Vengeance Is Personal (A Colton James Novel, Book 2)

by Thomas DePrima

  "Who's Morris Calloway?"

  "The scientist you guys killed and then dumped into the Hackensack River."

  "Never heard of him," Weasel yelled back.

  "Who you calling a goon?" I heard Ox yell. I guess it had taken him a minute to realize I was talking about him.

  "Shaddup, Ernie," Weasel said. "Listen James, I don't know who's been filling your head with such nonsense, but you should stop listening to them and get smart. I'm offering you your one chance to live."

  "I still prefer to wait for the cops."

  Until then I had stayed completely hidden from their view, and thus their line of fire, but I heard a sound like 'Psst' and figured Weasel was trying to get Ox's attention. He probably wanted him to try sneaking up on me. I moved to the edge of the pillar and peered quickly around it with my Glock leading, then pulled back. I had seen that Ox was tiptoeing towards my location. He was about thirty feet away but fully exposed and looking down at his feet. At this distance it would be difficult to miss such a big target. I moved to my right a couple of inches so my Glock was almost in the clear.

  I waited a few seconds and then peered again. Ox was almost directly behind my car. I pressed the button on my key ring fob to unlock the doors and the car's horn sounded twice. At the sound I moved to my right. Ox had been startled and had turned his head towards my car with his gun also aimed in that direction. Most of my body was still completely hidden from Weasel as I fired three rounds. Ox fell over backward and landed like a three-hundred-pound sack of rice. He moved once, groaned, then didn't move again. I pulled back behind the support column.

  Weasel began shooting in my direction while screaming, "You hit Ernie, you bastard. You're dead. All bets are off the table. I'm going to kill you, you son of a bitch."

  Weasel had never really had a shot because Ox had been off to my right while Weasel was on the left. It's possible he hadn't even seen my gun as I fired at Ox. But to get a shot at Weasel I would have to expose myself to his fire a bit. I let him empty his magazine before I moved further to my right than I had with Ox. I was able to see Weasel's form through a car's rear and side window as he reloaded, but I didn't have a shot.

  I had evened the odds but didn't feel much better about my chances of getting through this intact. The difference between Weasel and the gunman in San Francisco was that Weasel seemed to know what he was doing. He had extra ammunition clips and had changed the first one out in about two seconds. I knew the only way Weasel could get me was if I exposed myself or he came for me. I strained to hear any sound he might make.

  When I heard what sounded like the sole of a shoe scuffing on concrete, I started to move around the pillar for a look. But Weasel was waiting for that. He might have even made the sound intentionally to draw me out. He fired before my head had moved far enough to see him. Apparently my Glock was more exposed than I realized, because when the shot rang out the gun was knocked from my hand. Weasel's shot had hit the pillar and a chunk of concrete had separated, striking the gun. When I pulled my hand back, it was bleeding and hurt like hell. The skin on the back of my third, fourth, and fifth fingers was ripped up from where the concrete had hit them. I looked around for my Glock and spotted it out in the drive aisle about six feet from the pillar. To get it, I would have to expose myself fully.

  "Well, well, well," Weasel said. "It seems you've lost your weapon, Mr. FBI Special Agent. Tell you what. I'll give you a two-second count to get it before I fire. Go get it, James."

  I knew I would be exposed for at least three seconds if not four as I bent to pick it up, then three more to get behind cover again. If I fell towards it, figuring to pick it up and fire before returning to cover, he would still have a clear shot at me. And his fire had been accurate enough that I didn't figure he'd completely miss.

  "Well, James, what's it to be? Try for your gun or simply step out and let me put a bullet in your brain? The 'come along peacefully' option ended when you killed my friend."

  "I'm still betting the cops will be here any second. If you were smart, you'd be running for the exit as fast as your legs could carry you."

  "Get over it, James. NYPD ain't coming to your rescue. Nobody is coming to your rescue."

