by Danika Fox
If I hadn’t know what a stickler my dad was for keeping things exactly how he wanted them, I would have been a little more surprised, but the longer I thought about it, the more that this seemed exactly the kind of thing he’d do. It was like I’d gone off to college and he’d kept my room pristine on the off-chance I’d change my mind and decide that I could stand being away from home.
I think I might have preferred it if he’d just turned it into a workout room or something.
But while it made me a little uneasy to see everything in exactly the spot it had been when I left, the sense of familiarity was somewhat comforting—in the sense that it didn’t involve being chased out of a penthouse by a Russian hit squad. For once in these last couple of days, I thought that I might just be safe from the people who wanted me dead.
I sat down on the edge of my old bed, looking out of the enormous window and at the pool below. I’d always loved the way that the lights shimmered and reflected up into my room at night off of the surface of the water. It was like the nightlight I swore to my dad I never needed, but was always grateful for, and briefly I indulged the thought that it would keep all the darkness in my life at bay, just as I’d done when I was little.
There were voices coming from the floor below me. My father had been on the phone all night ever since he’d brought me home from the motel, and from the sounds of things, he wasn’t happy. Then again, my father rarely let himself sound happy over the phone.
“Never let them know you’re satisfied with what they’ve done,” he’d told me one day in what he’d thought would be a perfect moment to impart some fatherly wisdom. “If they think you’re not happy with what they’ve done, then they’ll work twice as hard to make it better. People always want to make someone important happy, and when you’re important, you need to make sure they know that they have to bust their asses and give you one hundred and ten percent to get your approval.”
My father was a big fan of letting fear do most of his work for him, and for the most part, it seemed to do him well. No one in his organization dared to step out of line for fear of what might happen to them or the people that they loved… but it also meant that my father had a habit of pushing the people he wanted to love him away.
There’s a saying that goes, “When all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail.” And that was how my father used fear and intimidation… so much so that it was why my mother had left him. She was tired of being afraid of the man he wanted everyone to think that he was. His need to perform got to the point where she never got to see the man he was beyond it all—the man she married.
Last I’d heard of my mother, she was living in a bungalow in Long Beach, Florida, with some guy name Jared—and had made sure that there was “never a good time” for me to come visit.
But I’d learned all about the real reason she didn’t want me around. People never remember to set their privacy settings on the big social media sites, so when, say, you have an entirely new family, it’s pretty easy for someone to find out. Not to mention simple enough to get all the family pictures that show just how much your estranged mother doesn’t need you in her life anymore.
Part of me understood, I was a reminder of the man who she’d been frightened of for most of her married life… and yet the daughter in me still wished that she could have her mommy hold her, especially in times like these when I was on some Russian mobster’s VIP list of people to kill.
Another round of bellowing wafted up through the floorboards, along with the clattering of something heavy as my father knocked something from his desk in his typical fashion—truthfully, after you’d watched his whole routine seven or ten times, you started to anticipate the cues of what stage of his tantrum he was in.
But then I could hear a new voice join in—one I recognized, but never expected to start yelling back.
“Where the fuck have you been?!” came my father’s muffled scream from below. “Do you know how many fucking times I called you? When I call you, you come, do you understand me, you little piece of shit?”
“It wasn’t any of your damn business where I was,” Lonnie sneered, voice raised for the first time since I’d met him years ago, back when he was just a newly inducted member of my father’s organization.
“Do you know who the fuck you’re talking to? I fucking own you, you bastard!” my father hollered back, louder and clearer than I’d ever heard from so far away. Even through so many walls, I thought he might have been in the next room… much like the gunshot that rang out immediately afterward.
The blood in my veins turned to ice. My heart pattered to a momentary halt, then began again at a hummingbird-wing pace.
And then I scrambled downstairs.
At first I thought, or maybe hoped, that my father had shot Lonnie—that he’d grown so paranoid from what he’d read in that file that just maybe it’d pushed him too far. But as I burst through the door to my father’s study, I found the exact opposite to be true.
I saw my father lying on his back on the floor, completely unmoving, and another of his men splayed out in much the same position.
“Daddy!” I screamed, rushing over to him as Lonnie took a few steps back, his gun trained on me now.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t be here,” he said, shaking his head. “I was hoping that Sergei would have taken care of you already… but maybe I’ll do it myself.”
“Caputo,” a thickly accented voice rang through my father’s study, turning both mine and Lonnie’s heads toward the door. “Settle down, friend. We will take care of this as we planned—and after we’re done, you’ll have everything you wanted. And more.”
24
Crush
“I thought I mentioned that I didn’t want a bunch of yahoos fuckin’ up my bar tonight,” came a familiar voice. I blinked, slowly raising my head until I could see who spoke.
Standing there, shotgun in hand, was Maria, the barrel aimed at the three other Russians who were about to descend upon me. The man beneath me, splayed out on the porch, was still looking up at her in shock.
“How about you go ahead and grab that gun, sweetie,” Maria said, her voice as steady as if she was asking me to pick up some milk from the store. “I can’t cover all of these bastards by myself.”
