The Filthy Few: A Steve Nastos Mystery (22 page)

He pumped half of a magazine up the staircase while moving to a position under the stairs. Anyone unaccounted for would have had to come from there, and if they were there, they weren't friendly. From his darkened and fortified position he tried to keep an eye on where everyone else went. The best he could determine was that Nastos had led the lawyer south down the long hallway. The Angels retreated north and west and Christian turned the light off in the main room and disappeared. Vince hoped he was going to shoot the cops and then lie there bleeding to death in abject fear. There was no further gunfire.

He had no idea where the cops went and it didn't really matter. He was on no one's side but his own so under the circumstances he could shoot at will and not be held accountable to either Christian or the Angels.

Staying mobile was critical. To survive he had to know where everyone was without them knowing his location. He planned to move, then paused when he heard a sound from where the Angels were. Instinctively he rushed to the next room north and fired two rounds down the hallway west. He was pleasantly surprised to hear a dull thump and a grunt. He froze in place a moment to listen further, crouched back from the doorway, his gun ready to fire down range. As silently as possible he changed to a fresh magazine and saved the near empty one in his pocket. He turned his attention to his injured thigh. It was a graze but all the same it wouldn't stop bleeding without stitches.

Vince visualized a map of the basement and worked through it. He was the only one who had been there before and he planned to use that advantage in the low light. The electrical panel, a small
60
-amp pony box, was secured to the wall next to him. It was in the northeastern-most corner of the basement, and from there he'd be able to pump rounds into most of the other enclosures. He pressed against the damp brick wall and listened. No matter what came down the hallway he was going to shoot in a right-to-left spray pattern then retreat back under the stairs, which provided the best cover within all of the crumbling brickwork. From his position of control over the stairs and the only way out, he was like spider with a cast web. When he felt a tickle on the line he could shoot from cover until he was the last man standing.

At the sound of gunfire Morrison hit the deck, smashing one knee into the ground, both hands up in a defensive position. It was Radix who grabbed him and dragged him through the archway opposite and into the shadows, hissing, “Down, down.”

He crouched, rock solid, until he felt so much carbon dioxide in his lungs that he was becoming light-headed. He brought the crook of his elbow over his mouth and allowed himself to exhale through pursed lips. He then opened his mouth wide to suck in air as quietly as possible. He had never been so scared in his life, knowing full well what an embarrassment he was to the uniform. It was Radix who always knew what to do, when to do it. He was ashamed that he might have killed Radix in exchange for escape and betrayed the only person who was on his side.

“What do we do?” he whispered.

“We get the fuck out of here or we die trying. Which way did Nastos go?”

“No idea.”

“Shit.”

Morrison listened intently, hearing subdued moans from the next room. “You hear that?”

“Yeah.” Radix paused. “He sounds hurt.” He crept to the doorway, pulling Morrison. “Let's rush him.”

“What?”

“Come quietly.”

Morrison felt himself being pulled along. He had no idea how Radix knew where he was going. They started slowly at first then lunged into a room, pushing Morrison out wide. He felt himself crash into a person who left out an oomph. Morrison felt his fists flying automatically. He grabbed the figure by the neck and threw wild punches. A gun hit the ground with an unmistakable sound then the man Morrison was fighting launched himself down the hallway and disappeared.

Morrison dropped to the floor sucking air, his fists aching. He heard the sound of a pistol being racked and the universe came to a grinding halt.

“Nice one, Morrison. We've got a chunk.”

The sudden and explosive sound of gunfire had sent everyone scattering. Nastos grabbed Carscadden by the scruff of his jacket and dragged him south down the brick corridor into a side room. There was no direct light. The catacombs were a black maze.

There were sounds of more gunfire, the briefest flashes of light. The entire time Nastos sucked up tight against a wall and began feeling around to determine what kind of room he was in. There were cast-iron pipes hanging down from the ceiling, in some areas lower than six feet from the floor. If Nastos and Carscadden had been walking or running at full height they would have smashed right into them but they had instinctively kept their heads down out of fear of the gunfire.

“Carscadden, come here.”

“What?”

“Here.” He found Carscadden and placed his hand up to feel the piping. “We're going to keep our heads down. We're going to be as quiet as we can and try to get out of here.”

“Which way is out?”

Nastos scanned left and right. His eyes were adjusting to the dark but not fast enough. “The stairs are that way, but no thanks. There must be another way.”

He snuck up to the doorway where they had come in and watched. There were shadows moving in the area of the staircase but he couldn't be sure of what he was seeing. Then he heard something close and ducked back. “Carscadden, someone's coming.”

