Authors: Ernie Lindsey
E
ric Landers folds
in half like a dishtowel—a small hole in his forehead, bigger hole in the back—and as he goes down, I go with him. It’s instinct, and it saves my life. The picture window crackles again and overhead, the untouched bottle of scotch shatters, sending shards of glass and caramel-colored liquid across the wet bar like an alcoholic Rorschach blot.
Given the trajectory, that’s a different shooter. A second gunman on higher ground. Doesn’t matter—he could be floating in a hot air balloon for all I care—all it means is that there’s more than one commando outside, effectively doubling my chances of eating lead before I can get to safety.
Two more shots pepper the glass and I’m not sure what this accomplishes, considering the fact that I’m on the ground and Eric Landers is lying right in front of me, face to face, lifeless and leaking on his pristine hardwood flooring. Maybe there are a couple of the Empire’s Storm Troopers out there wasting ammo.
Nah, if that were the case, they wouldn’t have hit Landers on the first shot.
Two more bullets rip through the pages of Eric’s old law guides on the bookshelves.
Now they’re just showing off.
My next thought is poor Dolores upstairs; she has no idea what’s happening or that her husband is creating a puddle three floors down. And the kids…their dad, gone, just like that. They’re old enough to accept it after a few rounds of therapy, but it sucks losing a parent, no matter what.
Then again, maybe Dolores has an idea of what’s happening, because all the way up at the top of the stairs, I hear a frightened, “Who are you? Get out of my—”
Next comes the muted
chuff
of a silencer, followed by an unforgettable gagging sound, then the staccato thump, thump, thump of a body falling three floors, bouncing off the handrails on its way down.
There’s another louder, heavier thump right outside the study door, and due to some small bits of lead, the twins are orphaned. Mr. and Mrs. Landers have gone to the great big government building in the sky. I wonder if the lines are as long up there, or if the waiting still feels like an eternity.
Does eternity feel like eternity if you’re inside it?
I don’t know why my brain processes nonsensical shit like that in the middle of a crisis, but it happens all the time. Truthfully, what I think happens is that the primal sense of instinct kicks into overdrive and works my muscles for me, while the rest of my brain is free to roam.
Point being, I’m pushing myself to my feet, grabbing Eric’s long-bladed letter opener off his desk, and shouldering through the study door before I have a chance to consider what’s on the other side. It’s a good move because the snipers at my back have the window covered. I’m not going that way.
I stay in motion; standing still and peeking down the hallway isn’t an option unless I want to feel a bullet pierce my skin. It’s been a while since that’s happened, and I’m not a fan of the sensation.
I’m counting on the element of surprise because the man, or men, or team on the other side of the door likely expect the both of us to be dead. If I can just get to him before he suspects that the snipers outside were trigger happy, I might have a chance to get out of here alive.
And thank the Good Lord in Heaven it works, because as soon as I’m through, I spook the guy dressed in jet-black tactical gear into inaction. He’s wearing a helmet and a set of military grade NVGs, carrying an assault rifle tight against his chest. He’s not expecting me, obviously, so it’s an easy kill when I stop, drop, and roll, then pop up and deposit the letter opener into his brain from underneath his chin.
He drops like a jacket falling off a clothes hanger, and I’m tempted to go for his weapon because that’d be nice to have on my way out of here. I lean over, reaching, then jerk my hand back when a volley of bullets rips through the body and the floor. The shots come from above, from the one who murdered Dolores.
That’s four total, so far.
The dead commando has a small .45 strapped to the side of his leg. It’s partially covered from overhead, so I go for that one, snatching it without getting a finger shot off.
I return three shots up the stairwell—not aiming, simply creating a distraction—which works long enough for me to snatch the more powerful assault rifle, dart away from the open area between floors, and sprint head-down toward the entertainment room on the north side of the house.
Think, think, think. What’s the layout like out that door? You’ve been here before, Leo! Think! Okay, garage, pool house. A hedgerow. Senator Michaels lives in the house next door. He gave you that piss-warm beer that time. Stop. Focus. Is there an escape route?
