by Susan Fleet
Belinda’s mouth gaped open. “Kill him?”
Kelly nodded. “Kill him, she said. He doesn’t deserve to live.”
_____
Fuzzy-headed with pain, he crept to the corner of the roof.
But no pain in the world could dampen his euphoria. Telling Rachel what Pa had said was almost as good as killing her. You’re my half-sister, Rachel. We had the same mommy, and mommy-dearest was a prostitute.
“Liar!” she’d screamed. Poor Rachel, fucking Pa all those years, then staying in touch with him, hoping he’d reveal the names of her birth parents. All that anticipation only to learn that her birth mother—the mother they’d shared, God knows who their fathers were—all that hope and expectation only to find out that mommy-dearest was a slut.
He smiled. Did that piss Rachael off or what? Raging at him, calling him vile names. But what could she do? Pa was dead.
He hadn’t told her that part of the story. Pa hadn’t been prepared for his Big Speech that night. Hadn’t been prepared for what happened next, either.
He massaged his aching forehead.
You were ugly from the get-go, stayed ugly your whole miserable worthless life.
Pa’s final insult. His first impulse was to shoot him. Then he’d decided a bullet was too good for the asshole. He took Pa by the shoulders, muscled him over to the cement wall of the parking garage, heaved him up and over.
Hanging over the side, four stories up, Pa clung to the wall with both hands, mouth open to expose yellow cigarette-stained teeth, skin taut around his eyes. Eyes full of fury. “Quit fucking around, boy. Pull me up.”
“Not a chance. You always loved to put me down, did it every chance you got. Now I’m going to put you down. Way down.”
He hit Pa’s left hand with the butt of the Ruger, saw panic blossom in Pa’s eyes as he lost his grip, clinging to the wall with one hand now.
“Have a nice trip.” He hit the other hand and watched him fall.
Then he got in his car. When he exited the garage, he saw a crowd of people around Pa’s body. He kept going. They ruled it an accidental death. No one had seen it happen, and the alcohol level in Pa’s blood was five times the legal limit. When the cops interviewed him, he said he had offered his father a ride home, but his father refused, so he’d left.
What was it the fire-and-brimstone preachers said? Vengeance is mine.
Seeing the panic in Pa’s eyes before he fell was priceless, better than any orgasm he’d ever had. He smiled at the memory.
Vengeance had been sweet. Now he was ready for more. That sobered him up. Special Ops Rule: Always protect your flank.
Sooner or later the cops would come up the garage ramp. But they knew he had an automatic weapon, knew he’d kill lots of cops if they did. Captain Marvel had a marvelous plan. A SWAT team was on its way, men in body armor, armed with flashbangs and grenades.
The second flashpoint was the Level Three walkway into the hospital. He figured they hadn’t come after him that way for the same reason. Trapped in the corridor, they’d be vulnerable, exposed to his high-powered weapon.
But it was only a matter of time. Soon they would mount a full-scale assault. Maybe they’d wait until dark. Leaden gray clouds hung low in the sky, blocking the sun, but there were a couple of hours of daylight left.
He eased his head above the wall, saw a big black Hummer lumbering down the street. Captain Marvel’s SWAT team. He grabbed the Bushmaster and checked the magazine. Half-full. That should do it. He sighted through the scope at the Hummer’s windshield and fired. The windshield exploded, splintering into fragments.
That would hold them for a while. But time was running out. He ran down the ramp to Level Four and did a careful reconnaissance. No cops. He ran down to Level Three. All clear there, too.
Alive with anticipation he headed for the walkway.
The Wagnerian ring-tone of his cell stopped him, echoing through the cavernous garage. He punched on to silence it, but said nothing.
“Give it up, Stoltz. You’re surrounded. Put your weapons down and walk out of there now. Nobody else has to die.”
Oh yes they do. As many as possible.
“You keeping track of the body count, Renzi?”
Silence on the phone. Renzi had no answer for that one.
Feeling the delicious anticipation in his groin, he said, “How’s Belinda?”
