Bad Blood (35 page)

“Come on! Move, damn you!”

But the old man couldn't.

“Hurry up!”

He tried to hurry Antonelli along, but he couldn't do it.

“Come on, come on! Go!”

Then Gibbons stopped and almost lost control of the tears he was holding back as he realized that it was him who was leaning on Antonelli. Like an old man.

TOZZI PEERED OVER the trunk of the Mercedes, the shotgun ready in his hands. The trashed Caddy looked like a dead shark. The van was comparatively untouched, the women still sitting back-to-back inside the shadows. He could hear water lapping the rocky shore of the bay. It was quiet now. Tozzi was suspicious.

“They're gone. Please come untie us.” It was Roxanne's voice.

She didn't sound overly distressed, thank God. But then he wondered if one of the yaks might still be in the shadows in the back of the van with them, holding a gun on her, forcing her to tell him the coast was clear. That might be a little paranoid, though, considering the language barrier. Anyway, if there was a guy in there hiding behind their skirts, he'd just sit tight and wait. He's already got the hostages. Why rush it and eliminate the element of surprise? He rubbed the sweaty stock of the shotgun. He wanted to go to her, see if she and Lorraine were all right, but he didn't dare, not without a backup. Where the hell was Gibbons? He didn't like being out here all alone.

He scanned the area for movement behind any one of the dozens of cars in his line of vision. He stared at the three bodies sprawled out on the pavement on the other side of the Mercedes: some big guy half-under the car, the punk Francione, and another guy who was flat on his back with his legs on Francione's chest. That one had to be Mashiro. The guy was actually dressed in feudal Japanese samurai
armor. From where he stood he could see the glint of the sword lying on the ground next to the bodies. Unbelievable.

A gull landed on the pavement next to the bodies and cocked his head to one side, then the other, considering the punk. The bird pecked at his shirtfront a few times, then flew off.

Tozzi stood up slowly, braced for a shot from anywhere. He circled round the back end of the Mercedes, quickly crossed the open battle ground, and went directly to the back of the Cadillac for cover. He pointed the shotgun at the cab of the van. The driver's door was open. He moved around slowly until he was sure that the cab was empty. He got down on his knees then and looked for feet under the van, figuring someone might be waiting on the other side. No feet. He relaxed a bit as he stood up with the shotgun cradled in one arm. The Caddy's pointy fin was right in front of him. He couldn't resist running his hand over it, recalling the Cadillac his father had when he was a kid. He put both hands back on the shotgun right away, though. There were too many hiding places around here. This was no time for nostalgia. He looked around the lot. And what the hell happened to Gibbons?

Tozzi went over to the back of the van and squinted into the shadows.

“Well, if it isn't the Lone Ranger?” He recognized Roxanne's sarcastic tone. She was sitting Indian-style, her hands tied behind her back, trying to spit stray pieces of hair out of the corner of her mouth.

“Michael, where the hell have you been? Help us for God's sake.” He recognized Lorraine's scolding, same as when she used to baby-sit for him. She was sitting the same way, wincing as she struggled in vain to get free.

“Who're you? You a cop or what?” He even recognized Michelle D'Urso's nervous-Nelly chirp. She made little faces every time she was jostled by Lorraine's struggling.

“Calm down, calm down,” he said wearily, stepping up into the van. With this much attitude, maybe he should leave them this way.

“Come on, Mike. My wrists are killing me.”

“Yes, mine too.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Why didn't they gag them, too? “Take it easy. I'm here.” He
touched Roxanne's cheek, then reached over and laid his hand on his cousin's shoulder. “Everybody all right?”

“No, we're not all right!” Roxanne snapped back. “Get us out of these things.”

Their wrists were bound behind their backs, arms interlocked to keep them together. The yaks had used those stupid plastic-strip handcuffs. Leave it to the Japs to go high-tech. Why couldn't they just use rope like your average criminal element? Shit.

He set down the shotgun and tried to undo Roxanne's cuffs, but they were on too tight. Shit. “Anybody got a knife, a pair of scissors, something like that?”

