No Offense

by Francesca D'Armata

  Gunfire sprayed rapidly in their direction, mortally wounding everyone but him. Chevoski wasn’t hit, but he was covered in his girlfriend’s blood. He rushed to his car, followed the perpetrators to a rural area, and ran them off the highway. His evening was spent cutting them into little pieces. In the most painful way.

  After that evening, he always kept layers of associates between him and his vocation.

  The killing of those Steely loved hadn’t caused Chevoski to blink. He was talking to the daughter of a man he’d brutally killed. The widow and daughter-in-law of men burned beyond recognition. He had no remorse. No normal compassion. If it took basic human emotions to keep a heart pumping, he would already have been dead.

  If this man wasn’t stopped now, he would rack up even more on his kill list.

  Steely thought about grabbing the gun from his lap. She’d get a kill shot or die trying. He’d be incapacitated, wreck the car, and maybe hurt someone else.

  Her hand quivered and then calmed. That’s what he would do. She leaned back in the seat. She wasn’t him.

  He slowed when they crossed the causeway to Galveston Island. He used the blinker to signal a lane change. He was exiting.

  Maybe I should have thought this out. How could I think this out? I was kidnapped!

  She briefly closed her eyes and prayed.

  Jesus, help me.

  Steely wasn’t afraid. This was nothing compared to finding her mom that day in bed. Or listening to Sheriff Tucker tell her and Bea about the truck wreck. Still she kept quiet. The airport was in sight.

  The car shimmied in the sand when Chevoski made a quick right toward the airstrip. “We’ll be out of here in ten minutes,” he boasted.

  The airport was isolated. Nothing but private carriers used the facility. All the hangars were tightly locked up. A single aircraft was out of its housing, engines warming, and stairs extending up to an open cabin. Chevoski passed through a narrow driveway, several yards from the aircraft.

  “You and your father should have minded your own business. You’d be rich, and he wouldn’t have died in a bar. You don’t mess with me. I don’t mess with you. That’s how it works.”

  Steely didn’t engage him. He was talking, and that’s exactly what she wanted. Information. Any details he blabbed, she’d remember.

  “Your father caused his own demise when he called Jack Hunter. Good thing Harry found out about the meeting with Vince Dichiara. Me and Alexis offered him a great deal. Who wouldn’t take three million over ten years to mind his own business? I was paying him to live. Then we could do business again.”

  “It was blackmail.”

  “I’ve mellowed in my old age. I was just going to scare his moral convictions out of him—send him to the hospital. One good concussion should’ve convinced him. Surprised me when I saw blood. He could have been a rich man. Nick Dichiara was a pain from the beginning. We knew there wasn’t a chance he’d figure this out. I’m an entrepreneur.” Chevoski was starry-eyed. “We put together a worldwide operation. We’d all be set for life. No need to run. We could’ve been upstanding citizens. No one could’ve touched us. Whoever took my money will be dead by tomorrow. I will find him. And when I do…”

  Chevoski advanced past where cars were allowed on the runway, stopped at the stairs, and cut the engine. He rushed to the passenger side and yanked Steely out.

  “It’s time for the ride of your life.”

  Steely was getting on a jet with a man who wanted to make her the next slash in his belt. She pushed his arm away, the one holding the gun. If it went off, it wasn’t hitting her. “Mr. Chevoski, tell me one thing. Why did you pick my dad for the job?”

  Chevoski flashed a menacing grin. Everything about him was disturbing, but especially the look on his face when asked a serious question.

  “Cricket recommended him. She was a conniver, even when she was in seventh grade. I can understand why she hated you.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Catching up with Old Lady Hunter. We’ll send a plane to pick her up in Beaumont tomorrow.”

  The pilot was sitting in the cockpit. His back was toward them. He was suited with a captain’s hat. A petite shadow stirred in the cabin. Steely grabbed the railing when Chevoski jolted her up the stairs. “Hurry up,” he commanded. “You’re going to enjoy your last ride.”

  “Your plan lacks sense.”

  “Do you think stealing six hundred thirty-nine million makes sense?” Chevoski gripped her right arm tight enough to rupture vessels. “There’ll be a sixty-million-dollar contract on my head if I don’t get that money back by tomorrow.”

