Violet Darger (Book 4): Bad Blood

by Vargus, L. T.

  So Jaworski waited. Flexed his knuckles around the hammer’s rubbery grip.

  The passing traffic thinned out as the night deepened to its blackest stretch. And the city fell quiet. Dead. A little eerie.

  But sirens still moaned in the distance. They always did in this place, if you really listened. Always some fire or crime somewhere out there. Homicide. Sexual assault. Arson. A tragedy for every hour, every minute. The sirens singing their mournful song to mark the occasion, warbling deep into the night.

  He was half asleep when he heard the footsteps — the scuff and patter of rubber soles on wet asphalt shaking him awake.

  Again, he leaned his head out past the edge of the dumpster. Looked.

  A shadow moved into the alley, a silhouette taking shape in that gap between the bricks and the dumpsters, lit from behind.

  It was Crampton. He could read it in the body language somehow. A particular pride in the angle of the neck and shoulders. A hostility in the way the arms splayed at his sides.

  The orange glow of Crampton’s cigarette hovered there in front, smoke twirling around the shadow now, obscuring it some.

  Jaworski ducked back into hiding. Closed his eyes. Took a deep breath in and held it.

  It all seemed different now that it was real, now that Crampton trudged those final paces into the trap, now that he’d squatted here long enough to grow sleepy, to lose some of his edge. It seemed less inevitable than before, less… necessary.

  He still had a choice.

  He could let it go, forget sending a message. If he kept still, let Crampton walk past, it would be like this night had never happened. Both of their lives could go on unchanged.

  Or he could follow through on his plan. Stand up in a few seconds and bash this person in the head, throttle this human being the way his darkest impulses wanted him to and deal with whatever came next.

  He searched his feelings for the answer, for what he really wanted, and found only cold beneath the hot anger on the surface. No compassion. No warmth. No mercy.

  When Crampton’s footsteps got close, he stood, clenched his teeth so hard they scraped out a gritty sound, and his arm seemed to wind up and swing the hammer without him telling it to.

  One blow to the side of the head. The blunt end of the hammer striking the temple. A powerful stroke that once more carried so much of his hurt, so much of his soul, transmitting it from his body with bad intentions.

  Power. Raw power. The shock of it jolted through the heel of his hand, shot through his wrist like a bolt, radiated in the meat of his forearm.

  And he felt the soft skin of the forehead give. The bone buckled. Collapsed. Crumpled. A soft thing against his hard edge. Broken and ruined.

  And it felt good. It felt right.

  Crampton crashed toward the ground, folding at the hips and knees.

  His cigarette toppled out of his lip, fell alongside him. A mess of sparks kicking up when they both hit.

  The right side of his skull was all caved in. Dented and wrong. Cracked white bone exposed and glinting under the streetlight.

  And blood seeped from the wound. A thin trickle. Blood and something else. Viscous goo. Translucent. A little chunky.

  Brain juice. A smashed bit of brain was leaking out of the hole.

  But the boy’s chest still rose and fell. Rose and fell. Air snuffling into his lips and nostrils.

  He was alive.

  Jaworski stood over him. Heart battering away in his own chest. The faintest muscle tremors dancing in his hands and arms.

  And breath heaved through Jaworski’s teeth, cool on the inhale, hot on the exhale. Flecks of spit flying out. Fresh wind rushing in.

  But the cool air could not squelch the fire inside, could not leach the hatred from his blood, could not drain the poison from his heart.

  Crampton was a frail thing now. A broken boy at his feet. Small. Pathetic. Blood still trickling from his wound. Mixing with the saliva that poured from the corner of his mouth, lips all slack. Feet spasming now and then.

  Jaworski felt no mercy. Experienced no regret. He sensed only that ice and fire that would come to define his life later on.

  The heat on the surface, the animal aggression that radiated from his skin, slicked him with lukewarm sweat. And beneath that, deep on the inside, he felt only the cold. Cold feelings. The cold of emptiness, of nothingness. The same chill he’d felt when his father died.

