Jersey switched off the engine, opened his door and walked around to the trunk. Ian followed as Jersey popped the lid and reached in to pull out a bulletproof vest and a large black-barreled, lethal-looking Remington shotgun. He pumped the chamber and checked the barrel. When he was sure it was empty, he handed it to Ian.
Next, he checked his Glock 17 sidearm that he carried in a flat combat holster specially designed for concealed carry. The seventeen-round clip was full.
He knelt down and lifted his pant leg. Snugged in an ankle holster was a Glock 26—known with affection as the Baby Glock. Half the size and weight of its big brother, it carried ten rounds of 9mm ammo and was just as deadly.
Standing back up, Jersey slipped on the bulletproof vest and tightened its Velcro straps. Like a girdle, the vest flattened his paunch and made him look good—tough. “I only have the one vest,” he said, “so stay behind me.”
Ian looked at the empty shotgun in his hands. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Jersey picked up a handful of red-jacketed shotgun cartridges from a cardboard box and slipped them into his own pocket.
“Can’t let you carry a loaded weapon, sorry. That would cost me my badge.” He winked. “But the good thing is the bad guys won’t know you’re packing air, and even empty, it looks damn menacing.”
Ian wasn’t convinced. “So I just say ‘bang bang’?”
Jersey bit off a smirk. “Hell, the sound of a round being chambered is enough to make a normal person crap their jeans. And if that doesn’t work, hit them with it.”
Jersey returned to the driver’s door before Ian could protest further. Leaning inside, he lifted the police radio and reported a violent disturbance, possibly gang related. When he stood straight again, all humor had left his eyes.
“Backup is ten minutes out.”
“I’m not waiting,” said Ian.
“I know.”
Together, they moved down the sidewalk toward the biker’s clubhouse.
PARKED ON the front lawn, each of the bikes boldly sported a key in the ignition, which in this neighborhood was a way of saying: We’re so fucking bad that stealing from us is not just stupid—it’s suicide.
In silent tandem, the two men moved across the dirt yard toward the front door. Before reaching it, Jersey signaled Ian to continue forward before veering off at a low crouch. He flattened himself against the front wall to peer through a gap in the curtains of the largest window.
Standing out of sight in the shadows of a small front porch, Ian studied the clubhouse. It was certainly nothing special. A rectangular bungalow that had been built on the cheap with no thought to curb appeal or style. The windows were single-paned, the roof was gravel and tar, and the outside walls were painted wood with flaking layers that showed it had changed color at least twice.
There were no basement windows, which meant it likely sat directly on a cement pad or a shallow crawl space. And unlike the crack den they had passed earlier, the front door was still original wood that had swelled in the spring and contracted in the winter so that noticeable gaps appeared around its frame. Judging by the house’s length, it likely had two bedrooms, one bathroom, a living room, and a kitchen.
Jersey slid up to Ian. “I only see three men in the living room, but I couldn’t get a good angle.” He took a quick survey of the neglected yard, looking for telltale lumps. “No sign of dogs.”
“Are they expecting us?”
Jersey shook his head. “The three I saw are bowling on a Wii and drinking beer. They’re not expecting anybody.”
“Any sign of Molly?”
“None, but like I said—
“She could be in one of the bedrooms.”
Jersey shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Ian tightened his grip on the shotgun. “We need to get inside. Now!”
Jersey blocked Ian’s way. “Behind me, remember?” He locked Ian’s gaze. “This is dangerous. Once I kick that door down, we don’t know what will happen.”
“I can live with that.”
“Let’s hope we both can.”
With a gun in each hand, Jersey stepped carefully onto the porch, cringing at the creak of tired wood, and studied the front door. When he was satisfied, he gave a final nod to Ian, reared back, and planted a size 10 orthopedic sole directly beside the keyed lock.
The flimsy slab of weather-beaten fir slammed inward as if hit by an explosive charge. The three bikers spun as one toward the door, but real-life reactions weren’t as quick as overrated video-game skills. Apart from skinny white joysticks, their hands were empty when Jersey showed each of them the business end of his Glock 17.
