Which meant the fucker’d set me up.
I kicked a table over, darted behind it. The shooting continued unabated. Staccato, automatic, and so fucking loud I could barely hear the screaming of the crowd. I counted three shooters, alternating fire so that each could reload in turn. Two guards were down, and maybe a dozen civilians, all for the sin of standing too damn close to me.
My wayward target poked his head out around the bar and popped off a couple shots my way. I yanked the zip gun from my pocket and discharged it at him, its single .22 round hitting the bullet-riddled bar just inches from his face. Damn. As he ducked back behind the bar, I tossed the spent penlight casing aside. Then I spotted all the ruined, shattered bottles atop the bar and smiled. Grabbed the tacky red-glass candleholder from the table beside me, the candle still flickering inside, and lobbed it toward the bar. It shattered on impact, and there was a whoosh as all that spilled liquor caught fire. For a few seconds the dude behind the bar shrieked so loud I could hear him over all the automatic fire. Then he fell silent, and the sickly sweet scent of burning flesh filled the room.
One down. Three to go.
Pop, pop from somewhere far away, and one of the shooters was silenced. That made two. Then a manic spray of bullets from his compatriots, and the guard who bagged him was repaid in kind. Kid should’ve turned tail and run—this was way above his pay grade. Still, I knew a good diversion when I heard one.
I stood and threw my knife at the nearest shooter, aiming to bury it in his eye. Guess I was a little rusty, though—it wound up three-deep in his throat.
One to go.
I dove across the floor to the nearest fallen guard and grabbed his piece out of his holster. Had to pry his fingers off the still-closed snap. Poor bastard hadn’t even unfastened the damn thing before they got him.
The last shooter returned his attention to me, or tried. Wound up ventilating the bodies sprawled out in the spot I’d just vacated. In the dim banquet hall light, I could barely see him against the backdrop of the curtains, but I caught his muzzle flash just fine. Squeezed off six quick rounds, and he went down. Pretty sure I landed five at least.
My ears rang in the quiet that followed, so bad it took me a few seconds to realize that the quiet wasn’t quiet at all. Gunfire and gaming had given way to shrieking and wailing, and over it all, I could hear the shout of security drawing closer. Iffy as my hearing was, I couldn’t tell which door they’d be coming through—just that they were headed this way. So I did the only thing I could think to do.
My gun hand pressed tight to my bleeding gut, I sprinted for the stage. Damn near stepped right over Rigby, who lay cowering where he fell. Then I figured maybe I ought to take him with me. I grabbed his collar and yanked him to his feet.
Eight uniforms sprinted into the room, four through each door. When they spotted me, they opened fire. Looked like it was time to make my exit.
To one side of the stage, a half-assed backstage area had been set up. Looked to me they put it there to take advantage of a door that led to a service hallway, allowing easy access to the stage for employees and talent both. Like every service door in this place, it had a PIN pad and a spot to swipe your employee ID badge. I had neither. Good thing for me, then, it was propped.
I kicked the chair that held the door open out of the way, and then I threw Rigby into the hall after it. The guards converged on us, firing shots off all the while. Thirty yards, twenty. I dove through the open door as, just behind me, one of them shouted into his radio, “Suspect retreating to south hall! Lock down! Repeat— LOCK DOWN THE SOUTH HALL!”
And as I pulled the door shut behind me, I heard the snick of thirty bolts locking, trapping me and Rigby inside.
So I’d been shot. That was bad. It was a through-and-through, though, and it looked to me like it had missed my major organs, which wasn’t too shabby. But then again, I was trapped inside a casino chock full of security guards who, along with the entire Chicago Syndicate, seemed to really want me dead. I guess on the balance I’d have to say my day wasn’t going all that well.
Least I’d managed to snag that turncoat douchebag Rigby by the collar and drag his ass with me when I’d made my exit from the banquet hall. Score that one in the plus column. At first he was biting and scratching at me like a rabid raccoon, so it wasn’t all roses, but once I slammed his head into the wall a couple times, he got docile in a hurry. Which was good, because I couldn’t afford to kill him yet.
