Russell scratched at Max’s head, then headed for the door. “Hopefully, it won’t come to that. Come on.”
Max walked at Russell’s side. His tags jingled from his collar.
Clyde trailed the duo to the entrance of the dwelling.
Russell opened the door, and thumbed the switch to his flashlight. He trained the beam at the darkness of the hallway, pulled the door away from the jamb, and peered out to the hall.
The light swept the corridor, then down to the far end that led to the staircase. A scant bit of sunlight loomed in the distance from the front entrance to the building.
Russell passed through the doorway with Max.
Clyde closed the door behind them and flanked the duo.
“How bad was it out on the streets?” Russell asked, shining the light at the closed doors they passed.
“Bad enough,” Clyde answered in a low voice. “The gunfire more than conveyed that. Another one of those Blackhawk choppers flew overhead. It didn’t hang around for long. Just hovered above the street for a few minutes, then left.”
Russell slowed, and checked the blind corner of the adjoining hallway, then moved to the landing in front of the staircase. “Yeah. I heard its rotors beating the air outside of the building.”
They made their way down the stairs to the first floor. Russell glanced out to the street while rounding the banister. He didn’t notice any movement in front of the building and continued on toward the hallway that led out to the alley.
Max panted with his tongue hanging out. He licked around his maw, yawned, and shook his head.
Light from the far end of the corridor illuminated the open door to the alley. Russell trained the beam at the alleyway entrance, then the rooms they passed. “When you came down earlier, did you check on the truck?”
“I didn’t,” Clyde answered at Russell’s back. “I went to the front entrance, and scoped out the street. I never came down this way.”
Russell studied the door, and listened for any voices or other sounds to hint at any possible threats lingering outside of the building. He hoped the truck had been spared from any vandalism.
Max offered no growls or other markers to indicate danger loomed beyond the building. His nose trailed along the floor as they approached the cracked door.
“Hold on, big man.” Russell reached down, and slipped his fingers under the canine’s collar, stopping him from moving forward.
Clyde trained his piece at the sunlight. He switched off his flashlight, stowed the slender device in his coat pocket, then pulled his keys from his pants.
Russell retrieved the Ruger from the front waistband of his jeans, and thumbed the button on the bottom of his flashlight. The beam died. He leaned into the door, and trained an attentive ear to the outside.
Max sniffed and stayed at the opening.
Russell pushed the door open a bit farther, then walked out with the Ruger up and sweeping the landing. The smell of smoke remained, and had gotten worse over the night. His nose crinkled as he moved toward the steps and swept the alley.
The driver’s-side window of the Silverado had been smashed. Tiny shards of glass rimmed the outside.
“Christ. Come on,” Clyde said, huffing, and tossing both hands in the air. “Are you kidding me with this? Damn it.”
“Did the alarm not go off or something?” Russell kept a watch on the alley, then skimmed around the truck while tromping down the short stack of steps. He lowered the Ruger toward the pavement, and kept his finger pressed to the side of the trigger guard.
“I thumbed the button on the key FOB and the lights flashed like they should,” Clyde replied, sighing. “Maybe it didn’t set the alarm for whatever reason. Who the hell knows.”
Max ran to the truck, and investigated the busted glass on the concrete under the driver’s-side door. His front paw lifted as he moved his head about.
The crunch of the glass sounded from under Russell’s shoes. He skirted around Max, and peered inside the cab through the missing window. “Minus the glass in the seat and floorboard, I don’t see anything missing or damaged inside.”
“That makes me feel a hell of a lot better,” Clyde shot back in a condescending tone.
Russell moved to the back door and opened it. He snapped his fingers. “Get inside, Max.”
The German shepherd sniffed the broken fragments of glass a second longer, turned, and made his way to the back seat. He jumped inside the cab and walked along the leather seat, staring out the windows.
Clyde thumbed the alarm buttons on the key FOB, but nothing happened. He slapped the device against his palm. “I don’t know what’s going on with the damn thing. I guess the batteries are dead or something.”
Russell closed the door, then turned toward him. “It doesn’t really matter as long as it starts the truck up.”
“Easy for you to say since it’s not your vehicle that got vandalized,” Clyde replied in a curt manner.
The crackle of gunfire echoed in the smoky morning sky. Both Russell and Clyde flinched.
“That sounded rather close, didn’t it?” Clyde asked, reaching for the handle of the door.
“It did. How about we table this, and get out of here while we can?” Russell brought the Ruger to bear, and moved the length of the truck past the bed and around the tailgate.
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Clyde shot back, wrenching the door open.
Russell advanced up the passenger side, climbed into the front seat, and closed the door behind him.
Clyde swept the broken pieces of glass from the bottom of the seat to the pavement with the sleeve of his coat. He stepped on the running board mounted to the side of the vehicle and settled in the leather driver seat.
The key slipped into the ignition. He turned it clockwise, firing up the engine. The truck started without any issues.
Russell turned in his seat and craned his neck, trying to look past Max who blocked his view. He reached out and nudged the panting canine down.
Clyde shifted into reverse and hit the gas. The truck lunged backward, pulling away from the elevated landing before the rear entrance to the building. He pumped the brake, and spun the steering wheel clockwise. “Are we leaving the same way we came in?”
