by Sam Crescent
Slade took a deep breath and bent over to relieve some of the pressure on his side. “Normandy.”
“Are you saying she’s alive?”
“Yeah. She hid and I found her, but we were attacked. They must have followed me when I drove by her house earlier.”
“Who followed?”
“I don’t know. Whoever killed her father and brothers. I need to get this bullet out of me and go find out who these bastards are.”
“Jesus. Where are you?”
“East St. Louis. A bar called Puddin’s. I’m sure Mac could find it easy.”
“Hold on. For a few minutes, Slade heard muffled sounds as Kix barked out questions. “Slade, you there?”
“Yeah. Hurtin’ but here.”
“Okay, I’ve got someone on their way to you.”
“Who?”
“Doctor friend of my brother. She’ll be there soon. Can you hold on?”
“I’m not fucking dying, okay? Just hurts and I’m bleeding all over the place.”
Just then Whiskey came back with a towel. Slade took one look at it and shook his head.
“Do you want us to come to you?”
Slade thought quickly. It was about three hours from Rider Pass to St. Louis, and he was currently in Illinois. He didn’t want to wait to go after the motherfuckers, but he needed to know who exactly he was fighting.
“I need any intel on what happened to Tony DiLuca and his sons. I need to know who it was. Now, this kind of attack couldn’t be orchestrated alone, so there should be chatter.”
“I’ll have Mac hack into every system until he finds out who killed them,” Kix assured him.
“Because who it was probably has Normandy.”
Kix hesitated for a moment. “Are you sure she’s alive?”
Slade rejected the thought that he’d found her only to lose her again. “Yes, because they didn’t kill her, they took her. Someone wants the last DiLuca, although I don’t know why.”
“All right,” Kix said. “If she’s out there, we’ll find her. Take it easy until the doctor shows up. She knows your number.”
Slade hung up and slumped against the wall.
“Dude, you’re still bleeding on my floor.”
Slade threw him a dark look and grabbed a chair, dumping the garbage cluttered on it to the ground. He sat gingerly and winced as his wound pulled.
“Get me paper towels,” he said.
Whiskey went to one pile of stuff and rooted through it until he came up with a brand new still-in-the-plastic roll of paper towels. He handed it to Slade who opened it and wadded up a lot of it to stuff against his side.
“Do you happen to have any peroxide or something?”
“I got alcohol,” Whiskey replied. “Lots of it downstairs.”
“How Old West of you. Who’s running the bar?”
“No one. When the goon came to beat me up, they ran everyone out.”
Slade stood back up, swaying a little from pain, but mainly from blood loss. “Come on, let’s wait downstairs. The alcohol can disinfect the place where the doc is going to have to dig this bullet out of me.”
Chapter Five
Slade instructed Whiskey to clean off the bar top, figuring that was the correct height needed to extract the bullet. Bleach was used to scour every inch and once it dried, Slade carefully lay down. The wooziness was increasing and he decided to just give into the pull tugging on his eyelids. He didn’t exactly dream, but his mind wandered to Normandy as it usually did whenever he had time to think. Whatever bastard had killed her family and hurt her would suffer mightily at his hands.
He didn’t know how long he lingered in limbo, but sometime later he was roused awake by someone shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see a very beautiful African-American woman staring intently at him.
“I take it you’re Michael Slade,” she said.
“What gave it away?” he slurred. “My sunny disposition?”
“I followed my nose to the slimiest bar this side of the Mississippi that gave a waft of soured blood.”
“Hey!” Whiskey barked. “I resent that.”
“Yeah, the downstairs is immaculate compared to the upstairs,” Slade said. “You’d shut it down on a health code violation.”
“Last time I stash anyone from the mob,” Whiskey muttered as he left the bar and headed into the stockroom. A moment later, his footsteps were heard overhead.
“My name is Doctor Kadyn Payne,” she said. “That bullet has to come out, but it’s going to hurt.”
“I don’t care. I’ve had worse.”
She frowned. “I believe you.”
Kadyn set out her instruments along with several vials of medicine and syringes. Taking a pair of scissors, she cut his shirt and for the first time he saw the hole.
“The bleeding has almost stopped,” she informed him. “That’s good. Means it’s not too deep. Was this a ricochet, perhaps?”
“Could be,” Slade replied. “I don’t know. Bullets were flying and I was only concerned with protecting my wife.”
“Jeff said they took her.”
It took Slade a moment to remember Kix’s brother’s name. “Yeah. I think it was related to the shooting yesterday of her father and brothers.”
Kadyn sighed. “Do none of you cherish life?”
“You … as in who?”
“Your friend said mob and I know Jeff’s brother is head of a motorcycle gang—”
“Club.”
She waved a hand dismissively. “Whatever. Look, I came from these streets. My own brother lived by the gun and died by the gun. It just seems like such a waste of life.”
“Are you gonna operate, Doc, or are you gonna continue to give me a moral lesson?”
“And just as stubborn,” she muttered under her breath.
