Hell of a Mess, page 4
part #4 of A Love & Bullets Hookup Series
“Excuse me?” Katzen said.
“Not exactly the bust of Pallas, but hey, who didn’t dig ‘California Love’ when they were a kid?”
“Do you ever shut up?” Katzen asked.
Bill shrugged. “I’m proud of the fact that I’m making jokes with a gun to my head. Unfortunately, I’ve had a lot of practice.”
“You were with a woman before,” Hardaway said. “Is she here?”
For once, Bill was thankful for Fiona’s habit of storing her clothing in any available drawers. When Hardaway went through the bedroom, she would have only seen Bill’s duffel bag and crumpled shirts. “No,” Bill said. “We broke up a long time ago.”
Hardaway studied him.
“I’m just squatting,” Bill said. “I’m not even part of all that criminal life anymore. Not in a big way, I mean. Even if I told someone about you coming in here, why would they believe me? They’d know I was a liar.”
Another old tactic: play into your opponent’s perception of you. And these cops bought it. Katzen lowered his pistol. Hardaway’s shoulders relaxed. They would leave in a minute or two, perhaps after giving him a warning to depart the premises as soon as the storm passed. He could go back to his wine and worrying about his wife.
Then Katzen’s eyes shifted to the folder on the kitchen island.
“What’s that?” he asked. “Yours?”
“Just some papers,” Bill said. “Nothing huge.”
Katzen walked to the far side of the island and flipped open the folder, revealing Bill’s notes. “North Brother?” he said. “Why you interested in that place?”
“I’m a history buff,” Bill said. “I’d like to visit at some point.”
Katzen skimmed the notes. Bill’s terrible chicken-scratch was almost impossible to read, but one thing on the first page was terribly clear, written in large block letters: MILLIONS?
“You know we never recovered any of that Rockaway Mob cash, right?” Katzen said, almost to himself. “All those rumors about it buried somewhere.”
Bill swallowed. “Everyone in New York’s heard those rumors,” he said.
“And you think it’s here?” Katzen tapped the map.
“I don’t know what’s there,” Bill said. “Like I told you, I’m retired. Just looking for something to do.”
Katzen exchanged looks with Hardaway. They had barged in here to kidnap or rob a millionaire, and instead found this hustler drinking in the kitchen. Now they had something like a lead, a hint of money.
“We got to bring them something,” Hardaway said.
Bring who something? Bill thought.
The lights dimmed and flared. A clanging from outside, as if the wind was hurling something heavy down the street. How long until the storm smashed into the city with full force? No more than an hour at most.
“You’re coming with us,” Katzen said. “Don’t try to resist. Understood?”
“Yes.” If he left here, how would Fiona find him? She had once tracked him halfway across the country without him knowing—a bleak time in their relationship, better forgotten. Even in the middle of a storm, she could follow him across the city, provided he left a clue or two. If he distracted these cops long enough, maybe he could send her a text, jot a few words on a scrap of paper—
“Put your phone and wallet and keys on the counter there,” Hardaway snapped, as if reading his thoughts. “You so much as twitch wrong, you die.”
“Spoken like a true public servant,” Bill said, offering her a toothy smile as he emptied his pockets onto the island.
“We’ll dig into this more,” Katzen said, meaning the notes in the folder, which he snapped closed.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” Bill said. There was a small notepad in there, tucked in the medicine cabinet. He could write Fiona a note, stuff it in a bottle, drop the bottle on the floor so she’d notice once she came home, anything—
“You can hold it,” Katzen said, waving toward the living room and the door beyond. “Let’s go.”
WWFD?
Fiona would create lots of opportunities for a pair of crooked cops to screw up. And when they did, she would murder them both. Bill wasn’t the biggest fan of violence, always preferring to give someone the hustler’s slip—but he’d killed before.
SEVEN
Fiona tumbled down the stairway, Jen’s gangly elbows smashing into her with every step—no time to pull out her phone and call Fireball. It was hard enough keeping a grip on the pistol. Her booming footsteps on the concrete made it impossible to hear the men above her.
