Savage Nights

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Savage Nights Page 27

by W. D. Gagliani


  "What are you getting at?" Brant felt a trickle of sweat meander down his back. All he wanted was to hit the road and find Kit. But this passion play wanted an ending, or at least an intermission.

  Colgrave said, "I have some connections too. After I hit the brick wall on you, I tried them. I'll admit, I didn't – couldn't – get any specifics, but I did get enough to know you set them up in some shady black bag jobs for – who was it, Brant? CIA, NSA? FBI during Watergate? I mean, you guys were young, tough, driven, and cynical as hell. Turn your skills into paychecks, eh? Even now, some of your exploits are either blacked out or expunged altogether." She stopped to breathe. "Brant went further, higher, did you all know that? Maybe because of this sense, maybe gift you all talk about. But you all found ways to make money doing some pretty nasty stuff. People like you created Goran the Serb. People like you are right now giving him a pass, a blank check." Her eyes toughened and her body tensed. "You're gonna help your old Lieutenant not for old times' sake or for his niece, but for a paycheck. Brant's money, I bet."

  No one answered, and only Brant looked back at her blankly. His eyes had gone cold and unreadable.

  "Well, whatever the reason, you're taking on the Serb, and if you don't get him, we never will because the fix is in, see. I don't know who, but the Department is hamstrung when it comes to this guy. I want to see him go down – I want to fucking take him down myself."

  The intensity in her voice was startling.

  "What about Zimmerman?" Brant whispered. It looked as though his hand would crush the beer bottle it held.

  The name was electric in the room. Colgrave picked it up. "Okay, that answers some of my questions. What about him?"

  "He'll want to get in our way."

  "He won't know about it till it's over."

  "He's got a thing for you."

  "Had. He's nothing to me now except an example of how good things go wrong."

  Sarge laughed. "He was never a good thing, that guy."

  "Got us almost killed a dozen times." Smitty shook his head. "Like he was trying."

  "He got plenty of guys killed," Digger said and lit up again. "Should have been him."

  "I had to get him off their backs," Brant said. "He was bad juju. Reeked of bad luck and lack of intelligence. A murderous combo."

  "That's why he hates you."

  "One of many reasons. I pulled his fat out of the fire a few times. Got him shitcanned in order to save these guys-" He pointed at the other three. "And then..."

  "And then?"

  "Then our careers parted ways."

  "As in, you had one and he didn't?" Colgrave probed.

  "Let's say I had connections and at first he didn't, and later on my connections leaned on him and his, and we don't see eye to eye as a result."

  "Where does the Serb fit into all this?"

  Brant sighed and leaned back in his chair. He itched to get back out and search for Kit, but he had hoped he would feel or sense something helpful. So far, there wasn't much he could use other than knowing she hadn't been imprisoned under the Lake Drive house.

  The damned visions were too unpredictable.

  "Maybe the Serb's connections have leaned on mine and on Zimmerman's, and Zim's stuck playing babysitter when he'd rather be a hero."

  "What are you getting at, Loot?" Sarge's look narrowed.

  "Maybe we can swing it so Zim's the guy who brings down Goran. Once news of Goran's operation gets out, even his protectors are gonna run for the hills. They'll have to drop him like a scorching potato. Zim'll be crowned hero just to keep the government connections hidden. They won't like him, but they'll have to hail him – and both they and Zim will know it wasn't him, but they'll have to go with the flow."

  "What about us?" Smitty said.

  "Colgrave here will deputize ya." Digger laughed.

  "Black ops, baby," said Brant. "Nobody will know you existed"

  Colgrave didn't laugh. "I'm not sure I can go along with this."

  "Come on, you said you wanted him stopped. All we need from you is that list of Goran's properties, and the sooner the better." Brant looked at his watch. "We're down to hours here. I've already told him who I am, and I'm out in the open. He doesn't even have to be any good and he'll have tracked down my place by now. Thing is, I got a strong sense that he has no idea who my niece is. It was either a random snatch, or somebody's setting up pieces on a board for us."

