Brack said, “You won’t get her to agree with you either. She’s as gung ho as I am. Maybe even more ruthless.”
Darcy arched an eyebrow. “Maybe?”
“You’re right,” he said. “Definitely more ruthless.”
“Now that we have my feelings clear,” Darcy said, “here are a few things I learned recently. The first is that Vito is trying to expand his empire. The added heat we’ve put on him so far is why he’s lashing out.”
“Who’s he taking market share from?” Brack asked.
Mutt said, “Xavier Kualas.”
Darcy nodded. “Right. Only he’s no featherweight either.”
Tara said, “He’s the biggest thug in the city.”
“Except he wears twenty-thousand-dollar suits and has a chauffeur.” Darcy took out her phone and tapped the screen. “This is him.”
She showed Brack and Brother Thomas a picture of a clean-cut white man about Brack’s age. Kualas looked more like a game-show host than a thug, with a thick head of dark politician’s hair parted on the side, a clean-shaven face, and perfect white teeth.
Tara said, “He’s skated on every arrest.” She looked at her watch. “Look, I’ve got work in the morning. I need to go home and get some sleep.”
Darcy and Brack dropped Tara off at her apartment and stopped for breakfast at the Majestic diner. After he devoured a plate of eggs, bacon, and hash browns, Brack found himself feeling the effects of a long night.
“How’s Paige?” she asked.
“Busy with our second location.”
“How long do you think she’ll stay with you?”
He’d already wondered how long she’d want to continue as his manager after her nuptials. “Unless she decides to have more children or open up her own place, I think she’ll stay.” And if she decided to buy Brack out, he might sell. After all, Hawaii was waiting.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
Checking her face with a compact mirror from her purse, Darcy answered, “Busy.”
“Seems you’re adapting well to your new environment.”
She snapped the compact shut. “Was there any doubt?”
He smiled. “Still the same old weather girl.”
“‘Old’ being relative to what, exactly?”
“Certainly not me,” he said. “So what’s next?”
“You look like you need some sleep.”
Stretching his arms above his head, he said, “Sleep would be nice.”
“It really doesn’t get to you, does it?”
“What?”
“Being shot at.”
Truth be told, he liked the adrenaline rush. He liked it a lot. Afghanistan had chewed him up and spit him out. When he returned to the States, both damaged and healed, he was a different person. And he knew it. One who rolled the danger dice as often as he could. He found it best not to dwell too much on what that meant.
“Not when I know I’m on the good side,” he said.
“It won’t matter which side you’re on if you get killed.”
He took out his wallet and placed thirty dollars on the table. “Probably not in the grand scheme of things. But I believe we’ve got to make the most of the life we’ve been given while we have it. I don’t want to get to the pearly gates and have to explain the things I should have done but didn’t.”
She slid out of her seat like a teenager, giving him a glimpse of the girl she’d been in high school. He continually enjoyed finding something new to like about her.
The sky was getting ready for dawn when Brack fell into bed. Six hours of sleep later, he awoke and got some lunch, since it was close to noon. While seated in a Wendy’s dining area, he got a phone call and recognized the Atlanta number.
“Hey, Shana from Gecko Row,” he said.
“Hey, yourself,” she replied.
“I’d ask you to join me for breakfast, but I’m almost finished.”
“Too bad for you,” she said. “Twelve o’clock is considered lunchtime here in the big city, by the way. Listen, I overheard Levin and a few others talking last night in the bar, and I didn’t put it together until this morning that they were probably talking about you.”
Levin was the name Sonia had given him when he interviewed her at the women’s shelter last Sunday. But Shana had not spoken that name to him before this, so he asked, “Who is Levin to Vito?”
“His number-one guy on the street.”
“What made you think they were talking about me?”
“They mentioned they were looking for the guy who accosted Mindy and Kai three nights ago in some restaurant. At first I thought it must be some creep, until I realized the girls were already out with a creep. That foreign businessman. So this morning it hit me that it was probably you they were talking about. Am I right?”
“I did try to talk with the girls in a restaurant, but they screamed so I had to take off.”
“Be careful,” she said. “You are ‘a person of interest,’ as they put it. Is it true they blew up your Porsche?”
“Unfortunately.”
“These guys like to spend their off time at this dive called the Lion’s Den.” She gave him the details.
A plan formulated in his head, and, to his surprise, Shana wanted to play along. Apparently she didn’t like these guys any more than he did.
An hour later, Brack walked alone into the Lion’s Den. TSTL could describe his life sometimes—too stupid to live. Five familiar-looking motorcycles in the lot behind the building told him members of the gang were here.
The bar, constructed of old steel shipping containers stacked and welded together, defined industrial recycling. He liked the concept, which could probably withstand a hurricane. Not that Atlanta got too many category fivers. He thought about how to adopt the style to his next beach bar back home, if there were ever to be a third.
Probably because no one liked being in the vicinity of Vito’s henchmen, the bar was empty of customers other than the bikers. And their women. A quick count turned up five men and five women, plus two other females comprising the wait staff.