First floor, an emergency exit door to her right. She straight-armed the push bar. Nothing. Locked. Two inches of steel separating them from rainy streets and freedom. The wind whistled around the edges of the doorframe. No, not locked. The pressure from the storm held the door closed. She slammed her shoulder against it. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Again. Nothing.
Beside her, Jen pressed her tiny hands against the push bar. Heavy footsteps above. Men yelling. How long did they have? Thirty seconds?
“Keep on it,” she told Jen, meaning the push bar, and backed up until her spine pressed the cold concrete of the opposite wall. She charged, unleashing a banshee scream because why the fuck not, and slammed her weight into the latch bolt. The door banged open an inch, and she rammed her arm through the gap, then her foot, forcing it open against the screaming wind. Rain pelted her face. The girl slipped past her, whining with fear.
The storm was angrier now. Sheets of rain shattered off the sidewalk and filled the gutters with whitewater. Lightning blinked like a photographer’s flash at a fashion shoot. Headlights slicing through the gloom—the Toyota SUV rumbling into view, the screaming blur of Fireball behind the wheel, its front tires carving waves through the river rushing down the street.
Jen shivered in her soaked hospital gown as Fiona dragged her to the SUV and tore open the rear door. Yelling from behind them, followed by the loud snap of a gunshot. The SUV’s frame sparked beside Fiona’s head, the bullet ricocheting into the sky.
“Who the hell is that?” Fireball yelled, ducking. He took his foot off the gas without slamming the brake, the SUV creeping at walking pace as Fiona shoved the wet girl onto the rear seat.
“Fucking drive,” Fiona snapped at him, crawling on top of Jen and twisting around—her elbows digging into the girl’s ribs, sorry—so she could aim the pistol out the open door. Two of the bodyguards on the sidewalk beside the emergency exit, pistols raised but not firing. Were they afraid of hitting the kid?
Of course. Jen was merchandise, right? You couldn’t risk her taking a bullet in one of those very expensive kidneys.
Fiona adjusted her aim, firing a round over their heads, and they scattered for cover. Fireball screamed, startled by the shot, and stood on the gas pedal. The SUV bolted down the street, skewing into the oncoming lane.
Fiona tucked her legs into the car and pulled the door closed. “Take a left. Go north,” she told Fireball as she stripped off her jacket and draped it across the shivering kid, hoping the cheap nylon would preserve that little body’s warmth.
Jen’s eyes locked on Fiona, wide and aware, evaluating her.
Touching Jen’s cheek, Fiona climbed into the front passenger seat, shoving Fireball’s oversized laptop into the footwell to make room. Her breathing had slowed. She was unhurt. Everything wasn’t totally screwed. Not yet, at least.
“I hope you have a really, really, really good explanation,” Fireball yapped, his eyes shifting to the rearview mirror. “Supposed to grab a server, and you come back with a girl?”
“Her name is Jen,” Fiona said, flicking the safety on her weapon before holstering it. “They were going to take her kidneys.”
“Her what?”
“The organ that cleans her blood. They had a hospital room up there and everything.”
“I know what kidneys are, thank you very fucking much.” Fireball punched the wheel. “Damn, this was such a bad idea.”
Jen swallowed. “It was a good idea to me,” she rasped.
“Do you have parents? Someplace we can take you?” Even as the words left her mouth, Fiona realized there was no way they could boot this girl onto a stoop somewhere, goodbye and good luck. Whatever immense forces had brought Jen to a penthouse in lower Manhattan would surely find her again.
Jen shook her head. “I got nobody.”
Well, that was a problem to tackle later, after they survived the trip uptown. The SUV slithered in the lane, water splashing over the hood, as Fireball struggled with the wheel. “Let me drive,” Fiona told him.
“I got this.” He was hunched over the wheel, his nose a few inches from the rain-blurred windshield.
“You definitely don’t have this,” she said, placing her left hand on the wheel. “Scoot over me. We’re not stopping.”
