Rusty Nail

by J. A. Konrath

  “You free?”

  “I’m free.”

  “Phin, you magnificent bastard! I love you. I’m going to make you a character on Fatal Autonomy. I think Ricky Schroder is looking for work.”

  “What the hell does Fatal Autonomy mean, anyway?”

  “I dunno. The network thought it sounded cool. How’s my hand look?”

  “Like it should have a baked potato right next to it.”

  “Hurry up and cut me free. And get this filthy rusty brush out of my leg. I can feel the lockjaw setting in.”

  Phin takes a step toward McGlade, then hears a car pull into the docking bay.

  Holly’s back.

  He goes to the table, looking for a gun. There’s plenty of reloading equipment: scales, empty shells, lead ingots, a bullet mold, even some baton rounds. But no guns.

  The garage door opens.

  Phin considers facing her head-on. But he’s weak, and woozy, and only armed with a knife. Holly is a martial arts champ and probably armed to the teeth.

  Still, he has to try.

  “I’m going to try and stop her, Harry.”

  “Can you cut me loose first?”

  “No time.”

  “At least pull out these nails. Phin!”

  Phin grips the Kabar in his weakening hand and quickly locates a good place of attack.

  “Stay quiet, Harry Harry. This will all work out.”

  But the words feel like a lie leaving his mouth.

  CHAPTER 49

  ALEX MAKES JACK open the garage door. She’s never been this excited before. She’s killed many people, and has always taken pleasure from the act, but she’s practically giddy with joy at what lies ahead.

  Four victims. Plus a cat. Good for a week of entertainment. Possibly two, if she restrains herself a little bit.

  “Get the cat,” she orders Jack. Her gun points at Jack’s face. She flinches. The cop doesn’t like guns being pointed at her. That will make what’s coming up very interesting.

  “How about the videos?” Jack asked.

  Why would Jack be so interested in the videos? Alex keeps the pistol on Jack’s head and digs her hands into the plastic Jewel bag.

  There’s a very big surprise at the bottom. Underneath the VHS tapes is a plastic bag containing a hunting knife. Alex holds it up, her pupils dilating.

  “Was this my brother’s knife?”

  Jack doesn’t answer. But she doesn’t have to. Alex quickly tears away the plastic and grips the weapon in her left hand. There’s still some dried blood clinging to the blade. From the last time Charles used it.

  Alex decides the knife will see some further use. Tonight.

  She tucks it into her back pocket and yanks Latham out of the car, ordering him and Jack into the warehouse. Everything has succeeded beyond expectation. She tells Jack to close the door behind them, and then parades her and Latham over to Harry and . . .

  Phin is gone.

  There’s a puddle of blood under his chair, and some loops of wire.

  Rage swallows Alex, and she rushes at McGlade and cracks him across the face with the Wolverine. His head rocks back.

  “Where is he?!?”

  “He went to catch a movie. Said he’d be back later.” Harry grins, his teeth streaked with blood. “Hiya, Jackie. Come to lend me a hand?”

  Alex lifts the pistol to hit McGlade again, and notices Jack rushing at her from the side.

  Training takes over. Alex pivots on her hips, snaps her leg out, and kicks Jack straight in the chest.

  Jack makes an oomph sound and collapses onto the concrete.

  Alex turns back to Harry, then looks around the warehouse. She’s only known Phin a short time, but he isn’t the fleeing type. He would have taken Harry with him.

  Unless he didn’t have time to.

  Which meant he’d only freed himself a few minutes before they arrived.

  Alex puts herself in his shoes. He’s injured himself escaping. Probably weak. He may have a knife, or some other hand weapon. There are lots of places to hide, but he’s not thinking about hiding. He wants to get himself into a position to pounce.

  Alex spent several years in the Marines. She knew about ambushes. People usually don’t think three-dimensionally. They’ll look around at eye level, but rarely look up high or down low.

  Alex glances up, and sees Phin crouching on the top rack of the aluminum shelving unit, alongside the table with all of her equipment.

  Had she gone to the table, he could have dropped the fifteen feet down and hurt her. Possibly killed her.

