by Mike McCrary
And there we go.
“Unless that sweet MILF you’re talking about left you some cash,” Sandy says to Rondo, as sexy as can be, “you can’t afford me.” She flicks the tip of his nose and walks over to me. “Now.” She picks up a gun. “How do I work this thing?”
I gently push her hand down and remove the gun from her fingers.
“You don’t,” I say. “You need to be you. Gordo has a thing for you.”
“Yes, yes he does.” She shakes her head. “Like that to go the hell away.”
“How did you get here, anyway?”
“His little buddies, the Nasty Brothers, came and dragged me out of my apartment one night. I tried to fight them. Didn’t work out. When I woke up, I was in Vegas wearing a pretty dress and was told I was with Marcus—sorry, Gordo—now.”
She’s almost apologetic in tone as she tells her story. I’ve never known Sandy to apologize to anyone about anything. I look to Rosie, the scar on her neck. I think of my brother being taken away and how he might wake up. What will they do to him? Will he wake up at all?
All this shit needs to stop. Right now.
I hand Sandy back the gun.
“Let’s go over a few things,” I say.
Chapter 31
Rosie’s ride is nice.
As is to be expected.
I don’t even know what kind of car it is, but it’s big, gunmetal gray and has the softest seats ever. It’s a limo without being a limo; it’s better than a limo. We’re seated two on one side and two the other. Okay, I guess it is a limo. Rondo, Sandy, Rosie and I are in the back, with two of Rosie’s beefy guys up front. Our guns are in the trunk, but her guys are packing in case we run into anything unpleasant up ahead.
“Not much longer,” Rosie says, looking out the window.
We’ve been on the road about seven hours or so on the way to Tahoe. I’ve slipped in and out of naps during the ride. Rondo has been out the whole time. Hasn’t screamed out any curses yet—not sure what the hell that is all about—and Sandy is sleeping on my shoulder. Rosie hasn’t slept. She’s been staring out the window ever since we left Vegas.
Her mind working.
You can see it. The gears grind as she’s working out something behind those eyes. Perhaps working through some things she’d rather not share.
“How do you know Gordo didn’t bounce the hell out of the country with Black Nasty?” I ask.
“I’ve got someone watching his place in Tahoe,” she says without breaking her trance with the outside world. “They put eyes on him before we left, and then again about thirty minutes ago.”
“They see my brother?”
She shakes her head, giving me a slight glance.
Now I stare out the window. If they hurt him I will go absolute, complete scorched earth. Simply sitting here thinking about it is getting me pissed off. Beyond pissed. This is rage. I feel my blood pressure rise. My face is getting hot. My shoulders are tense as hell and my hands are shaking. I can actually feel my eyes staring harder and harder. My focus is ratcheted up to a place beyond reason. I could breathe fire and spit lighting right now. The desire to destroy something is almost overwhelming. All this off a single idea, the idea that someone would hurt him.
That someone might harm my brother.
A brother I didn’t know I even had until recently.
“You need to relax, Sweet Angel,” Rosie says. She’s leaning forward now, looking me in the eyes. She pats me on the knee then taps my forehead with her finger. “All that. Whatever’s going on in that head right now, it’ll burn you down if you let it. Got to control it.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
“I won’t pretend I’m not pissed off. I can’t shut that all down. No way, not a chance in hell I can let it all go.”
“No, no. Don’t let it go. Oh dear God, you misunderstand me. Don’t ever let it go.” She cracks a grin. “Keep it. Protect it. Raise and nurture it. Then one day, when it serves you best, take the beast off the leash.”
I think of someone.
I remember Lizzy.
The beautifully insane woman in Texas who was training me at her house. The one with the hot as hell Spanish boy toy/maid. Or was he Italian? Jesus, what was his name? They killed her. They killed both of them. Mama McCluskey’s death squad shot them both in their home as my brother and I ran. I didn’t even know he was my brother then. I thought Skinny Drake was just this weird, potentially creepy kid. He had no idea who I was either. We were terrified, but we protected each other.
