by Jon Mills
There had been a few instances in the past where he’d found surveillance cameras; one in the radio, the other in a smoke detector. Roy never admitted to it, but rumors had spread among the guys since Harvey, one of Roy’s closest confidants, had been snapped talking with police. Roy was on edge, and his whole operation was like a stack of cards, just waiting to be blown down. The thought of staring down a life sentence wasn’t appealing, even if Gafino had given him everything he needed.
“Jack Fucking Winchester.” Tony rose to his feet with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
The noise of the New York Yankees playing on the television was already grinding on Jack’s nerves. He’d always had a quiet home. It was his sanctuary away from the chaos of the job, one place where he could retreat and feel sane. He glanced around at what remained of his home. A woman in dirty underwear lay unconscious on the couch. Tracks lined her arms.
Tony glanced over at Freddy. “Didn’t you tell him?”
“Where’s my stuff?”
“It’s all boxed up in the basement. Carver had meant to take them over to the new place last weekend.”
Jack proceeded down the staircase.
“Hey, you can’t go down there.”
“Listen, Jack, you can’t have this place,” Freddy said, following close behind.
In the basement a stack of various-sized brown boxes were squeezed into a corner of the room. Jack began routing through them, discarding some of them to the side and tossing handfuls of clothing in a pile.
“Careful, Jack, there’s C-4 material in a few of those.”
He paused for a moment.
“What?” he said slowly.
“We had to use it recently.”
“For what? A bank heist?”
Frank shrugged, face flashing with a look of reluctance to disclose the details.
Jack shook his head. “Actually, I don’t even want to know.”
“Anyway, what’s left is enough to blow up a small army.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you should think about keeping it away from my shit.”
He tossed one of the open boxes full of plastic explosive blocks near Freddie’s feet, knowing full well that without a detonator it wouldn’t explode. However, the look of horror on Freddie’s face made it obvious that it wasn’t clear to him. Jack chuckled to himself. The truth was that you could fire a gun at it or drop it on a hard surface and the box wouldn’t go off. It needed extreme heat and a shockwave. Something that only a detonator could provide. And those were always stored in a separate box.
There had only been a very few times Jack had used C-4 in the past. Gafino obtained it from a local demolition crew in the area. There was very little he couldn’t get his hands on.
Slowly reaching down into another box, he retrieved a photo frame. He stared at it, wiping the glass surface with the sleeve of his jacket. He was much younger in the photo. It reminded him of a time when his innocence was still intact. Beside him, an older beautiful brunette with emerald eyes clung to his arm.
As he became aware of Freddy closing the gap between them, he slipped the frame under a pair of jeans and placed it with the rest of his belongings. Gathering it all up, he stuffed the remainder of his things into a green army duffel bag and walked back upstairs.
“Where’re the keys?”
“It’s not yours anymore; I use it,” Tony replied.
Jack squeezed his eyes closed, a band of pressure forming around his skull.
“The keys,” Jack repeated, his arm outstretched.
Tony shook his head; he knew better not to argue with him. He ambled back into the kitchen and then tossed them at his feet. Jack scooped them up. Heading out back, Tony followed continuing his verbal diarrhea.
“You know, Jack, you always thought you were hot shit. Well things have changed. You ain’t shit now. You’re not in charge, Vincent is. You are on the bottom rung, my friend, and…”
Jack paid no attention to his asinine rambling as he approached a separate garage. He pulled at a handle and the rusted metal creaked up, light flooding into the double space. There was his baby: a black, 1967 Chevy Impala, V-8 with hardtop. It was one of the first things he’d bought. It was his pride and joy. He scanned the surface from front to back, looking for any damage. He’d seen the way Tony “The Lunatic” Marlon lived his life. His lack of attention to detail, inability for showing mercy, or consideration for anything had earned him his name. To think he’d had his grimy hands all over his property was disconcerting, to say the least.
Satisfied that it was still in one piece, Jack tossed his duffel bag onto the leather passenger seat before sliding behind the wheel. Turning over the key, the engine came to life with a loud roar. Easing the car outside, he let it idle while he got out to close the garage. Turning back toward the car, he let out two short whistles. When there was no response, he did it again.
“Where’s Apollo?”
“The hairball?” Tony asked, chugging back on his beer.
Jack glared at him.
“Alright, he’s at the local pound, probably euthanized by now. Yeah, fucking animal protection showed up here a few weeks after you went inside.”
Tony glanced at the neighbor’s house. A woman peeked out from behind the curtains. Tony tossed his beer in their direction. Glass smashed. Beer drained out, leaving a small puddle on the asphalt.
“Yeah, you better fucking stay inside.”
“Animal protection?”
“Yeah, your dog wouldn’t shut the fuck up. Kept barking all the goddam time.”
Jack closed the door on his car. Tony, full of liquid courage, squared up to him and then pulled back his shirt to show a wrist that was chewed up. His skin was leathered with scars and looked nasty.
“He’s lucky I didn’t put a fucking bullet in his head, for doing this.”
