Authors: Mike McCrary
30
Ferris drives. In the passenger seat, Dutch loads a crudely sawed-off shotgun. Chicken Wing’s in the back, checking his .357 and sharpening a hunting knife—the one he keeps on his ankle for up-close-and-personal work. These are not the polished, tactically sound weapons of professionally trained killers. These are the tools of men who were schooled in the violence of broken homes, poor neighborhoods, and shitty role models.
Something is obviously bothering Ferris. He’s been running through possible scenarios concerning the death-match they are headed into. This is what Ferris does. Chicken Wing jumps without looking, and Ferris thinks. He wants to look at all the angles. No matter how crude the goal, he wants to be smart. There’s something they haven’t considered.
“We sure he’s alone?”
There’s silence in the van, as even Chicken Wing gives the question its due. Chicken Wing answers with a tone of impulsive wisdom. “Of course. Everybody hates the prick.”
“Lester tried to help him, even after Remo put him in jail. I’m just saying, we don’t know,” explains Ferris.
Dutch thinks. Chicken Wing doesn’t bother with thought anymore. He tried it on for size; it didn’t fit. He just wants blood and becomes a difficult little boy if he doesn’t get it.
On the other side of the spectrum, Dutch knows the answers to most of life’s questions are usually somewhere in the middle. The correct answer to a situation is rarely balls-out one way or the other. Nine times out of ten it doesn’t come down to “do nothing” or “murder every fucking thing moving.” That’s the yin and yang of Dutch’s world: Ferris and Chicken Wing’s dueling philosophies. Sometimes one of them alone does hold the correct course of action, but in this case Dutch feels down the middle is the call. There’s too much at stake here for left wing/right wing (or Chicken Wing) partisan bickering.
Dutch gives his ruling.
“Make some calls. Find some local sluggers looking for fast work.”
31
East Hampton
.
Gorgeous homes sprawled on the coast of
New York
. Vacation homes of the fortunate. Remo’s second home. His den for mediations, his little hideaway and fuck shack. It lies in an area where the homes sit just off the water.
Great places to escape life for awhile.
It’s a quaint, two-story Victorian home with a sprawling, covered porch that wraps around the house. The backyard runs right up to the sand and water. A line of thick trees surrounds the front yard, secluding it from even the possibility of pain-in-the-balls neighbors looking on.
Hollis’s Lexus SUV is parked in the circular driveway, two kids’ car seats strapped in the backseat. Even a certified badass has to transport the kids.
In the distance, a repetitive chunking sound causes a dull echo to seep from the house.
Inside the vacation home Hollis works a high-powered nail gun. Remo helps by holding long straps of roofing material in place. They use it to secure one of the recently purchased mattresses in front of a window. Defense measures are in full effect. The other windows already have mattresses secured snuggly in place.
Hollis looks around, inspecting his work. It’s not bad. Not perfect, and it would never hold up in a military theater, but for a brief firefight among friends…it’ll do. Hollis tells Remo, “You’re all set upstairs too.” He gives a reassuring nod as he keeps working, surveying and planning for the upcoming attack on the house. Remo follows him like child, watching everything and soaking up every word. Hollis knocks on a living room pillar, then another as he continues his inspection of every square inch of the home. Your average home inspection doesn’t include a walk-through to assess the possibility of battle with psychopaths.
Perhaps they should.
Hollis keeps scanning, spot-checking his work while consulting with Remo. “Don’t worry about running out of bullets. I’ve got you stocked with enough ammo to invade
Connecticut
.” He goes back to the middle pillar, giving it a hard shove then tells Remo, “If you get boxed in down here and need cover, use this one. It’s a support beam, it can take some hits.”
In spite of all Remo’s faults he’s not without gratitude, he’s just miserable at expressing it. In his line of work, hell his life in general, “please” and “thank you” are not words he uses often. If he uses them at all, it’s to manipulate the piss out of someone. Genuine appreciation is tough. Nevertheless, Remo tries by saying, “Hey man, I just—”
Hollis cuts him off. “Remember. Shoot and do not hesitate.”
