by Liz K. Lorde
Adjusting the Blue tooth headset in my right ear, I call out to Myra our sniper and lookout while I park on the side of 49th street just behind the gallery. “Where are we at, Fox,” that’s her call sign.
“Whiskey,” she replies, “six Blackwatch guards on rotation for the night shift. Workers are all cleared out for the day. Get into position on Lion’s mark.”
“Heard,” I reply, looking over my shoulder in the rented out SUV to Jace and Dennis. “Six guards, Blackwatch just like we expected. We get in silent, we get out silent. Keep yourselves strapped if things get hot.”
Jace, a pensive made man of the Ligotti empire simply nods, nervously twirling at his head of long dark hair.
Dennis, the hot head of my three man crew, smirks. “You think the boss’ll put on a good show?” His hair is sandy blonde and short, full of curls. If he wasn’t such a loyal work horse, I might have considered someone else for the score.
“He better,” I clip. “This heist will rub the high rollers the wrong way, and we’ll have real heat on our hands if that happens.” Bringing my head back, I lean forward and pull out an Ipad from beneath the driver’s seat, quickly connecting to one of the many local but quick on the ball news streams.
After a couple of minutes, the two news anchors Killian Hemlocke and Susannah Thornrose start getting fed the latest info on what’s going down at Wolfinger Bank; which is one of the three biggest banks in all of Chaos. Claimed to be impregnable.
In my line of experience. Nothing’s safe forever. Money’s got no owners. Only spenders.
The screen shows me a ground view of the scene. Hundreds of people have gathered on both ends of the streets, most fans that our social media wizards Riley and Niss have summoned, some protesters and others nothing more than curious onlookers. No doubt a few pickpockets in there too. A line of local police have sectioned off the both ends of people, and in the middle, just outside the steps of the Wolfinger Bank, sits Leonardo.
I smirk at seeing him. That theatric bastard. He’s sitting on a wooden throne in his three piece suit smoking a Cuban cigar, holding across his lap his favorite modified Thompson machine gun.
Standing in a professional formation, more like a wall, are a row of decked out Blackwatch soldiers from one end of the front of the bank, to the very other end. All of them armed with AR-15’s and side holstered pistols, ready to kill Leo or anyone dumb enough to step on their private property.
The crowd themselves flanking Leo are holding up signs. Some crude and offensive, others simply trying to troll. A good number of them are furious with the big players in Chaos privatizing their wealth and leaving the economy for the common man bone dry.
Something I’ve personally related with for most of my life, I’ll admit.
A few of the other signs are from the much younger crowd, the women obsessed with Leonardo’s image and the life that he and by extension, myself and associates, live. Most of them mean well, and I can’t quite put my finger as to why they seem to do this with the wayward types, but ultimately I think it’s something that they grow out of. Or at least, I hope they do. Blood and vengeance isn’t the way to live forever.
Isn’t the life I want when I’ve Vivian in my arms.
Damn I fucked up with her.
Eventually a reporter makes it through the massive sea of people and police, a woman with long platinum hair known as Jane Chatworth.
She steps up with microphone in hand to Leo, and her camera crew waits just behind her.
“Mr. Ligotti,” she starts, “what exactly is this?” She asks in both an inquisitive and authoritative tone.
Leonardo smirks and remains calm as ever on his throne of deception. “What’s it look like, baby? I’m throwing down the gauntlet for this city.”
“That really accurately answers my question,” she says.
“Oh you’ve some bite to you,” Leo growls, adjusting his tie. He gets up from his chair and the crowd begins to move to try and better see what’s going on, the police in turn taking out their guns and pointing it at him. The Blackwatch soldiers ready themselves to open up fire if there’s even the slightest misstep. Leonardo tilts his head at the girl, glances at the solider, and then carefully snatches away her microphone. “See how I took that from you?” He asks rhetorically. “That’s power, and babe, I’m the one with the most.”