Jack glanced at Freddy, who knew all too well what Apollo had meant to Jack.
“Now, Jack. Let’s keep—” Freddie said, stepping forward.
Jack began to chuckle under his breath and patted Tony on the shoulder.
“Nothing worse than someone who just won’t shut the fuck up, huh, Tony? Oh no. I hear you man.”
Tony’s shoulders relaxed, assuming Jack was cool with it. Dropping his guard gave Jack more than enough time to deliver what came next. Snarling, he delivered two sharp blows to the man’s nose with the palm of his hand. His nose burst like a fire hydrant. As Tony collapsed to his knees, groaning in agony and choking on his blood, Jack shot Freddy a look. His face made it clear that if Freddy was smart, he wouldn’t intervene. Satisfied that he wasn’t going to do anything, Jack returned to his car. Tony screamed at him, his hands cupping his bloodied face.
“What the fu—what the fuck?” Tony stumbled over his words.
He spat crimson red, while an excessive amount of blood dripped from his face.
“You’re lucky I didn’t put a bullet in your head,” Jack replied before sliding behind the wheel and driving away.
Chapter 5
THE LOCAL POUND was a twenty-minute drive. Jack had got Apollo when he was a pup. A Siberian husky, his eyes were a pale blue, his coat black and white. He’d been the only constant thing in Jack’s life over the years. While women came and went, friends were buried or locked up, his dog gave him something no one else could: fierce loyalty. That dog had taught him more about loyalty than fifteen years with Gafino ever had. The real kind came with no strings attached. He knew that dog would have taken a bullet for him. There was rarely a moment of the day that went by that he hadn’t had him at his side. Heading to the pound, he knew it was a shot in the dark as to whether his friend was still alive. Years had passed. Dogs didn’t last long in shelters, with the continual influx, and few people were willing to take on an older dog. The odds were stacked against him.
The sounds of barking and the steel fencing reminded him of the prison. Every day was chaos. Men acted like caged animals. Few would ever understand what life was l
ike on the inside. It wasn’t just the danger that threatened you every waking hour. It was the routine that could break a man. You slept, ate, and took a shit when they said. Human rights activists would have had a heyday if they really saw what went on behind those gates.
If the general population didn’t drive you insane, being thrown in solitary confinement would. Men slashed their skin, overflowed toilets, and shoved their own feces under the steel doors. Rage at the warden was common, suicide even more so. There was a reason why men didn’t act civilized when they got out. Heck, animals in shelters were treated better.
Inside the building, a gray-haired lady wearing blue scrubs manned the front desk.
“Can I help you?”
“Yeah, four years ago a male Siberian Husky was brought in here. He’s black and white with pale blue eyes.”
“Four years ago? Likelihood of the dog being here is slim. I don’t recall us having one, but this is just my second day on the job.”
She glanced at the black tattoo of a reaper on his arm, arched an eyebrow, and tapped her keyboard.
“Do you recall why he would have been brought in?”
“Abuse.” The very thought made him want to go back and finish Tony off.
The lady scrutinized him, and her demeanor changed from warm to cold instantly, as if assuming that he’d be responsible. A few more taps on the keyboard and she shook her head.
“Doesn’t appear to be any record.”
“Can I take a look around?”
“There is no husky on site.”
“Well would you have an idea if someone adopted the dog?”
“If we have that information, it’s private.”
He nodded. She scrutinized him. This was going nowhere fast. He tapped the desk and was about to exit when someone else spoke from behind.
“Black and white with pale blue eyes, you say?”
Jack turned to see a worker bringing in a muzzled Rottweiler from a side door.
“Yeah.”
“I remember the dog. Was in a state when I brought it in. They had to perform surgery. That guy really did a number on that poor thing.”
Jack clenched his jaw. The man handed the dog to another assistant.
“I believe Sandra took him in.”
A wave of relief flooded his being.
“Who?”
“Sandra. She works here. She brings him on her shifts. She’ll be in at seven o’clock, if you want to swing by.”
Jack nodded. “I’ll do that.”
Chapter 6
A FEW MINUTES LATER he was on the road, and a half hour after that he was in the parking lot of the East Star Behavioral Treatment Center. Inside, he was directed to the family common area. With only fifteen other people in the room, it was filled to capacity. Barred windows let in warm bands of summer light. At the far side of the room, staring out a pane of glass, a girl with straight blonde hair that reached to the lower part of her back stood, motionless. Even has he approached, she didn’t move a muscle.
“Hey, sis,” he said, glancing at her before following her gaze to the courtyard below. A flock of birds broke in the trees. Orderlies clothed in all white assisted disoriented patients around them.
She never replied. He looked at the lines on the inside of her arms. There was more than what he remembered. Surveying the room, he noted how decayed everything was. The place couldn’t have been updated for more than thirty years. The sound of chatter blended with clanking water pipes. Paint peeled from the walls and some of the ceiling tiles bore the signs of dried water stains. Whether it was private or state assisted living for the mentally challenged, they charged outrageous amounts—but for what? The place was a shithole and in desperate need of a complete overhaul.
