Big City Heat

by David Burnsworth

  But all Brack could think at that moment was, this is a suicide mission. Hope Mutt is up for another one.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Saturday, six p.m.

  Sitting with Darcy in a trendy coffee shop that evening, its big windows overlooking a busy street, Brack stared at all the unanswered questions he’d written on a sheet of paper. He tapped the side of his cup, which now held cold coffee.

  “Regan’s not surrounded by bright people,” Darcy said.

  “That only adds to the difficulty,” he said. “It means they are apt to do anything. Not follow a script.” He stared at the coffee shop’s steady influx of customers. Most wanted their coffee doctored in a way Maxwell House had never intended.

  Downing the last of her latte, Darcy stood and threw away her empty cup.

  Brack tapped on his cup some more.

  At the table next to him a baby dressed in pink sat on her father’s lap, gurgled, and reached out to him.

  He waved.

  She waved back.

  Darcy interrupted, “What a cute baby.”

  Brack asked her if she and the peckerwood were planning to procreate, except he used Welcott’s given name.

  His favorite reporter made a “goo-goo” sound, completely enamored of the infant, ignoring his question.

  Brack ignored her ignoring him and said, “We need to have Regan tailed. Why don’t you work on that?”

  Darcy held out a finger and the baby grabbed it.

  “I’ve been here only a year, Brack. It takes a while to get things organized.”

  Brack drank cold coffee, wondering if she were talking about her work or her personal life. “No, it doesn’t. Not for you.” He set the cup down.

  Sitting back in her chair, now refocused on the problem at hand, she said, “You’re right.” She pulled out her phone and touched the screen. “Regan’s still at home. Been there for the last twelve hours.”

  “Anything else you’re not telling me?”

  “Not as far as you know.”

  Brother Thomas called at that moment and asked what they were up to, because, as he put it, “If they weren’t doing anything, there was always something needing done.” Which in his parlance meant volunteer work.

  Brack and Darcy left the coffee shop and headed south on Peachtree, the evening traffic already a slight nuisance. Forty-five minutes to travel a distance that in Charleston would take all of five minutes, they parked at Three Crosses Church. Brother Thomas and another man were busy unloading a delivery truck.

  Without asking, Darcy and Brack grabbed boxes from the back of the truck and carted them inside the church. These turned out to contain cans of vegetables. Like the Church of Redemption of Brother Thomas, this church of Reverend Cleophus also moonlighted as a soup kitchen. Here, in the capital of the South, the patrons were similar to those in Charleston—the difference being how many. The number of people lined up waiting for a meal staggered him. And it would take another two hours before serving them could even begin.

  Within the hour, Tara and her younger brother joined them. Brother Thomas never met anyone he wouldn’t eventually hit up to help out. The evening went by fast, and after the clean-up, Brack, Darcy, Tara, and Darnel were ready to drop. As they sat around a table sipping sweet tea, Reverend Cleophus came in, a somber look on his face.

  Brack asked if everything was okay.

  The preacher took a seat, his hands shaking in front of him. “I got some bad news.”

  Brack had experienced a lot of tragedy in his life, his wife’s death at the top of the list. They hadn’t had any children yet and so he’d been left to deal with the pain alone.

  To Reverend Cleophus’s statement, Brack said, “Okay.”

  “Remember I told you to look for Mindy and Kai,” the Reverend said.

  Immediately Brack knew he did not like where this was going. “Yes.”

  The preacher put his head in his hands.

  Brother Thomas put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  “The police found two girls matching their description in a dumpster.”

  Brack felt Darcy’s and Tara’s eyes on him. He did not look at them. Instead, he got up from the table and walked outside the church. When he was alone, he called Nichols.

  When the detective answered, Brack asked, “Can you check on a couple of dead bodies for me?”

  “Maybe,” came the reply.

  “Two eighteen-year-olds. First names Mindy and Kai.”

  Nichols asked, “What’s your connection with them?”

  “I met their mothers.”

  “Under what circumstance?”

  Brack took a deep breath and tried to calm down. “I’m guessing by answering my question with your questions means you do know about them and they are indeed dead.”

  “Yes.”

  He closed his eyes. He did not want to deal with being responsible for two more deaths, innocent or not.

  Nichols continued, “They were cut up pretty bad. Some john paid a lot of money for that trick.”

  Brack opened his eyes.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “For the right amount of money,” Nichols said, “anything is possible.”

  “What if I told you I tried to talk to them?”

  Nichols didn’t respond right away. When he did, he asked, “You think because you spoke with them, they were killed.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did they give you any information?”

  Brack shook his head in frustration. He realized Nichols could not see his nonverbal answer over the phone. “That’s what’s so sick about this. When I approached them, they screamed and alerted their handlers. I got nothing from them except to be chased by two armed thugs.”

  “Jesus.”

  Brack hung up and called Mutt, who’d been with Cassie at the hospital, and told him they needed more weapons. A lot more. Now he wanted to unleash the hounds of hell on Vito.

  Mutt said he knew just the place.

