Rum Runner - A Thriller (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries Book 9)

by J. A. Konrath

  Eventually someone would come looking for me. Phin. Harry. Val. The local authorities. In theory, my chances would improve the longer I was able to hold out. Unless T-Nail’s plan banked on someone trying to save me.

  I recalled several times in my past when I was faced with hostage situations. None of the memories were pleasant.

  What if they had Phin, and began cutting off his toes one at a time until I let them in?

  I couldn’t handle that.

  There was movement on the monitor. I watched, jaw clenched, as a van approached the house and began to drive in circles on the lawn, slowly picking up speed.

  I guessed the game plan, and frowned.

  Harry’s front door held up to gunfire and a grenade, but I didn’t think it could withstand a three ton head-on collision.

  The van began to honk. The driver was no doubt trying to psyche himself up. As a cop, I’d seen more than a few car accident aftermaths. Airbags only did so much. The moron who was driving either had a death wish, or was ignorant of the dangers involved. I didn’t know whether to blame his parents, society, or the bad example set by television shows, which showed people walking away from crashes that would almost always prove fatal in real life.

  I stopped dwelling on his motivation and began to dwell on mine. Was I going to just sit there while someone rammed his way inside?

  No.

  I jogged into the living room, over to the balistraria.

  Balistraria. Embrasure. Crenel.

  The open space between the merlons. Every good castle had one, and Harry’s house was no exception.

  I swung the plate back, exposing the cross-shaped hole in the wall, and peeked outside. It was a window, of sorts, only three inches wide and two feet high, shaped like a lower case letter t. In medieval times, archers shot their arrows through the balistraria from safely inside the castle, the tiny opening large enough to aim accurately through but practically impenetrable to enemy forces.

  I didn’t have a bow and arrow. But I did have a Bushmaster Predator with a drum of 5.56 NATO rounds.

  I shouldered the weapon, thumbed off the lever safety, and aimed through the balistraria at the approaching van.

  PHIN

  Keeping his foot steady on the accelerator, Phin drove in another circle, his free hand tapping on the horn.

  BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEP… BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEEP!

  He swung past the tree line, catching a brief glimpse of Del Ray.

  BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEP… BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEEP!

  Back toward the house again. Was Jack even watching?

  More important, was she listening?

  BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEP… BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEEP!

  Once more around. Del Ray was beginning to look agitated. Maybe he thought Phin was chickening out. That was fine. Better he thought Phin was a coward, than trying to signal his wife.

  BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEP… BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEEP!

  Come on, Jack. I know it’s a monotone, but you know this.

  Just listen, Jack.

  Listen.

  JACK

  I couldn’t make out the driver in my scope. He blurred past, too fast to see, and too fast to track.

  I narrowed my choices down to two. I could spray the van, hoping to hit the tires or engine block to stop it. Or I could target the driver.

  Shooting somebody, even in an obvious self-defense situation, didn’t appeal to me. But I didn’t see any other way to stop the van. Even if I blew out the tires and killed the motor, momentum could still carry it into the house. Then I’d be forced to shoot everyone who came in.

  But if I shot the driver, it would not only prevent a breech, it would also give the rest of the gang something to think about. The woods they hid in weren’t as defendable as the house. If they knew I had a rifle, and the ability to use it, they’d be less inclined to continue their siege.

  So by killing this one joker, I might actually be saving the lives of dozens.

  I didn’t like the idea. Murder disgusted me. Self-defense or not, I had no desire to take another person’s life. But I didn’t see any other choice.

  Plus, that rhythmic horn tapping was getting on my nerves.

  PHIN

  He did another lap, and paused honking for long enough to lower the driver side window. He couldn’t call to her, because then the gang would know. But maybe Jack would see him. That was the first part of Phin’s plan.

  The second part, Phin was vague on. If Jack saw him, maybe Phin could get her into the vehicle and they could drive off. They’d be chased, of course, but at least it was a chance at escape.

  BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEP… BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEEP!

  “Come on, Jack,” Phin whispered to himself. “Pay attention.”

  DEL RAY

  Something was wrong.

  This Mick dude was driving around honking like some sort of circus clown. At first, Del thought he was gathering speed. Then, he assumed Mick was having second thoughts. But now, Del had no idea what was happening.

  He could tell the man had a coke habit—the dried blood around his nostrils was a dead-giveaway. Had Mick snorted away his mind? Was he so stoned right now he had no idea what he was doing?

  And why was he honking that same beat, over and over?

  Unless…

  Unless that man wasn’t really a Crazy J.

  When realization came to Del Ray, it came fast. He whipped out his cell phone, checked the text messages his surveillance team had sent earlier, and the attached pictures. Pictures of the cop’s house in the suburbs. Pictures of Jack.

  And one blurry shot of Phineas Troutt.

  Del stared at the photo and felt his ears burn. The General of the Eternal Black C-Notes had just given van keys to his target’s goddamn husband.

