Part VIII
I
entered into a large living room. The floor was entirely Macassar Ebony
hardwood dotted with extravagant carpets. Two plush leather couches faced a
large stone fireplace. A Picasso painting hung high above the fireplace with an
ivory candle holder on either side. A door on the left side of the room began
to slide open. I turned quickly to fire the Remington: nothing discharged. I
dropped it to the ground and dove behind one of the couched as return fire
littered the elegant living room. I pulled out both my pistols and fired over
the top of the couch.
There was no return
gunfire so I took a moment to listen to catch any sound, but there was only
silence. I slid the snub nose back into my jacket pocket, re-holstered the PPK,
and picked up the Remington. I grabbed the last few shells from my pocket and
loaded the shotgun. I stood up keeping the gun pointed at the door there were
no bodies: living or otherwise. As I turned the corner into the other room I
felt something rip into my right shoulder. I dropped the Remington and fell to
the ground. I inched over behind another couch and pulled the snub nose out and
held it in my left hand. I heard the French doors open and the ensuing
firefight. I jumped to my feet—jump may be an overstatement it was more of a
hobble. I fired the snub nose at two fat Italian greaseballs who were more
concerned with Dermot than me. They both dropped to the expensive floor. I
wasn't sure if it was from my shots or Dermot's but they were dead, so I had
that going for me.
“Two
times now.”
I
staggered back over to the open French doors. Dermot was sprawled on his back
on the patio. A small pool of blood was growing under him as he held his nub to
his stomach and clutched his TEC with the other. I knelt by him.
“I
saved your arse two times now.” he coughed and spat out a small amount of over
his pale face. “Go finish tha job. I'll be here when ya done.”
I
left him there and headed back into the house stepping over the two bodies and
into a lavish kitchen. Stainless steel appliances were surrounded by pyrolave
countertops and the same hard wood floors as in the living room. More shots
came from the other side of the kitchen. I took cover behind one of the three
kitchen islands: I guess you could call it a kitchen archipelago. I could hear
soft footsteps approaching me. I peered around the island and saw a pair of
alligator shoes stepping closer. I shot and killed them again. As the man
occupying them fell in pain and I took the opportunity to make him match his
lifeless footwear. I stayed crouched and pocketed my snub nose, which was out
of cartridges, and picked up the dead man’s Heckler & Koch VP70.
As
I headed out of the kitchen I started to feel woozy from a combination of the
new wound in my shoulder and the old one in my abdomen which could not had have
many stitches left holding it together. I tried to move as fast as I could.
I
entered the dining room and made a left down a long hallway. I walked to the
end of the hall where I was greeted by a locked door. I took a step back and
shot the knob off and pushed my way in.
“Damn
you are good darling,” I was greeted by a familiar face; Kathy sat at a large
birch desk with a Glock 26 pointed at me. “Don't worry I won't shoot you unless
this goes awry, but we have something special, so I'm sure we will be fine. Put
the gun on the floor and have a seat.”
I didn't drop the
weapon I just stared blankly. Her gray eyes returned my gaze. She smiled: I was
too hurt and tired to do anything but stare.
“You
really got messed up out there. I don't know why I bother employing any of
these people they can't even stop one person from entering.”
She
stood up and walked toward me keeping her pistol pointed at my heart. She grabbed
the pistol from my hand throwing it to the floor. I tried to swat at her but
she punched me in the wounded shoulder. I let out a scream. She reached into my
jacket and took my Walther from its holster and tossed it to the side. She did
the same thing with the snub nose.
“Now
have a seat.” she kissed my cheek and went back to sitting behind her desk. I
sat across from her.
“Two.”
I whispered.
“Excuse
me?”
“I
wasn't alone. I had an Irishman with me.”
“Where’s
the Mick now?”
“Staining
your expensive patio.” My mind went over to Dermot dying on the patio and me
dying in this office.
“We
had something, right?”
I didn't answer.
“We did. I really
wanted it to go another way. It is hard meeting people. It will be even more
difficult now that I have an enterprise to run.”
“Can
I smoke?”
“Be
my guest.”
I
pulled out the pack of smokes and lit one. The tobacco rushed to my lungs: it
felt wonderful.