  Everyone had wept at the funeral. Sobbing. Bawling. Sucking in breaths with loud gasps, lips smacking. Cheeks all hot and red.

  Not Jaworski. He’d gone totally still. Totally hollow. He’d felt nothing.

  Sometimes late at night, he felt guilty about that. Felt like he should have wept like everyone else, or at least sniffled a few times.

  He knew what he had to do now.

  He drew his dad’s gun from his waistband. Pulled the hammer back with his thumb. Squeezed the trigger.

  The muzzle flash lit the alley up. An orange glow that seemed to hang in the air around them for a beat too long.

  Crampton’s head and shoulders twitched with the impact. Limp arms flopping once.

  The bullet etched a second hole in the skull, this one a neat circle in the center of the forehead.

  The bully took two more breaths. Air rasping in and out. Chest quaking to one last apex and falling. And then he was still.

  The silence — that ringing empty nothingness after the crack of the gun, after the final breath — made Jaworski’s skin tingle. Made his own breath shake on its way in. Uneven. Off-beat.

  And for a split second, he wanted only this. This blaze of hatred that brought him to life, gave him purpose, gave him power over life and death. This. Over and over and over.

  To kill.

  To kill everyone.

  To accept the gift his father had given him. Not the gun, but the permission to take everything. Everything he wanted.

  He dumped the bloody hammer in the storm drain at the center of the alley, the low spot where all the piss and scum funneled away from the surface. It disappeared into the darkness, and he heard it thunk somewhere down there.

  Then he crouched, cupped his hands under Crampton’s neck and knees and lifted. Rested the body on the lip of the dumpster for a beat. Pushed it over the edge.

  The flies panicked. Circled. Black specks buzzing everywhere.

  And the corpse sank into the trash, sucked down among the black plastic bags of rotting beef scraps, and disappeared.

  Chapter 16

  Chills washed over Darger as she listened to Lijah tell his story. A coldness that made her skin feel tight and wrong. How would a child make sense of that kind of meaningless violence? Maybe thinking of the killer as the Striga was the only way Lijah could do that, a sort of coping mechanism. It was too scary if he was just a man like any other you might pass on the street. If he were a monster, like the ones in the stories, then eventually some hero would come to slay him, right?

  Even when the boy finished speaking, she found it difficult to change gears and ask follow-up questions. She had to force the words out, speaking slowly.

  “The one who got shot. Can you describe what he looked like?”

  “He was old. Not as old as Uncle Stanley. But he had white stripes in his hair.”

  “White stripes?”

  “His hair was dark except for here,” Lijah gestured to the hair that grew over his ears.

  Darger brought up a photograph of Angelo Battaglia on her phone, noting the distinct graying hair at his temples.

  “Was this the man you saw?”

  Lijah gazed at the picture.

  “That’s him.”

  “What about the other two men? The Striga and the other? Do you see either of them here?”

  She scrolled through the other photos of known Detroit Partnership members that Price had provided for the task force.

  Lijah’s eyes flicked back and forth, studying the lineup. She reached the end of the photos and went back through them
, but Lijah shook his head.

  “No. I don’t know any of them.”

  “OK. Can you describe the other men you saw? What can you tell me about the Striga?”

  “He was big. So tall his head almost touched the top of the doorway when he went through.”

  “What color hair?”

  “Black. And it looked all wet.”

  “Wet?”

  “Yeah, you know how some guys always have wet, shiny hair that’s all combed back? Also, he had that triangle at the front of his hair. Like Dracula.”

  “A widow’s peak?” Darger said, trying not to laugh.

  “Yeah, that’s it. A widow’s peak.”

  “You’re good at this. What about his clothes?”

  “He wore all black. Black pants and a black sweater and a black jacket.”

  “Good. You’re doing a great job, Lijah. What about the other man?”

  His eyes flicked over to Luck.

  “He was dressed just like him.”

