Apaches (42 page)

She saw the blade come up but could do nothing.

She waited but the knife came no closer. Wilber Graves had noticed her vest, knew the knife in his hand wouldn’t penetrate. Mrs. Columbo smiled.

“I’m not making it easy for you, am I?” she said.

“I prefer you didn’t,” Wilber said, smiling back.

Mrs. Columbo lifted a knee to Wilber’s groin and
brought the bone of her elbow flush against his nose, breaking it and blinding him with his own blood. He let go of her hand and fell to his knees. She lifted her gun hand and rested the pistol against the top of his head.

“Pull the trigger,” Wilber whispered.

Mrs. Columbo made the error every cop dreads.

She hesitated.

She flashed back to the night she was attacked, her body ravaged by a madman’s angry knife. She could see the blade swish up and down and felt the pain each time it cracked through skin. She was meant to die that night on that street.

Instead, it would be another man, holding another knife, who would decide the ending to her life.

Wilber Graves shoved the blade of the knife into her knee and twisted it. Mrs. Columbo let out a low groan and dropped the gun. Her left leg went numb and she felt dizzy, holding on to the wall for support. Wilber lifted his right hand and slid her down next to him. He pulled the knife out of her leg, reached behind her to undo the vest. Mrs. Columbo looked at the ceiling, her eyes barely able to focus, her upper body cold, the side of her leg warmed by the flow of blood.

“I’ll miss you, Mrs. Columbo,” Wilber told her.

“Wish I could say the same,” Mrs. Columbo said.

Wilber lifted the edge of her vest and rammed the knife deep into the center of her stomach, sliding it up until he bumped against the muscle of the chest cavity. He left it lodged there, too deeply imbedded to remove. Mrs. Columbo looked at him through glassy eyes, a sharp rush of pain mingled with a soothing numbness. She turned her head to the wall, closed her eyes, and thought about her son.

No one could harm her anymore.

•    •    •

B
OOMER WAS THE
one who found her.

He fell to his knees, slipping on her blood. He lifted
her head and cradled it. She was still breathing, if barely, tongue licking at her lips. She opened one eye and did her best to smile.

“It took this to get you to hold me,” she whispered.

Boomer didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak.

“I told you I could handle the rockets,” she said.

He nodded.

“You proud of me?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “Very proud.”

“Means a lot,” Mrs. Columbo said.

“I love you, Mary,” Boomer said. But those were words she never heard. Mrs. Columbo had already leaned her head back against Boomer’s arms and closed her eyes for the last time.

Boomer took off his windbreaker and covered her. He reached over, picked up her .38 Special, and jammed it inside the front of his pants. He undid the Velcro of his vest and tossed it over his shoulder.

Then Boomer stood and walked away from one more fallen Apache.

•    •    •

D
EAD
-E
YE WAS CORNERED
, bullets coming at him from four sides, ripping through the closet door he stood behind. He was low on ammo and couldn’t lift his right arm, which had taken two hits from a .44 caliber. There were six shooters closing in, two working pump-action shotguns. He had enough ammo and one good hand left to take out at least two. He took a deep breath and decided to make a rush at the gunmen.

If Dead-Eye was going to go down, it wasn’t going to be hiding behind an empty second-floor coat closet.

He jumped from the door, left hand out, gun held at an angle, firing off as many clips as it carried. He hit one of the shotguns in the chest, sending him over a railing. He swirled and took out a suit rushing from behind, and then took a hit himself in the right leg, bringing him down to one knee.

The four moved in closer, prepared to end a battle and a life. Dead-Eye looked at them and grunted.

“Wouldn’t have any bullets you could spare?” he asked.

“Just two,” the shotgun shouted back. “Both of them going into your fucking head.”

“Thanks anyway,” Dead-Eye said.

•    •    •

R
EV
. J
IM CAME
up the back steps, two .44 semis crisscrossed in his hands. He pumped three rounds into the back of the shotgun, sending him face down next to Dead-Eye. The other three sprang for cover.

Dead-Eye grabbed the shotgun, pulled the trigger, and took out part of a wall and one shooter. Rev. Jim walked past, dropped a handgun in his lap, and chased the other two down a corner hall, smoke and flames coming out the barrels of his guns. The last two bullets in the chambers left the men down and dead.

