The Back Door Man

by Dave Buschi

  James got to the gun and flipped the safety. He looked at Yuri.

  The man was leveling his gun towards him.

  Blam! Blam!

  James waited for the pain, but it didn’t come. Yuri went down, slowly, like an oak felled from a saw. James’s gun was smoking. The shots had been his, not Yuri’s.

  James stood up from his crouch. The men were fully out of the house now. Gunshots rang out. James moved and hunkered behind the open van door.

  Bullets hit the van. Pop! Pop!

  James glanced in the van. Something caught his attention. The keys! The keys were on the coin tray!

  James jumped in—shut the door, grabbed the keys and fumbled with them. Bullets hit the windshield. Krak! Krak! Krak! The noise was deafening. Holy shit! Glass went over the dashboard, onto the seats.

  James put in the key…

  Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

  Staying bent down, he started the van. The van fired up. He put it in reverse. He hit the gas and the van took off backwards.

  James looked up. The men were running now.

  James looked in the side mirror, but it was blown off, barely hanging on the side of the door. James looked backwards. The van hit something, went over it and bounced. James hit the brakes… slammed it back into Drive. He hit the gas again and did a tight one-eighty.

  Bullets raked the side of the van as he completed his arc and got back on the single track. James kept going. Up ahead, about forty yards, was the spot he’d left Mac. He’d left him on the side of the road, tucked from sight. James saw the big rock, hit the brakes, and scrambled out of the van.

  “Mac!”

  Mac was lying on the ground. James picked him up under the armpits. He dragged him to the van and opened the door. He shoved him in, pushed his legs up and closed the door. He ran back around the van.

  Gunshots—Pop! Pop! Pop!—punctured the van.

  “Mac, you okay?”

  “Mac?”

  James hit the gas and tore down the single track.

  105

  REX Portino had not gotten where he was by being sloppy. He thought things through. He’d learned long ago it paid to be prepared. All avenues had to be explored. Do it first in the head, so when faced with a choice there was no wavering on what to do.

  Some called that leadership. No hesitation. Firm decision making.

  To Portino it was just common sense. Like breathing. It was just something he did. Like every thought out exercise, if and when the final phase was complete, there may have to be alterations to the plan.

  Worst case: his shock of white hair was going to have to be trimmed and dyed; his face, which over the years he’d grown attached to, was going to have to be altered yet again by the finest underground surgeons that money could buy.

  Twenty-eight years ago he’d started over. He could do so again. Of course, back then he’d had the luxury of time being on his side. It had allowed him some flexibility, which may not be an option this time. Back then only his imagination stood in the way from creating the person he wanted to be. He’d reinvented himself. The prestigious credentials, university degrees and doctorates, doctored transcripts, falsified records, fraudulent work experience; everything that had set the foundation for the man he later became was based on constructive liberties.

  Some might call them lies. They were the narrow-minded ones that had no vision. Shackled forever in cages of their own construct.

  Throughout his career Portino had learned that if he could imagine it, then he could become it. Each time he’d parlayed what he had into something bigger, something better. The companies he’d worked for, some real, some not, all went to create the illusion of the man he was.

  The cultured persona. The pedigree. The reputation.

  It had taken him far. Farther than he would have ever imagined when he was just starting out on his path of deceit.

  He was a top executive at a billion-dollar company. It should have been enough. But like every grifter, it was never enough.

  The paradox of his gilded life. He lived beyond his means. Always had, always would. The baubles and toys, the young boys. The lifestyle, both the hidden one and the projected veneer, required an insatiable mouth to feed. The creditors, liens and bankruptcy that perpetually waited in the wings. Always one misstep away. One wrong move waiting to happen.

  This job was to be the big fix. The one time score that allowed him to walk away from everything. To live beyond his dreams forever.

  Sixty billion.

  He would have been king.

  That may still happen, but that reality was slipping away each hour.

  He’d finished packing. Just in case. His passport and visa were in his pocket. Two hundred and twenty million might be his take.

  His partners weren’t happy. They all wanted more. Course they did.

  Everyone always wanted more.

  106

  “KILL the lights,” said Paulson. He was in the passenger seat, watching the unraveling scene in front of him.

  Savic and three of his men were in a car behind them. They’d just gotten word that the other crew was stranded. One of Savic’s men had been shot. The van had been taken, presumably by Kolinsky.

  Paulson, steely eyed, looked at the rest of the bad news. He could see it from a mile away. Cars, a line of them, were streaming down the road heading towards The Vault.

  Feds.

  Enrique had run out of time. He better have gotten the job done. Paulson had no intention of staying around to verify.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  “What about Enrique and Savic’s men?”

  Fuck ‘em, Paulson thought. He said it more tactfully, “What about ‘em?”

  “We can’t just leave them.”

  “Sure we can. They knew the drill. They should have been out of there by now.”