She opened an alcohol prep pad and wiped the rubber seal on the medicine vial before using the syringe to draw up the liquid. It only took a moment for the numbing effect of the medicine to work as she injected the site. Then she opened an iodine scrub and cleaned the area around the bullet hole. Once she put on sterile gloves, she got to work. Pressure, pain, and blood loss finally caught up with him and he passed out. The next time he opened his eyes, Doctor Payne was taking his pulse while staring at her watch.
“Am I gonna live?” he managed to say, although his mouth felt like he’d swallowed several cotton balls.
“Please don’t insult my skills, Mr. Slade.”
He smiled. “Only if you don’t use mister. That was my father and I’d rather not remember I came from his sperm.”
“Ouch,” she murmured. “Deal. You’ve been asleep for about forty-five minutes, but your pulse is strong and as long as you take it easy and take these antibiotics, you’ll heal fine. Not allergic to penicillin, are you?”
He shook his head.
She laid a bottle of capsules next to him. “Take one tablet four times a day until they’re all gone. If you don’t, this will get infected and then it’ll turn septic and you’ll die. Got it?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
She finished gathering her equipment and placed it all back inside a black gym bag before leveling him a long stare.
“Jeff is a … good friend of mine, so when he asks for a favor I usually don’t question it,” she said. “And you can take my advice or you can tell me to fuck off, but I really hope you find your girl and get out of this life.”
She gave him a small smile and turned to leave.
“Doc?”
She paused and looked at him over her shoulder.
“I would never tell you to fuck off, not after you helped me. I owe you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Seconds later, she was gone and Slade rested his head back against the bar with his eyes closed. He would rest until Kix called with information, and he hoped that would be sooner rather than later.
“She gone?” Whiskey asked.
“Yeah.” Slade
didn’t even open his eyes.
“I cleaned up the blood. I hate blood.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Wasn’t your fault someone came and shot at you.”
He sounded a little nasally. Slade opened one eye and saw the black eye had finally engulfed Whiskey’s eye and a piece of white tissue was stuffed in one nostril.
“You should’ve let the doc look at that.”
Whiskey shrugged. “Just a flesh wound.”
“Thanks, Whiskey. For all you’ve done for me. The White Death won’t forget how you helped me and Normandy.”
Whiskey waved away the words. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get all mushy on me.”
Slade’s phone rang. He stared at it for a moment before scooping it up. “Yes? Okay, tell me.”
Chapter Six
Normandy kept her eyes closed tight, trying to forget about the rain of bullets and blood she’d been pulled from moments before. Large hands had dragged her from the apartment, from Michael’s abdomen, moments after he’d been shot. All she’d seen was the area around his body turning bright red as he’d bled out. Her scream still ricocheted through her head.
The first time she’d ever laid eyes on him, back when she was only twelve and he was fifteen, she’d fallen for him hook, line, and sinker. While all of her junior high friends were drooling over the latest boy band or Hollywood heartthrob, she’d been fascinated by the surly teenager who ran errands for her father. He’d come from southeast Missouri, dirt poor and full of anger, to the big city of St. Louis to live with his grandmother when his father was taken back to jail. On one of his trips back to Rider Pass, he’d become a member of the local motorcycle gang. He’d had a hard childhood and she thought she could make it all better with her love.
For a time, she thought she had.
Then, when he’d left her, she believed she had failed him. Failed being a wife, a lover, and his confidant. Failed at wiping out the past and making him happy. For two years she prayed that she wouldn’t receive divorce papers, afraid every time she went to the mailbox of what she’d find. Yet when she had nowhere else to go, her first thought had been to run to her erstwhile husband, but she had no way to get to Rider Pass, Missouri, so she headed to the nearest place she could think of. Puddin’s had been their secret special bar where no one would ever think she’d be hiding.
How did they find her?
And who were they?
Were they the same men who murdered her father and brothers? Did they come for her in order to wipe out the last of the DiLuca family? Her mind swirled with the enormity of what the past two days had wrought, and she wasn’t sure if she could handle one more thing. Fear, sadness, pain, anger … it all fused together to form a rock sitting in her belly. She no longer felt strong. She no longer felt like a proud woman, filled with confidence and drive. Now she wore dirty clothes with no underwear, no shoes, stuffed in the trunk of a car and headed to who knows where. Would her life also end at the end of the car ride? Did she even care at this point? Her family was dead. Michael was dead. Would it be cowardly of her to just follow them into death?
Tears leaked from her eyes, but she held back her sobs. The desire to just give up was tempting, much like the devil holding out his hand to help her up. For a long time, she wallowed in pity, until the car hit a few bumps. The jolts irritated her, causing her crying to come to an abrupt end, and only then did a few other things begin to bother her. The trunk carpet roughly rubbed her legs and some sort of metal object poked her hip. She shifted until she lay on her back and pushed the cylindrical rod away. A tire iron? Or a crowbar perhaps? Her fist closed around it as she thought about hitting the men who had killed Michael.
Just thinking his name caused her heart to hurt. She knew it always would.
