by Myles Knapp
Barbara took a bite of penne, and washed it down with the wine. “I’m going to sit here and enjoy my dinner. I won’t say another word until you’re done.”
So Pay told her the whole story. The true one.
“Being a vigilante has been hard on my body. I’ve been shot, lost about half a dozen teeth, broken both arms, my leg and both collarbones, luckily not at the same time. It all started with an ugly dude with a silenced forty-five. I’ll never forget that day. A few hours before game time, I was sitting at home getting prepped for my last college football game. I was kinda wondering how high I’d go in the NFL draft when the doorbell rang.”
Pay looked at Barbara as if asking for permission to continue. She smiled.
“Opened the door and three guys in suits push their way in. I wasn’t afraid of them. Hell, I was an All-American lineman. Absolutely in my prime. There was no way they could take me, but the one ugly guy had an automatic with a silencer. Little guy next to him had a mini-tape player. Third guy, almost as big as me, but fat, just stood there and grinned like a stooge.
“Smaller thug put his tape player down on my coffee table and pushed play. Mom’s voice screamed out: ‘Honey they’ve got your dad and me. They say they’ll let us go as long as you’—there was a slap, mom cried, dad swore—then nothing, except the sound of the ugly crook cocking his gun.
“It was the only time in my life I’d felt completely helpless. The guy said, ‘Here’s the deal. You don’t have to throw the game. You guys can still win. Just make sure you don’t cover the spread.’
“I gasped. ‘You guys nuts? You must have taken too many shots to the head. I’m a lineman. Got no control over stuff like that.’
“He jabbed the gun barrel into my chest, and said something like, ‘Listen college boy, we’ve been doing this a while. We’re not fools. Good weak side offensive tackle can be the key to the whole game. You miss five, maybe six important blocks. Superstar QB gets blindsided. Maybe gets a concussion. Late hit knocks him out of the game. Or a running back’s knee gets tore up. We don’t care. What or who. But we know you can do it. And you will.’
“Then the big, fat stooge dialed my phone and handed the handset to me. I heard a guy I knew. Robert Dombroski, a rookie lineman with the Steelers. He tells me these guys are assholes. Last year they did the same thing to him. Took his mom and sister. Scared them to death. He threw a few bad blocks, so his team won by six instead of twenty. Nobody got hurt but the gamblers. By the time he got home his mom and sister were back. Both were sluggish from drugs, but ok.
“Then the leader sneered. ‘You got it? Win by less than eighteen. Mom and Dad come home. Next year you make a call. You’ll never see us again. Screw up and your parent’s funeral will have to be closed casket.’
“It was an awful game. Rain and mud turned to sleet then snow. I missed the blocks I needed to miss. We won the game, but I didn’t play the whole thing. Midway through the fourth quarter with the game essentially over, I accidently blew a block on the defensive end. Notre Dame’s middle linebacker slipped through the hole and got creamed by our pulling guard and landed on my leg. Their outside backer speared my head and I woke up in the hospital, Mom and Dad at my bedside.”
Barbara Jane shook her head and frowned. Her eyes were bright with small tears. “What happened?”
“Apparently, that’s the first thing I asked,” said Pay. “I mumbled, ‘Wha’ happened?’ through the anesthetic cottonmouth. Mom cried and Dad hugged her. Once she was calm, he told me the creeps dropped them off, drugged, at my house. Heard on the news I was hurt.
“It was a couple of days before I learned the docs had put two permanent titanium plates and about a dozen stainless steel screws in my tibia and fibula. Months later I realized my NFL career was kaput.
“Took me almost a year to find Ugly Man and his friends. I made sure they learned the hard way what a large, pissed off man can do when he is willing to fight dirty. I stole everything of value they had and used it to pay my medical bills. The rest I donated to charity. I used my own fists to make damn sure there would never be another tape. Ever.
“I was kind of proud, and figured that was the end of it. It wasn’t until later I realized I could replace the rush I got from football with the high that came from putting an asshole down.”
