She nodded.
I pointed at Scarface. “You’d better run while you can, Teddy.” I took a final step and stood by the green door.
“Stop.” He fired a shot through the door. “The next one I shoot between your eyes. I will not leave without that money. If you will not help me, we will all die.” He waved both Glocks around the room. “I am a warrior. I am not afraid to die.”
We locked gazes. No one spoke.
The tension grew.
Then all hell broke loose.
Chapter 73
The burglar alarm sounded like the hounds of Hades were loose in the room.
I jerked the green door open, grabbed Doraleen’s arm, and tossed her inside. “Hide behind something and lay on the floor,” I shouted after her.
I slammed the door behind her as a slug hit my vest in the back, cracked a rib, and knocked me off my feet. The gunshot noise was lost in the raucous klaxon of the alarm system. I scrambled behind the table, knocking aside the folding chairs. I scrambled for a gun with my right hand and overturned the table with my left. The tabletop had less chance of stopping a bullet than a car stalled on railroad tracks had of stopping a speeding locomotive, but at least, it made me harder to see.
A bullet smashed a hole in the table top next to my ear. Wood splinters and Formica chips peppered my head and neck. Another shot crashed against my vest beside my heart as more splinters flew. I felt another rib crack. The siren made it hard to concentrate, but I had expected the caterwauling and Scarface had not.
Tank and Al burst through the open door as I leapt from behind the table. I rolled toward the far wall, wincing from the broken ribs, and rapid-fired at Scarface. Five of the six shells missed him. The sixth hit his right shoulder and spun him around as I slid to a stop against the far wall. As he fell, his body jerked when two of Tank’s and Al’s bullets found their marks.
Bones dived after Moffett’s gun and swung it toward Tank and Al, squeezing off shots. All four of us fired as fast as we could. Concrete chips flew from the wall behind Bones as Tank and Al fired at him chaotically. Bones jerked as someone’s bullet slashed through him. Somebody’s bullet hit the alarm box and the siren and klaxon stopped. My shots blasted holes in the wall and doors at the front until my gun clicked empty. Bones’s slugs punched holes in the wall behind Tank and Al.
Bones fell across Scarface’s body.
Moffett held his one good hand in the air. The other arm had caught a stray bullet. “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot,” he shouted.
The room fell silent. The burnt gunpowder stink stung my nose. I sneezed but couldn’t hear it. I heard only the ringing in my ears.
A phone rang, muffled. It was hard to pinpoint it with my ears ringing. I narrowed it down to Bones. I pulled a phone from his jacket. Tuscan Carriage Lights was the caller. I answered. “There is an intrusion. There is an intrusion. There is…” I disconnected.
I could breathe again. I picked up the other gun from the floor, just in case.
“Where’s Momma?” shouted Al.
I pointed at the green door. “She’s hiding in the kitchen.”
Al pointed a Glock at Moffett. “I told you I’d kill you if you went after my mother.”
Moffett held up his good hand, tried to raise his wounded hand too. “She’s safe, Al. She’s safe. I didn’t hurt her. I wouldn’t ever hurt a woman.”
Al pointed the pistol. “Squeeze, don’t pull.” He shot Moffett once, then again, and again. Then the Glock clicked empty.
I barely heard the shots, even though my hearing was recovering.
Blood ran down Al’s neck. He didn’t realize he was wounded. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as it looked.
Al stumbled two steps toward the green door. He collapsed in a heap, and Tank rushed to his side. Maybe Al’s wound was as bad as it looked.
This building remained a danger zone until every room on both floors was cleared. Where were the gang members who drove the other two cars I’d seen out front? Were they hidden behind one of the doors in the back wall? Maybe they went to dinner in a third car and might return any second. This wasn’t over.
I hurried to Bones’s body and stuck his gun in my pocket. I pulled my Glocks from Scarface’s hands. I’d once seen a dead man come to life in Iraq and fire at me. I popped out the expended magazines, replaced them with full ones from my pocket, and returned one to my shoulder holster.
I had a man down. “Tank?” I asked.
