URGENT Justice Page 8

  “Freeze!” bellowed a voice from the top of the stairs. I turned toward it, my Glock leading the way, and caught the flash of a Mossberg Shockwave firing at the exact same time I pulled the trigger on my Glock.

  Damn. This was going to hurt…a lot.

  30

  Birdshot Sucks

  My 9mm nailed him right in the knee. Too bad I was aiming for his chest. The visual of his kneecap exploding was the last thing that registered in my mind before being blasted by birdshot.

  My Kevlar plate in my backpack absorbed most of the small BBs. A few of them nipped my arm, and a stray one nailed me in the chin. That was nothing compared to the force from the blast, which was so violent that the Glock was torn from my hand and I flew backwards across the room, impacting the concrete wall of the basement, with my shoulder and neck absorbing most of the damage.

  I saw stars, collapsed to the floor, and groaned out loud. I was on my side, my back against the wall, unable to move. Between the force of the blast and hitting the cinderblock wall, I had a bad case of getting the wind knocked out of me. I’d seen it before, on TV during NFL games, and knew that all I had to do was relax and soon I’d be able to breathe. But for me, there was no referee calling a timeout for an injured player, and I no longer had my Glock, which had scattered somewhere after One Knee had blasted me. To make matters worse, the douche was limping his way down the stairs, a crazed look in his eyes as they burned through me.

  “You bastard,” he yelled, struggling to hold the railing with one hand and his Mossberg in the other.

  His progress was slow, and I racked my brain trying to figure a way out of this. I looked for my Glock but couldn’t find it. I was in so much pain that I doubted I could have moved even if I’d found it. All I had left to protect myself with was my little .22-caliber Derringer and my backpack with the Kevlar plate. The backpack might save my ass for the first shot or two, but eventually, even in his state of wobbly pain, One Knee would manage to nail me with a blast, and that would be all she wrote.

  I focused my attention on getting to my Derringer, which was in my right pocket, trapped between my body and the floor.

  One Knee reached the bottom of the steps and raised the Mossberg at me with a sick, twisted smile on his sweaty face. I curled up into a ball and covered myself as best I could with my backpack, bracing myself for another blast. I felt ridiculously exposed, peeking out from under the small protective bag, trying in vain to cover my vital organs.

  I caught a shadow on the stairs behind One Knee and ducked my head…

  31

  I’m Going to Miss Her

  Next to “Oh baby, please don’t stop,” the crack of oak on the skull of a fellow who was about to shoot you was the sweetest sound a man could hear.

  The confines of the stairway didn’t allow Frances to load up on her walking stick swing, and I raised my head just in time to see One Knee stumble forward a few steps, dazed but still standing. He shook his head, trying to rid it of the cobwebs, and Frances went to smash him on the head again with an overhand swing. Her stick caught the ceiling before it landed, slowing it down, redirecting it, and causing her to lose her grip. The walking stick glanced off his head, tapped him in the shoulder, and clattered to the floor.

  Shit.

  Without missing a beat, Frances launched herself off the bottom step and landed on his back, locking her legs around his waist. She slid her skinny little right arm under his chin, wrapped it around his neck, and slammed her cupped hand into her left bicep. She wormed her left hand between the back of his head and her chest and squeezed her elbows together so tight that her face turned red from the effort.

  One Knee fired off an errant blast and his Mossberg was torn from his hand. His shot missed me but nailed the cinderblock wall just above me, close enough to pepper me with small pieces of cinderblock, which hit me so hard that they felt like bee stings.

  I saw fear and panic in his bulging eyes. He clawed at Frances’s arm with both hands, but to no avail. Within three seconds, he was out cold, and he timbered forward.

  Except maybe for that tattooed badass in the LA parking garage who’d saved that flight attendant some years ago, Frances had just executed the most perfectly performed rear naked choke I’d ever seen. I’d watched hundreds, maybe thousands of YouTube videos on jiu-jitsu and studied hundreds of MMA fights.