“So, big guy, that’s it? That’s all you got?”
“Yep.”
CHAPTER 68
Early the next morning, Barb got a call. She grabbed Pay’s T-shirt from the foot of the bed, pulled it over her head and stepped outside the bedroom, closing the door behind her. From the rhythm of the conversation, Pay believed it was serious. There was no choppy, angry back and forth. No happy laughing, either.
Barb opened the door, closing her phone. “Mary Ellen’s being released. We talked things over and agreed she wouldn’t be safe at home alone, so I’m bringing her to my house.”
Pay groaned, quietly.
But not quietly enough.
“Listen Pay. I can take care of myself. I know this guy is bad ass. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m pretty bad ass too.”
“The last time I took on Morano I lost.”
“I’ve got a good security system, the Judge revolver and a double barreled, eight gauge sawed off for clearing rooms. I even have some military ordinance.”
“One of the team should be there as back-up. Me or Chase. Even Blade.”
“You and Chase need to be out finding and killing Morano.”
“At least let Jon D put video surveillance on the entry points and give you panic buttons. If something happens we’ll know right away.”
“Ok. I’ll take panic buttons, exterior surveillance cameras…and Blade.”
CHAPTER 69
Brooke placed dirty china in the dishwasher and finished cleaning up the debris from a brunch hour meeting. Normally, the club didn’t open until 4 PM with most of her serious clients wanting attention between happy hour and 11 PM. But her best customer had requested her for a special meeting, and she’d reluctantly agreed.
Brooke didn’t like to be in the club alone, and she didn’t want to be at work. With the Morano situation still unresolved she wanted to be helping the team.
Straightening the fringe on a hand-tied silk Persian rug, she then plumped a leather bolster on a wing chair and walked the room to be sure it was ready for her next event that evening. Satisfied with the scene, she headed to the dressing room to change out of her Armani work ‘uniform.’
Relishing changing into sweats and tennies, she had just touched her index finger to the scanner on her locker when the dressing room door swished open. Surprised a coworker was there that early, she twisted to look over her shoulder…and Morano slammed her into the locker.
CHAPTER 70
Pay recognized Morano’s growl from his nightmares. “I’m at your friend’s club. Chicken shit security for such a ritzy club. Say hello, honey.”
Pay heard muffled female moans.
“Poor thing can’t talk too well right now. She’s all tied up.” Morano’s laughter was more menacing than his growl. “Meet me here. Now. With my videos. We handle our stuff one-on-one. You win, you get the videos and the girl.”
“Love to, but only an idiot would let you dictate terms.”
“Guess I forgot to mention, if you aren’t here in ten minutes I’m gonna take Brookie somewhere and play with her. Once I’m done, couple of days from now, days that will be fun for me, but not so much for her, I’ll kill her. After that, I start killing your friends. One at a time. Stab ‘em in the back. Sniper ‘em from blocks away. Beat ‘em to death. Gonna start with that little turd, Richard. After that, who knows? Last one before you scream will be Barbara Jane. By then I’ll be ready for a little more fun.”
Pay started to yell, but Morano was gone.
In his truck, racing towards the club, Pay called Cha
se. “Where are you?”
“Oakland police department. I have a friend who thinks he knows where to find Morano.”
The irony almost made Pay puke. “Bastard has Brooke and is waiting for me at her club. Says if I don’t meet him there, one-on-one, he’s going to rape and torture her, then start killing team members.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I’m going to put him to bed. Permanently.”
“Wait for me. You need help.”
“No time. Got to be there in ten.”
“I’m fifteen minutes away.”
“You carrying?”
“Judge loaded with shotgun shells.”
“Jon D’s got me fully loaded.”
“Pay, I get any kind of shot, even a back shot, I’m killing that bastard.”
“Good. Shoot early and often. Don’t care if you hit me. Dude needs to die.”
Morano charged Pay like a rhino in heat.
