Fuzzy Navel (14 page)

I
GIVE THE DRAIN JOINT one last turn and it comes loose. My fingers are torn and bloody, and my hands feel like lead weights. I raise them up, pull the handcuff chain between the sink and the pipe, and then I’m free.

I don’t waste time celebrating the victory. Jack had turned off the lights in the kitchen, so it’s tough to see, but I locate the utensil drawer from memory. I feel forks and spoons and assorted cooking supplies until I find what I’m after – a lever action corkscrew. The curly end fits nicely into the keyhole of my cuffs, and I have them off within a few seconds.

Even if the house wasn’t surrounded by snipers, running wouldn’t be an option. Before I leave here, Jack Daniels, and everyone in this house, must die.

I bump against the counter and spread my hands over the top, seeking out the knife rack.

S
WANSON IS TEMPTED to move farther away. Those two shots the woman cop fired from the garage came very near him, kicking up dirt just a few feet in front of his face. But he’s the one who gave the order to get in closer, so he’s determined to stick it out.

He and Pessolano shoot the last of the outside lights, then change back to night scopes. The constant juggling of scopes bugs Swanson. A lot of things about this situation bug Swanson. But this will all be over soon. When the cop fires her last rifle round, he’s going to order his men to break into the house and finish the job point-blank. Enough of this long-distance bullshit.

In concept, The Urban Hunting Club was brilliant. Dazzle the police and the media with three sex offenders who all die at the same time. Do it from a distance, so there’s less likelihood of witnesses, and no personal contact with the targets. Kill three more offenders a few days later, to make it seem like the targets are random. Write a note to the newspapers, explaining the goal of ridding Chicago of perverts. Then disappear into legend.

Swanson even thought about the far future, forty years from now, making a deathbed confession and stunning the world. Explaining he did it all for his precious Jen. Making a grand speech about how it is every private citizen’s duty to protect the people he loves. Along with the right to bear arms, there is a responsibility to use those arms for truth, justice, and the American way.

It would have been a damn good speech.

But Munchel had to fuck everything up. Now TUHC are cop killers. Instead of being admired by millions, they’ll be hunted forever, chased to the ends of the earth. They’ll be called psychos instead of vigilantes. In the TV movie, Swanson will be played by Harvey Keitel or Christopher Walken, instead of Ben Affleck or Bruce Willis.

It’s all gone to hell. Best to get it over with as quickly as possible.

Swanson sights down the night-vision scope, looking into the dark house through the front bay window. He’s moved ten feet to the right, away from the spot where the cop came close to hitting him. The stretch of grass he’s on is slightly elevated. Not quite a knoll, but raised enough so he can see into the living room and look down from a slight angle.

He sees green. A world of blurry, indistinct, phosphorescent green.

Though he doesn’t admit it to the guys, the starlight scope isn’t the easiest thing to use. With Swanson’s whole field of vision monochromatic, the only way to identify people is by shape and movement. Earlier in the night, Swanson put three rounds into a chair, thinking it was a crouching body. And he also discovered that the house has a cat in it, which kept darting back and forth, messing up his concentration and his aim.

The ever-increasing wind has also been a factor, throwing off several shots that were otherwise on the money. That fat cop should be dead three times over. Swanson knew Pessolano felt the same frustration, because the Desert Storm vet had been only fifteen yards away, and Swanson heard him swear after every miss.

Swanson also knows he’s jerking the trigger. Every shot, the butt of the TPG-1 slams into his shoulder. The area has been tender for several weeks, from all of the practice, and the bruise hasn’t ever healed. After the dozens of rounds fired to night, it hurts like crazy. Swanson flinches every time he fires, and this tiny movement is throwing off his aim.

Add in the pressure of getting done quickly, and the fact that Swanson isn’t a very good marksman to begin with, and it’s no wonder he hasn’t been able to hit anything.

But that is all about to change. The next person who appears in Swanson’s scope is going to die. He can feel it.

Swanson blinks, takes a deep breath, and adjusts his grip on the TPG-1. He aims the starlight scope on the hallway, ready to shoot the first thing that moves.

Something blurs past his line of fire. Swanson adjusts, finding the figure again, watching it disappear into the garage. He holds there… holds… holds… holds…

The figure appears again.

Swanson fires.

He misses – the target is moving too fast. It’s the woman cop, and she has the rifle. She ducks behind the couch.

Swanson pulls back the bolt, ejecting the empty cartridge, loading another one. He re-aims at the sofa and puts a bullet through the middle, where she was just a second ago.

I got her,
he thinks.
I must have.

Movement, in the lower right quadrant of his scope. He adjusts, sees someone squatting by the window.

The woman cop.

Swanson pulls the trigger. Nothing happens. He didn’t load the next bullet yet.

