Don’t puke in front of the cop. Women don’t dig pukers. Don’t—
I bent over then threw up.
Smooth, Phin. Real smooth.
Jack began rubbing my back, which made it worse. The opposite of attraction wasn’t repulsion. It was pity. I much prefer hate or disgust over people feeling sorry for me.
I shrugged her off, wiped my mouth, and went to my truck.
“I know where the stadium is,” I told her when we got in. “Packer’s probably headed there right now. I’ve got people watching it, looking for Pasha. I need to call, tell them to watch for him.”
“You’ve got people?”
I nodded.
Jack made a face. “Does one of these people have a robot hand and a natural ability to piss off everyone he meets?”
My turn to make a face. “He’s my plan B.”
“And why didn’t you tell me?”
“Trust works both ways, Jack. You don’t trust me enough to lend me a gun.”
“If you had a gun, you would have killed six people in that bar.”
“That’s not true,” I said. “Probably.”
Jack rubbed her eyes. “I just spent a few days with Harry. I’m still detoxing. I don’t know if I can handle him again so soon.”
“Call him. Tell him to watch for Packer and that we’re headed over.”
“Why do I have the feeling this isn’t going to end well?”
I winked at her. “Stay positive, Brandy. At least our marriage is solid.”
HARRY
My name is Harry McGlade, and I’m—
Wait, I don’t have any point of view scenes in this book?
But I was in the last one! A third of that novel was in my POV! And I get to fight Nazis in this one, so the cool factor is way higher!
So my scenes got a few bad reviews. Who cares? It’s impossible to please everyone. Readers are forgiving. Besides, a handful of one star ratings isn’t going to hurt sales.
I promise I’ll be more tactful this time. No bathroom humor, unless absolutely necessary to the plot.
Deal?
As I was saying, my name is Harry McGlade, and—hey! Don’t cut away from—
HUGO
They took Hugo away in an ambulance to visit an oral surgeon. Two cops rode along with Hugo in the back. They carried pepper spray, batons, and sidearms, and gave him the standard lecture about how they’d bust his ass if he so much as looked at them funny.
But that was the thing. The whole situation was funny.
In fact, it was downright hysterical.
Hugo was lying on a hospital gurney, and was still recovering from surgery, and on a morphine drip for his various injuries, they’d put him in full harness transport restraints, which consisted of leg cuffs, connected to a belly chain around his waist, connected to handcuffs.
Handcuffs!
Hugo began to laugh, low and deep, and it sounded like a guard dog growling. The movement ignited all the open nerves in his mouth, and even with the IV, it hurt.
He used the hurt, letting it course through him, making every muscle tense up.
“Shaddup,” one of the cops said.
“Or what?” Hugo asked, smiling. “You’ll knock out my teeth?”
The cops both smirked at that.
“So you guys have a sense of humor. I got one for you. Either of you guys offended by racist jokes?”
They exchanged a glance, but neither said anything. So Hugo went for it.
“Okay, so there’s a guy in the bar, and he’s had too much to drink, and he starts ranting about wops. He says that all wops are worthless. All wops are stupid. All wops are corrupt. The only good wop is a dead wop, and that we should round up all the wops in the world and toss them all into the ocean with bricks tied around their necks. So an Italian guy who’d been listening to all of this finally had enough, and he tells the drunk, Hey, I’m from Sicily, and if you keep ranting on and on about wops, I’m going to bust you in the mouth. And the drunk guy looks at him and says, Wops? I was talking about cops!”
The smiling cops stopped smiling, and when they exchanged another glance, Hugo yanked his wrists apart, the steel handcuff chain straining—
—and snapping.
Hugo had been practicing that for ten years, using dozens of pairs of handcuffs, different makes and models, all in preparation for that very moment.
Then he hit the first cop in the face so hard the whiplash broke the dumb pig’s neck, and grabbed the other by the throat with one hand, pinning his wrist so he couldn’t draw his sidearm. It only took a few seconds to crush the man’s windpipe, no more difficult than a regular sized-person strangling a child. Hugo held him while he suffocated.
