Powder Burn

by Ty Patterson

  Something settled in him.

  ‘Why did you have to kill them?’

  ‘They saw me and Cruz,’ Matteo answered, ‘with Janikyan.’

  ‘Why were they here?’

  ‘They came to watch the sunset.’

  ‘They hid when all the shooters arrived,’ Cutter guessed, ‘but then you came and—’

  ‘They had to die.’ Janikyan’s eyes glowed with an unholy light.

  ‘Why did you torture them?’

  ‘That was Zohrab’s doing.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I like it.’ The bodyguard shrugged. ‘I like to watch people suffer.’

  ‘And you?’ Cutter challenged Matteo. ‘You were there? You watched it all?’

  The detective’s lips tightened. He looked away from the intense gaze on him. ‘I told Janikyan to shoot them. Torture and rape were unnecessary.’

  ‘No one tells me or my people what to do,’ the gangster declared.

  ‘You killed them,’ Cutter said bitterly, ‘just because they were there. To watch the sun go down.’

  * * *

  He was half-turned to Janikyan, who was still seated, towards his left. A stride away. Matteo and Cruz by the gang leader’s right shoulder.

  Zohrab’s to my right, several paces away. Many more bangers behind me, and Brae. She’s not in the line of any shooting.

  Attack was the best defense.

  Cutter lashed at the glass table with his right leg and shattered its surface. He hopped back on his left, as the bangers and cops ducked from the flying glass. He pivoted smoothly, spun-kicked the hitter behind him in the head and sent him crashing into his neighbor.

  ‘DON’T SHOOT HIM,’ Janikyan yelled. ‘I WANT HIM ALIVE.’

  A banger slammed into Cutter and punched him furiously. Another hitter kicked him, while a third shooter crashed the butt of his rifle in his belly.

  He staggered and fell over Brae’s chair with his back to the hitters. He braced his left hand against its arm and slid his right, deep down. He felt the hidden knife’s butt instinctively and jammed the Velcro strip’s magnetic loop over it.

  ‘Stay tight,’ he whispered to Brae just before he was yanked back savagely. He caught the cuff of his right sleeve by his fingers, dragged it over the blade, turned around to face whoever had pulled him and doubled up in agony when a fist landed in his belly.

  ‘STAY BACK,’ Zohrab shouted at his men. ‘HE’S MINE!’

  ‘Kill him,’ Matteo yelled angrily. ‘Kill her as well. Let’s not waste time.’

  ‘No!’ the bodyguard shouted. ‘I’ll do this my way.’

  He grabbed Cutter’s hair and raised his head savagely.

  ‘You didn’t ask one question,’ he snarled. ‘You didn’t ask who raped them. I did. Now, I’ll rape that woman, Brae, in front of you. I’ll kill her and then it will be your turn.’

  * * *

  Covarra was in the first vehicle with Salazar beside him. He and his deputy, the driver and two more bangers, with a second SUV behind them.

  ‘Go faster,’ he urged as their ride started climbing Beverly Grove Drive. ‘I want to get to Grogan before Janikyan does anything.’

  ‘We’ll have to shoot it out with them.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to that, Fuse,’ he snarled through gritted teeth. ‘Those Armenians … we can finish them at that house.’

  He hefted his assault rifle and was peering down its sight when a dark SUV came out from a driveway and rammed into them. The force of the impact sent them careening off the road to crash into a lamp post.

  Covarra sat dazed and in shock as steam rose from beneath the hood. Something dripped from his forehead onto his hand. Blood. He stared at it uncomprehendingly for a moment and then realized his head must have slammed into his weapon.

  He raised his head when he sensed movement.

  Ghosts was his first thought about the shadows that came out of the night and through the steam.

  ‘FUSE!’ he screamed when he spotted the weapons in the intruders’ hands. He shook Salazar and looked back to find that the second vehicle had been T-boned by another SUV.

  He whirled around when his ride shuddered and saw a large man, his skin like dark coal, his eyes white, his teeth drawn in a feral snarl, had climbed on the buckled hood and, as he watched, poured a stream of lead through the windscreen that took out the driver and Fuse.