Even then.
I swallow hard, trying not to relive that horror show, but I remember Lizzy saying something similar to me that day. Something very close to what Rosie just said. Something about controlling anger, saving it up and using it later when you needed it.
“Am I always going to be angry?” I ask Rosie.
“Hope not.” She smiles, leaning back. “But probably.”
I nod, then return to looking out the window. I know she’s right, but I hate it.
My phone buzzes.
I recognize the number.
It’s a text from Jonathan. I don’t want to tap to open, but I know I have to. This asshole is in my house and he holds most of the cards at the moment.
I suck in a deep breath between my teeth.
I tap. I look.
I can’t believe it.
Chapter 32
There are no words to the text.
Only an image attached.
A picture.
A picture of a picture actually.
Jonathan has sent me a text, with a picture that he’s taken of a photograph. It was obviously taken with the old photograph sitting on my parents’ kitchen table. An older photograph that I have never seen before. Thought I found them all. I’ve spent years hunting down pictures, scraps of anything, about my life and my parents.
I’ve collected them. I’ve memorized them all.
Every line. Every expression. Every dot of color.
This one I have never seen. Not before now. This one is a picture of me, my mother and my father. Not Jonathan. This is an image of me, my mother and the man I consider my real father, the one who raised and cared for me.
The three of us are in New York. In Central Park, it looks like. Possibly in the spring, maybe summer. The sun is shining and our smiles are big as hell. I thought I’d never been there before. I thought Gordo brought me there for the first time when I went to Jonathan’s apartment. Back when I thought Jonathan was a dying, kind man I first met in the bar in Austin. Also thought Gordo was something else back then, too.
I can’t help but to look into the eyes of the people in the picture. In reality these people are complete strangers to me. I’ve never known these people. Never met them, at least not that I remember, even though I know I have. I look at them more. I envy them, and feel sorry for them. Even the youngest one. These happy people in the picture have no idea what is coming for them.
My mind spins and flips.
Feels like I’ve been swept up in a wave crashing down on me.
I can’t explain how strange it is to see your life and be surprised by it. Staring at this, seeing this picture of strangers on vacation, how can I have lived that life and have no memory of it? Nothing. I’m at least twelve or thirteen in the picture. I was a small-town Texas girl. I should remember a trip to New York, to Central Park, with my parents.
My eyes fill.
A white glob forms in the corner of my eye.
“Not now,” I whisper to myself.
I expand the picture with my fingers, moving it around to only see my parents. They are smiling huge. Eyes bright. Holding on to each other tight. Holding me tight.
My hands shake.
More white globs.
“Not now,” I say again, harder this time. I punch myself in the leg. Again and again. Harder and harder.
My mind clears.
Then it fills.
It floods.<
br />
Closing my eyes, I see a film, a movie playing in my head. A movie of the three of us running, playing in Central Park. My parents are laughing and chasing me. It’s so clear. I can remember the smells. The cool breeze. The happiness.
This is a memory.
This is no imaginary happy time I’m inventing to soothe myself. To convince myself that I’m okay. I’ve done that most of my life. Piecing together a logical childhood based on pictures I’ve found has become therapy for me. Creating the story of me based on things people have told me about me and my parents. I’ve had to invent a childhood story to tell myself, using the evidence I’ve found.
This is different, this feeling. I know the difference.
This happened. This has emotional weight.
It’s hitting me like a sledgehammer. A knot forms in my stomach, growing by the second, expanding, twisting and turning over and over inside me. A tear rolls down my face. My chin quivers. I open my eyes, staring at my parents in the picture. Frozen in time. Alive and happy.
Now I’m getting pissed off again.
White globs whip across my vision, pausing in spots here and there.
Not now, motherfuckers.
The white globs run away. Retreating. They are leaving me.
That piece of shit. That fucking piece of shit Jonathan has had this picture for a long time. He had it when he came into my bar and made friends with me. He had it when I visited him in New York. He had it when he came to my house a few days ago. He has a box full of things just like this. He stole all of those things after they killed my parents. He knew what he was doing when he sent me this text.