Emergency lights strobed all around us, though the main hall lights stayed lit. There were no cameras I could see, which was a plus, but as promised, every door leading from the hall was locked, their PIN pads blinking red. After the bloodbath in the banquet hall, I figured security aimed to sit on us till Kansas City SWAT arrived. Which I figured meant I had three minutes to get out of here—maybe less.
Plenty of time to teach Rigby a little lesson about loyalty.
I pinned him against the wall, got up in his face.
“You set me up, you son of a bitch.”
“Dude, I got no idea what you UNGFH!”
Truth is, I’ve got no idea what I UNGFH either, but I don’t think it was so much a question as the noise he made when I punched him in the solar plexus. I let him go. He doubled over but kept his feet. Then he puked, which I could have done without, but at least it stopped him lying.
“You want to try again?” I asked.
“Okay, okay,” he said once his breath returned, “I set you up. But they got to me just after you did, and they offered me a deal. Said they knew you were tapped into their communiqués. Said they made sure you’d think they were gonna pop me here, and that if I helped them draw you out, maybe did a little digging for ‘em, they’d let me walk.”
“Digging? What kind of digging?”
“You know—bank shit. That’s why I needed your account info.”
This day kept getting better and better.
“Don’t worry, though, dude—you covered your tracks pretty good. I mean, this shit is my bread and butter, and I couldn’t hardly find nothing—no name, no address, hardly even any cash. Aside of that Evelyn chick you’ve been paying off, you’re a fucking ghost, dude.”
All the air drained from the room. I thought I was going to faint. I pulled Rigby close—so close I could have bit his fucking face off. And right then, I had half a mind to do it.
“What do you know about Evie?”
“Nothing, really—I swear it! Name and address, that’s it!”
Son of a bitch. “And did you pass along that information to your friends at the Syndicate?”
“They said if I didn’t help ‘em they were gonna kill me! The fuck was I supposed to do?”
I swallowed hard, willed myself to stay calm. But I knew then I couldn’t let them take me here. That I had to get to Evie before the Syndicate did. Even if it meant I had to let this fuckwit live.
I let go of said fuckwit. Smoothed out his shirt a bit. “It’s cool,” I said. “I understand. What’s done is done.”
Rigby flashed me a cautious smile. “Yeah?”
That’s when I hit him again—in the face this time. Broke his nose. Blood sprayed crimson down his shirt and onto the institutional tile floor. When Rigby saw the blood, his eyes fluttered, and he went down. Barely got an arm out in time to catch himself from smacking his forehead.
I kicked him, hard. Heard ribs snap. He screamed, and rolled onto his side. Eyes wide with fear, snot and blood pouring from his nose as he cried like a child.
That was good.
That was how I needed him if I was going to get out of here alive.
I knelt next to him, slapped him once or twice. “No, you stupid shit, it isn’t cool. My line of work, it doesn’t pay to be forgiving. I ought to put you in the ground for what you’ve done. But the fact is, I need your help to get out of here, and if you cooperate like a good little boy, then maybe—just maybe—I’ll let you live.”
His head bobbed up and down, and he blubbere
d something unintelligible I assumed was a heartfelt pledge of undying allegiance. Which should hold until he got a better offer.
“Good. Now I’m going to need you to override the casino’s lockdown—can you do that?”
“Are you fucking nuts?”
I grabbed his ruined nose and pinched. He thrashed like I’d hit him with a live wire. I let go and asked again. He just stared at me all mute and big-eyed, too terrified to even answer.
That was no good. I needed to keep him calm enough to do the job. So I changed my tone, replacing steel with what I hoped would pass for warmth. “Listen, Rigby, you can do this. I mean working for the Mob, you’ve dealt with systems a thousand times scarier than this one.”
“Yeah, but—”
“And you beat Pendleton’s system once before, right?”
