Gunning For Angels (Fallen Angels Book 1)

by C. Mack Lewis

  Harriett shot away, hissing and spitting.

  Jack crouched down, examining the claw marks on Eve’s ankle. “Jealous.”

  Jack stood, turned to get some soap and water.

  Eve put her arms around his neck, pressing close. Her eyes gleamed.

  He tried to sweep her up into his arms, to carry her to his bed, but she stopped him. She unbuckled his belt and before he could get his pants off, she’d lifted her skirt, grabbed his dick and shoved it into her.

  It was fast and she took without giving – cumming over and over and no damned faking it. On the hardwood floor, he could feel her clench around him as she shuddered and cursed her way through five minutes of cumming.

  When she was done, she stared up at him, satiated. “Ladies first,” she said.

  “Baby, you ain’t no lady,” Jack said. He’d cum, but – not like anything he ever knew. His felt like a wave lost to her tsunami.

  She grinned. “I should have let you fuck me.” She reached down, cradled his limp cock in her hand. “First time I saw you, I knew.”

  “Me too, baby.”

  Two hours later, in his bed, it was Jack’s turn to lay satiated, staring up at Eve as she ran her finger along his face, pausing every time he shivered under her touch.

  “I’ll make it last longer next time,” Jack said.

  The second time, she’d been tame – almost cold. He’d still only lasted less than twenty minutes. He tried to hold on, make it last, but – she squeezed down in orgasm – he was done.

  “Tell me a story,” she said. “You – in a bad situation – how you got out of it.”

  He smiled. “Poor little rich girl – looking for trouble.”

  “Once upon a time,” she said.

  “In a land far, far away,” he said as he proceeded to tell her the story of how he nearly got his wings clipped by a cheating husband who turned out to be the original “Shotgun Joe” from Chicago and was broke and hiding under an assumed name. His girlfriend, an aging off-strip Vegas dancer who was bankrolling him, thought he was cheating – and was right, as proven by Jack’s photos. It all would have ended there, but Shotgun sent a redneck with a knife Jack’s way and got him surprised in a men’s stall at the Dew Drop Inn where Jack was taking a shit.

  “Is that how you got this?” Eve sketched her finger around a scar that wrapped around his side.

  “Dumb luck he never got his knife in me. He slipped on some drunk’s piss. I didn’t think it – I just did it – played crazy and scared him the hell out of that stall – or else I would’ve been dead.” Jack gave a low laugh. “There ain’t a punk in the world that wants to wrangle with somebody who is certifiable.”

  “That worked?”

  Jack grinned at the memory, nodding.

  Eve kissed his fingertips. “Tell me about your first case.”

  Jack’s smile faded.

  Eve said, “What?”

  Jack hesitated. “I’m taking the fifth.”

  “Tell me. Or are you going to act insane – chase me out of here?

  Jack pulled her down in a hard kiss. “Hell no and then some.”

  Eve nuzzled him, “You might as well tell me. I never give up till I get what I want.”

  Jack sighed. “I was a kid. I call it the case of the second family.”

  Eve’s eyebrows went up.

  He said, “My dad, turns out, had a second family.”

  “Oh!” Eve stared at him, startled.

  “Busted that case wide open,” Jack said.

  “Did your mother know?”

  Jack felt that familiar sickness in his stomach. He shut his eyes, trying to block the memory of his mother’s dead body hanging from the noose.

  “Hey,” Eve gently nudged him.

  Jack opened his eyes, tried to smile.

  Eve said, “That’s what made you want to be a detective?”

  “When I saw him with them – I thought I found out the truth.”

  “What was the truth?”

  “We were the second family. I thought the old man was hiding them. The truth was – he was hiding us.”

  “Is he – ?”

  “Dead.” Jack’s mind flashed back to the funeral – the uproar he caused when, with one violent shove, he overturned his father’s casket and sent his body tumbling into the first row of mourners.

  He winced at the memory. He had no memory of what happened next, but he had been told.