They drew back into the room, Nastos wishing he had a brick or an improvised weapon. When a figure appeared at the doorway they both lunged. Nastos grabbed the figure by the throat and brought up his knee hard and fast striking the man in the head as hard as he could. All he could do was hope that the man didn't have a gun. It was frantic and clumsy, made worse by the fact that he and Carscadden had no time to plan and could not speak to work together for fear of giving away their position. Nastos grabbed the man by the face and, with the nose as a landmark, determined front and back, forced the man to the ground face first then knelt on his back. Carscadden frisked down his right arm and retrieved the gun.

“Nastos, I've got it.”

Nastos leaned over the dark figure. “Who are you?”

The man remained silent until Nastos punched him in the ribs. He grunted, “Christian. You happy?”

“Thrilled.”

He took the gun from Carscadden. He tried to manipulate it in his hands to determine how many rounds they might have but found it slick to hold.
What's wrong with this thing?

He handed the gun back to Carscadden and frisked Christian while whispering, “You have anything else on you?”

“Just a bullet hole. Vince the fucking traitor put one into me before I returned the favour.”

Carscadden said, “That explains why the gun is slick. It's covered in blood.”

Nastos replied, “You'll have to forgive me for not giving a shit.” He ran his hands up and down Christian's body. There were no other guns, just a cellphone, which he pocketed.

“Carscadden, cover the doorway. Look out and tell me what's going on down there.” He turned his attention to Christian. “Where are you hit?”

“One in my right forearm.”

“Poor baby,” Carscadden chimed in.

“I'm going to try to be careful,” Nastos said. “But if you make a sound you're worth more to me dead than alive.” Nastos leaned Christian over and unclasped his belt before sliding it off of his pants. He put Christian's arms behind his back and tied them there with the belt. Christian swore a few times but was quiet enough.

They heard shouts and more gunfire. It seemed to echo from every direction and despite their efforts there was no way to tell where it was coming from.

Nastos hissed Carscadden over. “Here, make sure he doesn't move.” Nastos took the gun, emptied the mag and counted all of the bullets. There were nine in the gun and one in the chamber. He reloaded and wiped the blood from his hands on his pants.

There was a loud clang then the sounds of chains dropping. Soon the entire downstairs was lit up as if by magnesium flares. Nastos shielded his eyes as they stung from the light. He appraised Christian. He had certainly been shot. There was blood everywhere, including a trail that led into the room.

Vince's deep voice boomed. “Radix, Morrison? Whichever one of you takes care of the other gets out of here alive.”

Radix shouted, “Fuck you, shithead.”

Nastos shook his head. Radix was too easy to bait and give away his position. He refused the temptation to peek out of the room. Instead he moved within the room and tried to see as far down the hallway as possible. Everything looked different in the light. He could see the bottom of the stairs and how far they had run in the dark. Most of the interior walls were non-supporting, only bricked up to the floor joists or to the pipework. Quickly he sucked back deeper in the room when he heard, then saw, one of the Hells Angels bikers barrelling down the hallway following the blood trail.

He frantically waved Carscadden back. He took three quick breaths and punched out into the hallway putting rounds down range. Big Red clutched his chest and careened against the wall while returning fire. Nastos pulled back into the room, his right forearm numb with pain. He passed the gun over to Carscadden. He'd been shot, not fatally, but with the searing pain and an open fracture to his forearm he couldn't fire another round.

Carscadden took the gun, his face pale with fear but determined. He punched out into the doorway and blasted off a few rounds himself. Eventually the gun locked back, empty. Carscadden held it up and stared at it. “That ain't good.”

Nastos hit the release to move the slide forward. “Locked back they know you're empty. At least this way they can't be sure.”

Carscadden peered out again into the hallway. “The one with the red hair is dead.”

Nastos gripped his arm again, cradling it to his side. “So one more Hells Angel plus Vince. We might just make it out of here.” After a brief search he found a loose brick and pried it from the wall to use as a weapon of last resort. Then he remembered the cellphone that he had taken from Christian, who was barely lucid. He brought it out but saw that there were no connections bars, no signal strength.

29

Vince buried his eyes into the crook of his elbow and flipped the main breaker on the electrical panel. He counted sixty seconds before he heard an eruption of gunfire and shouts from the other side of the basement. He turned the lights off again and when he opened his eyes they were still adjusted to the dark. Since he planned on moving soon he took the opportunity to speak. “Morrison, Radix, no shit. Whichever one of you shoots the other gets out of here in one piece. You hear me?”