  A smart place to attack from. But now that she sees him, he’s simply target practice.

  “Hello, handsome.” Alex aims the Wolverine. “Let’s do this the easy way.”

  Both Jack and Harry scream the word NO!

  Alex fires twice, and the bullets hit home. Phin tumbles through space, spinning and bleeding. He smacks the table, hard, then bounces off and sprawls onto the floor like a dropped rag doll.

  Jack begins to cry.

  “You see, Jack. This is why I didn’t kill you, or Harry, earlier. Even though I had plenty of chances.”

  Alex walks up to the fallen lieutenant, drinking in her misery.

  “You never knew my brother. Sure, you exchanged a few words with him. But you didn’t know him. He was something you chased. Hunted. Your prey.”

  She turns to Harry, tenderly touches his bruised cheek.

  “I could have hunted you the same way, but what’s the satisfaction in that? You were as unknown to me as Charles was to you. So I chose to get to know you. To spend time with you. To fully understand what I intended to destroy. And you got to know me, as well. Don’t you feel betrayed, Harry? Isn’t it so much worse, being killed by someone you love?”

  “Love?” Harry shakes his head. “You’re just another notch on my belt, baby. Those midgets last night were twice the woman you are. And no icky scars.”

  Alex pats McGlade on his leg, the one with the rusty nail brush sticking in. He howls.

  “I owed it to Charles to do it this way. To eat this dish nice and cold. I could have taken you at any time. You too, Jack.”

  Alex goes to Latham, pushes him over to the shelving unit.

  “Unfortunately for you, cutie, you just got in the way.”

  She uses Jack’s keys to uncuff his left hand, pulling his arm through the metal scaffolding before cuffing it again.

  Jack is still on the floor, huffing and crying. Pathetic.

  Alex goes to the table, sets the Glock and the Wolverine next to her bullet-making equipment.

  “So here’s what’s going to happen next. I’m going to give you a chance to save the day, Jack. Isn’t that generous of me? But you’ll have to prove yourself.”

  As Alex talks, she loads the guns.

  “You’re going to have to prove you’re better than me, Lieutenant Daniels. You think you’re woman enough?”

  Alex sticks the Wolverine into the waist of her jeans, then approaches Harry. With one hand, she unbuckles his belt.

  “Can’t get enough of the love stick, eh, Mrs. McGlade?”

  “I couldn’t even find it half the time.”

  “Maybe you would have enjoyed it more if you pretended I was a blood relative.”

  Alex tugs off the belt and tosses it in front of Jack.

  “Stand up and put that on.”

  Jack, her face streaked with tears, slowly stands up and winds the belt around her waist.

  Alex presses the gun into Jack’s neck and drags her, by the belt, over to an open area of the warehouse. Using her left hand, she removes the Glock from her jeans and shoves it into Jack’s belt.

  Alex puts her lips next to Jack’s ear and whispers, “I’m going to prove, once and for all, I’m better than you are.”

  Then she walks backward, slowly, keeping a bead on Jack’s chest.

  When she’s forty feet away, she stops, tucking the Wolverine into her waistband.

  “You think you
’re faster than me, Jack?” Alex smiles. She’s never felt this alive before.

  “Draw, whenever you’re ready.”

  CHAPTER 50

  A CALM CAME over me. The same calm I felt when I was in Diane Kork’s bathroom, with the house burning down around me. I stared at Holly, perhaps fifteen yards away from me, a dazzling smile creasing her perfect face, and I knew I was going to die.

  Holly was better than me. She played me, and Harry, for fools. What she said about getting to know us to hurt us worse was true.

  If I’d just been grabbed by her and killed, it would have been bad enough. But coming from someone who I knew, someone I trusted, and not seeing it coming; that was like a gut punch.

  And to add injury to insult, she just killed my best friend, and was going to kill the man I loved, and me, and my cat. And even stupid Harry, whom I found myself developing a soft spot for. A very small soft spot, but a soft spot nonetheless.

  I looked at Latham, and mouthed “I’m sorry.” He was crying, which made me feel even worse.

  In my head, I said good-bye to Herb, and to my mother.

