Harvey had done a decent job of monitoring the movements of Sigmund Petoskey. True to Harvey's word, as soon as the third-generation immigrant?nished his daytime business, he headed out to the derelict building Rink had shown me earlier. He left in an entourage of three vehicles that snaked their way from the opulent business center to the run-down building, driving in a fashion that said he wasn't concerned about police patrols pulling him over. In our rental car, Rink and I followed at a discrete distance.
When Petoskey ignored a red light, we pulled up; it wasn't necessary to keep a close tail when we knew where he was headed.
The lights were re?ected in Rink's gaze.
"You up for this, Rink?" I asked.
He sniffed. "Ready."
"Things could get messy," I said. "But I can't think of a better way to shake Petoskey than raiding him in the place where he feels safest."
"You take guns into a man's house, things always get messy." He gave me a melancholy shake of his head.
"Been a while since you done any wet work?" I asked.
"Been a while, yeah. But it never leaves you, Hunter." Rink looked across at me, and for a moment didn't have to say more. Only those who have taken another man's life would know what we were imagining. He was right. It doesn't matter how hard you try to bury the memories, they never leave you.
The green light saved us further agony.
When we arrived at the old redbrick building, Petoskey's entourage had lined up in the lot to its right. As well as the original three, they'd been joined by a further two cars and a van.
A couple of bored guards stood to one side, nonchalant as they sucked at cigarettes. They weren't expecting trouble. They were there for appearance's sake.
These guards were of no immediate concern. We'd be going in via a different route and would not be seen by them. I was more apprehensive about the number of street people who wandered around the area. We were strangers, and they'd be suspicious of us. None of us knew- Harvey included-if the bums were belligerent to Petoskey or not. It'd ruin our chances of bearding King Siggy in his castle if any of them went running to him. I doubted anyone would do that out of loyalty, but the promise of a reward would be too much of a temptation for some.
Discretion is the better part of valor, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Rather than chance early discovery, we parked our vehicle the best part of half a mile from the building, donned shabby clothes we'd purchased from a thrift store, and then wandered in on foot. My SIG Sauer was tucked in the waistband of my trousers, my KA-BAR down my boot. Rink, however, had a shotgun to conceal. Without the luxury of a violin case, he carried his over-under 12-gauge in a large carry-on bag. To further disguise the gun, he raided a nearby Dumpster and pushed in a few old tin cans and a bundle of newspapers and magazines. On cursory inspection, his carry-on would pass for the sum of a bum's possessions.
The walk in took about ten minutes, but it was just what we needed to shake off the cobwebs of inactivity. Feeling keyed up, we took a position opposite Petoskey's building. Behind a chain-link fence was another small building. It had also suffered over the years. The roof was gone, no windows remained, and the interior was the domain of rats. Even the graf?ti were faded. No discerning street person would take up residence there.
We entered through a hole in the fence, negotiated a weed-choked courtyard, and entered the building through a doorless void. We had to then push our way through heaped rubbish to one of the abandoned of?ces from which we could watch and wait. The sunset was a raw wound on the horizon.
Without spoiling the decor, Rink emptied the junk from his bag. He checked the shotgun and seemed satis?ed. He fed shells into it while peering out the window. Following his gaze, I saw that lights had come on behind the plastic sheeting on the upper?oor. Though muted, shadows wove sinuous patterns on the sheeting as people moved through the rooms.
"I'd like to know what the hell's going on up there," I said.
"Don't hear nothing," Rink replied. "My guess is he's got a cook shop going."
It was a likelihood that Petoskey had some kind of lab going up there, producing crack cocaine or methamphetamine. On two counts, we were going to have to take care going in. If indeed it was a crack lab, inside there could be innocents who had been forced into this unwholesome line of work. Plus, the scum guarding the production line would be packing weapons. Scum with weapons plus innocent bystanders were never good mathematics.
"I don't know, Rink. Could be something else."
The location wasn't sitting right with me. Okay, we were in a run-down area of town, but normally crack labs weren't as public as this. People didn't turn up in limousines to conduct a quality control inspection, even if a few of the local cops had been paid to turn a blind eye.
Something I didn't doubt: whatever was going on, it was something illegal. We'd be in dangerous territory. "Looks like your standard one-two assault," I said to Rink.
He nodded slowly.
Where only two soldiers are involved in in?ltrating an enemy stronghold, we always used a strategy termed a one-two maneuver. Like the name, there's nothing fancy about it. Advancing single?le, the?rst-or point-man would engage and take out the enemy while the second would move on to the next position. Roles would then reverse, and so on, until the high ground was gained and no enemy was left behind to cause further trouble.
