by Mike Knowles
Sergei said nothing.
“Hands where I can see them!”
If Sergei moved, I couldn’t see it.
“It’s all right, Morrison. I got this handled.”
“Miller?” Morrison was confused — his voice gave it away.
“Yes, sir. I’ve been on this Rusky for months now, and I finally got him red-handed.”
“What happened here, Miller?” Morrison lowered his gun, keeping two hands on the revolver; it was a textbook safety procedure.
“Single gunshot to the face inside the room. Sergei Vidal shot and killed Igor Kerensky.”
“And you caught him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How did you know he would be here?”
“CI, sir. Tipped me off an hour ago at the scene. That’s why I left. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you, but these bastards have ears everywhere. There’s dirty cops everywhere on the force.”
“So you caught Sergei Vidal with that shotgun?” Morrison’s head gestured to the gun I couldn’t see from my spot behind the door.
“Yes, sir.”
“That is some good police work. My only question is: why is the suspect not cuffed? Why is he free to walk with you a few feet behind?”
There was no answer, at least not in words. A bullet took the back of Morrison’s skull off. The big cop stumbled back, as his body figured out what his brain could no longer tell it, and fell to the pavement.
I wasn’t surprised. Morrison was in a dark parking lot with a bent cop and the head of the city’s Russian muscle, and he never thought to keep his gun up. I wasn’t sure if Morrison was still trying to believe Miller over me or if he had no idea how deeply corrupt Miller really was. Whatever his reasons, Morrison died with his hand on his gun. He should have seen it coming like I did through the crack in the door. I made no noise as I adapted to the situation by holstering the .45 and slipping out the Glock police pistol.
“Sorry I took so long to get out there. When I heard Morrison’s voice, I went back for Igor’s gun. New story is Igor killed his wife, got high, shot a cop, then turned the gun on himself. Tragic story — film at eleven.”
Sergei laughed, “I think you have Russian in you.”
If Miller did, the Russian in him was all over the pavement a second later.
I opened the door and pulled the trigger of the Glock. Miller caught the movement of the door, turned his head, and brought Igor’s gun up. He was a second too late. Three bullets went into his chest. I pivoted to gun down Sergei, but he was already moving. Instead of going for a gun, he put his body behind Miller’s staggering form and went for the shotgun still in his hand. I put a bullet in Miller’s thigh, and his huge body lurched back into Sergei. The Russian gave up on the shotgun in favour of keeping the obese cop from falling on him. Sergei didn’t hesitate; he used a shoulder to prop the fat man up while he went for the police pistol still on Miller’s hip. The grope under the cop’s cheap jacket took a few seconds as Sergei held Miller up while stretching his arm around the massive torso; it was enough time for me to shoot Miller’s other leg. Sergei wasn’t strong enough to hold the 300 plus pounds of dead weight up. Miller fell forward, leaving Sergei standing unarmed.
“Evening,” I said.
Here's a sneak peek at the next novel in the Wilson mystery series
CHAPTER ONE
The knock came at exactly seven in the morning. I was standing in the kitchen drinking a cup of tea and reading a story in the paper about a kid who had been dragged half a kilometre in a hit and run. The paper had plenty of quotes from the kid’s parents, but no answers as to why the fifteen-year-old was out on the street, by himself, at three in the morning. Seven wasn’t early for me — I didn’t sleep much anymore, but it was too early for someone to be at the door. The knock had a fast beat: three solid knocks in quick succession. After the sounds, a heavy silence settled in like a fog. The quiet was interrupted by the sound of the furnace sputtering to life. The old machinery was struggling to keep up with the November chill.
I put my tea down and walked to the pantry. I had everything from the second shelf on the counter when the second set of knocks on the door sounded. I didn’t waste time wondering who was outside — I knew who it was. Not long ago, I killed a cop and a few Russian gangsters. I thought I had gotten out clean, but the knocks said different. It was too early for salesmen, and I had never met one of my neighbours. It had to be the police at the door — Russians don’t knock.
I poured three times, not caring about the overflow that soaked the counter. I had just put the metal container down and started corking when a third set of knocks rang out. Something was shouted, but all I picked out was the word “police.” The word was distorted from its trip through the door and down the hall, but it was understandable enough.