“She’s okay. It’s good that you didn’t hurt her. That will count in your favor if you surrender.”
Hurt her? He should have killed the bitch. Soon he would and he’d take his time doing it. He’d put his hands around her lovely neck and squeeze until her eyes rolled up in her head. But not right away.
He had other delights to inflict upon her first.
“Belinda wants to talk to you,” Renzi said.
Incredulous, he laughed aloud. “She does? How sweet.”
“Wait a second and I’ll put her on.”
“No fucking way. Send her up to the roof so I can talk to her up close and personal.” Up close and personal. There was a Rambo line.
Silence on the other end. “What’s the matter, Renzi? Doesn’t Belinda wanna talk to me up close and personal?”
“You’re not in any position to be setting conditions.”
Mr. All-Powerful, thinking he was in charge. He’d find out soon enough who had the upper hand.
“Come on up to the roof and take me out yourself, Renzi. I dare you.”
He shut the cell phone. Rachael, the other traitorous bitch, must have given Renzi the number.
Then he thought: GPS. They could pinpoint his position through his cell phone. He ran to an outside wall and dropped it over the side.
______
“Did you hear me?” Frank gripped his cell phone in his sweaty hand, aware that Kelly and Belinda were listening. Nothing from Stoltz. He closed the cell and shook his head at Kelly. “He’s gone.”
Kelly’s cell phone rang. “Vobitch,” she said, and handed him the phone.
“He just shot up the SWAT team Hummer,” Vobitch said, “blew out the windshield.”
“Damn! I just talked to him on his cell. He wants Belinda to come to the roof. When I nixed that, he dared me to come up there.” He rubbed the scar on his chin. “Let me go up and divert him, buy time for SWAT to set up.”
“Hold on,” Vobitch said. “Let me check with Captain Martin.”
He waited, avoiding Kelly’s eyes, knowing what he’d see in them: Fear and fury. Seconds later Vobitch came back on the line and outlined the plan.
Adrenaline zinged his veins, boosting his heart rate. Finally, some action. He motioned Kelly out of the room. “Stay here, while I talk to Kelly.”
“Tell me what’s going on!” Belinda shouted.
He shut the door to Belinda's room and told Kelly the plan. “Wood and Nixon guard the main hall. Sam Wallace guards the stairwell. You stay with Belinda. Otis and I will go through the walkway to the garage and pin Stoltz down on the roof while SWAT mobilizes on the ground floor. Captain Martin will send them up as soon as I call in a visual on Stoltz.”
Kelly gazed at him, eyes full of dread. “Don’t try to be a hero.”
“I won’t. Put Belinda on the floor behind the bed and don’t open the door for anyone.” He squeezed her arm. “Hey, we’ll get this guy and go out for a beer later.”
Her eyes glistened with tears. “Frank. No more jokes.”
He put his arms around her, felt her arms clench around him. “Take care of yourself,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
Her feeble attempt at a smile failed. “You too,” she whispered.
CHAPTER 46
Frank braced himself against the wall beside the walkway entrance. Felt the nervous buzz hit his gut. He racked his SIG-Sauer and locked eyes with Otis, poised at the other side of the glassed-in hallway.
“We gonna be sitting ducks,” Otis said.
“I’ll go first, you cover me. When I get halfway, run like hell.”
He doubted Stoltz was waiting at the far end. Stoltz had plenty of targets to shoot at from the roof. But his thumping heart, racing pulse and sweaty palms said otherwise. His mind was rationalizing.
His body was preparing for extreme danger.
Come up to the roof and take me out yourself, Renzi. I dare you.
“If he shoots,” Otis said, “hit the deck so’s I can pop him without hitting you.”
He nodded and stared down the glassed-in corridor. Thirty yards long, about the length of a basketball court. As point guard of his high school team, he’d stolen the ball at one end lots of times, raced the length of the court and for a lay-up. But not with an armed lunatic waiting under the hoop.
Buzzed with adrenaline, he got into a zone of concentration. Took a deep breath and took off, arms extended, SIG aimed at the dark maw of the parking garage entrance. The thud of his footsteps bounced off the walls, reverberating inside the enclosed walkway.