Stupid bolt action rifle. Why didn’t Pessolano buy semiauto -

Swanson feels a sharp tug in his chest. He hears the shot at the same time.

Did she just-?

The pain runs Swanson over like a truck. Someone has him in a giant nutcracker and is squeezing his ribs, making it impossible to draw a breath. He touches his breastbone, looks at his fingers.

Blood. A lot of blood.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

Swanson crawls away from his gun. His breath comes back, and the oxygen burns and stabs at his insides. A weak cry escapes his throat.

He fumbles in the darkness for his belt, finds his radio, brings it to his face.

“… shot…” he manages to whisper.

No one answers.

“… I… got… shot…”

No reply. Why won’t they answer?

Swanson looks into the woods. Where’s the truck? Where did they park it? He has to get to a hospital. Has to get there so they can take this bullet out of his chest.

“I didn’t catch that, Swanson. Can you repeat?”

He stares at the radio. Presses the talk button.

“… shot… been shot… need… help…”

The radio falls from his hand. Swanson coughs, feels something wet come up. Everything is getting all topsy-turvy. He isn’t going to make it to the truck. He isn’t going to make it another foot. He wants to lie down, go to sleep. Swanson falls onto his face, and the universe explodes into a Technicolor panorama of agony.

Swanson moans, manages to roll off of his tortured chest and onto his back. He stares up into the night sky. Each time he inhales he wants to die. He wants,
needs
, to talk to Jen, to tell her he didn’t mean for it to work out this way. This isn’t the ending he planned on.

“Swanson?”

It’s not the radio. Swanson’s eyes drift to the right, land on Munchel, standing next to him.

“Jee-zus, man! You got yourself shot.” Munchel stares back at the house. “I knew she was good. Glad I only gave her three bullets.”

“Doc…tor…” Swanson wheezes.

“Hell yeah, you need a doctor. Shit, I can see blood bubbles coming out the hole in your chest. You are seriously fucked up.”

Swanson wonders why Munchel is just standing there. He should be dragging him to the truck, or shutting off the cell phone jammer and calling an ambulance.

“Hos…pit…tal…”

Munchel leans over. His face looks huge, and his expression is grim. “See, here’s the problem with hospitals, Greg. They have to report gunshot wounds. How quick do you think they’d connect a rifle slug in the chest with what happened to night in Chicago?”

“…won’t…”

“Sure they will.”

Swanson forces it out. “… won’t… tell…”

“Oh, I get it. We drop you off, and you don’t mention us at all. Even when you’re on trial for all of those dead cops that I killed. You don’t say anything at all about me or Pessolano. Is that right?”

Swanson coughs. His mouth feels hot and wet. He can’t believe Munchel wants to talk this much while he’s dying. The talk can come later. Right now he needs help.

“Do you promise you won’t rat out your buddies, Swanson? Can I get your word on that?”

Swanson thinks he nods. Or maybe he just imagines he nods. Either way, he feels himself being dragged. To the truck. To doctors. To safety.

He closes his eyes, hopes that Jen is there in the hospital when he wakes up.

Pain forces Swanson’s eyes back open. He feels like there’s an airplane parked on his chest.

It’s Munchel. He’s standing on Swanson’s rib cage.

“Can’t use a bullet,” he says. “Pessolano might hear.”

Swanson can’t draw a breath to answer. He tries to push away Munchel’s legs, but he has no strength left.

Death doesn’t come quick or easy. It’s takes close to five minutes.

Swanson feels every second.

I
’M PRETTY SURE I hit the sniper, or at least came close. I set the rifle down, find the wall switch, and flick on the living room lights. They’ll have to change scopes again, giving me time to-

She comes at me in a blur. My mind registers the glint of a knife blade, and I instinctively throw both hands up over my head, forming an X with my wrists to block its downward path. Then I spin, sweeping my right leg out, tripping Alex.

Alex lands hard but recovers fast, rolling to the side, getting her feet under her. The knife is from the rack on my kitchen counter. A cheap set, flimsy blades, but they’re serrated and insanely sharp. She’s chosen a paring knife. Alex switches her grip to underhanded, blade up. She’s fought with knives before.

I cast my eyes around for a weapon, settle on a sofa cushion. It won’t do much, damage-wise, but it’s thicker than the knife blade.

Alex’s eyes are cool, dispassionate. She feints once. Again. Then lunges.

I block the knife with the cushion, feeling it puncture the fabric, twisting hard to try and catch the blade. She pushes harder, swiping at my face with her free hand, catching me on the cheek.

I stumble back, managing to keep hold of the cushion. She comes at me again, but this time I kick at her shin, driving my heel into the spot below her knee.

Alex roars. Then a gunshot thunders over our heads, making a divot in the ceiling.

Harry, in the hallway, pointing my Kimber at us.

“Hey! Mrs. Hyde! Hold still so I can hit you!”