  JACK

  Rather than try to lead the moving van, I pointed the rifle at a static spot on the property. As the van did a loop, I adjusted my aim. For some reason, the driver had opened his window.

  Which made it easier for me. The next time he circled, I’d take the shot.

  BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEP… BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEEP!

  Jesus, that was irritating. And it was the same tune, over and over. As if he was purposely trying to annoy me. Like Phin did when he sang You and Me Against the World.

  The van came back around. I breathed out and put steady pressure on the trigger, beginning to squeeze…

  PHIN

  He saw Del Ray pull his gun and shout, but Phin couldn’t hear him over the horn.

  “Goddammit, Jack!” Phin growled. “Why can’t you recognize—”

  JACK

  You and me against the world,” I said, finally getting it.

  That was the tune the van was honking.

  Phin’s behind the wheel.

  I pulled my aim just before I fired, shooting into the woods.

  The woods shot back.

  But instead of attacking the house, the gunfire was focused on the van. Phin skidded in the dirt, his two rear tires blowing out, correcting his angle and heading for the garage as his windows splintered and his side panels were chewed up by bullets.

  I had to beat him there.

  I ran, barreling around the corner, beelining for the door, flinging it open and frantically searching for the garage opener.

  There. On the wall.

  I pressed the button, then jammed the rifle stock tight into my shoulder, taking aim as the heavy, steel door slowly raised up on pneumatic pistons.

  The garage door opened to a battlefield. The sound was unworldly. Even on the busiest shooting range I’d never heard so many guns fire at once; like a single, continuous gunpowder explosion without any pause between shots. The van no longer looked like a van. It looked like a robotic skeleton, disintegrating before my eyes in sparks and wisps of smoke.

  It was ten meters away and slowing down.

  Phin wasn’t going to make it.

  Incoming bullets ricocheted off the concrete garage floor, and I slammed my bac
k against the side wall and crouched, returning fire. The van swerved right, left, right. The tires were shredded, the rims throwing up dirt and dead leaves as they bit into the ground. I couldn’t see Phin through the spider web cracks in the front windshield, but if he tried to exit out of either door, he’d be ground meat.

  Then the windshield bulged, and popped out, and Phin was scrambling out over the hood, using the van as cover, sprinting toward the garage.

  I hit the opener again, and the heavy duty garage door began to roll back down as I laid down some suppressing fire.

  At five meters away, I began to think that he might actually make it.

  Then automatic weapon fire caught him on the right, and he pitched sideways, hitting the ground and skidding on the heels of his hands.

  His eyes met mine, and time stopped.

  I couldn’t hear the gunfire.

  I couldn’t see the bullets kicking up dirt all around him.

  Phin’s face became my whole universe, and I committed it to memory. The determination there. The resignation. The pain. The sadness.

  But most of all, the look in his eyes. The look that had never left, since we’d first been together. No matter what we’d gone through. No matter how hard things got.

  The look that told me, more than words ever could, more than actions ever could, how much he loved me.

  In super-slow motion, more bullets stitched across his back, but his gaze didn’t falter, his eyes locking on mine until the garage door closed.

  PHIN

  He couldn’t draw a breath in, and the bullets kept raining down. He wondered if, beneath the vest, he had any ribs that weren’t broken.

  But he didn’t feel any pain.

  Phin’s lame rescue attempt had failed miserably. Save for one thing.

  He’d gotten to see Jack one last time.

  And, strangely, that was worth it. As the gang closed in around him, Phin smiled.

  “Bye-bye, Jack. Ya’aburnee.”

  Then the garage door began to open once again.

  JACK

  As soon as the garage door was two feet up I hit stop and scooted underneath it, going sideways so the tank on my back didn’t get caught. Then I crawled across the open ground as bullets kicked up dirt on either side of me.

  Phin was two meters away.

  He shook his head at me, his mouth curled in a grin. I lip-read him as he said, “You idiot.”

  I got up on one knee. According to the manual, it was point and shoot.

  I pointed at the woods and squeezed the trigger, spitting out fifteen meters of flame. I sprayed a wide arc, the X15 hissing like a dragon clearing its throat. Gangbangers scattered. The gunfire ceased. General panic erupted everywhere I aimed.

  I guess they’d never seen a flamethrower before.

  Phin had a stupid-ass smile on his face, and he reached out his hand for me.

  I grabbed it.

  The touch was electric.

  I continued to spit fire as I dragged Phin, inch by inch, back to the garage.

  A shot blew past my scalp, so close I felt the wind.

  Another creased my thigh.

  Two hit my vest, punching the air from my lungs.

  I reached the garage door.

  Killed the flame.

  Squeezed underneath.

  Pulled Phin in after me.

  And then, with my final reserves of strength, I slapped my palm against the opener and the garage door sealed itself shut.

  For a moment, we both lay there on the concrete. Not moving. Not talking. Then Phin began to make a noise. A croaking, barking kind of noise. I knew what a death rattle was.

  The last sound a man made before his heart stopped.

  This wasn’t a death rattle.

  My husband was laughing.

