Evan Arden 05 Irrevocable (5 page)

I smile at her, but she only looks at me sideways. The information doesn’t surprise her, and I know she must have heard something about me from Loretta.  Whatever the whore had told Alina, she hadn’t been scared away.

Well, not yet.

“The bedroom’s this way.”  I direct her to the hallway and the left-hand door.  She takes in the room as I remove my watch, place it on the dresser, and begin to unbutton my shirt.

“Do you want me to get undressed?” Alina asks.

“Your choice.”  I shrug off my shirt and shove it into the hamper.  My dog tags clink against each other.  I still don’t know why I’m wearing them, and I turn away from her to take them off and coil the chain next to my watch.

“Well, I don’t exactly have any pajamas on hand.”

I look up at her and see the hint of a smile on her face.  With a shake of my head, I open up one of my dresser drawers to find a T-shirt.

“Will this do?” I ask as I toss it to her.

Alina catches the shirt easily and looks it over.  It’s just a plain white one, but she smiles up at me anyway.

“Perfect.”  She places the shirt on the bed and takes off her heels.

I sit on the edge of the mattress to take off my shoes and watch her undress.  She doesn’t make a big show of it; she just strips down to her panties and bra before picking up the shirt from the bed.  I look her over, appreciating the creamy color of her skin as it’s revealed.  It looks soft and smooth, and her legs are better than I’d imagined when the tights come off.  I get a flash of rounded tits as she discards her bra before pulling the T-shirt over her head.

“Mind if I use your bathroom?”

“It’s right across the hall.”

She picks up her bag, and I watch her head out of the room, focusing on the curve of her ass.  Once she’s gone, I remove everything but my boxers and climb onto the bed.  I’m still tense; so many of these nights have ended badly.  I’ve already gone three nights without any real sleep.  I have endured much longer, but it’s enough to keep me on edge.

Alina returns and lowers herself onto the bed beside me.  Stretching out, she turns to face me as I wrap one arm around her waist and pull her body against mine.  I can’t identify the scent on her skin, but it’s slightly familiar.

“You smell good.”

She licks her lips and glances at me for a second.

“It’s lavender,” she tells me.  “It will help you sleep.”

“It will?”

“That’s what they say.”

I ponder a moment.  I’m not sure who
they
are, but I have to admit the scent is relaxing.  I rest my cheek against her shoulder and inhale deeply.  Exhaustion overcomes me quickly, and the smell of her skin fills my head as she places one hand on my back and runs her fingers up to my shoulder.  She slides her other arm underneath my head, cradling me.

With her arms around me and the scent of lavender washing over me, I fall asleep.

Crack, scream.  Crack, scream.  Crack, scream.

I feel a calloused hand under my jaw before my head is roughly pulled up.  A dark, bearded face with wild eyes glares at me.

“Location!” he yells for the thousandth time.

I wet my lips, take a deep breath, and nod.

“They’re…they’re…”  I pause and gather saliva in my mouth.  The bearded face leans closer to hear my whispered words, and I pull my head back, look straight into his eyes, and spit in his face.

Words are yelled in Farsi as I am unchained from the ceiling and thrown to the ground.  Hard-tipped boots kick at my ribs before I’m dragged backwards from the building and out into the sun.

No, no, no…not back there!  Not back in the hole!  No, no, no!

“Don’t put me back!  No!  Please,
please
, don’t put me back!”

“Shh…”

My heart is pounding, and I can’t catch my breath.  Though the images of the dream have faded, I feel sweat all over my body and taste sand in my mouth.  There are arms around me, and for a moment, I tighten my grip on them and press my fingers into soft flesh.

“Get them away!”

“There’s no one but me, Evan.  It’s all right.  You’re all right.”

I breathe in gasps, my eyes burn, and no matter how many times I swallow, I still feel gritty sand in my mouth.  I open my eyes, confused by the unfamiliar surroundings—a room I don’t quite recognize, a bed that doesn’t quite feel familiar, and a woman whose name I don’t quite recall.