“Hollis—”
“You’ve probably got twenty, thirty minutes tops before the cops come swarming in.”
“Can I say something?”
Hollis keeps checking points off his list without pausing for Remo to speak. “Oh yeah, wait until after I’ve left and call the Mashburns in.”
“Hollis!”
Hollis stops the battleplan run-through and turns to face Remo. Hollis has perfected a way of looking at people that gives them nothing. He projects neither sympathy nor kindness, neither hate nor distain. It is simply something undefined.
Remo hates Hollis’s undefined face, but continues all the same. “You didn’t have to help me.” He starts to pace, playing with the shotgun sling, picking at it like a young girl would pull at an uncomfortable Sunday school dress. Completely uneasy with this sort of talk, he looks down at his shoes. “Most people in your position wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire, but you put aside all our baggage and I just want to tell you . . .
” He pauses. How the hell do people talk like this all the time? Feelings spewing all over the fucking place. However, he realizes he does actually feel better by saying it out loud. The weight is starting to lift; he’s thanking Hollis and he means it.
It’s a start.
He feels the warmth of contentment spread throughout him as he comes to grips with this revelation, this borderline sense of pride he’s feeling from this little slice of self-growth. He’s almost beaming as he completes this grand moment of thanks. He looks up to find…
Hollis gone.
Remo blinks, spins around. Hollis has left the building. Remo finishes his thought out loud anyway. “Thanks.”
The reality of his situation begins to creep back.
The Mashburn brothers situation.
The contentment and warmth are gone.
Remo resumes his frantic pacing.
Outside the vacation hideaway a van rolls up. The bad men are here. The worst case scenario has arrived.
The Mashburns exit the van.
Scan the area.
Check the Google map.
Check their weapons.
They’re just down the street from the gates of Remo’s property. Trees surround the gate and the nearby area. No words are spoken between the brothers, only a singular purpose between them: get their hard earned money and kill Remo . . . in no particular order.
Chicken Wing buzzes with a manic energy.
Ferris is cautious and controlled, but ready for violence at the flick of a switch.
Dutch has the confidence that comes from being a successful, lifelong madman.
They make a determined, single-minded march, descending upon Remo like the messengers of death they are.
Inside the house, Remo is wearing out the floor, pacing like an expecting father. He’s almost pulling his hair from his scalp, thoughts burning him down from the inside out. Nothing can really prepare you for what is coming for Remo. He looks at the checklist Hollis prepared for him just in case Remo freaks out and forgets. Remo pooh-poohed the very thought when Hollis suggested actually putting pen to paper and writing out a list, but Hollis was right. Remo has started to freak out and has forgotten everything, including #1.
Calm the fuck down.
Remo moves on to #2.
He straps on his Kevlar vest and takes a deep breath, trying to find his center, to find a place in his head where he can function. He knows there’s no way out of this.
Remo checks the window; the sun is starting to set. He knows it’s time to call them. Fights it, but it’s time. He pulls his cell, ready to dial.
It rings before he gets the chance.
Remo drops the phone, picking it up on the second bounce. Heart in his throat, he answers.
“Great place, Remo.” Dutch’s voice digs a hole in Remo.
Shell shocked, panic strips Remo to the bone.
He flies up the stairs with all the grace of a pregnant yak. He skids across the hardwood in the second floor bedroom on his knees, stumble-rolling into position in front of the sniper rifle perched at the ready. His breath is heavy, partly from running upstairs, mostly from the knowledge there are armed whackos in his yard.
He presses his eye to the scope, views the perfectly manicured yard. It’s empty. Still. Peaceful. It’s almost as if the plush grass is waiting for war as well.
Remo grabs his cell. He takes a big swallow, saliva hard to come by. “What do we do now?”
