by Jon Mills
A quick twist of a lock and Jack secured the door behind him. He didn’t want anyone running out or entering. He eyed the landline phone behind the bar. That would be the first thing the employee would reach for, that or his cell phone when all shit broke loose.
Although he’d hoped that all six of them would be there, these would do for now.
Was there a chance that someone had done it besides these four? Sure.
He’d considered that while he was searching different bars that afternoon but that’s why he planned on keeping one of them alive, if only to find out where the other two were. Jack pulled both handguns from beneath his jacket at the same time as he walked with purpose towards them. It was the employee who saw him first.
His eyes widened as Jack kicked a stool and it slid across the waxed floor into the back of one guy’s legs. Before anyone could yell, multiple bullets exploded from both barrels taking out two of them. All hell erupted as the other two went for their pieces. Beer glasses shattered on the floor, stools were overturned and those who wouldn’t die that day froze or scattered. For the two remaining, taking action was pointless, as by the time they had a grip on their guns, Jack had already squeezed off a few rounds.
He purposely aimed at the shoulder of the fourth one to bring him down and disarm him. The bartender went for the phone and two of the three patrons darted for the door but a quick bellow of his voice and they froze.
“DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT!”
With both arms stretched wide, one gun aimed at the bartender and the other at the two innocents at the door, he gestured to them to rejoin the group. They shuffled back, fear masking their face.
“You. Put the phone down,” Jack said before firing another shot into the guy who was writhing around on the ground but trying to go for his gun. The bartender slowly put up his hands as Jack gestured with the barrel for him to join the other three. “All of you get on your knees, cross your feet and interlock your fingers.”
They did exactly as he said. Then he turned his attention to the only surviving asshole who was gripping his shoulder and wincing.
“I’m only going to say this one time. Where are the other two?”
“At Perez’s trailer. 4201 Airport Road.”
There was no honor among thieves especially when his three buddies were lying dead beside him. He didn’t need any more convincing.
Jack eyed the bartender then turned back to the man. “Tyson’s attack. You were responsible?”
He offered back a confused expression then nodded. “Pope wanted us to teach him a lesson. I swear I was against it. I really—”
Jack raised his gun, and squeezed the trigger before he could finish. It was all the same. One last plea. A weak attempt at bargaining for a few more years. And it would have probably only been a few. Men like them didn’t last long on the streets; retribution would have eventually come knocking if not from Jack, someone else.
His body slumped and the others began begging for their lives.
“Who drove here?”
“I did.”
“Keys,” Jack said walking over. The bartender fished into his pocket and handed the keys to him.
“It’s the silver SUV out back.”
Jack crouched down and placed the gun to his head. “You got any rope?”
“What?” He seemed completely caught off guard by the question so Jack repeated himself. The last thing he wanted was for them to get out and call the cops. Not until he’d finished.
Five minutes later, all of them were hog tied and gagged.
“Now you have my word that I will call the cops and someone will come get you out, and your vehicle will be returned today. If any of you give a description to the cops, it will be the last thing you do. Do you understand?”
They nodded, and Jack disappeared out the exit.
Shady Ferns Mobile Home Park was exactly what Jack expected. It was a giant patch of asphalt crammed with 70 run-down mobile homes. Like some of the many troublesome mobile home parks across America, drug use was rampant, as were fights at all hours of the day and night. While the standard of trailer parks across the states had got better, this one hadn’t. It reminded him of a junkyard with old rusted-out vehicles parked beside cream-paneled shacks. Weeds had grown up around vehicle tires making it clear they hadn’t moved in years. There was a small park nearby, if it could be called that. The swings were nothing more than a metal frame with loose chains but no seats. And the slide looked dubious. Jack parked the SUV at a distance across the road and scanned the homes for cops. It was routine for police cruisers to be seen in some of the worst areas, their blue and red lights flashing as they patrolled. Although he didn’t expect the guys back at the bar would escape their binds, he had to be careful. When he was satisfied that the boys in blue weren’t around, the SUV crawled forward through the open gates and he went about searching for mobile home 43.
He drove past several homes where some residents were sitting outside in lawn chairs sipping on beer, and others BBQing and playing loud country music. They didn’t even give him a passing glance as he rolled past.
Several kids on bicycles shot out in front of him and sped off between homes.
A dog appeared off to the right barking at the SUV only to be pulled back by a thick chain.
It didn’t take him long to find 43. Its blue paneled wood stuck out like a sore thumb among the many cream-colored and brown homes. In and out, he told himself as he parked outside and gave a quick scan of the lot. Jack knew the moment they saw him they would bolt. Climbing a few wooden steps leading up to the main door, he glanced in the window that was covered by a smoke-yellowed drape. He couldn’t hear movement. Had they already seen him? Jack got a firm grip on his weapon, drew back his foot and plowed it into the door, causing it to burst inward and the frame to explode. He entered almost instantly as the door burst open, and swept the gun to his right and left.