“I don’t want to hurt your feelings,” Rev. Jim said, standing over Dead-Eye. “But you don’t look so good.”

“It’s the heat,” Dead-Eye said. “I
hate
the heat.”

“Can you walk?”

“Not far,” Dead-Eye said.

“Can you shoot?” Rev. Jim asked.

“Just with my left hand,” Dead-Eye said. “Right one’s gone. At least for today.”

“Your one hand is still better than my two,” Rev. Jim said.

“You loaded?” Dead-Eye asked.

“Got enough rounds left where we won’t embarrass ourselves.”

“You’ll move faster without me,” Dead-Eye said. “Just leave me a gun and go.”

“Nobody gets rid of me that easy.” Rev. Jim put a loaded semi in Dead-Eye’s left hand, a .38 in his waistband, and a .44 bulldog in his right.

“I told you my right arm’s no good,” Dead-Eye said, forcing himself to his feet. “Can’t feel it.”

“Your trigger finger numb?” Rev. Jim asked, tossing Dead-Eye’s left arm around his shoulders and holding his waist with his right hand.

“No,” Dead-Eye said.

“Then why waste it?” Rev. Jim asked.

Dead-Eye and Rev. Jim made their way slowly down the hall, arms linked together, four guns in their hands, spraying bullets in all directions, leaving a line of blood behind them as their trail.

•    •    •

B
OOMER STOOD IN
the doorway of the second-floor master bedroom, watching Lucia Carney rummage through the center drawer of a bureau, her back to him.

“Nice place you had here,” he said.

She turned. From her demeanor, they might have been at a formal dance instead of the middle of a firestorm. “You must be Boomer,” she said. “Please come in.”

“I
am
in.” Boomer held Mrs. Columbo’s .38 in his hand.

“I expected to see a larger man.” Lucia stepped away from the bureau.

“Firemen are tall,” Boomer said. “Cops are short. That’s how you can tell us apart.”

“You’ve cost me considerable amounts of time and money, Boomer.”

“And you cost me three friends. Somehow it doesn’t even out.”

“I learned very early on that there’s a price for everything in life,” Lucia said. “And everyone I’ve met has one. I just haven’t figured out yours yet.”

“That’s an easy one,” he said. “You.”

“What?” She moved closer to him.

“
You’re
my price,” Boomer told her. “When you go down, I’ll walk away.”

“Your type’s not the kind to kill a woman,” Lucia said. “Even a woman like me.”

Boomer stared into Lucia’s eyes and knew there was someone else in the room. He managed to turn just as Wilber’s knife was about to shear his back. It flew past the front part of his right shoulder, but its force knocked him up against a wall and sent the gun he held to the floor.

“I’ve killed your friends,” Wilber taunted, his broken nose giving a deep nasal sound to his voice. “And now you will feel the same pain they did.”

Boomer waited until Wilber stepped closer, then rushed him, landing against his chest, both men falling to the floor. Boomer held back the knife hand and landed three solid lefts to the side of Wilber’s face.

Wilber Graves had firmly pressed a button that should not have been touched. There was an out-of-control rage to Boomer now, fed by the images of Pins, Geronimo, and Mrs. Columbo. He threw punches in a mad fury, breaking his hand against the hard bones of Wilber’s jaw and temple.

Boomer beat Wilber until he could no longer lift his arms. He fell over him, exhausted, lifted his head, short of breath, to look up at Lucia, who still stood above him.

He didn’t see the knife.

Wilber held it with four fingers and lifted it high above his head, barely able to see out of the slit of his eyes. He dropped the knife deep into the center of Boomer’s back.

Boomer let out a sharp yell, and fell face forward. He peered back at Wilber, who was watching, waiting for the cop to die.

Boomer spread his hand out, reaching for the fallen .38. He wrapped his fingers around it, turned at an angle toward Wilber. The killer’s face was a mask of red, his eyes vacant and distant as he struggled to his feet.

Boomer inched up to his knees, the pain in his back sharp, and clicked the trigger on Mrs. Columbo’s gun.
“This is from Mary,” Boomer said to Wilber Graves. He fired one shot into Wilber’s stomach and watched him crumple to the floor. “And this is from Carolyn.” The second bullet went into Wilber’s head. The assassin curled into a heap, then never moved again.