  "You mean he's innocent?" Smitty said. He coughed.

  "This guy's so fucking guilty they should gas him for opening his filthy mouth. But my point, I don't think he snatched Kit intentionally. Somehow she got to be part of his meat grinder, and it's making me sick. I just wonder who's playing us. Me."

  "Zimmerman?"

  "Thought crossed my mind."

  "You're gonna make him a hero!" Digger snorted.

  "Never said he couldn't be a dead hero."

  Brant scanned the room and saw how it laid out. Digger and Smitty were in the throes of the thrill of danger. And some money. Sarge was in it for the money. Or to quell some of the sadism for which he had no outlet since quitting the army and the force. Brant's anger fueled his actions.

  But Colgrave...

  Colgrave, he couldn't figure.

  Why risk ruining her career, losing her job, getting jailed, or even getting wasted – all on the same dangerous case, but for no discernible reason?

  Colgrave had to have an ulterior motive for possibly throwing it all away.

  For the millionth time, Brant wished his so-called gift could lay it all out for him – take his hand and walk him down the path to knowledge and understanding – but it was just limited to strange, surreal visions and dreams, and the occasional gut itch. His gut was itching badly now, but there was no separating the causes.

  Brant locked gazes with Colgrave.

  Her eyes widened slightly, held his.

  They were nice eyes, Brant realized again. Damn it.

  Volumes passed across the space between them and, for a second, Brant came aware of Colgrave's childhood. Abusive father, maybe someone else – a brother? – lots of transgressions, a wounded little girl made tough by the evil of those around her – no, of the men around her – and a fragile youth carved from the ruins of a wretched childhood. A tough adult grown from fragility, a cop whose life's mission became predators and abusers, and even a couple she had handled on her own. Handled…

  Brant blinked and the vision faded. It was rare, but the intensity between them had opened a channel and the vague images and feelings had flowed more fully than usual.

  Colgrave was also blinking, as if aware of Brant's sudden connection. Her slight nod at him was almost an acknowledgment of his intrusion. As if she accepted it. Maybe even welcomed it.

  Brant nodded, too. Colgrave had reasons, and he accepted them.

  "—would be the first place we look?" Smitty was saying.

  "Maybe this officer can tell us," Sarge said, nodding.

  Colgrave faced him. "I have a list." She unfolded and handed him a spreadsheet. Sarge flattened it on the counter and the others gathered around.

  Colgrave said, pointing, "As you can see, he's diversified."

  Brant couldn't help notice her index finger's short fingernail. The nail was pointed and painted, the finger slender. The hand looked solid, but he couldn't help trying to picture it holding one of Sarge's MP7A1s. Which reminded him to ask Sarge if he could rustle up one more. Sarge disappeared into a back room and returned a few minutes later with another, which he gave Colgrave.

  She whistled as she turned the deadly-looking weapon around in her hands. "Cops don't even rate this kind of stuff."

  "That's why I'm not a cop anymore," Sarge said, smirking.

  A half hour later, they had an itinerary of sorts.

  Brant hoped time hadn't run out yet.

  KIT

  Running meaty hands through his long hair, Goran stared at the phone. He willed it to ring. But if it did, he would wish it had n
ot. He had punched through a call to the emergency number, but had received no call in return, no message, no subtle clue. His operation was in danger, apparently from the actions of one man, a single gunman, and there would be payback to anyone who did not honor commitments to him. He had provided plenty of services for the level of protection he enjoyed. Damned if one man was going to make it crumble. No, the man would be damned. Goran had looked into his eyes. At first, he'd told himself there was nothing there, nothing for him to learn. But later, as Goran began to hear what the man was doing to his organization – piece by piece, it seemed – he recalled those eyes and now he knew there was death there. The man was dead inside, utterly devoid of the usual considerations found in people – the kind of inhibitions that kept people in check.