As usual when Brack walked into something like this, all eyes fell on him. So before anyone got the grand idea to start shooting, he announced, “I’ve got a message for Vito.”
All five bikers pulled out pistols and aimed them at him.
The bartender reached for a phone and punched three numbers. Into the phone she said, “Come quick. There are men with guns.”
The biker Brack sensed to be in charge, Levin, he guessed, said, “You’re a dead man.”
Brack said, “Since the cops are already on their way, today is probably not my day. Or yours. Tell Vito he went too far this time. You idiots killed an innocent mother and put another woman in the ICU.”
One of the bikers said, “Innocent? Waren’t no one innocent.”
Levin said, “Shut up, Johnny.”
Behind Brack, five armed police officers stormed in the door, knocking him to the ground. After that, all hell broke loose.
Johnny shot the officer closest to him. The four other bikers immediately up-ended tables to use as shields as they all opened fire. The police ducked for cover and returned fire. And Brack, in the middle of it all, and the only one without a gun, crawled out the door. More police arrived, two of them dragging him off the ground and dumping him behind one of the cruisers.
A loud explosion blew through the front door, followed by smoke. In the chaos, Brack thought he heard motorcycles start up and roar away.
Seconds later, in a cloud of smoke, two officers walked through the door, one of them supporting the other.
An ambulance pulled up behind the police cruisers and was immediately waved back.
Five more officers entered the building, guns drawn and bulletproof vests in place.
Brack ov
erheard one of the cops say, “Dammit! They got away.”
Later, he learned that one of the bikers had set off a smoke canister while another threw a grenade, which was what blew out the front door. Those guys were prepared for an ambush.
Two officers got shot and Brack knew he was responsible. Several more received shrapnel injuries from the grenade. But if the cops hadn’t shown up, thereby validating his bluff, he would have been killed. And if he hadn’t walked into the Lion’s Den to start with, four officers wouldn’t be on their way to the hospital.
All in all, not a good day.
Detective Nichols arrived at the scene and took Brack’s statement.
He asked, “Why did you think this was a good idea?”
“I wanted Vito to get a message.”
“What message was that?” he asked. “That you’re dumb enough to let them take you out?”
Brack didn’t respond.
“And what would have happened if we hadn’t shown up?” Nichols seemed to think about what he’d just said. “You knew we’d show up, didn’t you?”
Brack didn’t say anything.
Nichols’s jaw muscle twitched and he balled his fists.
“You bastard!” Nichols got in Brack’s face. “Four good men are in the ICU all because of your little stunt.”
Anything Brack said would be the wrong thing, so he kept silent. It hadn’t occurred to him that the police would storm the place. Brack thought they would follow protocol, which stressed caution over aggression. Or that the bikers would shoot at cops. The stakes were inching higher.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Thursday, five p.m.
Darcy and a one-man crew showed up outside the Lion’s Den.
While the cameraman set up, she asked Brack, “How dumb are you?”
Pretty dumb, he supposed. “They opened fire on the police.”
“I know. Word is you are responsible for getting two officers shot.”
“Actually,” Brack said, “bad tactics got them shot. What set the ball rolling was poor judgment on my part. And unfortunately there are four heading to the hospital, not two.”
“Did you really confront them by yourself?”
“Yes.”
“What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not like you to be that stupid.”
He took out a piece of gum, unwrapped it, and popped it in his mouth. “I had inside help.”
She chewed her lip, processing this new information. “The one who called the police?”
“Yes.”
“How was that an inside job? She would have done that anyway.”
“She called them two minutes before I walked inside. The call she made that everyone in the room saw after I walked in was fake.” Shana had hooked me up on that one, he thought.
Hands on hips, Darcy said, “They still could have blown your head off.”
“True, but the risk had been reduced.”
“Not enough.”
She was right. When all the bikers simultaneously pulled their guns on him, Brack thought his time was up. That was the closest shave he ever had, but he wasn’t about to admit it to Darcy.
Vito’s men must now be numero uno on the Atlanta Police Department’s apprehension list. For attempted murder of even one cop, the department probably had an unofficial “shoot on sight” mentality. And in this case, Brack didn’t mind one bit. With any luck, by the end of the week there would be five fewer bikers on the road. If the police didn’t get them, Brack planned to take Mutt’s Caddy and run them over.
Darcy asked, “Why are you so careless with your life?”
“That’s fresh coming from the gal who traded blackmail material for access to an underground brothel run by Chinese hoods.”
She opened her mouth to say something, then stopped.
Brack knew he could be very stubborn when he was in the wrong. Arguing with him at those times was an exercise in futility, and this was one of those times. His phone vibrated. He didn’t recognize the number except for the Atlanta area code. He answered.
“Mr. Pelton,” a male voice said. “This is Xavier Kualas.”
