Paint It Black (2 page)

O
n Thanksgiving morning, we gathered in darkness in an abandoned Sears parking lot. When I exited my ancient Pontiac, I didn’t bother to lock it. Hey, if a thief wanted it, more power to him. My defroster had stopped working last week, so—after scratching a clear patch on my iced-over windshield with the edge of a CD case because I couldn’t find the scraper—I’d spent the twenty-minute drive scrubbing the fog off the inside windshield with my sleeve, squinting at the road, and trying not to breathe.

Rubbing my hands together, I moved toward the black van. Other agents drifted from the shadows like ghosts. In the predawn hours, the cold November sky cast everything in a strange, monochrome gray tint, making me feel like I was caught in a black-and-white
movie. Our dark clothing only added to the effect. We entered the van in a somber procession that made my throat ache, because this wasn’t like any raid I’d ever been on.

There was no AC/DC
Back in Black
blasting from the speakers, none of the pumped-up, adrenaline-laced chatter. No Johnny Angel asking if I wanted to sit on his lap.

“Hey, Chief, I’m askin’, not harassin’,” he’d joke when Bill shot him a stern look.

Today, the inside of the van was utterly silent. Pale, worried faces gazed at me and nodded in greeting, all except one. With his head in his hands, Cougar hunched forward on the edge of the bench that lined the sides of the van. His unruly brown hair peeked from beneath the edge of his black knit cap. I slid in beside him and squeezed his arm.

He glanced at me with bloodshot blue eyes, then leaned back. His gloved hand grasped mine, a gesture that would’ve normally inspired any number of rude comments and catcalls. But not today.

Instead, Luke Jacobi, the agent on my right, took my other hand and reached for the man on his right. In a show of solidarity that made my eyes burn, agent after agent linked hands with the man on either side, until at last Bill clasped Cougar’s and completed the circle.

Tucker Fitzgerald cleared his throat. “Our Father,
please extend your protection over the men …” He glanced at me. “—and woman—assembled here today, and most especially protect our brother, Angel. Guide us in our mission, and deliver him unto us unharmed in body and spirit.”

We all echoed his amen and the circle broke. When I attempted to release Cougar’s hand, he gripped my fingers and refused to let go. That was okay. He and Angel were like brothers, and I knew he was taking this harder than anyone. If holding his hand gave him some comfort, I was glad to do it, because I damn sure couldn’t think of anything reassuring to say. Angel had vanished yesterday in the middle of an undercover operation, and I think we all assumed the worst. Even the DA had finally stopped dragging his feet and drafted a search warrant for the estate of Frank Barnes, a suspected class one drug dealer.

Usually, riding in the van didn’t bother me, but today my stomach lurched when we took the curves. This was the fulfillment of a dream for me, a lifelong quest for revenge, but suddenly Frank Barnes didn’t matter. Seeing him punished didn’t matter; I only wanted my friend to be alive.

“Almost there,” the driver said.

We threw on tactical gear and checked our weapons. Our badges hung on cords around our necks, and I pulled Cougar’s from beneath his shirt. When the van braked to a stop, Bill barked, “Go, go, go!” and threw
open the door. We hit the ground running.

ATF agents spilled from another van and surged in front of us with a battering ram. They splintered the front door while we raced around back. For a few seconds, it was chaos. Agents shouted “ATF!” or “DEA!” or simply “Police!” when we stormed inside. Someone was screaming “Down! Down! Down!” but there was no one inside to get down.

The mansion seemed utterly vacant, but we didn’t slow down until we’d searched every room, every closet. Cougar and I swept the last room together.

Nothing.

Cougar kicked the bedroom door. It cracked against the wall hard enough to knock a hole in the plaster. He turned and stalked out of the room.

“Cougar, no!” I yelled, not really knowing what I was telling him not to do, but alarmed by the fury on his face. I raced back down the stairs on his heels. He stopped on the landing, yanked his helmet off, and hurled it across the room. It bounced off the paneled wall with a loud thwack, and he turned his stormy eyes on me. “Barnes
knew
, Necie. He knew we were coming, just like he knew Angel was a cop.” He pointed over my shoulder and shouted, “Which one of you bastards is working for him?”

Pressing my hands against Cougar’s chest, I glanced behind me at the cluster of men. Karl and the ATF agent
beside him glared back. Not knowing what else to do, I grabbed Cougar’s arm and dragged him outside. He let me, or otherwise I couldn’t have budged him.

