Authors: George P Saunders
For a moment, there was silence. Diamond remained motionless.
The front door creaked open. He rose from behind the sofa and fired three
times.
Two rounds slammed into the point man about to enter Diamond’s
apartment. He died before he hit the ground, his last thought, Diamond
hoped, being one of bemused astonishment—the last thing the shit-grub would
have expected is someone alive and packing after the barrage of firepower
thrown at him. The second man watched his compatriot die then glanced at
the swinging, half blown off door and made a very cogent decision. He
turned tail and ran.
Diamond moved cautiously toward what remained of the front door.
The man whom he had killed lay against the far wall, his legs twitching—a
phantom reflex phenomena. The twitching suddenly ceased. Diamond
glanced at the fire escape and saw the silhouette of the other man already on
his way down. Diamond followed.
The stairwell led down to the garage. Diamond didn’t decrease his
speed descending, even when two shots ripped into the wall six inches from his
head. He fired in the direction of the shots.
The garage exit door loomed ahead, smashed open by the assassin’s hasty
departure. Diamond ran for the door in time to see his would-be killer
move toward a small black sedan.
“Freeze!” he yelled, gun up, then ducked behind a pillar.
The gunman did the opposite. He raised his intimidating weapon and
fired off a careless shot in Diamond’s direction.
Diamond fired once. The gunman jolted backwards, a stain of red
blossoming on his chest. For all the impact of the bullet, the big man
still persisted, and opened the door to the sedan. Diamond continued
firing, taking out the passenger window and the windshield. The sedan
roared to life, lurched out of the open parking space and fish-tailed toward
the gated exit.
Diamond ran for his car, fishing out his keys, and silently cursing the
span of time it took him to perform the task. He threw open the driver’s
seat and gunned the ignition. He slammed the gears into drive, hit the
accelerator and sideswiped a neighbor’s car in his rush to the gate.
Diamond prayed for little traffic. Of course, the prayer went
unanswered. The gunman’s vehicle swerved across three lanes like a
drunken bear. Cars screeched, swerved and collided, as the sedan
continued to accelerate.
Diamond leaned out of his window and took a potshot at the car
ahead. His aim was true and the back window of the sedan blasted into
oblivion. Suddenly, the sedan veered into a small side street.
Diamond stayed with it and kept firing into the black maw of space where the
back window used to exist.
Diamond accelerated and braced for impact. He rammed the sedan
once, twice. Enough to do what Diamond expected of the tactic. The
sedan lost control, swerved again, smashed into the sidewalk, and then
jack-knifed. There was still enough forward momentum to send the front of
the sedan at fifty miles an hour into a solid brick wall of the dead end
street.
At that same moment, Diamond hit his brakes. He saw the injured
assassin’s body fly through the front windshield of the sedan and into the
wall. A spray of blood told Diamond that there would be no future
questioning for this one particular perp. Still, training and caution were
hard friends to lose. He stepped out of his car, gun trained on the
destroyed sedan and approached the mess of human being lying horribly twisted
at the base of the brick wall.
The assassin’s skull had been smashed open, brain strewn across the front
hood of the sedan. Amazingly, the assassin’s chest heaved several times
before quieting into a gurgle and finally a rattle—sounds Lou Diamond had heard
too many times in his past. Then the only sounds were the hissing of
steam through gnarled tubing and the distant cacophony of police sirens.
EIGHTEEN
Preston Giles was not terribly pleased. He wasn’t angry, not even
remotely furious, no, he was more annoyed than anything. He had sent
Trent and Kosstler in to finish this Diamond issue and it had been pretty
straight forward. Guy was just a cop after all, albeit one who had seen
some shit in his day according to the file, but a burn-out by all other
accounts. A pain in the ass who had been hired by the head of Arc-Link’s
law firm—his own brother—and was
sticking his nose in all the wrong places. Loser, the rest of the file
said, ever since the death of his wife. A drunk, too. Easy
pickings.
That’s how Diamond read on paper, anyway.
Yet, as of two minutes ago, Kosstler had his brains painted on a brick
wall and the target was still alive and kicking. Trent, Giles could
safely assume, was also as dead as yesterday.