Fireball shrugged and took his foot off the gas. Lifting his ass off the seat, he swung toward the passenger side as she slid beneath him. It was a complicated maneuver, but she plopped into the driver’s seat and straightened their course. She fluttered the brake to lower their speed, leery of hydroplaning.
In the passenger seat, Fireball retrieved his laptop from the footwell and stuffed it into his backpack, shaking his head as he did so.
“I’m sorry,” Fiona said. “I had to do something.”
“Did you even look for it?”
“The server? It wasn’t there. Or hidden.”
“Boz won’t throw me shit for work ever again.”
“I’ll talk to Boz,” Fiona said. “In fact, I’ll do it right now. Happy?”
“No.”
“Aw, turn that frown upside-down.” Taking one hand off the wheel, Fiona pulled her phone from her pocket and unlocked it and flicked through the contacts until she found ‘JERK.’ Dialed. Two bars’ worth of signal. Her earbud clicked as the call engaged.
Boz usually plied his miserable trade from an ancient RV parked beneath the BQE overpass in Brooklyn’s Sunset Park, but with the hurricane inbound, he had decided to take his chances in Upper Manhattan. If her estimate was correct, Boz was grinding his way uptown, the RV loaded with men and guns and computer equipment, his ultra-expensive speakers blasting disco tripe.
Boz picked up on the third ring. “Yeah?”
“Hey, it’s Fiona.”
“I bet you wish you were here.”
I bet not, she thought. “Why’s that?”
“Because we took the time to hurricane-proof the RV. We got armor against debris. We even have a motherfucking snorkel tube poking right up the top, although that’s more for the engine’s benefit than ours, hopefully. You got my shit?”
“No.”
A long pause. No disco music in the background—a bad sign. Boz loved his disco even more than he loved drugs and knives.
“No?” Boz chuckled, but there was no warmth in it, only a promise of pain. “What do you mean, no?”
“We didn’t find the server there. There were a lot of guys. Way more than you told me.”
“More guys?”
“Yeah, way more. Private security, but the expensive type, not the rent-a-cop type.”
“More guys. Why the hell were there more guys?”
Fiona peeked at Jen in the rearview mirror. “I don’t know,” she said. “And I didn’t stick around to find out.”
“Any of these pricks see your face? Talk to you?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.” She needed him to believe her. “I kept my mask on the whole time.”
“You owe me twenty large,” Boz said.
“What? Fuck you.”
“Nah, you didn’t deliver, and I was depending on that data for big things. I should charge you more, but I’m feeling like a generous fucking dude this evening, given the state of the world, so the price is twenty. And you can forget that other thing we promised you.”
The true threat was left unsaid. Boz was a weird guy—you needed a few screws loose in your head to live in a customized RV when your millions could afford a mansion—and like a lot of weird guys, he was an expert at coming up with innovative ways to, in his words, “send a message.” That message might involve stuffing someone in an oil-filled barrel or hanging them upside down and bleeding them out like a pig. It all depended on the level of antipsychotics and other meds in his blood at any given moment.
“Who owned that penthouse?” she asked.
“Trust me when I tell you it’s better if you don’t know. What do you care? You were wearing a mask, right? Twenty large, tomorrow, or your problems only multiply.” The call ended with a click.
Fireball stared at her.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “He didn’t say anything about you.”
“Doesn’t mean squat.” Fireball buried his face in his hands.
Before she could offer a witty comeback, lights flared in her side mirror. A car three blocks behind them, coming up fast. Big, like maybe a pickup or SUV. Trouble, most definitely.
EIGHT
Stepping outside was like plunging into the deep end of a pool. Bill gasped as a thousand gallons of rain drenched him. He lifted his cuffed hands over his eyes in a half-assed attempt to block nature’s fury.
Katzen clamped an iron hand on Bill’s left shoulder as they hustled him down the sidewalk to a government-issue black car. Stylish, such a vehicle was not, but at least it would have a heater to dry him out—
Hardaway unlocked the car’s trunk and lifted the lid, waving for Bill to climb in.