I had started taping when there was a new sound. The knocking had been replaced with a single sharp noise. Someone thought that they could kick my front door down. I grinned at the image of what had to be going on outside. Someone would be clutching his foot and swearing. The door had about half an inch of an old wooden door glued to the surface of a much more solid metal door. A foot would bounce off the door like bullets off Superman’s chest. I had finished taping when something much more substantial hit the door. The sound came a second and then a third time. The third strike was louder than the previous two and I knew the door had started to buckle. I lit the tampon taped to the neck of the one-litre glass bottle and shouldered through the swinging kitchen door when the fourth blow sent the outside door crashing inward. The Molotov was airborne as the first cop stepped inside. The cop only managed to get one foot inside when the corked bottle exploded, sloshing the turpentine inside against the solvent-soaked fiery tampon duct-taped to the neck of the bottle. The patch of wall above the door burst into flames as a spray of liquid fire splashed onto the walls and floor. The police dove for the lawn while I backed into the kitchen.
I had managed to make three Molotov cocktails in under a minute. I kept the bottles, tape, turpentine, lighter, and feminine fuses in the pantry for a special occasion. Most people have food in the kitchen for unexpected company — I kept something for other kinds of visitors. I took the open container of turpentine and pushed the swinging door again. I saw the police on the porch shielding themselves from the flames; they didn’t see me toss the can into the hall. The fluid went up in a whoosh as I dashed back the way I came. I lit the second Molotov, threw it against the wall, and the kitchen blossomed into an inferno as I grabbed my coat and slipped into the garage. I got behind the wheel, buckled up, started the engine, and drove straight through the garage door.
The police had parked on the street, not wanting to announce their presence. Their tactical decision gave me enough room to drive across the neighbour’s lawn and around the crude roadblock set up in front of the neighbour’s house. None of the cops were prepared for a car chase and I saw men running towards cruisers in my rear-view as I drove down the street.
The Volvo was a custom job; the exterior was old and worn but the engine under the hood could have almost met drag racing standards. The car was at eighty before I turned the corner and at a hundred by the time I skidded onto the main road. I weaved through the early morning traffic, using the sidewalk as a passing lane, until I saw the first major intersection. I careened around the corner and aimed at the bumper of a Hummer. The black H3 was a scaled-down version of the original design. The new Hummer was for yuppies and assholes, not soldiers. I rear-ended the SUV and felt the seatbelt catch my body as it was thrown forward and then back. I pulled the gun I kept holstered under the seat, lit the last Molotov, and opened the door. The H3 driver was already out of his car with his arms extended in a what the fuck? gesture. The anger changed to confusion when he saw me pitch a flaming bottle into my own car. The Volvo was suddenly a fireball and the H3 driver, a fat man in a leather jacket, was backing off. I grabbed him by collar, pressed the gun into his chubby neck right below his Bluetooth ear bu
d, and forced him back into the SUV. The fat man scrambled over the seat to the passenger side with his hands in the air as I slid into the Hummer. The other motorists and pedestrians were looking back and forth between the Hummer and the flaming Volvo. Some already had cell phones in their hands either to take pictures or to call for help. I put the Hummer in gear and hit the tail end of the green light. I used my elbow to shut up my passenger and then aimed the SUV for the highway.
Mike Knowles studied writing at McMaster University before pursuing a career in education. Knowles became an elementary teacher and currently teaches in Hamilton where he lives with his wife and dog. He is also the author of Darwin’s Nightmare (ECW).
The Wilson Mystery Series
Darwin’s Nightmare
Grinder
In Plain Sight
Never Play Another Man’s Game
ECW Press
Copyright © Mike Knowles, 2010
Published by ECW Press
2120Queen Street East, Suite 200, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4E 1E2
416.694.3348/ [email protected]
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any process — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise — without the prior written permission of the copyright owners and ECW Press.
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Knowles, Mike
In plain sight / Mike Knowles.
ISBN 978-1-55022-948-6
I. Title.
PS8621.N67I5 2010 C813'.6 C2010-901259-3
Cover and Text Design: Tania Craan
Cover Image © Peeter Viisimaa
Typesetting: Mary Bowness
Production: Troy Cunningham
The publication of In Plain Sight has been generously supported by the Canada Council for the Arts which last year invested $20.1 million in writing and publishing throughout Canada, by the Ontario Arts Council, by the Government of Ontario through Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit, by the OMDC Book Fund, an initiative of the Ontario Media Development Corporation, and by the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.
Table of Contents
Cover
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sneak Peek of Never Play Another Man’s Game
About the Author
Copyright