  Brack, dressed in the clothes Darcy picked out for him, parallel parked at a meter a block away from Mutt’s source for guns. Before stepping out of the Mazda, he scanned the area. Cars and trucks from all walks of life filled the street. The sidewalk was cracked and worn but fairly litter-free. Mutt and Brack got out of the car and crossed the intersection. The target building loomed across from them, a brick two-story with hazy windows. The thump of bass within resonated across the street. The beat was not gangsta rap. It wasn’t blues or even the strip club Kid Rock “Cowboy” ballad. It was reggae.

  A fixture with a single bulb illuminated two black men perched on stools outside of the establishment’s entrance. A rastacap bearing the colors of Africa covered each man’s mountains of dreadlocks.

  Brack and Mutt approached the doormen.

  The closest one said, “Dis a pri-vate club, mon.”

  Mutt folded his arms across his chest. “Well, dis a private matter.”

  “Beat it, mon,” the other said. “Before we have to get up off our stools.”

  Behind them, the door to the “private” club was nothing more than a metal screen, its rusty frame held in place by corroded hinges. An idea formed in Brack’s vengeance-focused brain around the temptation to shove these two dread heads right through the makeshift door.

  Brack’s savvy companion must have sensed his thoughts. He said, “Easy, Opie.”

  Brack spotted the cause of his concern. Both rastas were packing more than yards of unwashed hair. The shape of the butt of a gun could be seen through each of their t-shirts.

  “How about this?” Brack asked. “You let us through without a hassle and we’ll buy you a beer inside.”

  The Rasta on Brack’s right looked at his partner and both laughed.

  Mutt shook his head.

  In
one motion, Brack raised his foot and kicked, catching the laughing instigator in the gut. He flew backwards off the stool and through the screen door.

  Before the other could react, Mutt grabbed the guy’s gun and trained it on him. Brack jumped on the one he’d used as a door opener and grabbed his piece.

  The pungent aroma of marijuana wafted through the now-open entry. Brack held the rusty screen door open for Mutt who escorted the other doorman in with a nudge of the pistol. A thick layer of smoke danced around the rafters, dimming the illumination. A quick scan of the room revealed at least ten men, all with long dreads visible or partially showing under their rasta-caps.

  All had pistols.

  Pointed at them.

  One man sat higher than the others on a sort of throne, sporting shoulder-length dreadlocks and holding a fat three-inch-long spliff between the fingers of one hand. His other hand was raised as if commanding his soldiers to hold back.

  Every eye in the room focused on Brack and Mutt, all the men seemingly ready to attack them upon command.

  The man on high—figuratively and literally—took a hit off his smoke, exhaled, and said, “I saw you comin’ long before you got here.”

  Folding his arms across his chest, Brack asked, “How’s that?”

  The Rasta king tilted his head back and inhaled air through his nostrils deeply. To his men he said, “Help Julian up.” To Brack and Mutt he said, “You carry the stench of death. Chaos and destruction follow you. And you brought it to my kingdom.”

  Two Rastas came forward and helped up the man Brack had kicked through the door.

  Brack said, “I heard Vito was muscling in on your kingdom.”

  With a tight grin, the Rasta king said, “You heard wrong. Vito is a serpent crawling on de ground.”

  “Well, my preacher told me the story of one snake that caused a whole lot of damage.”

  “Why you here?” the king asked.

  “Someone else told me the enemy of my enemy was my friend. And I’m the man who wants to stand over your problem snake with a shovel and chop its head off. If you saw us coming, you know who we are.”

  Drawing deeply on his smoke again, the king held his breath a few seconds, then let out a steady stream. “You do not answer my question.”

  Mutt, who’d been quiet the whole time, said, “Reason we here is we need some a them shovels.”

  “I see.” The Rasta king’s eyes appeared to focus on something to his left, as if in deep thought, then came back to his two customers. “Yes. I believe we con help you gentlemen with your endeavah.”

  With a wave of his free hand he summoned one of his men. They spoke in whispers. Then the man scurried off.

  Mutt and Brack stood quietly, arms at their sides holding the guns they’d taken off the door guards, ready for anything.

  Four men entered the room, each pair of them carrying a rectangular wooden crate a little smaller than a coffin. They set the crates down in front of Brack and Mutt and removed the lids. Inside was a gangster’s paradise: AKs, Tech Nines, Berettas, pump-action shotguns, Glocks, H&Ks. And many more.

  Brack’s eyes opened wide and he selected a Colt forty-five to replace the one that Vito’s men had blown up with his car. “How much?”

  The king on his throne smiled, took another drag, and exhaled again. “If you are successful, you will have paid your debt. If not, well...”

  His implication was clear. Either they cut the head off Vito or they come back here and deal with all these armed Rastas. One serpent was easier than a dozen Rastafarians. Brack and Mutt took the deal, along with a forty-five, a telescopic baton, and a nine millimeter.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Sunday, ten a.m.

  Through her never-ending network of sources, Darcy found a hole in Vito’s armor big enough for Brack to punch a fist through. Vito had weekly appointments in a luxury hotel suite with a certain masseuse. Brack, Mutt, and Darcy wondered if Regan knew about it. The best part was that Vito kept it on the down low by using only one security guard—Jack Townsend—to accompany him. Everyone knew the head of Vito’s security was the best, so nobody messed with him.