  “Good,” Steely snapped. “Your business destroys people.”

  “I help them escape their miserable lives. They’ll risk everything for a pouch of powder. It’s not just the poor slob on the street anymore. Doctors, lawyers, CPAs, chefs, bankers, politicians. Fine, upstanding citizens are my customers. It’s the way they survive.”

  “Survive? They fry their brains. Then they steal, kill, and destroy for their addiction. They end up in a prison or dead.”

  He shoved her up another step. “Stop lecturing me and move!”

  Steely resisted, forcing him to drag her up every step. There had to be an air traffic controller, mechanic, or someone around. The pilot fiddled in the cockpit, appearing disinterested in his passengers. She stalled. “You know you’re not Jack Hunter’s son. I’ve seen the DNA results.”

  Chevoski paused. “There was no DNA test.”

  “Mrs. Hunter had one done from a glass you drank from.”

  “That’s a lie. Jack Hunter hid me. Every time I heard a news report talking about how great Jack Hunter was, it made me sick.” He shoved her up the next step.

  “Your mind has caught that bug too.”

  “On her dying bed, my momma told me Jack Hunter was my father. I believe her over him. Now go!” He knocked her up the next step and then another.

  Steely pushed back, dropping down a step. “Leo Chevoski—your mother was in a relationship with him—he was your father. He killed a family of four right after you were born. He was executed a few years later. Your mother probably didn’t want you to know.”

  “Jack Hunter sent my mother child support. Guilt money is what it was. Now go!” They went up another step to reach the platform at the cabin door.

  “Where’s Alexis Canker’s stepsister, Jacqueline, and her husband, Warren Dupree?”

  Chevoski was smug. “Mr. Qualls sent them on a river-rafting trip.”

  “In a car?”

  “You know how treacherous a river can be.” He yanked her inside.

  The cabin had four rows, two seats on each with an aisle between them. The cockpit door was open, unlike commercial fights. The captain’s hands were moving around the controls.

  The shadowy figure was Alexis Canker. She had nothing to say to their guest and took her seat. Chevoski pointed Steely to the place across from Alexis. The woman had her hand in her lap on top of a snout-nosed gun. The six shells would be more than she needed to control Steely. “She’ll go for your extremities,” bellowed Chevoski. “I don’t want you dead just yet.”

  The captain, with an Australian accent, sounded off. “Everything’s ready, mate. We are ready to secure the cabin.”

  “Then do it!” Chevoski secured himself in the first seat, facing opposite the others, and closed his eyes. “Lock us up,” he ordered the captain.

  Steely leaned over, catching a glimpse of the pilot’s arm. He was not a pilot. She had been in a flight simulator at NASA. Holding on to the lever controlling the landing gear was not on the takeoff list. She braced herself to drop to the floor or run out the door and jump, if she could.

  The pilot sounded alarmed. “Sir, you need to see this.” Chevoski glared at Steely and then strutted to the cockpit. Leaning over the pilot’s shoulder at the panoramic view, he slid his pistol in the pilot’s back.

  “They were waiting for us. Did you do this? Get this thing mo
ving, or you’re dying with me.” He shouted, “Alexis, lock the cabin!”

  The captain whacked Chevoski’s arm against the dash. The man squeezed off one round, barely missing his target. The man charged at Chevoski, grabbing his arm and twisting until it snapped. The firearm was chucked into a corner, out of reach. The fight was now physical. The captain slammed the cockpit door, locking them in.

  Steely ran forward, blocking the control panel. Alexis pointed her weapon at Steely, her finger wobbling on the trigger. “You have two seconds to get out of my way.”

  The boots shuffling outside were getting closer. They were either law enforcement or cartel. Steely wasn’t going out to check. Her back was against the wall. Alexis exposed herself in the gaping door, following Chevoski’s instructions.

  The riot in the cockpit briefly distracted them. Glass was breaking, bodies were flinging around—until they heard a single shot.

