Gundown (6 page)

The tears again. More and more, they were there when he woke up. He touched a fingertip to a wet spot on his face and then tasted. Salty? Why?

His left arm was bandaged, and it ached. Bandaging wrapped his chest from under his arms to the bottom of his rib cage. Pain pulsed in his left side. He pushed the hurt down. He had thinking to do.

The woman said, “Should I call a nurse?”

He shook his head, then licked dry lips and croaked, “Who?”

Stone poured a glass of water as the woman answered. “I’m Jewel Washington. You helped me out yesterday. You know, when that greenie and his buddy were gonna . . . were gonna—”

The shooting in the courtyard popped into his mind. He nodded.

She took the cup from Stone and held it for Hank as he drank cool water through the straw. She wore rings on each of her slender fingers, two on some of them. He finished, leaned his head back, and smiled his gratitude.

She said, “I couldn’t thank you yesterday, so I’m here to do it now. But ‘thank you’ seems so . . . so nothing beside what you did for me.”

There was something about her and the shooter . . . Just before the gun fired, a purse had hit the gunman. If it hadn’t, he’d likely be in the morgue instead of a hospital room. He concentrated. It had been this woman’s face he’d seen before he blacked out. “The purse?”

She nodded. “I saw that gun and I just reacted.”

Hank’s peripheral vision caught a widening of Noah Stone’s eyes. Sort of a scared look. Hank nodded to Jewel. “We’re even.”

She smiled. She wasn’t model-pretty, but the way her looks added up—and the mind he sensed behind those bright eyes—left “pretty” running a poor second. Her business suit added to his impression of intelligence and purpose. The scar on her cheek drew his attention.

Her gaze caught his; she’d seen where his eyes were focused. She lifted her chin like a proud warrior bearing the marks of battle.

He grinned. “And thanks for the flowers.”

She nodded toward Noah. “Card says they’re from him.”

Hank looked at his assignment. A lively mind gazed back at him from hazel eyes. Stone’s expression was cool, but there were signs of tension—mouth tight, a squint to his eyes. Stone radiated the energy of a younger man, putting the lie to hair closer to white than gray. That plus not much in the way of wrinkles made his age difficult to pinpoint. Hank said, “Hello, Mr. Stone.”

Stone smiled, and warmth transformed his face. “Call me Noah. I owe you considerable thanks, too, for taking that bullet for me.”

Hank nodded. “Well, it wasn’t something I planned on doing.”

Noah said, “Do you go around saving people as a regular habit?”

Hank smiled. “Only on slow days.”

Noah laughed. Jewel touched Hank’s arm and said, “Listen, I gotta get to a job interview. I’m glad you’re okay.”

Noah said, “What’s the job market like here?”

She frowned. “It would have to work hard to get up to lousy. It’s a miracle when there’s something decent, and I don’t believe in miracles—at least I’ve never seen one.”

Hank saw appraisal in Stone’s face. Stone said, “What are you looking for?”

“Legal secretary. I’m good at it. And I’ve been studying at night school to be a paralegal.”

Stone said, “I need good people for our legal department; our laws have been changing faster than we can keep up.” He pulled out his wallet and gave her his business card. “If you ever come to Oregon, look me up.”

Her eyes lit up, and then narrowed. She shook her head. “I’ve got a, er, sick brother I have to care for.” She smiled and said, “Thanks anyway. Bye.” She hurried out.

• • •

Noah gazed after her. “Too bad. Sharp woman.” He turned to Hank. Could this man help? “Ah . . .” This was hard to talk about. “That man shooting at me . . . That was a very scary moment.”

“First time?”

Noah nodded. “Never anything like it. I mean, there have been hecklers, but that comes with the job. This was—” He didn’t want to think about it.

“Did the cops get the guy?”

“Yes. But where there’s one—” He wished he could throw off that thought. “The offer I made to Jewel goes for you, too. I’d be pleased if you would join me. From what I’ve seen, and from what I’ve heard you did for Miss Washington, you seem like the kind of man who could help me with security. Am I right?”