  Paulson chewed on his remaining options. The noose was tightening. Everything had crumbled. Kolinsky—the key to this—had slipped their grip. Enrique, if he was captured, might cop a plea and implicate the rest of them. Of course he would never be allowed to live that long. Still, it was going to get messy. The Vault, if it wasn’t taken out, meant that everything they had planned, everything they had done… could be undone.

  Three hundred billion dollars, gone. All because of Kolinsky not going with the program. He grit his teeth. Kolinsky.

  His thoughts were interrupted. Savic was rapping on his window.

  Paulson rolled his window down. “What?”

  Savic handed him his phone. “Listen.”

  Annoyed, Paulson took it. “Yes?”

  “He wants twenty-five thousand,” said a voice on the other end.

  “Who the fuck is this?”

  “It’s one of our men,” Savic said. “Listen.”

  Paulson did. His frown was soon replaced by a cruel smile.

  No, this wasn’t over. Not yet.

  107

  HE hadn’t slept for over thirty-six hours. He was on his third shift. Manuel Escodoba, M.D. had never seen anything like this. And that was saying something.

  This place being in the inner city saw more than its share. On a bad night he might see victims of gang attacks with multiple knife and bullet wounds. A few head trauma cases: caused by hit-and-run, an angry housewife who’d hit her husband with an iron, a construction worker doing the night shift who’d put a nail through his eye.

  Those nights, the worst of them, were bad. The staff, ever since the latest round of budget cuts, was way too lean to handle the volume this ER unit saw on a regular basis. On nights when things spiked, everyone was just running around trying to keep up. Staunch the bleeding. Addressing the worst patients first.

  They always managed… somehow. Manuel worked with some good people. They were all stressed, but they did their job.

  But they had never seen anything like this.

  Manuel was exhausted. Beyond exhausted. He’d seen more patients in the last twenty-four hours than he’d seen in two weeks.
It was standing room only at this point.

  Manuel felt like a pinball, ricocheting from one patient to the next. A father with his young son who’d both been injured during a human stampede. An older man who’d been shot for five dollars. A woman who appeared to have been beaten… with a bat. The list went on; each case seemingly worse than the next.

  As the night had progressed it just seemed to get worse. This night was going to go down in the record books. They’d never been in this position. Not even on the worst nights had they ever considered what Manuel was seeing happening right now.

  He didn’t believe it at first.

  He walked straight of purpose toward the doors. It was never an option. Turning away a dying man or woman, a bleeding child? It was counter to everything Manuel believed in.

  “What are you doing?” Manuel said to the guard.

  “I’m locking the doors.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I’ve been instructed.”

  “Who told you to lock these doors?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I’m just doing my job.”

  Manuel looked around the jammed ER unit. It was like a terrible dream. People were bleeding on the floor. There were screams, crying. Attendants and nurses were completely overwhelmed, outnumbered ten to one.

  Manuel looked outside. More were coming. A man was stumbling, carrying another man.

  “Don’t lock it… yet.”

  The guard looked at him.

  “Let these last people in. Then do what you have to do. This is only a temporary thing, right? People are going to be directed to the next hospital?”

  “Sir, I’m just supposed to lock it.”

  Manuel looked at the guard. He was just a kid, he realized. “Then don’t lock it. If anyone asks, you can tell them I told you so.”

  The kid nodded. Manuel held the door open for the two men coming in. They both looked terrible. It was hard to tell who was in worse shape. The man stumbling or the man being carried?

  “Can you help me?” the man said. His face was beaten up; there was dried blood caked around his nose. Around his neck was more dried blood, and there was dirt all over him. His clothes—if they could be called that—were torn to shreds. Had those been hospital scrubs at some point?

  Manuel looked at the guard. “You and me, we’re going to carry this man. Find him a spot to put him down.”

  The guard nodded. The three of them made their way through the crowd.

  “What happened to him?”

  “It was a bomb explosion.”

  “Bomb?” Manuel saw some blood on the man’s torn clothes. “Are you okay?”

  The man nodded. “I’m fine. He’s an FBI agent. Can you help him?”

  Manuel nodded. “Don’t worry. We’ll take care of him.” They navigated through the morass of people and found a spot in one of the corridors. There was an open stretcher past some double doors. “Put him down here. Now where was this bomb? Can you give me some more details?”

  Manuel looked up. “Where’d he go?”

  The guard looked around. “I don’t know.”

  Manuel looked around, but the man was gone.

  108

  JAMES hated to leave like that, but he wouldn’t have been much good to anybody. He certainly was no doctor, and he didn’t want to be signing any forms or answering any questions. With what had happened it was best he cleared things up on his own terms. If the cops had arrived, and anything had been found out, they might have taken him in.

  Besides… that man was FBI. He would have friends. And if they came it would have been worse.

  No… he’d done the right thing. He was just lucky it worked out.

  Earlier, at a checkpoint, two National Guardsmen had seen the bullet holes and riddled windshield and had raised their weapons. “Step from the vehicle, sir.” He’d tried to tell them he was trying to get an FBI agent to the hospital. If Mac hadn’t roused himself to flash his badge and tell the men to let them pass, things could have gone much differently.