  The inflection in Weasel's voice sounded different. It seemed softer than it had a few minutes ago when he had been speaking from behind a car some fifty feet away. I moved carefully to my right enough that my right eye could see around the pillar. I stopped when I saw the extreme left side of Weasel's body. He was moving towards me as quietly as possible. I saw his left foot come down slowly as he put his weight on it and saw his body shift as he balanced himself on that leg to raise his right foot. He was only about fifteen feet away. I waited until he had lifted his left leg again and was balanced on his right leg before I moved. With my right arm leading as I leaned around the pillar, I squeezed the trigger of my Glock three times.

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  As my backup Glock, the same weapon I'd used on Diz and his pudgy friend, bucked in my hand, Weasel's smug look changed to one of surprise. He fell backward without ever getting his left leg down and landed in a deflated sitting position like a stringed puppet dropped by a child.

  He stared down at his chest for a second before collapsing backward to the floor of the garage. As the three crimson stains on his chest merged into one large spot, blood began pooling around his body. His open eyes stared unblinkingly at the ceiling overhead as I remained concealed behind the pillar with just part of my head exposed until I was reasonably sure he wasn't going to be able to fire at me again.

  After what seemed liked minutes but was probably only seconds, I stepped out from behind the pillar and walked cautiously towards Weasel with my Glock aimed at his head the whole time. If his gun moved the slightest bit I would put a round into his face without regard for what Philbin or anyone else might say about my 'decorating the garage with his brains.' But as I reached him, I knew he no longer represented a danger to me. I kicked his gun well away from his hand anyway.

  Ox hadn't moved since he had fallen, so I figured he wouldn't be moving ever again, but I approached him in the same cautious way, with my Glock aimed at his head. I kicked the gun from his hand as I reached him just in case my assessment was in error. Only then did I let my right arm drop to my side. My right hand was dripping blood pretty good by then, staining the right leg of my pants and spattering my right shoe with blood, so I reached into a pocket and pulled out my handkerchief.

  After wrapping my right hand tightly, I changed the clip on my backup Glock and replaced it in the ankle holster. Then I retrieved my service weapon and checked it over. It had a few scratches where it had been hit by the chunk of concrete, and it had a few dings from where it had landed on the concrete floor of the garage, but it appeared to be fully serviceable. I wiped it off with my hand, replaced the clip with a fresh one, and slipped it into the holster beneath my left arm.

  No one from building security or NYPD had yet arrived in the garage, so I used my cell phone to call the Bureau's office downtown to report the attack rather than spending fifteen minutes trying to get any kind of a response through 911.

  As I finished the call, I walked over to my car and raised the automated rollup gate using the remote fob on the key ring. There didn't appear to be any damage to my car from the gunfire. I was pretty sure that at least one car on this level had been hit, and it was reasonable to assume a few others in the line of fire had been struck as well.

  I was thinking about my incredible luck of only having a few skinned knuckles when I heard some muffled sounds. My ears had been ringing since the first shots were fired in the enclosed area, or I might have heard it earlier. I followed the sounds to a Cadillac in the next aisle over, and then pinpointed their precise location as coming from the trunk.

  I'd read a story once where an assassin always hid in the trunk of his victim's car, and then made noise when the victim entered the car to drive away. When the victim opened t
he trunk to investigate, the assassin fulfilled his contract. I had no idea who might be hiding in the trunk, but I intended to be ready for anything. I pulled out my service weapon.

  While standing on the passenger side of the car and leaning over towards the center, I knocked on the trunk twice with my undamaged left hand. Nothing happened at first, except the noises stopped, but then I heard someone yell, "Help!"

  "Who's in there?"

  "I'm Michael Townsend."

  "What are you doing in there?"

  "Suffocating. Can you get me out?"

  "Stand by."

  The driver's door was unlocked, so I checked the ignition but the keys weren't there. I returned to the trunk.

  "The keys aren't in the car," I yelled.

  "There's a button in the glove box. Press that."

