Savage Nights

by W. D. Gagliani

  "Yeah, what's that?"

  "Smuggling."

  "Smuggling what?"

  "What doesn't he smuggle? I've heard guns, drugs, people, information — anything else that'll fetch a good price somewhere." He squinted at Brant. "Please tell me you didn't get yourself hooked into something to do with this guy."

  "I didn't get myself hooked into something to do with this guy."

  "Yeah, that's funny. I mean it, Loot. He's a bad deal."

  "Okay, speaking of deals, I'm still hungry. Got any dessert for me? Something light and crisp. No fanfare."

  Sarge said nothing for a long minute, thinking, then left the room. He returned holding a lean handgun with well-worn wood grips and a rather long tubular silencer fixed to the muzzle. "Colt Woodsman, .22 Long Rifle. Takes ten rounds. Just about no sound other than the slide crankin'. The hammer's shrouded by the slide, and this silencer's a work of art. It's half as long as some that got made and used since the war."

  "This one's seen some days."

  "You don't know the half of it. But it's untraceable – does not exist in any law enforcement system."

  "So the mob hitter tucked it under his pillow?"

  "I'm offended you think I would tell you where it's from."

  Brant hefted the piece and tested its balance. The silencer made it a bit top-heavy, but not unmanageable. "Hard to conceal."

  "Worth the trouble. Can't miss – see how they extended the barrel past the silencer shroud and put the sight back on? And those .22 bullets smack around the inside of a skull pretty good. Hardly any hole going in, usually never come out. Scrambled brains for breakfast. This one's in prime shape. One of the last produced in the mid-Seventies, and the guy who converted it really was an artist."

  "Wrap it up."

  Sarge nodded with exaggerated solemnity. He dug up a canvas gym bag and stuffed in the three pistols, a small stack of ammunition boxes, and a handful of high-capacity magazines from some pre-ban stash recently made legal again. He threw in a low-profile belt holster for the HK. "Remember, if you need anything else..."

  For a second, Brant wanted to take him up on it. He felt some of the camaraderie of the past, the near-death moments they'd shared in the lush jungle settings of his nightmares. He knew Sarge would back him up — even though there were obligations and old scores to settle. Too many old scores, perhaps. But this thing with Kit, wherever it led, would not be simple. Or easy. His gut told him this as reliably as it once told him where Charlie hid in the tunnels, where he had planted booby traps. His gut had kept him breathing. His gut, and the ghost of an old man. Or something.

  "I think I'm set." He didn't tell Sarge about some of the personal toys he himself had stashed over the years. Sarge's hardware was a hedge bet. At least for right now. What he really needed was intel.

  They sat in quiet friendship for a while longer, nursing their beers.

  "What you been up to?"

  Brant hesitated. He'd expected to field a question or two about his current life, but what could he tell Sarge that would be harmless?

  "I've been working on a book, on and off. Nothing much else."

  "About Cu Chi?"

  Brant saw the hope, the memories, and the old fears all flash across Sarge's face. He feared a tell-all account, obviously. Too many secrets shared, too many sideline missions. Sarge's hands were still dirty under the right lights.

  "Not specifically." Brant tilted his clear bottle one last time and clinked it onto the counter, like a period to the conversation. He peeled some bills from his wallet and set them on the kitchen counter next to the greasy paper plates. "Thanks."

  "Be careful, Lieutenant."

  Brant hated hearing his old rank, but most of his men had called him Loot and he hated that more. "I will. And I'll keep your offer in mind. The parameters of this operation are still hazy, Sarge. But they could clear up fast." He held up the duffel bag for emphasis. "Watch your cholesterol, man."

  Sarge laughed. "Yeah. I think I'm more worried about lead poisoning."

  The taqueria was in full swing probably for the third time this night, a function of all the bars and pubs that had sprung up in the Third Ward's narrow storefronts and former factory or distribution spaces. Brant stepped aside as a group of twenty-somethings dragged themselves in from the bar next door.

