by PT Reade
With the fight leaving her, Donnie slumped against the railing next to the steps and flicked the safety across to ‘on’ on the pistol she had just picked up from goon number one.
“Happy?” she replied sarcastically.
I took it as the closest I would get to an agreement. I nodded and climbed the stairs, heading for the main entrance.
“Watch your ass in there,” Donnie called up to me. “I’m starting to like it.”
I shook my head and entered the building.
THIRTY-FIVE
For the second time that day I found myself in an abandoned building with the world crumbling around me. This time there were no flames, only the echoes of life I had witnessed hours before.
Eerily empty, void of activity.
The Dog House was abandoned, but signs of a struggle were everywhere. Chairs were broken, a table smashed. Empty bullet casings and blood stains smeared on the floor.
What the hell happened here?
Someone had torn the place apart. But where were the other members? I looked behind the bar and pulled back chairs and closet doors. Nothing.
A faint noise drew my attention back to the rear of the lounge and the hidden room; the gambling den.
There was no light in the doorway this time, just a weak whimpering and the occasional dripping of broken beer bottles.
I gripped my Smith and Wesson more tightly and brought it up, stepping slowly across the wooden floor. The ancient boards creaked more than once, but with no one else in sight, I had no need to conceal my approach.
I pressed a hand against the door—one lesson I would never forget—and when it came away cool, I pushed it open.
My gun swept quickly, scanning the room. Moving the revolver left-to-right as is my way, I was ready for any more heavily armed goons or surprises. But none came.
Then I saw them, limp and ragged on the floor.
God, no.
Four bodies lay crumpled, lifeless, unmoving. Two of the bikers I recognized from earlier, the other two were unfamiliar. All wore black leathers. One clutched a pistol, limply. Another gazed up at the ceiling, eyes unblinking.
All were dead. Large caliber bullet holes riddled their chests.
Another goddam massacre.
I reached down for a pulse, but part of me already knew it was too late.
When a low wheeze cut through the stillness, I jerked my gun up.
“Hello?”
I jumped to my feet and strained to see through the dark. Creeping forward cautiously, slowly, my eyes finally adjusted and I gasped at the source of the noise.
Slumped against one of the pool tables, Lincoln Lewis sat in a pool of his own blood. His head was lowered and his chest unmoving. Next to him, crumpled in a heap was another of the khaki-clad army wannabes—this one with a ballistic vest and large assault rifle discarded next to him. As my eyes swept the gloom, I saw another in the corner, similarly unmoving.
Shit.
Whatever happened here, there had been a brutal gunfight.
I crouched over Lincoln’s body. His arm was twisted at an unnatural angle, and there were burn marks on his face. He’d been tortured.
What sick bastard had done this?
I crouched down to check for a pulse, not expecting much. My hand touched the sticky, crimson skin of his neck when his head moved slightly.
“They … I tried …”
“Lincoln! Jesus.”
“Tried…”
“Don’t speak. We need to get you out of here. We need to—”
“No.” He croaked. The man could barely move his head, his eyes rose to meet mine, but they were glassy, distant. “I’m done here. They got me … bastards.”
“Stay still. Let me get a cloth, something to patch you up.”
Lincoln had surrendered to his fate and was fading fast.
“Who did this Lincoln? tell me.”
“It was—” Lincoln croaked, but his eyes drooped, and unconsciousness claimed him.
“Shit.”
I dashed back into the main bar and started dialing for an ambulance on my cell phone.
Too late, I realized my mistake. I had assumed Lincoln was the bomber. He had the training and the motive. Despite his claims to not be involved, he had a grudge against Teach somehow. His wife, I assumed. She had been one of Teach’s victims.
How wrong I’d been.
We served together.
A floorboard creaked behind me.
I turned, but too late. The butt of the rifle, cracked across my cheek sending me sprawling to the floor. I slumped in a heap, feeling every aching bone, every ounce of tiredness flowing through me from the longest day of my life.
A slim flow of warmth trickled down my cheek, and my jaw ached. I turned to face the barrel of an assault rifle pointing at me—and the man carrying it.
Harlon Lewis.
THIRTY-SIX
“You,” I spat. “You’re behind all of this. You sick son of a bitch.”
“Me? Harlon replied, keeping the black AR-15 leveled at my face. “No. Not me. Well, I have been instrumental in these events, that is for sure, and my expertise was required with the some of the more explosive elements, but it wasn’t my plan.”
“So, who?”
“You have seen too many movies, Mr. P.I. If you think this is the part where I am going to explain my nefarious plan and monologue while you figure some way out of this, you are sorely mistaken. That’s just not how this story ends.”
I was running on empty. A hollow space. All out of energy and grand ideas. I grasped at the only thing that made sense, the only thing that could possibly connect everything.
“It’s Donnie, isn’t it? She’s the reason behind all this.”
Harlon frowned and regarded me curiously for a moment. “You know nothing about me, Blume. Nor about my life and my family.”
“Do you really hate her that much? Your own niece?”
“She ain’t my niece,” Harlon spat. “Just because Lincoln takes in strays from the street, it don’t make her family.”