Of course, there are inherent problems with such tactics. It leaves way too much to chance and the ability of the individual soldier to neutralize the opposition. If things go wrong, the mission has to be aborted in rapid fashion. In the past, I've had worse experiences gaining exit than I have in the initial assault. Because of this, I prefer the less formal sobriquet of "smash and dash."
It remained our choice of approach on this occasion simply because it was all we had the numbers for. Maybe I should've allowed Harvey Lucas to join us. With three men, it lessens the chance that the enemy can out?ank you. But not by much.
"Where do you suggest we start?" Rink asked. His expression was?at, but this was a front. Lights burned behind his eyes, and I knew that he was anxious.
I pointed out the opposite end of the building from where the guards patrolled. "See the?re escape? I'm guessing that there are doors at each?oor. We'll go in through one of them, huh?"
Rink inclined his chin in agreement.
On its lowest?oor the doors were most likely locked as tight as a miser's billfold. But the myriad broken windows would give us easy access.
It was a waiting game. The sun went down, and shadows moved in like furtive burglars in the night. The lights behind the plastic grew brighter. Like zombies from some B movie, the street people drifted from their daytime hideaways, moving off in search of what they needed to feed their vices. More vehicles arrived. From our position, we couldn't make out how many people arrived, but from the excited yapping, someone had brought a couple of dogs with them.
"You hear what I'm hearing?" Rink asked.
"Yup. But you didn't expect this to be easy, did you?"
"Easy ain't a word in our vocabulary, Hunter."
Maybe the dogs were extra security Siggy employed after dark. I severely doubted that he was conducting doggy obedience classes. Rink and I shared a glance. Dogs, large or small, always made extreme stealth an issue.
We waited another half hour before leaving. Rink went?rst, shambling out through the gap in the fence. His pace was that of a man addled with drink and with no?rm destination in mind. When he was out of sight around the side of the building, it was my turn to follow.
I followed the same route, joining Rink in the deep well of murk at the side of the building. There was an overpowering stench of vomit and urine. Welcome home, Hunter. It doesn't matter where my work takes me, it's always the same. I was only pleased that I couldn't see what I was standing in.
"Ready?" Rink whispered. He had the shotgun out of its bag, ready for action. I pulled out my SIG, held it at my side.
"Ready," I said.
Mounting the?rst set of stairs on a rusted?re escape, my mission to discover the whereabouts of my brother was?nally under way. Whether or not John was inside the building, I wasn't sure. Petoskey was, and he knew something about John's disappearance. Taking Petoskey was the order of the day.
Gaining the?rst landing, I laid a hand on the door. The locking bar, like much of the remainder of the building, was an item lost in the past desecration of this place. The door swung open at the slightest tug. Rink immediately stepped past me, sweeping the darkness with his shotgun.
"Clear," he whispered, and I entered.
We stood still, acclimating ourselves to the ambient light leaking in from outside and listening to the natural sounds of the building. Far above, voices formed a discordant chorus. Someone was laughing. Then there were the dogs. No longer were they yapping, but snarling and barking maniacally.
"Dog?ghts," I whispered. "Son of a bitch," Rink snarled. In the half-light, I saw his face grow hard. "I'm going to feed the punk his own balls."
"Yeah," I agreed. For one instant my mind shifted half a world away and I saw my own dogs, Hector and Paris. The thought of their being forced to?ght to the death for the sick pleasure of the likes of Petoskey was enough to sicken even the stone-cold assassin in me.
Shake the anger loose, Hunter, I cautioned myself. It was bad enough that we were going in outnumbered. Never mind doing it in the wrong frame of mind. Go in in a rage and we'd be dead before we reached the next?oor. I reached out in the dark to grab Rink's forearm.
"Go easy," I cautioned him.
"I'm cool," Rink replied. And I knew that he was.
"Okay. You take point."
"You want I go up or across?" Rink asked.
"Across," I said. In all likelihood, this stairwell was used exclusively by the dropouts who squatted here during the daylight hours. We had to go up by the route Petoskey would take, to ensure that we took out any possible reinforcements.
The corridor could have been a set from a horror movie. Cobwebs brushed our faces. Dust sifted from above and clung to my lips. From behind closed doors, the specters of this place tittered at our bravado. They beckoned to us; come and join us in hell, there's plenty of room for two more.
The far end of the corridor didn't come too soon for me.