Has to be. They had the back yard covered. Upstairs covered. Four of them, small tactical team. Two outside, two inside. More than that would be overkill. They’d get in each other’s way, right?
I skitter into the entertainment room, slipping on the expensive, unnecessary rug, and then ease the door shut behind me. Not all the way, leaving it open a crack so that I can listen for the sounds of poorly concealed footsteps slinking down the hallway. I can’t wait too long because the two jackasses outside will have time to reposition themselves, and the guy upstairs might simply hold his post to give them the opportunity.
I hear nothing.
Son of a bitch.
Either that’s exactly what he’s doing or he’s sneakier than I anticipated.
I have to move. In here, I don’t exactly have a ton of room to maneuver. Good vantage points are hard to come by. Sure, I can hide in a closet or under a desk, but I can only guess as to how many goons are out there. Whether it’s three or thirty, I’m outnumbered.
Running, slipping into the night, retreating…it’s the most logical option, and damn do I hate to run away from a fight, but if the odds are stacked against you, that’s how you live to play another day.
I allow myself five more seconds to listen, which gives me enough time to ponder what this elimination team was doing here in the first place. Did they trail me, or did they already have orders to get rid of Eric Landers, and I happened to be in the way?
Whatever the case, it’s not good. For a moment I flip out a little, considering the fact that the head of the NSA and his wife have both been murdered, and I’m inside their house. My fingerprints and DNA are all over the place. My face is probably all over the security cameras. Shit. Well, it’ll link one of my identities—not me, specifically—and while that may not lead directly to the capture and arrest of Leo Craft, it’s too close for me to be comfortable.
I stop, I breathe, and I consider the fact that there’s plenty of evidence to indicate an outside presence was responsible for the murders. Even if they tried to cover their tracks, there’s no way they could get someone here to replace the window or, or…
The police. I should call them myself.
The commando team won’t expect that. Their total
modus operandi
is to sneak in and out undetected, leaving shattered dreams and cold bodies behind. The question is, do I stick around long enough to keep them distracted until the police arrive?
I don’t have time to weigh this decision, because three muffled pops create new holes in the entertainment room door, and since I hadn’t closed it all the way, the freaking thing swings open, ever so slowly, allowing my encroacher easy access. I drop low, silently, and crab walk to my right. Outside, in the hallway, a small table rattles, followed by the tinkling of Dolores’s curios. I can imagine the bastard cursing himself for being so clumsy.
I scramble behind a love seat and try to hold my breath, because to me, inside my head, I sound like a giant set of bellows huffing at a fire. I hold it until my chest begins to convulse, wondering where he went, or if he chose to abandon this room given his awkward stumble. I take a quick breath, enjoying the sweet release of all that carbon dioxide buildup and the fresh inhalation of oxygen. It’s amazing what you take for granted.
Breathing, that perfect engine that keeps the human body—
Chuff, chuff, chuff.
I don’t know where those shots went, but they were too close, and he chose poorly.
Head up, arms over the back of the love seat, I find him looking to his left, behind a wall of curtains that have been drawn back from another massive picture window.
I’m kinda old school—valiant, responsible, chivalrous—so I don’t enjoy shooting a man in the back, even when he’s trying to kill me. It’s a shitty move, one reserved for cowards, cheats, and bastards.
Growing up, I learned many things from Phil, and this was always one of my favorites: go to bed with your dignity intact, because your cereal will taste better in the morning.
I whisper a sharp, “Hey,” and the commando whips around.
Pop, pop.
He drops, and I’m on the move again, cell phone in my hand, across the entertainment room the size of Rhode Island.
Okay, that’s two internals down. I should be good.
I step around the pool table and note that there’s a dart right in the dead center of the bulls-eye hanging on the wall.
Here’s a problem I have—I’m hyper aware of things sometimes, especially when I’m in an intense situation, so noticing, and being impressed by the dart in the bulls-eye distracts me from the commando slinking into the entertainment room. I notice too late that he’s through the door, assault rifle at the ready against his shoulder.
He fires, and I feel the hot, stinging sensation as the bullet scrapes across the side of my neck.
Oh my God, too close.