The fear and sadness began to die away as fury heated her blood. The history of her father’s business made her realize the men who had come into the apartment with guns blazing were nothing more than lackeys to the person who had ordered the hit on her family. They were now taking her to that person and a crossroads was laid out before her, to take the path of giving up … or try to hurt the motherfucker who had killed everyone she cared about. She could almost hear Michael in her ear, yelling at her to fight. To avenge him, her father, and her brothers. He was the type of man who believed an eye for an eye, as well as fucking someone up who deserved it.
Her father believed that as well.
And she was her father’s daughter.
She brought the metal rod up to her chest to wait until she had the chance to use it. The assholes were going to be sorry sons-of-bitches when she got done with them. Some time later, the car came to a stop. The engine cut off. Car doors opened and closed. The tension snapped along every muscle as she waited for the trunk to open. Muffled voices grew louder as they neared the trunk.
As the lid popped open, Normandy jabbed the iron bar toward the nearest person. Satisfaction rushed through her as she felt the tip sink into flesh and heard the screech of pain. Using the moment of surprise, she tried to get out of the trunk as quickly as possible, but hands grabbed her arms. She swung the crowbar again, but the uninjured thugs grabbed hold of it and yanked it from her. She was plucked from the trunk as easily as an apple off a tree. Not giving up, Normandy leaned over and bit the hand holding onto her, and it released her with a howl of pain.
“Bitch!”
A fist came up to punch her.
“Stop!”
The man looked behind him and slowly lowered his arm. Normandy followed his line of sight and shock hit her between the eyes. Sweeney Barese stood there, with his pointy nose lifted slightly. She wanted to punch him so hard the damn thing would be shoved up into his brain. But she figured with a man so slimy, the nose would snap off under pressure and grow back like a damn severed lizard tail.
“It was you?” she asked. Her mind couldn’t process all the questions at once, so she went with an easy one.
“I knew there would be only one way to take over the full distribution of St. Louis,” Sweeney murmured. “The DiLuca family had to fall.”
“We had a peace agreement-”
“One my father failed to realize would limit our trade by forcing us to stay on the wrong side of the Mississippi.”
“Are you implying there aren’t any heroin addicts in Illinois?” she asked sarcastically.
“It’s not about numbers, my dear. It’s about distribution. The poorer the sections, the greater the dependence. Your father refused to grant me the route I wanted.”
“So you killed him?”
Sweeney shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry for your loss, but it had to be done.”
She tried to rush up to him, to smack the smug off his fat face, but the brute holding her back easily subdued her impulse. “My father had friends. You will not live long.”
“My dear, the unfortunate truth is that friends can be bought off.”
“I don’t believe you,” she whispered, shaking her head. “My father had loyalty.”
“And yet,” he said, opening his arms wide, “here you are. There are two reasons I spared your life, Normandy. The first was at the request of your father’s so-called loyal friend. The second was the fact that by bringing you into the Barese family, it cements my legitimate claim to the DiLuca trade route.”
“But … but…”
“Imagine my surprise when I learned of your husband.” He spat the words as if it offended him. “I had my men stake out your house until he showed up because I figured that would be the easiest way to find you. And I was right.”
“I. Will. Kill. You.” She vowed. “I will never marry you.”
Sweeney smiled. “I had no plans for you to marry me, my dear. You will marry Damon.”
“Never.”
“Time will tell.”
He nodded to the men holding her before turning and entering the house. She fought against them, but her puny attempts to break free were worthless against their brute strength. She
was led up the steps and the front door slammed shut behind her.
Chapter Seven
“Cattycorner to Puddin’s is an army surplus store and lucky for us they use web-based surveillance to keep an eye on their property,” Mac said. “Probably a good idea since that’s a shitty neighborhood. What the hell are you doing there, by the way?”
“Never mind,” Slade said impatiently. “Who took my wife?”
“I still can’t believe you’re married.” Rapid-fire tapping on a keyboard came through loud and clear. “Although it makes sense why you never slept with any of the club pussy. I just thought you might be gay.”
“Mac!”
Kix’s laughter could be heard through the speakerphone. “Shush, Mac, before Slade reaches through this phone and strangles you.”
“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with being gay, you know,” Mac said defensively. “I have a few friends who are gay. One is a lesbian … although technically, that’s gay, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t say … what?” Slade shook his head. “Just get back to your internet talents and tell me what I need to know.”
“Right. Anyway. Two black SUVs go racing by at four twenty-three in the morning. I then track them at a traffic camera four blocks away, then a mile later they enter the highway leading them back across the bridge heading toward St. Louis.”
“Tell me you were able to track them.”
“Better,” Mac said smugly. “The street lights highlighted the license plate for a brief moment. I traced it to a limited liability corporation named Italian Culinary Imports.”
The name sounded vaguely familiar to Slade. “And who owns this imports company?”
“Sweeney Barese,” Kix said grimly. “I couldn’t believe my eyes.”
As soon as he heard the name, Slade remembered the night before with the meeting Sweeney had set up. Fury pumped through his veins. What a motherfucker! What goddamn fucking two-faced betraying bastard!
“Son of a bitch!” he yelled. Unable to sit still, he began pacing back and forth. “I stood right in front of that fucking asshole while he gave me his condolences, all the while knowing he was the one who put Tony, Gregory, and Robert DiLuca into the grave!”