Rink was waiting in a vestibule area. A door that had once held wire-reinforced glass but was now blocked by a tarpaulin hung on bent nails, barred our progress. The faint buzz of conversation?ltered from beyond.
"What do you think?" Rink whispered.
Ever the smart one, I made a quick calculation. Held up three?ngers to Rink. Not that he didn't trust me; Rink placed his face at the edge of the tarpaulin to con?rm the estimate. We moved back down the corridor a safe distance.
"Two guys on the stairs. Looks like another one sitting down in a chair to the left of the door, but I could only see his feet."
"Armed?" I asked Rink.
"Nothing I could see." Rink shrugged. "Doesn't mean anything. They could still be packing."
Armed or not, it didn't mean a thing. I could chew my lips all day, but it wouldn't change our options. "We treat them like they're armed. Okay?"
"Yup," Rink said, hefting the shotgun so the barrel was skyward.
It's not what you want-and to be fair, it didn't lie straight with either of us-because it meant we were going in with what's known in our trade as extreme prejudice. In layman's terms: shoot to kill. These weren't international terrorists or even enemy soldiers, just half-assed gangland hoods. Killing them was extreme. Maybe too extreme under the circumstances. As Rink had reminded me last night, we didn't have a license to kill anymore.
"No, Rink, we can't. You happy with defense only?" I suggested.
Talk about weight coming off shoulders. I'd swear we both grew a head taller. "Okay," I said. "We only shoot when necessary. Otherwise it's hand-to-hand."
"I'm happy with that," Rink said.
Rink again laid an eye to the edge of the tarpaulin. His raised thumb showed no change to the tableau. Okay, we're rolling. Action! Rink ripped aside the tarpaulin and stepped into the hallway be yond. I was a fraction of a beat behind him.
Confusion is the result of prolonged inactivity dramatically kick-started into life. The three men in the stairwell were caught catching?ies, with their hands in the cookie jar, with their trousers down, whatever your choice of metaphor. The sudden intrusion of two armed men in their midst caused shocked silence. But that was only one frame of the action. Time jumped to fast-forward.
To my left a man erupted out of a wicker chair. He had a sawed-off across his lap and was snatching for it. It was an easy decision for me. I snapped my left hand sideways. Put a back?st strike to the bridge of his nose. The man went down into his seat like the world champion of competitive musical chairs. The fact that his hands didn't reach for his broken nose in re?ex meant he was unconscious. The shotgun slipped out of his lap onto the?oor and I swiped it away with the edge of my boot.
Giving them their due, the other two had more sense than to challenge Rink's shotgun. They stood like mute statues until he ordered them to come forward. The one-two was on; I immediately mounted the stairs. From below me, Rink said something. Knowing him, it would be funny, but no one was laughing. The silence was followed by the thump and scuf?e of feet, and I guessed my suggestion of handto-hand was being followed.
The second landing was devoid of movement. I crept forward, stepping into dim light that leached from the?oor above, bringing up my SIG to sweep the space before me. My darkness-adapted eyes sought the next?ight of stairs. Below me, Rink mounted the stairs, and you'd assume that it was safe for me to go on. Bad move. You know what they say about assuming anything; it certainly made an ass out of me.
Maybe I'd grown a little rusty. I should have checked the corridor to my left before proceeding. As I committed myself to the stairs, a door opened behind me and a voice challenged me.
"The hell are you?"
Then a second voice shouted, "Five-O in the house."
I've undergone extensive hand-to-hand training in the Fairbairn method of combat. What I neglected to mention is that I've also trained in Fairbairn's armed technique known as Point Shooting. Like the hand-to-hand, it's based on the principle of immediate and re?exive action. Point. Shoot. Simple as that.
While the two men were stunned at my appearance, I could have spun and put a couple of rounds into their bodies. They would have been on their backs and I'd have been up on the next landing.
But as I'd so recently agreed with Rink, unless necessary this mission was to be carried out without lethal force. Shooting was out of the question. With that in mind, I'd no option but to turn around slowly, giving them ample opportunity to take stock of me on the stairwell. Not that I was about to give up an advantage. I kept my gun by my side, hidden from view by the angle of my body. If it came to it, I could shoot from the hip and take out both of them in a fraction of a second.
