Bad Penny (29 page)

29
Tony

FRANK DID NOT shoot her. He needed one of these dirt bags alive so they could tell him where Tony was. So he fired a warning shot, shattering the glass door, sending shards to the patio and kitchen tile.

Flor squeaked but kept running.

Frank went after her, but she didn’t make it to the patio door. Instead, she tripped one of the other chairs that had been brought out for the meeting they’d been holding, stumbled into a gas grill, and then Frank was on her, bad leg, broken nose, and burning rib cage.

He grabbed her by the hair with both cuffed hands then swept her feet out from underneath her with a booted sweep kick.

She dropped to the patio floor.

Frank planted his knee in her back, searched her quickly for obvious weapons and found none.

“Sam!” he shouted. “Get over here!” He brought the Glock up and scanned the pool, corral, and immediate areas around the fields and barns for any threats. He saw none and turned back to the house.

Sam ran onto the patio.

Frank laid his gun on the table, well out of Flor’s reach, then searched her vest pocket. He pulled out the cuff key. “Come here,” he said to Sam.

Sam walked over, turned his back to Frank, and presented his cuffed hands. Frank unlocked him.

Sam rubbed his wrists, then took the key and uncuffed Frank.

“What do you think? One or two more goons?”

Sam looked around. “I don’t see a soul.”

It was true. Save for the ostriches and horses out in their fields, nothing moved. But the old bag had been calling for Ricky. “Watch the house and those buildings,” Frank said. Then he turned to Flor. “Where’s my nephew?”

“I don’t know about your nephew.”

Frank took her wrist and twisted it painfully behind her. She cried out.

“We saw him. Where is he?”

“You’re going to pay. You have no idea.”

“I think I do. I hung out with your kind of people for six years.”

He twisted her arm harder.

“He’s in the cellar,” she spat.

“You’re going to show me the way.” Frank yanked her wrists behind her back and put the cuffs on her. Then he hauled her to her feet.

“I want to see my boys. I want to see José.”

Frank turned to Sam. “How’s Hector doing?”

“Not so well.”

Frank said, “He’s not doing well, Flor. He shot Amador. Shot his own brother.” He said to Sam, “Take your pair of cuffs and handcuff José’s wrist to Hector’s ankle. That way we can be sure both are still around ten minutes from now when Flor goes to visit them.”

Frank held Flor by her arm and watched the area around the house while Sam ran back to the walkway. He swung José’s leg closer to Hector and cuffed them together. He jogged back and said, “It barely fit around his ankle.”

“Is he dead?”

“I don’t think so,” Sam said.

“There,” Frank said to Flor. “After you take me to Tony, maybe we’ll let you make a 911 call. Maybe you won’t lose all three sons on the same day.”

Flor’s anger was all shot through with worry. Frank wondered how such a monster had any feelings at all.

She led them out to the stables. Around back was a shed. The shed had a padlock on it, but the lock was hanging open. Sam removed the lock and opened the doors. There were bags of fertilizer and some kind of feed. At the back end, a wooden door had been set into the floor. It didn’t have a knob. Only a handle and a huge sliding bolt that secured it to the metal frame. Sam slid the bolt back, then pulled the door up to reveal a set of wooden stairs going down into the dark. They were narrow and steep.

Frank spotted an electrical switch on the wall above the door with a hose of aluminum housing running into the ground. He flipped the switch and a light turned on in the room below. Frank gave Flor to Sam and walked down the narrow steps.

Tony sat against one wall on a bench much like the one in the house they’d been held captive. His face was puffy and bruised all over, but he was alive. He struggled to his feet. On the dirty cement floor lay three zip-ties. Two looked like they’d been busted, Frank-style.

“Hey, buddy,” Frank said.

Tony’s shoulders slumped in relief, and then his face scrunched up like he was going to cry.

Frank went to him and took him in a large, but gentle embrace. “You’re going to be all right.” He stroked his hair. “Thank the Lord God. You’re going to be all right.”

“They’ve got those kids in the bunk house.”

“Okay, we’ll go up and see what we can do.”

“Did you get Ed?”

“I didn’t see him.”

“He’s here.”