I blink rapidly, taking in my surroundings.  I’m in my new bed—my new apartment—not in the desert.  There’s a soft body pressing against mine and fingertips rubbing against the top of the tendons on the back of my neck.  I inhale a luxurious scent and drift off again.

*****

In the morning, I wake alone, but the spot next to me is still slightly warm.

I can hear movement from the kitchen and smell the scent of coffee and bacon.  Pushing myself from the bed, I wander into the hall, rubbing my eyes.

Alina is in the kitchen, wearing my robe and flipping pancakes.  Her hair has been pulled up into a ponytail, and her feet are bare, but she doesn’t seem to mind the chill of the hardwood floors.  My warped mind briefly conjures up an image of what she would look like if she were pregnant, but I quickly push the ludicrous thought aside.  She reaches over to the counter and casually lifts a coffee cup to her lips.

The whole scene is surreal.

She looks over to me and widens her eyes as her body stills for a moment.  She watches me for exactly four seconds before her shoulders relax, and she sets the cup back on the counter.

“You were asleep for a long time,” she says softly.  “I thought you might be hungry.”

“I am.”  It’s the truth, too.  I’m famished, and the food smells fantastic.  I pour myself a cup of coffee and watch her in silence as she arranges everything on two plates.

I do cook for myself, and I’m not too bad at it, but there is something about a woman’s cooking that has always tasted better to me.  Maybe it’s because I only put effort into the consumption of the meal and not its preparation.  Regardless, it’s delicious and reminds me of Lele’s cooking.  I devour everything on my plate and head back for more.

I’m finished before Alina though she didn’t serve herself nearly as many pancakes.  I get myself another cup of coffee and sit at the counter, watching the river out the window.  The morning traffic is brisk, but the rush hour hell over the Clark Street Bridge seems to be dissipating.  There are a few snow flurries in the air, but none of it is sticking to the roads.

Aside from the slight clinking and clanking of the dishes as Alina washes them in the sink, there is no sound in the apartment.  I don’t offer to help; I’m pretty content to just sit here and let her do her thing.  The apartment is warm despite the wintery scene out the large floor-to-ceiling windows, and it’s been a long time since I felt so relaxed.  Watching her do her thing is enticing, but I must still be feeling the aftereffects of finally sleeping more than an hour or two at a time, and I’m too groggy to act on my baser instincts.  I get to thinking instead.

Reflection isn’t a typical pastime of mine.  I used to force myself to do it by attending regular therapy sessions with a government-approved military psychologist, but I’d stopped playing that game the last time I left Chicago.  The shrink had been a good guy, and I always knew he did his best, but I am ultimately unfixable.

It’s something I’ve accepted—maybe even embraced.

I don’t reflect on anything in particular as I stare out the window.  I’m reminded of other Chicago winters, traffic jams, and the spot around the bend in the river where I’ve always preferred to dump bodies.  I attempt to count up the number of notches I could put on the barrel of my Barrett but quickly give up.

I lean back on the stool at the counter and stretch my neck.  Usually being this calm comes from holding my rifle and narrowing in on my target.  I’m attracted to that feeling of complete confidence and control—confidence that my aim will be true and control over the entire situation—life and death included.  It’s elating.

I finish my third cup of coffee as Alina comes out of the bedroom, dressed in her tights and short skirt again.  I glance up at the clock on the stove and see that it’s nearly eleven in the morning.

“It’s late,” I say.  “I should probably take you back now.”

Alina nods, retrieves her bag from the kitchen counter, and then goes to the closet for her jacket.  I grab mine as well, and we both head out to the elevator and down to the parking garage and the Camaro.

As she walks around the back of the car, I see her glance down at the sticker still affixed to the bumper.  I haven’t had a chance to get it off yet.  Alina presses her lips together to stop from smiling, and I glare.

“Don’t say a fucking word about it.”

She has to put her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh but quickly contains herself.

I huff through my nose and get in the driver’s seat.  Alina slips in beside me and buckles up.  The ride back to the street corner where I picked her up is again silent.

