“At least let me borrow your cell phone to call the police. Mine’s dead.”
“You do that, and the next time you see your husband it will be in little pieces.” I cringed at his harsh words. “Harry’s on borrowed time. If the police show, he’ll blow the place up before he surrenders. He figures either way he’s dead, so it doesn’t matter.” He looked down at his keys, jingling them for a moment. “One thing, Lilah, don’t close the office door. Whatever you do, do not close that door.” He climbed into his sporty little beamer, no doubt bought with blood money, and drove away. You could hardly hear the engine purr. Perfect car for a sneaky hitman.
I raced over toward the blue sedan, stopping when I spotted blood splattered on the window. I turned and threw up in the street.
I paced back to the building. If I called the police, the SWAT team would show up. Not a good idea. I thought to drive over to Cole’s and get his gun, but I didn’t want to take the time. I needed to do something now.
I glanced around, spotting Booker’s beat up piece of junk car. I ran over to it, hoping that maybe, just maybe, Booker’s obsession with protection meant he had a gun hidden somewhere inside.
The door was locked. Of course it’d be locked. This was Booker’s car, after all. I searched the area, looking for something to break the window with. I found a crumbling cinder block tucked under an overgrown bush next to the parking lot. It took me several tugs to get it out. I eventually had to sit on the ground and push it with my feet. With both hands I lifted the block and lugged it toward the car. Taking a deep breath, I swung the block sideways up onto the windshield using my entire body for leverage. It shattered the window, splitting the cinder block into four pieces. I climbed onto the hood and kicked the shattered windshield in. It crumbled into tiny pieces all over the front seat.
I gingerly reached inside and unlocked the door, then ran around and began searching inside. I looked under the seats and in the glove box. No gun. I searched for the trunk release but couldn’t find one.
“Why does a man with the Midas touch drive this old POC?” I yelled, smacking the steering wheel with my palms.
I scrambled carefully through the broken glass and found a large chunk from the cinder block and went around to the trunk. It didn’t take much. The lock practically disintegrated after two blows. I shoved the trunk open and searched it, even under the spare tire. No gun.
“There has to be a gun, there just has to be. The guy has secret compartments all over his house for guns.”
Secret compartments. I pounded the trunk’s floor, not finding any false bottoms. However, when I fisted on the side, a small door budged open ever so slightly. I shoved my fingertips in the crack and jerked it back. There sat a black box with a shiny padlock. I took the cinder block chunk and beat on the stupid lock, but it wouldn’t budge. “I should have gone and gotten Cole’s gun. This is taking forever,” I complained, wiping sweat from my eyes.
Before I could hit it again, a large hand wrapped around my shoulder and pulled me back. I turned to see Clive with a gun in his hand, complete with a silencer.
My breath caught as he raised the gun, shooting the padlock twice. Sparks flew as bullets hit the metal lock.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He handed me a two-inch strip of duct tape. “Slip this over the doorknob’s tongue to keep it from engaging with the door frame. Otherwise you’ll start the timer,” he said gruffly.
“Timer?” My heart dropped.
“The place is rigged to blow ten minutes after you close the door tight.” He left without another word.
I turned and vomited in the bushes again. “Pull it together, girl.” I staggered back to the trunk and opened the black metal box, pulling out a small handgun. It fit perfectly in my palm, and it was loaded. I slipped the small gun into my purse with a mental note to harass Booker relentlessly about having such a little gun . . . if we survived. I laid the tape, sticky side up, across my palm and walked into the building.
Chapter 42
I raced up the stairs to the third floor. Opening the door leading to the hallway a small crack, I peeked inside. I could see three doors, two of which had name plates on them. The third near the end stood slightly ajar. “That’s it,” I whispered. And remember, Delilah, whatever you do, don’t close the door.
With the duct tape in one hand and the other hand wrapped around the cold gun still tucked in my purse, I started down the hallway, staying against the wall to keep from being seen. I listened, hoping to hear the one voice that mattered more to me than anything.
“Come join us, princess.”
