Close Enemies

by Marc Daniel

  It was the second time Michael had acted as a babysitter for the little Potawatomi, but he wasn’t enjoying the experience this time around any more than he had the first time. The kid was cute and well-behaved, but she reminded him too much of what he had lost nearly six centuries earlier. His little Ölfun had also been four on the worst day of Michael’s existence… and he would remain so for eternity.

  But Michael couldn’t say no to his friend Nikan who’d lost his wife to an exotic fever a few months earlier and needed to take care of their four-year-old alone. Werewolves hadn’t been the only gift the French settlers had brought to Michigan. And although Michael had been able to assist the Potawatomi with their werewolf problems, he was powerless in front of diseases the tribes had no immunity for.

  Potawatomi men and women were often skinwalkers and Nikan’s particular tribe counted numerous bear shifters—which was the main reason they’d been able to defeat the werewolves in the first place—but Nikan himself wasn’t one of them and neither was his daughter.

  The child’s attention was suddenly caught by something behind Michael’s back, and she started running in that direction. Immediately alert, Michael jumped to his feet to go check the potential threat, but he relaxed as soon as he’d passed the southeastern corner of his cabin to discover Nikan’s hunting party approaching from the east. Large pieces of deer were visible on the sleds pulled by the hunters. The hunt had been good.

  Nikan’s return drew a long sigh of relief from Michael. His friend was coming home in one piece and with food for Wawetseka. The man was a skilled hunter, but even skilled hunters sometimes got badly injured or even killed, and Michael couldn’t imagine what he’d do with Wawetseka if anything happened to her father on one of his expeditions.

  But now everything was well. He would soon enjoy the peace and quiet of his solitary existence once again. At least until next time.

  Chapter 12

  Sheila was back in Houston. She’d received no additional death threats and had convinced Michael that it was safe for her to return home. Michael hadn’t been pleased with the idea.

  “This is my job, Michael. This is neither the first nor the last time someone’s threatened me to try to shut me up,” she’d argued.

  “But they aren’t just trying to shut you up, Sheila. The article is already out. They want to make you pay.”

  She’d rolled her eyes. “The first article mentions that this is a two-part series. They’re trying to stop me from revealing too much in the second part, that’s all.”

  He hadn’t been convinced but had dropped the issue after she’d promised to call him at the first sign of trouble. Three days had passed, and nothing had happened. It was starting to look as if it’d just been an idle threat.

  “Can I borrow your car for most of the day?”

  Sheila looked up from her computer and swiveled her chair to find her friend Susan standing in her cubicle.

  “What’s wrong with yours this time?”

  “Some weird noise. And since I’m conducting an interview in the boonies today…”

  Sheila looked at her, unconvinced.

  “It’s a two-hour drive one way and I don’t want to take the chance with my car. D’you mind?”

  “Be my guest. After all, it’s only the third time this month,” replied Sheila, handing her keys to the other journalist.

  “Where did you park?”

  Sheila got out of her chair and walked with Susan to the nearby windows. The Houston Post occupied floors six and seven of a forty-story skyscraper in downtown Houston.

  “Over there,” she said, pointing at her red Mini Cooper. The car was parked between two SUVs on the building’s private parking lot, six stories below.

  “Thanks, Sheila. And don’t worry, I’ll fill up the tank this time.”

  “Oh, I do worry!”

  A moment later, Susan had disappeared, and Sheila was back at her computer, reviewing one last time the final version of Part 2 of her series that was due to hit the stands in a couple of days.

  She’d barely reached the end of the first paragraph when an explosion rocked the entire building.

  She ran to the window, instinctively knowing what had happened. The first thing she noticed were the missing window panes on the surrounding buildings’ first three stories. They had all been shattered in the blast.

  Her eyes drifted to the parking spot her car had occupied a moment earlier, but the spot was empty. Her relief only lasted a second for she quickly identified her car in the smoking ball of twisted metal that had landed on the SUV parked in the adjacent spot.

  When she pictured Susan’s charred body at the wheel of the formless heap of metal, Sheila was unable to retain the flow of bile rushing out of her stomach.

  Chapter 13

  Cell 35, Block F was occupied by two inmates. The first woman, known by the Texas penitentiary authorities as 244623, had been a resident of the Texas State Penitentiary at Huntsville for nearly two years: a stay that had been mostly unremarkable from the perspective of the warden and the guards, but much less so from that of her fellow inmates. Although there had been no official witness, the triple homicide that had occurred in the showers of Block F shortly after 244623’s arrival had sufficed to grant peace and tranquility to the perpetrator.

  Inmate 244623 seldom pronounced more than a few words and her cellmate, mindful to preserve the silence imposed by her dangerous neighbor, talked even less. As a result, Cell 35 was the quietest of the entire block.

  Inmate 244623 walked deliberately along the dimly lit hallways leading to the facility’s laundry room. Her graceful pace reflected the predator in her. The few inmates crossing her path made sure to avoid eye contact and left plenty of room for the woman to pass them by.