He pressed his hands to the side of Al’s neck. “I don’t know how bad it is.”
“I’ll call 9-1-1.” In the distance, sirens screamed closer, but the PCPD might not have brought an ambulance. I called 9-1-1 and requested ambulances for four persons. It was possible Scarface, Moffett, and Bones were alive, but not likely.
I couldn’t do anything for Al that Tank wasn’t doing already. I drew a Glock and cleared the rooms behind the fuchsia and Prussian blue doors. They were restrooms and unoccupied. I removed the Glock from Al’s side and handed it to Tank. “Al doesn’t have a concealed weapons permit. You did all the shooting, right?”
“Right,” he answered.
“PCPD,” a shout came through the stairway door.
“We’re clear up here,” I shouted back. “All clear. Three friendlies, make that four, and three hostiles down.” I holstered my Glock again and tried to raise my hands in the air. My cracked ribs grated against each other. With most of the excitement over, my cracked ribs began to hurt like hell.
Chapter 74
Kelly Contreras came through the door first, her police-issue Glock drawn. Her glance took in the whole tableau in a few seconds. She nodded to me.
“Those three over there are the bad guys,” I said. “I called for four ambulances. That’s Al Rice lying there. Tank you’ve met. Doraleen Rice is behind the green door.”
Bigs came through the door behind Kelly. Both cops holstered their guns. Three more uniforms squeezed into the room.
I opened the green door. “Doraleen, it’s safe to come out. Al’s been shot.”
“Oh my God.” She rushed to her son’s side. “Al, honey.” She knelt and grabbed his hand. Tears ran down her cheeks.
First Snoop and now Al. At least Doraleen was safe.
###
Tank and I arrived at Cedars of Lebanon Hospital at the same time. At one in the morning, it was easy to find a parking spot. I parked my minivan beside his Mercedes and hoped the German car didn’t feel insulted. We walked inside together. I walked very gingerly to keep my ribs from grating together. I hadn’t even removed my vest; I couldn’t move my arms through the pain.
My heart did a little flutter when I walked through the emergency room doors. I’d ridden to this same place in the ambulance with Snoop the previous Wednesday afternoon. Now it was early Sunday. Last time I checked, Snoop was still unconscious. Al could be in ICU or surgery. Whatever they did, it would take hours. I left Tank with Doraleen and went to check on Snoop.
I stopped at the nurses’ station near Snoop’s hospital room. At least the doctors had moved him out of intensive care. That was good, right?
“I’m Chuck McCrary. I’m Raymond Snopolski’s friend. I know it’s late, but I brought a friend into the ER and I wanted to check on Snoop while the doctors help my other friend. Has there been any change?”
The nurse’s eyes got wide when she saw me standing there in an armored vest.
“I have a couple of cracked ribs,” I explained. “I couldn’t take it off.”
“Are you a police officer?”
“Private investigator.”
“You should go to the ER,” she said.
“I will, but first I wanted to check on Snoop.”
She read her computer screen. “Are you Carlos McCrary?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. You’re on his list of people it’s okay to discuss his condition with. His wife is asleep in a chair in his room. Snoop regained consciousness last night at eight o’clock.” She smiled at m
e. “We expect him to make a full recovery.”
I’d been holding my breath for the last four days. My fatigue lifted, even the ringing in my ears stopped. “Wow, what a relief. If you were on this side of the counter, I’d hug you, except my ribs are cracked.”
She appraised my disheveled appearance with amusement. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. McCrary.” She grinned. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
I thanked her and returned to the ER. I walked gingerly to the admissions desk. Now that the adrenaline was leaving my bloodstream, I was sore as hell. They X-rayed me, taped my ribs, and gave me a purple scrub top to replace my messy shirt. A half-hour later I returned to the ER waiting area to reassure Tank and Doraleen that I was okay.
Doraleen stood when I came over. “I’m sorry, Chuck. You’ve spent a lot of time in this hospital because of me. And now you really should be a patient too.”