“Don’t even fucking breathe,” he screamed.
Ian stepped through the doorway behind him and chambered the empty shotgun. Jersey was right, it did sound damn menacing.
With teeth bared and nostrils flared, Jersey had the look of a wild boar as he shouted out commands. “You three on the floor! Kneel and lock your hands behind your heads. Do it now!”
A door opened to their left, and a fourth biker rushed out with a large bowie knife in hand. As Jersey brought his Baby Glock to bear, Ian stepped directly into the line of fire and thrust the shotgun as though it had been fitted with a bayonet into the man’s stomach. While air exploded from the biker’s lungs, Ian whipped the shotgun’s rigid stock around and connected it squarely with the side of the man’s skull. Skin ripped from jaw to scalp like the opening of a zipper, and the man’s face slammed into the opposing wall with a sickening splat before he crumpled unconscious to the floor.
Ian immediately kicked away the large knife and stepped over the biker’s prone body to enter the room he had exited. Except for an unmade bed and the thick stench of weed flowing from an ornate water bong on the floor, it was empty.
A shot rang out from the direction of the kitchen and was immediately answered by two from Jersey’s Glock. Glass shattered and the back door slammed as Ian poked his head into the hallway.
“He was alone,” Jersey shouted. “No girl.”
Ian glanced at the door to the second bedroom. Despite the gunplay, it remained closed.
“Ian!” Jersey warned. “Don’t!”
Ignoring his friend’s call to follow the plan, to play it smart and act like a cop, Ian kicked in the door. The second bedroom wasn’t empty.
Sitting on a small bed was a scar-faced man and a young girl. They were both fully dressed and looking appropriately fearful until—
“Yo, Mister Q.” Molly, her nose stud glistening amidst a spatter of dark freckles, flashed a gap-toothed grin. “You come to see my new fish?”
IAN CHAMBERED another empty round, but for some reason its menacing threat only served to erase the remaining fear from the man’s hard face. With a gentle shove, he sent Molly to a small desk where a lone tropical fish swam in a glass bowl.
“What the hell is going on here?” Ian knew the man. Only met him once, but the brutal scar that creased his face wasn’t something easily forgotten.
The man held up his hands to show they were empty. “Can’t a man spend li’l quality time with his niece?”
“Not when you’re the uncle, Gordo,” said Ian. “And definitely not when you’re threatening me on the phone.”
Gordo grinned, clearly unafraid. “I jus’ wanted to get my point across.”
“Which is?”
“Her mother’s a fuckin’ whore an’ a junkie. You tol’ me at Randy’s funeral that you’d look out for Molls, but what do I find? You lettin’ that bitch have visitation.”
“How did you find out about that? I haven’t heard a peep from you since the funeral. Not exactly a doting relative.”
The biker shrugged. “I been travelin’. But a li’l birdie bird let me know what was goin’ down.”
“She could have changed,” said Ian.
“Francine? No chance.”
“How do you know?”
His grin twisted into a cruel sneer. “You ever eat those c
orn dogs at the fair when you was a kid?”
Ian frowned.
Gordo continued, “Now just imagine my dick as the hotdog and somethin’ much sweeter than mustard as the added surprise. She couldn’ unzip me fast enough.”
Ian glanced over at Molly. She was pretending to talk to her fish, but he could see her reflection in the glass, the hurt in her eyes. Everybody let her down, always.
He lowered the shotgun. “If you had given me time to do my job, you would know that Francine already blew it. Regular visits aren’t going to happen.”
“Couldn’ take that chance.”
“So kidnapping Molly, bringing her to this dump and surrounding her with God knows what kind of scum, that’s better?”
“Hey!” The biker jumped to his feet. “Watch what you say about my brothers!”
“I’m just repeating what you already told me,” Ian snarled. “You and your blood brothers think rape is first fucking base.”