I’m not only getting used to it; I’m beginning to like it.

I pull over to the side of the street and fish my wallet out of my pocket.  I count off hundred dollar bills and hand the stack to her.  She thumbs through it before separating the bills into two stacks.  She places one stack deep into her purse and the other into her bra.

There are no words spoken as she opens the car door and quickly walks away.

I have the feeling I’m going to search for her again.

“It’s good to have you back, Evan.”

Lucia places her hand on my back as I crouch next to the Camaro, checking the contents of my duffel bag.  I stand and face her, giving her a half-smile.

“Thanks,” I say.  “It’s good to be back.”

“Sorry I didn’t have a chance to talk to you the other day, but I had to run off for an appointment.”

“That’s all right,” I say.  I had figured she had a date with a manicurist.

Lucia looks over her shoulder toward Rinaldo and some of his crew.  They’re several yards away, but she leans in closer to me anyway.

“I feel a lot better knowing you are here, protecting him,” she says.  “Since Mario’s been gone, Daddy’s been through three bodyguards.  None of them made me very comfortable.”

Mario had been Rinaldo’s personal bodyguard and head of security for many years before he was killed at the beginning of the Chicago mob war.  Replacing a man like him is a difficult task.  It’s not just a matter of being a big dude or having skills with a gun—there’s a lot more to consider.

“What do you think of Paulie?”

“He’s still too new.”  Lucia shakes her head.  “That’s part of the problem.  Loyalty like that is cultivated, not bought.  Mario went down saving Daddy.  I can’t see Paulie doing the same, but you…” She runs her hand down my arm and twines our fingers together.  “I know you’d do that for him, wouldn’t you?”

“Without thought.”  It’s the truth, too.  If there were a gun pointed at Rinaldo, I’d be between him and the gun without consideration for myself.  All of my attention would be on his safety.

Lucia nods and smiles before leaning in to kiss my cheek.

“I’ve got to head over to the office,” she tells me.  “Keep him safe, okay?”

“Always.”

“Maybe we can catch up later, hmm?  Get a drink somewhere?”

“Yeah, okay.”  I’m not sure what to think of her offer.  Lucia and I have never really hung out socially unless it was with a group of Rinaldo’s people.  Her eyes are indicating something more intimate.

She’s the boss’s daughter.  Off limits.

Rinaldo had suggested in the past that he might be inclined to see me with his only recognized offspring but ultimately decided against it.  He knows me too well to want me that close to his daughter.

Lucia walks away, and I grab my equipment and head up the side of the building.  It’s too damn cold to be out on a rooftop, and the wind is up.  My aim is going to suck if I actually have to shoot someone.  The howling of the wind is also making it difficult to hear the conversation on the radio.

At least it’s not snowing.

I’m on high alert, but I feel good.  My head is clear due to Alina’s presence in my bed last night, and I’m in my element, confident in my own abilities.  The cool metal of the Barrett feels so right in my hands, I’m not even wearing gloves.  It’s cold, but I prefer having skin on the trigger.

I survey the area through the scope and check the flag I’ve posted for the wind speed.  It keeps changing in intensity and direction, and if I need to make a clear shot, I’m going to be screwed.

I relay this into the radio at my neck.

“Not expecting problems,” Beni informs me.

“I’m not relying on your expectations.”  I take a long breath and huff it out.  “Paulie, keep your eyes open.”

“That is my job.”  His voice crackles with static.

I focus the scope on Beni.  He has that smug look on his face again, and it makes me want to put a fist through his teeth.  He’s standing tall and alert next to Rinaldo, so at least he’s listening.  I swerve around to view Paulie a few feet away.  He’s staring at the ground.

“Paulie!  Pay attention!”

He jerks slightly and glances up at me.  I can see his eyes clearly in my crosshairs.  He nods once and then starts looking around at his surroundings.  He takes a step closer to Rinaldo and places his hand on the butt of his gun.

“Asshole,” I mumble.