  The women looked at him twice, intrigued. The men seemed to sense his purpose, his tightly-wound spring of a temper, and gave him only the briefest of looks, detecting the predator's shadow that followed him down the sidewalk. He made them nervous. He ignored them.

  Now Brant had a name to work with. More than a name.

  He had a feeling, a sense, to go along with it.

  Now on to Goran.

  ELEVEN

  When she rinsed out her mouth and spat, Danni Colgrave saw the elongated red speckles just before they disappeared down the drain. Her gums, bleeding again.

  She sighed.

  The vitamin deficiency? Stress? Or maybe something worse?

  She'd been blessed with good teeth and a numbing fear of dentists. Up to now, the two had balanced out nicely, thank you very much. But she had hit forty, two years before, and had started to see the decline almost overnight. Aches and jabs where none had ever been. Painful menstruation and, eventually, painful intercourse. Painful rolling over and rolling out of bed. Hell, even painful sleep.

  She shook her head and rinsed again, then gargled with a mild mouthwash and checked her saliva. Clear, for now. No pain, just a little tingling. Nothing to worry about. For now.

  Thank God she cleaned up pretty good.

  She brushed her naturally curly hair into submission, then applied a light touch of make-up — a new shimmery pink lipstick that almost matched her blouse and a dusting of blush, a hint of mascara. She chuckled. It drove Zim crazy that she played down her looks, so now she did it on purpose. Ever since their brief and all-too-predictable encounter a year ago, he still had the hots for her. It was juvenile, she knew it well enough, but that was the phrase that fit best. Zim still carried the torch (another cliché!) and she still caught him gawking at her when he thought she wasn't looking.

  Detective Sergeant Danielle Colgrave knew she had wandered into a dangerous area with the relationship, but it had happened and that's all there was to it. She regretted it, but what was the point? Zim hadn't been the only culprit, nor was he really a bad guy. Not even a bad lover. Not married, but divorced. Twice. Still, not a bad guy. Just that she ignited a fire in him, while he barely managed a spark in her. Maybe he was just too old for her. Maybe it was those two divorces. Maybe she just couldn't get past wondering about what made him unsuitable twice, to two different women, both intelligent and attractive. She'd seen their pictures. Then again, her time together with Zim had been awkward and unfulfilling, even if it wasn't torturous. Now he both resented and adored her, respected her abilities as a cop and found reason to nitpick her every other move, procedure, or approach. He was a shivering mass of contradictions where she was concerned.

  It kept him off balance.

  And, in a strange way, off her back.

  She checked the results in the mirror again.

  I really do clean up okay.

  The Danni who gazed back at her could have been ten years younger. She smiled and vowed to swallow one of those multi-vitamin tablets that languished at the bottom of her purse despite her mother's best efforts. Today, for sure. And tomorrow.

  She felt a shiver as the face of Rich Brant occurred to her suddenly, as if he had entered the room behind her. She almost turned to check. What was it about him? What about the grizzled, lanky old soldier intrigued her so much?

  She frowned at herself. He had to be ten, fifteen years older than she — probably about the same age as Zim. He'd have to be to carry that Vietnam baggage. He wasn't hot date material, not the kind in the movies. Yet, ever since seeing him early the previous morning, quietly taking charge of his brother's ill-fated life and daughter, quietly fending off Zim's
open dislike... she couldn't help it, his relaxed lean into the office doorway gave him a sort of physical authority. Dangerous. She wanted to feel that physical authority, that danger, and the thought made her giddy.

  Wasn't she somehow intrigued because he also appeared younger than he was?

  But his eyes. His eyes were older — much older — than the rest of him. His eyes seemed to have aged twice as much as his body.

  Zim had mentioned Vietnam. Had snickered something about — what was it? Tunnels?

  There was something to Google. Tunnels and Vietnam. Maybe there was an answer there.

  Danni realized she'd been daydreaming in front of the mirror, like a teenager in a high school bathroom.

  This was no good! What about her image?

  She clucked at her image in the mirror.

  Tough as nails, they said of her. Goddamn clichés.

  Bitch.

  That was Zim's word, behind her back.