What is it with criminals? Both men were dressed in windbreakers and denims, both with the obligatory shaved heads that went with hired muscle. They could have been the American cousins of Shank's right-hand man. Perplexed at my appearance, they were caught in a limbo that stayed their hands as effectively as it did their brains. One of them had called out Five-O, street slang for police. That gave me a second advantage over them. Where they probably wouldn't hesitate to take out a rival, it wasn't okay to kill a police of?cer. Do that, and any agreement Petoskey had with the local police force went right out the window. When it came to avenging one of their own, the police would come down on them like a blue avalanche.
The disguise didn't fool them, but that was?ne. They saw through the shabby clothes, but saw something that wasn't there. So let them think I was a cop. It's what would save their lives.
"Police," I said. "You're both under arrest."
A totally lame statement, I know, but something they expected nonetheless. They gaped at me, then at each other, before breaking into stupid grins.
"You've got to be jokin', man," said one of them.
"No," I answered. "I'm deadly serious."
Tweedledum and Tweedledee, they again exchanged grins.
"What the hell you on, man?" Tweedledum asked. "You know you don't come here."
"Oh? You mean an of?cer of the law isn't welcome in your?ne establishment?" I said. Any old nonsense was enough to keep their attention on me another second or so.
"No, you're not welcome," said Tweedledee.
"Ah, now that is a shame," I told him.
"Yeah, a goddamn cryin' shame," Rink echoed as he whacked the stock of his shotgun into the nearest man's kidneys. The man buckled to his knees.
The second Tweedle twin spun to face Rink, backing up against the far wall as he reached to his pocket for a concealed weapon. Rink wasn't a black belt for nothing. He lifted a boot and kicked the man in the pit of his stomach, then held the man with his foot, pressing him up against the rotting plaster of the wall.
"Go on up," he said. "Leave these two punks to me."
"They're all yours," I told him.
I was about midway to the next landing when the shooting started. Not from below, but from above. It's natural to throw yourself down when?red upon. What is equally natural is the way I brought up my hand and?red off a return shot.
Boom! There goes the neighborhood, you might've said. And you'd have been right. All hope of engaging the enemy without shooting was gone now. Any remorse about killing had to be put behind me, too. When?red upon, there was only one recourse.
The stairwell echoed with the thump of feet. It could only be Petoskey's men looking for cover. There were four distinct voices as they called out to others in the building. Confusion was the reigning order. Someone was shouting that the police were here, while another shouted that Hendrickson's men were in the building. It didn't matter who the hell they thought they were up against; panic had turned their response deadly.
To buy a little respite, I unloaded a clip toward the head of the stairs, following my bullets with a headlong charge as I pushed another magazine in place.
Rink was still below me, snorting like a bull as he?nished off the two who'd tried to take me from behind. Undoubtedly eager to?nish the?ght and come to my assistance. Time to wait for him wasn't a luxury I possessed. I sprinted upward to a point where there was a turn in the stairs. Suicidal I'm not, but that's what I'd have been committing if I'd poked my head around the corner for a look. Unfortunately, I had to get some kind of bead on the men waiting to ambush me. Choice made, I thrust my gun around the bend,?ring three rapid shots. Just enough to force my ambushers to dive for cover. I spun into the cordite cloud searching for movement.
No one in sight, I sprang up the remaining stairs and into a recess on the left. I run regularly, occasionally go to the gym, yet I was still blowing hard. I blame it more on adrenaline dump than lack of condition.
The wall next to my shoulder was holed by one of my own bullets. I quickly pushed myself deeper into the recess,?ring off two more rounds into the quiet corridor. There were doors lining the corridor on both sides, and any one of them could be concealing an enemy shooter.
"Rink! Are you about done down there or what? I could do with that shotgun up here." Rink appeared on the stairs below me. Blood was seeping from a shallow nick below his left eye. Other than that, he appeared unhurt.
"One of the punks thought he'd do me with a set of brass knuckles," Rink said. He dabbed away blood with the back of his wrist. "I soon knocked that silly notion out of his skull."
"Get yourself up here and give me some cover," I whispered to him. "Sounds like they're holed up in a room on my right."
Rink came up the stairs, feeding shells into his shotgun. There was blood on the stock. Thug with brass knuckles versus Rink wielding a shotgun like a club: no contest.
"I'm going to try and get by that door there. If it looks like it's about to open, give 'em hell." "Leave it to me," Rink said. He moved to the head of the stairs where he could get a line on the door I'd indicated.
Cat-footed, I moved forward, my gun extended before me. The defenders behind the door had to know I was moving into the corridor, but there was nothing for it: I had to go forward. We had to stop them and stop them fast. I feared the arrival of reinforcements who'd be able to pen us in from below. Then there was the other consideration. That Petoskey was making a quick exit by another route. If he got away from us now, it'd probably be impossible to get a second chance at him.
