by Myles Knapp
“It isn’t going to be hard.”
“Brooke’s told you who the likely victims are?”
“She’ll introduce me to the guys she thinks have a problem. I’ll chat about my NBA days. Sophisticated guys like that always want to know what kind of thinking is required to win a championship. Like you can think your way to winning.”
“They won’t drop the blackmail thing on you because you played ball.”
“I’ll visit a few times, invite some of the guys over to the house. Could take a while.”
“Could be big bucks at stake. Some mean players.”
“Relax Pay, you know guys like these never shoot anyone on their own turf.”
CHAPTER 17
Wide-eyed Keira—red hair shimmering in the LED overhead spots—fondled the leather and squirmed in an emerald Prada gown. As they turned down the ramp onto Sansome Street, she gave her hair one last toss and turned to Chase. “Dude, what’d you call this ride again?”
Brooke gasped. “Keira, we spoke about that. You are about to visit the most exclusive men’s club on the West Coast. If you don’t want us to leave you on the side of the road, remember what I said. No dudes. No rides. No tequila. And most definitely no chugging. Just look adoringly at any male near you. Smile, nod, and use short phrases like—‘that’s wonderful’ or ‘how interesting.’”
Chase tried to calm things down. “Don’t worry, K. You’re with me so people will cut you a lot of slack. If you screw up they’ll just think of you as ditzy arm candy.”
Keira looked down, stroking the leather. “Could you please tell me what kind of car it is?”
Chase, legs extended and crossed at the ankles to prevent wrinkled slacks, grinned. “It’s a Maybach, designed by Mercedes to compete with Rolls Royce, for a very small market niche—ultra rich buyer’s requiring luxury, beauty, prestige and performance.”
“It’s the hottest car I’ve ever been in.”
“Everything from the Grand Napa leather seats to the Cote D’Azur Medium Blue paint was chosen for the most refined elegance. Everything except the 543-horsepower, twin turbo V-12—that had nothing to do with elegance, just blazing speed. And, of course, its bullet proof.”
Chase pulled a bottle of Cristal from the refrigeration unit between the seats and poured three glasses. “And I love being able to offer my friends a perfectly chilled glass of champagne any time I want.”
CHAPTER 18
Pay split his PowerBar with Blade, washing it down with strong, black coffee from his thermos. Cursing under his breath, he wondered what the hell good it was to be the boss if Chase got to hang out in the world’s most exclusive club while he followed an eccentric old man all over the city.
Christ it was freezing. Even Blade was shivering.
Pay pulled his leather jacket tight, wishing he’d brought gloves.
Damn! San Francisco fog was colder than hell.
Following Sam was usually easy work. Just enough aerobic activity to keep you warm and loose. Sam wanted Pay close enough to help if there was a problem, but not so close as to encourage conversation.
Uphill or down, Sam normally didn’t stop. But tonight wasn’t normal. A little after midnight, they’d wandered into the financial district which was empty. Nothing but a few homeless guys sleeping in doorways and a few rats prowling the trash.
Pay figured Sam would follow his usual pattern—hustle through the empty streets until ultimately turning back toward North Beach. He’d wind up in Chinatown at some dive bar for his ritual 1:45 am beer. …But not tonight.
For the last hour Sam had been quietly talking to an old wino and petting the guy’s dog; a pitiful, shivering Chihuahua, head barely peeking out under the bum’s filthy blanket. It seemed like Sam knew the guy. Pay couldn’t hear the conversation, but from the body language it started out friendly, moved to intense, and ultimately transitioned into low key, companionable silence.
Pay stood there, shivering, watching, and cussing his luck.
About 1:30, Sam smiled sadly, emptied his wallet into the guy’s hand, nodded at Pay and took off.
Pay followed, figuring Sam was about done for the night. Usually they parted company at some randomly selected bar. Sam would have that normal beer and then catch a taxi home. But tonight instead of waving goodbye, Sam motioned Pay into the bar.
Blade took up his position just outside the front door.
Sam picked an empty window booth where Pay could see Blade, and perhaps, more importantly, Blade could see Pay.
The cracked red vinyl creaked and the table rocked, as Pay wedged himself into the seat.
Sam ordered a Coors Light.
Pay went with his usual. “Wild Turkey, rocks. Harp back.”
“Tonight I wish I could drink like that.”
“You could.”
“My size, at my age, couple of those would put me on my knees in the men’s room.” Sam glanced at the dirty neon lights that barely illuminated the grunge covered bar. “Don’t think I’d even want to take a piss in their john.”
“What’s got you?”
“That guy.”
“The wino?”
“My first boss. He gave me my big chance. And he’s probably the reason I’m rich. Brilliant, with an incredible grasp of technical things, he’s one of those rare people who could talk to an engineer, understand what he was saying, and then translate the concept into something a normal person would want to buy. One of the smartest men I ever met.”
“What the hell happened to him? Booze?” Pay slugged back some Wild Turkey and chased it with a gulp of Harp.
“He was so smart he couldn’t work with regular people. His management teams kept blowing up.”
“What’d you talk about?”