The wind picks up.  It’s time for the shipment to arrive, but there’s no sign of the truck.  Becca’s got her phone up to her ear, but she doesn’t respond when I call to her on the radio.  I hear a lot of crackling, but the words are garbled.

“Come again!”  There’s no response—just static.  “Rinaldo, do you copy?”

“I…
screech
…you now. 
Screech
...In position!”

There’s a lot more crackling, and I ask for a repeat.

“Stay!”  It’s the only word I can actually understand.

“Got it.”  I’m going to have to rely on my eyes more than my ears.  I’d rather be down on the ground at this point.  My assault rifle is in the car and would be more effective overall.  The wind refuses to hold steady enough for me to shoot straight from a distance.

Four forty-five.  The truck is definitely late.  I try to get some answers over the radio, but nothing is coming through clearly.  I move away from the edge of the building to try to receive a better signal, but nothing helps.

Concerned about being away from position, I get back behind my Barrett and scan the whole area.  There are only Rinaldo’s people and no trucks approaching.  I take another look around.

“Somebody tell me if I need to start scouting for people!” I yell into the radio.

There’s some garbled talk, but I can only make out the word “truck” and a bunch of cursing, likely from Rinaldo.  He’s not a tech guy and never knows when his radio is on.

Whatever is going on, I’m not going to get any information from the radio.  I pack up the Barrett and head down the side of the building.  When I reach the rest of the group, Jonathan approaches me.

“What’s the deal?” I ask.  “The truck isn’t showing up?”

“No truck,” Jonathan says, confirming what had become obvious.

“Where is it?”

“That’s what Beni’s trying to figure out.”  Jonathan tosses his cigarette and stamps it out under his heel.

“Have we heard from Cody or the other couriers?”

“Not yet.  Becca’s trying to contact them.”

I head over to the Camaro, ditch the Barrett, and return to the group with the AR slung over my shoulder.

“Nice rifle,” Paulie says appreciatively.  “Rock River Arms?”

“Yeah.”

“Nice scope, too.”

I nod, but don’t answer.  As much as I would normally like to discuss my guns, I don’t like how this delivery is shaping up, and I’m agitated.  Rinaldo watches our exchange with an impatient look.

“Could you see anything from up high?” he asks.

“No, sir.  No sign of the truck but no sign of anyone else either.”

There’s a shed at the far side of the parking lot.  It’s not particularly tall, and I would never snipe from there, but it’s a better vantage point while still close to the ground.  I strap the AR over my shoulder and climb up on the dumpster beside the shed.  I hoist myself to the roof where I have a good view of the streets around us, but there is very little activity.

I’m there for about fifteen minutes before Rinaldo and his crew on the ground start gathering together.  I take one last look around and then climb down to join them.

“What’s the status?” I ask as I approach.

“Found the truck!”  Becca tells me.  “Driver’s been shot, and the cargo is gone.”

Becca’s phone bleeps, and she looks at the screen.  She holds up her phone and shows us all a picture of the truck.  It’s been painted with orange gang symbols all over the hood and sides.

“Motherfuckers!” Rinaldo balls his hands into fists, and I take a step back.  If he decides to hit someone, I’d rather it not be me.  I’ll take it if necessary but don’t want to stand in the line of fire.

“Those are Marcello Harding’s colors,” Beni says.  “Did they find anything else?”

He and Becca take a few steps away and go through the pictures as they are sent from the couriers.  I keep a close eye on Rinaldo.

“Those fuckers have ended my patience,” he says with a snarl.  He’s trembling a bit and turns to spit on the ground.  I tense but don’t step away.

“This isn’t the first time?”

“With guns, yes.  They did the same with the Russians’ heroin shipment two months ago.  There are all kinds of territory wars going on with the gangs, but trying to move into my areas?  I can’t stand for that, Evan.  I can’t.”

Rinaldo’s face is tinged with red, and I can see the vein near his temple throbbing.  He turns to me, and his eyes speak volumes.

“I got it, sir.”

He nods once, and I head over to Beni just as Cody is coming around the corner in a van.  He parks and jumps out, running to Beni’s side.