  ‘NO!’ Covarra raged as he heard the chatter of assault rifles and raised his gun.

  He didn’t get to fire.

  Something shattered his window and a barrel broke his teeth.

  ‘Tell me,’ a voice asked softly. When he looked at the speaker, a lean man with fathomless eyes, he saw death. ‘Who shot Matt Lasko?’

  * * *

  Cutter let himself be hauled up by Zohrab’s pull on his hair. He felt the bodyguard punch him and groaned.

  ‘I enjoyed it,’ the Armenian gloated. ‘The look on their eyes when they realized what I was going to do.’

  He was transported to Afghanistan.

  * * *

  Zeb and him, bare-chested, beneath the blazing sun in the Hindu Kush mountain range. His friend had been teaching Cutter and his team knife-fighting tactics.

  ‘No.’ His friend danced away easily from his charge. ‘You’re doing this wrong.’

  ‘In what way?’ Cutter panted as he swiveled to face his friend.

  ‘It’s not your technique. That’s fine. You’re thinking about it wrong. That knife.’ Zeb pointed to the blade in Cutter’s hand. ‘You’re still thinking of it as your weapon.’

  ‘Huh? It is!’

  ‘The weapon is you!’

  * * *

  Cutter lunged forward with the memory playing in his mind. The concealed blade slipped into his palm as if it were an extension of his body. He bodyslammed into Zohrab before the Armenian could evade him and jammed the knife deep into his chest.

  The bodyguard staggered back from the force of the crash, towards the low wall overlooking the cliff. Cutter stabbed him two more times in the chest before the man recovered enough to yell at the bangers: ‘NO! I DON’T NEED HELP.’

  Zohrab wrapped his arms around his attacker and crushed him in a bear hug, as if the wounds—which were bleeding his shirt red—were nothing.

  It was just the hold Cutter needed. He ignored the arms wrapped around him like steel bands, squeezing his ribs, making breathing difficult. He dismissed the shouts and yells of the Armenians behind them. Zohrab leered at him, his eyes tight with anger.

  I enjoyed it.

  The bodyguard’s words came back to Cutter. He stabbed again, right over the thug’s chest. And again, and again, robotically, as he recalled the times he had spent with Vienna and Arnedra, their joyous laughter. His arm kept moving mechanically while his breath stuttered from the punishing squeeze around him.

  They were flush against the low wall, beyond and below them the lights of downtown LA, beckoning invitingly.

  Cutter groaned as Zohrab kept applying his monstrous crush. His hand felt sluggish as he withdrew the knife from the bodyguard’s flesh with a horrific sucking sound. He shook his head to clear his vision and, as the Armenian’s hold loosened, stabbed him in the throat.

  The thug’s groan echoed. His arms slackened.

  Cutter kneed him in the testicles with all his strength, which got Zohrab to drop his hands.

  Now!

  There was room for him to maneuver.

  He stabbed the thug in his right eye, withdrew the knife and plunged it into his left.

  He crouched to get his shoulders against the bodyguard’s chest, as the man shrieked.

  Cutter wrapped his left hand around Zohrab’s body, and with a roar of effort straightened to pick up the Armenian in a fireman’s lift. He took a step to the wall and, with a tremendous heave, threw him over the bluff.

  He whirled to face Janikyan, who looked shocked at the speed with which it had all happened, as if expecting his bodyguard to miraculously reappea
r over the top of the wall.

  Cutter was still outnumbered and facing well-armed thugs. All he had going for him was the fractional moment of surprise.

  And the explosives.

  ‘KILL HIM,’ Matteo yelled in rage.

  The explosives at the gate went off before anyone could react. The house shook and a window shattered inside.

  Everyone froze.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Cutter taunted Janikyan. ‘Shoot me. I’ve wired the entire house. Only I know where the bombs are. How will you get out if you kill me?’

  ‘HE’S LYING,’ Matteo shouted. ‘KILL HIM. LET’S FINISH THIS.’

  A chunk of concrete fell as another explosive went off. More bombs went off inside the house in quick succession.

  The bangers stood uncertainly, looking to take their cue from Janikyan. The gang leader’s face twisted in rage as he raised his hand to command them to fire.