The infamous Xavier Kualas requested a private meeting to discuss—as he put it—current events. Brack figured he had nothing to lose. Darcy believed meeting with the biggest hood in Atlanta was a bad idea, so of course Brack thought it was a great idea.
Their meeting was to take place at seven p.m. on the roof of the tallest building in the city. Kualas had arranged that they not be disturbed, which in itself was disturbing.
At the first floor reception desk, Brack gave the name Kualas to the security guard and was shown where to find the elevators. After a nearly instantaneous ride up, he was still dealing with his loss of hearing when the doors opened and two men greeted him. They could have been ex-Atlanta Falcon defensive linemen. Each stood half a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than Brack. For once, he kept his smart mouth shut while they patted him down. One ran some sort of scanner over him, probably checking for a wire.
With the TSA-style preboarding exercise complete, Kualas’s security detail led him to a stairwell and motioned for him to head up. The door at the top opened before he reached it, as if someone were monitoring his progress. Another large bodyguard gestured with an open hand toward the center of the roof. The next images that filled Brack’s sight were the rooftops of the surrounding buildings, then the sprawling city that stretched as far as he could see.
Xavier Kualas watched him, hands behind his back.
Inhaling the high altitude air mixed with city smog, Brack approached the most powerful man in Atlanta.
Kualas did not look like the thug he was. He wore a conservative navy suit, white shirt, and maroon silk tie. Brack sensed Saville Row more than Versace. Kualas did not offer a hand. “Mr. Pelton. Thank you for coming.”
A slight breeze wasn’t enough to blow this evil man off the roof. Brack contemplated throwing him off, knowing his guards would make sure he went next.
Kualas turned and gestured for him to follow. They walked slowly away from his bodyguards.
Brack said, “You called this meeting.”
“Have you heard the expression, ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend’?”
Recognizing immediately where this conversation was headed, Brack merely said, “Yes.”
Glancing at Brack as they walked, Kualas said, “Consider me a friend.”
Great, Brack thought. Friended by the biggest pimp in the southeast. “Thanks, but I already have enough.”
“But you don’t know what I have to offer,” he said.
“Sure I do. Pain, suffering, and misery. Not necessarily in that order.”
Kualas stopped. “Don’t be naïve. I’ve a larger collection of emissaries than your friend, Darcy Wells, does. And you and I both know that is saying something.”
Brack knew he was right. Mutt had told him that Darcy’s impact on local Atlanta news could best be described as a brick through a plate-glass window. She had that kind of effect on situations.
Continuing, Kualas said, “I have two hundred men ready to go now and I can have another five hundred with the snap of my fingers.”
“If you did your research,” Brack said, “then you know I already fought a war.”
“Yes.”
“These walking refrigerators you have are not soldiers. They’re just big targets.”
Kualas looked away. “I see.”
“No, I don’t think you do,” Brack said. “I came to town to help with a missing person case. It’s gone downhill since.”
“From what I know about you, downhill is exactly the situation in which you excel.”
“There will be more death before this is over,” Brack said. “You may think you have some leverage on
me up here surrounded by your overgrown lapdogs, but you and I both know what you really are scared about is collateral damage. Well, my advice to you is to clean up your act and get out of town, because I’m going to blow up Vito and anyone else involved. When I get done, everyone associated with him will wish they hadn’t been.”
Holding out a hand, Kualas said, “Then I guess I don’t have anything to worry about.”
Brack met his gaze but didn’t shake his hand. “If I see you or any of the men here within a hundred yards of me or my friends, I’ll shoot to kill.”
A hand rested on his shoulder and Brack felt something hard poke him in the small of his back. One of the goons said, “I think it’s time for you to leave.”
Kualas said, “It didn’t have to go down like this.”
Smiling, Brack said, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
In actuality, he’d rather not have a gun jammed into his back and be surrounded by all these meatheads. He’d have preferred a one-on-one with Kualas. But it never worked out that way.
The next ten seconds unfolded in a blur.
The door to the roof blew off its hinges. Twenty armed men in black body armor poured through the opening. In an instant they subdued all of Kualas’s men. A helicopter appeared out of the proverbial blue.
Detective Nichols hung out the open door with a bullhorn. “Xavier Kualas, you’re surrounded.”
The bodyguards raised their hands in surrender.
Kualas reached into his jacket.
“Don’t!” Brack shouted.
Four S.W.A.T. team members shot Kualas.
The particular section of the Atlanta police headquarters where Brack happened to be placed smelled of heavy disinfectant and the unwashed odor of broken lives. This time, instead of being made to wait in an interrogation room, he sat alone at a long metal table in a bare-walled conference room. Without his phone or his dog to keep him company, he did what he usually did when detained by the police. He put his head on the table and closed his eyes.
Last year, when he’d been in a similar situation in Charleston, an attractive detective named Rosalita Jackson interrogated him. Detective Nichols, who seemed assigned to Brack specifically, did not possess Rosalita’s attributes, but at least he acted like an honorable man.
Big City Heat Page 16