“Well, maybe you come outside with the money.”
“It’s nice in here, Dutch,” says the shaky Remo.
Along the tree line, Dutch has taken cover with a good view of the front of the house. This isn’t the first time Dutch has stormed a house, though usually it’s a crappy apartment or some half-ass meth shack in the middle of nowhere. This is a significant step up in tax brackets, but the same school of thought applies. This is a good spot, thinks Dutch, for now.
Ferris waits a few trees over soaking up the details of the house, listening to and observing the landscape trying to calculate the best play here.
Chicken Wing is yet a few more trees down, Glock in one hand, .357 in the other. These are the times that make the man tick.
Ferris gives a look to Dutch, almost telepathic communication firing between the two brothers. It’s clear they don’t like any of this. Chicken Wing just wants to hurt someone
Dutch replies, “Why don’t you come outside? Haven’t seen you in years.”
Remo just stares through the scope, completely frozen. He heard Dutch’s words, but his focus is on not pissing himself. He knows coroner’s reports, what they read and how they circulate around the city
The deceased pissed his pants before he was killed.
Not how a man would prefer to be remembered.
32
Remo has the rifle’s sight plastered so tight it’s nearly become part of his eye.
Sweat beads, verging on pouring.
Heart pounds hard against his ribs.
He moves the rifle from side to side trying to keep aim on them, trying to keep up with the Mashburn brothers. They change positions, improve their positions, constantly moving behind trees, making it damn difficult on Remo.
Not the Mashburns’ first rodeo.
Outside, Dutch’s eyes alternate between his brothers and the house, trying to get a read on the situation. Where’s Remo’s head? What does he have going on inside that house? Aside from the language, Dutch uses the tone he would take with his mother as he speaks to Remo. “Just toss out the fucking money and we can go grab a beer down the road. Have a laugh about all this.”
Remo knows that’s not so subtle a code for he’s a dead man no matter what. Replies, “Sorry, I’ve got a thing later.”
There’s a crunch of brush behind Dutch. He turns, the local sluggers have arrived. Dutch would smile if he believed in it. Dutch is fairly confident the advantage is now firmly in his favor no matter what that asshole has waiting in that house. Dutch tells Remo, “Tell you what. I’m going to send Chicken Wing to the front door, and if you’re less than hospitable . . .
”
Remo adjusts his sight. His eyes bulge as he sees Chicken Wing step from the tree line. Remo takes a little bit of pride in the fact that his handiwork has left Chicken Wing looking like he got his ass kicked by a bad man. He exhales deeply, says back to Dutch, “If he’s cool, I’m cool.”
Chicken Wing takes a couple of steps forward from the tree line into the front yard, toward the front porch of the house. He looks around; coast is clear. Gun in each hand, he begins walking, moving out onto the lush front lawn.
From his second floor vantage point, Remo’s finger tickles the trigger, fumbles a bit. He looks away from the scope, wipes the sweat away and then goes back again. Thinks, I really should shoot this guy.
It’s harder than he thought.
Chicken Wing keeps walking at a steady pace. Not in a rush, but not a slow walk either. The steady, determined march of a killer. His mind dances with the heart-warming thought of blowing Remo’s face off. It’s beautiful day.
He looks back to Dutch, gives a toothy grin and a shrug. This is going to be sooo damn easy.
A loud crack of gunfire sounds out.
The single shot explodes into Chicken Wing’s shoulder. The impact spins him around, but he remains on his feet. The Glock flies from his hand, landing softly in the grass. The shot echoes, followed by eerie quiet.
The whole world seems to disappear.
Complete shock rips through Chicken Wing. This doesn’t happen. For a fraction of a second he thinks, so this is what it feels like. Fucking sucks to get shot. This is as close to empathy as Chicken Wing has been or ever will be. His shoulder seeps, a bloody mess.