“Definitely Marcello?” I ask.

Cody nods.

“The truck was emptied, but this was left behind.”

Cody hands me one of those plastic bracelets people seem to like so much.  This one is orange and black—the colors of Marcello’s gang.  It’s ripped up, likely caught on something in the truck.

“They all wear them,” Beni tells me.

“Are they this stupid?” I ask.  “I’ve taken out members of the south gangs before.”

“You haven’t been around,” Beni says with a sneer.  “Word got out.  They got bold.  I don’t think they realize you’re back.”

“They’re going to know now.”  I flag Jonathan over.

“I need everything you can get on Marcello’s crowd,” I tell him.  “Now.”

“On it.”  Jonathan jogs over to his truck and grabs his laptop.

“I know where Marcello lives,” Paulie says.  He moves to stand over me with his hand on the butt of his gun.  “I can take care of him.”

“Where he lives is the last place he’ll be.”  I look into Paulie’s face, debate filling it with a slug from his own gun, but resist.  “You are staying with Rinaldo.  I’m dealing with this lot.”

“I’m in charge of security here,” Paulie says as he puffs out his chest.

“Yeah,” I agree with a nod, “and you failed.”

Paulie’s fingers tighten around his weapon, but he doesn’t draw it out.  I rather wish he would so I’d have an excuse to put a hole in his head.  No such luck.

“I will take care of it,” he repeats slowly.

“No, you fucking won’t.”  I step up closer to him.  I have to tilt my head to look into his face, but his size does not intimidate me.  “You are going to do exactly as you are told and stay right by Rinaldo’s side like an obedient little puppy.  Capisce?”

His hands are trembling as we stare at each other.  He bares his teeth slightly and seems as if he’s about to say something else, but we’re interrupted by Jonathan’s voice.

“Got something!  Come take a look!”

Paulie breaks eye contact first and stares at the ground as I shove past him to take a look at the computer.

Jonathan’s brought up various images and names, including security camera footage from their own hangouts and meeting places.  He has a list of the places where they gather and when.  It takes only minutes to know where I can find them later tonight.

They’ve crossed a line—physically and metaphorically.

They’re going to pay.

*****

Sometimes you just have to go with the direct approach.

Marcello’s gang is known for its hangouts.  They’ve put down roots in every establishment from Marquette Park all the way south to Ninety-fifth Street.  They have worked hard to implant themselves on the streets of Auburn Grisham, and no one dares cross them in their own territory.

Fuck that.

I open up the Camaro and fly off the Dan Ryan Expressway to Seventy-first Street, nearly going airborne as I race over a slight hill.  I slow down enough to make the turn and then barrel through two red lights.  Focused on my goal—my targets—I don’t give a shit about traffic laws.

There’s a crappy little bar where Marcello and his group all hang out on weekdays—the whole lot of them.  They do their business there, terrorize the neighborhood in general, and usually end up killing at least one of their own every month.

How they flourished so quickly in my absence is beyond me.  I’m not sure I completely believe Beni’s assessment that they became so bold when they discovered I was no longer in Chicago.  I’d been gone before.  Something or someone has to be driving them up north.

I’ll think about that later.

Pulling into the alley next to the door of the small, run-down bar, I let the engine roar once more before I turn it off.  I’m not going for stealth here. Reaching over to the floor of the passenger seat, I grab my assault rifle and step out onto the pavement.  A bunch of graffiti defaces the side of the building, depicting various gang symbols and a bunch of names in stylized letters. Everything is orange and black as if Halloween never ended.

Overconfidence should be a synonym for stupidity.  They don’t even have anyone standing at the door.  It wouldn’t have mattered, but I had at least expected it.  This is too easy, and it puts me on guard.

It’s a few minutes past nine in the evening when I silently open the door and step inside.  There’s rap music playing, but it’s surprisingly subdued.  There’s a woman cleaning up spilled beer on the countertop, and two more chicks in orange miniskirts are sitting at the bar, yakking away.