“So, you beat him to within an inch of his life? Real brotherly love there.”
“Quiet!” Harlon snapped. “Lincoln meant everything to me. Everything. We grew up together, served in the Rangers together, bled together—literally. When that IED went off, it tore the flesh from my bones. Do you know what that’s like? To feel the skin ripped from your body? Lincoln dragged me three miles to the nearest FOB. No one else. He saved my life, which is why I spared his … for now.”
“That doesn’t excuse the bombs. You sick bastard.”
“Do you know what it’s like to give everything for a country that doesn’t give a shit? To be ignored after sacrificing so much? We came back, and good old Uncle Sam decided I didn’t qualify for disability payment. They said Lincoln acted against orders by saving me. That my criminal record stood against me. They didn’t care what we did for our country. We couldn’t get a break, couldn’t get a chance—so we took it.”
“So, you became a killer?”
“No. You don’t understand. The first time it was just a few robberies. A convenience store here and there, but we made money, a lot of it. So, we saved up, bought this place and used the Motorcycle gang as a cover. It worked well. So well that others started joining us.”
“Your criminal empire?”
“Our brotherhood. We moved into security and enforcement. Whatever you needed our crew could handle it. As time went on, Linc and I started making enough money out of the bar that he decided we didn’t need the other jobs no more, that we could go legit. The other gangs started laughing at us. Taking over old territories. We were a goddam embarrassment. Our boys began getting into street fights over territory and jobs. What started with fists, moved onto knives and then guns. Until …”
“Your son.”
Harlon squinted at me and swallowed hard.
“You lost him. I know what that’s like,” I continued.
“You don’t kn
ow shit. When my son—when Noah was killed, I—”
“You wanted revenge.”
“I wanted blood. But Lincoln insisted we go to the cops, ‘don’t make things worse.’ My son was dead, how much fucking worse could it be!”
Harlon looked at me with the knife edge of grief and anger in his eyes, an edge I knew all too well. “I kept our brotherhood strong,” he continued. “Kept us fighting and winning for years. But Lincoln grew soft in his old age, forgot what we stood for. I knew better; I knew the other crews couldn’t be trusted. Violence was all they understood. I just had to wait.”
“You knew Lincoln didn’t have long left, knew he was on the way out.”
“Stupid bastard loved his cigars too much. Death catches up with us all eventually. I made peace with that a long time ago. I figured Lincoln had made mistakes, but he didn’t have long left. Then I found out he wanted to leave it all to that little slut.”
“Donnie,” I whispered.
“That stupid little bitch ain’t even family. And Lincoln wanted to leave it all to her. The fool. I couldn’t allow it; I wouldn’t.”
“So, you tortured him?
Harlon’s eyes flicked to the gambling room and back to me. “That … that wasn’t part of the plan. I wanted him to sign over the deed for the clubhouse, that’s all. He would make me the sole owner and leader of the club. We would be strong again, stronger than ever under my leadership, and my son would get justice.”
“But he wouldn’t do it, would he? He’s as stubborn as you are.”
“Stupid bastard. He forced me to make deals too. With other people.”
“Who?”
Harlon tightened the rifle at his shoulder, and a predatory grin spread across his face.
“You’re good Blume; I’ll give you that. Few more minutes and I’d have given you my life story, but unfortunately, our time here has run out. I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure, but to be honest, I didn’t like you from the start. Goodbye Mr. Blume.
Harlon flipped the safety down and sighted the weapon on my chest.
I took a deep breath and glanced up at the man. From the corner of my vision, something moved. I laughed a dark chuckle and spat out the blood that was building inside my mouth.
“Care to tell me what you find so funny?” Harlon snarled. “It’s over for you Blume, I’ve won.”
My eyes flicked up to Harlan and to the shadow moving behind him. “Sorry Harlon, but that’s just not how this story ends.”
A gunshot shattered the midday air. The shotgun blast hit Harlon square in the ribs. His body was flung across the room and he crashed into the table near the window, which cracked from the impact.
Donnie Lewis stood where Harlon had been a moment before. Fire filled her eyes, and for a moment I wondered if she would turn the gun on me.
Harlon slumped in the corner, and much to my surprise groaned in pain.
“Rock salt,” Donnie exclaimed as if it explained everything. She flicked her eyes away from the Harlon and regarded me on the floor. She raised the shotgun, so I could see. We keep this little number behind the bar. Call it ‘the peacekeeper.’”
“Fitting,” I groaned as I climbed to my feet with a helping hand from Donnie.
“We can’t go killing every asshole that causes trouble, sometimes a bit of agonizing pain is all it takes instead.”
“I’m not sure this asshole deserves it.”
Harlon groaned on the floor and clutched his belly where blood seeped from beneath his shirt. He slowly reached a hand out for the assault rifle two feet away. I kicked the weapon away and stepped on his fingers. Bones crunched under my boot. He yelped once more.
“But for what it’s worth, I think you made the right choice.”
Donnie lowered the weapon and held it in her hand, before staring blankly at Harlon like he wasn’t even there. “It’s what Dad would have wanted.”
