by K R Hill
Now it was real. The fear, the stress, the animal instinct to survive, all flooded over him and memory took him back to his days in the Rangers, face covered with blackout, weapon against his shoulder as he walked through the jungle. Connor raised his leg and hooked it on the roof, his breaths heaving in and out, heart pounding so hard he thought everyone could hear.
He was almost back to the safety of the roof when his cell phone rang with a Grateful Dead guitar riff that sounded feeble and far away.
Men shouted.
Connor almost flew onto the roof. Bullets exploded through the tar paper a foot from his face. A beam of light shone through each bullet hole like a lethal spear jabbing at him. Bits of wood and dust flew up and covered his face.
"They're on the roof!” someone shouted. “Get on the roof."
Connor turned in a circle, searching for a way down. "They'll be up the stairs in a few seconds. We got to jump.”
“Twenty feet? To asphalt?”
“No, you see how tall those vans are? If I land in the center, the roof will cave in and buffer my fall like a mattress.” Connor leaned forward and peeked over the edge. The second he did, a burst from an automatic weapon tore holes through the roof. Bullets ricocheted.
“I’m not waiting around while you figure out how to get down.” Bartholomew pulled off his belt and ran to what looked like an electrical shed. Bolted to one corner of the structure was a metal pole with a cable attached. He climbed on top of the shed.
“What are you doing? They’re coming.”
Bartholomew whipped his belt up over the cable, grabbed the other end, and ran off the edge of the shack, shrieking and laughing as he zip-lined over the building and across the parking lot.
Connor reached for his own belt and remembered he wasn’t wearing one. He cursed and stomped a foot and ran to the building’s edge, shouting, “Go, Bart, go!”
Bartholomew glided across the parking lot. He nearly reached the neighboring warehouse before the cable snapped. He shouted, slammed into the side of the building with a terrible noise, and crashed into a storage area surrounded by a chain-link fence.
One of the gunmen shouted and ran to where Bartholomew had fallen. Jumping here and there, the gunman peered through the fence and fired several rounds through the junk and trash inside the fence.
Connor stood on the corner of the warehouse roof with his mouth open, waiting to see if Bartholomew made it, not knowing whether to be happy and excited or sad because his friend was lying in the dirt bleeding out.
A loud thumping came behind him, and he knew the gunmen were breaking down the staircase door.
Connor ran across the roof, turned right and left, tried to gauge the distance to the parking lot below, and started swinging his arms. It was the same way he used to swing his arms when he stood on the high dive platform of the high school swimming pool, staring down at the water and what looked like a hundred-foot drop. That was the trick his dad taught him, and he remembered looking up into the stands and seeing his old man standing and swinging his own arms, and that made him laugh.
The men behind him fired a burst from an automatic weapon and crashed through the door. One of them fell and rolled, but the second man ran forward and fired his weapon.
Connor jumped and landed on his butt. The roof of the van sank and crunched with a terrible sound. Several of the windows shattered and glass rained over the parking lot. He gasped for breath and rolled off the side of the vehicle to the ground, where he staggered and tried to walk to regain his balance. But there was no time.
One of the thugs ran around the back of the van and jumped back when he saw Connor so close.
Connor hit the guy in the throat. As the gunman fell, Connor hit him again and had the guy’s weapon before he hit the asphalt.
He pushed the military rifle against his shoulder, turned right and left, the weapon following his glance, jerking right and left. He looked around the back of the van. The parking lot was empty, but he heard voices.
He stepped backward until he reached the rear tire, where his feet would be hidden. There he got down on his knees and looked out from underneath the vehicle. Twenty feet ahead he saw three men. The trio walked slowly toward him, and spread apart as they approached. Connor dropped to his shoulder and fired several bursts beneath the van. The first two men shouted and dropped. He fired another burst and the last guy fell to the broken pavement.
Connor waited with his head against the warm asphalt, staring down the rifle barrel, waiting for one of the men to move, to turn their rifles in his direction or show any sign of life. But that didn’t come.