Dutch and Ferris’s surprise quickly turns into hostility. Their brother is a headache and an unquestionable fuck-up, but he’s their brother and they take exception to anyone shooting one of their own.
Up in his second floor perch, Remo can’t find his breath. He can’t believe he did it. “Holy shit!” He’s excited, taken back to that little kid at the carnival in Cut and Shoot,
Texas
, who knocked over milk jugs with a baseball.
Remo finally understands what all the fuss was about, why so many of his clients take pleasure in shooting the people who piss them off. So this is what it feels like to shoot an asshole. Pretty fucking sweet.
Chicken Wing holds his shoulder with his .357 hand, twirling in circles in the front yard trying to shake loose the pain. Sucks in through his teeth with hard, short breaths. Blood slips and spills through his fingers. Seeing red, he releases an inhuman war cry from deep inside. Wounded animals sound more pleasant than this. The hollow, angst-dripping wail cuts through the air. The streaming, blistering sound that pours out from Chicken Wing is
the stuff of mythological beasts.
Remo looks on from above, boyish excitement fading. It’s become abundantly clear he has simply awoken a sleeping, psychopathic giant.
Fuck.
Chicken Wing’s wail continues as Dutch and Ferris spill out from the trees. They don’t hesitate as they open up heavy suppression fire. Sporadic waves of bullets pelt the second floor. Dutch wraps Chicken Wing up in his arms, moving him along while blasting away.
Remo’s eyes snap wide open. Bullets whizz by him, popping and zipping through the walls and windows. He pulls himself back up to the rifle, shielding his eyes from the flying glass. Before he can get his eye to the scope, he sees through the blown out window three hard-hitting, tougher than leather thugs spill from the trees armed for war, storming toward the house. Big as linebackers, armed like a SWAT team, they fall in behind the Mashburns. Remo hasn’t seen these cats before, doesn’t know who they are. This new, united army thunders headlong toward the front porch, big guns and bad attitudes at the ready.
Remo’s world slips into slow motion—they say that happens during car wrecks and times of personal danger. His thoughts explode, compress, then explode again.
This is how his dad died.
This is how he’s going to die.
This is how his son will remember him, pissing himself before dying a horrible death.
What was it Hollis told him before he left?
Oh yeah, something about shooting and not hesitating.
Remo forgets the scope and just starts firing, ripping off shots as fast as he can, shrapnel, glass and bits of house bouncing around him.
Bullets churn up the front lawn by the fistful. Most of the shots miss the impending doom coming Remo’s way, not even slowing them down to a jog. Then, one lucky shot lands. A leg is knocked out from under one beefy thug. Actually, it’s almost blown off at the knee. Remo takes the time to aim and fires another while the thug’s a stationary target. The high velocity round plugs the thug in the chest, sending him hard to the grass.
Remo doesn’t waste time on the victory. Spit flies from his mouth as he releases his own battle cry, firing with all he has until…
Click.
Click.
Fumbling for a reload, he hears sounds from downstairs.
Beating.
Kicking.
Ramming at the front door. Glass smashes, the sound muffled by a pillow-top mattress covering the window.
Remo scrambles to the stairs, shotgun in its tactical sling bouncing like a badass handbag. He takes the stairs as if they weren’t there. About two steps from the bottom, the front door takes a blast from a 12 gauge, the door knob flying past Remo’s head. Another shotgun blast takes out the deadbolt.
A thug punches through, door flinging open to reveal a wall of a man brandishing an AR-15. He looks like a badass…right up until the point he’s met by a shotgun blast from Remo. Just like it did at the range, the Mossberg flies from Remo’s hand, but stays close thanks to the sling. He scrambles to get control of it again.
The thug falls back through the door onto the porch, body flops like a side of beef. Ferris and Dutch watch the body land, blood pouring from the wounds. Dutch motions for Ferris to go around back with the remaining local muscle.