  I tried. I can’t shoot them all. Cutter braced himself for the impact of rounds. He met Brae’s eyes helplessly. I can’t save her.

  The light post behind Janikyan exploded and blew out a section of the wall.

  98

  ‘THE HOUSE IS FALLING,’ Cruz yelled as concrete and tile chips showered them. He grabbed Matteo’s elbow and pulled him towards the exit.

  His warning and the pronounced tilting of the patio floor started the stampede.

  The Armenian bangers forgot about shooting Cutter. They followed the detectives as they rushed to the sliding door and struggled to get through as the remaining bombs went off in the house.

  ‘Not you!’ Cutter lunged at Janikyan, who was racing to the exit, grabbed him by the shirt and brought him to the floor. He turned his head and caught the gang leader’s kick on the side of his neck, a blow that sent his gun skittering across the floor.

  ‘GET HIM!’ the Bros boss commanded just as the second light pole exploded and shrouded them in darkness.

  None of his men listened. They followed their instinct for self-preservation in a panicked getaway.

  Cutter punched Janikyan in the belly and rolled towards Brae as the patio floor tipped farther, the unstable edge of the cliff beneath it shifting after the explosions. He ripped the tape from her mouth and shoved her towards the patio doors.

  ‘Go,’ he whispered at her. ‘No one will stop you. Cops will be outside. They’ll keep you safe.’ I’m not sure of that. Difiore might have ignored my call. But she didn’t need to know that.

  He whirled to see the Armenian leader get to his feet and launched himself again at the gangster. His momentum sent them crashing through the door, just in time, as the patio shuddered and yawed at an unnatural angle.

  The Armenian snarled in rage and beat at him with his fists. Cutter tried to duck and evade as he attempted to pin down the Bros leader, but the man was wiry and quick.

  Got to finish him before the house collapses. He could hear the roof falling as more detonations sounded. He gritted his teeth, got his hands around the man’s neck and squeezed.

  Janikyan grunted. His eyes narrowed in rage. His hands clawed the floor desperately, and one of them found an abandoned assault rifle. He couldn’t straighten it and instead used it as a battering ram.

  Cutter took the blow on his temple. His head reeled and he nearly lost his grip, but he kept on squeezing. The Armenian cursed and swore, hit him repeatedly on the head and the side of his body, but he held on.

  ‘You,’ he raged, ‘killed them.’ He dug his thumbs into Janikyan’s windpipe as he felt a rib crack from the rifle’s impact. The gangster thrashed as his face turned red. He gasped and kept smashing the rifle against Cutter as the house began to tremble.

  Cutter felt himself losing consciousness from the pounding, but he didn’t let up. He heard someone yelling at him and looked up dazedly. No one but them in the collapsing house.

  ‘CUTTER GROGAN!’

  Stone and masonry fell near them and enveloped them in a cloud of dust. He choked and heard Janikyan plead. His forehead split and blood ran down his face when the butt of the rifle cut his skin. He clamped his knees tight against Janikyan’s chest and forced himself to squeeze the breath out of the gangster.

  ‘CUTTER. COME OUT!’

  That wasn’t his imagination. Someone from outside was calling his name. It didn’t sound like Matteo, Cruz or anyone else he knew.

  I’m not leaving until Janikyan is dead, he thought blearily.

  He looked up when something rumbled overhead and saw a crack forming in the partial roof over the patio.

  ‘We … both … will … die,’ Janikyan panted weakly.

  ‘I’m good with that,’ he grunted with the effort of speaking.

  The gangster heaved up with all his might, but Cutter held on. The Bros leader hit him with the rifle with his remaining strength, but he didn’t let up. A block of concrete landed a foot away. He looked up again and saw another large chunk loosening right on top of them.

  He freed his hands and made to dive, but Janikyan reared up and grabbed him with both hands.

  ‘No …’ His teeth gleamed. ‘I … won’t … let … you … escape.’

  Cutter headbutted him frantically, sensed the incoming rush of air, slammed his elbow in Janikyan’s throat and lunged away desperately just as the roof caved in.