He slung the rifle over his shoulder and held it tight to his side as he sprinted across the parking lot. When he reached the closest warehouse, he dropped down low and ran to where Bartholomew had fallen. He reached the gate of the storage area and tried to open it. It moved a few inches before a chain rattled and he saw a huge padlock. He stepped back and raised the gun and fired a burst, kicked the gate again and it flew open.
“Bart, are you in here?” he shouted, stepping among the trash and pushing trash and containers about.
He was about to give up and run when he heard a muffled call from inside a dumpster. Connor hurried over and lifted the lid, and said, “Bartholomew, you in there?”
"Whew,” laughed Bartholomew. “Did you see me flying?”
Connor dropped the lid and walked away.
He heard it open behind him.
“Hey! You dropped that on my head. Am I still alive?”
“Come on, they’re looking for us.” Connor put Bartholomew’s arm over his shoulder and led him to the back of the fenced-in area where the chain-link fence had been cut. He pulled the fence apart, slipped through, and helped Bartholomew limp up the alley. At an old, derelict warehouse, he pushed the wooden garage door open at the bottom, and squeezed inside. Huddled in a dark corner, they waited and watched until the black vans drove away.
Chapter 17
When Connor got back to the car, he rushed to open the trunk where the weapons were hidden. Connor grabbed his first and wrapped the leather bands of the shoulder harness into a ball, hurried over to his door and opened it and climbed into the car. A moment later he felt the trunk slam shut and Bartholomew slid into the passenger seat.
Before even got his seatbelt fastened, he started the car and drove forward without turning on the lights. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as he passed one warehouse and then another. “There,” said Connor, pointing to an alley. “That’s what we need.” Halfway up the alley, he shut off the engine and sat in silence, turning around, breathing hard, half climbing up his seat as he stared into the darkness, only to snap around and search the alley in front of the car a moment later.
“He killed that guy. You saw it, right? That is what happened.” Bartholomew opened his door and started to climb out.
“Hey.” Connor grabbed his arm and pulled him back into the car. “Shut the fuck up before you get us killed. For all we know they’re out there right now driving up and down, searching for us. Keep your mouth shut and stay where you are. No one can see us here. I need to think.” Connor gripped the steering wheel, twisting his hands on the black plastic, nodding his head. A few minutes passed. He reached down onto the floorboard and picked up his shoulder holster, unwound the straps, and slid the 9 mm out, checked to see that the safety was on, and opened up the action, glanced into the firing chamber to make sure there was a round there. Without pausing, he turned the gun sideways and ejected the clip, pulled it out, shoved it back inside once he knew that all 17 rounds were there. Then he looked up at Bartholomew, sitting there staring like a zombie into the dark alley.
“Hey,” said Connor, nudging him with an elbow. “Check your weapon. Make sure it’s ready. If you need to pull that trigger you shoot to kill because your life is at stake. Got it?”
“Oh, fuck, I thought I was strong—a tough Boxer. They just killed that guy.”
“Bart! Unless you wak
e up, you’re going to be the next one that gets sliced open. That was Saunders they killed. He’s the guy we’re supposed be buying from. Something is happening that we don’t know about. All I can figure out is that the Ghrazenko syndicate sent this killer to take care of loose ends. Saunders said their money and paintings were gone.”
Bartholomew held his pistol in both hands and turned it over slowly as though he didn’t recognize it. “And they know that we witnessed the murder.”
Connor nodded, shoved his pistol back into its holster. “I’m guessing that Saunders told about our meeting, and they put on the show for our benefit. He sure as hell knew we were there, and now they’re coming for us.”
Bartholomew held up his shaking hand. “Look at that. I can step into a ring and fight in front of 3,000 people, but that’s a show, a fight. A couple guys get fat lips and maybe black eyes, but when it’s all over they go home and sit and talk about it with their wife and family.”
