The Professionals (35 page)

It rang out from across the vacant lot, close enough that it had to mean something. Sawyer heard the thug beside him tense up and turn to face the intersection again. Sawyer stood quickly, holding the pipe like a baseball bat, and he swung for the bleachers, catching the goon square on the jaw, the pipe shattering bone with a sickening crunch and sending the man reeling back toward the warehouse wall, back and down.

Sawyer worked quick, following the guy backward and teeing up with another home-run swing before the thug could grab his gun. This time the man’s skull made a sound like a burst pumpkin, and the pipe came back bloody. The guy sunk to the ground and stayed there.

Sawyer stared down at the thug for a second, his heart pounding. Then he reached down and unclipped the gun from around the guy’s neck, dropping the pipe by his feet. The gun was warm in his hand, and for a second Sawyer felt sick. Then he caught himself. He straightened up and shook it off and turned back to the street.

Two more thugs, both similarly super-sized, were in the middle of the intersection, walking from opposite corners toward the vacant lot. One guy had a machine gun, looked like an Uzi, and the other a big sawed-off shotgun. Big guys. Big fucking guns.

Sawyer examined his own weapon, a full-sized TEC-9 machine pistol with what looked like a fifty-round clip and a ventilated shroud on the end of the muzzle. The thing was a killing machine, but Sawyer had played enough video games to know you sacrificed quality for quantity when you shot a TEC-9. No sniper shit, he thought. We spray and pray.

The thug with the shotgun was closer, but Sawyer wanted to neutralize the Uzi first. He danced through the shadows up to the corner of the intersection, and then he dashed across the street, making for a Buick on blocks on the other side of the pavement.

He got there and crouched behind the car and watched the thugs, both starting across the lot by now, the guy with the Uzi about forty feet away. Just like the movies, he thought. Exhale slowly, then fire.

Sawyer held the gun in both hands. He took a deep breath, then stood and drew his mark. He let the breath out and pulled the trigger.

The sound was deafening, the gun jumping all over the place with the recoil, and Sawyer let off a burst of maybe ten shots before he got the gun back under control. The thug with the Uzi was down on the ground, but Sawyer couldn’t tell if he was hit or just diving for cover, and meanwhile the other thug was making for a line of cars at the edge of the lot.

Sawyer advanced across the street, keeping low and heading for the cover of the building on the edge of the lot. The guy with the Uzi looked back and fired a wild burst, and the Buick’s windows smashed to nothing on the other side of the street. Sawyer shot from the hip as he ran, holding tight with both hands and keeping the trigger pulled until the thug was laid out and screaming.

He made the side of the building and leaned back, out of sight, trying to catch his breath. Then he peered back into the vacant lot. The thug with the Uzi was flat on his back, blood pooling around him. Sawyer scoped out the row of junker cars, searching for the second shooter. He spotted him crouched between the first and second rides, the barrel of the shotgun giving him away.

Where the hell is Pender, Sawyer thought. That shotgun will blow me away at close range.

Sawyer peered back around the wall. The shooter had crept forward out of the cover of the parked cars, and now he was making his own dash for the wall. Sawyer stepped out and fired, bracing himself against the wall. The first burst missed, and the shooter fired a blast from his hip and kept running. The shotgun sounded like the end of the world, and Sawyer ducked for cover.

Gotta get him before he gets to the wall, he thought, and he forced himself up and out again, diving into the middle of the lot as the shotgun boomed behind him. The thug was aiming at the corner of the building, and Sawyer caught him with about ten rounds before he could swing the shotgun around. The thug let off one more blast, but it went high and wide, and then he was slumping down, the shotgun falling to the gravel beside him.

Holy shit. Sawyer ran to the cover of the row of abandoned cars and crouched down, staring out over the vacant lot and the carnage. He saw the truck parked way in the back of the lot, nearly hidden by shadows, and he decided that was where the horn had come from. That’s where the big boss is camped out, he thought. But where the hell is Pender?

Then he felt the gun at his back. “Stand up, motherfucker.”

Sawyer stood, cursing himself as the thug pressed his gun hard into the side of his neck.

“Drop the gun.” The voice was vaguely Mediterranean. “Drop it now.”

Sawyer felt the adrenaline rush subsiding, and all of a sudden he just felt tired and he knew this was where it was all supposed to end. He let go of the TEC and it clattered to the ground and the guy spun him around, a big ugly grin and a nickel-plated MAC-10.

“You had to get cute, huh?” the guy said, pressing the gun harder against Sawyer’s skin. He leered into Sawyer’s eyes, drunk on power. Then he shoved Sawyer backward. “Well, come on, then, cutie,” he said. “Hope you saved me a dance.”

D
’Antonio watched as Dmitri hauled the kid to his feet, the muzzle of his machine gun pressed tight to the kid’s neck. Jesus, but that little punk had done a lot of damage. Yuri and Dario both done, and where the fuck was Paolo? Either dead or dying somewhere.

They’d watched from the darkness as the kid had come out of the shadows and laid waste to both goons like the angel of death. D’Antonio kept his Glock pressed tight to the girl’s ear, holding her close and daring the kid with the Uzi to try something stupid. Now they watched as Dmitri roughed up the punk, whipping him with the butt of his gun, laughing in his face, having a little fun before the kill. “You must be Pender,” said D’Antonio. “The man with the plan.”

The kid spat. “And who the hell are you?” His voice was still shaky.

“I work for Donald Beneteau’s people.” He shifted a little. “You ever fired a gun before?”

“I killed your goons in Miami, didn’t I? Tell your man to let my friend go.”

