by David Perry
“Do not make a sound or I will cut your throat.”
A sharp, long piece of cold metal touched his neck. He stiffened, realizing it was a very large knife.
A forceful hand removed the cloth from around his head. He reflexively spit out the ball of material crammed into his mouth. The blindfold remained in place.
“Open your mouth!”
Michael hesitated but complied, opening his lips a fraction. A warm, soft piece of bread was rammed into his mouth. He chewed slowly, enjoying the ability to move his jaw freely. A second piece was shoved in before he’d finished the first. A plastic bottle was placed to his lips. Cold water spilled past his tongue, mixing with the masticated bread. Michael gagged, but choked down most of the water.
He managed to speak. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
More words were spoken in a language he didn’t understand. He thought it might be French. Seconds later, the chains securing him relaxed and he was lifted to his feet. Strong arms hoisted him up the stairs. Michael heard a second male voice speaking to someone else in the room.
Though he did not understand the words, he understood their meaning. They were commands, the same commands that had just been given to him. There was someone else being held with him. A muted response followed, then a high-pitched, muffled shriek.
When he was outside, the soft, warm breeze hit the exposed skin of his face. Michael felt as if he were being cleansed, even though he was dragged a distance over rough earth. In the distance, Michael heard something he recognized. Something familiar to him: pounding surf. Just like home.
Hands manipulated his jeans. They were tugged to his ankles.
“Go!” the voice commanded.
Michael peed where he stood. When he was done, the hands began to lift his jeans.
“I have to take a dump, too!”
“Qu’est-ce que c’est? What is this word dump?”
“I have to take a crap! You know … poop.”
“Merde,” the voice swore. “Vous êtes un cul!” You’re an ass!
It wasn’t a lie. His bowels had been touchy since he’d been taken. But he wanted to enjoy some of this half-freedom as long as possible.
He was moved again. His back was leaned against a tree with his legs angled a few feet from the trunk. Pressing his back against the rough bark, Michael relieved himself.
When Michael was finished, his guard put his pants back on and he was escorted to the cell. Michael heard a key inserted into the lock on the heavy door. It swung open and crashed against a wall. They walked down the stairs. His captor recoiled as Michael’s foot touched the sandy floor.
“Charlie … Charlie, que se passe??” the guard called out to his partner. What’s happening?
Quickly, Michael was pushed back into his spot and chained to the wall.
The cloth was stuffed back into his mouth and the gag tightened around his head. He listened as his guard tended to his partner. Hushed, clipped words were exchanged in French.
Scuffling followed, then harsh unintelligible words. Some sort of threat had been leveled at the other person being held with him. Fear welled in Michael. Not for himself but for the woman with him.
You can’t tell much from a muffled shriek. But there could be no doubt that that person was a woman. Only a woman would make a sound like that. It could only be one person, he told himself. He would have bet his entire collection of baseball cards on the fact.
They had taken him. They had probably taken her also.
Michael knew what he needed to do next. He needed to communicate with her. He needed to let his mother know he was here … with her. Then they would figure out what to do.
When the guards left, Michael worked his tongue slowly, determinedly, against the cottony, acrid cloth balled in his mouth.
He needed to talk to his mother.
She’d heard it plenty of times. And there was no time to waste.
Mildred Williams had grown up around firearms her whole life. Her father had been an avid hunter. He owned an assortment of rifles and handguns. She learned to shoot at a young age.
When she moved out on her own many years ago, she witnessed a shooting in the East End. She’d lived in the projects then. Drug deals were weekly fare. Gunfire a monthly occurrence.
That was then. She lived on 65th Street now. Crime rates were lower here. But the gunshot reminded of her days in the ghetto.
When someone got shot, living or dying meant getting them to the hospital quickly.
One shot meant more would follow.
She lifted the eighties-style handset off the wall and dialed.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
“There’s been a shooting on my street.”
After the shot missed, Luther landed on his back, thumping to the floor. Jason whipped his body, arcing his legs at the fallen man, kicking at Luther.