I yelp and go down, mostly for theatrics to fool him, and hit the ground harder than I should. It knocks the wind out of me. Next, I’m rolling, rolling underneath the pool table, finger on the trigger, two shots into the kneecaps—
pop, pop
—and he falls to the floor, screaming and holding his legs. His NVGs are resting on top of his helmet, giving me one last look at the surprise in his eyes.
One more bullet is all it takes, and I’m back on my feet, moving, scrambling. I find my cell phone underneath the coffee table. Blood’s seeping down my neck, and I can already feel it soaking into the collar of my shirt.
Man, a bullet hasn’t grazed my skin in about three years. I’d almost forgotten what it was like.
I pause at the side door to catch my breath. The low valley carved into my neck stings like a son of a bitch.
Be cool
, I think.
It’ll heal. You’re not dead.
Okay, Leo. Think. Three internals down. Two snipers outside, maybe more. They wouldn’t risk approaching across the lawn with the floodlights and the moon. Smartest approach would be…what? Flanking the house if they’re trying to enter? North, south. Right? So that leaves possibly one more to go before I can—how much ammo do I have left?
For the first time since I picked it up, I look closely at the assault rifle in my hands. Before I can eject the clip to take stock of my remaining rounds, something on the side of the stock catches my attention: a SALCON insignia.
K
immie listens
to what I have to say, then sits back against her couch, speechless, as she props her head up against a hand. Cotton candy pink fingernails cap off a set of long, luxurious fingers; the very same fingers that used to give me the best damn massages a guy could ask for.
The good news is, she’s got a smile on her face. The bad news is, it’s a devious sort of grin that’s full of “I told you so” and smug satisfaction.
She pulls her legs underneath her on the couch, and I can’t help but look at how muscular, but feminine, her legs are. She’s held onto her White Cloud shape when she could’ve easily stopped the genetically modified injections that made her a superhero to begin with. She says, “I’ve actually dreamed about this moment for a while now. And you’re seriously going to go through with it?”
I break eye contact and stare out the window at the hummingbird flitting near the feeder. There’s too much glee in her gaze to keep looking at her. I offer an accepting nod. “It’s time, I think.”
“After what you did to me, Leo, it’s
beyond
time.”
Okay, so long story short, Polly Pettigrew and I were married and for all intents and purposes, it was fantastic—for a while. We both led very different lives, as can be imagined, but it worked, and it worked well for
us
. I loved her with every molecule of my being when she was the Blue Baroness (Get it? Oil baron’s daughter?), and I thought that nothing could ever come between us. We’d bought a house outside of Houston and were even considering an attempt at a little Leo or Polly.
Then, one day, I walk into her dad’s office, unannounced, and find her cutting oil shipment deals with some members of the Chinese government. She was already worth billions, at least on paper, but more never hurt…until it did. I knew that if some of the upper level suits running this fine country ever found out what she was up to they’d take my dear heart away. There were arguments and long nights of discussions, and she promised she’d stop, so we paid off some no-name supervillain, a guy that went by Starbreaker, to participate in this epic battle in the middle of Times Square.
He won as planned, the Blue Baroness “died” from her wounds en route to the hospital, and everything was hunky dory with Polly and me for a while. At least until I left for a conference in Vegas one weekend, and by the time I got back, she’d resurrected herself as White Cloud.
At the time, I huffed, sighed, and let it go because happy wife, happy life, right? A month later, she was back to cutting deals with foreign governments to ship her father’s oil for marked-up wholesale prices that were still cheaper than what they could get through international trade.
Anyway, all that boring crap out of the way, the second time around, I absolutely could not convince her that she needed to stop, so I found out through a number of different channels—mostly Phil—that the United States government had marked her.
I made some calls, took the contract, and forced her into yet another retirement because in the eyes of the NSA, she was dead by my hands. The Blue Baroness had been reincarnated as White Cloud and died again; Polly Pettigrew had been reincarnated as Kimmie Strand, who was alive...and not very thankful for it.
Since she was so fond of money, and spending it, and doing so while she was breathing, she flipped me the bird, and true to form, delivered a sharp kick to the crotch, then left me moaning beside the toilet in our old house.
