Inside Moves

by Walter Danley

  “Yeah, you’ll do! Take care of our guest. I need to pee.”

  BLOODY AND BRUISED, the brothers-in-law in crime entered through the smoldering ruins of the dining room. Starr looked at the DA. “You could be mistaken for the walking dead. Man, I can’t believe you’re still vertical with all that blood all over you.”

  “Really? Well, don’t glance in any mirror. You won’t win any beauty contest either.”

  Starr waved him off. “Okay, Zack, I got it. We’re both messed up. I’m just glad to be alive.”

  “Carson, let’s get this job done and get the hell out of here. The cops must be on their way by now. You take the house—what’s left of it—and I’ll check the garage and the guesthouse. Kinkaid and Murtagh have to be in one of them.”

  Starr’s stars were in alignment. When the hotshot lawyer came down the short second-floor hallway, he saw the double doors open and a dark-haired woman with her back to him. She appeared to be holding a pistol to the back of a fat guy in a silk robe. Stealthily Starr came from behind, putting the woman he assumed to be Lacey in a chokehold with this left arm and grabbing the gun from her hand with his right hand. He pointed it at Murtagh’s head. “Don’t move, Murtagh. The gun is the same—it’s just changed possessors.” When Starr realized his error in identification, he said, “Hey, sis, who are you?”

  Starr’s proclamation carried into the bathroom as Lacey was about to flush. She didn’t. That’s when she recognized her employer’s voice. He came for me too, but probably not for a rescue. Lacey didn’t panic. She searched the cabinet drawers, shelves, everywhere for anything she might fashion as a weapon. The last drawer she opened made her smile at her good luck. One of Murtagh’s gun stashes was in his bathroom. You never know when you’ll need to blast your way out of the toilet!

  Lacey grabbed the Walther PPK and checked the pistol: seven .380 caliber rounds in the magazine and one in the breech, safety off. Her smile broadened. She thought this ironic as she recalled Wainwright telling her about his research of the Walther PPK. He had discovered that Adolf Hitler had killed himself in the Berlin Führerbunker with a PPK. I guess this little guy is happy to do the same to the scum in the other room. The question is, “How to do this?”

  She had the element of surprise—that was good. She had the PPK too—that was very good. Starr had Collette—that wasn’t good. He also must have had Murtagh’s .45. Shit! There was one door in the bathroom, one way in or out, so Lacey had to exit from there. The rest she’d improvise. She listened to what was being said in the bedroom—nothing was being said.

  Then she heard Collette say, “Take your friggin’ hand offa my boob! I didn’t invite ya.”

  “Hey, don’t get so pushy, honey,” Starr said. “We could have a bit of fun until Grandy gets here, if you’re more cooperative.”

  “Did you say ‘fun’? Well, then, why don’tcha let go of my neck, baby, and I’ll see what I can do ’bout that? Show me whatchoo got so I can give you a grade. I use the ol’ Southie Scale for cocksmen like you. Score goes from ‘That’ll be a quicky’ all the way up to ‘Take me to the moon.’ Where do you think you’ll score, big boy?” After a few moments, Lacey heard Collette again. “Here, baby, let me help you with your zipper.”

  Okay, this is it! One, two, three...go! Lacey charged through the door straight at Starr, who stood with his trousers around his ankles, Collette was on her knees in front of him. Whatever station of erection Starr had going vanished when he saw Lacey barreling down on him from the bathroom. Collette rolled to the floor, out of harm’s way. Starr raised the pistol, but like much in the real world, he lost the race to a better woman. Lacey’s first shot entered Starr’s right eye, exiting just above his left ear. The shot took off most of the side of his skull. The next two drilled him in the right flank of his chest as he dropped to his knees then onto his back. As Lacey moved closer, Collette stood over the semi-naked lawyer.

  “That fucker woulda been no fun. Just look at his little fucker.”

  “Yeah, I can see that.” Lacey, with remembered hate, fired a fourth shot, obliterating Starr’s little fucker.

  ZACK GRANDY APPEARED at the top of the stairs and heard the gunshots. Thinking Starr had shot Murtagh, he walked confidently into the master suite, his pistol still in his waistband.