By sending me this, he is hoping it will do exactly what it just did. That it would unlock something in my busted head. He wants to remind me what he’s holding on to. Just in case I had lost my focus on the task at hand.
I have not.
Not by a damn sight.
He is human garbage. A monster. He’s holding my life, my memories, in a box, and he’s holding it all hostage. A life he and his wife destroyed. They wiped my life away clean that night, took away my parents along with a brain full of happiness. They didn’t think twice about doing it either. Now he has my brain in a box, in the house where they killed everything I was or will ever be.
Oh yes, make no mistake.
I’m pissed off and I have no intention of putting a leash on a damn thing.
“You okay?” Rosie asks.
“No.”
Chapter 33
Gotta admit it.
Can’t lie.
Gordo’s little Lake Tahoe hideaway is pretty cool. Of course it is.
Going to look a lot better on fire.
Going to be slick as hell to listen to it fill with the sounds of him screaming. His suffering will provide a slow roll of an echo off the water. Loud and clear for all to hear.
I need to dial it down, I know. I’m getting too amped up, but the hell with that. I didn’t start this shit, but I’m here to wrap it up in a bow and shove it straight up his ass.
Rosie puts a hand on my shoulder.
I know she can’t read my mind, but it seems as if she’s doing just that.
She doesn’t say a thing to me. Doesn’t need to. She’s giving me a look that lays it all out for me, and more. She’s telling me to calm down, but at the same time she’s telling me that we’re going to do some serious damage in that house, and all of that is perfectly okay. Okay, fine, I might be projecting a tad with that reading of her expression, but that’s what I need, so the hell with it.
I nod.
So does she.
One of her boys who’d been watching the place told us he thinks there are about six or so guys in there.
One of them is Black Nasty.
One of them is Gordo.
They haven’t seen my brother. He may not be in there. That’d be the smart move on Gordo’s part, to have my brother stashed somewhere else on the off chance we came rolling up. That’s the wise play, and like I said, Gordo is a smart one.
“Only one of them needs to be left alive,” I say.
“Yup,” Rondo says. “You mean Gordo, right?”
I nod.
He’s getting cuter all the time, that Rondo.
We’re loaded for war and scattered amongst the trees that circle this little Lake Tahoe hideaway of Gordo’s. When we pulled up there was one of Gordo’s goons at the gate. That goon is in our trunk at the moment. Have to remember to let him out. Maybe. Not on my list of priorities.
We have a plan. Not a complicated one, but there is a plan.
Go in strong.
They will protect Gordo. Eliminate whoever protects Gordo.
Get Gordo.
Simple is best, I’ve found. Easy to remember is easier to execute. The details in real time can get crazy. They can spin out of control when the bullets, fists and blood start flying. I know this, and that is why I know a simple plan is effective. When shit gets weird you can fall back on an easy-to-remember plan. Simple is a nice crutch.
Our attack squad is made up of Sandy, Rosie, her boys, Rondo and me. A ragtag bunch if ever there was one. I’ve come to know these folks in different and peculiar ways and, frankly, I wouldn’t want to storm Gordo’s house with anyone else. Well, a team of Navy SEALS would be nice, but I’m being serious here. These people I trust. Our interests are aligned. These people all have the same goal as I do.
Get Gordo.
Get Skinny Drake.
Get back to good.
Rosie’s guys and Rondo go around back. They are to go in through a door located off the back deck. Sandy, Rosie and I will go in through the front door. Those are the only two doors in and out of the house. It’s relatively small, but it sits on an amazing chunk of land with a view to lust over. I think under different circumstances I’d really like it here. Right now, however, I’m finding it hard to enjoy my surroundings.
I’m tense. I should be. My mouth is dry and I feel itchy.
Rondo and Rosie’s guys move, rounding the corner and slipping into the darkness, away from our sight. On Rosie’s word, meaning her text, they are going to kick in the door and go in hard. As they go in, so do we. We will bash in the front door and storm in like cowgirls from hell.