Frank said, “We’re going to go up, head for the driveway, and ride out in one of the cars there. We’re going to call this in. We can use the Evil Queen’s phone. I think I’m going to duct tape her to the fence.”

He and Tony walked back to the stairway. Frank put his foot on the first step. At the top of the stairs, Sam was facing the entrance of the small building with both hands raised in the air like he was being robbed. Flor was nowhere to be seen.

Frank froze.

Tony ran into him. “Sorry,” he said.

Frank motioned for him to be silent. There was only one reason why Sam would be reaching for the stars.

“Frankie,” Ed called out. “We know you’re down there. Come on up. We need to have us a chat.”

Frank’s mind raced. How many of them were there? How many had guns? Where was their exact placement? He slowly moved up the stairs, taking them two at a time, placing his feet at the edges to minimize squeaking. He reached the sixth stair, keeping himself low, keeping his head below the line of the floor above him.

“Jockstrap,” Ed called all friendly. “We can work this out.”

Frank popped his head up and then ducked back down. There were three of them just inside the shed, the sunny dirt lane at their backs. Two had assault rifles. They might be the two that had been in the driveway, although Frank had thought they went to clean up the crash site. They might have been two that were watching the back of the property. They might have been Ed’s men. It didn’t matter. They were standing just inside the shed by the doors. Flor was standing with them, the one guy working on her cuffs.

“Looks like you’ve got yourself cornered,” Ed said. “Ran yourself right into a box. Pretty much like I thought you would.”

Frank moved back to the base of the stairs. It would indeed be foolish to try to shoot it out with them from there.

“You know, you owed me a favor. Then you got out and turned your back on me. I was coming to give you another chance. Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. Me and you, like old times.”

“There never were any old times,” Frank said.

He walked back into the room, taking little steps, heel to toe, to avoid any sound. He silent-walked past the restraint bench Tony had been sitting on and stopped about three feet from the back of the room and looked up at the naked floor boards and the spiderwebs clinging to their corners.

“I talked to management,” Ed said. “I was looking out for you. Flor was willing to take an eye and a limb of your choice. We might have to up that now, but your buddy, Mr. Sam there, and Tony can walk away. There doesn’t have to be any blood. Come on up, Frank. Be a man and pay your debts.”

The words of a psychopathic two-headed snake.

One of the men above took a step. Frank pegged his position. He pulled the Glock out of his pocket. Held it up and quietly released the magazine. He needed to know exactly how many shots he had left. There were little holes in the side of the magazine. A Glock 19 with a standard magazine held fifteen rounds. But the magazine hadn’t been full when Hector shot his brother. It looked like Frank was down to nine shots. Not a lot for a shoot-out.

He slid the magazine back in place. It locked with a tiny click.

Ed raised his voice. “Frank, I’m starting to get impatient. Get up here now.”

The man above Frank moved again. The boards creaked.

Frank pointed the Glock right where he thought the guy was. Then he pulled the trigger three times. Three bangs, three muzzle flashes, three holes in the subfloor in a line spaced about five inches apart.

A man cried out.

Frank ran for the stairs.

The men above shouted angrily, then let loose with their guns, shooting into the floor. The sound of the shots thundered in the shed like the world was coming apart. Dust and splinters rained down into the room. The bullets smacked into the concrete below.

Frank reached the stairs. Sam was huddled off to the side behind a wheelbarrow that had been stood on its end.

The deafening barrage continued.

Frank leapt up the stairs three at a time, his gun up and close in a two-handed grip, not worrying about the noise because nobody could hear anything but the cracking guns. He kept low until he was almost to the top.

One of Ed’s gunmen ran out of rounds, and the noise dropped.

Frank popped up and extended his gun.

The men looked up.

Frank aimed at the man still shooting, pulled. The gun banged and kicked. He aimed, pulled, and the gun banged and kicked again. The two shots nailed the guy in his chest. He stumbled back. Frank swung his aim onto the second man.

The second man held a spare magazine in his hand and obviously knew he didn’t have the time to shove it home because he charged Frank with a yell.

Frank aimed, pulled. The gun banged. He aimed, pulled, and the gun banged again. The second man crashed into a shelf containing bottles of pesticide, then fell to the floor, the bottles falling on top of him.