  Ball-breaker, she'd heard some others in the squad room mutter when they thought her old ears couldn't pick them up.

  Thing was, she liked the reputation. She got results, she had the busts (so they also snickered, but never to her face), and she had friends higher up who appreciated her abilities. Zim couldn't get rid of her easily and couldn't hurt her, and she had made it clear he couldn't have her. So he was stuck with her, and that was why he gave her cases like Brant's. Hopeless, messy. Ugly.

  Punishment.

  Fuck him.

  She added more shimmery pink to her lower lip. She hoped Brant would come back today.

  She grinned, deciding it was unhealthy to stare at one's own face for so long. The face in the mirror turned, and she glimpsed herself heading away — toward something. But what?

  The more she ran away from something, the more she felt welcome in the clasp of her past. The same past that kept her clawing her way through the ranks of the PD, where she would someday reach a limit. It wouldn't be enough, it would eat at her, and it would follow her into an unsettled, unfulfilling retirement.

  There, that was great. Map out your whole future on a bad day, with no possible good outcome. That was a great motivator.

  No, maybe not. But Brant's face continued to hover in her memory.

  Maybe that was a motivator.

  She tucked her low-profile 9mm Glock into the waistband holster then shrugged into her leather blazer. Just like the boy cops, she thought. And they hated it.

  Mr. Rich Brant, what are you involved in? What's your brother involved in? What happened to your niece?

  As she drove to the central precinct downtown, she couldn't help but wonder. She had her doubts about some of what she'd heard.

  And a bad feeling at the back of her chest, like a cold about to hit big. Or a heart attack.

  KIT

  She watched Marissa initiate a ritual that was apparently familiar, first using the toilet and flushing it. Kit stared at the cinderblocks and wondered which chinks concealed cameras. Marissa didn't seem to care.

  The travel bag had been tucked under Marissa's bunk. When she pulled it out Kit noticed for the first time that there was a shelf installed over the other girl's bunk, so that she had a place to line up various tubes and vials of cosmetics and prop up a small mirror.

  Kit's imagination whirled. Maybe she could use the mirror as a weapon. But she realized soon enough from its distorted image that it was of the cheap plastic kind, useless for providing any jagged shards.

  Too bad. Cause she would have loved driving one into somebody's eyes, that was for sure. Mr. Boots, to start with, then those Warner Brothers freaks and whoever else frequented the Showroom, the Sales Floor, or the Studio. Just thinking the words, seeing the images, made her breath hitch in her throat.

  Marissa hummed tunelessly as she continued arranging her make-up, making a big deal out of ignoring Kit.

  Kit and the other girl.

  The other girl had awakened at some point, looked around at the room —

  (cell)

  — they were in, stared at them, and then had fallen asleep again.

  Kit had tried to talk to her, coax her into opening her eyes, but they'd remained closed. Their lids fluttered, so Kit thought she might be faking, but on the other hand maybe she'd been drugged and had relapsed into a troubled doze. Her wrist was also manacled to the bunk, but she had shaken it once and half-shrugged, as if she'd expected no less. As if she were already numb to shocks of all kinds.

  Kit wasn't sure how or why, but she had decided maybe the girl didn't speak English. She'd tried a smattering of the Spanish and French she knew well enough, but the girl had stared blankly through her before falling asleep again. If that was what she was doing. It was hard to tell.

  Marissa had so far ignored the blond girl, though Kit noticed she'd taken some sidelong glances at the new competition.

  Kit had decided she knew enough psychology to determine what was wrong with Marissa.

  And there was something wrong with her, that was for sure.

  Kit remembered her Intro to Psychology class touching on the Stockholm Syndrome. Sure, she'd been eyeing that cute guy in the second row, which was something new for her, but enough of the lecture had sunk in to come crashing back to her now.

  It was Stockholm, not Helsinki – her memory had cleared on that point – and it was named after some botched bank robbery in which the robber had taken hostages who later professed sympathy for the guy. The heiress chick, what was her name — Patty Hearst, that was it — had apparently suffered the same fate, becoming a member of the SLA gang who had kidnapped her. The Something Liberation Army. What was it? Symbo. Symbio.

