[Anthology] Close to the Bones

by Martha Carr

  “Come on, baby,” I urged the car as I floored it back in the direction we’d come from. “Just a little bit further,” I said as we caromed back up the fire trail.

  No sign of the Yukons behind us as the battery died a quarter mile from the road. I angled the car to block the road and told Johnny to get out.

  “Why? Are we running?”

  “No,” I said, yanking Marco’s gun out of my waistband. “We’re ambushing them. Do you have a gun?”

  He nodded and pulled a Desert Eagle Action Express out of a shoulder holster I’d somehow not been able to see beneath his sport coat.

  “Have you ever fired that thing?” I asked. It was a gun designed to fire massive rounds that were about as wide around as my finger, which made it a ludicrous choice for a gunfight.

  He shook his head.

  I wanted to make a compensating-for-something joke, but there wasn’t time. “Good God. Give me that.” I snatched it out of his hands and replaced it with the Beretta I’d taken from Marco as the rumble of Yukon engines entered our range of hearing. “Take this, and go hide in the bushes over to the left of the trail about fifteen feet back. When they get out of their cars to shoot the Leaf, take them out and for the love of God don’t hit me. I’ll be in the bushes on the other side, so angle your shots down the trail back where we came. Now go!”

  He took off into the brush and I did the same, my nerves taut and adrenaline slamming through my brain. We made it to our positions just as the headlights of the remaining two Yukons bounced into sight and slowed as they approached the Leaf blocking the road.

  I was four feet away from the back doors of the first Yukon, and I hunkered down with the .22 Colt 1911 I almost always keep holstered at my ankle. I tucked the Desert Eagle into my waistband as all four doors opened and four gangbangers took up positions behind them.

  From the second Yukon, I heard Desmond’s delighted laugh before he shouted, “Light ‘em up!”

  The four gangbangers in front of me strafed the Leaf with overlapping rounds from semiautomatic handguns and, in the front passenger’s case, an AK-47. The noise was deafening from such close range, and I used the din of overlapping gunfire to start taking shots of my own.

  I had twelve rounds, and I made them count. Two shots to the head of the guy wielding the AK dropped him and his weapon flat. Another two shots also ended the criminal career of the guy right in front of me as he turned in surprise to see muzzle flashes coming from right next to him.

  The gangsters’ shots began to thin out as they realized something wasn’t right, and I could hear Johnny firing his shots in quick succession from the other side of the road. He’d be out of ammunition in less than a second at the rate he was going.

  I jumped out of the bushes and leaned across the backseat of the Yukon to take down the thug on that side, ducking as the driver figured out what was going on and started firing into the cab at random.

  I did a forward roll out of the backseat and came up shooting. It took me three shots to shut the driver down, but I managed it.

  Unfortunately, I ended up kneeling in the middle of road, completely exposed. Johnny had stopped shooting, and stayed where he was.

  A bullet sprayed dirt into my face as I rolled toward the front of the Yukon and away from Desmond’s remaining men. The Desert Eagle fell out of the waistband of my slacks and I left it there in the dirt as I scrambled for cover. I had four rounds left and five hostiles. Not good.

  I heard nothing for ten elastic seconds, then quiet footsteps drawing nearer from either side of the car. I peeked under the car and saw two sets of feet coming closer from the right side, one set from the left, which meant there was one henchman, likely the notary, left guarding Desmond and his buddy.

  I took a deep, steadying breath, adjusted my grip on my gun, whipping around to the left side of the Yukon with my gun pointed up and into the grotesquely injured face of my old pal Marco. I fired a shot where his nose used to be, dashing toward the back of the truck as the remaining two men opened fire at me through the open doors. I came up behind them and fired one shot, that missed, and another that didn’t. The last henchman ducked and, as he tried to recover, I tackled him into the dirt. As we scrabbled for purchase in the soft sand, I grazed the Desert Eagle with my elbow and, bracing my forearm against his throat, reached for it, grabbed it, and brought the butt of it down square between his eyes. Then once more, for good measure.

