Remo Went Rogue

by Mike McCrary

  Compares them against Remo’s other bills.

  Dutch smiles on the inside—smiling on the outside is for women, fags and children. He turns to a laptop on Remo’s desk, pulling up Google Maps. He enters the starting and destination addresses. A nice blue line shows the way. Those prison workshops are good for something.

  He calls out to his brothers.

  “Got him.”

  PART IV

  (they’re going to eat me alive)

  28

  The pounding sound of relentless gunfire rattles and echoes in the background.

  Remo and Hollis stand over a table sprawling with guns, guns, and more guns. It’s a jaw-dropping buffet of firepower. Remo is excited with a mutated form of boyish glee. Hollis looks like he’s buying toothpaste.

  “I need an AK, right?”

  “No,” Hollis replies without even looking at Remo.

  “I’d like an AK.”

  “You’ll only hurt yourself. Give me two of those, Terry.”

  Terry, an old war-torn strap of beef jerky, is the proud proprietor of “Click and Pow,” a haven for gun enthusiasts and anyone else who likes firepower. He grunts with every move he struggles to make, the years have been tough on Terry. He hands over two shiny 9mm Sig Sauers.

  Hollis calls out items like ordering at a bakery. “One of those.” Terry moves down the rack behind the counter. “Stock?”

  Hollis thinks. “Pistol grip. And one of those.”

  Remo has no idea what’s going on.

  At the outdoor tactical course, Hollis walks alongside Remo through the close quarters course designed to simulate interior combat. Hollis thinks it’s a poor simulation of what it’s like to be boxed in with multiple murderers. Actually, that’s impossible to simulate, but it’s the best they’ve got.

  Fake walls that form fake rooms and fake hallways do provide reasonably good practice for entering and clearing rooms in a way the average person might actually find themselves forced to do. The simulation uses human shaped targets that pop out at you without warning. Some are children with lollipops, others are masked men with .45s. They keep the targets somewhat racially nondescript so as not to offend anyone who has a profiling bug up their ass.

  Remo is equipped with a pistol grip Mossberg 12 gauge shotgun. A target jumps out.

  Remo fires.

  The force of the blast causes the shotgun to fly from Remo’s hands, skidding across the dirt floor in a dust cloud. “Fucking shit!” Remo shakes his hands violently, trying to get feeling back in them.

  Hollis steps up holding a custom-made swivel sling he got from Terry. He picks up the shotgun then pulls out a pair of strategically padded tactical gloves with the fingers cut off.

  Remo is starting to panic as he says, “There’s no way. Might as well do it myself.” Only half-kidding, Remo pulls the Sig from his hip, trying to jam it in his mouth. Hollis disarms Remo effortlessly, stopping him as easily as he would his two-year-old with a butter knife.

  “I’m completely fucked, right? Fucked.”

  Hollis gives him a calming look, a look from someone who knows a little something about the art of click and pow. He attaches the strap to the shotgun and pulls the sling over Remo’s head and shoulder, essentially turning the shotgun into a purse. The shotgun hangs down by Remo’s side for easy access, but doesn’t leave his body.

  Hollis helps Remo slip the tactical gloves—gloves specially designed for gunplay—over his pampered, manicured hands.. Hollis and his buddies would guzzle beer after a successful job and make fun of people who needed these things, but now he realizes they have their place, and that place is on Remo’s little bitch hands.

  Hollis speaks with an even, calculated tone, not wanting to either scare or bullshit Remo. “These guys have been violent since birth. They have a huge advantage in the categories of balls and killing.”

  “Still not helping, Hollis.”

  “You have home-field advantage and better tools.” He points to the cardboard “bad guy.” “Look what you did to the target.”

  The shotgun blast sprayed the target from navel to forehead. If it were a real person—a Mashburn—he’d be smoking a turd in hell right now.

  Hollis taps the shotgun that now hags by Remo’s side. “This is a Mossberg 12-gauge gas-operated semi-automatic shotgun. Perfect for close quarters. Point and fire. Can’t miss.”

