Cold Blue

by Gary Neece

  “What the fuck you looking at?” Asked the man with the neck tattoo.

  “I couldn’t help but notice…”

  “You couldn’t help but notice what, asshole?”

  “Momma didn’t try hard enough,” Thorpe said with a grin.

  Like a good fighter, Momma didn’t run his mouth. Instead he threw a right cross, meant to deliver a fight-ending blow. The barstool prevented Momma from stepping fully into the punch. Thorpe rocked back, avoiding the strike while simultaneously kicking the stool into his attacker’s legs. Momma picked up the stool and cocked it like a baseball bat. As he did, Thorpe stepped in and drove his left elbow into the man’s face. Momma fell back on the dirty carpet as Ink man number two began circling to Thorpe’s right. Thorpe could tell Ink man number three wanted to bail but feared the retribution he’d receive from Momma Tried.

  Ink man number three—chickenshit that he was—produced a knife, promoting himself from weakest to greatest threat. Momma had sprouted from the floor and once again entered the fray. Thorpe now had Knife Man on his left, Momma dead ahead, no nickname man on his right, and the bartender on the phone. Thorpe picked up his beer bottle, realizing he might have taken on more than he could handle.

  Just then the barstool reentered the picture, crashing down on Knife Man’s head. Unlike in the movies, the heavy stool didn’t shatter into a hundred pieces, but based on the sound, the same couldn’t be said about the man’s skull.

  Surprised by the unexpected attack, Momma shifted his focus to the new development—mistake. Thorpe shoved the bottle, neck first, into the man’s clenched teeth. The blow sent Momma reeling backward onto the floor in a bloodied heap; he was done. No Nickname Man simply held his hands up, palms forward in a gesture of surrender. He backed into the men’s room.

  “John, we need to get the hell out of here! The police are en route,” said the wielder of wooden stools—Ambretta. She’d changed out of her dress and pumps into jeans and tennis shoes. Makeup still perfect, hair a bit tussled, she looked sexier than ever. Thorpe ignored Ambretta’s plea and followed his adversary into the restroom.

  “John, let’s go! It’s over!” Ambretta yelled, following on his heels.

  When Thorpe entered the bathroom, his former assailant looked like he was going to shit himself. Appropriate place to do it.

  “Get the fuck out of here, I gotta piss,” Thorpe said.

  The man actually said “Thank you,” as he slipped past Ambretta and out the door.

  “Damn, John, I thought you were going to kill him.”

  “I just needed to grab something before we left,” Thorpe replied, as he stood on the toilet to remove his weapon from the ceiling.

  When he stepped down and out of the stall, Ambretta grabbed him by the back of the neck, rose up and kissed him deeply. Despite the filthy surroundings, it was the best first kiss he’d ever experienced.

  “We have to go,” she said.

  The two hurried out of the men’s room and crossed the murky expanse of barroom floor toward the unarmed security guard. The guard, probably unarmed because he was an ex-con, had thus far made no effort to intervene. The man wisely stepped out of the way as they exited.

  “Give me your keys,” Ambretta barked, as they trotted toward the truck.

  Too embarrassed by his behavior to argue, Thorpe complied. Climbing inside, he was thrust back into the seat as Ambretta fed the thirsty engine.

  “I found your tracking device. How’d you follow me?”

  “You found the one we wanted you to find.”

  “Wanted me to find…why…?”

  Ambretta cut him off. “Just shut the fuck up, John. Give me a minute.”

  After allowing her ample time to think, Thorpe asked, “What should we do on our second date?”

  “Not this.”

  “By the way, I had those fuckers just where I wanted ‘em.”

  “Bullshit. I saved your ass, and you know it.”

  He did know it; at the very least he would have earned a few more lacerations.

  “I guess I owe you one. I’ll return the favor after I’m finished serving the sentence you hang on me.”

  Ambretta reached over and touched Thorpe lightly on the cheek with the back of her fingers. A look of genuine concern enveloped her face.

  “Just give me a chance.”