  He went still, and I rolled off him and went back around to the front of the Yukon for cover.

  “You want to end this now, Desmond?” I called to him as I checked the magazine for the massive .50 caliber handgun in my hand. It held seven rounds. “I’ve got a new toy over here I’d love to try out and I’m happy to use you for target practice.”

  Desmond’s voice shook with fear or rage. “This ain’t over, Johnny.”

  “Yes,” I replied, “it is, and here’s why. In about twenty-four hours, you’re going to have federal agents destroying every part of your life. You got greedy, and if you listen real close you’ll hear the noose tightening around your neck.” Distant sirens cut through the still air, and the dull thwock of helicopter blades began to reverberate off the hillside. “Rather than kill you right here I think I’ll just wait for your bosses to deal with you when they realize the mess you made.”

  My adrenaline rush was wearing off and my hands began to shake as I tried to keep my grip on Johnny’s ridiculous Desert Eagle. “Move on, Desie.” My voice sounded tired, even to me. “You might just make it back to LA before they catch up to you.”

  I watched them get back in the car and haul ass back down the trail in reverse as the helicopter’s searchlight found us.

  “Johnny?” I called out as my shaky legs carried me around the shocking number of bodies I’d left around me. My stomach heaved at the carnage, and I felt a brief, wrenching pain in my guts as I took stock of all the lives I’d ended. “They’re gone, you can come out now.” I shielded my eyes from the overhead light and parted the bushes with the barrel of the Eagle. “Come on, man. Where are you?”

  Police sirens whooped closer and I saw several pairs of headlights approaching from the far side of the Leaf. As they pulled to a stop and barked out commands to drop my weapon and put my hands up, I found Johnny, passed out against a tree with a bullet graze across the top of his right shoulder.

  All things considered, it could’ve been worse. Probably should’ve been worse. For all my efforts to keep my family in the dark about what I do, I’d let them put me in a position where the nastiest aspect of my job skills were on full display. Lots of people say they’d kill for their family, but now I’d proven it.

  I put my hands up and surrendered.

  I went with my dad to the body shop three days later as the tow truck deposited the mangled remains of his car in their scrap yard. “Thanks again for letting me borrow your car, Dad. It handled great.”

  He glared at me before signing it over. As we walked back to my mother’s Lexus parked across the street, he shook his head and sighed. “This was not exactly how I imagined this visit would go.”

  “Oh?” I said as I buckled my seatbelt. “Did you imagine fewer visits to jail and the emergency room? Or was it just that you thought there’d be fewer bodies?”

  My mother leaned forward from the backseat. “Don’t give him a hard time. It’s not his fault you picked a fight with a gang.”

  I blew an irritated breath out my nose as my father eased us back into traffic. “For the last time, mother. Johnny is the one who got involved with a gang. Be mad at him, not me.”

  “Still, I don’t understand why the whole matter could not have been solved peacefully. The deal was all but done!”

  “We asked him to help out with a gang situation, May. I think he did the best he could,” my father said.

  “But did you have to tell the police everything?” she asked, sitting back in her seat as he merged us onto the freeway that would take me to the airport. “Joh
nny could go to jail! And what about Rosie and the kids? What will they do?”

  “Maybe they can come stay with you in your guest house or something. I don’t know. All I know is, you guys asked me to help you out of an illegal situation on my vacation. And I was able to convince the feds to go easy on Johnny on account of how stupid he is.”

  “That’s true,” my father said.

  “Fine,” she said, crossing her arms. “So Daniel, when are you coming back to visit us again? I want to reschedule that date with Vera. Remember that girl I told you about? Very smart, comes from an excellent family.”

  I laughed. I laughed and laughed and laughed. “Soon, mom. Definitely soon.”

  She smiled. “Really?”