  I’d never seen a guy go out that fast.

  Frances disentangled herself from him right before he hit the ground. She stood over him with both hands on her hips, nodding in satisfaction. She picked up her walking stick, grabbed his shotgun, and held it against the back of his head.

  “That was amazing. How’d you learn that?” I asked.

  “Andre The Giant. Back in the seventies. He taught me the Chief Jay Strongbow sleeper hold.” her chest swelled with pride. “I practice it every day to stay sharp.” The smile left her face and she frowned at me. “You okay? You look like shit.”

  The voice boomed down the staircase. “Drop it, lady!”

  Shit, another freaking ass wipe. I slid my hand in my pocket, slow motion so that he wouldn’t notice, and freed the Derringer.

  “Menthol Man?” Frances turned slowly and looked at the man, leaving the Mossberg trained on the back of One Knee’s head. “Well, I’ll be damned. It is.” She looked at me and nodded. “We found him, Jack.”

  “Drop it, lady, or die.”

  Frances tossed the shotgun into the corner, dropped her walking stick, and raised her hands. Menthol Man came down the stairs, pushed her away from One Knee, and bent down to check his pulse.

  I kept the Derringer hidden in my hand and in slow motion I pointed it in his general direction, keeping it close to my body so that he wouldn’t notice any movement.

  “He’ll be fine,” Frances said. “He just hit his head on the concrete floor, that’s all.”

  Menthol Man raised his shotgun and pointed it at Frances. “So long, you old bitch.”

  She stood straight as a whip, her arms hanging straight down at her sides, and looked him right in the eye. A look of contentment and satisfaction spread across her face, and a small smile followed. She was the bravest person that I knew, and I admired her more in that moment than I’d ever admired anyone else.

  Enough with the admiration. This was it. There’d be no second chances. I had to make this shot count or I’d be directly responsible for Frances getting killed. I aimed from the hip, and squeezed the trigger.

  Bullseye.

  A second shot rang out.

  32

  The Prophet

  The carnage that a close-up gunshot does is beyond description. I don’t care what your life experiences have been, or how tough you think you are—witnessing someone getting their head blown off is a brutal experience, and I wasn’t sure if I’d ever recover from this one.

  The young girl kneeled behind Menthol Man, held the gun in perfect form with her chained-up hands, and blasted the last remaining bullet in my Glock into the back of his head. The bullet entered at an upward angle, tore the top of his head off on exit, and hit the ceiling with a thud before falling to the floor and rolling around by Frances’s feet.

  Menthol Man remained upright for a second, and Frances had the wherewithal to sidestep out of his aim. Not that it mattered. Between my Derringer shot to the center of his chest and the better portion of his head missing, there would be no last-second Hollywood trigger pulling. He simply collapsed in a heap, his brains toppling out of his head like a tipped-over bowl of overcooked cauliflower.

  Frances bent down and picked up the bullet. She examined it, wiped the blood off on her dress, and slipped it into her pocket. “My new lucky charm. And it’s still hot! How many people are lucky enough to touch a hot bullet and talk about it? I can’t wait to tell Max and Gus!”

  I looked over towards the girl. My brain was still foggy from the numerous beatings that I’d taken over the last twenty-four hours, and at first I didn’t recognize her, but when she made e
ye contact with me, I knew. Wendy. The girl I’d come to save had wound up helping to save us.

  I stared at her, and as my brain started working again, I realized why I didn’t recognize her at first. She looked like she was twenty years old and getting ready to go out clubbing. Her hair was up in a bun, she had makeup on, and she wore a flimsy low-cut sundress that had no back. It was half lingerie, for God’s sake. I could see right through it, and I looked down at the floor when it registered in my cobweb-encrusted noggin that she didn’t have anything on underneath her dress.

  The effects of getting hit with the shotgun blast and sailing shoulder-first into the cinderblock wall started to wear off, and I managed to stand. My legs trembled like a newborn colt’s.