  “Come on, Jack!” Latham yelled. “You can do it!”

  But staring at Holly, I knew I couldn’t do it. She would put ten rounds into my chest before I even got a shot off. The woman was better than me at everything. She wouldn’t have set this little scenario up if she didn’t think she’d win.

  “Anytime, Jack. Or would you prefer I try this with Latham instead?”

  My knees were rubber. My mouth went dry. My hands were shaking worse than Bud’s.

  I couldn’t win.

  Latham said, “You can do it, Jack! I love you!”

  I couldn’t win.

  Harry said, “Jackie, just drop the bitch so we can go home.”

  I couldn’t win.

  Holly said, “Or maybe I could play this game with Mr. Friskers. I don’t think he’d be as scared as you look right now.”

  I couldn’t win I couldn’t win I couldn’t win.

  But goddammit, I could sure as hell try.

  I reached for the Glock, tugging it from the belt, bringing it up and at the same time stepping forward—Holly went for the body shot, and a profile is harder to hit—and my arm fully extended and I watched as Holly’s eyes went wide and she grabbed for her gun and fired first, but I wasn’t going to be duped this time by trying to outdraw her, I was going to make sure my shot counted and I took careful aim and felt the wind as her slugs tore the air in front of me and I squeezed the trigger and fired.

  Her head snapped back as if on hinges, and she sprawled out onto the concrete floor, her gun skittering off into the darkness.

  Cheering, from Latham and Harry. I walked toward Holly, saw the blood streaming down her face, and then limped over to Phin, digging at his neck, feeling for a pulse.

  He surprised me by opening his eyes.

  “. . . buttons . . .”

  The relief I felt was tangible.

  “I’m getting an ambulance, Phin. You’re going to be okay.”

  “Bullets . . .” he moaned. Then he said buttons again.

  But it wasn’t buttons. It was batons.

  Batons were specialty bullets, used by police for crowd control. Made of rubber. Non-lethal.

  I looked up at the table, saw Holly’s bullet-making equipment.

  She wouldn’t have risked killing me so quickly. She had other plans.

  I heard Harry and Latham yell just as Holly kicked me from behind.

  CHAPTER 51

  THE BLOW KNOCKED me sideways. I rolled with it, tucking in my head and coming up in a kneeling position, my arms up to block.

  I saw little flashes of light, and my vision was lopsided, but I was able to see Holly—her face a Halloween mask of blood and rage—move in and attempt another front kick.

  Instinct took over. I swiped away the kick with my left forearm, and my right hand formed a fist and I gave her a sharp jab in the inner thigh.

  Holly yelled, retreating two steps. That gave me time to get to my feet. I kicked off my heels and adopted a ready stance, left foot behind me, keeping the weight off my injured right ankle.

  Holly wiped a sleeve across her eyes. Her forehead was bleeding like mad. Though baton rounds weren’t lethal, they were still like getting pegged with a slingshot. The blood in her eyes was to my advantage, and I used it.

  Biting back the pain, I swiveled my hips and brought my left leg forward, aiming the kick at her chest. Holly leaned away, as I expected, and I brought the left foot down and moved forward, going into a round kick with my right foot.

  I extended my knee and felt my heel connect with her chin.

  The shock of contact made me gasp and see red, but Holly took the worst of it. Both of her feet left the ground and she hit the floor ass-first—not the preferred landing on concrete.

  Pressing my advantage, I lunged forward, wanting to get on top of her and strike at her face or throat.

  I was too hasty. Holly scissored her legs out and swept my feet out from under me. I also hit the ground hard.

  When a fight goes to the floor, the stronger opponent usually wins. Holly wasn’t only stronger, but her Marine training probably made my police academy training look like ballet. I rolled backward, two or three body lengths away, before getting up on my knees.

  Holly moved like lightning, and hit like a baseball bat, throwing a roundhouse punch at my face that I barely deflected in time, taking the hit on the left shoulder.

  My whole arm went numb.

  She followed up with an equally vicious kick to my chest. I bunched up what little pectoral muscles I had, but her big construction boot knocked the wind right out of me and I went skidding backward across the dusty floor on my butt.

