Chad stood at the
bus stop, his cellphone pressed against his ear.
Valdus Qasim’s
thick, Russian accent breathed through the phone’s speaker. “We have issues to
conclude, my friend.”
“I’m listening.” Every
inch of Chad’s body ached from the beating he absorbed earlier. A hiss of pain
escaped him while he activated the app on his phone that would record the
conversation.
“I behaved unkindly to you,” Qasim said cheerfully.
“You put me in the
hospital and then pressed charges against me,” Chad said.
A bus pulled to a
stop. Chad waved it away.
“You barged into
my office. Made demands. I cannot tolerate that.”
“I want the
truth,” Chad said. “What happened to my brother?”
Qasim laughed. “How should I know?”
Chad fought to
control his temper. “You know what I think? David hooked up with one of your
prostitutes three times before you threatened to tell his wife.”
Chad paused, gave
Qasim a chance to respond. Qasim gave him nothing.
“David didn’t pay
your blackmail demands,” Chad said, “so you killed him.”
Qasim sighed. “My
friend, your brother did have relations with a prostitute. I might have asked
your brother, David, for some money shortly thereafter.”
“But he didn’t pay
you,” Chad pressed.
“You already know
he did not.”
“Now he’s dead.”
“He is, but I know
nothing about that.”
“Bullshit,” Chad
said. “I think Officer Redwood works for you, too.”
“He favors that we
call him Detective Redwood, as you
well know.”
Chad crossed the
point of no return. “I recorded this entire conversation. My brother’s widow,
Melissa is dying. Cancer. David’s life insurance won’t cover suicide. I
either expose his murder, or . . .”
Qasim waited too patiently. “Or what?”
“Or you pay
Melissa and her son money equal to what she should’ve received from David’s
insurance. Do that, and I won’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”
Qasim exploded
with rich laughter. “My friend! To what did I confess? Nothing! Furthermore, you
did not ponder why I would call you?”
A black Buick
pulled up to the bus stop. One of the rear passenger doors opened. One of
Qasim’s men—Tattoo Neck—stepped out, gun in hand.
Chad whispered.
“To track my location?”
Qasim chuckled
once more. “Very good.” He disconnected.
Tattoo Neck
pressed the cold metal of his firearm against Chad’s side. “Get in the car.”
Chad’s voice
shook. “You won’t shoot me in public.”
The sound of a
slapped face cracked the air. A voice from the Buick’s front passenger seat
yelped with pain.
Chad recognized
the voice. “Matthew?”
“You want us to
drive away with your nephew,” Tattoo Neck asked, “or do you want to climb into
the car?”
Chad slid into the
car, where another one of Qasim’s men—Albino—waited. Tattoo Neck slithered in
after Chad, slammed shut the door behind him. The driver (Qasim, himself)
stepped on the gas.
Matthew twisted
around in his seat to face Chad. “Who are these people?” the boy asked.
“Stay calm,
Sport,” Chad said. “Everything’s fine.”
“Yes.” Qasim
steered the vehicle towards an airplane hangar. “Fine, indeed.”
Albino snatched
Chad’s cellphone, tore out its battery.
Qasim drove into
an empty hangar. Its mammoth, roll-up door yawned. He parked the vehicle and
killed the engine while someone lowered the door.
Chad gazed over
his shoulder, through the rear window. He spotted the man who lowered the door.
“Officer Redwood.”
“It’s Detective Redwood,” Tattoo Neck
said—right before he cracked his
pistol against Chad’s head, knocked him unconscious.
. . . Chad
discovered, when he awoke, that he sat slumped in a metal chair bolted to the
concrete floor inside the hangar. Matthew sat across from him, handcuffed to
another chair.
Click. A pair of handcuffs bound Chad’s
hands behind the chair’s back. Whoever cuffed him performed a lousy job. The
links remained open wide enough for Chad to slip free his hands. He didn’t dare
prove that just yet.
Qasim, Tattoo
Neck, and Albino stood in front of Chad. Each mobster screwed a silencer into
his pistol.
The agony in
Chad’s forehead struck home. His skull throbbed. He felt ribbons of blood
dribble down the side of his face.
“Redwood?” he
mumbled. “Is that you behind me?”
Redwood produced a
dramatic sigh. “Why can’t you call me ‘Detective’?” He knelt behind Chad—whose
fingertips brushed against the cop’s holstered pistol.