Passing the door on the right, I nodded for Rink to follow, and he thumped up the corridor like Frankenstein's monster. True to form, the door exploded into splinters. Even the wall opposite was shredded, the bullets continuing into the rooms beyond.
As the?rst barrage ended, I swung in front of the shattered door, emptying my clip through the wood. Men yelled inside the room, one of them making a series of gasps. I'd hit one of them at least. That left-what?-three more?
Rink lifted a boot and smashed open the door. Immediately he blasted the interior of the room before swinging back out of sight. Two seconds of carnage were all I required to insert a full clip of ammo. Exchanging positions with choreographed precision, I opened up,?ring off bullets as quickly as I could squeeze the trigger. Then I was in the room and had moved left as Rink let off another full load of pellets.
Armed confrontations do not resemble John Woo's battles of balletic gunplay; any somersaulting or leaping through space discharging bullets is reserved for the movies. Reality is not so pretty. I slammed my back to a wall, my gun out before me, and emptied it at every target that moved. I was shouting something that was unintelligible even to me. An animal shout of loathing, fear, and unrestrained rage.
It took all of a few seconds to deplete my gun of bullets, yet I felt as spent as the bullet casings littering the?oor at my feet.
Rink hustled into the room, the stock of his shotgun to his shoulder as he sought targets. Smoke hung in the air. So did the unmistakable tang of blood. One man was huddled in a corner of the room, hands over his head as he sobbed in terror. Another was sprawled over a coffee table, a hole the size of a baby's?st in his shoulder. The man murmured, delirious in his agony.
That accounted for two of them, but I couldn't see where the other two were. As Rink covered the cowering man, I ejected my empty clip and inserted a fresh one. Rink moved over to the open window. Sounds of?ight ricocheted from the?re escape beyond.
"Careful," I said. Both to Rink and as a warning to the man who cringed away from the business end of my SIG. Rink gave me a wry grin as he approached the window.
"Like rats down a drainpipe," he observed. "Two of them are running for it."
"Let them run," I said. The cowering man peeked up at me through tears and smeared snot. I nudged him with a boot. "Where's John Telfer?"
In those old Poe books, victims of terror often gave out a keening wail. I'd never heard one for real and couldn't imagine what one sounded like. Until now.
I nudged him harder. "I said, 'Where's Telfer?' I won't ask again."
He must have read something in my face. Maybe my hesitancy to kill in cold blood. Whatever it was, his demeanor suddenly changed. "Go to hell, asshole."
"So now you're the brave guy?" I put the muzzle of my gun to the center of his forehead. "You don't think I'll do it? Try me."
As suddenly, he was wailing again.
"Where's Telfer?" I asked.
"I don't know who you mean. Speak to Petoskey, man. Not us. For God's sake… don't kill me."
I took the gun from his skull. There was a scarlet ring where the hot metal had pressed into his?esh. "Second question, and the rules haven't changed. Where's Petoskey?"
He wanted to resist. Perhaps it was bravado, but more likely it was fear of his boss that held his tongue. Back went the gun.
"Where's Petoskey?"
Fear of a bullet in the skull now or perhaps one later from Petoskey if he survived; I could see the math going around in his head. It was a simple equation.
He nodded upward, eyes on the ceiling above.
"He's upstairs?" I asked.
The man nodded again.
"How many with him?"
"How the hell should I know?" the man spluttered.
"Guess," I said.
"Three, four… I don't know. Could be as many as a dozen for all I know!"
"Armed?"
"What do you think?"
It was a stupid question.
"Yes. It's the end of the line, buddy," I said. Then I slammed the butt of my gun against his temple, sprawling him sideways across the?oor.
"Maybe you should plug him and be done with it," Rink said from behind me.
Was that really my friend speaking?
"Can't do it."
"I know it's not right, but it makes more sense. We don't want to be going up there, leaving one of them behind us. Not when he's armed."
"You're right. But I'm not a murderer."
Rink's gaze sought the man with the new open-vent shoulder.
"He'll survive. Anyway, that was different," I said. "He was trying to kill me. But I won't kill a man in cold blood."
Rink winked at me, his stern face softening. "Just checking, my old friend," he said. "Like I said last night, we don't have a license to kill no more."
"I hear you," I told him. And I meant it. But we still had a job to do, and it was my?rm guess that others would die this night. My only hope was that it wouldn't be either of us.