Snow fluttered from the sky, and the cold wind shrieked around us, whipping my hair in my face. We stood on the back deck facing each other while the tiny white flakes swirled around us.

“Cougar, listen to me,” I said, but he was staring over my shoulder, through the patio doors. Grabbing his chin, I forced him to look at me. The despair in his eyes made my stomach clench. “Listen,” I repeated, softer this time. “You can’t throw accusations like that around. I know—”

“I know, too,” he said, his face reddening. “Angel didn’t mess up. Someone sold him out.”

The words hung between us, and I had to admit, I believed it, too.

Cougar shook his head, the muscle in his jaw working furiously. “There’s no way Barnes could’ve known unless there was a mole.”

The whine of a motorcycle interrupted our conversation. A hooded rider exploded around the corner on a yellow Yamaha and raced toward the woods. Cougar and I vaulted the railing and took off after him.

Cougar entered the forest a few steps ahead of me. When he lurched to a stop, I collided into his back and knocked us both down on the slippery leaves.

Scrambling to his feet, he never even looked at me. I peered around him to see what had his attention.

Angel sat on the ground, tied to a tree, with his long legs splayed out in front of him. Snow dusted his black jeans like powdered sugar, and his chin rested against his chest. Blood streaked the front of his white T-shirt.

Half-running, half-stumbling, Cougar raced toward him, the motorcyclist forgotten. He grabbed a fistful of Angel’s black hair and jerked his head up.

A tiny black hole burned in the middle of his forehead.

“No!” I screamed—or at least I think I did.

The howling wind abruptly died, leaving behind a moment of utter stillness and silence.

Angel’s eyes fluttered open, and he stared at Cougar.

“Hey, man,” he said. “I’m freezing. Get me up from here.”

CHAPTER
2

C
ougar gaped at him, then shot me a disbelieving look. He still clutched a handful of Angel’s hair. “Y-you,” he stammered.

“What’s the problem?” Angel said, and winced, though I think he was trying for a smile.

Somehow that broke my paralysis, and I scrambled toward them. “Angel, you’ve been shot.”

He frowned. “No. Barnes knocked me out or something. I can taste blood. I think he hit me with the gun …”

I slid next to him, and couldn’t resist the urge to check his pulse. Cougar stared at me, and I noticed he was clutching Angel’s other wrist.

I heard a commotion behind me, and turned to see Ubi and Tucker burst through the tree line. Like us,
they stared dumbfounded at Angel.

“Would you all quit gawking and get me up?” Angel said.

“You’ve been shot,” I repeated, and yelled over my shoulder, “Call 911!”

“Necie, I’m fine,” he protested. “Let me up.”

He struggled against the ropes, and I pressed a hand on his shoulder to still him.

“You have a hole in the middle of your forehead, handsome,” I said shakily.

It was small caliber, probably a .22. The sickly sweet stench of his charred flesh made my stomach knot.

“What?” Angel’s brown eyes widened. His usual bravado disappeared. Suddenly, he looked very young and confused.

Gently, Cougar tilted Angel’s head forward, then he turned his own face away. “And you’ve got an exit wound the size of a half dollar,” he whispered.

Angel blinked. “I’ve really been shot?” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I-I remember Barnes holding the gun to my head, but I thought it misfired or something. I thought he hit me with it. Am I gonna … can you see …”

“Just hang on, man,” Cougar said. “I’m not moving you until the EMTs get here.”

A tear slipped from the corner of Angel’s eye and stalled halfway down his cheek. “Coug, I’m scared,” he said.

Though his face was nearly as white as the snow
falling around us, Cougar tried to smile. “Ah, man … you think he’d know better than to shoot a Red Sox fan in the head.”

Angel snorted. He leaned his head against Cougar’s, and they both laughed. Then they cried.

“Just hang on,” Cougar said.

The ambulance arrived seven minutes later. The EMTs didn’t seem to know what to do with him any more than we did. Afraid to lay him down, they managed to transfer him to a gurney while keeping him sitting up straight. Cougar insisted on riding with them to the hospital.