  No, this Brant was dangerous because he didn't care about Goran's security, or his men, or his empire. He did care about the niece, though. Goran was intelligent – cunning, he liked to think – and prided himself on seeing connections very clearly. The girl was trouble, yes. How had he ended up with her? But now she could also become an asset, a bargaining chip. Perhaps he had been hasty to promise her to those two.

  He tapped long, thick fingers on his desk, enjoying the solidness of the real wood. He had found a good life here, in this backwater that was close enough to Chicago to be interesting but far enough away to stay off the official radar, with a little help. Important help.

  The top desk drawer contained a false rear compartment. A Beretta pistol lay within, and an ornate snuff box that had been in his family since long before there had been a united Yugoslavia. It did not hold snuff now. He reached for it now and dipped inside, bringing the white powder to his nose and delicately inhaling. He licked his fingers clean and enjoyed the quiet jolt, the opening of many new directions for thought. One more taste. He allowed himself another dip and reluctantly closed the jeweled box. Time enough later.

  He took the Beretta from its cradle and slid it under his coat.

  His door burst open and a whirlwind of denim and silk and Chanel blew into the office.

  "How many times must I ask you to knock?" he spit out in his native tongue. "Your mother would never have allowed you to grow so rude!" He grinned and grimaced in quick succession. His words would have no effect on his Irina, both his joy and his never-ending sadness – a wild child, and with no male to counteract her whims and take his father's place in the business someday. He sighed.

  Irina plopped into a leather chair and slouched. "Whatever you say, old man. I am here for my money." She spotted the open snuff box and reached for it. "And some of that."

  He let her. It was better than denying her and then dealing with her temper. He knew for certain, for he had tried, ever since she had turned ten and watched her mother die eaten up by drugs and pain and cancer so you couldn't tell which was worse. Irina had watched, suffered, then become unruly and finally spiraled out of control. It took her own personal guard detail, commissioned by Goran, to keep her out of trouble from the age of ten to when she'd turned seventeen. After that, no one could do the job, and Goran had all but given up.

  Goran flashed for a moment on the rear of the basement complex in his house, wishing he had had the fortitude to deny her the wishes of a spoiled, evil child. Especially within his home! Was he a fool? But he had not denied, for he knew that if he did she would have indulged herself with abandon, until even his protection would have become inadequate and his organization would have come crashing down around their ears.

  His smile was sour, for the image of her playrooms had become disgusting even to him. His daughter was a monster.

  "What's up, old man?"

  He didn't answer. Her heavily made-up face was lovely, but radiated intense cold. She seemed to have been splattered with blood. "You have been playing again, yes?"

  She shrugged. "So what? You play with your toys and I with mine."

  It was as if a cone of light had been created above her, bringing her into focus for the first time. He said, "Irina, my love, your roommate at the university... you have brought her in, eh?"

  She smiled and it was as much a poisonous snake sitting there as his daughter. He could say so. After all, he had made a career of such smiles, usually followed by bloodshed.

  "I bring you girls often, dada."

  "You bring strangers. No one knows who you are. This girl – this girl has a family, a history. The police will talk to you."

  "They have, yes, already. I told them nothing. They cannot prove anything. I am innocent."

  Goran lowered his head. She was surely not innocent, not since something had happened to her back home, during the long nights of bombing raids and enemy incursions. Rape and torture, genetic cleansing, executions, all everyday occurrences deemed necessary by – well, deemed necessary always by someone. She had lost whatever childhood she might have had and become twice the monster her father had been, and he had been one of the worst. He held out his hand, took hers. "Irina, listen."

  She shrugged away, tearing their hands apart.

  "Irina, the girl. Her father-"

  "He is a junky, a worthless human, waster of oxygen. Even she says so! I know because I have fucked him for two months now. He is pathetic!" Her eyes spiraled with spite and anger, and something else. Amusement. "He was pathetic. He is in my freezer now."