He’d have to call LeMay. The old man was sure to bitch about
this. Giles would remind the old fuck that he had simply been asked to
supervise the operation; to ensure success, as it were. LeMay would
continue to squeal like a gutted pig before Giles would then calm him down and
assure him that the target would nevertheless be secured, by himself,
personally, and no thank you to additional assistance.
His personal guarantee. Preston Giles’ personal promise to
deliver.
LeMay would stop his bitch-moaning and inquire tersely how long it would
take. Giles would respond enigmatically that it would be very soon.
And that would be the end of the conversation.
Yeah, he knew how the chat would go. But that was not what was of
interest to him at the moment.
As he sat in his nondescript Ford Sable one block away from the site
where brainless Kosstler was being examined by a few detectives, Giles stared
at Lou Diamond. Diamond stood alone, away from the madding crowd, hands shoved
into his pockets—watching his cop brothers analyze the residue of his
constabulary efforts in law enforcement.
Interesting guy, Giles thought. Tougher than previously expected.
Giles was not so arrogant as to believe every target he was given was the
proverbial sure thing—though no target assigned to him had ever escaped his
skill and efficiency. But he was a careful man by nature and he knew it
was a good thing never to underestimate the unknown quantity in any given
situation. Perhaps that’s why he was still alive and others in his
profession were practically extinct.
He would consider the method by which he would deal with Lou Diamond, but
he would do so on his own time and in his own way. These things couldn’t
be rushed. As the Wicked Witch of the West had once said to Dorothy—these
things had to be handled
delicately
.
He took out his cell phone and prepared himself for the tedious farce of
relaying the results of this operation to Dame LeMay. He never took his
eyes off of Lou Diamond, not even when LeMay answered the call.
“Son of a fucking bitch!” LeMay snarled. “How could this have
fucking happened, Giles?”
“It did. Simple as that, old friend,” Giles said tonelessly.
“It won’t happen again.”
Giles expected yet another tirade, but instead he was met with only
silence.
“Alright,” Le May finally said. “I assume you’ll handle it at some
point? And soon?”
My how things change, and Giles was genuinely surprised. “Yes, of
course. I thought you’d be more distressed.”
“I’m not holding my pecker and jerking off in a wet hankie, if that’s
what you mean,” LeMay said testily. “But, we’ll call it even, on one
condition.”
“I’m listening.”
“We have another target tonight. I have two items on the job but it
sure would make my Christmas morning if you’d be there to baby-sit.
Because, as we’ve just noticed, you do it so well.”
You old fuckstick
, Giles thought. Rubbing it in and then
asking for more.
“This is another gig pursuant to the same issue which you will no doubt
conclude in your own good time. I hope you don’t mind. We’d just
love it if you could lend a hand.”
Prick
. But there were political considerations going on
here, and politics could get so emotional at times…
“How can I help?” Giles said, almost sounding gracious.
An armada of cop cars continued to converge on the area, along with two
fire trucks and a small crowd of gawkers, half of those awakened indigents who
were unaccustomed to their drunken stupors being rudely interrupted by high
speed chases in the wee hours of the morning.
Lou Diamond watched the dead assassin, with a face so mashed and
mutilated that it resembled something not unlike a pound of reddish-green
condemned veal, being zipped into a body bag. A plain clothes cop named
Rex Daniels sidled up to Diamond. Daniels and Diamond went way
back. They were rookies in the department a hundred years ago, except
Daniels went career and Diamond took the more circuitous Journey of Life.
“Beats the fuck out of me, Lou,” Daniels muttered, scratching his head
and studying a button on the verge of jumping off his worn jacket. “We
picked up the one you iced at your apartment. Like this poor prick, not a
shred of I.D. You say you don’t have a clue why they were trying to hit
you?
Diamond shrugged. Convincingly, he thought. He had a clue,
alright, but he wasn’t going to give it to Daniels. “Never seen these
guys in my life. Maybe they’re IRS.”