Before leaving, Ferris gives Chicken Wing an Are you okay? glance. Chicken Wings waves him off. Not the time to baby the man. Rage erases all the pain of his blown out shoulder. Ferris and the thug take off around the house.
Dutch and Chicken Wing take positions on either side of the front door, Dutch calling out to Remo. “You are a cocksucker. That much is certain.”
Remo listens as he rushes to the Hollis approved pillar for cover. Remo barks, “Aren’t we way past name calling . . . cunt?”
At the back of the house, Ferris and the thug round the corner into the small backyard overlooking the beach. The sun setting over the water would be gorgeous if not for the bloodthirsty criminals and hostile gunplay.
Remo keeps his head on a swivel. He can make out movement on the porch, also the shadows moving around back. He knows they’re coming at him from all angles.
“You’re boxed in Remo. Give this up,” calls out Dutch.
Remo’s breath shortens, blood pressure elevates. The walls are closing in.
Dutch keeps up the talk. “All we want is the money.”
“It’s all in nickels now. That okay?” Remo smirks to himself. It’s good he can still crack wise.
Dutch shakes his head with a wry grin. Funny man, that Remo. Chicken Wing is not amused. His ravaged shoulder has robbed him of his sense of humor.
Dutch replies, “We’re going to come in there, and we are going to kill you. Or, we can make one last deal. Give us the money . . .”
Remo is all ears.
“And I won’t chop up Sean.”
Remo’s blood turns to ice.
He closes his eyes tight, wishing he hadn’t just heard his son’s name come from Dutch’s mouth. A bad situation just blew past worse on its way to unimaginable.
Dutch keeps working him. “What did you think? We wouldn’t find out. That’s cute. I haven’t seen him myself, but I hear he’s a real nice looking boy. Why don’t you come on out? You decline and everybody dies in a very nasty way.”
Remo can only listen. He has no angle to play.
“How about I drag you along so you can watch what I do to the boy? That’s a better idea. Yeah, I like that. Whatcha think, counselor? Sound like a plan?” Dutch talks like a man who knows he’s holding every card in the deck. Except the money card, which Remo stole from him.
Ferris and the thug stand at the back, guns ready to blast open the door. Ferris has to strain, but he can hear Dutch from the front porch. He holds tight, waiting for some kind of sign from Dutch.
Dutch checks his .357, wondering which bullet will be the one to blow Remo’s brains out. “Your call, counselor.”
Remo’s lost, thoughts racing around his head at breakneck speed.
How did it get to this?
What have I done?
I’ve put Sean and Anna in danger.
What do I fucking do now?
“Remo? You still with us buddy?” Dutch is giving the performance of a lifetime. “You can save your boy’s life right here and now. I hate the countdown drama, but I guess there’s a reason it happens. I’m giving you a three count. If you don’t come out, well . . . the math on this is simple.”
Remo closes his eyes and listens to Dutch countdown.
“One . . .”
Ferris and the thug listen with bated breath from the back of the house.
“Two . . .”
Weapons up.
Fingers on triggers.
Chicken Wing is so ready, .357 itching to go off.
“Remo? There’s not gonna be a two and a half.”
Remo takes a deep breath. The only thought in his head is for his son, his Sean. Probably should have been his only thought for years. Not that Sean wasn’t on Remo’s mind, but it wasn’t enough. Even Remo knows that.
What Dutch doesn’t know is that before he threatened Sean, Remo may have lost focus. If this was only about Remo, he may have slipped up, fucked up. But somehow, when it’s about something bigger than Remo, he finds a new level of concentration. Caring about someone more than you do about yourself does that to a man. Remo has been forced to think beyond Remo, beyond his future, his career, his wealth. He has been forced to understand that what happens here is going to affect something he truly cares about. Even if he could give a fuck or less about himself, he cares about Sean. Remo may have made a mistake without Dutch’s careless threat, but the only mistake made here today was by Dutch.