Jack Daniels Six Pack (131 page)

There isn’t anything soft about me now.

I check to make sure Jack’s hands are cuffed, then shove the revolver into the back of my pants. I’m still holding her hair, and I bring her face close to mine, letting her see the scars up close.

“See what you did to me? For a while, I wished you’d killed me. I bet you’re wishing the same thing right now, aren’t you?”

Jack stares back at me, but her eyes are glassy. She’s fighting to keep it together.

“It took a long time for the pain to go away,” I continue. “The state doesn’t have the best plastic surgeons, as you can see. They had to graft on some skin from my leg. It actually grows stubble. Can you feel it?”

Jack tenses, strains to pull away. But my muscles are big and strong and it’s like restraining a child. I rub my scarred flesh against her perfect cheek, letting her feel the pointy little hairs that used to be on my calf. She stops struggling. Her muscles relax. Jack knows she can’t fight me, knows I can do anything I want to her.

I’ve been waiting a long time for this.

“Where’s Latham?” Jack asks, meek, submissive.

“We’ll get to him in a minute. First we need to call some old friends.” I find her cell phone in her purse. “Is Harry on here?”

Jack nods.

“You need to convince him to come over.”

“No.”

I half smile, make a fist, and hit Jack in the gut so hard she spits up food she ate last year. While she’s doubled over, I walk over to Mom.

“I understand the reason you’re holding out,” I say, standing behind Mom’s chair. “You figure that you’re going to die anyway, so why should you be helpful? That’s not the correct mind-set. What you should be thinking about is all the things I’m going to do to you before you die.”

Jack coughs, spits. “You’ll do those things anyway.”

“Of course I will. And eventually I’ll get my way, and you’ll call Harry. I know you’re tough, Jack. Maybe if it was only me and you, maybe you wouldn’t call. But we’ve got other people involved here.”

I hold Mary’s hand, her wrists bound to the chair with tape.

“I’ve heard arthritis is agonizing. I poked around in the medicine cabinet earlier. Mom is taking some major pills, isn’t she?”

I swivel the chair around, give Mom a frown that only appears on half of my face.

“I hope you’re not turning into a junkie. That’s a road you don’t want to go down. No matter how bad the pain gets.”

I begin to squeeze her hand. Her eyes get wide, and I watch her shake with the effort not to make any sound.

“Look how brave your mother is, Jack. Trying to hold it in.”

“I’ll call,” Jack says.

“I wonder if she’d scream if I broke a few fingers.”

“I’ll call!”

I release Mom’s hand, give the old gal a pat on the head. Then I drill my eyes into Jack. She’s pale, and appears close to collapsing.

“Convince him to come over here. Do I need to make any more threats?”

Jack shakes her head.

“Don’t look so devastated,” I say to Jack. “We’re just getting started.”

8:15 P.M.
JACK

M
OM AND I ARE
as good as dead. It’s just a matter of how much we suffer before Alex kills us.

Seeing Alex again stunned me. Instead of acting, of fighting back, I’d been caught off guard. That opportunity has passed. But I might be able to create another one with Harry McGlade.

I need to somehow convince Harry there’s a problem, without alerting Alex. Unfortunately, Harry’s intelligence falls somewhere between a chimpanzee and a crescent wrench. This is going to take some finesse.

Alex dials the number, presses the speaker phone button, and holds it to my mouth.

“Harry’s Den of Dyslexic Sex, where you can duck my sick. Harry speaking.” His voice is nasally, Chicago through and through.

“Hi, Harry. It’s Jack.”

“Jackie! Good to hear from you. Looking for work? Since that Joliet thing I’ve been swamped. I could hire you part-time. You’d do some paperwork, answer some phones. I’m paying seven fifty an hour, clothing is optional.”

Harry McGlade is a private investigator. A hundred years ago he used to be a cop, and my partner. I didn’t like him much then, and don’t like him much now, but he keeps popping up in my cases. Harry’s tough to get rid of. Like an oil stain. Or a wart.

“Look, McGlade, if I asked you to come over to my house right now, as a personal favor, would you do it?”

“No can do to night, Jackie. I’ve got a date with a very special lady. Very special. And if I cancel without giving her twenty-four hours notice, she charges my credit card anyway.”

I glance at Alex. She rolls her eyes, then points her gun at Mom. Even though I don’t have anything left in my stomach, I feel it rumble.

“Harry, I…I broke up with my boyfriend. I’m feeling kind of alone, kind of vulnerable.”

“I get it. You’re a chick, so you need to get laid to feel loved. I’m happy to step up to the plate.”

That hurts to even think about.

“I just need a friend right now. Can you come over?”

“For sex, right? I don’t want to be one of those guys, you cry on his shoulder, piss and moan for two hours, then I leave with snot on my tie and a trouser trout I have to smack around during the car ride home.”

Someone owed me an Academy Award, because somehow I say, “Yes, Harry McGlade. I want to have sex with you.”