There was no answer; they weren't going to take the bait a second time. He exited the room through the back door and began circling around toward the staircase. He heard more sporadic gunfire but wasn't sure where it could have come from. He had heard gunfire and dull thuds. He could not be sure who had been hit or how many. With the unknown element on the staircase he decided that it was time to move and use his home field advantage. The hallway was generally a rectangle around the centre room. There were rooms on the outside walls, each with a large doorway but also with a small squeeze-through area from room to room. It was possible to work his way all the way around either by the hallway or by snaking through the rooms.

He decided to do a counter-clockwise circle, going room to room from where no one would expect him. He crouched low, taking one step at a time in slow, measured paces.

Vince slid out his second pistol, keeping one pointed in front and one in back as he crept sideways through the catacombs that he had memorized years ago. This was where the bikers had initially run. They might have moved and been involved in the shootout he had heard when he had turned the lights back on. When he found them he'd gladly sacrifice his position before . . . He stopped and held his breath. Yes, he could hear groaning. He closed both eyes, positioning his head then bringing both guns to bear. He paused then opened up. Muzzle flash was nearly enough to illuminate the man slumped against the back wall. After three rounds he was able to save one gun and shoot with just his right hand.

He stood still. He heard whispers coming from down the hall but could not tell from where exactly. It was time to turn his mind to the awful truth. Someone had come down the stairs after him and he had no idea who it was. It had to be more Angels. As far as he knew, they could have brought the entire clubhouse.

There was no movement coming from down the hallway. He was in the enviable position of having no friendly fire to worry about plus having about one hundred rounds on him. Remembering that, he knelt down and topped up both guns before slowly creeping to the main hallway, the game trail from where he planned to snipe at anything that dared move for the staircase.

With no more ammunition and back in darkness, Nastos took a moment to consider the few options he had. He took off his own belt and wrapped it tight around Christian's open mouth, gagging him. “Carscadden, we're going to walk toward the stairs, using him as a meat shield. I've had enough of this place.”

Carscadden took a moment to answer. “Let's do it.”

Nastos cranked Christian's arm behind his back hard enough to lift him up on his toes then shoved him forward. Christian would have heard the plan but wasn't in much of a position to disagree. When Nastos felt Carscadden's hand on his shoulder he began to move slowly, sucking up tight to the right wall.

Nastos recalled that there was a doorway on the right then another further down on the left. If they could get to the room on the left it might be worth it to dump Christian there hard enough for him to make a distracting sound then make a quiet move for the stairs. His mind was racing with options, few of them good — like what if they ran right into someone who had a loaded gun?

Nastos could feel Christian's reluctance to walk first into the unknown. With each step, Nastos had to shove harder and harder as they went. Christian was quickly proving himself to be a liability, which was likely the idea. They made it to the room on the right and Nastos backed in, pulling Christian behind him. He pivoted quickly when he heard a sound behind him. There was gunfire, loud and close as if it came from everywhere. The explosions of light cast hideous shadows against the walls then disappeared leaving visual echoes. Christian slumped forward and Nastos dropped to the ground.

He heard “Fuck, shit.” The voice was Morrison's, it had to be.

Nastos lay still, only able to hope that Carscadden had not come around the wall yet. Christian struggled to breathe and left the world with a death rattle. Nastos remained alone in the room, except for the corpse and the killer.

He heard another whimper and took a chance. “Morrison?”

“Nastos?”

“Yeah. It's me. Carscadden, you okay?”

His voice came from the hallway. “Yeah, coming in.”

Carscadden shuffled along the floor and landed next to him. Morrison crawled over too. Nastos was surprised when he felt the hot gun barrel jab into his hand. “Jesus Christ.”

“Sorry.”

“Give me that.”

Nastos dumped the mag and counted the bullets. “I shot that big Red fucker.”

Carscadden added, “I gave Red a few extra.”

Nastos continued, “And Morrison, you just shot Christian dead. That leaves Vince, Radix and the unknown.”

Carscadden asked, “Where is Radix?”

Morrison answered, “We were separated when the bullets flew. I have no idea where he went. Or who fired the first few rounds.”

Nastos hoped it had been Viktor shooting but didn't think he could have possibly made it in time. “For all we know it's more bikers.” He gulped. “We're going to have to find the panel box and turn the lights on. The last thing we want to do is shoot Radix or another friendly.”

Morrison grunted. Nastos reloaded the counted rounds. They had eight.