  “I can’t believe you did that,” he said between chuckles.

  “Me? You were driving in circles like some kind of moron.”

  “I was trying to save you.”

  Now it was my turn to laugh. “Yeah, way to go with that.”

  My hand found his, and we squeezed so hard we practically fused our flesh together.

  “You hit?” he asked.

  “In the vest. You?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “Can you walk?”

  “Won’t know until I try.”

  I managed to take a knee, then pull myself up to stand. I braced against the wall for Phin to climb me, noting the smears of blood he’d left on the concrete floor. I took the back sling off my shoulders, setting the X15 on the floor. Then we stumbled back inside, limping to the infirmary. I flipped on the overhead light, bathing my man in bright neon.

  He looked like he’d crawled through hell. His face, neck, and hands were scraped and pock-marked from windshield glass. His shirt shredded.

  “Jesus, Phin.”

  “Tough day at the office.”

  I carefully helped him out of his Kevlar, and stopped counting slugs caught in the weave after two dozen.

  His chest was purple, like he’d been spray painted.

  “Oh… baby.”

  I was almost afraid to touch him, but I reached a tentative hand out and traced my finger down his right arm.

  “Did any penetrate?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. But I like it when you say penetrate.”

  I reached for his belt buckle, gently tugging down his fly, surprised by his reaction.

  “You’re kidding,” I said, gripping him in my hand.

  “You with that flamethrower. It was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “We can’t,” I said, and as I said it I realized how badly I wanted him. “You’re one big bruise.”

  “I’m not bruised there.”

  “Phin…”

  “Are you hit?”

  He ran his fingers down my arms, tearing the Velcro from my vest. Then his hands were inside my shirt, cupping my breasts.

  “Those are fine,” I said. It came out softer than I’d meant.

  “They sure are.”

  “This is stupid.”

  “So let’s be stupid.”

  He moved closer, his cheek against mine, his lips next to my ear. His hands moved down the small of my back and pulled me close.

  “I’ve missed you so much,” he whispered.

  And that was all she wrote. Whatever dam had been inside me for the last few months finally burst into a billion pieces. I didn’t just love this man. I wanted him. I wanted him so badly it made my whole body throb. I wanted to devour him. I wanted to possess him. The entire world could have been blowing up around us—and for all I knew it was—and all I cared about was sex.

  Then my pants were down—whether he did it or I did it I had no idea—and he lifted me up on the examination bench, and my knees were hooked around his shoulders, my hands in his hair, pulling his face between my legs and wondering why the hell I’d been avoiding this for so long. What an idiot I’d been. How could he have put up with me? Then my panties were off, and his lips and tongue found me, and it was too intense and too fast and too hot and I yelled at him to stop because I didn’t want to come this way, I wanted him inside me, but he didn’t listen and my orgasm shook me so violently I screamed until my throat burned.

  Somehow he got up on the bench, entering me hard, driving into me, and I knew he wasn’t going to last long and I didn’t want him to and the thought of him coming was the most arousing thing ever.

  Phin lasted twenty seconds.

  It only took me ten.

  We cried out together, my face buried in his shoulder, his arm cradling my head, my ankles locked around his back. I continued to grind against him as he slowed and eventually stopped.

  “So,” I said, staring into my husband’s eyes. “You liked the flamethrower?”

  Phin laughed, then grimaced in pain. The grimace softened, his eyes becoming moist.

  “You okay?” I asked. I meant it in a whole lot of different ways.

  “I’m so sorry
, Jack. I shouldn’t have left.”

  “You deserve a medal for putting up with me. I’ve been awful.”

  “We’ve both been awful.”

  “You’ve been patient. I’ve been a bitch. You were right, Phin. It’s you and me against the world. I don’t know how I forgot that. But I won’t, ever again. I promise.”

  He shifted his weight, the grimace returning.

  “We need to tape your ribs. Are any broken?”

  He nodded.

  “How many?”

  “How many are there?”

  I switched out of slut goddess mode and into nurture mode, slipping out from beneath him, going through McGlade’s first aid drawers. I found a rack of vials and picked out some morphine sulfate, then searched for a syringe.

  “What is that?”

  “Morphine.”

  Phin shook his head. “I don’t want that.”

  “It will take away the pain.”

  “It will also dull my senses.”

  “Phin, you look like one of the California Raisins.”

  “It’s just pain.”

  “Do you have any coke left?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I threw it away before I came home.”

  “Well, that was stupid.”

  “It was a conscious choice. You over drugs.”

  “And now you’ve got fifteen broken ribs—”

  “Probably closer to twenty.”

  “—and I don’t know what to do.”

  “Advil. And check if Harry has Demerol.”

  I went back to look for pain meds, and felt Phin’s hand on my thigh. I flinched when he found a wound.

  “You were shot.”

  “It’s a scratch,” I said.

  “It’s bleeding.”

  Phin got up off the bench and stood next to me. He found some Quikclot combat gauze, and tried to wind it around my bare thigh.