A simultaneous rush of force.
Fast. Strong. Jolting.
We get low, moving toward the front of the house. Slow and careful. Last thing we want to do is tip these assholes off. The blinds are all closed, but we can see the lights are on, and there’s a muted thump of some sort coming from inside. Rhythmic thumps mixed with hums. As we get closer I can tell it’s some music they are blasting.
Unbelievable.
Gordo is having a party in there.
I’m getting pissed again.
Once we are closer to the front door, Rosie stops and checks Sandy’s gun. Rosie gave her a S&W .38 Special. Classic. Small, but still packs a pop. The creepy Panda Guy even put a small laser sight on it to make it even better for someone new to the game. She’s not completely on board with shooting people, but she agreed to point it if called upon, and use it if she has to.
Knowing Sandy, I have no doubt that she can do it.
I saw her jam a toothpick into the eye of a frat guy who got a little douchey with her at the bar just last month. She felt horrible afterward, but she knew she did what she had to.
However, even with that information, in a side conversation, Rosie and I agreed to keep an eye on her.
No joke intended.
Rosie’s in the not-fucking-around business. She’s going in with 9mm Glocks. Plural. Two. One in each hand. Me? I’ve got my bat in one fist and a Berretta in the other. Dance with who brought ya, I say. Also got a knife on my ankle and a .38 in the small of my back. Me? I’m not new to the game. Not anymore. Not by a damn sight.
Rosie’s phone buzzes. It’s a text from her boy around back.
Ready.
She shows it to Sandy and me. Sandy swallows hard, her nerves starting to show.
Her eyes are floating, flickering at the same time. She looks almost sick. I touch her shaking hand, giving her a wink with a grin. It’s the same thing I did after she got upset about toothpicking that douchebag’s eyeball. Sandy cracks a smile, allows a snicker, then nods, letting me know she’s good.
Rosie turns to me now. I try not to show that my stomach is doing flips like a coked-up gymnast. Unlike Sandy, I’ve done this before, but like Sandy I still get messed up about it. I lie and nod to Rosie, letting her know I’m good.
Rosie taps two letters into her phone.
G and O.
Powerful combo in the proper circumstances.
The windows above us explode.
Chapter 34
Glass rains down over us.
Bouncing. Scattering. Peppering us as we drop to the ground.
Rosie’s phone tumbles. I catch a glance at the screen as it flips by. She hasn’t even hit send on her text yet. Rondo and her boys haven’t gone in. My mind slams into place.
They know we’re here. Gordo’s crew knows we’re here.
They saw us, turned up the music and the lights just to screw with us.
Guns blast. Bullets zip overhead. Chunks of trees fly into the moonlight.
I look to Sandy. She’s terrified, but holding strong.
Turning around, I pop up to my knees. I let loose three quick blasts from my Berretta into the house. Dropping down fast I feel the air above my head whistle-cut as the bullets carve up the night. Pops of fire flash from inside the house.
My hand claws for Rosie’s phone. First swipe finds grass and dirt. My second grab gets the phone. I hit send on Rosie’s text.
I bounce up again, blasting away. Rosie joins me this time. She rips shots with both fists full of Glocks, pounding what’s left of the front window. Our bullets tear away at the side of the house. The place plunks and rattles as it absorbs showers of lead. Rosie scissor-walks toward the front door, her legs crossing, with her eyes and body pointed forward toward the front of the house as she keeps firing. The laser focus of a woman on fire.
Into the doorway pops Black Nasty. He pumps and fires a shotgun like a surgeon. The ground at Rosie’s feet explodes like she’s avoiding landmines. A stray bit of buckshot tears her leg, creating a gash of red. Her expression doesn’t even mildly acknowledge the wound. Her focus simply alters. Chin lowers. She unloads both Glocks into Black Nasty. His body shakes, jolts in a lead-induced spasm, then drops in a meat pile in the doorway.