Alex must not feel threatened by Harry’s left-handed shooting, because she ignores him and comes at me again. Personally, I feel extremely threatened. Chances are high Harry will shoot me instead of Alex. I’ve witnessed firsthand how bad he is lefty. Adding codeine and vodka to the mix isn’t going to improve his aim.

Alex strikes, hard enough for the knife tip to penetrate both sides of the cushion. She muscles forward. I double back, smacking into the wall behind me.

Another
BOOM
. A hanging picture of my mother shatters, Harry’s shot hitting her in the head.

Alex presses her whole body against the cushion. I feel the tip of the blade poke against my stomach. I shove back, but she’s bigger, stronger. I suck in my gut, trying to avoid being skewered. It isn’t working. The knife jabs me again, and I feel it break the skin.

“I’m going to gut you,” Alex says, spittle flecking off her lips. “And then feed you your intestines.”

Rather than push against her, I move sideways, letting her keep the cushion. The knife pierces the wall. I hit Alex in the ear with the heel of my hand, putting my weight into it.

She staggers. I pivot my hips and kick her, hard. Alex’s hands are still wrestling with the cushion, so she can’t block my blow. The top of my foot connects with her unprotected kidney, and I feel the impact in my fillings.

Alex drops the knife and the cushion, her arms pinwheeling to keep her balance. I advance, fists clenched, sensing my chance to put her down for good. I rear back and unleash a vicious right hook.

Alex recovers faster than I expect, and she sidesteps my punch. Then she grabs my extended arm and uses my momentum to hurl me across the room.

I kiss the carpet, look up, and see Harry aiming the gun right at my face.

“Wrong target!” I scream at him.

I roll away a millisecond before he pulls the trigger.

“Sorry, Jackie!” he yells.

I get to my knees, vision squiggly, head pounding.

“Mom! Take the gun away from Harry!”

Then Alex is on me again. I endure a kick to the shoulder that makes my whole arm go numb, then I duck another that would have broken my neck. Adrenaline and reflex have been controlling my actions, both of them fueled by fear. To survive, I need to think rather than just react. Alex is bigger, faster, stronger, and a better fighter. I can’t win going toe-to-toe with her. I need a weapon.

Asking Harry to throw me the gun isn’t a wise idea. He’ll miss. Plus, he still needs it for defense.

The kitchen has knives, pans, a rolling pin, but nothing that will give me a distinct advantage.

But the garage – I have power tools in the garage.

I crawl around Alex, use the wall to stand up, and then sprint for the doorway.

I make it to the door, see some potential weapons on the workbench, and then fly past it when Alex prods me from behind. I bump into some stacked boxes, bounce off, and turn to face her.

She’s on the balls of her feet, dancing back and forth, hands up in a sparring position. Her head rolls on her neck, like Muhammad Ali loosening up before a title bout.

“Afraid?” she says. “You should be.”

I am afraid. I’m more afraid than I’ve ever been in my life. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to quit.

I adopt a fighting stance, my feet apart, my fists in front of me.

Alex moves in. She works the jab, hitting my upraised arms, pain stacking upon pain stacking upon pain. When I try to circle toward the workbench, or the shovel sitting in the corner of the garage, Alex cuts me off. When I return blows, she easily sidesteps them. We both know I’m outclassed, but I’m going to go down swinging.

“I’m going to take you apart, Jack. Piece by piece. It all comes down to conditioning.”

“You should be more concerned with moisturizing,” I say.

Alex snarls, then unloads on me. I bunch my shoulders, take the hits, wait for her to tire.

She doesn’t tire. And my arms are getting so sore that soon I won’t be able to punch back.

I back away, feel the boxes behind me, reach around and throw one at her.

She dodges it.

I tear into the box beneath it, hoping for a weapon, coming out with a crooked branch to an artificial Christmas tree. Why couldn’t I be Jewish? Menorahs are solid, heavy, perfect to bash someone’s head in.

Alex slaps the branch from my hand, throws a right at my cheek. I duck it, then swing a big haymaker that catches her, full force, on the chin.

She wobbles backward, dropping her hands. I follow up with a kick, but I’m disoriented and only strike air. I try again, connecting with her side, but there’s no power behind it, and Alex shrugs the blow off.

I cast my eyes on the workbench. Lunge for it.

Alex’s leg shoots out like a piston, catching me in the cheek. I sprawl backward, onto my ass, not able to tell up from down.

Then she’s on me.

Her first punch lays me out, and while I’m on my back she stomps on my stomach, so hard I can feel organs shift. I roll to the side, blind instinct guiding my actions, and receive a few more kicks to the body. When I reach the automatic garage door I feel like I’ve spent an hour in a cement mixer.

I cover my face, Alex kicks me in the body. I protect my body, she goes after my head. I curl up fetal, unable to defend myself, unable to fight back.

I’m being beaten to death. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.