These days, she maintains a low profile, spending her time travelling around the world, keeping her tan even, drinking boat drinks, and hating my guts.
All in all, I’d say she leads a pretty good life. The genetic modifications she pays a hundred grand for on a monthly basis via some shadow company barely puts a dent in her bank account, and they leave her with an amazing body that she doesn’t have to work hard at to keep. Cheeseburgers? Two of them, please! A whole pizza? Why not!
My ex-wife…tanned, toned, and terribly vindictive.
Gorgeous, but I have to be careful, because I’m not convinced that she wouldn’t choke me to death if I take my eyes off her.
Kimmie jams a finger into my chest and repeats herself, “It’s
beyond
time.”
I push her finger away, and not gently. “I know, and we can go around and around, again—”
She tosses her hands in the air and says, “And it was the
only
way to save my life,” as she rolls her eyes. “Song and dance, Leo.”
I readjust myself on the couch; one, to keep a better eye on her, and two, I’m getting myself into a position to break for the door if she decides to go ballistic on me. I’m getting the feeling that she hasn’t softened a bit in three years. This might’ve been one of the worst ideas I’ve ever had. “Just hear me out, okay? If we’re gonna do this, we need to be at the airport in, like, thirty minutes.”
“Tell me again.”
“Okay, well, not that you’ll be the one to kill Patriotman, per se, but here’s what I’m thinking. And seriously, Polly—”
“
Kimmie
,” she reminds me. She points at her chest. “Don’t forget you made this.”
“Right, sorry. Regardless, it’s your chance for redemption, revenge, whatever.”
“If I’m not the one to kill Patriotman, how does that benefit me again?”
I explain my plan to her, and truthfully, I get a little choked up. She knows how much this means to me. She also knows how well I can read a person’s micro-expressions, so she holds her face flat and unmoving, like a beautiful blonde statue carved from tanned…things.
When I finish, she says, “And that’s how you plan to resurrect me? I’ve supposedly been alive for three years, living in some tropical place as Patriotman’s glorified love slave?”
“Yup.” It’s all I’ve got.
“White Cloud comes back to track down Patriotman’s murderer?
“Yup.” I wait. It’s all I can do.
“Leo?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t know if you’re an idiot or a goddamn genius.” She’s up from the couch and moving toward her bedroom. Admittedly, I admire the taut, not-so-subtle curves underneath the thin sweatpants material. “Stop staring at my ass,” she says over her shoulder.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not,” she calls to me from inside her closet that’s bigger than my bedroom. “Fix some coffee while I pack.”
“So you’re coming?”
“If you screw me on this, I’ll castrate you.”
“But then you won’t have anything left to kick.”
“Just make the damn coffee, Leo. And call Daddy. Tell him I said we’re taking the private jet. There’s no way I’m flying to the Maldives on a commercial airplane. You should know better than that.”
I grin and rummage through the cabinets. “Yes, ma’am.”
This might just work after all. It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a long time.
T
ennyson Pettigrew
—a “lord” in his own mind—meets us at the Houston airport where all the private jets are located. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t be bothered to come down off his high perch atop one of the largest high-rises in the city. Pettigrew Oil Services is, at its foundation, a one-stop shop for anything the roughnecks and roustabouts, company men and drillers, could need out in the field. Some of his elders started out in a garage—go figure—about a hundred and twenty years ago, selling drill bits they’d designed and built themselves. They were eons ahead of their time, and the money flowed into their coffers like…well, like oil from a gusher.
Next thing you know, a century and change later, POS—hah, guess what I say it stands for?—brings in approximately forty-five billion dollars in annual revenue. Pettigrew himself is worth about twenty-seven billion, and that’s if you only count what’s publicly accessible. I almost got Kimmie to tell me one time, but the only thing she’d say was, “Daddy could buy Bill Gates’ entire fortune and still have enough left over to afford the Yankees’ salary.”
So, yeah. Dude’s rich.
And he hates my guts. Like father, like daughter. Always has, even before I unofficially murdered his little girl for the NSA. It’s not like I was an underachiever in his eyes. Matter of fact, I was far from it, ask anybody you know, but for most fathers, the scumbag trying to get in his daughter’s panties wasn’t worth his weight in dog shit.