  Remo looks at the mangled target. Starts to calm down a bit.

  Hollis speaks in level tones, coaching and teaching, working to build Remo up; trying to make him a good enough killer to survive this. “Try it again with the sling. Feel the weight, get comfortable with the sound and the recoil.”

  Remo grabs the grip, giving an uneasy nod. Hollis gives a wave to someone who works the course, starts moving alongside Remo again.

  They round a corner. Remo scans the area with his Mossberg; it’s clear. They push through an open door.

  A target pops out.

  Remo fires.

  Target gets blown completely to shit.

  The shotgun flies from Remo’s grip again, but only swings down to around his belt. Another target pops out. Remo is able to grab the shotgun from his side, comes up blasting again. Not seamless, but better.

  Remo glances to Hollis.

  Fine?

  Maybe.

  Okay?

  A sliver of hope.

  29

  Lester still can’t believe how easy it was to find Remo’s home address. Ask a few polite questions here and there, add in a few mouse clicks on the right websites, and what to do you know?

  You can find anybody.

  He gives the door a knock. He rubs his bible while he waits, caressing the leather. He looks down, checking out his clothes. His escape from the hospital garb. Sure, he’s a former killer, thief and convict, but as a newly reformed man of God he’s not pleased about running around NYC in a plain t-shirt and shitty sweatpants.

  No answer at the door. He gives it another knock, pressing his ear to the door angling for a listen inside.

  Nothing.

  Lester checks the hall, making sure there are no pain-in-the-ass innocents watching. He turns the knob; to his surprise, it’s unlocked. He steps into the apartment, not surprised that it’s a ransacked disaster. It doesn’t take a criminal mastermind to deduct that Dutch and his bros were here. The place is ripped to shreds, not a single square-inch untouched.

  He knows it’s probably useless, but he scans the place for Remo anyway, just in case he’s bleeding out on the floor somewhere. There’s no way Dutch would leave him here even remotely alive, but you’ve got to check all the boxes. He figures whiles he’s here he might as well see if there are any items he can use on his mission of mercy.

  Lester enters the long runway of a closet, finding Remo’s impressive wardrobe. He and Remo are not exactly the same size, but close enough. Fishing through the tailored garments, he comes across a nice navy blue button-down with some Italian dude’s name on the tag. He tries on a couple of pairs of pants, finally finding a pair that will work for him. Nice cut, fine cloth. He completes the outfit with a pair of designer shoes with rubber soles.

  At the top of the closet he spies a medium sized suitcase with rollers. He stuffs it with more clothes and slips his prized bible between some pants and socks to keep it safe. He makes a quick stop in the bathroom and checks behind the shower curtain. No Remo. Lester takes the opportunity to take a swipe at his teeth by squeezing out some toothpaste on his finger.

  Rinse.

  Spit.

  He rolls the suitcase into the kitchen. There’s not much, but he finds a few non-perishable items: a can of soup, some crackers. They might get him through in a pinch. Lester helps himself to the loose change sitting in a large bowl on the counter. A set of culinary knives rests on the kitchen island in a wooden block. Lester inspects them, knowing that he will more than likely need something more than his hands and faith to stop the motherfucking Mashburn brothers. He slides the largest knif
e of the set out, a massive butcher knife.

  He slips the knife into the front pocket of the suitcase and closes the zipper. He’d prefer to keep it in hand, but knows he can’t really walk around NYC holding a butcher knife. He dodges the debris littered everywhere as he rolls the suitcase through the living room. The suitcase stops rolling. Leaning down, Lester notices the back wheels of the suitcase are hung up on Remo’s baseball bat. Lester picks up the Louisville Slugger. Again, may fill a need down the road.

  Lester gives the place another look over. He’s come a long way, there has to be something here to tell where to go. The Lord brought him here. No way his journey has ended with this. Seeing nothing, his heart sinks.