“Yeah.” Russell snapped the seat belt into place. “Once you hit the street, hang a right. At the next intersection, take that left if you can.”
The unfavorable smell of smoke and other scents flowed into the cab of the truck from the missing window. Clyde gave a thumbs up, shifted into drive, then stepped on the gas. His hand waved in front of his scrunched face, but he didn’t offer any commentary.
The Silverado barreled down the short run of alley to the street ahead. He tapped the brake, and hooked past the curb to the road. The screeching of the tires over the pavement played loudly inside the cab of the truck.
Wind funneled through the missing window. The roar of the engine as it gained speed added to the mix of sounds.
Clyde glanced at the gauges while working the steering wheel and watching the street ahead. “The gas light is on.”
Russell sat the Ruger in his lap with his finger resting against the trigger guard. He extended his other arm toward the front of the truck, and pressed his palm to the dash. “How long until it runs out?”
Clyde wrenched the steering wheel. The truck made a wide arch around a four-door sedan parked in the middle of the street. Gunfire tainted the air.
Max barked.
Russell scoured the sidewalks on both sides of the road for the source of the noise. “Man. That’s really close, but I can’t find the shooters.”
Clyde passed through the intersection, and skirted past the curb, heading in the direction Russell lined out. His thumb pressed the buttons on the face of the steering wheel, cycling through the menu on the gauge before him. “It’s showing we’ve got fifteen miles until it’s bone dry.”
“That’ll be enough to get us to the pizzeria,” Russell said, watching the l
ong stretch of street ahead of them. “After we scope out the joint, we’ll figure something out.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
SARAH
The throbbing in her jaw waned, but the pain remained.
The hard steel of the kitchen chairs pressed against Sarah’s back as she sat in front of Spencer in the middle of the living room. Both of their arms were secured behind the chairs with duct tape. She licked her lips. The tip of her tongue felt the wetness of the blood that seeped from the cut on her bottom lip.
Valintino’s goons surrounded them. They spoke in a foreign language. It sounded Italian from what she could tell, similar to what Kinnerk had told her.
Sarah blinked, shutting both lids tight, then opened them wide. The room spun a little, but leveled out as the seconds passed.
Two of the suits stood on either side of Spencer. The man at his two o’clock peered at Sarah for a second while conversing with his equally stout, blond-haired partner. She noticed a scar on the side of his cheek that ran the length of the side of his face. They had pistols stowed in the over the shoulder holsters that were visible from the open flaps of their nice coats.
The third henchman moved behind Sarah, the floor boards creaking with every step.
A smaller, well dressed and groomed man stood near the entrance of the cabin. His hands rested in front of him as he leaned against the wall. The dark sunglasses he wore hid his eyes. He ran his fingers through his black hair. A massive gold ring flashed from his finger as he looked at her and smirked. That had to be Valintino.
Spencer lifted his head, and stared at Sarah. His right eye looked bruised, the skin tinted with a black and purple hue. Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth, and ran to the bottom of his chin. His chest heaved. He took a deep breath, then cut his eyes up to Scar. “How did you find me?”
“That doesn’t matter. What matters now is what’s going to happen next,” Scar said, looking down at him. “You have created a rather large mess for Mr. Valintino. He isn’t happy about it. Shortly, you’ll see how pissed he really is.”
“He should’ve cut his losses when he had the chance.” Spencer spit a wad of blood to the floor, then turned his head to the side. “It’s not my fault he has more money than common sense. Did you hear that?”
Scar glanced over to Valintino who gave a single nod. Scar slugged Spencer in the jaw. The impact sounded painful. Spencer’s head snapped to the side. Blood trickled from his mouth and dripped to the floor. “You should learn to keep your mouth shut. You’re in no position to run your mouth.”
Spencer shook his head. He tugged on both arms that were restrained behind the chair.
Sarah moved her arms. The stickiness of the duct tape wrapped around her wrists behind her back tugged on her sensitive skin. She pursed her lips and pulled.
“Stop that.” The suit flanking her placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed.
“I’m surprised you guys are sticking around.” Spencer sat up straight in the chair. “I figured you would’ve taken her and snuffed me. I’m touched that you wanted to hang out for a bit and chat.”
Scar grabbed a handful of Spencer’s hair and wrenched his head back. “Mr. Valintino wants you to suffer before we put a bullet in your head.”
“That’s thoughtful of him,” Spencer replied, gritting his teeth. “I figured he’d want to come over, and do it himself. Then again, he likes other people doing his dirty work for him and is a man of few words.”
The blond-haired man hammered Spencer’s midsection, ripping the air from his body.
Scar released his hair.
Spencer doubled over, gasping. He coughed hard as spit and blood seeped from his mouth.
“Go to the car and get the kit,” Scar said, pointing to the suit behind Sarah. “Make sure and get the box and bag. The boss wants his head brought back with him. Helps to serve as a reminder for anyone else who dares to double cross him.”
The suit stepped away from Sarah and headed for the front door. He opened the door and stepped outside, shutting it behind him.
Valintino continued watching with his arms folded across his chest.