The paramedics in the front seat figured out what was happening, and the driver hit the brakes while his buddy called for help on the CB.
Big mistake. They should have ran.
Hugo pulled the second cop’s firearm, a Glock, and barked, “Hold still!”
Both of the men froze. Typical. Some were born to rule. Some existed simply to follow orders.
He aimed carefully, wanting to conserve bullets because every one might count, and shot the guy on the radio in the face.
The driver gasped, his hands in the air.
“Put it in park,” he ordered the man, who was anxious to comply.
“Where are we?” Hugo couldn’t really see outside through the two small windows in the rear door.
“Eighteenth Street. Eighteenth and Halsted.”
“Is there a clothing store nearby?”
“Yeah! Just ahead, there’s an Urban Outfitters.”
“Where?”
“Right in front of us. On the right.”
“Then I don’t need you,” Hugo said, and shot the man in the neck.
It took Hugo thirty seconds to pat down one of the cops and find the handcuff keys, and he unlocked his ankle restraints and doubled up the chain around his waist, in case he needed the cuffs for later. Then he grabbed the other gun, also a Glock 21, and quickly checked the magazines on both weapons. They were both .45 ACP, thirteen rounds. Hugo had used two, which gave him…
Math. He hated math.
But he was pretty sure he had over twenty bullets left.
He hopped out of the back of the ambulance and onto the street.
Downtown Chicago, traffic everywhere. Hugo got his bearings, saw the clothing store up the street, and strolled to it like a 6’5” dude in a hospital gown with his ass hanging out and a Glock in each hand was the most normal thing in the world.
He approached the clerk, a black guy in a pink serape who was engrossed in filing his nails as the store patrons ran for the exit. When he looked up at Hugo his eyes got wide. “Oh my god you’re enormous,” he said; flamboyantly flaming queer. “And you have guns. Are you robbing me?”
“I need clothes. Fast.”
“How fast?”
“You have a minute to dress me, or I’m killing you.”
“A minute? Snap. I love a challenge. Follow me.”
The guy wiggled out from behind the counter and made a beeline to a rack of denim shirts. “Size 2X?” He glanced at Hugo. “Let’s go 3X.” He whipped a shirt off of a hanger and led Hugo to a cubby wall stacked with pants. “Jeans? No. Too much blue. Khakis. What’s your pants size, dear? I can’t tell in that hideous hospital gown.”
“Thirty six waist and inseam.”
“Perfect. That’s just the high end of what we have in stock. Now underwear, I’m thinking briefs. Extra-large will be a bit tight, but no one is going to complain.”
They swung by an underwear display and the clerk snatched up a package, along with socks. “Now shoes. I’m guessing 14?”
Hugo nodded.
“Colorado boots will slay with this ensemb. We have to go in back for those, dear. You want to wait for me here?”
“I’ll follow.”
“C’mon. Time’s a’wasting.”
Hugo trailed behind as the gay man hurr
ied through a side door, down shelves stacked with boxes. He checked one column, then another, and then pulled a large, blue box.
“Voilà! Dressed, and fabulous, in under a minute.”
Hugo stared at the man. The man stared back, placing his hands on his hips.
“Thank me or kill me, honey, I’ve got shit to do.”
“Aren’t you afraid?” Hugo asked, genuinely curious.
“I am a gay black man. If I wasn’t fearless I would have been dead back when I was in grammar school.”
Hugo considered his ammunition, not knowing how many bullets he’d need to safely get out of Chicago.
“Leave,” he said.
“Thank you for shopping at Urban Outfitters,” the clerk called as he ran like hell out of the storeroom.