Pay’d seen a rhino charge. Five thousand pound bull was lying on its side dozing. Except for the tail swatting at flies, it looked dead. Fifty-feet away behind a jeep, a female rhino in heat passed by.
BAM!
Rhino goes from nearly dead to full speed humpmaster faster than a turbo-charged Ferrari. Rather than going around the jeep it just steamrolled right over it, like a demented Abrams tank.
When Morano attacked, Pay wondered if he was the jeep.
Pay jumped left and forward, hoping to get behind Morano for a kidney strike. Or better yet beside him, sidekick to the knee being the best way to take down a big man. Morano, thinking the same thing, lunged forward and to the right.
They crashed together like the former football linemen they were.
The club’s most famous work of art, a Rembrandt, or something—like Pay gave a damn—smashed to the floor.
Pay and Morano were stuck together like two racked moose fighting for mating rights. They’d charged hard, slammed together and now neither had the upper hand. The slightest shift in balance meant being crushed by the weight and power of the other.
Faces inches apart, Pay stared at blood vessels bursting in the whites of Morano’s eyes. Sweat from Morano’s hair dripped onto Pay’s cheek; the garlic and onions on Morano’s breath made his eyes water.
Stalled, panting, they squirmed for leverage, seeking an opening—anything to get an edge.
Out the corner of his eye, Pay could see Brooke handcuffed to a chair.
Morano sucked in a breath, closed his eyes and Pay readied for a charge. He didn’t know if Morano had backup, but he prayed for Chase to arrive.
Then, his surgically repaired leg began to buckle.
Desperate, risking everything, he ripped his hand off Morano’s pec, targeting a killing Adam’s apple blow.
Morano dipped his chin, protecting his throat. Pay’s hand slipped on Morano’s sweat soaked cheek and his thumb slammed into Morano’s eye.
Morano screamed. Pay took the split-second advantage, tossing Morano in the direction his body was already going, and reached for his gun. Chase appeared in the doorway directly behind Morano, pulled a pistol, and charged.
Pay retreated, dodging left and back.
Chase was barely ten-feet behind Morano but he couldn’t shoot until Pay was clear of the line of fire. “Down! Down!”
Pay dropped to the floor and Chase pulled the trigger.
BOOM! Blood sprayed and Morano staggered.
Chase’s second shot missed, sending pellets sailing over Pay’s head.
Pay prayed it was over.
But Morano was still coming.
Morano fired at Chase, who collapsed. He whirled and shot as Pay leapt behind a brown leather couch.
Bullets slammed into the sofa. Stuffing and crap flew everywhere.
Pay scrambled away.
Morano screamed.
Pay exploded from a crouch and, barely aiming, pulled the Judge’s trigger. Pain exploded from his shoulder and his thigh. Flop sweat ran from every pore. As he fell, the last sound Pay heard was Brooke’s muffled screams.
CHAPTER 71
What is that smell? Where the hell am I? Chase thought, wondering why his eyelids were too heavy to open. He was nice and warm. But that smell…. It was a hideous combination of industrial disinfectant, expensive perfume and cafeteria food. Before the drugs took him away, his last thought was of Brooke and the hospital. That’s what that smell is.
Richard sat on one side of the overflowing hospital bed holding Chase’s slack hand. Brooke was nodding off in the guest chair. Richard had never seen her look so awful. Her face was scratched and bruised. Her cobalt blue Armani skirt was a torn, bloody mess. Black alligator heels leaned against an overflowing wastebasket. As far as Richard knew, she’d been there all night.
“We have to do something about his bed.”
Brooke roused herself. “What?”
“He’s too tall. His feet are sticking out.”
Brooke waved her hand in the air like she was surrounded by bugs. “Richard, I think the bed is the least of his problems.”
“What the hell happened?” he asked.
“Honey, no one knows.”
“How did Chase get here?”
“Pay was working on the blackmail thing. Morano broke into my club, knocked me out and tied me up. I heard him threaten to rape me and kill the entire team. Pay and Chase got there as fast as they could.”