Connor reached over and grabbed him by the back of the neck and shook him. “Hey Bart, we’re not going to sit around and wait for these guys. If they get us, we’re going down swinging, right?”
Bartholomew bit his lip. “You tell me what to do, Brother. You’ve been saving my ass since grade school.”
“Hell, we’re no strangers to guns, right? Remember how dad used it drag us by the ear to the firing range?”
“I always got the highest score.” Bartholomew pointed the muzzle of his pistol at the floorboard, popped the clip out, saw that it was filled with bullets, and shoved it back into the automatic. “You never told me about the stuff you had to do in the Rangers. Part of me didn’t want to know. Every time you spoke about the army, I saw a darkness in your eyes.” He looked at Connor. “I need to know if you can deal with these guys. I want to keep my guts where they are. If you don’t know how to kick shit on these mob motherfuckers, then I’m getting on a bus like Barry, and getting my black ass out of Dodge. Got it?”
Connor set his weapon on the floorboard. “I know how to strike. Do you have the stomach for it?”
“To stay alive? Oh, hell yes, I’m good at that. I don’t trust anyone the way I trust you. We grew up in the same house. I had to look at your ugly face every damn day. But serious, this is your deal. You always were the badass. You say do it, and I’ll do it.”
“Okay, they’re going to look for the weakest link. The easy way to get at us is by getting to the people we love. We’re going to jump out ahead of this and cut them off. I need you to go and get Tia Alma before they find her.”
“What am I supposed to do with her?”
“Dad’s condo is about to go up for sale. I’ll shut that down and we’ll all hunker down there for a while. While you’re out getting Tia, I’ll drive over and get Ashley. I hope I can get to her before the no necks do.”
Connor stepped on the brake pedal and the alley behind them turned red. He started the car and shoved it into first gear. “I’ll drop you at your car. Don’t waste time. Go straight to Tia’s and get her. You remember where the condo is, right?”
“Of course.”
***
Connor got out of the Mustang three blocks from his loft. He walked along the sidewalk and stepped into a shop doorway here and there. Each time he stepped out of view, he waited for a few moments, and then leaned forward and looked right and left along the sidewalk to see if he was being followed. When you sure he wasn’t, he hurried along again, trotting across the street in the middle of a block.
When he reached his building, he walked around back and squatted down beside a dumpster. After a short wait, a neighbor pulled up to the steel garage door, and waited for it to open far enough for the car to drive under. The instant the neighbor’s car entered the garage and turned, Connor ran into the garage, hid behind a pillar, and waited for the neighbor to leave the parking structure. Once the elevator doors closed and the neighbor disappeared, Connor walked through the parking garage. When he reached Ashley’s car, he put his hand on the hood. It was still warm. She had recently arrived.
When he stepped into the elevator, he searched the floor for blood. If Ghrazenko had been there and his men had taken Ashley, she might be bleeding. He didn’t find any blood. Nor did he smell the chemical odor of chloroform that might have been used to sedate her. But that didn’t mean the Ghrazenkos weren’t here. They might have her in the apartment. The thought of that, how that scene might look, how it could get bloody, made him shutter. Connor took a deep breath as the elevator carried him upward.
The moment the doors opened, he pulled his automatic from its holster, and held it before him, pointing every direction that he looked, one finger, the trigger finger, resting on the guard. He wasn’t going to waste time by peeking around corners and sneaking up quietly, not if men were slapping Ashley around.
As Connor approached his front door, the light timer expired and the hallway turned dark. He stopped breathing and reached for the door knob.
The door was ajar. He stopped and listened, forcing himself to take three deep breaths before making a move. Before he exhaled the third breath, he clicked off the safety of his weapon, pushed open the door.
He was halfway through the doorway when he felt the unmistakable pressure of a pistol shoved into the base of his skull.