  Goran ignored the outburst but winced inwardly. He had no interest in the bitch's father, whatever Irina had done to him. He continued, " – has a brother who is now looking for her. He is like a guided missile, this one, looking for a direct hit. Looking for me. He has already killed-"

  Irina tossed her hair. "This is your business. You are making a mess-"

  Goran's anger was a flash of white-hot lightning. "No, you are making the mess. You should not have taken this girl who is tied to you."

  "What do you care?"

  "You want to keep the expensive clothes and all the fancy things?" He grabbed for her, but she danced out of his grip, laughing. She was laughing still when she stormed out, rattling the door in its frame. The sound of her mocking laughter seemed to hang in the air even after she was gone.

  Goran looked at his hands. They were shaped like claws. They trembled like leaves. He sat down slowly and sighed. She had become like her mother. He should have seen it, but he was too busy. Too self-involved. And now it was too late.

  Her mother had been a monster of a special sort, but even she would not have recognized her own daughter.

  He wasn't sure when she had learned that torture brought her great pleasure. What she had seen, what she had witnessed his men doing, the raping, the cold-blooded murders, and even the torture – he had attempted to shelter her from these things, but later he would find that she had sought them out behind his back, that she had watched him mete out rough justice and payback, every chance she could. He wondered which of his men had encouraged her. Well, maybe this Brant bastard had terminated him and paid back a debt he knew nothing about.

  Goran thought at length. There was a measure of safety at the other end of his phone, but too much interruption of his traditional flow – girls and information, both ways – would cost him dearly, and he had his own debts to pay. No, he would have to deal with this himself, without involving the invisible umbrella that had sheltered him so long.

  He pondered his options. Being prey didn't sit well with him. Always Goran had been a hunter, a troubleshooter removing obstacles indiscriminately for others. Now the obstacle was his, and his only, to remove. He shook his head. What was he to do?

  Retreat is not always dishonorable. Revenge, even less so.

  But where does the universe stand on the killing of your own daughter?

  THIRTY-TWO

  There was a nobility about them, she thought, a mantle of knighthood, that at first blinded her to what they really were. What they really were was ruined, damaged mercenaries, men who had become what they were because they had been misused, wasted, thrown away by their government. Digger and Smitty had
traded on their skills, but badly. Maybe they thought of this as their one last chance for redemption, like Peckinpah's classic movie, The Wild Bunch, one of her favorites. The sergeant was more difficult to peg. An ex-cop who had taken early retirement much earlier than average, and one whose ability to provide firearms was suspect, she imagined he had to keep a foot on both sides of the line. And then there was Brant.

  The strength she saw was balanced by a strange fragility – not of body, but of mind. He seemed younger than he must have been, but it was as if he'd had to pay for the youth with more valuable psychological currency. If she thought of herself as disturbed, then he was deeply flawed, affected by something that hung over him like a cloud of death. She guessed the war was part of it, but there was more – something in the war had carved its own crevice into his psyche. She'd seen him kill with no hesitation, so whatever had burdened him all these years, conscience was probably the least of it. Strangely, he'd struck her as anti-establishment and anti-authority – not a typical candidate for any sort of covert ops. She'd checked a few more databases and, given what she hadn't found that should have been there, she knew there was more to him than was obvious. CIA, NSA, NIA, FBI, DEA – one of those groups had its hooks into him.

  She hoped she'd have the chance to ask him someday.

  Now she watched him drive, disguising continuous pain only visible if you studied him at length. A flicker of pain, a near-grimace, crossed his features every so often. He'd spoken of headaches, and she couldn't help wondering about his stability. But she'd seen him be as stable as anyone, blowing away the armed thug in the alley. That level of stability was frightening for other reasons.

  Colgrave shivered even though it wasn't cold.

  KIT

  She'd watched them poke and prod Anne Marie with utensils from a nearby table, but the girl had not given them the satisfaction of a response. Her eyes, still glazed, stared straight at Kit, accusatory except for the apparent disconnect with her brain.

 

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