I snatched up the handgun as best I could, my shoulder burning like a son-of-a-bitch from the slug that tore through it. As quick as I could I got back to my feet, aiming at the three other thugs that were still standing.
“That looks like it stings,” Maria remarked, her eyes flicking momentarily to my wound. “We’re gonna need to get that cleaned.”
They had us outnumbered, but with a shotgun aimed at the three of them left standing—all of them clustered together as they were about to head up the stairs onto the porch—they didn’t seem to like their odds. One finger twitch from Maria, and the three of them were all going to get buckshot right to the chest.
“Now, are you boys going to come quietly, or am I going to have to bury some bodies out in the desert?” she asked, her eyebrows raised. One by one the three others dropped their guns, and Maria and I went about tying their hands up with some zip-ties she brought out from the storage closet in the roadhouse.
“You’d best get goin’ before the cops show up,” she said to me, nodding at my bike. “I’ll give you a ten-minute head start before I give them a call—these bastards should keep until then.”
Each one of the Russians had been secured to the railing of the porch, their guns dumped pell-mell on a table ten feet away.
“You sure you’ll be all right?” I asked as I mounted my bike. The older woman just laughed and shook her head.
“Hun, I’ve handled men twice as tough as these clowns—and I married two of ‘em.”
I shook my head in reply and kicked the engine to life before I tore off down the road and back toward the city. I stopped at an intersection and dialed Teddy’s number, hoping that just maybe he was still awake. If this was going to be
as bad as I thought it was, then I could sure as hell use some backup.
“You’ve reached Teddy. Leave your fucking message,” his voicemail box was only too happy to suggest, and I sighed.
“I’m calling for takeout at 473 Pinecrest, Las Vegas,” I said after the beep, using one of the code words we had established with each of our members that meant I was going to need all hands on deck. It was about the equivalent of calling 911.
I knew I didn’t have much time. By now Sergei and Caputo must already be at Falcone’s place. All I could do was hope and pray that maybe I could get there in time, but no matter how much I tried to convince myself that I wasn’t too late, the pit in my stomach only seemed to grow the closer I got to my destination.
Keep it together, I told myself as I stupidly ignored stop signs and speed limits. She’ll be fine. I’ve just got to keep driving.
The buildings passed by like shapeless blurs, turning from hulking great blocks of color to squat and colorful blobs as I pulls into the suburbs once again, not even bothering to stop and admire the quaint homes I couldn’t even dream of having.
She’ll be fine, I repeated again and again, doing what I could to keep myself from falling into an anxious mess. I couldn’t afford to be paralyzed by the thought of what I might find once I got there. You can get there in time.
Finally, I reached the entrance of that familiar cul-de-sac. I cut the engine and walked my bike behind a set of high hedges the blocked it from view up the road from Falcone’s house. I didn’t want them to hear me pull up to the gate.
But the closer I got, I realized there was no one keeping watch over the compound. A cold chill crept up my insides as I made my way up to the gate itself, already open with a pair of combat boots poking out from around the other side.
Three guards were all sprawled across the inside of the courtyard, their weapons nowhere in sight as I quietly made my way to each one of them.
Two were dead. One of them was still breathing, though I didn’t know for how long with that wound in his side. As much as I hated the thought, I couldn’t stick around to make sure he was okay. I needed to find Chrissy and Falcone.
I glanced over toward the front door, light spilling out from the inside as it hung slightly ajar, the lock busted off as though it had been kicked in. I could only hope that Sergei and Caputo thought that I’d been taken care of back at the roadhouse, which might give me at least some element of surprise. Still, walking in through the front door was probably the perfect way to blow that opportunity to high heaven before I got the chance to use it.
I crept around the side of the main building, sticking the multitude of topiaries that Falcone seemed to be so fond of. I stayed low, crouching to keep myself blocked from sight as I heard the faint murmurings of a conversation somewhere in the distance, though I couldn’t even begin to make the words out if I tried.
The longer I listened to the voices, the closer they grew, footsteps crunching on the gravel pathways as two distinct voices babbled on in rapid-fire Russian. I tensed, trying to hide my wincing as the wound in my shoulder ignited in white-hot agony. I pulled the handgun I’d taken from my would-be killers and flipped it around, holding it by the muzzle.
Wait, I thought, their footsteps growing closer and closer. Wait…
The two men walked past the bushed I’d taken as cover, their eyes trained up, not even bothering to glance down in the shadows of the plants. I moved as quickly as I could, raising the gun up high and bringing the butt of it down on the back of the first Russian’s head hard, dropping him to the floor in a heap.
I immediately went for the second one, who was only just starting to turn to see what had happened to his friend as I brought the butt of the handgun back up and across the side of his head. He staggered forward, clutching at his ear as I slammed the gun down again on the back of his neck. He fell bonelessly, his face scraping across the dirt and gravel.
I quickly grabbed their weapons. One of them was carrying a mini-submachine gun held on a strap over his shoulders, as well as a wicked-looking combat knife.