I figure he’s here to voice his displeasure over our trip together, but Kimmie’s a big girl now. He can’t tell her what to do, so
nyah, nyah, nyah
.
We’re standing outside the white LearJet with the Pettigrew company logo painted on the tail—a large, blue P with a stem that looks like a downhole drill bit, encased in a piss-yellow circle—waiting on the crew to finish readying the plane for our departure.
They’re all scrambling, from the pilot and co-pilot, to the flight attendant, to the mechanic and grounds crew, because this is an unscheduled trip. They’re used to Daddy Oilbucks having trips arranged days, weeks, and months in advance, but what Daughter Dearest says goes as well, so here we are, thumb-twiddling until they call us on board.
We could be inside the damn thing, drinking champagne already, but Kimmie insisted on waiting in the hangar for the
paterfamilias
, who, from the looks of it, is ready to spit bullets at my head. He probably could, too.
It has to be said: Tennyson Pettigrew is a juggernaut of a man. Broad shoulders, about as wide as a dumpster, with a head like a watermelon sitting between them. I don’t mean to say that he’s green with stripes, just that the dude doesn’t have a neck and his head is sort of rounded off into a point. Some people eat Grape Nuts for breakfast, Old Man Pettigrew probably fills his cereal bowl with diamonds and whole milk. And damn, is he ever strong. He lifts, daily, and chows down something like eight thousand calories—no lie—and barely has an ounce of fat on him.
How he finds time to run a multinational corporation with thirty-five thousand employees and still lift like Schwarzenegger as if it’s a full-time job is beyond me. Maybe he doesn’t have to. Maybe it’s natural. There are rumors that he ran with the Incredible Hulk back in the 70s; could you imagine the two of them raging out together, having pillow fights with tanks? There’s no proof of him as a superhero, however, except for a handful of grainy photographs. I figure that’s where Kimmie got her ideas about life as a genetically altered badass.
Anyway, point is, the dude has everything going for him. Billions of dollars, body like two of me put together, a gorgeous, debutante daughter that used to be universally loved until her fall from grace—because what family doesn’t have a black sheep—and a smartass former son-in-law that’s just as handsome today as he was yesterday…what more could the guy want?
Me, dead and gone, apparently. Guess I was wrong.
This is the first time I’ve seen him since I sent his little girl, a.k.a. White Cloud, to her grave, and from what I can tell, there are a lot of unresolved issues.
I don’t know why he’s so mad—he knows I didn’t kill her because she’s standing right beside me, but he’s charging forward like an Angus bull on amphetamines, and I’m fairly sure I can see steam coming out of his ears.
He’s about fifty feet away, yet I can see the red hue in his cheeks getting darker.
“What’s his problem?” I ask.
Kimmie crosses her arms and chuckles. “You killed me.”
“I most certainly did not.”
“It’s the thought that counts, Leo.”
“I
never
had any intention of going through with it. You know that, and he knows that. It’s your own damn fault that the feds caught onto your—your shenanigans, not once, but twice, may I remind you, and,
and
, I’m pretty sure I did you a favor by letting them think you’re dead.”
She grins and flicks her chin toward her father. “Explain that to him.”
How can she get by with some people, like the flight crew, knowing that she’s still alive while the government thinks she’s dead and buried by my hands? Easy, they’re more terrified of Tennyson Pettigrew than they are of Uncle Sam. Right about now, I might be, too.
“I thought it was…right.”
She pinches my cheek and makes mushy, baby-face noises, then adds, “Doesn’t matter, Smoochykins. You never mess with Daddy’s little girl.”
Tennyson Pettigrew gets to within five feet of me, arms out, blood boiling, hands grasping like a pissed off crab—his face is about the color of one, too—and he says, “Come ‘ere, you little bastard.”
I react the only way I know how.
I lower myself to dodge his grasp, grab him around the waist, and then I throw him roughly thirty yards distant, where he lands in pile of boxes marked
FluffyTime Pillows
. I imagine they were a shipment waiting to go out, and lucky for him, they were there.
“Leo!” Kimmie scolds me. “Did you
have
to do that?”