Ed pointed his gun at Frank. He stood at the mouth of the shed about fifteen feet away. “Drop it!” he shouted.

Frank did not drop his gun.

“Kill him!” Flor snarled. She was standing back from the mouth of the shed behind Ed and to the right. In the direct sunlight she looked like a hag with blue eye shadow.

Ed’s face was all screwed up in a rage. “You stupid mother. This is
your
fault. You should have just given me your car.”

“Kill him,” Flor said through gritted teeth.

Ed fired three times. Three loud bangs. Three bright muzzle flashes.

Frank aimed. Pulled the trigger.

The gun banged and kicked. Ed rocked back a step. Blood blossomed on his chest. He looked down, felt his chest, and pulled a bloody hand away. “Frank,” he said, like being shot was a surprise. He tried to bring his gun up again.

Frank pulled the trigger again. The gun banged, and the second shot took Ed a few inches from the first.

Ed’s face screwed up in pain and dismay. He dropped his gun. His legs buckled underneath him, and he fell to his knees on the floor.

Frank walked forward, his gun trained on Ed the whole time.

“Buddy,” Ed said and struggled for breath.

“I told you not to mess with my journey, Ed. I told you not to mess with Tony.”

“I saved your life,” Ed said. “We were brothers.”

“We were never anything of the sort.”

Flor fired a pistol. The round took Frank in his ribs. The sound, the pain—it sent a shock through him. He lost his grip on his gun, and it thumped to the floor.

She was holding a petite .22 caliber revolver. Where she’d pulled it from, Frank couldn’t guess. Some gun owners scoffed at the small .22 caliber, but let them take a shot in the side and see how innocuous they thought it was then. It felt like someone has sliced his insides with a knife. And if she’d hit an artery, he’d be joining Ed real soon.

She pointed the revolver at his center mass. She was too close to miss. Too far away for him to reach her before she pulled the trigger. Furthermore, there was a riding lawn mower in his way. She’d get another couple of rounds off easily before he would be able to grab her.

“Ricky!” she yelled.

Frank was going to have to charge her or dive for his gun. And do it all with a sharp pain running through his side like a shard of glass. He set himself, and then it was too late because Ricky finally showed. He was of average height wearing sunglasses and a loose silk shirt with a bright floral print on it. Another son or Flor’s bodyguard? He held a nice nine millimeter. He pointed it at Frank.

“Ed’s right,” Flor said. “I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to flay you alive. And then I’m going to flay your nephew.”

Ricky took aim at Frank’s knees.

A shot rang out from the yard, somewhere behind Flor and Ricky.

Ricky jerked, stumbled forward, dropped his gun.

Out in the yard Carmen walked into view. She held an AK-47 rifle to her shoulder, pointing it at Flor. She must have taken it from the guys in the SUV that had barreled into the tree. “Don’t move,” she said.

Ricky moved; she swung the rifle and shot him again. This time he went all the way down.

Carmen turned the gun on Flor.

The witch of Lullaby Lane glanced about like she might run, but saw it was hopeless. She dropped her little revolver and raised her hands in the air. “Don’t shoot!” she cried. “Don’t shoot!”

Frank picked up his gun and winced at the pain in his side. He could drop her. One bullet was all it would take. He had two just waiting. He might have three.

“Sam,” he called. “Are you okay?”

No response.

Frank’s ears were still ringing from all the shooting. “Sam!”

“I’m okay,” Sam said.

“Come take these guns.” Frank kicked Ed’s gun away because even though he was down, Ed was not dead yet. And sometimes dying men surprised you.

Sam got up and moved forward. “Holy crap,” he said.

“Tony!” Frank called.

“I’m coming,” he called from the room below.

Carmen walked up to Flor and leveled the rifle at point-blank range.

“I’ve got money,” Flor said. “I can pay you. What do you want?”

“I don’t want your filthy money,” Carmen said.

“You want a piece of the action? There’s a lot of money to be made.” She looked over at Frank. “We ship a lot of product. I can give you a territory. You’re obviously far more capable than Ed.”

“Get down on the ground,” Carmen said.

“I’m offering you a fortune!”

“Down!”

Flor knelt.

Carmen said, “Eight years ago you visited a little town in Monterrey. You took my sister. And then you killed her.”