Gordo clenched and unclenched his hands as Ian snapped the shotgun back up to his shoulder. He didn’t know if the biker had figured out the gun was empty, but for the moment, it was keeping him at bay.
“Get your stuff, Molly,” said Ian. “I’m taking you home.”
“Can I take Invisi-Lass five?” Molly asked. Ian looked over at the uncle, whose face had lost none of its anger.
“’Course you can.” Gordo spoke through his teeth. “Bought it for you, didn’ I?”
“Cool. Thanks, Unc.” Molly picked up the fishbowl and walked over to Ian. “I’m glad you came for me. This place is a fucking dump. Don’t use the toilet.” She made a disgusted face and shuddered. “Eecchh!”
“Before you go,” said the biker.
Ian stayed in the doorway as Molly made her way down the short hall to the front door where Jersey was still standing with his guns trained on the bowling team. In the distance came the sound of approaching sirens. Ian returned his focus to Gordo.
“What?”
“That li’l bird I was tellin’ you about.”
Ian nodded.
“She give me this.” Gordo tossed over a small pay-as-you-go cell phone. “Your number was programmed in.”
“She?” Ian hadn’t expected a woman. “Who was she?”
“Didn’ give a name. Jus’ the phone, details about Moll’s visit an’ a cash incentive if I took matters into my own hands. I take it she don’ like you much.” The biker grinned again, making his gruesome scar flare white. “I get that.”
“What did she look like?”
“Nice tits, didn’ notice the face.”
Smooth and brutal, Ian slipped his left hand along the cold steel barrel, clamped down hard, and whipped the shotgun off his shoulder. The gun’s heavy stock swung in a fluid arc to wipe the grin off Gordo’s face in a bloom of orchid red. Gordo staggered off-balance as the butt split his cheek and rattled his teeth, but he remained on his feet. He had obviously been hit by harder men than Ian.
Spitting blood, Gordo’s hands clenched into fists—the tattoos across his knuckles darkening into vivid obscenity as the flesh bleached white—but before he could move, Ian had the gun back against his shoulder, daring the bastard to try.
“What did she look like?” Ian repeated.
“Try that trick again.” Gordo’s eyes burned with anger.
“Just answer the fucking question.”
Gordo snorted and relented. “Didn’t get to see her face, did I? Smart bitch used a courier to deliver the phone and first half of the sweetener.”
“Then how—
“She called, didn’ she? With money up front what the fuck do I care what she looks like?”
“How about her voice?”
“Real nice. Polite but with an edge, you know? Like she kept a razor blade under that silver tongue. Made me fuckin’ hard.”
The sirens sounded closer, bringing with it the return of Gordo’s mocking grin. “Wonder what they’ll charge me with? Visitin’ my niece without a teacher’s note?”
His laugh was a mockery as Ian backed out of the room.
23
Standing in the front yard, Ian and Molly waited for Jersey to finish talking with the uniformed officers who were taking the four bikers down to the station for questioning. The fifth member had been peeled off the floor and carted away in an ambulance with a possible skull fracture. The sixth was still at large and presumed long gone, although a blood trail suggested one of Jersey’s bullets had hit meat and he would turn up in an emergency room eventually.
As Gordo was escorted across the yard in handcuffs, he ground his boot heels into the dirt and spat blood on Ian’s shoes.
“This ain’t over, homebrew. I know where you live.”
“You don’t know shit,” said Ian. “If you want the best for Molls, you’ll leave this be.”
The two officers struggled to get their prisoner moving again, but Gordo kept them off-balance and dug in his heels even more. He glanced down at Molly and her translucent fish before fixing upon Ian’s unflinching gaze.
“You remember your graveside promise?” he asked.
Ian nodded.
“I’m holdin’ you to it.”
“Check up anytime,” said Ian. “My door is always open.”
Gordo relaxed, allowing the two officers to finally get him moving forward again.
“Careful they don’t accidentally shoot you,” Ian called after him. “You make it too damn tempting.”