“Not at all, Doraleen. This is Monster Moffett’s fault, not yours.” I didn’t add and not Al’s because that wasn’t true. It damned sure was Al’s fault, but Doraleen didn’t need me to remind her of that. Snoop and I both knew the risks of our chosen profession. “I have good news. Snoop regained consciousness last night and is expected to make a full recovery.”
She nodded. “God answered my prayers. Those prayers,” she amended. She grabbed Tank’s hand. “Let’s keep praying.”
A woman in green surgical scrubs came through the door. “Mrs. Rice?” She shook hands. “I’m Doctor Donoghue. I have good news. Alfred will be fine. The wound was not as bad as we first thought. We’ll keep him twenty-four hours for observation. Oh, wait, it’s the middle of the night, isn’t it? We’ll keep him thirty-six hours, then release him.”
“Now God has answered all my prayers.” Doraleen hugged the doctor, then Tank, then me. I cried out. We’d both forgotten about my cracked ribs.
Chapter 75
We had a table at Barney’s, a local bar and restaurant near the North Shore Precinct frequented by cops and former cops like Snoop and me. Tank was picking up the tab for the party to celebrate Doraleen’s rescue.
Doraleen had sent her regrets. She said she was only an innocent bystander and she would be in the way at the party. “Besides,” she told me, “at my age, I’m in bed at 10:30 every night. I don’t want to be a party pooper. Have a glass of sherry in my honor.”
I lifted the glass of sherry as I’d promised. The ribs hardly bothered me. “To Doraleen’s rescue.”
I took a reluctant sip of sherry as we toasted. My duty was done. “Anybody want the rest of this?” There were no takers. I set it aside and ordered a Port City Amber. I wished Snoop and Janet could have been here, but he was recuperating at home and Janet wouldn’t leave his side. Bigs begged off because his son had a school concert. My artist girlfriend, Miyo, was at a gallery show in New York City. Tank’s secretary tried alternate dates for everyone, but someone always had a conflict. That’s life.
Gene Lopez lifted his mug. “You sure it’s okay for a fed to come to a cop bar?”
Kelly Contreras said, “I got you a guest pass, Gene. I told Barney you were a civilian.” She put her hand on Tank’s forearm and leaned against his massive shoulder. “Civilians are always welcome.” From the look she gave Tank, I could assume she was over any alleged crush she had on me. It would be a long time before Tank called that forward for the Port City Flames. My old friend Lieutenant Jorge Castellano had told me Kelly had the hots for me ever since I’d been on the job. I’d doubted it, although she was quite a flirt.
Al put his arm around Janice Jackson a/k/a Jasmine a/k/a Jennifer a/k/a God-knows-who-else. The cast was off his left hand and the wound on his neck was covered by a small bandage.
“Janice,” I said, “you saw Gene Lopez when the FBI raided the Orange Peel, but I doubt you were formally introduced. May I present Eugenio Lopez, Special Agent in Charge of the Port City FBI office.”
She stretched her hand as far as she could reach across the round table. Gene stood to shake it. They exchanged hellos. “Gene, I want to thank you for getting me and the other girls out of that club. I didn’t mind the dancing, but turning tricks with the customers… that was a nightmare. When Monster Moffett got the hots for me, that was even worse.”
“It’s called ‘human trafficking’ and it’s the politically correct term for slavery,” Gene said. “Leonard Satin and Bernard Prevossi both pled guilty to that and a host of other crimes ranging from kidnapping to loan sharking to money laundering. Just doing my job.”
Typical Gene, he didn’t toss any credit my way or Tank’s way. Oh, well, I might have one or two faults myself.
“I never knew his name was Bernard,” Janice said. “To me, he was Pete the bookkeeper.”
“He was the brains behind the whole operation,” I explained, “He owned strip clubs staffed with illegal Asian women who thought they were coming to America to work as nannies. Then he forced them into prostitution. He also owned gay bars in several states where he forced the servers to turn tricks with the customers.”
She turned to Al. “And I especially owe you, Al. Monster Moffett would do something real bad to you if he knew about our former relationship. That’s why I pretended not to know you. I felt terrible about it, but I didn’t want to get you in trouble with Monster. You know what a… a… Monster he is.”