  I laughed some more. “No.”

  “Daniel!”

  “Sorry. But seriously, I don’t know when I’ll have some time off again so I can’t say.”

  “But will you try?”

  “Maybe. It depends. Are you proud of me?”

  There was a warning in her voice. “Don’t start that again.”

  I held my tongue as the miles went by in tense silence.

  We played conversational chicken for a full hour until the departures drop-off curb was visible. I unbuckled my seatbelt and let myself out of the car, anger making my movements brusque. I slammed the trunk closed and left without a word until I heard my dad clear his throat behind me.

  “I am.”

  I turned around. “What was that?”

  He took a step closer. “I am. Proud of you, I mean.”

  Something broke, just a little bit, in my chest and I found it difficult to catch my breath for a moment.

  He put both his hands out to gently grip my shoulders. “You’re not who we thought we were raising, but I can see us in you. You’ve taken what is best, and fiercest, in both of us and made it your calling. I’m proud of you, and honored to have you as my son.” His voice wobbled and a single tear slipped out of the corner of his eye.

  I couldn’t trust my voice either, so I hugged him instead. When the hug ran its course, I pulled away to see my mother staring straight ahead in the passenger seat, a stubborn set to her jaw as she refused to make eye contact with me. “Think she’ll ever forgive me?”

  “Of course she will. Give it time.”

  “I’ve given her nine years.”

  He shrugged and reached down to hand me my bag. “Give her more time. Have a good flight, son.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I will.”

  We hugged once more and then went our separate ways, him to his steady, responsible life and me to my dangerous, unpredictable one. My phone chimed as I cleared the security checkpoint, and when I opened the encrypted email saw that it was from the Staff Operations Officer of the Eastern Bloc, following up on a possible mission. I dropped my bag at my feet and typed a reply.

  Just returning now from some PTO, count me in.

  I sent the email with a smile. I’d survived my trip home, and at last managed to win one of my parents over. As vacations went, this one wasn’t bad.

  I handed my ticket to the flight attendant and left Berkeley behind me.

  About Erika Mitchell

  Erika Mitchell is the author of Bai Tide and Take the Bai Road, the first two books of her Bai Hsu series. She uses her lifelong passion for espionage to infuse her stories with the fun and intrigue of the James Bond movies she grew up watching, and sets those stories in ripped-from- the-headlines locations around the globe. When she’s not writing, she’s raising two tiny spies-in- training with her husband in Seattle, WA. For more information, please visit www.erika-mitchell.com.

  Six

  Catching the Edge: A Reggie Carpenter Adventure

  By Stephen Campbell

  The front cabin of the luxurious 60 foot Hatteras Motor Yacht seemed large. I stood in its doorway, arms crossed and leaning against the frame, watching Story Hilton work her way across the bed on her hands and knees.

  Story and the boat fit well together; both were elegantly sleek and would require more money than I had to take them out on a regular basis.

  You’d think with a name like Reggie Carpenter—officially Reginald Randolph Carpenter II—money wouldn’t be a problem but sadly, that’s not the case.

  Reginald Randolph Carpenter I, Esquire, had been head of the most white-shoe law firm in Elan, Florida until recently. Since I was expected to join the family business I did the law school thing, but after graduation realized I didn’t have it in me to face that particular future. So, much to the dismay and disappointment of dear old dad, I bolted for the Marines. Six years and multiple Afghanistan tours later, I was back in Elan trying to get my head straight.

  Dad had retired and handed the firm over to my twin sister.

  I’m a private investigator now, with a staff of one and a client list that’s not much longer.

  Home suits me, although whether or not my head’s straight is still up for debate.

  Story leaned forward, propped herself on one elbow and pulled at the covers. Her voice bounced around wood-paneled walls. "What's back here?"

  My phone vibrated, so I inched out of what the salesman called the “stateroom” and let him take my place. Geoffrey was a nice-looking kid, mid-twenties maybe—about a decade younger than me. Like any good salesperson, he had the answer to Story’s question.