I dragged both men behind a pair of tall bushes to keep them out of sight as I started back toward the back of the house where I could hear more voices emanating, at least one of them speaking English.
“Tell these assholes to go guard the gate,” Caputo shouted. “I don’t want any surprises.”
“You are worrying too much,” a familiar Russian voice said, much closer to me than I would have liked. I glanced up and saw a dark silhouette looming in the window above. “My men have gone to take care of our loose end. Soon no one will be standing in our way, my friend.”
“If they’ve taken that little shit biker out, then why haven’t they called in?” Lonnie snapped. “I don’t want this shit goin’ south, Sergei. You promised me—”
“I promised nothing,” Sergei tersely corrected. “I said that I would help you, and I have, but only because you agreed to also be helping me.”
“You’ll get whatever the hell you want,” Caputo muttered, “just so long as I get my cut.”
Sergei started to reply, but paused as a scream echoed from somewhere inside the house. A woman’s scream. The fine hairs on my nape and arms stood up.
Chrissy?
“Jesus, will someone shut that little bitch up?” Lonnie snarled.
The scream tore at my heart and lifted my spirits all at the same time. Chrissy was alive, at least for now, which meant that I could save her if I moved fast enough.
But I was a dead man if I tried to go in through the back of the house. I looked around, searching for some other way I could get inside without being noticed when I noticed a large trellis against the wall, standing just beneath a second-story window.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, I thought, grimacing. This was going to hurt.
I climbed as fast as I could manage with my injury, gritting my teeth to stifle all the curses I wanted to lob at the universe for making my path to redemption the most difficult thing I’d ever done. If this was all just for my sake, I might’ve understood. But an innocent woman’s life hung in the balance. Chrissy’s life. That had to count for something with karma or fate or whatever, didn’t it?
The wood creaked and groaned beneath my weight, so much that I thought someone was bound to hear me as I made my way up and into the window on the second floor. But thankfully, nobody did. I figured that was about as much divine intervention as I was likely to get.
The room on the other side of the sill was painted in shades of white and pink, posters lining the walls of bands from at least a few years ago, most of them now long past their prime in the public eye. This must’ve been Chrissy’s room. It felt surreal standing here knowing that she was being held captive only a few yards away—exactly where in the house, I had no idea.
I walked over to the door and peeked my head out, glancing in either direction down the hallway to make sure the coast was clear. I doubted they’d be checking the upper floor since by now they’d have thought the whole place had already been cleared. For now I was somewhat safe, at least until they found the two men I’d knocked unconscious.
I checked the magazine on the mini-SMG, ensuring that I had a full clip before I did what was undoubtedly the stupidest thing I’d ever done in my entire life—assault God only knew how many armed mobsters just to save some girl I barely knew.
I guess I am the romantic type, after all, I thought as I made my way up the hallways toward the master staircase, my footsteps muffled by the thick carpet as I went.
As I reached the bannister I heard Chrissy’s voice echoing up from below, shouting something about her father, the rest of the words lost by whatever distance still separated us.
It’s now or never, I told myself as I began to creep slowly down the steps, both hands holding the sub-machine gun aloft and aimed forward, flipping the safety off.
That click felt deafening, and I knew that I might actually have to kill a man tonight, the weight of that
fact sinking in as I quietly covered the distance between the bottom of the stairs and the central hallway that led toward Falcone’s study.
The door was opened just a crack, and from it I could hear Chrissy speaking, her words much clearer now as I began to slowly creep forward, moving slowly toward the open door.
“I swear to fucking Christ, I’m going to make you pay for this,” she said, her tone reminding me of her father in ways that I wasn’t entirely comfortable with. “If you even touch one hair on my dad’s head—”
The sound of skin meeting skin rang out, silencing Chrissy on the spot. I could feel the heat rising on the back of my neck as I began to slowly toy with the trigger of the SMG.
“You need to shut up,” Caputo said. His voice shook. “Shut the fuck up right now, or it ain’t gonna be your daddy who gets it first.”
Oh, he was definitely right about that.
25
Chrissy
“Chrissy?”
My father let out a groan as he shifted beside me, his hands bound behind his back with zip-ties just like mine. The sound of his voice was the first bit of relief I’d felt ever since I’d seen him lying on the ground at Lonnie’s feet. Lonnie, who had been in my life since we were both still getting pimples. Lonnie, who had been my father’s protégé ever since they’d met. He’d seen promise in Lonnie, and this was what he got for it.
I flexed my wrists against my bonds, pulling as much as I could without drawing any attention to myself. I’d been working on them since they’d tied my father and I up, and—if I was lucky—I’d be able to get my hands free by the time rescue arrived.
If it arrived.
After all, who was there to save me, now that Crush was out of my life?
“Lonnie…” my father groaned. “What’re you doin’? I thought we were family.”
Lonnie, who had taken a seat behind my father’s desk turned to face him, smiled a smile that didn’t reach his eyes—a cold kind of smile that told me the thoughts behind those eyes were anything but kind.