“Old times. Then I offered to help him out.” Sam’s voice faded.
“Didn’t take you up on it.”
“I didn’t think he would. He’s too proud.”
“Saw you give him some cash.”
“He wanted a cell phone so he could let his kids know he was ok.”
“How much you give him?”
“Little over two thousand.”
Pay’s surprise must have showed.
“It was all I had,” Sam said, with a frown.
CHAPTER 19
Pay watched as Jon D parked his three wheeled electric chair alongside the team’s heavy bag. “Time to get Sam a weapon.”
Jon D was the team’s armorer. A retired cop, shot in the spine by a serial killer, he was paralyzed from the waist down and tormented by frequent bursts of uncontrollable pain. Once, he’d been a valued team member and leader, second only to Pay. But his injury made him bitter and angry. And the pain medication could make him twitchy and secretive. Now he was loved, but often barely tolerated. Since the injury, Pay thought Jon D was a little too likely to kill first and not be bothered to ask questions later.
“Need to arm Sam Hong.”
“Guessed that was what you wanted to talk about,” Jon D grumped, pushing a button on the chair’s left handle bar. There was an electronic ‘whir’ as the chair’s bucket seat transformed itself into a recliner. Nothing on the chair was stock. Jon D had hyped up the motor, painted the body British Racing Green, and put Aston Martin logos on every available surface.
Pay was sure when Jon D died, whoever inherited the chair would find all kinds of surprises. Hell, for all Pay knew, the left fender hid a grenade launcher. “I can’t follow him all the time.”
“Does he want to kill somebody? Or just protect himself?”
“Not sure. I just know he doesn’t want to get kidnapped again.”
“He used to be a marine or something, didn’t he?”
“Been a long time since his military days. He’s a little old man now.” Pay shaped the air with his hands, approximating Sam’s slight statur
e.
“Old, small people need to rely on surprise. They gotta hit first and they gotta hit hard.”
“I don’t think Sam could hit a guy hard enough to do any damage. He only weighs about a buck-ten. How about a Taser?”
“Only works on one guy.” Jon D sneered. He hated non-violent solutions.
“Last time he got jumped by two.”
“If all he wants is to punish someone and run, he might want this.” Jon D pulled a furled black umbrella from a tube on the side of the chair, and waved it in Pay’s direction.
“What’s he going to do with an umbrella?”
“I’ll show you.” Backing his chair up until he was ten-feet from the heavy bag, Jon D slapped the joystick forward. He rocketed toward the bag and whacked it with the umbrella. The bag swayed like Pay had mule-kicked it.
“Meet the unbreakable walking-stick-self-defense umbrella. Perfectly legal. Lethal in the right hands.” Jon D broke out what passed for a smile. “Even a banged up old asshole like me can kick the shit out of a couple of punks.”
“So, Sam whacks them with the umbrella and runs like hell?”
“Or shoots the shit out of them. That’d be my preference.”
“So we get him a gun, too. I could get him a forty-five but he’d have a hard time getting a carry permit.”
Jon D waved off Pay’s concern. “Concealed carry permits aren’t important to a rich guy like him. You’re a big, violent vigilante. How often have the police frisked you for a gun?”
“Twice. At crime scenes.”
“But they never just stop you and search you, do they?”
“Not yet.”
Jon D fingered his pocket, feeling for the pipe he’d given up in the hospital after his injury. “A rich guy like Sam, he’ll never get searched. And if they try to hang something on him, his attorneys will get him off. Forget the carry permit. And the forty-five. Too big.”
“What would you suggest?”
“Something loud and scary. Two shots, the umbrella and maybe a backup piece should be enough. Most street crooks are stupid cowards. They pick on the weak and run like hell when someone pulls a gun. Punks that don’t run right away take off the minute a trigger gets pulled.”
“Sounds right.”
“So the bad guys brace Sam. One of them says something dumb like, ‘your money or your life.’ Right?”
“You’ve been watching too many old movies.”
“But I’m right.”
“Yeah.”
“He takes them down with the umbrella and runs like hell.”
“What if that isn’t enough?”
“There’s an old derringer holster that fits in your hip pocket.”
“Like a wallet?”
“Yeah. It has a hole in the center that practically forces your finger onto the trigger. All Sam needs to do is act real scared, say something like, ‘you can have anything…just don’t hurt me,’ then reach for his wallet. Bam, bam. Two bad guys down.”
“OK.”
“Long time ago, the thing was made to hold a Hi Stander 2 mag derringer.”
“Sounds pretty effective.”
“So effective, the holster’s illegal in California. And most of the rest of the country.”
“Great. A solution we can’t get.” Pay groaned.
“Ah, hell, it’s easy to make. I can get my leather man to make one in a few hours.” Jon D penciled out a sketch of the rig. “Guy Sam’s size would be better off with a version that fits in his breast pocket.”
On the chair’s LCD screen, Jon D pulled up a picture of a small pistol. “That’s a Bond Arms Snake Slayer. It shoots two big, loud bullets. Get him one for the wallet and one for an ankle holster.”