He couldn’t spin and fight. In a split second the person holding the gun would pull the trigger, and his game would be over. He froze. Even though he knew it was impossible, he thought about dropping to the ground and whipping his gun around for a wild shot that might get lucky.
“Don’t fucking move,” said Ashley.
The second he heard her voice, so much stress and fear rushed out of him that he staggered and steadied himself on the wall. “Holy shit, Babe. It’s me.”
Ashley shrieked and dropped the pistol. It discharged into the wall with a loud pop, and she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him. “I came home and the door was open. I didn’t know what to think. I did just what you taught me, and went to the bed and got the gun. I’m glad you didn’t get rid of it like I told you to.”
He pressed a finger to her lips, and whispered: “Did you check the rest of the apartment?”
“I did. I did. It’s empty. They’re gone.”
Connor kissed her and drew back. “Pack a bag. We got to get out of here. Now.”
Ashley shook her head. “Wait, what’s going on?”
“Remember that case I was telling about, the one with the bad men involved? Well, they’re coming. We’re lucky you weren’t here when they came. But they’ll be back.”
“They came for me? Why? I didn’t do anything.”
“That’s how they work. You’re an easy way to get to me. But I’m going to take care of them. Grab a bag. You got one minute.”
***
Thirty minutes later, Connor drove up the street three times, parked the car and turned to Ashley.
“My father’s old condo is four blocks from here.”
She looked around at the tall, fat date palms that lined the street. “We had to park four blocks away?”
“Listen,” he said, touching her arm. “There are people hunting us. The car tells them we’re close by. The further we stay from it, the better chance we have of not being found.”
“Tell me what to do, Connor.”
“Stay close, don’t hurry. Walk beside me. We’re just two people taking a walk. Come on.” He climbed out of the car, walked across the parkway covered with thick, spongy Bermuda grass, and stood waiting on the sidewalk.
Side by side they walked up the street, and turned onto a quiet street lined with Spanish style houses with arched windows and large front yards bordered with yellow roses, ginger and cannas. At a house with clay roof tiles and a round porch, he walked up the driveway to the rear of the house.
“I need you to stand over there in the shade,” he said, pointing to a small, covered patio attached to the side of the garage.
“Don’t leave me here.”
; “I’m going to check the street again. I’ll be right back.”
When he returned, Ashley pointed to the condo above the garage, and asked: “Is that where we’re going?”
He nodded.
“Someone’s up there. I heard them talking.”
“It must be Bartholomew and Tia Alma.”
Connor walked behind Ashley as they climbed the old wooden staircase. The red blossoms of a bougainvillea covered the garage beside them, and danced in the breeze.
Bartholomew opened the door.
Connor and Ashley stepped inside the apartment and said hello. Connor pushed the door shut and worked the deadbolt up and down until it slid into place.
“Where’s Tia Alma,” asked Connor.
Bartholomew rolled his eyes. “She’s laying down in the bedroom.” He stepped close and said with a softer voice: “When did she start repeating herself every few minutes?”
“She wasn’t like that when I spoke to her. Maybe she’s nervous. This is a big change for her.”
Ashley touched Connor’s arm. “She’s afraid. You should go in and talk to her, Baby.”
“Yeah,” said Connor. He walked across the kitchen and through the living room. When he reached the bedroom door, he opened it slowly and stood in the doorway as memories of his father’s last days in this room, the doctors and the caregivers, swept through his mind.
“Tia Alma,” he called, stepping into the room.
She called to him in the way a person does when they have a mouthful of food and can’t speak, but still want to say something. A moment later she waved him closer.
Connor lifted a blanket and covered her. “I’m sorry to have to bring you here, Tia.”
She shushed him and waved a hand as though fanning smoke from her face. “It’s nice to get out and see a new place. I was tired of my stuffy old room.”
Connor saw a sparkle, a look of excitement, come into the old woman’s eyes as she glanced around the room and struggled to raise up on an elbow.
Tia Alma leaned close, and said: “Did you find my stars, my sparkling stars?”