That wasn’t it. Bile raced up my throat at the sound of my father’s hoarse, frail voice. I let the gun drop back down to the bottom of my purse and pushed the door open.
The room was large and bare, with a few scattered pieces of wood lying haphazardly on particleboard flooring. Cole sat against the far wall, blood cascading down his face from a wound by his left temple, the opposite side of his surgery. He looked up at me and mouthed, Run. I shook my head.
Booker lay next to him on the floor, his face in much worse shape. He looked dead. Remembering what Birdie had said about how the drug smugglers hated Booker, I guessed Clive had shown him little mercy.
“He’s alive, for now.” I looked sidelong at my father before running straight over to Cole.
“Don’t touch me!” Cole said, his eyes wide.
“I’d listen to him if I were you.” I stopped within inches of Cole at my father’s words. “The good doctor’s sitting on a small board that’s holding a detonator in place. If he moves, we’re all checking out.” I turned to look at my father. His face was drawn and ashen, with the exception of bright pink spots on each of his cheeks. His empty eyes were weepy. If it weren’t for the fact he blinked several times, I’d wonder if he were alive.
“Are you okay?” I asked, desperate to grab Cole and run.
“Yes. I’m sorry, Lilah. A moose of a man coldcocked me as I walked in the building. I never saw it coming. I tried getting up, but just didn’t have the strength. I passed out and woke up on this board with my hands and legs tied together.” Cole lowered his voice. “Leave, now. Get out.”
“No.”
“Lilah—”
“No!” I spun around. “Daddy, please let him go. He just had surgery, a brain tumor.”
“The man doesn’t have the decency of asking me if he can have my daughter’s hand in marriage and you expect me to show him mercy?” Daddy shook his head.
“You’re lucky I’m not back on my game yet, because I guarantee you, this would have played out much differently. I would have fought you with my last dying breath to save Lilah.”
Daddy laughed. “Brave little hero you got there, princess. He’s certainly a step up from David.” Daddy glanced at the door. “Did you see Clive out there?”
“He’s gone.”
“Can’t find good help these days,” Daddy grumbled. “Delilah, shut the door, please.” His politeness hardly fit the occasion, but since I needed to tape the tongue of the door knob, I didn’t challenge him. I placed my body between it and my father’s view and coyly forced the duct tape into place. I carefully pushed the door near the frame but didn’t dare shut it tight, just in case. I stepped back toward my father, still blocking his view.
He sat on the lone piece of furniture in the room, a steel folding chair below the only window. Only then did I notice how hard he struggled to breathe. He stretched himself up to full stature in an attempt to draw in more air. Next to him sat a green oxygen tank and clear tubing with a nasal cannula on the end.
“As you can see, the treatments failed. I’m dying, princess. And there’s nothing I can do about it.” He shook his head.
“You should be wearing the oxygen,” I said, trying to steady my voice.
“Stupid thing makes my nose bleed.” He coughed, hard, followed by a couple of shallow wheezes before spitting on the floor.
“Why are you do
ing this, Daddy? They’re innocent. Your sons were guilty of heinous crimes. Booker and Seth—”
“Don’t you think I know that? This is about revenge. They killed my sons, and if you’d honored your father like your brothers did, you’d understand that. They must pay, Delilah. As a matter of fact, the other two should be paying right about now.” He chuckled weakly.
“What do you mean?”
“They’re supposed to be coming here, or so they think. They won’t get far. Clive fixed that precious car of theirs.” It took all I had not to grab my father and shake some sense into him.
“It was you who sent the text then,” I said.
Daddy smiled. “I may be dying, but I still got it. Only a fool wouldn’t respect me.”
“You’re a drug smuggler, Daddy. People fear you, they don’t respect you. They’re afraid if they don’t do what the all-powerful Harry Dreser says they’ll be in trouble.” I walked over to Booker to see if he was indeed still alive. His poor face was a bloody mess, but his chest rose and fell rhythmically. I stepped back next to Cole.