  They rode in silence the rest of the way to Ambretta’s hotel. There, she took his hand and led him up to her room. As the door closed, she turned to his chest, looked up into his eyes and carefully undid his top button. Her deft fingers worked their way downward as they shared their second kiss. The final button freed, she opened his shirt and exposed his muscular but scarred form.

  She traced the scars and again looked into his eyes. In hers, he saw questions, but they remained unasked. Instead, she pulled Thorpe to the bed and down on top of her. They made love. It wasn’t as rabid as being with Deborah, but equally as intense—and much more meaningful.

  Afterward they lay in one another’s arms, lost in thought, silent, waiting for the darkness to swallow them.

  Monday

  February 12

  Morning

  PHIPPS WAS READY TO KILL someone. Literally. Corn’s whining had grown incessant. They’d been in the house all night, and both were close to their breaking points. Corn wanted to leave, and only one argument had been able to keep him inside.

  “What if you run into that Rambo motherfucker when you’re trekking through the woods? Best we wait in here and finish this thing—‘less you wanna be looking over your shoulder the rest of your life.”

  Phipps himself was both thirsty and hungry; he’d been avoiding fluids so as not to have to use the bathroom.

  And sure as the sun rises every morning, the second he made a move for the refrigerator, that country fuck would walk in the front door.

  Speaking of the sun rising, the interior would soon be well lit. Phipps hadn’t figured on being here in the daylight. He was considering his options when he heard someone working the rear doorknob.

  Shit.

  Phipps, still manning the front, didn’t trust Corn to cover the back. Torn, Phipps hesitated. It could be a diversion.

  The sound of the rear door creaking open was accompanied by Corn uttering a terrified expletive.

  Phipps’ tightened his grip on his pistol.

  Jesus Christ, he had to do everything.

  Weapon up, he rounded the corner, just in time to see a metal cylinder skid across the tiled floor.

  THORPE WOKE A FEW MINUTES after 6:00 a.m., not quite sure of his surroundings. The warm, smoothness of Ambretta pressed against his abdomen provided a pleasant reminder. He caressed her side, pausing at the waist before gliding his hand up the steep incline of her hips. She responded by thrusting her posterior deeper into Thorpe’s groin. Again, they made love.

  After, and though he desperately wanted answers, he refrained from questioning her. He doubted he’d believe anything she said and didn’t want to argue, not right now. She too remained silent, perhaps fearing any talk would potentially light a fuse that couldn’t be extinguished.

  He showered, dressed, kissed Ambretta, and walked out the hotel door without either of them saying a word.

  He didn’t know what to do anymore. Maybe he should just go to investigators with what little corroborating evidence he had. Maybe he had something to live for again—Ambretta.

  Who was he kidding? His future would be composed of steel bars and concrete walls.

  Thorpe was tired, tired of the killing and tired of the lying. But mostly he’d grown tired of the visceral tug of war with his rope of a soul.

  As Thorpe left the hotel, he fell in behind a young family of three. A man walked with a woman on his arm. A girl of about seven clung to his free hand. Thorpe felt the familiar gnawing in his chest as he witnessed a vision of what he’d been denied. Time to finish this thing, even if it meant marching directly into Phipps’ house under the watchful eye of the FBI.


  As Thorpe drove back toward his home, he considered the night he’d spent with Agent Collins—Ambretta.

  If he were the prime suspect in these murders, would she sacrifice the FBI’s case and her career by sleeping with him? Unlikely. He would never use the relationship to avoid prison, but she couldn’t trust him to do that—could she? Thorpe had too many questions and not enough answers. The only thing he knew for sure was he’d better extract his head from his anal cavity before Phipps put a bullet in it.

  Thorpe pulled into Deborah’s barn, not remembering much of the twenty-five minute drive home. Damn it. He’d best get his mind right. He slipped a pair of coveralls over his dress clothes and exchanged his shoes for combat boots. He was armed with his Sig Sauer and department-issued, bullet-resistant vest. Other than that, he wasn’t much prepared for battle. As Thorpe started walking toward the road, he noticed Mr. Jennings’s Mercedes parked in front of their home. Thorpe didn’t know what to make of it, and didn’t really care. He just hoped Deborah would somehow find happiness. Trudging through the woods, Thorpe was overcome with a sense of finality, as if everything were about to come to an abrupt end. He also had the uncanny feeling of being watched, though he didn’t feel threatened.