His shin connected with the gun and hand. His kick followed through, striking Luther’s face. Now, Luther’s weapon went airborne, rattling along the floor into the dining area near the small dining room table.
Luther scrambled after it. Jason kicked Luther again, this time in the flank, slowing the desperate man. Luther, on all fours now, paddled toward his weapon. Jason reached out and grabbed Luther’s jersey by the collar, pulling him back. Both men scrambled toward the gun. In concert with the sound of tearing fabric, Luther dragged Jason into the dining area.
The gun lay at the foot of one of the legs of the rickety table.
Luther flailed an elbow twice at Jason’s head. The first missed. The second connected with his chest. Jason grunted, refusing to release his grip. The pharmacist countered with two futile punches, hitting Luther in the shoulder. He yanked the jersey hard, stopping Luther’s progress for a moment. Fabric shredded in Jason’s hands, leaving him holding half a shirt. Luther began to dart away. Jason leapt, wrapping both arms around Luther’s neck.
With Luther’s progress halted, Jason rammed Luther’s head into the floor and vaulted over his back, stretching for the gun. He could see it clearly now. Walking to Luther’s .357 Magnum with two fingers, he coaxed it into his hands. Jason rolled onto his back and started to level the weapon between his knees toward where Luther should be.
As he was bringing it to bear, Luther’s large hand pushed it aside and the criminal lurched over Jason. Jason raised a knee and used Luther’s momentum to launch him over. Luther collided with the table and a chair, knocking them askew. The shaky table skidded sideways. Two of its chairs toppled.
Somehow, Luther recovered, and in a quick wrestling reversal, Jason found himself staring up at William Luther. The shrunken, tattoo-laden man was atop Jason, pinning his arms and torso to the hardwood. The gun was still in Jason’s right hand but pinned by Luther’s left knee.
Jason’s free left hand flailed at Luther’s head. Luther tried to grab it. In doing so, his weight shifted, allowing Jason to free his right hand and the gun. Jason swung the weapon at Luther’s head, connecting with Tattoo Man’s cheek and face. Blood erupted on his skin.
Luther grabbed Jason’s gun hand once more, twisting the weapon free. It toppled from both their grips and landed a few feet from Jason’s shoulder. With the gun removed, both Luther’s hands dove for Jason’s throat, the fingers closing around it.
The wild, menacing glare in Luther’s eyes coincided with the pressure growing in Jason’s eyes and head. The murderer’s strong hands closed off his windpipe. He tried to gulp in air. But none found its way to his lungs.
Jason’s hands went to the vice-like mitts, trying to pry them away. For an instant, a trivial amount of oxygen slipped into his lungs as Jason was able to relieve the pressure momentarily. Just as quickly, it closed again.
Jason attempted to elevate his chin and pull the hands away. But Luther only closed the fleshy noose tighter. He tried bucking him off. He dug his fingernails into Luther’s skin as Jason flailed at the head and face with one hand. His vision turned red.
Time
was running out.
The faint wail of sirens reverberated through his fading consciousness.
Chapter 29
Chrissie had been placed back on her knees with her hands behind her, elevated to the point of pain. Her breaths came hard and fast. She tried to catch her breath and block the episode from her mind. But her mind refused to cooperate, replaying the thwarted assault.
Minutes ago, she’d heard footfalls on the steps. The heavy door slammed closed with a wooden thunk spiced by the clank of metal. She tensed, cocking her head, listening.
Someone else in the room with her had been forced to eat and then ushered out. They had spoken in a whisper. I have to go to the bathroom!
She wasn’t alone! Was it Jason?
She couldn’t tell. The words were soft, barely audible. She had only a second to contemplate these questions. The guard’s presence, the filthy, manly musk, filled the air around her.
“Who’s there?” she asked.
“Je m’appelle Charlie,” the gruff voice replied. My name is Charlie. The low-pitched words were slow and inviting, filled with lustful insinuation.