Daniels offered a humorless chuckle. “On the other hand, I hear
you’ve been bringing down a lot of scum lately. Maybe you’re under
contract.”
A young cop, barely out of the Academy, approached Daniels and handed the
older vet a paper bag. Diamond’s mind wandered momentarily; funny how in
all those cop movies, everyone handed plastic baggies to one another. In
fact, plastic bags were never used to hold evidence—too flimsy. Diamond
wondered absently in a micro-second why the think-wizards in Hollywood had
never gotten this right.
“Well, well,” Daniels said, staring into the bag.
Inside was the assassin’s weapon of choice.
“Goddamn beautiful piece of hardware,” Daniels admired. He took the
weapon out and tested its weight. “This might be something.”
“How’s that?” Diamond said.
“This is an Icon-R457. Government issue. These boys were
pro. Hard to get this shit unless you’re a Fed.”
“That a fact,” Diamond said taking the gun and examining it.
“Didn’t know that.”
A lie, but Daniels didn’t need the details. Diamond handed the bag
back and walked to his car.
“Watch your back, old friend,” Daniels yelled after him.
Diamond opened the driver’s door. “Always do.”
It was time for another talk with his brother.
NINETEEN
Marshall opened the door of his house, his eyes rheumy and exhausted,
with a half glass of brandy held unsteadily in his right hand.
Lou didn’t wait to be invited in.
“Don’t you ever sleep?” Marshall asked.
Lou noted the slight slur his brother’s speech. An oddity because
Marshall rarely drank to excess and, even when he did, he maintained.
“I was planning on it,” Lou responded as he sat in an old rocking
chair. He studied his brother. “Until two well dressed gentlemen in
Armani decided that I’d be better off with an extended rest.”
Marshall weaved backward, forward, and finally fell onto the couch.
“I don’t understand.”
“Someone put a hit out on me tonight. Damn near go their money’s
worth, too.”
Marshall put his brandy glass on the thousand dollar coffee table he had
purchased at an auction one year earlier.
“Jesus,” he muttered, shaking his head back and forth.
“Why do I think it has something to do with the Randall-Simpson murders?”
Lou asked quietly.
This got Marshall’s instant attention, and suddenly his eyes were bright
and fiery. “Oh, come on, Lou. These murders are pretty straight
forward. It’s either Simpson or—”
“Linda Baylor?” Lou cut him off. “I’m beginning to wonder.”
He let the moment hang. Then: “She says you’re not telling me
everything.”
“She’s lying,” Marshall shot back. “I told you, she’d do anything
to bug me.”
“What the hell do you two have going, anyway?” Lou stood up. “One
minute you’re her attorney, the next thing she’s trying to screw you in my
eyes, and now you’re saying she’s shit.”
Marshall stood up and shoved his hands into his robe. “It’s a
marriage you wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me,” Lou said. He was tired of this dance and wanted to go
home.
That’s when Cyndi appeared in her robe, half asleep. She looked at
Diamond.
“Lou?”
“Hi, Cyn. How are you?”
Cyndi moved toward Diamond like an anxious lover. She hugged him,
then kissed his cheek, then really began to take notice of his appearance.
“My god, Lou, you look dreadful. What happened?”
“My moonlighting job of selling girl scout cookies. Dangerous
work.”
“Come on, no joking. I think you need to see a doctor. Some
of those cuts—” she stopped mid-sentence, and touched the largest gash on his
forehead with gentle concern. He took her hand and smiled, then looked
back toward Marshall who was guzzling his brandy.
“Bro and I were just chatting. Catching up on life, breaking
bread. You know.”
Cyndi studied Lou, then smiled and turned to Marshall. “You could
have woke me up, baby. I would have made something.”
“Sorry,” Marshall muttered in a voice that said he was about as sorry as
a cobra killing a mongoose. Cyndi let it go but frowned at Marshall’s
empty brandy glass. She turned back to Lou.
“Really, Lou, whatever happened to you, I think you need to go to the
hospital.”
“I’m fine, Cyn. It’s great seeing you. Been awhile.”
“Only a thousand years or so. Hey, are you hungry?”