“Oh, what I wouldn’t give to be back in the good old days when no one dared cross me. Princess, I was king of the world.” He looked down at his oxygen tank. “Now, I’m a dead man, and my only living relative has turned against me. Me, her dying father.”
“How did you get in here? What disguise did you use?” I asked.
“I knew that one,” Daddy nodded at Booker, “would be well-versed in my disguises and he’d be looking for some elaborate scheme, so I decided to go simple. A kiss, if you will,” he laughed.
“A kiss?” I asked.
“Yeah, Keep It Simple Stupid. No costume, no disguise. Just a little old man walking down the street, tripping over the curb. I knew he’d come to my rescue. And when he did, Clive stepped out from behind the building with a gun.”
Daddy shuffled over to the unconscious Booker with a look of revulsion on his face. “You lied about the code, Delilah. We couldn’t get into his house, and had to wait around until he left.” Daddy kicked Booker. I cringed. “We followed him here this morning around eight. He had a truck full of building supplies, and when he came back out for another armload, I put my plan in motion.”
My eyes searched the room as he spoke. Someone, probably Clive, had run wires around the room and across the floor. Several wires connected to a wooden box near the door. My guess was the door acted as an igniter of some kind, just like the one under Cole.
“What happened to supporting family, Delilah? Did I not teach you family first?”
I glared at him. “Support your family? Is that what happened to my mom? Did she no longer support the great Harry Dreser so you punished her, too? Birdie told me you’re responsible for her death,” I said, bitterly.
“Birdie gets your loyalty, but I don’t.” His face hardened. I’d seen the look before, whenever Birdie ran interference for me. He shuffled back to the chair and sat down. “Maybe we should call her and ask her about your dead baby. Maybe then I’ll get the respect I deserve from you.”
I stumbled as if I’d been punched in the gut. “What are you talking about?” I asked cautiously.
“Think back to that day, princess. Remember, you heard the baby cry, yet you dismissed it, saying your imagination played tricks on you.” He glared at me with a malevolent grin. “Well, she did live, for a few moments anyway. Birdie smothered her. You see, she blamed me for your mother’s death, but she killed the baby out of revenge, thinking I’d be upset that she’d killed a Dreser. Personally, I owe her. To think of that sniveling coward of a husband mixing his blood with a Dreser repulsed me.”
I dropped to my knees. “That’s a lie.” Only I knew it wasn’t. There were so many questions I had that day, but Birdie kept insisting I not dwell on it. It will only make you miserable, she said.
“You went into labor and she gave you some of her special teas to help with the pains, only you got sleepy instead, remember?” Daddy took a pull of oxygen as he destroyed my world. He continued. “She was hoping you’d sleep through most of it so you’d never know it was born alive. But it was. Very much so.”
I shook my head in vain as the horrifying memories filled me. The baby crying, Birdie leaving me alone for a few minutes after she was born, probably to take her in the other room and . . . I couldn’t even think the word. Then she had a fight with Daddy. I was asleep, again after drinking one of Birdie’s teas, when angry voices woke me. It was Daddy, and he was calling someone a murderer, and then Birdie laughed coldly as I drifted off again.
“I fired her. Told her to never come back into our lives.” He drew in more oxygen. “I protected you, and you thank me with betrayal. You’re soft, just like your mother. Dresers are not soft. We’re fighters.” He shook his head. “I blame myself. Your mother and Birdie coddled you. I wanted you to help with business much sooner, but they always got in the way.”
“Can’t you see how much you’re hurting her? Stop it. Let her go. You have us,” Cole pleaded. His words slurred together, no doubt from the hard punch he’d taken. Because of me. I should have left town . . . I should’ve left.
My father drew a gun from I don’t know where and pointed it at me, saying, “This has gone on long enough.”
“Please let her go,” Cole begged.
“I’m not leaving without you, so forget it,” I said to him. He continued to plead with me through his eyes. I turned away, not having the strength to deal with the anguish I saw in them.