  I’d do it again – kick the shit of that worthless bastard’s corpse.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Don’t. He’s dead – stabbed in some back alley by a two-bit crook – he got exactly what he deserved.” Jack brushed the hair from her face. “What are you doing with me?”

  “Did you see it?” Eve said.

  “See what?” Jack ran his hands along her body, enjoying the feel of her silken skin under his fingertips.

  “When he got what he deserved?” She said.

  Jack looked at her, startled.

  She smiled, “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Sorry,” Jack said, withdrawing his hand.

  Is she serious?

  Eve laughed, that quicksilver laugh that he’d first heard in his office when he first set eyes on her. He glanced at her, relieved to see her eyes twinkling.

  Eve said, “You’ll discover all too quickly how boring I am. Let me play the mysterious femme fatale a bit longer. Actually, I’m rather flattered that you thought – ”

  “I don’t.”

  “I like it,” she said.

  He gazed at her, unsure.

  She leaned in, kissing him with a gathering passion that made him forget everything.

  Flying.

  In his dream, he was flying and she was there, by his side as they cut through clouds – ever thickening clouds that – stung…

  A spasm of coughing brought Jack to abrupt wakefulness. He reached for Eve but she was gone.

  Was it all a dream?

  Thick smoke plumed under the door. Heart lurching, Jack jumped out of bed, eyes burning and watering. He could hear the crackling flames and feel the –

  Heat.

  Jack ran to the bathroom – empty. In the bedroom, there was no trace of Eve.

  Where is she?

  Jack touched the door and yanked his hand away. It was as hot as a stovetop. Jack cursed the barred windows that had been there when he bought the house and he’d never bothered to remove. He ripped the sheets off the bed and shoved them under the door, trying to stop the smoke.

  “Eve!” He yelled.

  Please let her be safe.

  Please let her be gone.

  Jack ripped the blanket off the bed and ran to the bathroom. He shoved it in the bathtub and turned on the water. The plumbing groaned but came forth with enough water to soak most of the blanket.

  In the bedroom, Jack pulled on his jeans and covered himself with the wet blanket. He crouched down and, pushing his fear down, he jerked the door open.

  Smoke billowed at him and he forced himself to stay low and move as fast as he could. The hallway, so short just yesterday, now seemed like a marathon distance.

  Lungs burning with the smoke, Jack crawled forward as flames licked at his body. He stumbled forward, choking – suffocating – confused.

  Keep moving.

  There was no end to it – he sucked in, desperate to breathe – he felt like he was drowning in an ocean of flames.

  Where am I?

  He inched forward, his fingers scratching against something hard. Drowning in fumes, he made one last desperate lunge forward and felt the fight leave his body.

  This is it.

  This is how it ends.

  Death grabbed him and dragged him out of the oven and straight to hell.

  Demons scraped at him – hurt him.

  He called out for his mother and she pushed him over, onto his side and slapped him until he was coughing – gasping – a violent convulsion of his body that ended with hi
m puking his guts out.

  He heard voices, words – cutting through his consciousness.

  Screaming devils – fighting over his soul.

  He came to and found himself on the ground, staring up at the night sky. The screaming was sirens – getting closer.

  It wasn’t demons – it was Nick. His mouth was moving but Jack couldn’t make it out.

  Jack struggled to sit up but couldn’t. The effort brought on another spasm of coughing that left him weak. A fireman ran past him, someone strapped something on his face. He fought against it but oxygen hit his mouth and he sucked it greedily into his still-burning lungs.

  “Is anyone in the house?” A fireman was shouting in his face.

  He shook his head.

  She has to be gone.

  He searched the street for Eve and his eyes landed on a silver sports car that he’d never seen.

  How did Eve get here? Drive? Chauffeur?

  He sucked hard on the oxygen and felt his head clearing.

  Nick said, “I called 9-1-1 – I saw a woman leave.”

  Relief flooded through Jack. He gripped Nick’s hand in thanks.

  Nick said, “Thank God I was up late cleaning my guns.”