He hated the fact that his sister was here. If he thought she could cope, he would have pulled her out by now. The reality was, though, that he wasn’t in a place to look after her. Despite all its flaws, at least here she could receive the treatment she needed. He’d thought of getting her transferred to a better facility, but it had been a long time since he’d had money to throw around.
Jack spent the next hour sitting quietly with her. Though he knew she wasn’t tuned into reality, he spoke to her as if she was. He believed that one day she would recover, snap out of it, or at least remember who he was. It was a thin sliver of hope, but he clung to it.
Leaving the facility was always difficult. Time with his sister only reminded him of the horrors of his youth, but he was all she had. Returning to his car, he saw Gafino waiting for him. A black Lexus was parked beside his. Vincent leaned against the hood of the car, a look of defiance on his face. Drawing closer, the rear-tinted window slid half way down.
“Get in, Jack,” Gafino said.
He didn’t hesitate. Wisdom told him otherwise. Inside it was like entering a gas chamber. Gafino’s cigar filled the pocket of air with thick, pungent smoke.
“Was busting up Tony’s nose really necessary?”
“He got off lightly.”
Gafino tapped ash into a tray in front of him. “You remember that kid, Mickey Weatherstone? The kid you knocked out in the first round.”
“Long time ago, but yeah.”
“What was that? Under two minutes?”
“Sixteen seconds.”
Gafino coughed while laughing. “Yeah. First fight. That’s when I knew you had something, Jack. I’d seen a lot kids step in that ring, but they didn’t have that…” He searched for the words. “That killer instinct you had. You were hungry.”
“Angry, you mean?”
“Hungry, angry. It’s all the same. You didn’t care what the odds were, or who we threw in the ring with you. They were just one more obstacle standing in your way.”
“What do you want, Roy?”
Gafino stared at him studying his face.
“What’s going on with you, Jack? Look at you. You look like death warmed up.”
Jack diverted his gaze away from Gafino. His eyes turned to Vincent, who was looking off toward the facility.
“What happened inside?” Gafino continued.
“You know there’s not much to do inside except think, Roy,” he said, pausing to reflect on the past. “Everything. It all plays back. The faces, the names, the blood.”
Gafino took a deep breath. “We did what was necessary.”
“Maybe. But I’m the one that has had to live with that. And it’s all I see.”
For a moment they sat in silence.
“Did you get your dog back?”
“I’m working on it.”
“Talking about work—I’ve given some thought to what you said. I may not understand why, but I can respect your decision; so this is what’s going to happen. You are going to do one last job for me.”
“I said…” Jack muttered.
“I know what you fucking said,” Gafino stared at him, raising his voice. “And this is what I’m saying. You are going to do one last job. Once that’s out of the way, you can do whatever the hell you like.”
“Roy, I can’t.”
Roy turned, and in an instant slammed Jack’s face against the window.
“You know how much you owe me? I’ve killed people for less. You screwed up, Jack, and now you are going to clean up your mess. Are we clear?”
Jack motioned ever so slightly.
Roy released his grip on his skull, then readjusted the collar of Jack’s jacket as if he was a parent preparing to send a kid out to school for the first time. The guy was like Jekyll and Hyde. Nice one minute and liable to end your life the next.
“How’s your sister?”
And like that, he was back to acting as if nothing had happened.
“Same.”
Roy nodded, blowing out a puff of smoke. “Vincent will give you the details. Go. Get out.”
Jack got out. Vincent handed him a folder, offering a smirk at the same time.
“And if things go sour?”
Through the partially open win
dow Roy replied, “Well, they don’t call you ‘The Butcher’ for nothing, now do they?” Roy narrowed his eyes. “No loose ends this time.”
Jack nodded.
“Oh, and Jack, in case you have second thoughts. Maybe one of us will pay your sister a visit next time.”
Jack scowled as the window slid up, and the car crawled away.
Four years had changed a lot between them, or maybe not. Maybe only now could he see that he was nothing more than a pawn in a game, an expendable commodity that existed only to meet the current needs of ruthless men.
Chapter 7
LATER THAT EVENING, Jack pulled into the pound’s parking lot and sat waiting for Sandra’s shift to begin. Darkness embraced his car, and the only light came from a faint flicker of stars that punctured the sky. Waiting, he flicked the dome light on and leafed through the folder. The address—that was all he needed to know at this point. The rest was routine. Every job was same; the only difference was how a person begged for their life. His job for Gafino was simple. He collected on debts owed. “Protection money” is what they called it on the streets, though Gafino saw it as his own form of tax. You paid, whether or you liked it or not. Everyone owed. No payment. No fingers, legs, or in some cases, no existence. He wasn’t proud of what he’d done. Killing a person changed you. Despite the lives he took, he had one rule: no women or children.
Light caught his eye in his rearview mirror as headlights bounced into the parking lot. This had to be her. Jack got out and squinted into the darkness. As two red lights went out, it was followed by the creak of a truck door opening, a female voice, and a dog panting.
“Let’s go.”