Soldado’s gaze was steady. No, more than that—piercing. Soldado nodded and then said, “I hear you’ve got a few things going on out there.”

Noah had to grin at that. “You might say we have a quiet revolution in progress.”

Soldado raised his eyebrows. “Some say your operation is a cult religion.”

Noah frowned. “There are . . . opponents who claim things like that. But the Alliance is totally open and free, quite the opposite of a cult, and about as secular as you can get. You’ll see, if you come.”

Soldado’s gaze kept boring in. “I can’t make that promise of yours.”

Noah shrugged. “Not required.”

“The way you talk about helping people, I’m not sure what I do is something the Alliance can use.”

“What do you do? Something other than saving pontificators from perforation?”

Soldado smiled. “Yeah. Sometimes duty calls in harsh ways.”

“Nobody does only one thing well,” Noah said. “Come out and see what happens.”

“All right, I will.”

The fear lurking in Noah’s mind took a step back. But it would return, he was sure of that. He gripped Hank’s shoulder again. “I’m very pleased. I hope we can get together. Be well.” He left feeling lighter and brighter than he had all morning.

• • •

Hank reached for the phone, gritting his teeth against the pain. He had it under control by the time the operator connected him with Mitch Parsons’s room at the Chelsea.

He said, “I need to see you.”

“What about your wound?”

“It’s my ticket in. Stone and I are practically blood brothers now.”

“I’ll be right over.”

While he waited, the doc came by and told him about his injuries. The bullet had struck the holster under his jacket and stopped, leaving a cracked rib. The arm was a through-and-through flesh wound.

Hank tried to doze, but pain jabbed him awake every time his eyes closed, and he didn’t want to dull his mind with painkillers. Giving up, he turned on the TV and caught a news report of the shooting. In slow motion, it showed a wisp of smoke curling from the shooter’s gun barrel just before a woman slammed into him. He grinned. Not a bad body block there. Some tough women in Chicago.

The video cut to a photo of an angry-looking man, a face Hank had seen on the other side of a gun. A voice-over said, “Accused assassin Jason Schaeffer was released today into the custody of noted criminal attorney Randolph Gutierrez.”

The scene cut to Schaeffer, led by a lawyer uniformed in a dark suit and a briefcase, making his way toward a limo through a crowd of reporters and cameramen on the Cook County courthouse steps. The voice-over continued.

“At his arraignment, Schaeffer pleaded not guilty. According to Gutierrez, the tape merely shows a man who took out a weapon for self-defense because a stranger in the crowd attacked him.”

Gutierrez said, “It was his right to shoot his attacker. You ask me, this Soldado guy is the one ought to be under arrest.”

Hank’s door opened and Mitch Parsons entered. “Hey, Hank.”

The news report cut to a woman who looked like a well-preserved forty-year-old Victoria’s Secret model. The reporter’s voice-over continued. “The alleged gunman is a member of the Mackinac Militia led by Colonel Martha Hanson.” Her name appeared on the screen as she nodded to the camera.

Hank raised his eyebrows when he heard the colonel’s name. She was eye candy, but on the inside, well, once a cop stopped her for speeding and she’d shot him in the leg and driven away because she was late for a meeting. That had cost her three years in the penitentiary. It had also doubled her already significant street cred with quick-draw militia and sovereign-citizen types.

The reporter said, “Colonel, was this man following your orders to shoot Noah Stone?”

The colonel smiled. Well, it looked like a smile, but it didn’t feel like one. “Now why would I want him to do that?”

“Your feelings about Stone’s opposition to lethal guns are well known.”

“Mr. Stone has every right to say what he wants, and I have every right to not like it.” Beneath a gaze as flat as a viper’s, the smile came again. “And I don’t tell people to go around shooting other people.” If smiles could kill . . .

Mitch grunted. When Hank glanced at him, he said, “Her eyes. You wonder if there’s a . . .” He frowned. “. . . a human being in there.”

Hank knew that look in her eyes. There’d been times in Afghanistan he’d felt like he was made of stone. He’d caught the same cold look on his own face in a Kabul window—just before a sniper’s bullet shattered the glass. He clicked the remote and Colonel Hanson disappeared.