  The corridor’s weak lighting suddenly became dimmer, almost flickering for a moment. Everyone in the joint knew what that meant: the country’s busiest execution chamber had claimed another soul.

  The light fixtures were returning to their customary sickly yellowish glow by the time she reached the laundry facility, a room the size of a tennis court lined with industrial washers on one wall and dryers on another. The center of the room was occupied by a series of large ironing presses where three inmates were chatting idly around a fourth one busy ironing orange jumpsuits.

  She caught their attention by clearing her throat and one of the three slackers left the group to come and meet her.

  No words were exchanged, but after a circular survey of the room to make sure no camera was pointing in their direction and no guard happened to be in the vicinity, the inmate carefully pulled a smartphone out of the bra supporting her ample bosom and placed it in 244623’s opened palm.

  The phone would be discarded immediately after use, for if the guards were to find this particular phone in her possession, the whole carefully crafted plan would be in jeopardy.

  Chapter 14

  It was nearing 10 P.M. at the Houston Post where Michael and Sheila had been left in the sole company of the janitorial crew.

  “I’ll drop you off at a hotel first. You’re not staying at your house alone, and you’re not coming with me either,” said Michael. He’d landed in Houston two hours earlier and had driven his rental straight to the newspaper building where Sheila awaited him in the company of a police officer assigned to bodyguard duty. Michael had called on his Houston PD connection—Detective Samantha Lewis—to get a uniform to watch over Sheila until his arrival. The officer had now been sent home.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to get involved, Michael.”

  “You’re the one who called me, Sheila.”

  “Because I promised to let you know if I received another threat.”

  Michael looked at her for a moment.

  “And because I was scared shitless… Fine! I’m not too proud to admit it.”

  He took her in his arms, holding her tight. “Don’t worry Sheila, I’ll take care of it. You did your thing by exposing the bast
ards. Now let me do what I do best.”

  Sheila didn’t ask what he meant by that. She knew that what he did best was kick some butts. “Let me come with you, Michael. I’d feel safer.”

  “But you wouldn’t be. I’ll check you into a hotel under my name. They won’t find you there. I’ll come and get you as soon as I have some answers.”

  *****

  The main problem Michael was facing was where to start. Houston’s more than 400 brothels were operated by over a dozen crime syndicates and any one of them could be responsible for the bombing of Sheila’s car.

  Sheila’s first article had focused on the Latino brothels disguised as cantinas, so Michael was operating under the assumption that the culprit was one of the groups running them. This meant people with ties to the Central and Latin American cartels. These people meant business and kicking the hornet’s nest was likely to cause further problems. But they’d already tried to kill Sheila once. The escalation couldn’t go much further. It was time these cowards picked on someone who could fight back. Michael was happy to volunteer for the job.

  He parked his rental a block from the first cantina on his list. It belonged to one of the largest and most ruthless Mexican cartels. In the absence of any meaningful lead as to where to start, he’d decided to address the problem in order of decreasing threat and squash the biggest roaches first.

  He pushed open the door of the distinguished establishment to find the dining room occupied by a half dozen patrons who paid no attention to him.

  “Table for one?” asked a man with a triple chin and the body fat to match. He looked at Michael inquisitively.

  Michael nodded and was shown to a small table in a corner. From this vantage point, he could survey the entire room.

  He noticed that only one of the patrons had food in front of him. The others were nursing their drinks, staring at the three waitresses who serviced the room.

  The three women ranged in age from early to late twenties and all wore attire showcasing their curves and cleavage. They were also more attractive than the average twenty-year-old. Nothing unusual to that in itself; a lot of restaurants ignored equal opportunity regulations when it came to hiring their waiting staff. And more than a few had built their businesses around the amount of flesh their waitresses exposed to the clientele.

  The women’s behavior was unusual, however. Devoid of the typical fake smiles displayed by those who work for tips, they all looked sad. Their eyes reflected the peculiar quality of those who’ve abandoned all hope.

  One of the women came to take his order, and Michael requested a beer.

  A patron Michael hadn’t seen before appeared to come out from the restrooms and walked straight to the exit while a fourth waitress entered the room. She appeared a bit older—early thirties, probably—but she shared the same sad demeanor and good looks as the others.

  One of the waitresses came back with Michael’s beer and, as instructed by Sheila, he placed two $100 bills on the table while looking the woman in the eyes.

  She nodded ever so slightly and indicated, with her eyes, the door leading to the johns before departing in the same direction. Michael followed her an instant later.

  The door opened to a small empty room with three more doors. Those on his left and right were marked with signs reading Damas and Caballeros respectively, while the door directly in front of him was propped open by his waitress. She was flashing him a contrived smile that did nothing to tame the anguish in her eyes.

  He followed her through the door which opened onto a hallway lined with five doors on each side. The place reminded Michael of a cheap motel.

  She opened one of the doors on the left side and invited Michael to join her.

  She was already undressing by the time he’d entered the room and shut the door behind him.

  The small room was furnished with a chair and a full-size bed that Michael would have barely fit in.

  “Put your clothes back on,” Michael whispered. “I’m not here for that.”