“Well, yeah, but I had time—time and tools…”
I pulled a Leatherman from my pocket, handed it to him. Then I jammed the dead guard’s Glock under his chin, barrel aiming upward toward his brain.
Warmth has never been my strong suit.
“That right there is all the tools you’ve got to work with. That and a couple minutes. You fail, or try to stall until the cops arrive, and I swear to you the last thing I do before they take me is blow your fucking head off, you understand? But if you get that door open, you have my word I’ll let you live. I’ll just walk on through and you’ll never see me again, okay?”
Rigby nodded.
“Good—now get moving.”
He got moving, prying the cover off the PIN pad for the stairwell door we’d stopped beside. Even shaking as he was, I could see the kid was good. Give me an hour or two, and maybe I could pop a lock like that. Rigby had it open in just under ninety seconds.
When the light went green and the locking mechanism clicked, I let out a yelp of joy that set my bullet wound throbbing. But Rigby didn’t look like he was up for celebrating. He was just kneeling there beside the door lock, face pale, eyes clenched. After a moment of watching him, I had to ask.
“Rigby, what the hell are you doing?”
He opened one eye and looked at me. “Waiting for you to kill me.”
“I told you, you get that open, you’re free to go.”
Color flooded his cheeks. “Yeah, but I didn’t figure you were serious!”
I shoved him aside. Stepped through the door into a dingy fire stairwell, dimly lit and obviously unused.
“I always keep my word,” I said. “Besides, once the Syndicate catches up with you, you’re dead anyway.”
“What? No! They cut me a deal!”
“Yeah, and you figure they aim to honor it? You stole damn near thirty million dollars from them—they can’t just let you live. My guess is, you’ll be dead within the week.”
“You don’t know that,” he said, but there was no force behind it.
“Hey,” I said. “Maybe I’m wrong. It’s been known to happen.”Just look at this gig, I thought. “Either way, guess you’ll know soon enough.”
Then I closed the door and fled, leaving a weeping Rigby in my wake.
Getting out of the stairwell was a breeze. Security figured they had me dead to rights, locked up in the south hall, and since the hallway contained no cameras, they had no idea I’d gotten out. And sure, they were probably watching all the building’s exits, but that was only a problem if I headed down. So instead I headed up.
The upper floors of Pendleton’s were nothing but hotel rooms. By the time I got there, most of them were empty, on account of some folks downstairs had started shooting at each other and the building was being evacuated. Found a room abandoned midclean-ing by the housekeepers and helped myself to a clean pillowcase to dress my wound and a change of clothes, swapping my silly cowboy getup for a pair of khakis and a crisp blue oxford. Even with the ad hoc bandages, the oxford was a hair too big for me, and a little loose about the neck, so I left the collar undone and threw on my unwitting benefactor’s charcoal sport coat. Then it was a matter of peeling off the fake mustache and walking out the front door looking confused and frightened like the rest of the good people with the misfortune to be caught up in this sordid mess.
My phone clocked Springfield to Morgantown at sixteen hours. I figured I could make it in eleven. Stole an Audi from one of the casino’s satellite lots, kept the needle pinned at eighty-five the whole way. Even chance they’d try to pull me over, I knew. Even chance I didn’t care. They could chase my ass the whole damn way. All that mattered now was Evie. All that mattered was I kept her safe. And leading a parade of cops to her front door was as good a way as any to do it.
But they didn’t. Didn’t try to pull me over. Didn’t chase my ass at all. And so I wound up on Evie’s front porch alone.
The Syndicate hadn’t beaten me here—that much I knew. If they had, they would have made a show of it—trashing the place, causing a scene, maybe leaving me a grisly souvenir. A finger, or perhaps an ear. But all looked normal, and quiet, and dark.
Still, they’d be here soon enough. And I had to be ready for them when they did.