Immediately to his left was the living room with a kitchen. The coffee-stained table had several empty boxes of pizza, a cluster of open beer bottles, and crumbs. Jack saw a cockroach scuttle off the table. The kitchen cupboards were a sickly pink color, the ceiling stained by cigarette smoke with a single light bulb hanging down. The sink was loaded with crusted plates, and coffee mugs. He pressed into an area containing a large red leather couch, pink drapes, and photos of naked women on the walls. Jack stared at a coffee table with a bag of weed, and a few lines of coke. There was drug paraphernalia spread out nearby. The whole place reeked like a cow farm. Jack backed up and went past the kitchen area into a narrow corridor, aware that if they were hiding he would have little to protect himself if they came out firing blindly.
He cleared the bedroom, which amounted to nothing more than a double mattress on the floor with a duvet. Again, the place was filthy with crushed beer cans, tissues and newspapers everywhere. How the hell did anyone live in these kinds of conditions? He ducked out and continued down the dimly lit corridor. At the far end was the bathroom, which took nasty to a whole new level. The linoleum was warped from water damage, the once white bathtub worn out and encrusted with dirt. Jack didn’t even bother to lift the lid on the toilet, the smell of feces lingered.
He was just about to turn back into the corridor when he heard the sound of boots. Jack turned to see a blur of black. He broke into a sprint and emerged from the infested hellhole to feel the air change as a bullet snapped past his head. Jack launched himself over the wooden staircase outside, hit the ground and used the back portion as cover while he tried to get a bead on the gunman.
Again he heard the sound of running though this time on gravel. He squinted as he peered through slatted wood to see his attacker making a break for it across the asphalt.
Jack scrambled to his feet and took off in pursuit.
As he came onto the road, both of them were heading in different directions. One of them turned and fired a round at him but Jack took cover behind a neighbor’s Jeep. The sound of bullets ricocheting and g
lass shattering took over, and then it went quiet. Instead of pursuing the gunman he went after the one that hadn’t taken a shot. He’d seen him go east, sprinting between mobile homes.
Jack ran in a slightly different direction with the hope of cutting him off. After running for several minutes he spotted him looking over his shoulder in the direction he’d come, except Jack wasn’t coming up directly behind, he was parallel to him.
He saw the guy explode out onto another small road between the next line of mobile homes and that was when he slowed his pace waiting for him to run down to where he was. The guy didn’t know what hit him. One second he was looking over his shoulder, and the next rolling on the ground after Jack charged into him coming out from behind a home. The two of them rolled down an embankment until they collided with a boulder. Fortunately the guy’s back took the brunt of it. He let out a groan and Jack was on him like a lion. Jack began strangling the man as he tried desperately to get out from his grip. But it was useless. He was seconds away from snuffing out his light when his buddy emerged over the rise between the road and embankment with a gun aimed at Jack.
“Let him go.”
“It’s not happening,” Jack replied.
“I will end you right here.”
“If you were going to do that you would have done it earlier, or maybe you’re just a lousy shot. Let’s see, shall we?”
“He’s my brother, let him go.”
“Did you let Tyson go?”
The slick-haired Mexican fella with a tattoo of a spider on his neck struggled within his grasp.
“We were only doing what we were told by Pope. It was just business, we...”
Before he could continue, Jack removed a hand from the dying man’s throat and was about to reach for his gun when sirens wailed nearby. His brother at the top of the grassy embankment shot a sideways glance and took off leaving his sibling behind. Jack looked down at him. “So much for family loyalty,” he said before taking his gun and pressing it into his gut and firing it twice.
Seconds.
That’s all he had now.
The sound of gunfire, along with 911 calls from scared neighbors, would bring down the strong arm of the law and he didn’t have time to do that dance with them. Jack took off regrettably aware that one of them had escaped, and Pope would now know he was behind the hit.
Chapter 24
As darkness fell over New Mexico and the criminal element crawled out from the underbelly of society, Jack arrived in Albuquerque. There was a risk in showing his face. He knew that for sure. The one that got away would have alerted him and Pope being the man he was wouldn’t let such an act go unpunished. However, he was a businessman first, driven by money and greed just like Gafino, and a lot of money was riding on the fight that evening. If Albuquerque’s fights were all that Tyson had made them out to be, disappointing paying customers by calling off a fight to enact vengeance would be far worse than biding his time and waiting until after.
It was for this reason, and because of Tyson’s mother, that he found himself purposely approaching the twenty-two story, pinkish skyscraper with a pyramid-shaped roof. It rose up beside another tower like a finger pointing skyward. The tip of the pyramid shone a brilliant white light cutting into the night, and the countless windows let off a warm yellow glow.
Jack had no idea what to expect going in but he knew the chances of getting out alive were low whether he’d killed Pope’s men or not. The manner in which Pope reacted to Tyson told him more than enough about the kind of man he was.
Like many skyscrapers there was an equal amount of glass to concrete. The ground floor had large tinted windows, and multiple entry points into the building; however, he’d been instructed to locate a set of pink double doors on the northwest side just off Copper Avenue. Like a downtown bar that was hopping with activity and attracting passersby, a crowd of people were streaming into the building in an orderly manner. Outside four meatheads were stopping them to make sure their names were on a list.