“Was,” I corrected.
“It was impossible for me to get in any more trouble than I already was with Monster.” He sipped his club soda. Al was on the wagon, but we all watched him like a hawk.
“But I didn’t know that, Al,” Janice said. “It felt awful to pretend I didn’t know you.”
Al hugged her. “You can make it up to me later.”
Tank lifted his glass. “And I want to lift a glass to Chuck McCrary. A good friend who showed me that it’s not okay to stand by when something bad happens to someone else. To our own Sir Galahad.” He grinned at me.
I hoped I wasn’t blushing.
Acknowledgments
My thanks to my editor Marsha Butler. Her website is http://www.butlerink.com. She makes me a better writer. My thanks also to my cover designer Michael Butler of Michael by Design. I enjoy working with him. His website is http://michaelbydesign.com/.
About the Author
Dallas Gorham is a sixth-generation Texan and a proud Texas Longhorn, having earned a Bachelor of Business Administration at the University of Texas at Austin. He graduated in the top three-quarters of his class, maybe.
Dallas, the writer, and his wife moved to Florida years ago to escape Dallas, the city, winters (Brrrr. Way too cold) and summers (Whew. Way too hot). Like his fictional hero, Chuck McCrary, he lives in Florida in a waterfront home where he and his wife watch the sunset over the lake most days and where he has followed his lifelong love of reading mysteries and thrillers into writing them in his home office. He is a member of Mystery Writers of America and the Florida Writers Association. He also chairs the Central Florida annex meetings of the Florida Chapter of the Mystery Writers of America because he can’t get anyone else to take the post.
When not writing fiction, Dallas is frequent (but bad) golfer. He plays about once a week because that is all the abuse he can stand. One of his goals in life is to find more golf balls than he loses. He also is an accomplished liar (is this true?) and defender of down-trodden palm trees.
Dallas is married to his one-and-only wife who treats him far better than he deserves. They have two grown sons whom they are inordinately proud of. They also have seven grandchildren who are the smartest, most handsome, and most beautiful grandchildren in the known universe. He and his wife spend waaaay too much money on their love of travel. They have visited all 50 states and over 90 foreign countries, the most recent of which was Morocco, where their cruise ship stopped at Agadir (don’t bother).
Dallas writes a blog at http://dallasgorham.com that is sometimes funny, but not nearly as funny as he thinks. The website also has more information about his bo
oks, including the characters. If you have too much time on your hands, you can follow him on Twitter at @DallasGorham, or Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/DallasGorham.
Hello from Dallas Gorham
Now that you have finished Day of the Tiger, can I ask you a favor? Please go to amazon.com and goodreads.com and write a review. We authors live and die by our reviews. Your review can help someone else decide whether they might like my book.
Thanks.
Your entertainment is the reason I write. I would love to hear from you now that you’ve finished reading my story. Email me at [email protected]. Tell me how you liked my story and what you’d like to see Chuck McCrary do next. Or tell me anything else on your mind.
All the best,
Dallas
Also by Dallas Gorham
I’m No Hero
A short story thriller introducing Carlos McCrary when he was a sergeant in the U.S. Special Forces in Afghanistan. Available on Amazon.com. Free to Kindle Unlimited members.
###
On a clear night in June 2006, Special Forces Operational Detachment Alpha 777, the Triple Seven, gets their mission: Free an Afghan mountain village from a ruthless Taliban blockade that is starving the people to death. The village’s crime? They educated girls in the village school.
A courageous young boy from the village sneaks through the hot summer night to escape the Taliban blockade. He runs ten miles barefooted to get help, arriving at an Afghan National Army garrison with bloody feet. He seeks the help of Afghan Major Ibrahim Malik. But Malik knows that his ANA small force is no match for the well-armed Taliban terrorists. Malik and the boy come to the Green Berets of the Triple Seven for help.
The Taliban have a larger force, heavily armed with Kalashnikov AK-47s and rocket-propelled grenades. The Americans must rely on their equipment, their training, and themselves.
Day of the Tiger (A Carlos McCrary Mystery Thriller Book 5) Page 24