Michelle D'Urso rolled her eyes. “Are you for real?”

“Don't be ridiculous, Michael.”

“This isn't funny, Mike.”

“Hang on, hang on.” He dug into his pants pockets for his key ring which had a nail clipper attached to it. He started working on Roxanne's cuffs, chewing through that tough plastic with the clipper. It took some doing, but he eventually got through it.

“Thank you,” she said, massaging her wrists, still with the attitude.

“You're welcome.” He didn't like that look she was giving him, as if
he'd
done something wrong. He went to work on Lorraine's cuffs.

“Where's Gibbons?” Lorraine asked as soon as she was free. “Is he all right?”

Tozzi frowned. This is gratitude. “He's around here someplace.” Jesus.

“Hey, what about me?” Michelle whined.

“You sit still,” he said. “You're under arrest.”

“What?!”

He ignored her, reaching into his shoulder holster and pulling out his revolver. “Lorraine, take this.” He handed it to his cousin. She held the gun as if it were radioactive.

“Gibbons ever show you how to work a safety? This thing.” He worked it on and off to show her.

“Uh . . . I don't know, Michael.”

“Take it, Lorraine,” he ordered. “The three of you stay right here until I come back. If anyone shows up to bother you, use it. You hear me? Use it. Just make some noise.” He looked down at the big gun
in her slender trembling hands. It'll make noise all right. A .357 Magnum makes a lot of noise. He wondered whether he was making a mistake. Shit, he had no choice. He was alone out here. Gibbons could be in trouble. He should also call for help, have those yaks on the run picked up.

He picked up the shotgun and stood up. Roxanne was rubbing her wrists, still looking at him with that pissy, accusatory face. When he talked to her this morning, he had a feeling she was mad about last night. Clearly he was right. Christ. He didn't need this shit now. He leapt down out of the back of the van, avoiding her gaze. “Sit tight, gang. I'll be back.”

He shaded his eyes from the sun and scanned the lot. He spotted Gibbons way in the distance across the lot with some little skinny guy, taking their goddamn time about getting here. What the hell is this? The old age home? Then it occurred to him that maybe Gibbons was hurt. He was walking, though. If he was hurt, it probably wasn't that bad. Tozzi looked around the big lot. They needed help. He had to get to a phone. He spotted a concrete bunker at the other end of the lot, but that was at least a hundred-fifty yards away. The guard booth at the entrance was even farther. He didn't like the idea of leaving the three of them here alone. Magnum or no Magnum. Then he spotted D'Urso's shot-up Mercedes. A car phone. Maybe he's got a car phone in there.

He trotted over toward the black Mercedes, confident that D'Urso was the type to have a car phone, but when he came up to the bodies, he paused to check. The samurai was on his back, his black helmet skewed over most of his face. He stared at Francione's body and couldn't help feeling glad that he was gone. That guy was trouble, pure and simple. If he stuck around, he'd just get worse. Better off dead. Tozzi stared at the coagulated blood soaking his groovy shirt and wondered who did the honors. Forensics will figure it out. He craned his neck to get a better look at the big guy over by the Mercedes, maybe recognize—

Suddenly he felt metal hitting metal as the shotgun whipped out of his hand. He saw it scuttle and clatter over the asphalt and disappear under the black Caddy. Then he saw the blade glimmering right in front of his face like a cobra ready to strike. He leapt back out of range. The corpse was up on his elbow, moving—the samurai. The sword was in his hand. Instinctively Tozzi reached into his
empty holster. Shit. He glanced over at the van. Mashiro was on his feet now. There was blood flowing down his sweaty face inside the helmet. There was a lot of blood all over the front of his braided armor. He stunk like something gone rotten. The expression on his face was mean. The eyes were empty black slits. All of a sudden Tozzi thought of that tongue-twister from when he was a kid: The big black bug bled black blood. Say it three times, fast. Shit.

