The Barrens & Others (17 page)

He grabbed Reece's scattergun and pulled him and Reilly free from the customers. Both were battered and bloody. He shoved them toward the front door.

"I told you clowns about trying to cut in on my turf! How many times we have to do this dance?"

Reilly whirled on him, rage in his eyes. He probably would have leapt at Jack's throat if not for the shotgun.

"We was here
first
, asshole!"

"Maybe. But
I'm
here now, so scrape up your two wimps from the back room and get them out of here."

He oversaw the pair as they dragged Rafe and Tony out the front door. Cheeks was on his feet by then. Jack waved him forward.

"C'mon, loverboy. Party's over."

"He's got my ring!" the brunette cried from the far end of the counter. She held her torn dress up over her breasts. There was blood at the corner of her mouth. "My engagement ring."

"Really?" Jack said. "That ought to be worth something! Let's see it."

Cheeks glared at Jack and reached into his back pocket with his good hand.

"You wanna see it?" he said. Suddenly he was swinging a big Gurkha
kukri
knife through the air, slashing at Jack's eyes. "Here! Get a close look!"

Jack blocked the curved blade with the short barrel of the sawed off, then grabbed Cheeks's wrist and twisted. As Cheeks instinctively brought his broken hand up, Jack dropped the shotgun. He grabbed the injured hand and squeezed. Cheeks screamed and went to his knees.

"Drop the blade," Jack said softly.

It clattered to the counter.

"Good. Now find that ring and put it on the counter."

Cheeks dug into the left front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a tiny diamond on a gold band. Jack's throat tightened when he saw the light in the brunette's eyes at the sight of it. Such a little thing... yet so important.

Still gripping Cheeks's crushed hand, he picked up the ring and pretended to examine it.

"You went to all that trouble for this itty bitty thing?" Jack slid it down the counter. "Here, babe. Compliments of the house."

She had to let the front of her dress drop to grab it. She clutched the tiny ring against her with both hands and began to cry. Jack felt the black fury crowd the edges of his vision. He looked at Cheeks's round baby face, glaring up at him from seat level by the counter top, and picked up the
kukri
. He held it before Cheeks's eyes. The pupils dilated with terror.

Releasing the broken hand, Jack immediately grabbed Cheek's throat and jaw, twisted him up and around, and slammed the back of his head down on the counter, pinning him there. With two quick strokes he carved a crude "X" in the center of Cheeks's forehead. He howled and Jack let go. He grabbed the shotgun again and shoved Cheeks toward the door.

"Don't worry, Cheeks. It's nothing embarrassing – just your signature."

Once he had them all outside, he used the shotgun to prod them into the alley between the diner and the vacant three story Borden building next door. They were a pitiful bunch, what with Tony and Rafe barely able to stand, Cheeks with a bloody forehead and a hand swollen to twice normal size, and Reece and Reilly nursing cracked ribs and swollen jaws.

"This is the last time I want to do this dance with you guys. It's bad for business around here. And besides, sooner or later one of you is really going to get hurt."

Jack was about to turn and leave them there when he heard tires squeal in the street. Headlights lit the alley and rushed toward him. Jack dove to his left to avoid being hit as the nose of a beat up Chrysler rammed into the mouth of the alley. His foot slipped on some rubble and he went down. By the time he scrambled to his feet, he found himself looking into the business ends of a shotgun, a 9mm automatic, and a Tec 9 assault pistol.

He'd found the missing members of Reilly's gang.

*

Even though it made his ribs feel like they were breaking, Matt couldn't help laughing.

"Gotcha!
Gotcha
, scumbag!"

He picked up the fallen scattergun and jabbed the barrel at Ski mask's gut. The guy deflected the thrust and almost pulled it from his grasp. Fast hands. Better not leave this guy any openings.

"The gun," he said. "Take it out real slow and drop it."

The guy looked at all the guns pointed at him, then reached into his pocket and pulled out his own by the barrel; it fell to the alley floor with a thud.

"Turn around," Matt told him, "lean on the wall, and spread 'em, police style. And remember – one funny move and you're full of holes."

Matt patted down his torso and legs and told him, "You musta thought I was a stupid jerk to hit this place without back up. These guys've been waiting the whole time for you to show. Never figured you'd come in the back, though. But that's okay. We gotcha now."

The frisk turned up nothing, not even a wallet. The blue jacket had nothing in the pockets except the cash from the register. He'd get that later. Right now, though, it was game time.

"All right. Turn around. Let's see what you look like."

When the guy turned, Matt reached up and pulled off the pumpkin headed ski mask. He saw an average looking guy about ten years older than he and his boys – mid thirties, maybe – with dark brown hair. Nothing special. Matt shoved the mask back on the top of the guy's head where it perched at a stupid looking angle.

"What's your name, asshole?"

"Jack."

"Jack what?"

"O'Lantern. It's an old Irish–"

Suddenly Cheeks was at Matt's shoulder, brandishing the Special Forces knife they kept in the car.

"He's
mine!
" he screeched. "Lemme make his face into a
permanent
jack o lantern!"

"Cool it, man."

"Look what he did to me! Look at my fuckin' hand! And look at this!" He pointed the knife at the bloody "X" on his forehead. "Look what he did to my face! He's
mine
, man!"

"You get firsts, okay? But not here, man. We're gonna take Mr. Jack here for a ride, and then we're
all
gonna get a turn with him." He held the shotgun out to Cheeks. "Here. Trade ya."

Matt took the heavy, slotted blade and placed the point against one of the guy's lower eyelids. He wanted to see him squirm.