She places her hands on her hips and straightens out her back, giving Leo and indignant look. “You’re just as much the narcissist I’ve heard that you are.”
“This is a threat, love.” He says with the microphone inches from his lips, “and I make good on my threats. Tonight, you’ve all gathered to see what I’m going to do to this bank. I told you, and the whole damn world for that matter, that I plan to take every last penny from that place.” He points towards the Wolfinger Bank with the microphone, keeping his Thompson pointed towards the ground at his side. “Every pocket from every corrupt weasel they’ve got peddling those loans? Every nickel and dime that’s gotten lost in that building. Every dollar of every account. I want it all. Every last god damn dollar redistributed.”
“That’s absurd,” Jane insists. “Those people, and that bank, are entitled to their money. You’re insane and your ideals offend me, and many others, on a truly basic level.”
“Is that right?” He asks, amused. “Six people control that bank, and two others. Six people that peddle more drugs, more slaves, and more guns to blood thirsty murderers than you can even hope to imagine. All of that money is protected by the bank, and exploited for private use by a very, very select few. And for those listening tonight, you know who you are. I will find you, and I will crush you. I’ll strip this bank and everyone associated with it to the bone.” He’s becoming more and more incensed, and I know that soon everyone’s going to be in a feeding frenzy from all the riling up. “You have until midnight to start pulling out your funds and start donating to the good charities of Chaos. Cut a check to every struggling neighborhood, and don’t piss on me with you not knowing which ones they are – because I see your pushers. I see your hotshots on the streets, and I see the girls that you kidnap. Strip yourselves of all your gluttony, and renounce all that greed you’ve committed to. If not? I’ll begin with publicly naming and shaming you. Then, I’ll turn your men against you on the West Coast, because you should fear to know: Money only goes so far. Good men, bad men. It doesn’t matter. Lines in the sand are being drawn right here, right now. And you’re either with me and the people, or you’re against us all.”
I smile and turn to my boys, “Roll out.”
CHAPTER 20
VIVIAN
“STAY UP THERE,” I warn, hoping that my inflection might encourage the baby to sit peacefully on the couch and watching her Spongebob Squarepants.
Funny, I wouldn’t imagine a person from the Mafia would ever have Spongebob playing on their flat screen TV. Still, she seems to be entranced by it enough.
I’m trying to fry up an egg with a little bit of peanut oil, and some salt from one of Connifer’s shakers.
There’s a knock on the door, and I instantly check over my shoulder, then check the black modern-style clock on the wall.
It’s getting late.
When I bring my head back to the stove, and I reach over to the stove’s gas knob to turn it off, but another knock comes at the door, harder this time.
This makes me flinch. Alright, asshole. I’m coming.
I angrily turn on my heel and stalk to the living room. The baby’s looking at me now with wide, needing eyes. She begins to wave her arms and start the beginnings of a fuss for attention.
Sorry, just give me a second.
Closing the distance between myself and the front door, I peer into the peep hole and push out a frustrated breath.
Pulse quickening, instantly I’m sure I’ve seen this guy somewhere before.
He’s wearing a limousine driver’s attire with a name tag that reads ‘Harold’. In his mouth is the white stick of a lollipop
and he’s got thick aviator shades on that block out my view of his eyes. But I remember his face, and I remember the way that his jaw juts out like it does. The way he has just a hint of blonde stubble, and his crooked nose.
My heart beats faster in my chest and I take a step back, a sense of dread digs it’s claws into my skin.
This can’t be good. Why would he be here? Why is he dressed like that. Too many questions, and I don’t like any of the answers. Without Connifer being here, there’s not a chance in hell I’m opening that door. Maybe, maybe I’m overreacting. I turn my head to the baby who is still fussing lightly. I only just saw him earlier today there’s no fucking way that’s some coincidence.
What if I just pretend that nobody’s home. The TV being on might not necessarily give things away…
Morgana fusses louder for attention.