  Whatever.

  Kit saw the other girl's behavior clearly now, and it scared her. Would she become like Marissa? How long had the girl been held here? What had been done to her? Would Kit also come to accept, or even enjoy, her captivity? And how could that happen?

  No way, she decided, was she going to let them do that to her.

  Now, watching as Marissa hummed an annoyingly repetitive little melody while applying dark lip liner, wine-colored lipstick and heavy gloss to her full lips, thick mascara to her natural eyelashes, and bright blue eye shadow, Kit feared that Marissa had succumbed to the syndrome to the point where she felt special — was made special — by the kidnappers' attention. Maybe she'd been abused at home. But still... Now Marissa seemed to have finished with her face, admiring herself in the mirror from all angles.

  She looked sort of like an Egyptian queen, Kit thought. That reminded her of Irina, who liked the look and sometimes went out to clubs looking like that. It was exotic – kind of Middle Eastern goth – and Irina had told her the men went for it because it reminded them of women they couldn't have.

  Kit wasn't sure that was true, but she didn't feel sure of anything anymore.

  Now Marissa dabbed perfume behind her ears and on her neck, and massaged thick white lotion onto her bare arms.

  She's like an actress preparing for the stage.

  "Hey, Marissa," she whispered. "You're just pretending, aren't you? You're not really into all this, right?"

  But Marissa ignored her, finishing up her ritual in silence, forgetting to hum.

  Kit's hint of hope withered and died like a flower in winter.

  Kit had held off eating the food Mr. Boots had brought a while earlier. Another boring sandwich and a plastic cup of generic white soda with two lonely ice cubes floating inside. Marissa had chowed down right away, almost gulping the food like a dog.

  Now Kit finally decided she had to eat, even if she could imagine the guy's hands having scratched his crotch and then touched her cold cuts. Or maybe he'd spit on the bread before spreading the mayo. She wondered about the cleanliness of this kitchen, that was for sure, but she was at their mercy either way, and despite her aversion the food sitting there made her stomach grumble. At least it wasn't bug-infested.

  Marissa put the finishing touches on her theatrical make-up. She looked like a cho
rus girl —

  (or a whore, Kit thought unkindly, remembering that she had accused Irina of the same thing once when she wore her Egyptian fantasy look)

  — or a Fifties movie actress. Now Marissa sat idly watching as Kit demolished her food, hunger finally having conquered her defiant resistance. The sandwich had almost coalesced into slimy mush, as if the bread had been wet, but her stomach didn't care. She was going to need the toilet soon, though, and she wasn't sure she'd like doing it in front of Marissa and the other girl. But what choice would she have? She wasn't going to soil herself again. No way.

  Kit grabbed the cup of soda and gulped it. She'd intended to nurse it, savor it, maybe save some for later, but the salty sandwich made her thirsty and before she knew it the ice cubes were kissing her lips. She sucked at them, trying to relieve the saltiness — that was some salty sandwich meat! — she still tasted even after drinking all the flat soda. She put the cup down and stared back at Marissa.

  The new girl was a curled-up lump facing away from them and completely out of the picture. She was either new and clueless or she had been traumatized like Jill. No way to tell yet.

  Kit had decided she would use the toilet if and when Marissa was taken from the room —

  (cell)

  — figuring that the other girl wouldn't even stir. Now she waited for the inevitable opening of the bolt. Marissa had clearly prepared for something, and Kit figured it would give her the chance to add to her knowledge as well as pee.

  She looked at Marissa, who sat primly on her bunk as if waiting for a prom date, a leather skirt and tight sweater accentuating her shape. Kit wondered about the clothing. When she'd first seen Marissa, she had worn shorts and a red halter-top. Maybe she did have privileges and gifts. Maybe she was right about cooperation.

  Kit snorted and shook her head.

  No way. No cooperation with these... these...

  Her mind wandered, uncharacteristically. She tried to remember her thought. It was floating nearby, like a tiny cloud.