“Not a chance.”

“Let Haley go, at least. She’s got no part in this.”

“You’re in no position to be making demands,” said D’Antonio. “If you drop the Uzi, then maybe we talk. Maybe I let Haley go.”

The kid pressed the gun tighter. “Not good enough.”

Outside, Dmitri had the punk stood up, but barely. The kid was punch-drunk and reeling, his mouth a bloody mess and his left eye half closed. D’Antonio honked the horn, and Dmitri glanced over and nodded, briefly, before kicking the punk backward and leveling the gun at his forehead.

“Fine,” said D’Antonio. “Then you all die. Starting with your pal out there.”

S
awyer was beat-up and rotten. His head throbbed. He felt his legs giving out when the horn blared and the thug quit beating on him at last. The guy kicked him back, and he nearly collapsed, but just barely held on and stood upright. I’m going out standing, he thought as he stared down the gun. I can say that at least.

The thug had a flair for the dramatic. He gave Sawyer a wink and made kissy lips and then straightened the gun, and Sawyer braced for the kill shot. He closed his eyes. Then he heard the roar of the engine, and he opened his eyes again, quick.

The thug wasn’t staring at him, but at the minivan as it sped out from the shadows, its ancient motor straining under Tiffany’s heel. The van headed right for Sawyer, and for a moment he could swear he saw Tiffany smiling.

The thug spun away from Sawyer and fired a long angry burst across the front of the van, his shots arcing up and to the left, shattering the windshield. The engine revved higher, Tiffany’s eyes all murder and vengeance, and she slammed into the thug doing forty or so, rolled over him twice and came to a stop halfway down the block.

Sawyer ran back to the thug, who lay broken and bleeding on the pavement. He kicked the machine gun away from his hand and stared down at the bastard, the thug’s face all grease, glass, and grit, his breathing
ragged and bloody. Sawyer stood over him for a minute, watching the man struggling to breathe, and then he picked up the MAC-10 from the side of the road and put a burst through the thug’s chest.

Then, when he was sure the bastard was dead, he stepped over the body and walked onto the lot.

D
’Antonio watched the punk step over Dmitri’s body, and he tried to keep his composure. He still had the girl, and he still had the trump card.

The kid Pender kept his Uzi pressed tight. “Let her go,” he said. “You can’t win.”

“There’s winning and there’s winning,” said D’Antonio. “You want her to live? You’re going to play it my way.”

Haley was staring at him. “You don’t have to kill me,” she said. “It doesn’t have to end like this.”

“I’ll tell you how it ends,” he said.

She put her hand on him again. “Put the gun down. It’s over.”

D’Antonio glanced out the front windshield, the punk getting closer. “You’re crazy,” he told the girl. “Totally fucking nuts.”

The girl was moving closer to him, her breath warm against his cheek. “I am crazy,” she said. “I think I might even like you. But you’re not going to kill me. You know you can’t do it.”

He barely blinked, but she caught it and wrenched at the gun. She was quick, but he was stronger and he knew he had a shot. If he pulled the trigger now, he’d blow her head clean off. But he hesitated, just for a second, and she had the gun wrestled clear by the time he did pull the trigger. The shot shattered the passenger window and was gone.

Then the kid Pender was wrestling him out of the car, throwing him to the ground, and the girl had got hold of the gun. And he fell to the gravel, faceup in the shadows, with Pender standing over him, some punk kid with an Uzi and a big pair of balls. D’Antonio wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all, wanted
to laugh at the thought that some fucked-up little girl had played him for his life, but more than wanting to laugh, he knew he wanted to see her face, wanted to understand what she was thinking, what she was feeling as she watched him die.

Instead he got the kid Pender, and when he opened his mouth to call out to the girl, the kid let him have it, a point-blank burst from the Uzi. Then he walked away, leaving D’Antonio to die in the shadows.

P
ender met Sawyer at the front of the Explorer, the Uzi still hot in his palm. “You all right?” he said, examining his friend’s face. The thug had done a job on him: Sawyer’s face was covered in welts, his one eye swollen shut and his mouth a jumble of blood and missing teeth.

“Fine,” said Sawyer. He looked past Pender to D’Antonio’s body, then into the Explorer where Haley sat curled in the passenger seat. “We cool?”

Pender nodded. “I think we got them all.”

Sawyer walked over to Haley’s door. He peered in through the broken window. “Hey, listen,” he said. “How many of those dangerous cats did they bring?”

Haley blinked and looked up at him like she’d just noticed he was there. “I think five,” she said. “Three from Detroit and two from Miami.”

“Five plus the boss? Or five in total?”

“Five in total,” she said. “Including D’Antonio.”

“Who the hell’s D’Antonio?”

Haley winced. She pointed out the driver’s side. “That one over there.”

“We’ve only got four bodies,” said Pender. “Where’s the last?”

Sawyer shook his head. “I took care of him.”

Pender heard footsteps behind him, and he spun, lifting the Uzi reflexively. Tiffany ducked for cover. “Jesus Christ, don’t shoot me,” she said, gasping. “You guys gotta come quick. Mouse is hurt.”

Pender swapped looks with Sawyer, and then he was running, clearing the vacant lot and huffing it down to where the minivan sat shot-up and haphazard.

Pender got there first. He put the Uzi on the roof of the van and peered into the passenger seat to see Mouse, his shirt torn up, bleeding all over. The kid had taken two or three shots to the chest and shoulder and was breathing blood, half conscious, his eyes lidded and distant. Mouse gave him a weak smile. “We winning?”