  “Hey, Carson, couldn’t you wait till I got here?”

  By the time he realized his error, Lacey had shot him in the groin, her target of choice for these perverts. Bent at the waist, he dropped his pistol, which slid across the parquet floor into the sitting area. Grandy grabbed himself with both hands, his mouth wide open in pain and shock. The back of his head exploded onto the carved wooden double doors as he swallowed Lacey’s next bullet.

  Collette, who didn’t know the victim of Lacey’s rage, watched in shocked silence.

  Murtagh had turned to watch Lacey wage war. “Jesus Christ. Was that necessary?”

  Lacey gave him a sideways glance of indifference. “Collette, do us both a big favor. Go find my husband and bring him here, please.”

  Collette nodded. “Sure. Any idea where I should look?”

  “Yeah, find a pile of bodies. He’ll be close by.”

  Collette hurried out of the master suite.

  Murtagh continued berating Lacey. “I mean, what these guys done was ages ago. You told Fabio all about it. He told me you were okay with that ancient history. Man, do you carry a grudge! What did they do to earn that much fury?”

  “Well, for starters, they held me hostage for more than two months. Now let’s see what we can do about you!”

  IN THE HEAT OF THE battle, bodies littered the motor court. Wainwright desperately needed Lacey’s prayer for his safety right then. Wainwright put a trembling hand on the Assassin’s shoulder. “With all the dead bodies out here, do you think anyone’s left inside?”

  “Yes, but there can’t be many. And I still have a contract to complete. Let’s go find Lacey and get her out of here. Then I’ll hunt down Murtagh.”

  Wainwright inserted a fresh magazine in his pistol and ratcheted back the slide. With a cartridge in the chamber, he made sure the safety was off. The two unlikely warriors entered the mansion through the blown-out library window in a joint pursuit of different goals. Wainwright and the Assassin found the lower level destroyed.

  “Wow, you did a job on that pipe bomb,” Wainwright told Amiti. “Take a look at the elevator doors.” He gestured to the end of the long dining room. The doors were closed but looked like a Mack truck had punched into them.

  “That thing’s unusable,” the Assassin replied. “I’ll take the stairs.” As he glanced overhead, he noticed the high vaulted ceiling of the first floor was more damaged in some places than others. “I hope Murtagh’s still alive—if he’s up there, that is.” Amiti checked his pistol; it was operational. “See you, pal. Good hunting,” he said, then ascended the stairs.

  Wainwright didn’t say anything. He merely nodded to the man who had become such a valuable ally. He moved to the stairwell that led to the basement where Wilson had said Murtagh’s men had taken Lacey before the explosion.

  The electrical service had been a victim of the explosion, and sunrise was still hours away. The Assassin couldn’t see well in the dark stairwell without a flashlight. Note to self: next time bring a flashlight, dummy.

  The short hallway at the top of the stairs had a single closed door and, at the end, double doors that were jammed open by what was left of an badly mutilated unrecognized body. He heard muffled, hard to decipher voices in the room he suspected was Murtagh’s bedroom. If he didn’t clear the room behind the closed door, and it concealed a bad guy, he’d expose his back. But if he investigated that room, the individuals in there would be alerted and have the advantage of surprise passed to them. What to do? Well, pal, this is why you get the big bucks. Call it, but please call it right.

  It was quiet on the floor, and the Assassin saw no damage from the bomb blast. Continually scanning the area for movem
ent and sound, he moved close to the wall, easing past the closed door toward the master suite. Stepping over the mess that was once a man, he peeked inside the bedroom. The room was illuminated by moonlight, allowing him to see clearly. What he saw, however, sent a spike of distress straight to his brain.

  Murtagh had a pistol trained on Lacey. Any movement alerting Murtagh to his presence would increase the danger to both Lacey and him. Murtagh’s shiny bald head reflected the moonlight. The sonuvabitch must be sweating a ton. He should sweat. The bastard has massacred the guy at the door and now has an unidentifiable mutilated carcass near his feet. He’s a madman!

  The Assassin couldn’t hear what Murtagh was saying to Lacey, but it didn’t much matter. The evidence of what he’d already done was testimony to what he planned for Lacey. The Assassin needed to move quickly—without the bullshit of any “play fair” warning to the perp to drop his weapon. Assassins don’t play fair anyway. Where the hell did that idea come from? John Wayne? He was never an assassin.