  “He was wearing a suit?”

  Lijah nodded. “And his shoes were really shiny.”

  “Great. Is there anything else you can remember about them?”

  “The little guy… once the other man was dead, it seemed like he was in charge of things.”

  “Why do you think he was the one in charge?”

  The boy shrugged. “Just seemed like it. He had a sort of… attitude. Even though he was smaller, it was like the Striga didn’t want to cross him. Why is a big, scary guy like that scared of someone way smaller? ‘Cause he’s the boss. And they argued about what to do with the body. The Striga said they should move the dead man, but the little guy said no, they’d leave him where he was. That it would look like a deal went bad. I didn’t really know what that meant, but then the little one said they should come back and nail the door of the apartment closed, and I knew what that meant. If I didn’t get out of there as soon as they left, they were going to come back and seal me up in that apartment with the dead man.”

  When they’d finished, Lijah’s great-uncle walked them out to the porch.

  Darger paused and gazed out at the surroundings. Instead of traffic, she heard the breeze in the trees and the chirping of birds.

  “It really feels like we’re out in the country. On a farm or something.”

  Mr. Gerard gripped the railing of the deck and tilted his face toward the sky.

  “We were one of the earliest areas to feel the blight. One day the houses were occupied, and though it happened over the span of a few years, it felt like suddenly everyone had picked up and moved on.”

  He pointed to the right, at one spot in the empty greenness.

  “The Gavin’s house was the first to be set on fire. It had been empty for at least a year by then. Happened on Devil’s Night, so I expect it was probably kids. But no one even came to put it out. And that’s when I realized exactly how bad things were. Over time, more of the houses burned, some just plain caved in on themselves. Finally the city got around to trying to clean the mess up, but pretty soon they were out of money for that. They’d just leave it all to rot. So in some ways we were lucky to be in the first wave.”

  He lifted a hand and stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  “I’m thankful every day I can come out here and enjoy my morning coffee without having to shield my eyes from the hideous view of the neighbor’s house crumbling and rotting away. Don’t have to worry about scavengers picking the neighborhood over for scrap copper and what have you. But I don’t know how lucky I’d really say it is to see a city like this lose what it once was.”

  The old man turned his gaze on Darger.

  “This business with the murder… I assume if the FBI is involved, it’s pretty serious.”

  Darger nodded.

  “Will Lijah have to testify?”

  “No, Mr. Gerard. I wouldn’t want to put him through something like that.”

  “We’ve made so much progress since his diagnosis, and a traumatic ordeal like that could really set him back. But my biggest worry is for his safety. These sound like very dangerous men.”

  “I’ll give you my word that Lijah won’t have to be a witness.”

  They thanked him again for allowing them to talk to Lijah and headed for the car. As Darger buckled herself in, she noticed Luck scowling at her.

  “What?”

  “We can’t promise him that the kid won’t be a witness.”

  “We didn’t promise anything. I did.”

  He just stared at her, unimpressed with her semantics.

  “Just let me worry about that, alright? The gun ties all of these crimes together. I have a feeling that if we can find this guy — the Striga — we’ll also find Vinny Battaglia. If we pull that off, we won’t need Lijah’s testimony.”

  Silence settled over the car. Darger put her window down and let the cool evening air ruffle her hair.

  “Who do you think the third guy was? Aside from Angelo Battaglia and this Striga character, I mean. An underling?”

  “I don’t know. Lijah seemed sure he was the boss.”

  “But not like the boss. Vinny the Bull isn’t nicknamed that ironically. He’s a big guy. Maybe not as big as our so-called Striga, but I don’t think anyone would refer to him as small by any stretch.”

  “Then who?”

  “If he’s a made guy higher in the ranks, then it doesn’t matter how little he is. The big guy would defer to him. So it could be anyone.”

  Chapter 17

  Sometimes his clients wanted the mark to suffer for his trespasses. Wanted his genitals cut off and shoved into his mouth. Wanted his throat slashed so deeply the tongue could be pulled down through the gaping wound to dangle — a Sicilian necktie, it was called.