“Lincoln … you know he’s—”
“He’ll pull through,” Donnie said, to my surprise. “I found the tough old goat out back. I patched him up temporarily, and called the ambulance before I came in here and found you two having a little talk.”
“Your timing was impeccable.”
“I’m not finished with this one yet.” She brought the shotgun up once more, leveling the barrel at Harlon’s head.
I raised a hand. “Wait, he deserves to suffer—he does, but I need him to answer questions first, or more people will die.”
Donnie looked at me, a hurricane behind wild green eyes, but she lowered the weapon and relaxed her shoulders. “Fine, you have five minutes. I’m going to check on Dad and make some calls.”
She stalked off to the back room, leaving me with the slumped form of Harlon on the floor. He groaned and writhed, clutching his chest. As far as I was concerned he deserved every ounce of pain and then some, but I had questions, and one was burning more than most.
THIRTY-SEVEN
“Teach,” I said, crouching next to Harlon. “Why do you want him dead?”
“What?” The man groaned. “Call me an ambulance!”
“Wrong answer,” I replied, slapping him across the face. “Let’s try again. Roland Teach, why do you want him dead?”
“Jesus! I don’t. I mean I don’t even know him. Never even heard of that son-of-a-bitch until the boss mentioned it. He’s got a real hard-on for the guy though; I think he’s afraid of him or something.”
“The boss? Who? Who mentioned it?”
“I don’t know. Never met him in person. Phone calls and email only.”
“Bullshit.”
“I swear.”
“So, tell me. If you don’t care about Teach, why did you have me chasing him all over the city?”
“Just…. part of the deal. A perfect deal in fact.”
“Talk.”
“I need … my chest.”
I pressed the handle of my gun, against Harlon’s rib and he cried out.
“Hurts, doesn’t it? Imagine that pain tenfold, and you aren’t even close to what you’ve inflicted on people today. Talk and maybe—and that’s a big goddam maybe—I make a call and arrange some medical help for you.”
“Ok, Ok!” Harlon cried. “He wanted Teach eliminated—the guy with the job. I don’t know why, didn’t care either, but whoever he is, he’s got resources and a lot of money. The deal was simple. I … I create a couple of explosive devices and offer him the use of The Hounds for future jobs. In return … he provides me the cash and muscle to take over this gang. The only proviso, I didn’t want our boys near that bomb … so I suggested he used some disposable employees.”
“The SMC?”
“Yeah. Imagine my surprise when those Staten Island dipshits screwed up the bomb location and Teach survived, taking out two of them in the process.”
“He’s a pro; he doesn’t need much of a chance.”
Harlon scowled at me. I raised my gun as a threat once more. “Then what?”
“The bodies.”
“What?”
“We knew the bodies would eventually lead back to their garage, and we couldn’t risk anyone talking about the operation. So, so … he sent one of his teams to take care of the … loose ends.”
The pieces started falling into place. A family divided, a war for New York and a deal with the devil.
“You couldn’t believe your luck, right?” I said. “Not only do you get a powerful ally and a shit-ton of cash, but now your main competitor is eliminated.”
“Almost perfect … until you started sniffing around after the explosives,” Harlon grimaced as more blood seeped through his fingers. “Why couldn’t you just follow orders, asshole!”
“Let’s just say I have a problem with authority figures.”
A low growl started to fill the air. I stood and through the window, spotted two bikes arriving, and one more in the distance. A throaty rumble carrying in the midday air told me even more were inbound.
“I called everyone in,” Donnie said,
appearing from behind me. “They need to know what happened here.”
“They need someone to take charge until Lincoln recovers too.”
Donnie nodded as the weight of responsibility settled upon her.
“You’ll do fine,” I said. “Lincoln believes in you, and so do I.”
She tucked the shotgun back behind the bar and scooped up Harlon’s assault rifle from the floor, ignoring the man himself. “I guess I can whip them into shape.”
“Just don’t be too hard on them.”
Donnie flashed a wicked smile and swung the rifle across her shoulder by its strap.
“The police will want to speak to him. FBI too.” I said gesturing to the writhing form of Harlon on the floor. “An agent named Lynch. Tell him everything that happened and give him this.” I handed over the Samsung cell phone that had been plaguing me for the last 24 hours.
“What’s this?” Donnie, asked, turning the device over in her hand.
“Payback.”
“Huh?”
“On there is a recording of everything Harlon just said. Make sure the FBI get it, it’s important. Your uncle will be in prison for a long time for what he did.”
Donnie nodded, and for the first time, I saw her eyes become glassy, filled with emotion. “Dickhead. I just wish he’d been honest with us; we could have worked things out. Instead, he went behind our backs, made deals that could have killed us all.”
“Families aren’t always easy,” I said quietly.
The first pair of the bikers crashed through the door, and Donnie started issuing orders. She sent one man to check on Lincoln, and a second to guard Harlon until the police came.
In the distance, sirens howled, growing closer and more bikers were arriving by the second. Questions were coming. Questions I didn’t have time for. There was nothing left for me here.
“I have to go, Donnie. This isn’t over for me yet.”