  I let momentum take my legs up over my head, and rolled to my feet. My lungs tried to take in air, but they weren’t working. It’s a terrifying feeling, not being able to breathe. I’d been hit in the diaphragm before, and knew that in just a few seconds the muscle would stop spasming and allow me some air, but rationality doesn’t mean much in the throes of panic.

  Holly sensed my struggle, and came at me with snarling, bleeding fury, taking two running steps and launching herself into a jumping double kick.

  I slipped the first kick, but the second caught me under the chin, cracking my lower jaw into my upper jaw, spinning me around like a top.

  I would have hit the floor, but instead slammed into the metal shelves, and was able to grab on and keep from falling.

  My breath came back, and I gulped it in, began to choke when something got caught in my throat, and spit out a chip from one of my teeth.

  My right ankle was pudding. I kept my weight on my left foot and clutched the metal railing.

  “I thought you were third dan,” I said through the new gap in my front teeth. “You fight like a yellow belt.”

  Holly wiped the blood from her eyes and fell into her cat stance, her palms flat and fingers extended for pyonson keut.

  “And that wedding dress made your ass look huge.”

  She yelled, “KIYAA!” and struck with her fingertips at my neck. I pivoted my head around and her fingers met the steel bar supporting the giant shelf.

  The shelf won.

  I executed an elbow strike, cracking her across the cheek. An illegal move, but hey, no refs.

  Holly hit her head against the shelving unit, and I grabbed her hair and helped her hit her head two more times. There was no tae kwon do name for that maneuver, but it felt great.

  I was going for thirds when her hand grasped my wrist and she dropped all of her weight down to one knee, flipping me onto my back.

  Before I could get my hands up, she used the knife edge of her good hand to break my nose.

  I’d never had my nose broken before, but I know she did indeed break it because I heard the snap and the pain brought fresh tears to my eyes.

  Again, using blind instinct, I rolled away. The rolling intensified the pain and dizziness I felt,
and when I came to a stop I titled my head to the side and threw up.

  “Jack!” I heard Latham yell, but he seemed very far away. My vision was a kaleidoscopic mess, but I could make out Holly stumbling toward me, looking like Sissy Spacek at the end of Carrie, bloody and murderous and out of her freaking mind.

  A foot away from me, still in his cat carrier, was Mr. Friskers.

  “Hang on,” I told him.

  Holly lunged.

  I picked up the carrier and thrust the corner into Holly’s face. She staggered back, and the door popped open. Mr. Friskers hopped out, gave each of us a disappointed look, and ran off into the shadows.

  I switched my grip to the carrier handle, got to my knees, and hurled it at her.

  She ducked it, and came at me again.

  Standing up wasn’t going to happen for me. It looked like I had a small pumpkin growing out of my foot. My nose made even the tiniest movement of my head pure torture.

  Holly looked to be faring better. Her right hand was mangled, and she had some visible bumps on her head, but that didn’t seem to slow her down.

  “Enough of this bullshit.”

  She reached into her back pocket and pulled out the hunting knife. Charles Kork’s knife. The one I’d so cleverly tricked her into bringing along.

  How quickly things could go from bad to worse.

  I got onto all fours and crawled away as fast as I could. Harry was the closest thing to me, so I headed for him, reaching out my hand for his chair, and then I felt Holly’s iron grip on my bad ankle.

  That pain was bad enough. But when she slashed the blade across my thigh, I thought I’d died and gone to Pain Hell.

  I twisted around, the pain giving me superhuman strength, kicking out at Holly with my good foot and knocking her off me.

  I stretched out my hand, fumbling for Harry’s lap, my fingers locking around the handle of a what looked like a hairbrush, but when I pulled it out McGlade yelped and I saw that instead of bristles it had a dozen nails sticking out of the end.

  Holly jumped at me, bringing down the knife.

  I let out a war cry, my reptile brain screeching with rage and fear and pain, and my left arm blocked the downward arc of the knife while my right swung the hairbrush with everything I had, digging into Holly’s face, and tearing much of it off.