  Jack was too weak to smile.

  The terrible sound of collapsing wood came from the house and they stared in awe as the fire devoured what was left of it.

  Jack looked away, overwhelmed at the sight of what used to be his home.

  His eyes caught the glowing tip of a cigarette in the silver sports car.

  With Nick’s help, Jack stood. He walked unsteadily toward the car. He winced as he stepped on a sharp pebble, recognizing it to be one of the demons that had tortured him as Nick dragged him across the ground from his burning home.

  Pretending he could see the person in the car, he locked eyes with the darkness within and quickened his pace.

  The headlights came on. He shielded his eyes from the glare, still moving forward.

  The engine roared to life and sped at him.

  He hurled himself backwards, throwing himself over the hood of a parked car, escaping by a hair’s breadth as the sports car slammed into the parked car with a screeching sound of metal on metal.

  He landed on the sidewalk, a sharp pain shooting from his shoulder – the sick sensation of the wind knocked out of him.

  Jack struggled to his feet and staggered forward.

  Driving up the street from the other direction was Annie in her Mustang. Her astonished face, mouth agape, was hanging out the window as she drove toward him, her eyes transfixed by the fire.

  Jack yanked her door open and pulled Annie out. She stumbled backwards and Jack caught a flash of her shirt, inside out, as he hopped into her still-rolling car.

  He hit the accelerator and felt the Mustang jump forward. Jack whipped around the corner and saw the silver car back up and speed away.

  Jack slowed only a fraction as he gave chase.

  Jack found himself in a nerve-wracking game of chicken with oncoming cars and trucks as the two cars careened through light after light.

  The silver car skidded to a stop to avoid hitting an SUV and Jack saw his chance. He slammed his brakes, thinking he could box in the car – between a truck, himself and the pavement. The silver car burned rubber in a spin that left it facing in the opposite direction.

  Cursing, Jack reversed out of his position and raced after the car, which was on the verge of losing him. Gripping the wheel, Jack floored it, trying to get close enough to cut it off.

  A half a block ahead of them, a minivan stopped in the intersection, making a left turn. Jack realized there was no way they would miss the minivan, which he was probably full of rug rats.

  He stomped the accelerator and pulled to the left of the silver car. A violent jerk of the wheel sent the Mustang into the silver car, forcing them both off the road.

  Jack caught a flash of the woman’s horrified face as they narrowly missed T-boning her minivan.

  In slow motion, Jack watched as he and the silver car careened toward a glass-plated storefront.

  Every bone in his body jolted and it felt like his teeth would shake out of his head. Glass rained down as they came to a sickening stop.

  Jack tasted iron. Reaching up, he touched his head, which was throbbing. His fingertips were red with blood.

  A neon sign in the shape of a human palm lay across his windshield, blinking the message at him: Know Your Future, Change Your Destiny.

  Someone groaned.

  The silver car sat like a panting dog to his forward right.

  He tried his door but it wouldn’t budge. Climbing over the console, he forced open the passenger door. He got out, wincing as he felt the sharp reminder that he was barefoot and the space between him and the silver car was a minefield of glass shards.

  Cautiously, he picked his way forward.

  He saw a woman slumped over the wheel, long brown hair hiding her face. The glass was shattered and he reached in, touched her shoulder. The hair moved unnaturally under his hand and he pulled his hand away, her wig coming off.

  She was bleeding from a gash above her eyebrow and Jack felt a flood of relief when he saw it wasn’t Eve.

  The relief was short-lived.

  He felt a jolt of shock when he recognized the driver.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  A man without ethics is a wild beast loosed upon this world.

  –Albert Camus

  “Dennie Dutter,” Bud said as he paid the cashier for his coffee. The hospital’s cafeteria was at a low ebb as he, Jenson and Chip found a table where they could wait for Dr. Nells to finish her autopsy of the duct-taped canal corpse. Bud took a sip of coffee and grimaced. “I have a wheelchair-bound Aunt stronger than this coffee.”

  “Dutter,” Jenson said, “That’s feasible.”