  Steely dropped to the floor and rolled up in a tornado crunch. Whoever was outside was coming in. Three shots whizzed by. Alexis dropped to her knees. She bent forward, bleeding out. She was no longer a threat to anyone. Steely fell sideways, away from her.

  The plane was being invaded. Dozens of boots marched toward them, up the stairs, armed with automatic rifles. The boots stopped at Steely’s feet.

  “Steely, are you all right?” Donovan squatted beside her.

  She popped open her watery eyes. “Yes.”

  “You need to get out of here, right now.” Donovan pulled her up and passed her to an officer, who helped her out.

  Donovan beat on the cockpit door. His crew jammed in behind him. “Open the door before we rip it off. This plane isn’t going anywhere.” Donovan hit the door again. “Last chance.”

  The cockpit door slowly opened. Donovan pushed it the rest of the way, with a shotgun aimed inside.

  Nick held up his hands. “It’s me!” A gash above his eye had torn open. He was bloodied but standing.

  “Of course it’s you.” Donovan viewed Chevoski slumped in a corner. “Well, did you leave him with a pulse?”

  Nick kicked the limp body. “Guess not.”

  Donovan squeezed his mouthpiece. “I need the coroner and a bus.” He turned back to Nick. “You need to thank Mrs. Ray for calling me.”

  “Mrs. Ray?”

  “She said they leased this jet on a company card, or we would have never found you.”

  “I was going to call.”

  “Sure you were.” He ordered, “Move back and let us out.”

  Donovan and Nick maneuvered out of the cabin and then down the stairs. The remaining officers stayed to process the plane. “Mr. Qualls died on the highway a few miles down. Mr. Keaton had a massive heart attack. He’s in intensive care. We got…”

  Nick panned the area from the hangar to the runway.

  “Don’t be taking off. I’ve got a bus coming to transport you to the hospital.”

  “Where’s Steely?”

  Donovan caught up with him. “There’s nobody out here but my people and some Galveston County deputies. Where could she go?”

  Nick blotted his head with his arm, removing enough blood to gain better sight.

  Donovan rotated around the area again. “Chevoski’s car is missing!” He ran for his cruiser and jumped in. He turned on his radio and called in a BOLO. Nick hopped in beside him. Donovan flipped on the siren and fishtailed out to the interstate. “Where’d she go?”

  “Have you picked up Cricket?”

  “Nope. We really don’t have anything on her. She might be the one who slips away. I hope Steely didn’t…”

  “Where are we going?” Nick said, worried.

  Donovan floored it. “I’m heading toward town. We’ve got a few minutes to figure out where she is. I hope Steely has enough sense not to go near Cricket.”

  “She knows Cricket was involved in the death of her dad, most likely Jack and David too.”

  “Oh dear God.”

  Chapter sixty-eight

  Steely didn’t bother hiding Chevoski’s rental. She left it in the driveway in front of her house. The only person she would hide it from was already inside. She had passed Cricket’s coupe parked halfway down the street. The house shook when Steely burst in the front door.

  Propped up on the sofa where Steely’s mom used to lie, Cricket pointed a pistol.

  “Sit.”

  Steely passed the two easy chairs, facing Cricket, and moved slowly into Bea’s adjacent recliner. She had no inclination that Cricked would settle for her extremities. “How’s this going to end, Cricket?”

  “You’re going to die,” Cricket said matter-of-factly.

  “That’s not your decision to make. Now, why don’t you put that away? Nobody else needs to get hurt. HPD is on the way.”

  “No, they aren’t. You came alone, so we could have this little chat. Mrs. Hunter and Mr. Martinez are on their way.”

  “Then let’s have that chat. Why’d you bring my dad into this?”

  Cricket tightened her grip, her teeth exposed like a rabid dog. “Simple. I hate you! This time, if I go down, you go down.”

  Steely placed a hand over heart, as if she could shield it. “Why? I never did anything to you.”

  Cricket fired at the family pictures, scattering a glass frame.

  Steely hardly flinched.

  Cricket words were fiery. “You had this perfect little family. Did you know my father beat my mother and me? At six, I still wet the bed. He beat me every time until I bled. My mother kept me out of school until the scars healed.”