Time collapsed into slow motion. Legs pumping. Eyes focused. Mouth sucking air. No gunman in sight. No shots. No killer slugs. Yet.
Halfway there, he heard Otis’s feet pounding behind him.
He ran faster, stomach tight, lungs burning.
Still no shots. No sign of Stoltz.
With an adrenaline-fueled burst of speed, he reached the far end and flattened his back against the wall outside the entrance, gasping for breath, his heart hammering his chest. He eyeballed the dark interior of the garage, a shadowy concrete jungle of thick support beams, waist-high walls and slanted ramps. No one in sight. So far.
Otis pounded down the hallway, flattened himself against the opposite wall, eyes darting everywhere, his Glock aimed at the garage.
“Clear in that direction,” Frank whispered, pointing with his head.
“Same over there.”
“I’m going in. Cover me.” He crouched and sprang into the garage, arms extended, sweeping the area left to right.
Nothing. No motion. No sounds. No Stoltz.
Six cars were nosed against the cement wall of the up-ramp to the next level. He waved Otis into the garage. “Let’s check those cars,” he said. “They look empty, but you never know.”
Otis swiveled his body in a 360-degree appraisal of the garage. “Man, this place creeps me out. Lotta places for the fucker to hide.”
His neck prickled. Was Stoltz watching them, ready to pounce?
Methodically, they checked each car. Found no one.
Otis crept over to the up-ramp that led to Level Four and called, “Big military-type knapsack over here.”
He trotted over to Otis. A large olive-green knapsack sat on the cement floor. Blood stains darkened one of the shoulder straps.
Come on up to the roof and take me out yourself, Renzi.
“Looks like he’s wounded,” Otis said. “Maybe one of the cops hit him. Lord knows they been trying.”
“Maybe.” He scratched the scar on his jaw. According to Rachel, Stoltz had called her and said vile things about her birth mother. But Stoltz was a liar. Maybe Rachel was, too. If she wasn’t in touch with her brother, how did he get her phone number? Certain things didn’t add up.
But he had no time to figure it out. They’d been in the garage for five minutes and Captain Martin was waiting for a report. He got on his radio.
“Renzi reporting. We’re in the garage on Level Three. No sign of Stoltz, but we found his knapsack on the ramp that leads to the roof.”
Captain Martin: “Let the bomb squad handle it. Continue to the roof as planned, but be careful. Do not attempt to capture him. SWAT is in position at Ground Level. Report in as soon you see him. Out.”
He hooked the handset on his belt and looked at Otis.
“Captain Martin says head for the roof. Let’s go.”
_____
He eased open the door of the Level Three stairwell, stepped out and clipped the radio on his belt. Captain Marvel was calling this Operation Sniper. How about Operation Get Even, or Operation Settle the Score?
No, how about Operation Payback? That’d be good. Lightning bolts of multi-colored pain zapped his forehead. Before planting the knapsack on the ramp, he’d swallowed two Percocets. They would make him drowsy, but so what? In an hour this would be over.
From now on there would only be death and destruction.
He smiled. Renzi had taken his the challenge to come to the roof. Renzi thought he was smarter than his adversary. Renzi was in for a surprise. He’d left his Bushman M4 on the roof. His crossbow and Blackhawk arrows were back at the safe house. Silent and deadly, the all-carbon 30-inch arrows with the killer tips had facilitated his escape.
He took a metal cylinder out of his pocket and screwed it onto the muzzle of his Beretta Cheetah. Not as silent as the arrows but just as deadly. He’d saved his best weapon for last. The Beretta was loaded with ten .22 LR subsonic cartridges, minimum recoil, low noise. Quite accurate if the target was less than fifty yards away. And his targets would be closer than that.
The barrel was five and a half inches long. The sound suppressor added another five. It might give him the edge he needed. His Ruger was in the pocket of his coveralls in case he needed a backup weapon.