“Oh, come on,” Bill said. “You can’t possibly—”
Katzen shoved Bill into the trunk with surprising strength. Bill threw out his hands to break his fall, and the cops bent his legs to shove him further into the cramped space.
The trunk slammed shut. Bill lay there, listening to the rain hammer the lid. The thump of doors opening and closing, followed by Katzen and Hardaway murmuring. Bill cocked his head, trying to hear. It was impossible to distinguish words over the storm.
The engine hummed to life, quaking the synthetic fabric beneath him. Sure, he was cold and damp and trapped, but he felt optimistic for the first time since the cops had barged into the house. When you conned folks for a living, you picked up all kinds of esoteric knowledge, like how to escape from car trunks. Virtually all cars built within the past few decades had a handle or cord or switch in the trunk that popped the lid.
The car reversed, then edged from its parking space. Water rumbled beneath the tires. It felt like they were crawling along at two or three miles an hour. Good, good. The speed would make it easier to jump out.
He skimmed his hands across every inch of the trunk—and felt nothing except smooth metal.
This car wasn’t that old. Why couldn’t he find the release handle or cord or switch or whatever the hell it was? Had the cops taken it out? Which made no sense, either. Regular cops didn’t put prisoners in the trunk.
He settled back, concentrating on his breath. Slow in, slow out. This isn’t your first time being kidnapped, he thought. Sure, you’re cold and shivering, which is a minor issue right now. Do the back seats fold down? You can try, but you’ll have to wait until they exit the vehicle.
He paid attention to the car’s turns. Right, left, straight for a few minutes, another right. No talking from the front, no music, no static or squawking of a radio. The car rocked on its springs, the wind rising to a screech. They were moving west, close to the Hudson.
You should find a weapon, he thought. Shifting his body, he worked his fingers beneath the synthetic liner, feeling the spare tire but no tire iron or wrench to split a skull. No, these cops weren’t stupid. They wouldn’t throw him in here without clearing it of anything lethal.
The car slowed and turned right, thumping over a curb. A metallic rattling. Rain stopped drumming the trunk. The engine cut off, and Bill twisted his body so his coiled legs pointed at the lid. If something bad was about to happen, he could try to kick. It wouldn’t help much against a gun, though.
A key rattled in the trunk lock.
The trunk lid rose. Bright lights burned his eyes. He blinked. Behind Hardaway and Katzen stood three men in black rain-jackets, their heads wet, their gazes burning with confusion and barely suppressed rage. He knew their type.
This kept getting better and better.
What’s worse than two crooked cops who have no problem with killing you?
How about five crooked cops?
NINE
Fiona resisted the urge to stomp on the gas. There was too much water on the street. If they hydroplaned, they would crash into the parked cars. She used the mirrors as best she could to pace the black truck behind her, matching its speed. She tried to ignore how badly she wanted to smack Fireball, who was loudly sucking air between his front teeth.
In the back seat, Jen moaned in fear, gripping her seatbelt. She seemed stronger. But was she strong enough for whatever was about to happen? They might need to abandon the vehicle and run.
As they passed an intersection, their pursuer accelerated, headlights flaring, before swerving left over the yellow line. Would they try to come alongside, shoot her through the side window? Not if they were paranoid about a stray round hitting Jen. No, they would try to force her to stop.
“Hold on,” she announced, and stepped on the brake, hoping the truck would overshoot them. If she pulled that off, she could reverse to the last intersection and bang a left, gain a little distance—
The truck slammed into their rear wheel, spinning the SUV around, momentum pushing Fiona deep into her seat, Jen and Fireball screaming like a choir in Hell. They skidded sideways down the street as the truck accelerated again, its enormous chrome grille slamming into her door, its hood inches from her eyes through the cracked glass. Her hands moving on instinct, spinning the wheel so the SUV edged left a fraction. A dirty wave splashing the rear window. She took one hand off the wheel to find her pistol but it was gone, maybe in the footwell or between the seats, and there was no time to search for it before the SUV bumped over a curb and slammed into something hard enough to bang her into the steering wheel.