  He didn’t want to think about it—it was time to put this behind him. Time for him to get home. Except home wasn’t there anymore.

  James took a deep breath as he started the van. His nose hurt and was probably broken, but that didn’t matter. He focused on the positives.

  He was alive. Sue and his girls were safe. Hearing Sue’s voice again a short while ago had kept him going. To know that soon this would all be over.

  He’d used Mac’s cell phone. After a brief emotional exchange, Sue had told him to call her back, saying her cell phone was about to die. She had given her dad’s number. He was concerned he wouldn’t be able to reach her again with phone service being so spotty.

  She’d said “don’t worry, I’m watching the news. Everything is getting better now.”

  Getting better…

  Hard to believe it, but she was right. He got her back with one try. “See,” she said. She told him the girls were sleeping. She’d described her dad’s place. “It’s so nice. I can’t wait for you to get here.” She’d given him the address and told him directions. “I’ll wait up for you.”

  “Don’t. You sleep.”

  “No. Call me when you’re close. I’ll be here.” Her voice was so beautiful to his ears.

  He could almost hear it now. He couldn’t wait to get back to her. To his girls.

  This day, this night… had been a nightmare.

  But it was over.

  109

  IT was over.

  It could have been an echo, but the meaning held different connotations for Rex Portino. Finito. Ich Bin Fertig. Done.

  Almost, but not quite. Least not yet. Paulson may just surprise him and come through, but the odds at this point were against it. The Vault was still there. Kolinsky was still at large.

  Their perfect fall guy had proven to be not so perfect.

  Portino smiled ruefully. Lo San and Mihajlovic were not the type of men who took failure well. Portino was still taken aback by some of the correspondence he’d seen.

  What’s the status?

  Why is the money not there?

  Answer me!

  Ingrates. Was it so much to ask for seventy-two hours that people just shut up?

  Alanna entered the room. “Rex, someone is at the front door. I can’t find Javier anywhere. Should I answer it?”

  “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How did he get past the front gate?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you know?”

  “Rex, I’m sorry, I was doing what you asked me to do. Do you want me to get the door?”

  “No. I’ll do it.”

  Rex went to his desk and pulled out a revolver. He was surrounded by morons. He glanced at his watch. It was after one AM. A little late for house visits. He walked through the house and into the dark foyer. The lights were off inside, but outside, the landscape lights were still on. He could see the person outside the glass. It was a guy in a chicken suit.

  What in the world?

  He tucked the gun under his shirt and opened the door. “You’ve got two seconds to tell me what you’re doing here, before I shoot you for trespassing.”

  “Sorry to bother you, but…”

  The man in the chicken suit didn’t finish. He pulled out a gun and thrust it in front of Portino’s face.

  “Simeon Mihajlovic wanted you to have this.”

  Blam!

  110

  1:40 AM

  THE thrumming of crickets filled the night. The house with its gables and wide porch was lit by uplights. The sky was dotted with millions of stars.

  That was the setting outside. Tranquil.

  Inside was something else. Sue looked at their captors. There were nine of them. Three were nearby.

  “How long you been married?”

  The man that spoke hadn’t given his name, but he didn’t seem to fit with the others. He was handsome in a rakish
sort of way. Angular cheekbones; his hair was slicked back. Maybe it was his hair, but he reminded her of that actor Christian Bale in one of his earlier works where he’d played a stockbroker who just happened to be a serial killer. Like that stockbroker character, this man standing, looking down at her, seemed evil. As if it radiated off him.

  “Fifteen years.”

  The man smirked. “That’s a long time.”

  Sue got a sudden case of the willies, like snakes were crawling on her skin.

  In the other room, where she could barely see them, were her girls, her dad and Lewis. They were on the kitchen floor, tied up. For some reason they hadn’t tied her.

  “What do you want?”

  “I already told you, your husband.”

  “Why do you want him?”

  “He has something of ours and I intend to make him give it back.”

  “What could he possibly have of yours?”

  The man laughed. “You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?” He leaned in and spoke softly. “My turn now.”

  She met his gaze, looking into those cruel icy eyes. Women probably thought those eyes were dreamy, but Sue saw only depravity in them.

  “Mind if I sit down?” He still had the smirk.

  She didn’t answer, but looked away.

  “I’ll take that as an invite.” He sat next to her and she could feel him looking at her. “Mmm… I wouldn’t have thought James had it in him.”

  She could smell him. He had the scent of old cologne mixed with rank onion undertones of faint body odor.

  “I’ll tell you what. You answer some of my questions, I’ll answer yours.”

  Sue hugged her knees tighter, hoping he’d just leave her alone.

  “No—don’t want to play that game? Fine, I’ll ask my questions, anyway.”

  He leaned closer, almost touching her now.

  “Which way?” His voice was soft and low. “Because I must say, I can’t see James being all that great under the sheets. He probably prefers missionary, doesn’t he? Two minute guy?”