  Steely pivoted her head from side to side. “No. They haven’t. You need help. I know who can help you.”

  “Help? This house will be our deathbed. We’ll die together. When I go, you go.”

  The front door came ajar and then pushed open. Martinez held it for Bea and then closed it behind them. Cricket tucked the gun on her far side.

  Bea spouted, “Steely, why didn’t you invite us to the party? You know I don’t like finding things out from other people. Especially, this little—”

  “Miss Bea—” Steely briefly put her hands over her face. “You weren’t supposed to come home until I called. Why don’t you and Mr. Martinez go have dinner, get a tenderloin? My treat.”

  “I’m not hungry!” Bea fired back, scowling at Cricket.

  “Why don’t you go to Mr. Martinez’s cousin’s house?” Steely looked over at Cricket. “That’d be OK, huh, Cricket? This is between you and me.”

  Bea folded her arms and wagged her head. “We’re not leaving you here with this cuckoo bird!”

  Martinez crossed his arms, locked his knees, agreeing.

  Cricket barked, “Have a seat, you old bag.”

  “Listen here, little girl,” Bea said, wielding a finger, “you call me an ‘old bag’ again, and I’ll slap you silly.”

  Martinez struggled to restrain her.

  Cricket brandished the gun. “Sit.”

  Steely waved Bea down, encouraging her to comply.

  “They’re right,” snipped Bea. “She’s nuts.”

  “I said sit!”

  “The only place I’m sitting is that chair!” Bea said. “Steely, get up!”

  Steely shook her head.

  “Sit yourself down,” Cricket said. “Boyfriend, you beside her.” They complied, a short table catty-corner between them and Cricket. Steely rounded out the semicircle.

  “Cricket, now you have three hostages. Think about what you’re doing.”

  Cricket leaned back. “There’s nothing to think about. I’m insane.”

  Bea popped off, “You’re right about that, girlie.”

  Cricket cast her gaze on Steely, Bea, Martinez, and then back to Steely. “So, the last thing I’m going to do is kill all three of you. Boyfriend first, then Mrs. Hunter. Steely you’re last. That’s the order. I want Steely to watch.”

  Bea jumped up.

  “Sit down!” Cricket screamed. “You’re not first.”

  �
��Shut up,” Bea said. “If I’m dying, it’ll be in my recliner. Get up, Steely. Go on, get up!”

  Cricket aggressively stood, with her gun arm stretched. “You have two seconds to sit yourself back down, or I’ll change the order.”

  Steely maneuvered around Bea and the table. Bea fell into her recliner, dug her hands down in the seat. Then she made eyes at Steely, who was standing in front of the chair. Steely exchanged looks with Bea. Martinez stayed put between them.

  Cricket yelled, “Now sit, or you’re first!”

  “Listen to me,” Steely pleaded. “Nobody else has to die.”

  “Steely, sit down,” said Bea. “You better do what she says.”

  “Yes,” Martinez said, “you need to sit.”

  Steely argued. “Cricket, please put the gun down and end this peacefully. I know who can help you.”

  “I’m about to fire!”

  Steely raised her hands to her chest. “OK, Cricket, but answer one more question for me. Did you switch my mom’s meds?”

  Cricked grinned.

  “Cricket, I know you did. You don’t need to answer.”

  The revelation seemed to stun Martinez and Bea. They stared at each other and then cut eyes back at Cricket.

  Steely calmly pleaded, “Please put the gun away. You don’t need to do this.”

  “My last bit of satisfaction,” Cricket mocked. “Steely—begging for her life.”

  “No, stupid,” said Bea, “she’s begging for yours.”

  Steely dropped into her seat. A bullet whooshed through the front window into Cricket’s shoulder, leveling her. Donovan kicked in the front door. Nick followed and clung to Steely.

  Donovan kept the laser fixed on Cricket. He nabbed her pistol and lowered his guard. She was incapacitated, wounded but not mortally.

  “Don’t move,” Donovan said. “The medics are on the way.” He squinted at Steely. She turned toward him, Nick still wrapped around her.

  “You saw the laser in the window, didn’t you?” Donovan asked.

  She nodded.