  “Who’s Dennie Dutter?” Chip said.

  “The corpse,” Bud said. “Degenerate specializing in human trafficking.”

  Chip said, “Human trafficking? In Phoenix?”

  Bud said, “Flourishing underbelly industry. Fifteen thousand child prostitutes in Phoenix alone.”

  Chip said, “I thought that kind of stuff only happened in Thailand or, like, Eastern Europe.”

  “Ten percent of all kids in the U.S. are victims of human sex trafficking,” Bud said. “Mostly runaway and homeless – lured in with the promise of food, money, safety – some ‘opportunity’ – they get trapped in a network of anything from prostitution, massage parlors, strip clubs, to pornography.”

  “How do you know all this?” Chip said.

  “Murder.”

  Chip raised his eyebrows.

  Bud said, “Collateral damage. Human sex trafficking pays well, but it’s messy.”

  Chip hesitated, “So, do you – not try as hard – to solve Dennie Dutter’s murder – because he’s a scumbag?”

  “It doesn’t work like that,” Bud said.

  “What’s wrong with chalking it up to saying ‘thank you very much’ to the universe for killing off a scumbag – and move to the next?” Chip said.

  Bud said, “It doesn’t matter. Murder is murder.”

  “Most foul,” Jenson said as he stirred more honey into his hot tea.

  Bud said, “Any person who kills another human being in cold blood – no matter who – Mother Teresa, Charles Manson – deserves getting exposed and being shown for what they are – a cold-blooded killer who deserves to rot in jail.”

  Chip said, “Mother Teresa versus Manson? You’re talking apples and oranges.”

  Bud said, “Who decides which murder to solve and which to let go? Are you going to make that decision?”

  “In this case, yeah,” Chip said. “Let the scumbag’s case go. Who cares?”

  Bud said, “My job is to get to the truth. I don’t judge. I reveal.”

  “I know you, Pops. Don’t tell me you’re going to work this guy’s case the same as some innocent mother of three who got gunned down by some s
cum-bucket who peddles kids for sex.”

  “I work them the same,” Bud said.

  “Why?” Chip said.

  “Nobody is innocent,” Bud said.

  Chip shook his head. “There are good people in the world.”

  “I didn’t say there weren’t,” Bud said. “One thing I learned in this business is nobody is all good and nobody is all bad. We’re all just a messy grab bag of angel and devil.”

  Jenson said, “It’s which side you land heaviest on that counts.”

  Bud said to Chip, “When you write books, feel free to have everything come out happily ever after. Punish the bad guys, save the innocents. That’s not the way it is in real life.”

  Jenson said, “It is rather buggered out here.”

  “No black and white,” Bud said. “The truth is in the grey. We give each case equal shoe leather.”

  “I couldn’t do it,” Chip said. “Don’t you ever get mad?”

  Bud said, “I harness that energy – put it into finding the killer.”

  Chip said, “What happens if a good person kills a bad person and makes the world a better place? What then?”

  “I find the killer,” Bud said.

  Chip shook his head. “You’re using that as a way to evade the real question.”

  “An evil baby. Ever come across one?”

  Chip made a face.

  Bud hooked his thumb over his shoulder, “That thing they dragged out of the canal was once a baby. My job is to find the killer of that baby.”

  Chip said, “That guy isn’t a baby. The baby grew up to be a scumbag who peddles babies for sex.”

  “That’s not my business,” Bud shrugged.

  “You’re talking in circles,” Chip said.

  Bud said, “I’ll concede that this one particular baby grew up to be a human-trafficking dirt bag – but he was once a tiny baby full of big potential. What if solving his case leads to something good? There’s no telling what the outcome to anything will be. You do something good and it causes bad, you do something bad and good will come of it. It’s useless speculation. All I know is I wake up every morning and do my best to find the killers and let them have their day in court.”

  “Bring them to justice?” Chip said.

  Bud laughed. “Justice? That’s none of my business. That’s for the legal system to scrape through.”