My head was throbbing. My stomach churned. A sheen of cold, acrid sweat covered every trembling inch of me, and the gunshot in my side itched and burned. Moving hurt. Hell, standing hurt.
And still I kept on pounding on that door.
“Evie!” I shouted, my voice hoarse from exertion, and oddly tinny and distant to my own ears. Loss of blood. Lack of sleep. But I’d had worse. Least, that’s what I told myself. “God damn it, Evie—open up!”
Did I mention it was late? Well, it was. Pushing five A.M. So late I guess you’d have to call it early.
If I were Evie and had some nutjob banging on my door at five A.M., shouting my name, I might be reluctant to answer too. Which is to say, I should’ve figured on what happened next.
The inside light came on, spilling yellow through the decorative panel in the door. Then the door flew open. As I squinted against the sudden light, a hand grabbed a fistful of my new shirt, its medium starch no match for Stuart’s angry, sweat-jlick grip. Next thing I knew, I was up against the doorjamb, the business end of a baseball bat in my face.
Fucking Stuart.
It was all I could do not to end his ass right then and there.
But I didn’t. Instead I tried to talk. To calm him down. It didn’t take.
He was all riled up, the king defending his castle. Lots of “Who the fuck are you?” and “The fuck you think you’re doing, pounding on our goddamn door in the dead of fucking night?” And I admit, I was a little bummed he didn’t recognize me. Guess Evie didn’t keep too many pictures of me around.
Then again, maybe I should go a little easier on the guy—it’s not like anyone expects their wife’s dead first husband to come knocking in the middle of the night. But he just kept on working himself up—spit flying, veins pulsing, nose almost touching mine—and the whole time, all I could think was, This is the guy who gets to sleep with Evie.
So I took the bat. Pushed him back into the house and closed the door. And okay, I might have pushed him a little harder than was strictly necessary. He toppled backward into the hallway, crashing ass over teakettle through the console table along the wall and coming to rest amid a hail of keys and cell phones and spare change.
Of course that’s when Evie showed up.
When Stuart took the table out, Evie half ran, half stumbled down the stairs calling his name as though she’d been listening from just out of sight the whole time. Then she spotted me standing over him with the bat, and the air around me seemed to gel. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe—I just stood there staring as fear turned to confusion, as recognition turned to shock.
“Jake?” she said, her voice thin and frail, like that of a frightened child.
Hearing her say my name—a name I’d walked away from long ago—tore at my insides worse than any bullet could. It hurt like love. Like dying.
Her hand to her mouth, she sank to her knee
s. Slowly, as if through water. Seeing her like that—mouth open, chest hitching beneath her husband’s borrowed undershirt, no noise coming out—she looked like a scream set on mute. And all I could think was, I did this. I made her feel this way.
The bat clattered to the floor, forgotten. The distance between us melted away. And for a few blissful moments, I held her—her swollen belly warm against my own, her face buried in the crook of my neck as she cried.
“So let me get this straight,” she said, gripping her coffee mug in both hands, her bare legs curled under her on the couch. “There are men coming. Coming for you. And you don’t know when they’ll get here. But you mean to kill them when they do.”
“Coming for you,” I corrected.
“But to get to you.”
“Yes,” I said. “But that distinction doesn’t make you any safer.”
“No, I imagine it doesn’t.”
“But I can protect you. Protect you both. You just have to trust me and do exactly as I say.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” This from Stuart. “I don’t know why the hell we’re even listening to this bullshit! You let her think you fucking died —why in God’s name should we trust you now?”
“Because I have no reason to lie. I let Evie think I was dead to protect her. From this life. From this job. Why the hell would I show up and ruin that now, if it wasn’t to keep her safe?”
Stuart snorted, rolled his eyes. And it’s not like I didn’t see where he was coming from. I’d just told them both that I kill people for a living. That I’d been hiding from my wife and from the law for the better part of the last decade. That I’d been funneling Evie blood money for years. And that by doing so, I’d put her life in danger—both their lives in danger. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have trusted me either.
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