When Jack reached the front of the line, a bald-headed, heavyset guy in a long trench coat glanced at his phone.
“Name?”
“Jack, uh… Weslo.” He almost said Winchester.
The guy jerked his head and he stepped forward to where another guy patted him down for weapons then stamped his hand with the phrase Rage in the Cage. From there he was directed into a corridor with smooth granite walls, and over to one of the eight elevators. Shiny gold doors reflected the faces of the excited, and the vibe inside the lobby was of subdued anticipation. Whispers spread throughout as some recognized him, and a couple of people looked as if they wanted to approach. Fortunately the elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Jack entered the elevator that would take him to the 13th floor at which point he would have to cross to another elevator that would go up to the 22nd.
The doors closed with him and ten other people squeezed inside the mirrored elevator. He breathed in deeply and kept his eyes fixed on the red digits as the elevator shot up through the levels, then got off and made the switch to the second elevator.
From what he could tell the entire building had been set aside for offices, most of which were leased, though others looked as if they were empty while waiting on new occupants. He’d seen signs for investment companies, and property management.
As the elevator chimed and the doors opened, it was like entering a nightclub. The entire floor was taken up for the event. Stepping out, he saw that the main lights were dimmed. The latest trending track of music blared out, and the corridor was crowded with the upper crust of society. It was a stark difference from the previous fights where ticket holders were blue-collar working class. This time around most were dressed in suits, and their female companions in cocktail dresses. Glasses were clinked, hors d’oeuvres were served on silver platters and the occasional person wiped white dust from their nose. For a second Jack thought that perhaps he’d gotten off at the wrong floor until he spotted Pope.
Jack squeezed through, making his way over.
One of Pope’s heavies leaned into Pope, muttered something, and he jerked his head towards Jack. Pope’s entertaining smile left his face and was replaced by a smug look as if he was a spider seeing a fly caught in a web.
As quick as a flash he got theatrical.
“Jack! You showed. Huh, I was just saying to my colleagues here that you would probably be a no-show but here you are.”
“Here I am.”
He nodded and placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed hard. “There you are.”
Pope studied him and the smile left his face.
Those around Pope chuckled as if they were privy to some inside joke.
“Well let’s get this show on the road, shall we?” He leaned to his right and one of his men disappeared into the crowd. A minute later the music stopped and the lights came up. The same dwarf announcer he’d seen at all the previous fights emerged, though tonight Gimpy was dressed to the nines and carrying a thick suitcase.
“Tonight, four fights, and five of the best fighters all vying for one prize.” He opened the case to reveal a large sum of money. “Five hundred and fifty thousand dollars.” He handed off the suitcase and Jack observed Spike attach a handcuff around his wrist, link it to the suitcase and stand beside Pope. At no point had Pope taken his eyes off Jack. He studied him from across the room. The dwarf continued, “The fights are simple. Whoever is the winner of the first fight will advance to the next round. A short ten-minute intermission will occur between fights. There can be only one champion. Are you ready?” He pointed to Jack, and the crowd parted. Jack removed his jacket and a lady to his left took it. He limbered up and pushed forward to the front of the crowd.
Across the room an angry looking Hispanic stepped forward, wearing a white T-shirt, blue plaid shirt with only the top button done up, thin belt, baggy pants with split cuffs, and a blue bandanna tied around his forehead that matched his shirt. He looked as if he was coked out of his mind. His eyes
were wide, and as he smiled he flashed a metal grille of teeth back at Jack. There were few who intimidated him. Brawny guys, gang members, martial arts experts, all of them had holes in their game. It didn’t take long to spot them. The two began to circle as smiles widened on the face of spectators.
The Hispanic charged him like a bull in the ring; his head low in a desperate attempt to take him down. His attack was met swiftly by Jack’s knee coming up and colliding with his skull. Though it didn’t knock him out, it put him on his ass, watered his eyes, busted his nose up and made him even angrier. Jack cracked his head from side to side and motioned with two fingers for him to get up. His opponent let out a wild cry of rage and bounced up and tried coming forward with fists only to be kicked to the ground. Up again, he staggered forward, this time a look of defeat in his eyes. He brought over a right hook; Jack ducked and fired a fist into his nuts, then an uppercut to his chin.
He collapsed, knocked unconscious.
There was a moment of hesitation on the face of the announcer as if he was trying to gauge whether the fight was over before he rushed out and announced Jack the winner.
“There will be a short ten-minute intermission,” Gimpy said.
“Forget it. Bring on the next.”
Gimpy pulled the mic away from his mouth and looked up. “What?”
“Just bring him out,” Jack said, eager to get through them.
While others in the underground circuit might have relished the opportunity to rest, Jack’s New York street fights as a kid had hardened him. Unless he was hurt bad he’d learned the best way forward was not to stop sweating and cool off. But to keep the momentum going.