Behind him, he could hear Roxanne and Lorraine in the van getting hyper, debating what they should do, no doubt. Lorraine didn't know how to use a gun. Did Roxanne? Not likely. If Lorraine started shooting, though, maybe it would distract this nut. Maybe she'd even get lucky and hit the son of a bitch. Of course, she might hit him, too. No. Don't shoot, Lorraine. No, don't.

Mashiro gripped the sword in both hands and held it high over his head, sort of like a batter at the plate. He stalked Tozzi slowly, his knees bent, his stance wide. His breathing was wet and hoarse. Tozzi backstepped, trying to keep himself from staring at the shiny blade. He vaguely remembered Neil Chaney saying something at their all-night aikido session about keeping the proper distance from an opponent and being aware of the whole man, not focusing on any single part of him.

He then remembered something else Neil had said about the martial arts in general. Whenever at all possible, avoid a fight. Run away if you have to. Better that than having to use your skills.

What skills?

Tozzi was sweating. His throat was dry. His eyes stung.

He thought about running, pretty confident that he could get away. Mashiro had short legs, and besides he was wounded. He'd lost blood; he couldn't be very steady on his legs. But then he remembered Roxanne and Lorraine inside the van. And Michelle D'Urso, still handcuffed. He couldn't leave them here with this psycho. He couldn't just run away. He'd have to keep Mashiro occupied at least until Gibbons got here, until Gibbons could shoot this mother in the head and finish the job. Come on, Gib. Make it snappy.

Tozzi backpedalled to put more distance between them, but Mashiro rushed him unexpectedly to keep the same distance. He moved amazingly fast, with this peculiar bow-legged step, like a scorpion on the attack. Damn. So much for the bad legs theory.

Mashiro started mumbling bitterly in Japanese. Tozzi could guess
what he was saying—the same thing he'd be saying if he had a couple of slugs in him and was crazy for revenge. His stomach started to cramp as he kept moving back slowly, maintaining that distance between them as he wondered what the hell he was going to do when this guy finally made his move. The Bureau didn't offer much in the way of sword defense when he was in training at Quantico. The only sword experience he had was the little bit he'd done in aikido class with the wooden practice sword, the
bokken
. Well, you use what you've got, right? He just wished he had a little more faith in what Neil had shown him. This was no time for doubt.

Tozzi kept backstepping, considering other possibilities, considering faking left and right, hoping the samurai would show a weakness he could take advantage of, a sore knee, anything he could—

But suddenly Mashiro attacked, rushing him head on, the sword held high. Tozzi had no time to think. He just acted, doing exactly what he did last night each time Neil attacked him that way with the wooden sword.
He got out of the way
. Not by stepping back, but by stepping into the attack and staying close to Mashiro, too close for the long blade to be a threat, facing him as he passed. Tozzi turned around completely as Mashiro rushed by and backstepped away quickly as Mashiro spun around and countered with a horizontal waist-high swipe. Mashiro yelled something in anger, but the swoosh of the lightning blade cutting the air was the only sound Tozzi really heard.

It worked! Damn, it worked! Tozzi wiped the sweat from his brow and immediately corrected his posture, forcing himself to stand relaxed in front of the samurai, shoulders square, presenting a big chest, giving his opponent “a big target,” as Neil always said.

Mashiro rushed him again, holding the sword as if he were planning to lop Tozzi's head off, and again Tozzi avoided the sword by stepping into the attack, then moving out of range behind his opponent.

It worked again! Tozzi was in heaven. This was great! There really was something to this aikido stuff. He felt guilty that he'd doubted.

Mashiro's grumbling got a little louder now. He peppered it with short, abrupt shouts, like an angry dog barking at an intruder. Suddenly, in mid-bark, he attacked once more, the sword held high over his head again as if he aimed to split Tozzi right down the middle. Stay calm, stay calm, Tozzi repeated to himself. He forced himself
to wait, wait, wait—until Mashiro had committed his balance, until he couldn't reverse his attack—then he spun out to the side, actually nudging shoulders with the mad Jap as the polished blade whooshed through the space where Tozzi had been, struck the ground, and sunk into the blacktop. Mashiro screamed in fury and yanked out the sword, then turned and immediately positioned himself for another pass.