  Frances picked up One Knee’s shotgun and kneeled down next to him. He was still out cold, and she searched his pockets.

  “Oh. Jackpot!” she announced with a pleasant surprise that reminded me of a kid on Christmas morning. “Look what I found…”

  She tossed me my BMW key fob and one of my Glock magazines from my go bag. I caught them, walked over to Wendy in slow motion, and took the gun from her.

  “Great shot. Thank you, Wendy.” I swapped out the magazines for a full reload.

  She crossed her arms over her near-naked chest, and through the tears streaming down her face, she managed to tell me something that spiked my anger, shooting adrenaline through my body like a hit of cocaine. No more cobwebs for me.

  “The Prophet is upstairs in his office. Third floor, last door at the end of the hall. He had a date set up for me tonight. We’re supposed to leave soon.”

  A date. No wonder she was all made up like a streetwalker.

  “Your date’s canceled,” I said and headed up the stairs. I took them two at a time and offered Frances some advice over my shoulder. “If One Knee moves, shoot him.”

  “I might shoot him anyway. Been dying to kill a bad guy since we got here. Oh, look, he moved! Bang!”

  I expected to hear a real shotgun blast echo up the staircase, but all I heard was her giggling and mumbling something about finding handcuff keys and freeing the girls. I was disappointed that she didn’t shoot him, but at the same time I was thankful. My eardrums had taken enough of a beating today.

  I’d assumed that Menthol Man was the Prophet. I was wrong. He was nothing but a bag man, or a delivery boy. I prayed that my lapse hadn’t let the Prophet escape…

  33

  He Got What Was Coming to Him

  I hit the third floor and raced towards the end of the hall. The door was open, but no sound came from it. I stepped into the room, my Glock leading the way.

  A figure was hiding behind a large desk at the far end of the room.

  “Hands up, then stand up, or I’ll shoot. No more warnings.”

  His hands shot up behind the desk, and he struggled to stand up. The skinny old man with white hair, a button-down shirt, and dark slacks looked the part of a trusted man of the cloth.

  Except he wasn’t.

  “Goddamn,” he said and lowered his head to pray.

  I grabbed him by the shoulder and flung him across the room. He landed on his back, and I knee-on-bellied him to hold him down. I placed the Glock against his forehead.

  “So, Prophet, why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to?”

  “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be—”

  I smashed him in the nose with the Glock, spraying blood all over the carpet. “Save the prayers for someone who can be saved.”

  “Our Father—”

  I decided to change tactics and be nice. “Well? What’s it going to be?” I asked in a pleasant voice, as if I were a waiter taking his food order down at the diner, or a non-pushy salesman helping him select the interior color of his new Chevy Volt.

  No answer.

  I pressed the pistol harder against him, transferring some of my weight from his stomach to his forehead, where a little red ring formed on the indented skin that surrounded the gun barrel. He cried out and turned his head to one side to try and alleviate the pressure.

  “I don’t have all night. Tell me what I want to know, or die.”

  “Please…”

  34

  The Senator

  I pulled my BMW into the parking lot of Peter’s Motel, drove around back, and parked. I went in and sat down at the empty front desk, leafing through a Guns and Ammo magazine while I waited. Twenty-three minutes later, the senator’s limo pulled up to the front of the motel, and a fat old balding white-haired bastard of about seventy in a dark pinstripe suit pulled himself out of the backseat and waddled over to the front door.

  He stopped mid-stride when he saw me. “You’re new here. Where’s Willard?”

  I stood up, ramrod straight, and looked him right in the eye. “Yes, sir, I am new here, Senator Keys, sir. Willard went home sick. We’ve been expecting you,” I said with a big Willard-like smile. “A special treat awaits you in your room, number 19.” I handed him the room key, winked at him, and nodded in approval.

  He didn’t take the key. Damn.

  He looked up at me suspiciously, frozen in apprehension, or maybe fright. I couldn’t tell, but I could see his devious little mind trying to churn through the surprise that greeted him upon his arrival.