"Some knife, huh? Just like the one Rambo uses. Even cuts through
bone!
"

The guy winced. His tough guy act was gone. He was almost whining now.

"Wha...what are you going to do?"

"Not sure yet, Mr. Jack. But I'm sure Cheeks and me can think up a thousand ways to make you wish you'd never been born."

The guy slid along the wall a little, pressing back like he was trying to seep into it. His right hand crept up and covered his mouth.

"You're not gonna t torture me, are you?"

Behind him, Cheeks laughed. Matt had to smile. Yeah, this was more like it. This was going to be
fun.

"Who? Us? Torture? Nah! Just a little sport. 'Creative playtime,' as my teachers used to call it. I've got this
great
imagination. I can think of all sorts of–"

Matt saw the guy twist his arm funny. He heard a
snikt!
and suddenly this tiny pistol was in the guy's hand and the big bore of the stubby barrel was staring into his left eye from about an inch away. And the guy wasn't whining anymore.

"Imagine
this
, Matt!" he said through his teeth. "You do a lousy frisk."

Matt heard his boys crowding in behind him, heard somebody work the slide on an automatic.

"You got no way out of this," he told the guy.

"Neither do you," the guy said. "You want to play Rambo? Fine. You've got your oversized fishing knife? I've got this Semmerling LM 4, the world's smallest .45. It holds five three hundred-grain hollowpoints. You know about hollowpoints, Matt? Imagine one of those going into your skull. It makes a little hole going in but then it starts to spread as it goes through your brain. When it leaves your head it'll take most of your brain – not a heavy load in your case – and the back half of your skull with it, spraying the whole alley behind you."

Without turning, Matt could sense his boys moving away from directly behind him.

He dropped the knife. "Okay. We call this one a draw."

The guy grabbed the front of his shirt and dragged him deeper into the alley, to an empty doorway. Then he shoved Matt back and dove inside.

Matt didn't have to tell the others what to do. They charged up and began blasting away into the doorway. Jerry, one of the new arrivals, stood right in front of the opening and emptied his Tec 9's 36 round clip in one long, wild, jittery burst. He stopped and was grinning at Matt when a single shot came from inside. Jerry flew back like someone had jerked a wire. His assault pistol went flying as he spun and landed on his face. This big wet red hole gaped where the middle of his back used to be.

"Shit!" Matt said. He turned to Cheeks. "Go around the other side and make sure he doesn't sneak out."

Reece nudged him, making climbing motions as he pointed up at the rusty fire escape. Matt nodded and boosted him up. It creaked and groaned as Reece, his scattergun clamped under his arm, headed for the second floor like a ghost in white fringed leather. Matt hoped he got real close to the bastard before firing – close enough to make hamburger out of his head with the first shot.

Everybody waited. Even Rafe and Tony had come around enough to get their pieces out and ready. Tony was in bad shape, though. His nose was all squished in and he made weird noises when he breathed. His face looked
awful
, man.

They waited some more. Reece should have found him by now.

Then a shotgun boomed inside.

"Awright
Reece!
" Rafe shouted.

Matt listened a moment to the quiet inside. "Reece! Y'get him?"

Suddenly someone came flying out the door, dark blue jacket and jack o lantern ski mask, stumbling like he was wounded.

"Shit, it's
him!
"

Matt opened up and so did everyone else. They pumped that bastard so full of holes a whole goddamn medical center couldn't patch him up even if they got the chance. And then they kept on blasting as he fell to the rubble strewn ground and twisted and writhed and jolted with the slugs. Finally he lay still.

Cheeks came running back from the other side of the building.

"Y'get 'im?" he said. "Y'get 'im?"

"Got him, Cheeks!" Rafe said. "Got him
good!
"

Matt pointed the guy's own .45 at him as he approached the body. No way he could be alive, but no sense in taking chances. That was when he noticed that the guy's hands were tied behind his back. Matt suddenly had a sick feeling that he'd been had again. He pulled off the ski mask, knowing he'd see Reece's face.

He was right. And he had a sock shoved in his mouth.

Behind Matt, Cheeks howled with rage.

*

Abe ran his fingers through the shoulder fringe of the white leather jacket.

"So, Jack. Who's your new tailor? Now that Liberace's gone, you're thinking maybe of filling his sartorial niche? Or is this Elvis you're trying to look like?"

Jack couldn't help smiling. "Could be either. But since I don't play piano, it'll have to be Elvis. You can open for me, seeing as you've got the Jackie Mason patter down perfect. You write for him?"

"What can I say?" Abe said with an elaborate shrug. "He comes to me, I give him material."

Jack pulled off the jacket. He'd known he'd get heat from Abe for it, but it was a little too cold out tonight for just a sweater. But he was glad Abe was still in his store. He kept much the same hours as Jack.

Jack rolled up the right sleeve of his sweater and set the little Semmerling back into the spring holster strapped to his forearm. Not the most comfortable rig, but after tonight he ranked it as one of the best investments he'd ever made.

"You had to use that tonight?"

"Yeah. Not one of my better nights."

"
Nu?
You're not going to tell me how such a beautiful and stylish leather coat fits in?"

"Sure. I'll tell you downstairs. I need some supplies."

"Ah! So this is a for buying visit and not just a social call. Good! I'm having a special on Claymores this week."

Abe stepped to the front door of the Isher Sports Shop, locked it, making sure the "SORRY, WE ARE CLOSED" sign faced toward the street. Jack waited as he unlocked the heavy steel door that led to the basement. Below, light from overhead lamps gleamed off the rows and stacks of pistols, rifles, machine guns, bazookas, grenades, knives, mines, and other miscellaneous tools of destruction.