  Vito believed himself safe.

  That was up until Sunday morning at ten when Brack and Mutt knocked on the masseuse’s door dressed like bellmen. Brass buttons glinted against the itchy black material. Their attire came from a local uniform store and fit well enough for the occasion. The short-billed caps they wore when seen through a peephole would make it tough for even their own mothers to recognize them.

  This was one of those times when Brack didn’t want to think too hard about what was about to happen next. They wanted Vito, preferably alive. They needed him breathing at least long enough to tell them where they could find Regan. But with everything that had happened, nothing was a given any more.

  Townsend opened the door and Brack hit him square across the jaw. The Aryan stumbled backward. Mutt and Brack entered. Brack pulled out the telescopic baton and with a flick of his wrist extended the weapon.

  Mutt moved around him and went to the back of the suite.

  Townsend stepped back, eyes on Brack, and rubbed his face.

  He gave his head two quick shakes.

  Brack wanted blood today. Now. For beating and torturing Cassie. For killing Nina, and Mindy, and Kai.

  From somewhere in the apartment, a woman screamed.

  Townsend said, “You’re a dead man.”

  Brack swung the baton.

  Townsend side-stepped the blow and punched Brack in his exposed gut.

  Brack felt the pain but gritted through the jolt. He knew he could not take his attention off his opponent, who bounced around like a lightweight champion.

  Townsend came in low.

  Brack swung the baton again.

  Townsend ducked it a second time and gave Brack a one-two blow to his gut.

  It was harder to grit through the pain a second time. One more blow and Brack knew he would be in trouble.

  Townsend bounced back and then forward. Brack swung the baton again. It cracked across Townsend’s face. Townsend spun with the blow and Brack took the opportunity to smash his left knee. The giant collapsed. There was no mercy from Brack for this man. The pain and suffering he’d caused many others was immeasurable. Brack decided that Townsend would die here today.

  From where he lay on the floor, Townsend saw Brack raise the baton again. He tried to roll away from the blow but was too late. Brack slammed the weapon across an exposed wrist and heard bone snap. The once-great warrior curled into a fetal position, so Brack kicked him in the middle of his back.

  From behind Brack, Mutt said, “Opie, we gotta go.”

  “I’m not finished.”

  Mutt grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him away. “Give ’im a rain check. Vito left the building. We gotta go now.”

  “How’d he get away?”

  “He shoved the girl at me,” Mutt said. “There musta been another exit.”

  “Okay.”

  Mutt let go and Brack kicked Townsend in the face twice before Mutt grabbed him again and shoved him out the door.

  They ran from the masseuse’s suite. The fact that it was located on the fiftieth floor meant they had to take the elevator. But less than sixty seconds after pressing the call button, the doors swished open and they got on. Mutt hit “L” and they were off. Brack could only pray they wouldn’t stop at too many floors on the way.

  Mutt pulled out his Beretta and checked to make sure a round was chambered. “We been in some crazy situations before, but nothin’ like this.”

  “You know we might not make it,” Brack said.

  Mutt tucked the pistol in the front waistband of his trousers. “You say that before. Let’s work on havin’ a positive attitude.”

  “Okay, I’m positive we might not make it thi
s time. You didn’t let me finish off Sasquatch upstairs. He’s still a threat.”

  “You broke his jaw, his nose, his knee, and his wrist. I think we’re safe from him for now.”

  Brack wanted a cigar. Instead, he took out a piece of Bubblicious, grape flavor, and popped it in his mouth.

  Mutt toked on vapor.

  The doors opened on the twenty-fifth floor. A well-dressed older white man and woman started to get on, took one look at Brack and Mutt—even though their attire du jour was of bellmen—and stepped back. Mutt waved as the doors closed.

  “Guess we scared them,” Brack said.

  “Guess so.”

  The next stop was the ground floor. As soon as the doors slid open, they bolted from the elevator, raced through the lobby, and ran out the front door, their bellman caps still in place. Darnel, Tara’s brother, waited for them in his Mercedes sedan. They jumped in the idling car and Mutt shouted, “Hit it!”

  Darnel sped away and Mutt and Brack changed back to their street clothes. At the first stoplight Darnel turned to Mutt. “You guys all right?”

  “Opie took down Townsend, but Vito got away.”

  The light turned green and Darnel took off again. “Where to now?”

  “Opie, you got any ideas?”

  “Yes.” Brack pulled out his iPhone and called Darcy.

  She answered with, “The police were called to the Towers. I’m guessing you’re not dead and you need something.”

  “We lost Vito,” he said. “Any idea where he could be?”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Traveling down Peachtree.”

  A pause, then, “Meet me at the Varsity,” and she ended the call.

  Brack told Darnel.

  Mutt said, “Good. I’m hungry.”

  Ten minutes later they pulled into the parking lot of Atlanta’s original, the Varsity. Mutt jumped out and went to the counter. Before Darnel or Brack could object, he ordered six burgers, a mound of fries, and four large Varsity orange drinks.

  Within ten minutes, they were busy stuffing their faces.