“So, once we’re done playing, we’re going on a trip, then?” Spencer asked, sitting up and leaning back in the chair. “Would this be on your private jet, Valintino?”
“You’re wasting your breath. The boss doesn’t waste his time speaking to insignificant trash such as yourself,” Blondie answered, punishing the side of Spencer’s face with his large fist. “And to answer your question, a part of you will be taking a trip.”
Sarah cringed, and jerked harder at the duct tape.
Scar fixed his sights on her. He squinted and walked toward her. His hand grabbed around her jaw and squeezed. He forced her head back and looked deep into her eyes. “You are going to watch what we’re going to do to your friend here. This will serve as a reminder to do as we say and not give us any trouble.”
His fingers pressed against the soreness of her jaw. Sarah swallowed, and spoke through squished lips. “I’d imagine your boss over there wants me unharmed, and you’ve already given me a bruise on the side of my face where you hit me.”
“Those bruises will heal,” Scar said, pursing his lips. “Just keep your mouth shut, and do as you’re told.”
Spencer stood from his chair and moved on the blond-haired man standing in front of him. He wrapped his arm under his neck, jerked him back, and slugged him in the kidneys twice.
Scar released Sarah and spun around. The flap of his coat fluttered in the air in front of her face.
Spencer jerked Blondie’s arm away from his coat and hid behind him. He reached inside the flap of his jacket, trying to retrieve the goon’s piece secured in the holster.
Valintino shouted orders at his goons in Italian, turned toward the door, and bolted from the cabin in a blink.
Scar trained his piece at his partner as Spencer peered over the suit’s shoulder. “Let him go, now. You have no chance to escape.”
“We’ll see about that,” Spencer replied, yanking the piece from Blondie’s holster.
Scar fired two rounds. The report boomed through the cabin.
Spencer ducked and used the henchman as a shield. The bullets punched his chest.
Sarah lifted her legs and rammed the soles of her shoes into the back of Scar’s knees. His legs gave, sending him to the floor. Sarah fell back in the chair, smashing her hands under the back of the chair.
Spencer discarded Blondie’s dead body on the couch and popped off three rounds into Scar.
Sarah craned her neck and caught the muzzle flash. The additional reports made her head throb, and her ears ring. She swayed from side to side, trying to roll off her hands.
Scar dumped over to the floor, dead. The heater released from his hand and clanked off the wood.
“You all right?” Spencer asked, breathless. He searched for Valintino, then said, “That damn snake slithered away.”
The last remaining suit stormed inside the cabin, firing at Spencer with reckless abandon. Multiple rounds zipped through the air, striking the lamp on the side table and the wall heading to the kitchen.
Spencer flinched, ducked, and turned about face. He returned fire, squeezing off multiple rounds at the incoming suit.
A bullet struck Spencer in the shoulder, knocking the Creeper off balance and over the top of the side table. A loud thud sounded from the other side where he landed.
The suit caught a bullet in the stomach, and dropped to the floor, face first. The side of his skull smacked the wood. His open eyes gazed in Sarah’s direction.
“Christ,” Spencer said, shouting from the other side of the couch.
The blond-haired man sat slumped over on his side with his arms sprawled out. The front of his white dress shirt was soaked red with blood from the two gunshot wounds in his chest.
Sarah thrashed her body from side to side until the chair rolled over, freeing her hands. The steel side of the chair rested on her forearm. She
jerked her arms, as best she could, and wiggled one hand free of the duct tape.
Spencer’s moans loomed large.
Sarah moved away from the chair, and pulled her arm out from under its back. She leaned against the other couch and exhaled.
A bloody hand materialized from behind the couch, and grabbed the top of the cushion. Spencer grunted and growled in discomfort.
Sarah peered at the floor, and caught sight of Scar’s piece near the base of the couch. If she was going to make a play for the weapon, she had to do it while she had the chance.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
RUSSELL
The Silverado rolled down the street, approaching the pizzeria at a snail’s pace. The fuel in the tank diminished with each rotation of the tires, lessening their chances of getting much farther in the truck.
“Take the alley before the shop,” Russell said, pointing out of the windshield. “Man-bun said there’s a side entrance to the building that leads to a back room where they conduct business.”
Clyde nodded, and kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. He peered to the side-view mirror, then adjusted in the seat. “What are we going to do if this Bryce guy has a ton of goons with him? Do you have a plan, because I’m just following your lead here?”
Russell studied the pizzeria and the two black sedans parked at the curb. “My plan is to deal with whatever comes our way as we can. I’m flying by the seat of my pants as well.”
Max stood on his haunches next to the door behind Russell’s seat, and whined.
“All I’m saying is that we’re not equipped to take on a mob,” Clyde replied, turning down the alley. “The truck is almost spent of fuel, we’re running low on ammo, and we could be walking into a hornet’s nest here.”
“I get that, but I’m not delaying this,” Russell shot back. “If you want to drop me and Max off, I can go at this alone.”
Clyde sighed, then shook his head. “Not what I’m saying. We just need to be smart about things. You’re no good to your wife dead.”
Survive The Fall | Book 5 | Fight Back Page 20