  The woman looked at him hesitantly, her bra dangling from her fingers. Her expression was a mixture of fear and bewilderment.

  “I’m a cop. I need you to answer a few questions for me.” This was probably misleading but technically not a lie.

  The woman’s surprise vanished to be replaced with sheer terror. “No! No puedo! Mataran mi niña si le ayudo.”

  She was afraid for her daughter’s safety and didn’t want to answer his questions.

  “Where do they keep your daughter?” he asked, switching to Spanish.

  She stared into his eyes a long moment before answering, “En un apartamento.”

  “Is it nearby?”

  She nodded yes, vehemently.

  “I’ll make sure your daughter is safe, you have my word. But now you need to help me. OK?”

  She nodded again.

  “Good,” said Michael, relaxing slightly. “How many bad guys are in this building right now?”

  “Quatro.”

  “Is the boss here at the moment?”

  “Es the man that sat you,” she answered in a thick Mexican accent.

  She answered a few more questions, at which point Michael felt sufficiently prepared for what he had to do. He was dealing with only four enemies, human most likely, so not much of a threat. His priority would be to make sure the seven women currently on the premises didn’t get hurt in the process.

  “Stay here and wait for me. I won’t be long,” he told the woman, who was putting her clothes back on. He then exited the room and headed for the door on the left at the end of the hallway. He gently knocked and waited. The door was opened a few seconds later by a giant in a wife-beater tee-shirt. The man could have easily been cast as the muscle in a James Bond movie.

  Before he had a chance to utter a word, Michael hit him under the chin with an uppercut that snapped his neck. Michael was no longer the cold-blooded killer of his Viking days, but he didn’t think any of these men deserved to live after what they’d put these poor women through.

  Inside the room, two men sat at a table playing some board game he didn’t recognize. They looked smaller than the now dead giant, but the assault rifle resting against the wall that one of the men was now fumbling for looked plenty dangerous; Michael identified it as priority number two. His first priority was the other individual. He’d reached for the pistol lying in front of him on the table and was currently lifting it towards Michael’s chest.

  In a split second, Michael shoved the table in the man’s direction with one of his patented front kicks. The table hit the thug square in the chest, sending him toppling to the floor along with his chair.

  Michael then ripped the pistol out of the man’s limp hand and hurled it at the other guy’s back with enough power to send him flying into the wall before he could reach his gun. The man howled in pain in the process: a sound that would likely be heard all the way into the dining room.

  Michael quickly assessed the situation and decided that the two thugs splayed on the floor posed no immediate threat. He waited expectantly for about a minute, but nobody came to enquire about the noise.

  It was time to ask the two gangbangers some questions. Correction, it was time to ask the one asshole still alive some questions. The guy who’d been on the receiving end of Michael’s throw was no longer breathing. He lay still in a puddle of blood that had poured out of his mouth. The projectile had probably broken a few ribs, which in turn had punctured a few organs.

  As he knelt down to check on the other thug, Michael felt a presence at his back. He immediately spun around to find Don Triple-chin standing at the door, aiming a shotgun at his chest.

  Before he could make a move, the man pulled the trigger. Michael had just enough time to brace in anticipation, but the impact of the 12-gauge drove him to the floor nonetheless, albeit in a less spectacular fashion than Triple-chin had likely expected.

  Michael felt searing pain as hundreds of lead balls shredded their way through his torso
.

  “You think you can come to my house, kill my men, and walk out alive?” The man was stepping towards Michael at a leisurely pace, the gun still trained on him, his face red with rage.

  Michael sat holding his hands over his stomach, blood slowly seeping through his fingers. More blood than there should have been. What the hell was happening to him? First his legs and now this? And his useless nose hadn’t warned him of the man’s approach either.

  “Who sent you?” asked the man, pointing the shotgun at his face. The shot had been loud, and people could be heard running amok in the hallway. The rats were fleeing the ship.

  From the corner of his eye, Michael could see the man’s acolyte twitching slightly. The thug was waking up.

  “Pedro? Jorge? Answer me, cabrón!” yelled the man as he stepped forward to club Michael in the head with the shotgun’s butt. Michael grabbed the gun before it reached its intended destination and snatched it out of the man’s hands. He then swung it at the boss’s ankles.

  Triple-chin landed flat on his back, the impact driving the air out of his lungs in a clearly audible whoosh.

  Michael was back on his feet and upon the man in an instant. He picked up the obese manager with one hand and slammed him onto the table, its legs wobbling under the excessive weight.

  “My turn to ask questions. Who’s your boss, and where can I find him?” asked Michael, grabbing the man by the throat.

  Triple-chin struggled a moment longer to catch his breath before spitting in Michael’s face. At least, that had been the intent, but the spit, defeated by gravity, landed on the fat man’s chin.

  Michael drove a controlled fist into his gut—he still needed him to answer a few questions—and walked to the henchman who was getting back on his feet. He grabbed the man by the scuff of the neck and dragged him, protesting, to the table. He then placed both hands on the man’s head and started squeezing.