Shit. I turn my head to the door, and another set of knocks come. His voice sends chills through my spine, “Mr. Morgenstern if you’re in there Charles Higby is wanting to speak with you,” I can hear him take the lollipop out of his mouth, and his tone becomes clearer, “I’m with Black Jay transportation. Still got a lot of rides to do tonight…”
I bring my head back to Morgana and she’s becoming more and more incensed with the situation.
I shake my head, and I follow my gut.
Padding as fast as I possibly can to Morgana, I pick her up and quietly shush her. She quiets down just a little, but grabs at my shoulder and whines. “Seriously you’ve got to be quiet for me okay?” I ask as I carry her into the master bedroom. He’ll know surely that someone’s home by now since I stopped her fussing.
Scanning the room quickly, my breathing quickens and I swiftly consider calling the police. No, no, that would be bad for Connifer. But… maybe I should risk it.
I wish I knew where he kept his guns. The sound of the TV from the living room continues to fill the air, but there is nothing I hear from that man.
Breaking from my train of thought, I happen upon the master bedroom’s closet and the pieces connect in my mind. Taking the upset babe over towards the door, I open it up and bring her to the furthest part of the closet; finding a corner to place her down at, I hold her tiny face between my fingers, pressing against her rosy cheeks, “It’s going to be okay,” I promise her, hoping against hope that I’m all wrong about this situation.
Hoping against hope that Connifer will return like the breaking dawn.
Morgana cries harder when I leave her in the darkness of the closet, shutting it’s door as I hurriedly move through the hall and back into the kitchen; the TV cuts to commercials and my heart pumps a thick, hot sludge through my veins. Smoke rises from the pan I’d left on the burner, the fire steadily growing taller and taller by the second.
“Shit!” I whisper and fetch the can of salt from the counter, dumping as much of it as I can on the fire. It snuffs out and I drop the can to the floor, more salt spilling from it’s silver spout. Stumbling on the salt, I nearly trip, partially moving and partially sliding towards the end of the kitchen counter that the knife from earlier lays upon.
Brushing my elbow painfully against the granite top of the counter, I wince in pain and hear the sound of a drill behind me. Picking up the knife, I turn around to look at the door with dread deep in my chest.
Starting to step forward and move over to the door, the top lock pops off of the door and I can make out some of the man’s dark blue clothes. Instead of going up and trying to stab at him, I freeze momentarily, waves of anxiety washing over like terribly hot pinpricks.
I’m going to get myself killed if I go up there.
Turning my head to the sound of Morgana’s crying, I look back to the door and notice the knob begin to shake.
Coming up with an idea, I stuff the black handle of the blade in the back of my pleather pants and head fast through the hallway and into Connifer’s bedroom. Flicking off the lights, I hide at the side of the dresser. It’s not far from the closet in which I moved Morgana.
Crap. I can’t stop shaking. And she won’t stop fussing. My heart tugs for her, but I hope that this can work for us.
Sending my hand to my back, I feel the edge of the knife press against my skin – threatening to slice me open just for having brushed it, and I grab it’s handle, removing it.
I can hear him messing with the door. Can hear the sound of my own heart rapping against the bones of my breast.
There’s a taste in the back of my mouth, something that I’ve never quite had before in my life.
It’s metallic.
Sucking in a hard breath, I try and steady myself when I hear the noises from the TV come to a halt. God, I’ve… I’ve never had to hurt someone before.
How am I supposed to do this?
How the fuck am I supposed to do this?
Morgana’s crying and fussing wanes, but I’m certain she’ll pick up again in no time. She’s tiring herself out, and she’s bound to be more afraid than I am. Where are you, Con? You’ll kill me if this guy lays a hand on your girl. Gripping the blade tighter, I can already feel how my knuckles must be turning white. Now’s not the time to be paralyzed from fear.