“Morano took down both Chase and Pay?” Richard blinked and swallowed hard.
“Peggy saw Morano peel out of the garage in a black pickup truck with a dark grey camper shell. She untied me and we followed the ambulance here.”
“The police must know something.”
“Blood spatter indicates three gunshot victims. But when they got there all they found was Chase.”
“So Pay got away? Why’d he leave you?”
“If Pay was OK he would never have left us behind.”
“So, what then?”
“If he isn’t dead, we have to assume Morano has him.”
“Jesus.”
“More like, Holy Fucking Christ,” whispered Brooke.
While Brooke and Richard waited at the hospital, the rest of the team worked to figure out where Morano could have taken Pay.
They knew Morano and Ray MacDonald were involved in the blackmail ring. And Morano sometimes hung at MacDonald’s North Beach flat. But they were also reasonably sure Morano wouldn’t go there. It would have been impossible to get Pay, unconscious and wounded, up the stairs and into the flat without someone noticing.
Jon D, Peggy and Amy, went from the hospital to headquarters for supplies. Then, they’d broken into MacDonald’s apartment because it was the best lead they had. But their search, as originally expected, had come up empty.
They’d installed battery powered, internet surveillance cameras to watch the doors and windows. The cameras would send visual alerts to their mobile phones. Nobody figured MacDonald would come back, but if he did, Peggy was going to tie him naked to a chair and wave a Taser in the general direction of his balls. If that didn’t work, they were going to rub a steak on his crotch and serve Blade his evening meal.
CHAPTER 72
Pay came to slowly; he lay shivering, face down and bound on a cold concrete floor. There was barely enough light to see, and what he could make out wasn’t exactly encouraging. Right in front of his face were the legs of a rocking chair, and a pair of big, worn, black, bloody leather boots.
Morano grunted, and Pay heard the metallic ‘ping’ of buckshot hitting metal.
“Fucking Chase ought to know better than to shoot at a big buy with buckshot. Body armor got most of it. The rest is just buried in fat.” There was another ‘ping’ and one of the boots slammed into Pay’s chest.
His ribs throbbed. So did his s
houlder and leg. Pay recognized the pain. He’d been shot before. And he knew the wound was the least of his problems. If it was serious he’d have bled out by now. Which meant Morano wanted him alive…at least for the moment.
“Hey asshole. Welcome back.” Morano’s heel stomped down where the bullet had exited Pay’s shoulder.
Pay groaned as he craned his neck to look up at Morano. “Can’t say I’m glad to see you.”
“If you’d kept out of it none of this would have happened.”
“Guess I’m just a natural born trouble maker.”
“I want my videos back.”
“Where’s Brooke?”
“Couldn’t carry both of you.”
“What happened to Chase?”
“Shot the shit out of him. Got no idea after that.”
The first time he came to it had been light. The next time, after Morano threw a bucket of ice water on him, the sun had set.
Pay’s shoulder hurt worse than his leg. His nose was broken. Again. He probed his teeth, several were loose. Near as he could tell he was in a warehouse. A big open space that smelled like machine oil and sweat. Over his right shoulder, he could see an Olympic weight bench with about 300 pounds on the bar. Morano was pushing pussy weight.
In front of him was a treadmill. The windows to his left were covered with filth or a film of some kind. Other than the lamp on the table Morano was clearly using for a desk, the only light came from dim fluorescents high up in the ceiling. A breeze filtered through holes and cracks where the metal walls had rotted away.
Pay’s mind raced with thoughts. He’s gonna want to trade. Me for the DVDs. And he’s going to demand somebody from the team deliver them. Wonder who they’ll send? My choice would be Chase, if he’s still alive. But Morano will never go for that. Maybe Peggy? He’d figure there’s not much to fear from a blind woman. But he’d be wrong. I’d be better off with Jon D. Other than Chase, he’s got the most experience in a gunfight.