Angel was in surgery for three hours. Cougar paced the waiting room, then finally the hallways, hounding the nurses for information every few minutes. I tried to calm him down before they threw him out. Most of my attempts at conversation garnered only a grunt in reply, but when I asked how Angel had seemed on the way to the hospital, Cougar stopped pacing and sagged against the wall. The tightness around his mouth vanished for a moment, and he almost smiled.

“He asked the driver to find out the Notre Dame score. The poor EMT was so flipped out that he did it. When Angel heard they were down by seven, he said, ‘Bummer.’ Then he closed his eyes. I tried to keep him talking, because, you know, my mama used to wake me up every two hours after I’d taken a helmet to the head in a game. Sometimes I’d wake up and find her hovering
right over me. I’d yell, she’d yell … it scared the hell out of both of us. She was checking to see if I was still breathing. That’s what I was doing to him.”

Ubi nudged Cougar and pointed to the ticker on the silent television screen mounted in the corner of the room. Notre Dame had come back to win by three.

“Good,” Cougar said, rubbing his forehead. “Good.”

I squeezed his hand.

The OR doors swung open, and we ran to meet the surgeon. He pulled his blue-green cap off and squinted at us.

“So, how is he?” Cougar said. “When can we see him?”

“Are any of you family?”

Cougar threw open his arms. “C’mon, man! We’re all family. Just tell us how he’s doing.”

“I’m sorry to tell you this, but Mr. Angelino is in a coma.”

“What?” Cougar exploded, and the surgeon took a step backward. “Man, what did you do to him? He was doing great! He was talking and everything.”

The surgeon’s mouth tightened, and he turned to leave. I pushed between them and clutched the doctor’s sleeve.

“Please,” I said. “He didn’t mean anything. We’re all upset. We were hoping for better news, with the way Angel was acting …”

The man’s frown softened. “The damage done by a head injury is not only the result of the first impact.
Swelling can prevent blood from coming into the brain, causing damage. That’s what’s happening to Mr. Angelino. We drained a hematoma, and have him on medication to reduce the swelling. Right now, we’re monitoring the pressure.”

“What about brain damage?” Tucker asked.

“Well, he’s lucky the bullet was small caliber. A bullet entering the skull sets up sonic vibrations within the cranial vault, which sends shock waves slamming through gelatinous brain matter. A powerful shot can vibrate the whole brain to a pulp even if it barely passes through the brain’s substance. With a .22, you don’t have as much of that vibration.”

“Then why do they say a .22 is a hit man’s gun of choice?” Ubi asked.

“Well, with a .22, sometimes the bullet gets in and can’t get out. It ping-pongs around in the skull until it levels everything. To be honest with you, I don’t know how Mr. Angelino got so lucky. Someone up there must be watching out for him, because …” The corner of his mouth twitched. “… he, ah, has an unusually thick skull.”

Cougar snorted behind me, and I smiled.

“Sometimes bullets take weird paths,” the doctor continued. “The shot passed through the prefrontal lobe and followed the curve of his skull to exit out the back of his head. I was actually expecting more extensive damage than I found. If we can get the swelling down,
I have great expectations for him.”

“What do you mean, ‘great expectations’?” Cougar asked. “Will he be…normal?”

“He’ll probably have to spend a while in therapy to relearn some skills—the frontal lobe affects cognitive ability. For example, he may remember what a toothbrush is, but not how to use it. He might have trouble sequencing—following the steps to make a pot of coffee, for example. You might also see a change in temperament. Someone who was previously outgoing might seem suddenly shy.”

He paused, and we fell silent. I thought about Angel, and how impossible it was to imagine him being shy, or not even knowing how to brush his teeth.

The surgeon cleared his throat. “But let’s take it one step at a time. Our main worry right now is swelling. If we can control that, we’ve won most of the battle.” He glanced at Cougar. “I promise, I’ll do everything I can to help your friend.”

Cougar wrapped his arm around my shoulder and leaned into me as he extended his other hand to the surgeon. “Thanks, Doc.”

The surgeon shook his hand before slipping away.

Cougar turned from me and scrubbed his face with his hands. “Aah,” he said. “Shit.”

I pasted on a smile and moved in front of him. He looked up, but his eyes stared straight through me.

“Angel’s tough,” I said. “He proved that today. He’s going to be okay.”

Cougar blinked and finally focused on me. “I told his mother the same thing on the telephone. I promised her he was okay.” He exhaled. “Now I have to tell her he isn’t.”