  Come on, take the room key. Take the key.

  “Hmpf. Okay…” He took the key, mumbled something about making sure that he wasn’t disturbed, and ambled away.

  “You be sure to enjoy your stay with us now, sir,” I said with Willard-like enthusiasm.

  Senator Keys disappeared around the corner and down the hall. I stood up and listened as the old man’s shuffling grew faint. It seemed to take forever for him to reach his room, but I finally heard the door open and close and the deadbolt lock being thrown with a loud click.

  I raced down the hall to number 19, where there was indeed a special treat waiting for him.

  I stood, chest against the closed door, and waited. A few seconds went by. I heard an audible gasp, followed by some curses, and the door to the room flew open. Looking over his shoulder at the closet, the distinguished Senator Ancel Keys raced out of the room and ran right into me, bouncing back a step.

  “Oooff. What the—?” he said.

  “You should look where you’re going, Senator.” I said, non-Willard-like.

  He stared up at me, eyes wrinkled in confusion. It took a second, but the lightbulb went on and his facial expression switched from confusion to wide-eyed terror as it sank in what was happening. He opened his mouth to scream, or explain, or spit out some politician horseshit, but thank God I shot my hand out fast enough and cut him off before he could utter a single vile word. I clamped down on his flabby throat and squeezed through the excess flesh, tightening my grip until his face turned red. He couldn’t make a sound.

  “I told you there’d be a surprise,” I said, all Willard-like.

  I stepped into the room, closed the door with my free hand, and dead-bolted it.

  Epilogue

  I wound up blasting a round from my Glock past the Prophet’s head and into the floor. The explosion charred his ear and probably blew out his eardrums. I know mine hurt like hell. It scared him so much that he’d shit his pants. A god-awful stench that made me gag so hard I thought I would vomit all over him, but I managed to keep my food down.

  He cried like a little bitch and slobbered all over himself, blowing quarter-sized snot bubbles out of his nose. I took my iPhone out, hit record, and sat on his stomach for a full ten minutes while recording his sob-filled confession. And what a whopper it was.

  The Prophet was nothing more than a child sex trafficker. His congregation was built on a cult that allowed the man of the house to have multiple wives, and, for a hefty fee, he would marry the teenage “runaways” as young as fourteen. Of course, the lovestruck husbands wouldn’t consummate the marriage until their wives were sixteen, because they were such pillars of the community and all.

  Yeah, right.
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  His child bride and sex-trafficking network was mostly contained to Centralia, which explained how it could stay under the radar for so long. I had a hunch that most folks in town knew about it. Certainly the men with an underage wife did. They kept quiet, though, not just because he supplied them with an unending supply of young virgins, but because the Prophet owned the town. Most of the real estate was owned by him, and many of the residents worked for companies that the Prophet either owned outright or was a stockholder in.

  His local businesses provided much-needed jobs to the coal miners who’d been laid off due to stricter EPA coal regulations that had closed down the mine, but the real money came from donations to his church. Many of the wealthy donors paid him thirty-five thousand dollars, in cash, to arrange a weekend at Peter’s with a spry sixteen-year-old virgin. Non-virgins only commanded twenty-five thousand for a weekend. Unless they were fourteen. Then the fee went as high as forty-five thousand, virgin or not.

  The high-paying pedophiles were mostly rich businessmen and bribe-taking politicians. I didn’t recognize any of the names when I grabbed his little black book from one of his safes and started taking photos of every page with my iPhone, but they were probably fake names anyway. No matter. Between cell phone records and other HFS data that I had access to, I knew I could track down every single one of those out-of-town degenerate bastards.

  I was a big believer in the presumption of innocence that this country grants to its citizens, but after hearing what the Prophet had to say, counting over seven million dollars in cash after I coerced him to open his safes, and speaking with Wendy and the other two “runaways” in the basement, the men in that little black book of pedophile debauchery would never see the inside of a courtroom.