“Delilah, I said close the door. Now do it, immediately,” Daddy ordered. I felt numb. My entire life had been lies. Even Birdie had betrayed me. Now I stood in a room with my own father pointing a gun at me, commanding that I shut the door that would trigger a massive explosion, killing us all.
“I can’t, Daddy. I love these people. I can’t be responsible for taking their lives, even if it’s indirectly.”
“You’re a disappointment to me, princess.”
“And you’re a coward, just like your sons.” Great! Now Booker wakes up. And of course he wasn’t about to keep his mouth shut. He struggled to sit up, wiping his face on his sleeve. His left eye was swollen shut and his lip had a nasty cut on it, his misshapen nose undoubtedly broken. He looked worse awake than he did unconscious.
“It’s going to give me great pleasure to kill you,” Daddy spewed at Booker. “The only reason Clive didn’t was because I wanted that privilege myself.” My father raised his gun and pointed it at Booker’s head.
“Wait, please,” I begged. “There has to be a compromise. How about Booker lets you go free, no one will follow you—”
“Dresers don’t compromise, and they don’t cower down in a fight,” he growled, turning his attention back to Booker. “Now where was I?”
I had no choice. “Put the gun away, or I’ll shoot you myself.” I held Booker’s little gun in my hand, pointing it at my father.
He looked at me and smiled. “Nice try, princess, but you just don’t have it in you.” He turned back, raising the gun to Booker’s head again.
I pulled the trigger, shooting only his gun. It flew out of Daddy’s hand.
“Nice shot,” Daddy said, rubbing the sting he no doubt felt in his hand. He turned to Cole, staggering toward him.
He was going to dislodge Cole from the igniter.
I aimed the gun again and shot him in the left hip. He collapsed to the floor, knocking his head against the particleboard, rendering him unconscious.
“Call Seth,” Booker yelled. “My phone’s by the oxygen tank. Tell him to stay inside. Tell him don’t open any doors or get in his car.” He tried to get up but stumbled back down.
I punched in Maggie’s number, praying they hadn’t left. “Maggie, you’re still home.” I dropped in the chair.
“Lilah, is this you?”
“Yes. Don’t leave your house. Call the bomb squad, hurry.”
“Why?”
“My father. . .”
“I understand. Do you nee
d help?”
“Yes.” I gave her a quick rundown on what had happened, along with Booker’s instructions. She handed the phone to Seth and I repeated it again.
“I’ll send the MET team right over,” Seth said.
I shoved the phone into my pocket, picked up Daddy’s gun, and handed it to Booker, who was now propped up against the wall. I walked over to Cole and knelt down in front of him, wanting to hold him, but knowing I couldn’t.
“Are you okay?” he asked me. I nodded, knowing if I opened my mouth, I’d cry.
“So am I, don’t worry.” Again, I could only nod.
I couldn’t even look at my father as he lay on the floor. I was awash in humiliation.
“I thought you didn’t know how to use a gun,” Booker said, carefully wiping his face on his sleeve again.
“No, I said I hated guns. I’m a Dreser, Booker. Daddy made sure we could all handle a gun.”
“No, Lilah. You’re a Colter,” Booker said, pulling out some handcuffs from his back pocket and cuffing my father. Sirens screamed our way within seconds.
“It’s over. It’s finally over,” I whispered.
Chapter 43
One Month Later
“Maggie, you have to stop moving.” I erased the chin for the third time from the canvas I was sketching. Seth wanted a portrait of her to hang in his office, and she hoped to surprise him with it for his graduation.
It felt good to paint again. Complete turmoil ruled our lives for the past month, my father’s arrest being number one. He didn’t do well behind bars and his health plummeted quickly. I visited him often. First in prison, and in the end, at the hospital. He died after two weeks, and thanks to Booker, I was at his side. We didn’t talk about all the sorrow he’d caused or the ugliness of his business during my visits. We mostly reminisced about happier times. I held my anger, seeing no good coming out of confronting him at this point. On some level I think he felt the same. As he struggled with his last breaths, he took my hand in his and held it firmly.
Unbelievable: The Port Fare Series Book Two Page 36