appearing an instant later, remaining in the center of the road and stopping even with us, her hands still buried in the front pocket of her sweatshirt.
“Go into the woods and stay there,” I said, my tone letting her know it was non-negotiable. “We’ve got more company on the way.”
I watched as her mouth and eyes all spread wide, shock and uncertainty on her face as she stared at me.
“Celek,” I said. “Trust me, you don’t want to see this.”
Those seemed to be the words she needed to hear, her head bobbing just once before she turned and disappeared into the woods, using the opening that had been cleaved by Dawson and his men firing just a short time before, smoke still hanging heavy in the air.
Eleven minutes later Celek arrived, the time of night and the day of the week both contributing to make his trip much faster than ours had been. Abandoning all self-preservation and pulling right up on the scene, he somehow didn’t notice the men scattered about as he parked and exited his vehicle, only then pausing to assess what was around him.
Thriller Box Set One: The Subway-The Debt-Catastrophic Page 61