Mitch’s gaze wandered over Hank’s bandages. “So, are you going to be all right?” He seemed to mean it. Sure he did. He was worried about getting some dirt on Noah Stone.

“I’ll be all right. Bullet tore up some muscle and cracked a rib.”

Mitch scowled. “Why’d you do it? Stop that guy.”

Hank replayed his actions. There had been no thought. There was no “why.” He shrugged, and it hurt. “Reflex, I guess. Years of being focused on protecting people.” He gazed at Mitch. “You’d have been okay with an assassination?”

Mitch’s eyes widened. “Oh, no. No. That was shocking.”

“Weren’t you asking me about ‘being prepared’ with a gun?”

“Yes. But that was theory, this was . . . reality.” He shook his head. “What counts now is what happens next. How long will you be laid up?”

“I’ll be mission-ready in a few days. Stone came to see me. He’s grateful. I’m invited to join him out in the Oregon boonies.”

Mitch nodded. “Super.” He took out a business card and a pen. “Don’t try taking a gun into Oregon. They check everyone flying into the state and all luggage.” As he wrote, he said, “This’s a gun-rights activist there who can get you a weapon.” He handed the card to Hank. “Nobody but you and me and him had better ever know that password.”

Hank took the card. “Like you said, be prepared.”

“Good luck.” Mitch turned toward the door, then stopped and faced Hank. “What did you think of Noah Stone?”

“Powerful. But to do what?”

“Change things. For the worse.”

“You’re right, Mitch. He needs to be stopped.”

Run for Your Life

When Jewel’s bus pulled up to Harrison Courts, the dim light of dusk did little to mask its shabbiness. She remembered all the talk when they started “renovating” the development—the mayor had said they would “cure a cancer.” Yeah, right. The place swarmed with low-life squatters and gangbangers.

Slow-moving after a grinding day of job-hunting, she was the last to leave the bus. Head down, clutching a can of Mace pepper spray, she scurried across a bare dirt courtyard behind a small cluster of blacks and Latinos. Not that she thought her Mace would do much good; the men—more often teenagers—who mugged and raped wore masks and sunglasses that blocked the worst of it. And there were usually guns in their hands.

Passing the Out of Service sign that had been taped to her elevator for a year, she trudged up four flights of stairs, breathing through her mouth to avoid the smell of urine.

When she unlocked the three deadbolts on her apartment door, Chloe’s voice on the other side shouted, “Mommy!” Jewel pushed the door open, and a hurtle of little girl raced into her arms. She scooped up her daughter, a four-year-old force of nature. Juana, the twelve-year-old neighbor who looked after Chloe, lowered her pepper spray and hurried to bolt the door.

Jewel set Chloe down and took a moment to simply gaze at her. She loved looking at her girl, and not because she was her spittin’ image—same milky-brown skin, same nose and big smile—but because of her innocence and bright flame of life.

“Chloe, love, you been a good child today?”

Chloe bounced on her tiptoes and chirped, “I was, Mommy. We played, and I read books.” She loved to run her finger over the words and read aloud.

Juana smiled on Chloe—they were more like sisters than neighbors. “She was fine, ma’am.”

Jewel sobered. “Timmy?”

“Mostly in his bed all day. He’s really hurtin’.”

“Thanks, Juana.” Jewel listened at the door, then unlocked it. She peered into the hall and found it empty. “Don’t know if I need you tomorrow, got no interviews yet.” She gave Juana two twenties and let her slip out.

Juana hurried to the next door down the hall, knocked, and whispered her name. Latches clicked and she was admitted. Jewel locked up.

She tousled Chloe’s hair. “Listen, honey, why don’t you play while I see to Uncle Timmy?”

“He’s sick again, Mommy.”

“I know, sugar. I got him some medicine.”

Going into her bedroom and then to the walk-in closet that served as her brother’s room, she found Timmy shivering on his mattress on the floor, a sheet pulled up to his chin. The air stank of stale sweat and soiled clothes—she needed to do a cleanup.