He leaned against the wall beside the walkway to the hospital. He felt woozy. Was it the pain meds or hunger? He tried to remember his last meal. The scrambled eggs Belinda had made him this morning. His throat constricted and tears stung his eyes. How could it end this way? For years Belinda had been the center of his world. His reason to get up in the morning. His consolation when other things in his life turned to shit.
How could she be so cruel? All he had ever wanted was to love her.
He visualized her, asleep in her bed, unaware of his presence. So gorgeous he almost came, just looking at her. He could have overpowered her while she slept, but he hadn’t. He’d been considerate, had waited until she woke up. But did she show any appreciation?
No. Even her kiss was a burnt offering. She’d only kissed him because he’d promised to leave.
I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to see you again. Not ever.
Her words seared into his brain. And with those devastating words, her monumental perfection—her sensual beauty and exquisite musicality—had crumbled to ashes. So had his love.
He had bent over backwards to please her. Not any more. Now she would do exactly what he said. Anticipation fueled the fire in his groin.
The cop’s uniform shirt was a tight fit, but from a distance it wouldn’t matter. First impressions were what counted. For a few seconds, the uniform would give him an advantage. Long enough to inflict the necessary damage.
He tugged the black knit cap lower on his shaven head. Nothing could hide the gash on his brow. The gash inflicted by the traitorous Diva-bitch.
She would pay dearly for her betrayal.
First he’d take out a few cops. Then, sweet vengeance.
He peeked around the corner. No one was visible at the far end of the glassed-in walkway. But when he reached the halfway point anyone in the main hall on Level Three would see him. Should he slither down the corridor on his belly like a snake, or should he march down it like Rambo?
What would Rambo do?
He stepped into the corridor, walking with his head held high. That’s how you got into places where you didn’t belong. Dressed in his finery, he’d done it in London, conning his way into Belinda’s reception at the Royal Trafalgar. Dress the part and act like you belong. Attitude was everything.
That, and knowing you were going to die. Nothing to lose, everything to gain. Kill some cops. Fuck with Belinda, then kill her.
Five yards from the end of the walkway he slowed. Edged to the corner and stopped. This was the danger point. But he felt no fear.
When you’re not afraid to die, everything is easy.
He edged into the hall with the Beretta hidden behind his right leg.
Twenty yards to his right, a man with a bushy Fu Manchu stood with one hand on
his hip. His other hand held a 9-millimeter Glock.
Walking steadily toward Fu Manchu, he said, “How’s it going?”
The guy frowned. Eyeballed his police uniform. “Who are you?”
He raised the Berretta and shot Fu Manchu between the eyes.
Special Ops rule: If the enemy is less than twenty yards away, hit the center of mass for a takedown. But if they’re wearing body armor, go for the head. By the time Fu Manchu hit the floor, he was braced against the wall five feet away. The suppressor had muffled the shot, but not completely.
He gripped the Beretta, poised to shoot whoever came around the corner from the hall to his left. Two seconds passed. Three . . .
Another cop burst around the corner and shouted, “Warren!”
He shot the cop in the head. No moans, just a thump as his body hit the floor. Two down with a minimum of fuss. But two more cops awaited him.
Thanks to Captain Marvel, he knew one was in the stairwell opposite The Diva’s room. Officer O’Neil was inside the room, protecting Belinda.
Officer O’Neil was dead meat.
Two shots, two cops down. The big question: Had the two remaining cops heard his partially silenced gunshots? He’d need one more to kill the cop in the stairwell. Even if O’Neil heard them, he had the advantage of surprise, if only for a split second. He was wearing the cop’s uniform.
No cop wanted to shoot another cop. He’d kill Officer O’Neil first. Then he would fuck with Belinda. What a glorious treat.
His groin was burning with anticipation. But time was short. When Renzi and his partner found no one on the roof, they would report to Captain Marvel and go back to Belinda’s room. Maybe he’d have time to kill Officer O’Neil, take his revenge on Belinda, and kill Renzi too. A perfect trifecta.
Pa would have been proud. Then again, maybe not.
His miserable-excuse-for-a-father had never said anything good about him. So his adopted son had killed him. Sublime justice.