Chad wrapped his
fingers around the weapon’s handle, felt it slide free from Redwood’s holster
while the man stood and walked around Chad’s chair. The fool didn’t seem the
slightest bit aware that Chad stole the firearm.
Redwood addressed
the mobsters. “Let me kill them.”
Qasim snickered.
“This man—” he waved at Chad “—made me very angry. I want to see his kneecaps
explode. I want to burn his nephew.”
“Your weapons have
silencers,” Redwood said. “Your victims don’t. Someone will hear their screams.”
Qasim laughed. “What
are gags for?”
Redwood considered
this. “Fair enough. I would like to
rough Mister Heel up a bit. You fellows take a smoke break while I crack a
couple ribs.”
The humor drained
from Qasim’s face. “Your tune changes quickly, friend.”
Redwood shrugged.
“It’s been a stressful day. My head isn’t on straight.”
No shit, Chad thought. He held Redwood’s
stolen pistol in one hand while he slipped out of the handcuffs with the other.
“I could go for a
smoke, boss,” Albino told Qasim.
Qasim rolled his
eyes. “Very well.” He displayed five fingers at Redwood. “Five minutes.” He opened
and led Tattoo Neck and Albino through the wide door.
Redwood waited for
the mobsters to round the building before he sprinted towards and lowered the
door. He threw its locks, turned—handcuff keys in hand—towards Chad. “We have
to—”
Chad sprang from
his chair and aimed Redwood’s pistol at its owner.
Redwood’s eyes
widened. “You idiot! I’m trying to—”
Bam. Chad put a bullet through the cop’s
forehead, blasted a cup holder through the back of his skull. Blood sprayed.
Bone fragments cascaded.
Matthew screamed.
Chad heard, through the hangar’s door, the sounds of hurried footsteps, headed
in his direction.
Chad grabbed the
handcuff keys and raced towards Matthew.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Someone pounded upon
the hangar’s door.
“What happened
in there, Detective?” Qasim asked through the door.
Chad unlocked
Matthew’s cuffs, led the boy behind a stack of steal crates—just as bullets
peppered the door in an incessant, sideways rainstorm.
Matthew covered
his ears and wailed. Chad blindly returned fire, accomplished (in all
likelihood) nothing.
More bullets
blasted the door to Swiss cheese. Chad felt too weak, disorientated, and beaten
to put up any sort of fight against the men who would soon force their way
inside the hangar.
He checked his
magazine. Empty. He possessed only the chamber round.
The gunfire
outside multiplied threefold.
Chad recalled
Qasim’s promise to burn Matthew alive. Chad couldn’t allow the boy to die in
such fashion.
The door stood a
tattered mess. Bullets continued to chew through it.
Chad’s eyes darted
about the building. He saw no escape. He and Matthew stood trapped.
He’ll burn Matthew alive.
Chad knelt beside
the boy, told him to close his eyes.
Chad’s hands
shook. He pointed his weapon at the back of Matthew’s head.
Bam. The boy’s corpse
crumbled, a puppet with cut strings—
Just as Agent Teller of Internal Affairs led a small army (in SWAT style
body armor) through the shredded door.
Chad stood,
dumbfounded. His eyes drifted beyond Teller to the bullet-riddled bodies of
Tattoo Neck, Albino, two cops, and Qasim.
Teller aimed a
revolver (smoke already wisped from its barrel) at Chad. “Drop the weapon!”
Chad blinked,
lost. He stared at the empty pistol in his hand, at Matthew’s dead body, at
Redwood’s, and then returned his attention to the pregnant cop.
“Last warning,”
she said. “Drop it.”
Chad’s pistol
clattered to the floor. Police in SWAT gear grabbed and slammed him against the
bloody concrete.
To be concluded Thursday . . .
I publish my blogs as follows:
Mondays and Thursdays:
Short stories at martinwolt.blogspot.com
Tuesdays: A look at the politics of
the entertainment world at EntertainmentMicroscope.blogspot.com.
Wednesdays: An inside look at my
novels (such as Daughters of Darkwana, which you can find on Kindle) at Darkwana.blogspot.com
Fridays: Tips to improve your fiction
at FictionFormula.blogspot.com
Sundays: Movie reviews at moviesmartinwolt.blogspot.com
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