“Do you need to use ze bathroom?”
“Yes.”
The chains holding her slackened. A rough pair of hands lifted her to her feet. The man stood in front of her, very close. His chest touched the tip of her breasts. Chrissie breathed his alcohol- and tobacco-saturated breath. A cold shudder passed through her. She stopped breathing to avoid sucking the unpleasant stench into her lungs.
Finally, she exhaled. “If you don’t let me pee, it’s going to get very messy in here.”
The man stopped. Chrissie sensed her captor ogling her.
The guard walked her deeper inside the building. Her foot hit something. She stumbled. The guard lifted her roughly to her feet. They turned a corner. Chrissie’s arm hit a doorway. They had entered another room. A vinegary odor hung in the air. Inside, Charlie stopped her with a hand on her chest.
“Turn around,” he commanded.
Chrissie obeyed, fearing what would happen next. The guard’s hand reached for her jeans, unsnapping them. Ripping them to her ankles, exposing a thin pair of panties, the guard slid them past her thighs, making sure his rough hands caressed her skin.
Chrissie heard him lift something and place it on the floor with a wooden thud. A deeper acidic, vinegary stench mixed with the ripe, disgusting fetor of excrement, filling her nostrils. Chrissie wanted to vomit.
Charlie then placed a hand under each of her armpits and hoisted her into the air with amazing ease. He pushed her backward. Chrissie’s naked butt landed on something hard, round, and hollow.
“An old rusted wine barrel. Do your business. And be quick about it!”
She thought about asking for some privacy but knew it would be futile. Chrissie peed in the barrel. When she was done, Charlie pulled up her panties and jeans, fondling her as much as possible.
He dragged her back to her holding station, one of Charlie’s arms reaching behind her. The hand squeezed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head backward, elevating her chin. Chrissie yelped.
His other hand touched her near her waist under her shirt, moving higher. The skin of the fingers and palm, rough and calloused, scraped her sweaty skin. As the hand inched higher, nearing her breasts, Chrissie’s ire swelled.
Charlie moved his face into the crook of her neck. The stubble on his cheek cut her below the ear. Chrissie held her breath again.
“Mon petit,” he whispered, “vous êtes très troublant. Ton beau est un homme fortune!” You are very, very sexy, my sweet. Your boyfriend is a lucky man!
The hand inched higher, cupping her breast through the bra. As he began to push his fingers inside the fabric and touch her nipple, Chrissie boiled over. She jerked her knee, hard and fast, into his groin. The guard’s lungs expelled air into her face. He released his grip and collapsed in a heap at her feet. He lay there groaning. Still blindfolded, Chrissie envisioned him curled into a ball with his hands cupped over his manhood.
“Garce,” he whispered. Bitch.
Chrissie prepared herself for what was to follow.
“Bring it on, Frenchie,” she said, kicking at him. Her foot connected with soft flesh, landing hard in his gut. “If you want have your way with me, you’re going to earn it.”
His hand reached out and grabbed her ankle. That was when the heavy door crashed open. The attack had been interrupted.
His eyelids began to close. Images began to swim through a half curtain. Darkness closed in. Deprived of oxygen, Jason’s mind flashed a runaway, out-of-sequence slide show of the mistakes in his life …
Chrissie’s tear-stained face on the park bench when he left her …
The sight of Jenny walking away, two suitcases in hand the day they’d decided to get divorced …
Thomas Pettigrew’s face as he told him Jason had made a fatal drug error …
Chrissie being tackled by the intruder in his house …
Chrissie lying unconscious on his living room floor …
The body of one of the attacker’s lying in a crimson halo on the living room floor …
The gun lying near him …
Delilah Hussein’s face talking to him about a great opportunity …
Jason’s mind froze on the image of a gun lying on the floor of his house after Chrissie was attacked.
The gun!
Jason tugged at the hands constricting his throat, albeit with less force. He managed to turn his drooping eyes to the weapon on the dark wood a few feet to his right. The .357 Magnum!
Grab it!