  Other times they wanted the body left on display in such a manner so as to send a message. Some gruesome spectacle in a public place. Something to make the headlines. Ripple fresh fear through the community about what happens to those who talk, those who betray, those who simply get in the way of the organized crime machine.

  Jaworski had no problem doing these things. Death was death, whether dealt out with efficiency or painstaking cruelty. In the end, it was all the same. The big sleep.

  He figured the gangsters had their reasons for their way of doing things. A tradition of sorts. It made no difference to him. They paid their money, and he did the job.

  Most of the time they just wanted the guy to disappear. A quick death and the body taken somewhere it could never be found.

  Disposed of.

  In this way, Jaworski thought William Cutter was lucky. It would be quick for him tonight. Painless. Or close enough.

  He might not even see it coming.

  “This is him,” Lombino said from the passenger seat. His voice sounded different than before. Tight and serious.

  Jaworski looked upon the car turning into the lot. The lights blinded him for a fraction of a second, and then he saw it. The Vegas yellow Audi. Lombino was right.

  Carlo wheezed out a sigh, a sound somehow animal and aggressive, and after that the interior of the car went silent. All eyes latched onto the luxury vehicle on the other side of the asphalt slab.

  The Audi glided into a parking space, brake lights flaring their bright red everywhere.

  The car’s engine whirred out a higher note for a split second, and then it cut out to silence. The lights guttered out a beat later.

  This was it.

  Jaworski’s senses heightened when the rush of adrenaline hit. Always did. The bite of Marasco’s cologne sharpened. Acrid and sickly sweet notes seeming to fill the car. It made Jaworski’s nostrils twitch.

  And he could now detect the faintest sheen of sweat lacquering his palms as well. He wiped them on the legs of his pants out of habit, though the gesture offered no help thanks to the leather gloves in the way.

  He plucked his gun from its holster and went about attaching the silencer, the metal threads squealing a little as he screwed it in place.
r />   His heart beat faster now. The blood pounding and swishing in his ears. Drowning out all other sound.

  His mind snapped into the same wordless focus it always did just before a kill, all of the world reducing to territory and objects. Physicality. The abstraction of language withdrawing from his consciousness until only the concrete world remained real and knowable.

  He was the trigger man. His part of the job would be done within ninety seconds from this moment. Maybe less.

  The mark rose from his car and stretched. A tall man with narrow shoulders. A mop of straight white hair flopped on top of his head in time with his movements. He dallied a moment, as though waiting for the hunt to begin, granting his attackers a fair fight. It was perfect.

  Jaworski took a breath. Felt the current throb in his hands and forearms.

  The killers slipped out of the car one by one, careful to remain soundless or close to it. Each door closed with a delicate click. If Cutter heard anything, he didn’t turn his head.

  The four shadows crept across the asphalt slab in slow motion, closing on the man still lingering alongside the Audi.

  Jaworski kept the gun tucked inside the flap of his jacket as they moved, all awkward and long with the silencer attached. His finger quivered on the trigger guard. Teeth clenched tight. Ready. All the force of his being waiting to express itself through the weapon’s barrel.

  When Cutter pivoted to walk toward the building, they fell in behind him. Stalking after their prey, light on their feet. Sliding through the glass door into the apartment complex just after him.

  The lead man, Carlo, dared to move even closer to the target as they climbed the stairs in single file, moving to the second floor. His floor.

  Glancing over his shoulder Jaworski watched out of the corner of his eye as Marasco drew his blade, kept it low, tucked against his belly. The Polish hitman couldn’t help but smile a little. Like or hate him, Marasco was on his team, at least for the moment.

  Lombino caught Jaworski’s eye where he pulled up the rear, exchanged a glance with him, the faintest smile on his lips. The smallest of the gangsters had a pair of blankets tucked under his elbow, a role to play on the team as well.