  I walked to the passenger side door and opened it, then pressed the knobby protrusion that dropped the glove box door. I saw a button switch along the left side, so I pressed it and the trunk lid started to rise. Without closing the door, I quietly walked back along the car with my Glock at the ready. I heard some grunting noises from the trunk, and as I reached the rear of the vehicle, a man started to climb out.

  "Freeze," I said. When he did, I said, "Okay, come out slowly and stand up with your hands raised over your head."

  As he stood upright in the garage, I saw a man who had the innocuous look of actor Woody Allen in most of his movies.

  "Who are you?"

  "I'm Michael Townsend, as I said."

  "What are you doing in the trunk of this car?"

  "Two men stopped me as I was pulling out of the garage elevator at street level. One of them flashed a badge. I thought he was a cop, so I rolled down the window. He stuck a gun in my face and ordered me to move over. I did, and he climbed into my car. Then he unlocked all the doors and another man, a big man, climbed into the back seat on the passenger side. The smaller man drove around the block and then entered the garage elevator again, using my parking garage ID to get us back down here. After he parked, he made me get in the trunk and then warned me that if I made a sound, he'd kill me. You're Mister James, aren't you?"

  "Yes."

  "I live in ten-oh-four. I was on my way up to Westchester to meet with a client. Where are those men?"

  "You don't have to worry about them anymore."

  "They got away? Damn."

  "They didn't get away. They're still here."

  "Where?" he said, looking around anxiously.

  "In the next aisle. Don't worry. They can't hurt you."

  "Was that shooting I heard?" Looking down at my hand and then down at the blood on my pants leg and shoe, he asked, "Are you bleeding? I want to press charges for kidnapping."

  "The police should be on the way," I said as I started to walk away. I took out my ID so I would have it handy for whoever arrived first— probably NYPD— and demanded to see it. "You can tell them what happened when they arrive," I said over my shoulder.

  Townsend followed me and asked, "But you're FBI. Isn't kidnapping an FBI crime?"

  "If you were missing, it would be. So far all I've seen is that you were threatened and locked in your own car. You have grounds for assault, carjacking, perhaps false imprisonment, and a whole bunch of lesser crimes— if the DA wants to proceed at all."

  "Why wouldn't he want to proceed?" Townsend asked as we reached the aisle where Weasel and Ox were lying, but Townsend had been looking at me and hadn't noticed them yet.

  "That's why," I said, pointing to the two thugs.

  "Are those bodies?"

  "Those are your carjackers. But they won't bother you again. And they're beyond worrying about whatever charges could be preferred against them."

  "I think I'm going to be sick," Townsend said as he turned away and put his hand to his mouth.

  "Freeze," I heard from the direction of the elevator.

  I froze before loudly saying, "FBI."

  "Turn around and let me see some ID."

  I turned slowly, raised the ID wallet I had been holding in my hand, and let it flop open.

  "He's okay," I heard from the elevator. "That's Special Agent James. He's a co-op owner here." The voice belonged to one of the building security guards.

  The cop walked over and took my ID while his partner remained where he was with his weapon pointed at me.

  After looking at my ID and my face, the cop said, "He's okay, Barry. This is the local FBI guy who gets all the publicity."

  The other officer lowered and holstered his weapon, then walked towards us.

  "What happened here, Special Agent James?" the first NYPD officer asked.

  "I came to get my car, and these two thugs tried to take me down. They had carjacked Mr. Townsend there from ten-oh-four to gain access to the garage. His story is more interesting than mine."

  Townsend was shaking as he stood there with his arms still raised.

  "You can lower your arms, Mr. Townsend," the second officer said.

  "Didn't you just kill a guy in San Francisco?" the first officer asked me.

  "Uh, yeah. I was standing in my hotel suite, discussing my current case with Detective Lieutenant Hooper of SFPD, when an assassin burst into my hotel room and tried to kill us. We both drew and fired, managing to stop him— permanently."

  "And you also took down those two guys over on the West Side here in the city. How many does this make now?"