  Al and Trixie, I wish I’d kept you here; my senses are jacked.

  Thorpe scrambled up the creek bank and peered over the berm. Everything appeared normal, though unkempt. The sun shone bright in the sky, and it seemed an unlikely time to be attacked. Of course, that’s when shit happens—while one’s pants are down. Thorpe retreated down into the creek with the feeling he’d somehow lost his edge. He sat with his back to a tree and retrieved a picture of his daughter from his wallet.

  “I’m sorry, baby. Daddy should have been there.”

  After a solid minute of staring at the image, Thorpe returned the photograph to his wallet and placed it on the ground. He removed his constrictive coveralls, dress shirt, and white t-shirt. Dressed only in black boots and black slacks, he pulled the dark, bullet-resistant vest over his bare torso. He grabbed a hunting knife from his gear bag and strapped it to his belt.

  With the .357 in his right hand, Thorpe tore out of the creek and sprinted toward the rear of his home. He cleared the open expanse without incident but felt exposed against the side of the house. Staying below the windows, Thorpe crept toward the rear door, discovering a broken wax seal. Someone had been, or still lurked, inside.

  The smart thing to do would be to back away and watch his house from a distance. If Phipps or someone waited inside, they’d eventually tire and leave, giving Thorpe the advantage. Of course, they’d have access to food and drink, and Thorpe didn’t have either, nor was he dressed to spend a potential overnighter in the elements.

  It was just as likely the FBI had served a search warrant at his home while the capable Agent Collins kept him occupied. If that were the case, he would be sitting in the woods for hours for nothing. He was tired of waiting.

  Thorpe tried the back door and found the deadbolt disengaged. He cracked the barrier open, paused, and burst in, weapon up. He saw a figure on the floor, and fired a round before realizing he was shooting at a corpse.

  The smell of magnesium and blood hung thickly in the air. What the hell? He didn’t linger on the dead body, just registered that it was Corn Johnson and kept moving though the house. The next five minutes were as tense as any in the last year as he cleared the rest of the home. He found nothing. Thorpe checked the front door. Locked. He returned to the back door, engaged the deadbolt, and examined Corn’s body lying on the floor. Corn had been shot in the head—almost exactly where Thorpe had placed his own bullet.

  The back of Corn’s head was largely missing. Well, not missing; it was spattered across his kitchen’s wall. Whoever had shot him was a professional. Thorpe noticed scorch marks and the remnants of a flash-bang not far from Corn’s body. Law enforcement and military use the devices to incapacitate suspects. The grenades are designed to stun, not injure or kill, and are often used in hostage situations.

  Stuffed inside Corn’s open mouth was a sheet of paper with one handwritten word: “BARN.”

  Once more Thorpe struggled to understand the situation. Had Phipps or McDonald killed Corn and left him in his home? Was he being set up? Too many things weren’t adding up. Thorpe gripped his pistol, pushed open the back door, scanned the area and headed toward the barn. Having cautiously crossed the fifty-yard span, Thorpe tried the rear door, finding it unlocked. He turned the knob, and once again cracked open the door before entering. Tactical teams refer to this process as “letting the room cook.” An impatient shooter will start firing when the door first opens or shortly after.

  Staying off to the side, Thorpe heard nothing. He noticed the interior lights were on but couldn’t sense any movement. He entered the barn low and fast—damn near shooting Andrew Phipps as he sat in the far corner. The only thing preventing Thorpe’s finger from depressing the trigger was the fact that his target had been bound to a metal support pole. Gagged, Phipps was positioned much as how Thorpe had left Marcel Newman—except Phipps was alive and staring at Thorpe with malevolent eyes.

  Thorpe passed behind Phipps and confirmed the man was secured to the pole with a pair of Flexcuffs. Thorpe then climbed a set of stairs to clear the loft. Confident the two were alone, Thorpe descended the steps and locked the aluminum door from the inside.

  What in the hell is going on?