“That's
a disgusting habit Jason. I'm sure if we stuck it out I would have gotten you
to quit, but that went out the window when I found out who you were being
contracted by,” she frowned slightly. “Maybe we can work something out and you
can come work for me and we can reignite those sparks. What do you say? Do you
want to come work for a real organization and not some Canadian Mountie outfit?”
“I'd
prefer to work for them. They didn’t try to kill me a few days after fucking
me.”
“Come
on Jason it was just business, not personal.”
“I
figured you would pull that grease-ball line out. Trust me you aren't as
convincing as Brando and rumor has it he gave great head and I can't say that
for you.”
That
pissed her off. She shot me in my wounded shoulder.
“Last
chance to work for me or I leave your body slumped there in that chair until I
find one of my employees you didn't kill to dump you in the marshes.”
I
stood up and walked over to the corner where a bar was set up. I put out my
American Spirit in a crystal ashtray and lit myself another one. I poured
myself a whiskey and returned to my seat across from the brunette beauty.
“We
could have had something, but you turned out to be a major cunt.”
“Do
we need the harsh language?”
“I
think when the shoe fits you should shove it up your ass— kinda where I was
shoving things.”
I
stirred the single ice cube around in my glass with my finger. The pain of
moving that arm killed my shoulder, but I thought the coolness factor
outweighed my pain.
“So
you want me to work for you after you tried to kill me?”
“Your
abilities will be better served with us than those Nordique freaks.”
“I
didn't even know they were Canadian I just know they pay extremely well.”
“I
can match their pay scale,” she cracked a smile, “and I could give you a little
something extra,” she sure thought highly of her sexual abilities.
I
took the final drag of my cigarette and put it out in another ashtray that sat
on her desk probably left from her father's reign. I stared at her. A part of
me wanted to take her offer because we had a lot of fun together, but another
part wanted to watch her die. One part was bigger than the other.
“That's
all great, but you tried to have me killed and they haven't,” I downed my drink
giving it a moment to flow down my throat. “Besides, they have better whiskey.”
I
stood up quickly and threw the glass at Kathy's symmetrical face. It shattered
on impact. Her finger pulled down on the Glock’s trigger: I felt a 9mm slug
enter my stomach. I dove across the desk and tried to grab the gun from her
hand. She pulled the trigger again shattering liquor bottles across the room.
She slammed her bloody head into my nose. I felt the crunch as the bone
shattered.
I
released my grip and I was sprawled across the desk. Kathy stood up and aimed
the barrel at my throat.
“I
really liked you to.”
Before she could finish me off I
grabbed the ashtray and bashed it across her hand. The gun fell to the ground.
I hit her across the face with my crystal weapon then I rolled off of the desk
and rushed to grab one of the guns she tossed. I picked one up and turned as
Kathy took a shot that struck the wall behind me piercing a Monet painting. I
fired back with the Heckler & Koch VP70 breaking off the left side of her
skull.
I
fell to my knees. My stomach hurt like a bitch, but I was alive. I struggled
back to my feet and stumbled out of the office back down the hall. The compound
was silent and I could hear the faint sound of sirens approaching.
I
made my way to the patio where Dermot laid in a pool of his freezing blood. I
picked him up and tossed him over my shoulders. As soon as his body landed on
them I dropped to my knees again as his weight put more pressure on my bullet
ridden shoulder. I put him back down on the ground and dragged him by his foot
with my one good hand. The sirens blared as I heard police out front as I
reached the rear gate.
Dragging
Dermot along I headed through woods, past the pond, and back to the dirt rode.
A Ford Pinto never looked so gorgeous. The sound of sirens was now distant
again. I put Dermot in the passenger seat and took my spot behind the wheel and
sped as fast as the pile of bolts would take us. I made a call to Pat to have him
get the doctor prepped for surgery
The
moon broke through the clouds as I pulled the car in front of Mulligan’s. Pat
and a few other Irishmen rushed out of the bar. Two of them carried Dermot into
the bar and another took the car to a safe hiding spot.
My
phone rang with a number I didn't recognize. I answered it.
“Good
evening Jason.” a soft voice spoke, “I tallied your bill for the damage at my place
and it came to one dinner at Giannini's
Friday night.”
I
was silent. I stood in front of the bar under the shining full moon as my blood
dripped to the snow.
“Say
around seven?” She said breaking the silence.
“Sure,
but not Italian. I've had my fill of Italian shit for a while.”