  Poor, lost little Remo.

  He rolls his new suitcase, packed with fresh clothes and weapons, toward the door. New items added his meager collection of Earthly belongings. Turning back, he gives the place one last look.

  His eyes stop.

  Remo’s laptop. The screen is dark, but the little glowing green light indicates it’s powered up. Lester flicks of the mouse.

  The screen lights up.

  It still has the Google map to the Hamptons pulled up. Lester studies it then scans the desk. Next to the laptop are the bills Dutch found.

  Lester hits print.

  30

  Ferris drives. In the passenger seat, Dutch loads a crudely sawed-off shotgun. Chicken Wing’s in the back, checking his .357 and sharpening a hunting knife—the one he keeps on his ankle for up-close-and-personal work. These are not the polished, tactically sound weapons of professionally trained killers. These are the tools of men who were schooled in the violence of broken homes, poor neighborhoods, and shitty role models.

  Something is obviously bothering Ferris. He’s been running through possible scenarios concerning the death-match they are headed into. This is what Ferris does. Chicken Wing jumps without looking, and Ferris thinks. He wants to look at all the angles. No matter how crude the goal, he wants to be smart. There’s something they haven’t considered.

  “We sure he’s alone?”

  There’s silence in the van, as even Chicken Wing gives the question its due. Chicken Wing answers with a tone of impulsive wisdom. “Of course. Everybody hates the prick.”

  “Lester tried to help him, even after Remo put him in jail. I’m just saying, we don’t know,” explains Ferris.

  Dutch thinks. Chicken Wing doesn’t bother with thought anymore. He tried it on for size; it didn’t fit. He just wants blood and becomes a difficult little boy if he doesn’t get it.

  On the other side of the spectrum, Dutch knows the answers to most of life’s questions are usually somewhere in the middle. The correct answer to a situation is rarely balls-out one way or the other. Nine times out of ten it doesn’t come down to “do nothing” or “murder every fucking thing moving.” That’s the yin and yang of Dutch’s world: Ferris and Chicken Wing’s dueling philosophies. Sometimes one of them alone does hold the correct course of action, but in this case Dutch feels down the middle is the call. There’s too much at stake here for left wing/right wing (or Chicken Wing) partisan bickering.

  Dutch gives his ruling.

  “Make some calls. Find some local sluggers looking for fast work.”

  31

  East Hampton.

  Gorgeous homes sprawled on the coast of New York. Vacation homes of the fortunate. Remo’s second home. His den for mediations, his little hideaway and fuck shack. It lies in an area where the homes sit just off the water.

  Great places to escape life for awhile.

  It’s a quaint, two-story Victorian home with a sprawling, covered porch that wraps around the house. The backyard runs right up to the sand and water. A line of thick trees surrounds the front yard, secluding it from even the possibility of pain-in-the-balls neighbors looking on.

  Hollis’s Lexus SUV is parked in the circular driveway, two kids’ car seats strapped in the backseat. Even a certified badass has to transport the kids.

  In the distance, a repetitive chunking sound causes a dull echo to seep from the house.

  Inside the vacation home Hollis works a high-powered nail gun. Remo helps by holding long straps of roofing material in place. They use it to secure one of the recently purchased mattresses in front of a window. Defense measures are in full effect. The other windows already have mattresses secured snuggly in place.

  Hollis looks around, inspecting his work. It’s not bad. Not perfect, and it would never hold up in a military theater, but for a brief firefight among friends…it’ll do. Hollis tells Remo, “You’re all set upstairs too.” He gives a reassuring nod as he keeps working, surveying and planning for the upcoming attack on the house. Remo follows him like child, watching everything and soaking up every word. Hollis knocks on a living room pillar, then another as he continues his inspection of every square inch of the home. Your average home inspection doesn’t include a walk-through to assess the possibility of battle with psychopaths.

  Perhaps they should.