  I took a deep breath and said, "In total, the score is seven-and-oh."

  ~

  Over the next half-hour the number of law enforcement people in the garage grew appreciably. There were no less than a dozen uniforms, half a dozen plain-clothes, of which at least two were from homicide and one was a lieutenant, and four Special Agents from Federal Plaza. I learned that while I was fighting for my life in the garage, the building security had indeed been outside trying to move a group of indigents who had plopped down on the sidewalk in front of the building and refused to budge. But at least the security system had recorded everything that had occurred in the garage with multiple cameras.

  I had to shake my head because the video records would have provided enough evidence to put Weasel and Ox away for many years if they hadn't died in their attempt to kidnap me. While some of the mice seemed to be getting smarter, many others seemed destined to get caught in those better mousetraps.

  I was having my hand bandaged by a paramedic when Osborne and Snow arrived. I shrugged as Osborne grinned and shook his head.

  "For someone as smart as Sherlock Holmes," Osborne said, "you sure don't seem able to avoid gunfights."

  "I wasn't out looking for trouble. I was just on my way to get my car and drive it outside so I could hand it over to a dealership guy for servicing."

  "Well, no time for that now, so you won't need your car. We'll give you a lift downtown."

  "Oh come on, guys. I just got back from San Francisco, and I'm supposed to catch a flight to Greece this afternoon."

  "Sorry," Osborne said. "Orders. You know the drill."

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know the drill." As I pressed the button on my remote that would lower the open gate at my parking spot I said, "Let's go."

  "Hang on a minute," Snow said. "I need to notify the NYPD guy heading this investigation that we're taking Sherlock downtown."

  While Snow went to speak to the lieutenant in charge of the investigation, I pulled out my cell phone and tried to call Mia. I wanted her to know I was alright and that I might be delayed slightly, but I couldn't make a cell tower connection from where I was standing. Rather than wandering around the underground garage until I found a spot where the cell tower signals weren't blocked, I decided to call her once we were aboveground.

  When Snow returned, he said, "Okay. NYPD is cool with our heading downtown. The lieutenant said that one of his guys had already scanned the security videos. It appears to have gone down exactly as Sherlock told him. The two dead guys tried to kidnap him when he entered the garage to get his car."
/>   "We still have to go downtown," Osborne said.

  As we entered the elevator, I used my key to take us to the eleventh floor.

  "Hey, what's up?" Snow asked. "We have to go downtown."

  "I know. I just want get my suitcases. If we get done early enough I might still be able to make my plane to Greece. But if I have to come back up here to get my suitcases, it lessens the chances of that happening."

  Ten minutes later we were headed down to the lobby. I could probably get a cell tower connection in the elevator, but I decided to wait until we were in the car.

  ~

  "Mia?" I said as the connection completed.

  "Darling, where are you? Are you coming?"

  "Yes, but there might be a tiny delay. A couple of hoods jumped me."

  "Are you hurt, dearest?" she asked with concern in her voice.

  "Just some minor cuts to the knuckles on my right hand. It's been bandaged."

  "How long a delay are we talking about?"

  "I don't know yet. There's still a chance I might catch the plane this afternoon. I'll let you know as soon as I know. I just didn't want you to be worried if you heard something on the news about me being attacked."

  "Okay, darling. I love you."

  "And I love you, baby. I'll talk to you later."

  As I put the cell phone away, Osborne said, "You've become quite the lover, Sherlock. When's the wedding?"

  "Nothing planned yet, guys."

  ~

  As we entered the lobby of the Federal building, all eyes turned in my direction. The last time I'd entered here dragging suitcases, I was a bloody mess. This time I had changed my blood-stained pants and shoes when we stopped into my co-op to get my suitcases. The only evidence of battle was my bandaged hand.

  I dropped my suitcases off in the locker room before we headed up to the interrogation rooms. When we arrived upstairs, we were directed to a room, and all three of us entered and took seats around the table. I sat facing the two-way mirror because I knew it was expected.