Doing so meant releasing his grip on Luther’s hands. It meant letting go of the source of his impending death. He would have to go against every human survival instinct.
A few seconds more and it would be too late, he would lose consciousness, then die …
It was his last … and only option.
Jason released his grip, whipping his hand out. Luther, thinking Jason was trying to hit him, turned his head allowing Jason to miss. Luther’s weight shifted. A gust of delicious air inflated Jason’s lungs.
Realizing it wasn’t a blow, Luther closed his fingers around Jason’s larynx once more.
Jason’s fingers slapped the hard black metal of the gun. He tapped his hand against the floorboards, trying to grasp it. The weapon spun but landed in his palm.
As his oxygen reserves became depleted again, the pressure in his head and neck once more became almost unbearable. Holding it by the barrel, Jason walked his hand down the gun’s shaft, finally clutching the stock. His index finger found the trigger housing.
Then the trigger …
Luther’s eyes darted left, seeing Jason bringing the gun to bear. He removed one hand from Jason’s neck. Jason gasped in another torrent of oxygen. Luther lunged for the weapon but only managed to clutch Jason’s forearm.
Jason wrapped his free arm around Luther’s neck, pulling him away from the weapon. Luther managed to keep Jason’s arm straight, not allowing him to bring the weapon around. Jason could only flex his wrist with the gun in it as he wrapped his opposite arm around Luther’s neck, wrenching it tight.
They struggled again. Luther lay atop him, stretching for the hand and Jason’s weapon. Jason wrenched him back onto his chest. Luther possessed the advantage. As he wrestled with Luther, Jason’s eyes took in the ceiling.
And he saw a way to put an end to this battle.
What the hell is taking so long?
Peter slammed a heavy fist on Jason’s counter.
He had called one of his employees, Tim, from the gun shop over an hour ago. Desperate and despite being a stranger, he’d tried the neighbors. The elderly woman across the street did not answer his repeated bell ringing. The houses down the street had no cars in the driveways. Everyone was at work. If anyone was at home, they weren’t answering the door.
He cursed for what seemed like the hundredth time.
I should have known Jason would try
something. You were duped, marine!
Peter studied his phone, willing it to ring.
After several calls, Peter managed to get a message through to Detective John Palmer of the Newport News Police Department. But he had yet to return his call. Palmer had been involved in the mess two years ago.
Peter had leveled with the cop in his message. Jason was in trouble with the people who’d planned the assassination attempts. If he were Palmer, he would stay miles away from anything to do with this. Peter hoped Palmer was not that smart.
A horn tooted. Peter ran to the driveway and climbed into Tim Baker’s used Ford Escort.
“What the hell took you so long?”
“Traffic on the JRB. Where to?”
“Police headquarters in Newport News,” Peter demanded. For some strange reason, the former marine felt like he was forgetting something. He closed the door, leaving the first cell phone resting on the torn piece of paper on which Jason had scrawled the password.
Jason squeezed the trigger. A round thumped into the ceiling. A shower of powdery bits sprinkled the two men. The hole was a foot to the right of the chandelier mount. Once more, Jason tugged Luther back on top of him, wrapping his legs around the tattooed criminal, trying to hold him still. Luther clutched at the skin of Jason’s arm, reaching for the Magnum.
Jason readjusted his aim and fired again. The round moved closer to the fixture and again rained dust and chucks of plaster. The third round sparked the taut chain holding the multitude of glass blades. A link gave way, splitting it. The oval piece of metal began to pull apart. The entire chandelier cocked to the right. The heavy blades of glass swayed to and fro, clinking in a portentous symphony of sound.
A millisecond later, the entire consortium of crystal cut loose.
Luther’s head was turned, his attention trained on the gun with no regard for where the rounds ended up. Jason watched as the chandelier descended, growing enormous in his field of vision.
At the last possible moment, he released his grip on William Luther. He slid out from under the man and rolled away a fraction of a second before the massive object crashed onto Luther’s head and torso.