  “There’s a foot of extra space that can be used as storage for linens or other necessities,” he said. “I know of one couple who stashes their wine in that space.”

  I passed through a galley large enough to seat my entire extended family and continued out onto the deck where half a dozen other boat show guests waited their turn to tour the inside.

  I flipped open this month’s burner phone. Caller ID said private number, which in my line of work was fairly common.

  I answered with my last name, same way I take every call.

  The voice on the other end was loud, male, and maybe a little manic.

  "We've got your kid,” he said. “Took her from that party at the Castle. You can have her back for—”

  As well as private number calls, I also get my fair share of nut jobs. I cut this one off. "Who is this?"

  "Shut up and listen,” he said.

  The hair on my arms rose at the seriousness of his tone. I stepped toward a gleaming rail and looked out into Elan Bay. No matter which direction the call went, my boat shopping plans had just been obliterated. "Go ahead."

  "I got your kid. I need one thousand dollars.” His voice got muted, like he’d turned away from the phone, and he snarled, “What?" Muffled sounds came through; maybe he'd covered the mic. Then there was a small yelp that could have been a child, then he was back in my ear again. "No, two thousand. Get it. And no cops or we dump her in the swamp. Call you in twenty minutes."

  I stood on the deck looking at the gray-blue sea and the bright blue sky. I was surrounded by expensive boats and beautiful people. My thoughts spun, trying to connect the reality in front of me to whatever was on the other end of the phone.

  Two thousand dollars?

  What kind of idiot kidnaps a child for two thousand dollars?

  I started to say, "You've got the wrong num—" but the voice on the other end was gone.

  I stared at the display. I wanted to assume the call was a prank and get on with my day, but questions stirred and an uneasy sense of responsibility took hold. Whoever and whatever this was, the call wasn’t for me.

  I don't have any kids.

  What I could do was call the police, which I accomplished by punching in Detective Chuck Brown’s number.

  Chuck is the top investigator with the Elan Police Department. He’d played linebacker for Dartmouth College fifteen years ago, and could still run down and tackle most of the baddies who inhabited this part of Southwest Florida.

  When he needed information about the upper crust of Elan, the people who liked to keep the police at arm’s length unless they needed something, he’d call me and I was happy to
help. When I needed something from the police department, I’d call him and he’d swear at me and hang up. I considered us to be unofficial friends.

  He was the only person I could think of right now who wouldn’t immediately write me off as a nut job, tempting as it might be.

  Chuck answered with a brusque, “I’m busy.”

  Of course he was busy. He was probably on his own boat with his own kids trying to teach them to catch their own fish. “I’ll be quick,” I said. “Just got a call, wrong number, a ransom demand from a guy claiming he’s kidnapped my daughter from The Castle.”

  “This better not be a joke, Carpenter.”

  Story tugged on my arm and gave me what, in just a few hours together, I’d learned was her “I’m bored, let’s go” look.

  I pointed at the phone and turned back to face the water. “I hope it is a joke,” I said. “I’m honestly not sure.”

  I’ll spare you Chuck’s stream of creative expletives. He paused, then said, “All right, what else do you have?”

  “Not a whole lot. He told me to get two thousand dollars together, said he’d call back in twenty minutes, and insisted there be no cops or they’d dump her in the swamp. Then—”

  “They?”

  “Sounded like there was more than one of them.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Called you as soon as he hung up.”

  More expletives followed—from him and from a female voice. “Gimme the number,” he said.

  “Blocked.” I grabbed Story’s hand and started for the dock.

  Chuck asked, “How far are you from The Castle?”

  He didn’t need to explain the question. He wanted my phone, and that was the best place to get it. “Ten minutes,” I said. “Already on my way.”

  We reached the dock. I turned to Story. “I’ve got to go. It’s a work thing”