  Hollis keeps scanning, spot-checking his work while consulting with Remo. “Don’t worry about running out of bullets. I’ve got you stocked with enough ammo to invade Connecticut.” He goes back to the middle pillar, giving it a hard shove then tells Remo, “If you get boxed in down here and need cover, use this one. It’s a support beam, it can take some hits.”

  In spite of all Remo’s faults he’s not without gratitude, he’s just miserable at expressing it. In his line of work, hell his life in general, “please” and “thank you” are not words he uses often. If he uses them at all, it’s to manipulate the piss out of someone. Genuine appreciation is tough. Nevertheless, Remo tries by saying, “Hey man, I just—”

  Hollis cuts him off. “Remember. Shoot and do not hesitate.”

  “Hollis—”

  “You’ve probably got twenty, thirty minutes tops before the cops come swarming in.”

  “Can I say something?”

  Hollis keeps checking points off his list without pausing for Remo to speak. “Oh yeah, wait until after I’ve left and call the Mashburns in.”

  “Hollis!”

  Hollis stops the battleplan run-through and turns to face Remo. Hollis has perfected a way of looking at people that gives them nothing. He projects neither sympathy nor kindness, neither hate nor distain. It is simply something undefined.

  Remo hates Hollis’s undefined face, but continues all the same. “You didn’t have to help me.” He starts to pace, playing with the shotgun sling, picking at it like a young girl would pull at an uncomfortable Sunday school dress. Completely uneasy with this sort of talk, he looks down at his shoes. “Most people in your position wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire, but you put aside all our baggage and I just want to tell you . . .” He pauses. How the hell do people talk like this all the time? Feelings spewing all over the fucking place. However, he realizes he does actually feel better by saying it out loud. The weight is starting to lift; he’s thanking Hollis and he means it.

  It’s a start.

  He feels the warmth of contentment spread throughout him as he comes to grips with this revelation, this borderline sense of pride he’s feeling from this little slice of self-growth. He’s almost beaming as he completes this grand moment of thanks. He looks up to find…

  Hollis gone.

  Remo blinks, spins around. Hollis has left the building. Remo finishes his thought out loud anyway. “Thanks.”

  The reality of his situation begins to creep back.

  The Mashburn brothers situation.

  The contentment and warmth are gone.

  Remo resumes his frantic pacing.

  Outside the vacation hideaway a van rolls up. The bad men are here. The worst case scenario has arrived.

  The Mashburns exit the van.

  Scan the area.

  Check the Google map.

  Check their weapons.

  They’re just down the street from the gates of Remo’s property. Trees surround t
he gate and the nearby area. No words are spoken between the brothers, only a singular purpose between them: get their hard earned money and kill Remo . . . in no particular order.

  Chicken Wing buzzes with a manic energy.

  Ferris is cautious and controlled, but ready for violence at the flick of a switch.

  Dutch has the confidence that comes from being a successful, lifelong madman.

  They make a determined, single-minded march, descending upon Remo like the messengers of death they are.

  Inside the house, Remo is wearing out the floor, pacing like an expecting father. He’s almost pulling his hair from his scalp, thoughts burning him down from the inside out. Nothing can really prepare you for what is coming for Remo. He looks at the checklist Hollis prepared for him just in case Remo freaks out and forgets. Remo pooh-poohed the very thought when Hollis suggested actually putting pen to paper and writing out a list, but Hollis was right. Remo has started to freak out and has forgotten everything, including #1.

  Calm the fuck down.

  Remo moves on to #2.

  He straps on his Kevlar vest and takes a deep breath, trying to find his center, to find a place in his head where he can function. He knows there’s no way out of this.

  Remo checks the window; the sun is starting to set. He knows it’s time to call them. Fights it, but it’s time. He pulls his cell, ready to dial.

  It rings before he gets the chance.

  Remo drops the phone, picking it up on the second bounce. Heart in his throat, he answers.

  “Great place, Remo.” Dutch’s voice digs a hole in Remo.

  Shell shocked, panic strips Remo to the bone.