  The explosive sound of a big-bore weapon reverberated in the large room. The Assassin brought the pistol in his right hand up, entered in a crouch, and crab-walked to his left. Lacey was down! In a blood-splashed white silk robe, Murtagh stood looking down at her body. He slaughtered these people wearing pj’s?

  The thought was sent sailing as quickly as it had appeared in the Assassin’s brain. He scanned the master suite as he entered. He missed nothing: the unmade bed, a game table, hands dealt, money in the center, Murtagh’s arm coming up with the still-smoking pistol, Lacey holding her chest wound with both hands. Falling to his left, still in a crouch, with his arms extended in a two-handed grip, the Assassin put two slugs into the fat man’s chest.

  It wasn’t enough.

  Murtagh’s arm continued to move up as he stumbled forward. The Assassin aimed at Murtagh’s forehead to squeeze out a third round.

  Jammed!

  His pistol jammed on a misaligned cartridge in the breech. Knowing it would be the last sight he’d ever have, the Assassin looked into the face of the man about to kill him and saw Murtagh’s yellow, saliva-drenched teeth. It was a smile.

  A shot from someplace took off the back of Murtagh’s head. From where?

  The Assassin jumped to his feet as Murtagh’s dead body sagged and proceeded to fall on top of Lacey. He grabbed two hands full of the mob boss’s robe and pajamas. The deadweight of the far bigger man was more than the Assassin could control. He pushed against Murtagh’s gravity-directed path, sidestepped away from Lacey, then pulled Murtagh back toward him.

  It didn’t work.

  Murtagh’s forward momentum caused him to crash backward through the French doors. Three hundred eighteen pounds of hoodlum hit the wrought-iron balcony railing, ripping the anchor bolts from the wall.

  Lacey!

  Lacey had crawled partially under the desk. The Assassin bent to where she laid, a pistol in her hand. She opened her eyes. In a beat or two, she recognized the Assassin.

  “Am...iti!” She weakly tried to raise the pistol. It was more than she could do.

  Amiti took it from her hand. “Lacey, it’s all right, I’m with Garth. He’s here. We’ve come to take you home.”

  “Garth. Get...Garth, please.”

  The Assassin quickly left to find medical help and Wainwright.

  COLLETTE THOUGHT THE garage or the guesthouse were good bets. God forbid Garth was hurt or worse. She didn’t want to bring Lacey that kind of news. Collette left the mansion by what used to be the foyer, the place where poor Henry had died. She didn’t want to see any evidence that he’d never again laugh or love or joke or...move, so she forced her line of sight up to avoid seeing the bodies lying in the motor court.

  Headlights and a blue-and-red flashing light bar were coming up the driveway very fast. The big, black armored vehicle swerved to avoid the bodies and screeched to a stop in the motor court. In seconds, ten men poured out the rear of the riot van. They exited the vehicle to the right, left, and front. All had different pieces of equipment but were uniform in two ways: each wore Kevlar body armor over a black jumpsuit and carried an assault rifle.

  Collette was impressed with the display—that is, until one of the officers grabbed her and pushed her hard against the side of the house. It wasn’t until the SWAT deputy snapped the handcuffs on her wrists that she realized she wouldn’t need to search for Wainwright.

  After finding the basement empty, Wainwright came out to the front when he heard the BearCat roar up the drive. He walked to within a few yards of Collette as the deputy cuffed her. He put down his weapon, raised his hands in surrender, and walked toward the truck. He was accorded the same treatment as Collette. A silent black-jumpsuited sentinel invited him to join her, seated on the grass. The shots sounded loud, even though they must have come from some distance away. The next shots also sounded far away and were less booming.

  “Garth, that’s Lacey,” Collette said. “She captured Murtagh in his bedroom, and there are two other guys in there. Dead guys.”

  “Deputy, those shots...my wife. I need to go to her, please. We’re not the black hats in this mess, and we can prove it, but later. Please let me go.”