Hugo set down his guns on a shelf, uncuffed the chain around his waist and the bracelets still on his wrists, and quickly dressed. On his way out he grabbed a black parka windbreaker that looked like it would fit, tucked the guns and leg restraints into the pockets, and quickly left the store and blended into foot traffic on the sidewalk. There were sirens in the distance, approaching fast, and he cut through an alley, came out the other end, and ducked into a convenience store. It didn’t have any sort of cosmetics section, but in the toiletry aisle, Hugo found an acne stick cover-up, and some disposable razors. He walked out swiftly, without paying, knowing that even if he was seen, no one would run after him. Size had its advantages.
More cop cars came screaming by, and he went into a bar, weaved through the tables and patrons, and found the bathroom.
Using hand soap, he quickly shaved his mohawk, and the facial hair he’d grown during the last few days. Then he used the flesh-colored blemish stick on his face and hand tattoos.
A guy came into the bathroom just as he was finishing up, and Hugo pulled out a Glock.
“Wallet,” he said.
The dude was happy to give Hugo all of his money. Shooting him would be too loud, so Hugo ordered him into the stall and told him to count to a hundred.
Then he got out of there.
It took a minute to flag down a cab. Hugo gave the address, and within fifteen minutes he was back at the abandoned foundry where little brother Phineas had shot him.
“Wait here,” he told the cabbie.
The factory was roped off with police tape. They’d towed the car that had driven through the entrance, but hadn’t sealed off the hole. Hugo slipped inside, and followed the back wall until he found what he was looking for.
“Göth.”
He opened his razor, making sure it wasn’t damaged. Still solid. Still sharp.
After Phin had shot him in the chest, Hugo knew that if he managed to live through it, the authorities would take Göth. So his last conscious act was to throw the razor into the darkness, hoping to retrieve it later.
And the spur-of-the-moment plan worked.
Hugo grinned, feeling invincible. He should have been killed, but he was too strong and bullets, knives, and fire couldn’t stop him. He should have been in jail, but he was too prepared from years of training himself how to break handcuffs. He should have lost Göth, but he was too smart quick-thinking and now he had the razor back.
For his next feat; fulfill his destiny.
Hugo needed to contact Packer. If the Great Race War was going to begin in just two days, and Hugo was meant to play a large role in it, he had to let the CN know where he was. He’d need a cell phone, and transportation.
Both were only a few meters away.
He approached the cab and knocked on the window.
“I’m staying,” Hugo said. “How much I owe you?”
The driver cranked down the window, and Hugo grabbed him by the hair and introduced his face to the steering wheel five, six, seven times. When the man stopped struggling, he yanked him out of the car, brought a size 14 boot down on his neck, and relived him of his wallet and cell phone.
In the cab, he familiarized himself with the interior. He dialed the CB radio to the Chicago Police Department frequency. He made sure his fare light was off. He found the controls for the headlights and windshield wipers. Then he considered his next move.
Drop by the hospital and finish off Phineas?
Tempting, but once the authorities figured out Hugo had escaped, Phin would be guarded. It wouldn’t be impossible to get to him—after all, Hugo had proved time and again that he could do anything—but maybe that was best taken care of after the GRW had begun.
Look up that tasty little bitch cop, Jacqueline Daniels?
Also tempting. But that would require some research to find out where she worked and lived, and it was probably best for Hugo to get out of Chicago ASAP.
Call General Packer?
That was the right move.
Hugo dialed. Someone picked up but didn’t answer.
“Packer?”
“Who is this?”
“Hugo.”
“Jesus, Hugo, you’re in custody! They know you’re calling me!”
“I’m no longer in custody,” Hugo said, smiling to himself. “I decided to leave.”
“You’re out?”
“I’m a free man.”
“Then get your ass over to the camp. Your goddamn brother and some goddamn woman just trashed Murray’s. They’re after me.”
Interesting. “Describe the woman.”
“Brunette. Average build. Late thirties. Knew how to throw a punch.”
“A cop?”
“Coulda been.”
Hugo had a good idea who it was. That bitch Lieutenant. “I’m still in Chicago. Can be there in maybe three hours.”