Boomer slowly, painfully, lifted himself against the side of the wall, leaving smears of blood in his wake. He walked with stilted, pained steps over toward Lucia, watching her reach behind the small of her back for the gun she had wedged there.

“I’ve never run into anyone like you,” Lucia said, pointing it at him.

“You would have, sooner or later.” He inched closer to Lucia, walking on legs he couldn’t feel. “There’s always going to be somebody like me out to stop somebody like you.”

“And how do people like you do that?” Lucia said.

“Any way we can.”

Before she could move or respond, Boomer took a deep, pain-filled breath and made a leap for her. Her gun exploded, but Boomer never even felt the bullet ripping into his chest. They both fell to the floor, his blood dripping over her designer clothes. He looked into her eyes, saw the flash of anger, the touch of madness that had made her drug runners tremble. But he wasn’t a drug runner.

He was a cop.

Boomer closed a fist and landed two sharp blows against the side of Lucia’s face, knocking her out cold. He then pulled a cigarette lighter from the front pocket of his blood-soaked jeans and clicked it open, staring at the blue flame. He reached behind him and pulled a roll of dynamite from the back of his jeans.

It was Geronimo’s roll.

He lit the forty-five-second fuse and shoved the dynamite down the front of Lucia’s blouse.

Boomer crawled away from her on hands and knees,
the pain so real it had a taste. He glanced at Wilber’s prone body for a final time and closed the door behind him with his foot.

He made it halfway down the hall when the dynamite blast took out the entire room and sent him flying toward a corner stairwell.

“The bitch is history, Geronimo,” Boomer mumbled, resting his head against a marble step.

•    •    •

T
HE THREE
A
PACHES
were all on the second floor.

Dead-Eye had his head down, leaning against a wall, weakened by his wound. Rev. Jim sat against a banister, his clothes caked, a bullet rendering his right leg useless. Boomer was spread face down on the tile floor under a pool of blood, Wilber’s knife in his back.

They were surrounded by smoke, flames, and the dead. They could hear the sounds of sirens and fire engine horns closing in.

“Hey, Boomer,” Rev. Jim said.

“What?” Boomer said without lifting his head.

“I don’t wanna upset you or anything, but there’s a knife stickin’ out of your back.”

“I needed a place to hang my hat,” Boomer told him.

“Good thinkin’,” Rev. Jim said.

As they waited in silence for the rescue squads to come and clean up, Dead-Eye turned to his right. One of the wounded shooters was crawling for his gun.

The shooter looked at Dead-Eye, his hand around the pistol handle. “Hey, nigger,” the shooter said, straining to lift the gun. “Don’t you ever miss?”

Dead-Eye curled the .44 he held in his left hand and squeezed off one round, hitting the shooter in the center of his forehead, dropping him dead.

“No,” Dead-Eye said, leaning his head back against the wall.

“Ask a stupid question …” Rev. Jim said.

The laughter of the wounded Apaches echoed through the shell of the burning house and floated out across the ruins of a fallen drug empire.

The ones they said could never be whole again had achieved victory.

B
OOMER SAT AT
the head of the small table, sipping a cup of tea, watching Dead-Eye and Rev. Jim go deep into a game of chess.

“Is that as boring to play as it is to watch?” Boomer asked.

“Yes,” Rev. Jim said.

“So why play it?” Boomer said.

“We don’t have any checkers,” Dead-Eye said.

The physical healing was almost complete.

Boomer and Dead-Eye had spent a month in an Arizona hospital. Rev. Jim was set loose after two weeks, during which he managed to fall hard for one of the night nurses. They each had to endure painful daily physical therapy sessions, which by now were a given in their lives.

As expected, there had been no legal complications from the attack on Lucia’s compound. The feds were more than eager to grab credit for the takedown of Lucia Carney and her crew. The Apaches watched the press conference on a TV in Boomer’s hospital room.

“If they could only bust as good as they bullshit,” Rev. Jim said, turning off the set, “there’d be no crime.”

They never did get to the private plane that waited for them three miles east of the compound. Instead, they drove out of Arizona in a rented convertible. Along the way they stopped to visit with Geronimo’s Native American adviser. The old man listened with bright eyes as they told him
how Geronimo had died—a brave warrior, unafraid and proud.