Something in the room feels off, and I see the silhouette of that man. Of Blondie. I hold my breath and time feels like it’s betraying me with every heartbeat that passes. The lights flick on and a ball of tightness drops from my throat and into my gut. He steps forward into the room and Morgana picks up her crying, bless her.
But Blondie turns his attention to her in the closet.
Fear licks over me like fire when I see the grey colored pistol in his hand.
He’s not looking my way, I should move. I should move right now while he isn’t seeing me.
Shit, shit shit shit shit shit. Rising up but still keeping myself pressed against the side of the dressing cabinet, I feel like every inch that I move and every mote of air I breathe might make him turn and notice me. He steps once closer to the door, and I feel my body turn to terrified lead as I match his movements, taking a cautious step of my own, just barely coming from out of my hiding place.
Blondie stops mid stride to the closet door, and I stop as well, both wanting to charge at him and plunge the blade into his back, and wanting to go back and hide.
Be still. Stay still, he can’t know you’re behind him. I keep my breath held tight, but the pain of it swells in my lungs, like I’m being torn up. Please, please just put your hand on the door. Just find the will to lunge. Suddenly he starts to turn, and I throw myself hard against the wall; up against the dresser.
He saw me.
He must have seen me. He must have.
Lifting my head up high, I finally push out as carefully as I can the breath that I was holding in.
Nothing. No sound of gunfire, no creeping or padding of footsteps.
Just tense silence between the baby’s frustration. Risking everything, I find the nerve to peek around the corner, and he’s quietly moved to the closet door now, with his hand on it. Creeping out and adjusting my grip on the blade, I know that this is my only chance, and I just need to do it.
I start to lunge at him.
Halfway before I get there, he turns, and I can see the flicker of surprise in that instant he recognizes me. The features of his face twist into anger when he registers the blade in my hand as I come at him, and right when I try and plunge the blade into him, he moves to deflect me with his arm; in that same moment, Blondie awkwardly brings the silenced pistol up to shoot me, but the way that I crash into and off of him, causes us both to lose our respective weapons.
The silenced gun goes off just before it flies into the air, and it shoots a hole somewhere in the white ceiling.
I fall straight on my ass and feel pain shoot up from my tail bone.
Instinctively, I look for the knife, or even better, the gun.
But I don’t see the gun on my first pass around the room, just the blade sitting up on the bed. It’s tempting to go for it. Panic crawls through m
y skin. Damn, maybe the gun slid underneath the bed?
Before I have a chance to look any further, Blondie forces himself on me and pins me down against the floor. I can feel the whole weight of his body crushing against me, and when the shades fall off of his face, they drop off of mine and I’m forced to look into those hideous, killing green eyes.
“Heard he might have a squeeze here,” Blondie says with an undercurrent of anger in his voice, his whole arm pressing down against my neck, making it very, very hard to breathe. “Funny how life works like that,” he continues, pressing harder now and making me cry out in a stifled scream. Nothing funny about you, you piece of shit. Think I know what to do here. “Life’s just full of delicious coincidence,” he growls with a sadistic smile on his repulsive face.
“You talk too much,” I seethe, using all of my power to squirm my way into position, and then kneeing him as hard as I can in his balls.
He instantly throws his head back and howls in abject pain, almost falling over on top of me. While he screams a litany of curses, I pull myself from beneath him with two good thrusts of my hands against the floor and push him down with my foot. Feeling my heart pump blood hot and thick through me, I look beneath the bed and see the gun. Knowing that I need to go for it, I get up to my feet and dash to the foot of the bed, hop over it’s corner, and move to the head of the mattress. Canceling out all the noise in my mind, and all the sounds in my ear, I drop to the floor and start crawling inch by inch quickly to the gun. I glance over at Blondie, who probably just off of his sheer anger, has recovered himself for the most part.
Recognizing that he realizes what I’m doing, I reach out my hand and stretch my arm as far as it will go, the pain of me going against my own body flooding up my whole arm. The tips of my finger brush against the handle of the gun, and I curse beneath my breath, “Come on.”