“Me?” Gordo threw back his head and roared with laughter. “I’m fuckin’ bulletproof, homes. But you?” He twisted his neck and leered back with a cruel grin. “An empty gun won’t stop the bitch comin’ for you, she’s out for blood.”
JERSEY STROLLED over with the empty shotgun slung over his shoulder and his two handguns back in their holsters. “Who’s out for blood?”
Ian held up the small phone. “Gordo claims he was given my number by some woman who’s out to make my life hell.”
“Why?”
“It’s all connected,” said Ian anxiously. “It has to be.”
“With Emily?”
“With why she died.”
“But do you even—
Ian kicked angrily at the dirt. His toe found a small stone and it rocketed across the yard to ping off the gas tank of the nearest chopper. “No, I don’t. And with Young and Hogg dead, I may never find out.”
Molly sighed with exaggerated volume. “Are you taking me home now, or what? I’m fucking bored and fucking hungry and I think we’ve already missed—
“Language!” said Ian sharply, the image of his own loving daughter burning in his mind. “Please, Molls. You’re only eleven. Act like it!”
Molly’s jaw dropped, but she was in shock for barely a moment before anger overtook the emotion. “Act like it? How many eleven-year-olds get kidnapped by bikers after their mother is too fucking stoned to pour a glass of juice? How many kids get thrown aside like garbage by every fucking family they stay with because someone prettier or nicer or … or …”
Ian enveloped the girl in his arms and squeezed her to his chest before she started to cry, knowing how mortified she would be by the public display of emotion.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the top of her head, his lips brushing her scalp. “You’re absolutely right. I have no business trying to change you. Not after everything.”
Molly squeezed him back, her fingers kneading into his jacket, clutching and pulling the velvety fabric, her wet face pressed so tightly against his chest that it didn’t seem possible she could still breathe.
“I’ll take you home,” he said. “And make sure supper is still waiting.”
“And dessert?” Molly’s damp sniffling was muffled against his shirt.
“And dessert.” Ian chuckled. “If they don’t have any, I’ll take you out for ice—
He was stopped in midsentence by the unfamiliar vibration of the new cell phone in his hand. All joviality vanished as he peeled Molly off and steered her towa
rd Jersey. Reading his friend’s face, Jersey took hold of the girl’s arm.
With trepidation, Ian lifted the phone to his ear. “I understand you’re looking for me.”
“I wasn’t,” said a woman’s voice, “until you woke up an old dog.”
“I don’t know who you are.”
“Tyler Young did.”
Ian swallowed. “He didn’t get a chance to tell me.”
“No? That was rather fortunate. He was a loose end that took far too long to snip off.”
“Because of Hogg?”
“Mmm. Man was a stubborn but loyal mule. It wasn’t easy to separate them.”
“What do you want?”
“To see you suffer.”
“I do,” said Ian. “Every day and more than you could ever know.”
A hiss. Sharp and acidic. “You have no idea what suffering is. You cost me everything.”
Ian swallowed and tried to remain calm. “How? Damn it, tell me how.”
The woman’s voice grew distant, verging on ethereal. “I almost let you go … but then you had to stick your nose in again, to go rummaging where you didn’t belong.”
“Young reached out to me,” said Ian.
“And despite what he did, you rushed to be by his side.”
“No, that’s not—
The hiss again. “Enough excuses. After you destroyed my life, you saved another’s. That was a mistake that needs correcting.”
“What are you—” He stopped. He knew.
She ranted, “The proud do not suffer as others do. But you’re not around this time, are you? Too busy trying to rescue every mislaid child in your path, imagining each and every one wears the face of the only one you couldn’t save.”
Hot tears streamed down Ian’s cheeks as fire ignited on his tongue. “You goddamn, fucking bitch! If you lay one hand—
“Too late, Mister Quinn.” The woman laughed with delight and then her voice oozed venom and righteousness. “I understand the destiny of the wicked. You put them in slippery places; you bring them down to ruin.”
The Fear in Her Eyes Page 13