  99

  ‘Call him again,’ Difiore snapped as the house collapsed in front of them. The opaque cloud of dust and concrete was lit up eerily from the flashlights LAPD officers had trained on the building.

  The cop looked at her as if to object, but took in her expression and that of the police chief. He raised his bullhorn and called out again.

  ‘He would have gotten away,’ Difiore whispered as she strained her eyes to look through the debris. She felt Quindica clasp her elbow reassuringly and blinked hard to fight back the bitterness that welled in her.

  Her heart caught in her throat when something moved in the haze.

  ‘THERE!’ she heard herself yell when the gloom parted to reveal Cutter, bruised, bleeding, but alive.

  He staggered through the wreckage of the gates as cops rushed to help him. Turned their way when he heard her yell and grinned tiredly.

  ‘Difiore,’ he swayed on his feet. ‘That was just like Hollywood, wasn’t it? Me coming through that dirt cloud.’

  Don’t cry, she told herself. Why should she? It’s not as if she liked Cutter. He was a vigilante. He was a rule breaker.

  She went to him and punched him hard in his belly.

  ‘All this,’ she glared at him, ‘just so that you could have a dramatic escape?’

  ‘Think how it’ll look on TV. I’m going to be flooded with interviews. I’ll name-drop if you wish—’

  ‘I don’t want to be associated with you.’

  ‘You’ll be famous.’

  ‘That’s what you get for being famous?’ she surveyed his wounds quizzically.

  He made a peace gesture and drank deeply from a bottle of water a cop offered. He waved away an approaching medic and looked at her. ‘You came.’

  I almost ignored your call.

  ‘You heard everything?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she nodded. ‘Recorded it as well. Matteo and Cruz—’ she nodded in the direction of cops and police vehicles that crowded the street ‘—are in custody. Along with all the Armenian hitters who escaped.’

  ‘SWAT would have entered the house,’ Dade joined them. ‘But they didn’t figure the house was safe.’

  Why’s she looking like that? Difiore took in the chief’s tight lips and narrowed eyes and her stomach churned. Isn’t she glad Cutter came out, safe?

  ‘There was a woman … Brae, her hands were bound—’

  ‘She’s safe,’ the LAPD head answered. ‘Where’s Janikyan?’

  ‘Between a slab of concrete and the floor.’

  ‘Cutter.’

  Difiore’s head snapped up at the tone in her voice.

  ‘Ma’am?’ she asked disbelievingly when Dade placed a hand on his arm and dir
ected him to a patrol car. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Gina,’ Quindica spoke softly and laid a restraining arm on her shoulder. ‘The chief’s right.’

  She looked at the LAPD head, who stared back expressionlessly, and then at Cutter, who winked.

  ‘You’ve always wanted to see me arrested.’

  She watched dully as he was driven away and turned to Dade. ‘Lasko?’

  ‘Yes. He’s still the prime suspect for Matt’s shooting.’

  100

  Two Days Later

  * * *

  Cutter inspected himself critically after his shower. He poked a nasty-looking bruise on his chest with a finger and winced at the flare of pain.

  It will heal. That broken rib, too.

  He dressed in a Tee and jeans, squinted at his armor and shook his head. He wouldn’t be needing it anymore. He drove his Land Cruiser out of Heliotrope and headed to Lasko’s hospital in Boyle Heights. His whistling stopped abruptly when he found Difiore, Quindica and Dade by the cop’s bed.

  ‘Come in.’ The chief beckoned him with a warm smile. ‘I won’t be arresting you again.’

  ‘I’m not complaining,’ he grinned. ‘You made Difiore’s dream come true.’

  ‘What would have made me happier,’ the NYPD detective scoffed, ‘is if you hadn’t been released.’

  ‘It’s my fault,’ Lasko said weakly from his bed. ‘He’s out because of me.’

  Cutter’s grin faded as he sized up the injured cop. He’s still in bad shape but looks like he’ll pull through.

  * * *

  The detective had regained consciousness the night of the showdown in Beverly Hills but had been unable to speak until the following morning. His statement had exonerated Cutter, who was released swiftly from his detention in the Hollywood Area Jail.