  Thorpe withdrew the long blade from the sheath attached to his belt and approached Phipps. Few weapons have quite the same psychological impact as a large, sharp knife. Twice Thorpe circled his foe, noticing the bound man had a substantial contusion near his right ear. On a third pass, Thorpe searched him for weapons, then knelt down and cut loose the gag. The blade’s tip gouged out a sizable chunk of Phipps cheek—Whoops. Thorpe walked ten feet forward of the bound man and sat on the concrete floor.

  He stared at Phipps without saying a word. Sometimes the best interview technique is to say nothing at all, particularly when your subject is scared. In this case, Phipps had much more to be nervous about than Thorpe. It didn’t take long for Phipps to begin talking.

  “You ought to get on with killing me. If I get a chance I’m going to gut you like a pig.”

  Thorpe remained silent.

  “Why’d you fucking tie me up, motherfucker? I don’t know shit. The longer you let me live, the more chances I get to kill your white ass.”

  Damn. Phipps would be of no use; he mistakenly thought Thorpe was the one who’d restrained him. Whoever had put Phipps in this predicament must have done so while the man was unconscious—probably coldcocked him after he’d been disoriented by the stun grenade.

  Thorpe stood, walked to a weight bench where he dropped the magazine from his pistol, broke down the weapon, and carefully placed the parts on the bench. Weapon disabled, Thorpe pulled off his bullet resistant vest, displaying his scarred and developed body. He again extracted his knife, passed behind Phipps, and cut through the Flexcuffs—releasing his captive.

  Then, his back to Phipps as though the man were of no concern, he returned to the door, unlocked it, and tossed the knife outside. After relocking the door, Thorpe turned his attention to Phipps, who’d risen off the floor and stood motionless next to the pole.

  Thorpe approached Phipps and assumed a fighting stance.

  Phipps smiled. “Oh, you fucked up boy. Gone up a lot tougher than your skinny white ass,” he said with false bravado. Thorpe could hear the shimmer in his voice.

  Phipps wasn’t nearly as lean as Thorpe, but he was thirty pounds heavier and probably stronger. Thorpe had at least one thing in his favor, though; he hadn’t recently been knocked unconscious as had his opponent.

  Too bad for him.

  Phipps removed his own shirt, revealing a myriad of tattoos and a fraternity brand on his left tricep. Toes facing Thorpe, feet shoulder width apart, Phipps adopted a boxer’s stance. He approached Thorpe with his branded shoulder turned away.


  Odd.

  Thorpe had noted the empty holster on the man’s his right hip, indicating Phipps was a righty. But Phipps assumed a southpaw stance. He was either ambidextrous or planned to attempt a kick or a takedown.

  And a kick it was, a poorly executed one that Thorpe easily avoided. When Phipps’ foot landed, he took the stance of a traditional right-handed boxer. Thorpe moved in and caught a left jab on the forehead that rocked him backward.

  “That’s right, bitch! Come get you some more!” Phipps encouraged.

  The man was probably well versed in hand-to-hand combat, given his history in the Marine Corps. Thorpe got within striking distance and fired a kick at the outside of Phipps’ lead leg. He hoped to impact the sciatic nerve—the largest and longest single nerve in the entire body. When traumatized, it greatly affects the workings of the legs.

  The kick landed, but Thorpe received an overhand right to the left side of his head. Though solid, it wasn’t a stunning blow. Thorpe feigned a wobble of the legs and a buckle of the knees. Phipps saw a wounded animal and took the bait; he rushed in. Another right hurtled toward Thorpe’s face. He ducked the punch and drove into Phipps’ hips. Arms wrapped around his assailant, Thorpe arched his back and lifted Phipps off the floor. Then, using all the strength in his core and legs, Thorpe torqued his body forward, driving his right shoulder into Phipps’ abdomen.

  The move was so violent that Thorpe’s own feet went airborne as he slammed the back of Phipps’ head onto the gray concrete floor. Thorpe couldn’t see the impact, but the wet watermelon-like sound left little doubt Phipps had sustained a catastrophic brain injury. Even as Thorpe rose to deliver more punishment, he noticed the slack in Phipps’ facial muscles. The man was dead.