“Why not something smaller like a Lady Derringer?”
Jon grimaced in agony, twisted his face away, pounded his fist on the table, and swore. “Shit. Why the fuck you call me if you aren’t going to take my advice?”
He gulped in several ragged breaths and turned back to Pay, pain overflowing in his eyes, and trying but failing not to cry. “Damn pain makes me a real shit. Lady D’s ok. But the Slayer is better for Sam. Unlike most derringers, it has a trigger guard. Less chance of him shooting off his foot.”
“And?”
“And you can load it with different kinds of ammo. You want to put somebody down it shoots a full forty-five caliber load. But, for Sam, I’d load it with 410 buckshot shotgun shells. Thing makes a hell of a bang. Very scary. Very damaging. And you don’t need to be real accurate. So he won’t need any special training.”
“Sounds perfect.”
“One problem. It’s legal in lots of states, but not in California. Here, they consider it a sawed-off shotgun. Got several in my gun safe if you want ‘em.”
“What’s the risk?”
“If Sam kills someone with one he could get hit with felony weapons possession.”
“But if he uses a regular pistol and misses he could wind up dead.”
“Easy choice for me.”
“So get him two, ASAP.”
“It does have one other interesting feature.”
“Yeah?”
“Pansy ass pacifists like them because you can use non-lethal ammo. Shoots a black rubber thing looks like a champagne cork. Stings like hell. Won’t stop a pro unless you hit them in the eye or maybe the throat. And definitely won’t stop anyone wearing body armor.”
“I don’t need rubber bullets. Neither does Sam. I’m gonna teach him if he points a gun at someone he’d better plan on killing ‘em.”
“Always a good policy, son. Always a good policy.”
“When can I give it to him?”
“Couple of days.”
As Jon D rolled out the door, Pay watched the twin oxygen tanks bounce in the rear holder. He thought about asking, again, why Jon D carried oxygen he didn’t use. But the last time he’d been told to “mind his own fucking business.”
Maybe it was time to have Chase figure out what the hell was in those tanks.
CHAPTER 20
It was almost three on Sunday afternoon when Inspector Tabb called Pay. “You might need to know this. Friday night a squad car found Destiny, the missing stripper. Real name Mary Ellen Samuels. Beat real bad. She’s in intensive care. They don’t know if she’s going to make it.”
Pay winced and wondered what kind of shit the girl had been into. And if this was the same Mary Ellen their new prospect mentioned in his email.
He heard a keyboard click. “She was found at the North Beach apartment of one, Richard Johnson.”
The keyboard stopped clicking. “Mr. Johnson was also beaten. Currently he’s not a suspect, but that could change. Initial investigation uncovered evidence of a violent struggle. That’s it. You learn anything about this you better let me know.”
CHAPTER 21
Early Sunday evening Richard got an email from David Hunter.
No one really knows much about this Pay guy. Attached is an article from the paper; everything else was pulled from our internal files. I’ve highlighted quotes that I thought you would be interested in.
Richard scanned the quotes first.
Pay and the Revenge Team helped me when no one else would.
The lessons were arduous and sometimes painful. But with their help I got justice. And now I can take care of myself and help other people.
But the quote that stood out for Richard was: I’m not scared anymore.
The article provided additional details about a vigilante group. Eyewitness reports mentioned a large Caucasian male, a tall, slender, African-American man, a statuesque redheaded female—race unspecified—and a dog.
The team was reported to have left a man naked and handcuffed to a tree in Washington Square Park. Nailed to the tree was an envelope with enough evidence to
convict him of multiple capital crimes. The message read:
This murderous son-of-a-bitch mutilates and tortures women and children. With the help of people he abused, we have taken the first step towards justice. Three of his victims verified his guilt. He remains alive at their request. They want him legally prosecuted. We think the world would be better off with him dead.
For Richard it was a moment of agonizing clarity. He’d never been a physically brave man. Now, to protect himself, he needed to be one…and he didn’t know how. The police had told him to stay out of it, but he had to do something. And it was clear he couldn’t do it by himself.
This Pay guy was obviously violent. Unfortunately, Richard didn’t know anyone else who would help him.
CHAPTER 22
Late Sunday evening, Chase called Pay. “I’ve been checking out Richard Johnson. There’s an account at Bank of America, two credit cards with zero balances, and an e-trade account.”
“That’s it?”
“He’s registered to vote and has a driver’s license, but doesn’t own a car. Works as a freelance computer guy. Looks like he designs games.”
“Can he pay us?”
“His checking account shows an average balance of $4k. E-trade account is in the low five figures.”
“So, we’ve got a client?”
“Well, he can pay us.”
“Good enough.”
“Anything else you want me to do?”
“Yeah. Remember the bouncer I roughed up.”
“The guy beating on a stripper?”
“Turns out the stripper is the girl found in our new client’s bed.”
Pay heard the concern in Chase’s voice. “Interesting. What did you get in the middle of?”
“I don’t know.”
“Anything else?”
“There’s a chance the bouncer was the last guy to see her.”
“Want me to have a talk with him?”
“No, let’s go together.”