“Better hurry, because if I see your son-of-a-bitch brother again, I’m killing him myself.”
Hugo’s mood darkened. “That wouldn’t be a smart move.”
“Just get here. And listen closely. This is important.”
Packer gave him some final instructions, then hung up.
Hugo fingered Göth in his front pocket. “It’s all coming together. And it’s going to be spectacular.”
Hugo put the car into gear and headed for the expressway.
PHIN
The stadium where the CN held their rallies, and where they were supposedly holding Pasha, was about an hour away, outside of Decatur.
Jack was quiet for the first part of the drive. It wasn’t as comfortable between us as it was on the trip down, so after about twenty minutes I broke the silence.
“You’re upset over what went down,” I said.
“We assaulted ten people, Phin.”
“Nine. One of them ran off. And, technically, it was self-defense. That could have ended in a massacre, Jack. A few bloody noses is no big deal.”
“We could have played it differently.”
“Packer caught on. And the bartender had a shotgun. If you didn’t act, we’d both be tied up in a truck right now, and our bodies would never be found.”
“They’re just a bunch of weekend warriors, dressing up as soldiers.”
“You remember my brother, don’t you? These are his people. They’re killers.”
“We should call the Feebies.”
“And tell them what? That I beat a confession out of some kid, and we have a hunch Pasha is being held at some abandoned football stadium?”
Jack went silent again.
“Are you worried there will be consequences?” I asked. “That they can trace this back to you?”
She didn’t answer.
“They’re Nazis. They aren’t going to talk to the cops. You didn’t use your name. We’re in my truck. I highly doubt that Murray’s had a closed circuit camera. No one will ever know. And if it ever comes out, I’ll say I forced you into it.”
She snorted. “Right.”
“I’m serious. I forced you, at gunpoint, to go into the bar.”
“Like anyone would believe that.”
I puffed out my chest. “I’m a formidable, dangerous man.”
“Of course you
are.”
“I took out seven guys in there. How many did you take? Two?”
“Mine were armed.”
“You actually think I’m a pushover?”
“You’re not a pushover, Phin. But it’s unlikely you could force me to do anything.”
This certainly wasn’t a conversation I’d ever had with a woman before, and it seemed to improve Jack’s mood, so I pressed it.
“You think, if we fought, you’d kick my ass?” I asked.
“What kind of fight? A gunfight?”
Jack was an expert markswoman.
“There’s no way I’d win in a gunfight. But if we went toe to toe…”
“I have a second degree taekwondo black belt.”
“I’m a guy.”
“Really? You’re pulling the sexism card?”
“It’s not sexist. It’s chromosomes. I’m bigger and stronger.” I glanced at her. “Well… maybe I give up a few pounds to you.”
She laughed, and punched my shoulder. I hid my wince.
“Maybe, when this is over, I can take you to my dojang. We can put on the gloves, go a few rounds.”
“If you think your ego can handle a crushing defeat.”
“For real, though, if we were actually fighting, I’d kick your ass.”
“Happily, I’m sure that will never happen.”
“Of course it won’t. There’s a higher chance of us getting married than ever getting into a fistfight.”
I grinned at her. “So maybe the odds aren’t that crazy.”
She looked at me funny, and I wondered if she was taking the playful banter wrong. Not that I was any sort of expert at reading women, but Jack was staring at me like Pasha sometimes stared at me. Not with pity. With possibility.
I was going to make another joke, and then Jack’s lips made a circle. “Your shoulder!”
I checked, saw the blood had soaked through where she hit me.
“Stitches popped.”
“When I punched you?”
“Earlier, in the bar. You just made my shirt stick to it.”
“Jesus, Phin, we need to take care of that.”
“There’s a gas station coming up. We can get a sewing kit.”
“Eww. I’m not sewing you up.”
“Maybe they sell staplers.”
Phineas Troutt Series - Three Thriller Novels (Dead On My Feet #1, Dying Breath #2, Everybody Dies #3) Page 72