They fell silent and Nastos took a moment to just listen. There was no sound of anyone creeping down the hallways and he figured out why. Vince had nothing to gain by coming to look for them, he was at home here. All he had to do was sit and wait like a spider waiting for something to get stuck in its web. Movement was suicidal even with the staircase so close. “We need a distraction.”

Carscadden asked, “Like what?”

“Like I don't know what, but staying down here for the rest of my life while he may have backup coming, I'll take my chances with the staircase.”

Nastos took a moment to ponder if Viktor would arrive in time, or even be able to help. Carscadden pushed down on Nastos' shoulder as he rose to his feet. “Okay, how do you want to do this? Lead with the gun to the staircase? After that, you cover the back until we get up to the first landing, after that the gun goes to the front again.”

Nastos considered it. “Too complicated, you're overthinking. We move fast, full speed. Once we get to the stairs the only threat is up. If any bullets come down, I'll return fire.”

“Unless you get hit.”

“Right, unless I get hit. Then we're all dead.”

They linked up, Morrison last with a grip on Carscadden's belt and Carscadden with a grip on Nastos' shoulder. They moved low and fast for the stairs. Nastos' foot made it to the first step before he heard the gunfire behind him. He charged faster, reassured by the tightening grip that Carscadden had on his shoulder. There were loyalties to Carscadden bordering on brotherhood. With Morrison he had shared the badge.

After the second landing he realized that, although he had committed to memory the number of turns when he came down the stairs, now that information was gone, erased by adrenaline numbing the pain of exertion and fueling the drive upward.

After the turn on the staircase Nastos slowed. There was enough concrete between them and Vince, who he hoped was downstairs. Now he had to hope the door wasn't locked.

Morrison huffed from below, “We there?”

“Soon.” He considered passing the gun back but only briefly. With a hand out he finally felt the touch of the cold metal. He stopped abruptly and Carscadden and Morrison plowed into him. “Easy, easy.”

“Sorry,” came two replies.

He pointed the gun skyward and felt for the door knob. “I've got the door. You guys ready?”

Morrison sounded terrified. “For what?”

“For anything. Low and fast, for the closest exit. Got it?”

Carscadden echoed. “Got it.”

The door opened to a surreal world. A wall of noise, dancing girls, men cheering in a dark place lit by neon lights and sports highlights played on big-screen
TV
s. Nastos turned his eyes to the stage. A woman slowly emerged from between the curtains, her measured pace in rhythm to the music. Waist-length black hair, pale, alabaster skin, exaggerated curves in a black bodice and a coy, seductive smirk.

It was unreal to see that nothing had changed from the last time he had stood there. He felt his arms go slack, the gun hanging weakly at his side. He wheeled around at the sound of a loud thump behind him. It was Morrison, slamming the steel door shut.

Morrison asked, “What happened to low and fast?”

Carscadden glanced at the girl. “I was just waiting for you.”

Nastos felt tears of joy well up and nearly smiled for what felt like the first time in his life. His joy was interrupted, though, when he glanced around the upper balcony and saw the attire of the men who were in control of the bar.

Vince charged up the stairs at full speed, firing off a few useless rounds. It was too much to hope for a direct hit but he had enough ammunition to spread some fear. All he could do was hope to cause some injury with fragmentation from the concrete walls. During a pause he heard the metal door sliding open and the rush of noise from the dance music reverberating down the walls.

When the door closed again he paused to consider his options. He could stay in the basement until the bar was closed and hope the entire upstairs wasn't filled with the Hells Angels and their Big Red Machine. If they were up there he was trapped until they decided to come down and get him.
No, the only option is to get out right now, while I can slip away in the crowd.
Vince crept up the remaining stairs quietly. At the last landing, in total darkness, he listened again and confirmed that he was alone. He lowered his gun, slowly pressed against the door then pushed it open.

Again he was hit with the wall of sound, red neon lights flashing, dark figures rushing around, the waitresses and a wall of men milling around the centre stage. The place was surprisingly busy. His eyes scanned the faces and he began to recognize some. Near the north wall were various hang-arounds, reprobates and prospects for the Hells Angels, maybe a dozen of them, and all the ones that were on the Devil Dogs hit list that he had given to Red. Stern faces, bathed in red light, demanding blood. On the south side were nearly equal numbers of his own people. Both sides were engaged in a stare-down. Scarred and ugly faces. Young and old, the proven warriors, the cowards alike. Two rival biker gangs, currently involved in open war, certainly all armed, in one bar. The atmosphere of the bar had changed. The men who had come to cheat on their wives or just to have some naked women show them some attention were trying to avoid eye contact with the bikers and nervously finishing their drinks.