  The deputy, doing his best impression of a stoic Buckingham Palace Queen’s Guard, remained silent, watching a sheriff’s cruiser that had just stopped behind the BearCat. Greg Mulholland emerged from the backseat, flashing his FBI credentials. He helped Wainwright to his feet and unlocked the cuffs.

  “Thanks, Greg. Lacey...shots.”

  Wainwright took off running back into the house and up the stairs; Greg followed him.

  The Assassin didn’t.

  His job was done. Murtagh was dead, as were most of his mob. Those still living were in custody. While Lacey hadn’t been returned safely, she was with Wainwright. It was time for the Assassin to make an unnoticed exit.

  WAINWRIGHT JAMMED TO a stop outside the double doors. It took him a couple of beats to understand the scene in front of him. He first focused on a guy in the threshold to the master suite—a stranger to him. The dead man had been shot in the face and was clutching what used to be his groin. Farther into the bedroom, he recognized the seminude, bloody body of Carson Starr. He had been shot multiple times. Where’s Lacey? Wainwright moved into the room. The left side of the large suite was arranged as a sitting area. A pair of French doors that opened onto a small balcony were broken and off the hinges. Then he spotted her.

  Lacey!

  She lay curled under the desk. Her blouse was bloody; her hands were covering the wound. Lacey had been critically injured. This was the worst possible scenario for a rescuer—but Wainwright knew he was much more than that. He desperately wanted water to moisten his tongue. Sweat accumulated on his forehead. He had to stay strong. He felt lightheaded and realized he could easily faint.

  He knelt next to Lacey, cradling her head in the crook of his left elbow. The fog of amnesia lifted when he gazed at the angelic face he knew as well as he knew his own.

  “My love!”

  Sensing the movement, Lacey slowly opened one of her eyes. She tried to smile when she recognized the man she loved. She coughed bloody spray onto his shirt. Her focus blurred. In a tiny rasping voice, she choked out, “Oh, Garth...I...I love...you.”

  “Don’t, babe. Don’t talk.”

  The sound of Lacey’s voice—the tone and pitch—although twisted with pain, was still recognizable to Wainwright. He remembered that now—and much more.

  Wainwright saw Greg enter the room and look at him with Lacey in his arms. Quietly he turned and left, rushing to summon the EMTs from the ambulance in front of the house.

  “So glad...you’re...alive.”

  “Please don’t. The ambulance is coming. Save your strength, sweetheart.”

  Wainwright intended to say the words in his head: I’ll stay with you, Lacey. But the words that came from his lips were born in his heart. “You’ll never leave me, my darling.”

  Lacey swallowed
down her pain. “Need you...” She inhaled air through her nose, but most of it entered her small ravaged body through her chest wound.

  Wainwright held back his tears. “Lacey, I’ve been a fool. I love you, my precious. Don’t talk. Don’t leave me.”

  She looked up into his eyes then pressed her forehead to his chest. “No...you don’t love me. You love...You thought...but...I’m a woman who loves...you more than...Garth, I love you...with all my heart.”

  The paramedics seemed to be taking far too long to arrive. Where are those guys? Hurry! “Yes, baby, please, there’s so much we don’t know. We’ll sort—”

  “No...now. Collette told me...you know about Trini...Need...you to know...”

  “Lacey, I love you. I always have. Even when I didn’t know you, I loved the idea of you, and then you materialized in my life. I loved you then, and I love you now, my precious one.”

  Looking into those beautiful, dark, almond-shaped eyes and sensing it might be the last time, he pulled her close and kissed the tears away from her cheeks.

  “What I did...it was...reason they...abused me...Forget...Trinity now...forget her forever.”

  Lacey’s gurgling gasps tore Wainwright’s resolve from his chest, and he wept. He felt her heart beat irregularly against his palm pressed to her back. It seemed to him that his sobs synced with those beats. The emotions in his heart raced to obliterate the knowledge in his mind. In that next second, Wainwright’s heart won the struggle to bring his feelings into agreement.

  “Lacey, I know about Trinity and love you now more than ever. You’re my heart—you’re my life. Please, baby, don’t leave me.”

  A small smile replaced the pained expression on her lips.

  “When we first met that day long ago,” he whispered, “I knew then what I know right now. And I love you even more now. More than my own life. Without you, I have no life, no reason to live.”