Come on, you big dummy. You know there has to be something wrong.

“Pardon my skepticism, Jackie, but that didn’t sound right to me.”

Thatta boy, McGlade. Reason it out.

“Can you ask again?” Harry continues. “But using dirty words?”

Unbelievable.

“Just come over,” I say.

“You mean make like Ward Cleaver and discipline the Beaver?”

“Yes, Harry.”

“Say it.”

Even if he saves my life, I’m still going to kill him.

“Come over, Harry, and discipline the Beaver.”

“Are you drunk, Jackie? Is liquor impairing your judgment? Because I’m fine with that.”

“I’m not drunk, Harry. I just need you here.”

“I knew it. I knew those years of insults and dirty looks masked your true feelings. And I want you to know, the feeling is mutual. In fact, back when we rode together, and you got out of the car first, I’d sometimes lean over and sniff your seat.”

Alex has to put a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.

“Just make sure you bring protection,” I say.

A gun, asshole. Bring a gun.

“Message received. Leave the front door unlocked. If I get there and you’re already passed out, I’m hopping on anyway.”

He disconnects. Does he know I’m in trouble? Is he playing along? Or does he really think he’s going to get laid?

“Nice work, Jack. Now let’s try another one. That intense guy with the killer abs. Phineas Troutt. I owe him too.”

I stare at Alex. Her scarred face offers no reprieve. No pity. She’s a monster.

But she’s a monster who wants something from me, which gives me just a tiny bit of leeway. If I got in touch with Phin, all I’ll have left to offer Alex is my pain and suffering. Best to stall that for as long as I can.

“Where’s Latham?” I try to sound scared, which doesn’t require any acting.

“Ahh, yes. Where is loverboy? I noticed he wore a ring. You too. When is the wedding, Jack?” She bats her eyes, but the scarred one simply twitches. “Can I be your maid of honor?”

“Where is he?”

Alex makes a show of looking at her watch.

“He’s in the garage. How much air do you think is in one of those kitchen garbage bags? Think there’s twenty minutes’ worth?”

I bolt, running across the kitchen, heading for the door to the garage. My hands are behind my back, so I have to spin around to turn the knob. Alex doesn’t run after me. She stays in the kitchen, hands on her hips, looking vaguely amused.

I manage to pull open the door, and find Latham in the middle of the garage, lying on the floor next to a giant stack of boxes. A white plastic garbage bag is over his head, duct tape wrapped around his neck.

He’s completely still.

I run to him, drop to my knees, scooting around and grabbing the bag along with some of his hair. I dig my fingers in and pull. The plastic stretches, tears.

“Latham! Latham, please answer me!”

I feel him move.

“Jack?”

Thank God
. I keep tugging, removing as much of the bag as I can, my fingers encircling his face. His cheeks are wet, with sweat or tears or both.

I shed a few tears too.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, over and over.

“She put a hole in the bag. A little one. Didn’t want me to die yet.”

He talks in a monotone, emotionless. Probably in shock.

“I gave him a choice.” Alex stands in the doorway. “Fuck me, or die. He told me he’d do it if I put a bag over my head. Personally, I think it looks pretty good on him.”

My fear vanishes, replaced by a hate so intense I can taste it. I get to my knees, then to my feet, and charge at her. Alex doesn’t flinch. When I get close enough she sidesteps my attempted body tackle and trips me. Unable to break my fall, I land on my face, my lips kissing the dirty concrete floor, the wind rushing from my lungs.

“You want to play, Jack? We’ve got time to play.” Alex puts her hands behind her back. “I’ll even play fair. You’re Little Miss Tae Kwon Do, right? Let’s see if you can take me.”

I’m so pumped up with anger and adrenaline that I get up before my breath comes back. I take a feeble gasp, shake away the stars, and run at her.

Alex kicks me in the stomach, so hard that it knocks my shoes off. I fall onto my ass, the handcuffs digging in and twisting my wrists, prompting a scream. I use the pain, continuing to stretch at the cuffs, pulling them up under my butt and over my feet.

My hands are now in front of me.

It won’t help much fighting against Alex. She’s stronger than the last time I’d sparred with her. But maybe if I could get to my bedroom, to my other gun—

I run for it, run like I have a freight train coming after me. Make it to the kitchen, to the front room, to the hallway. Then I stumble and eat carpeting.

“Is that how you got your black belt, Jack? By running away like a scared little bitch?”

I roll over, glare up at Alex. She grabs my handcuff chain and jerks me up to her level. Her strength is amazing.

“Pumped a little iron in lockup?” I say between breaths.

Half of her face smiles.

“A little.”

Then she whips me forward, headfirst into the wall.

Everything goes from very bright to very dark.

8:18 P.M.
SWANSON

J
AMES MUNCHEL WALKS
into the suburban sports bar with a big yellow grin on his face and a
hail conquering hero
swagger. He actually lifts up his hand for a high five when he reaches their table.

Greg Swanson can barely hold in his rage. His jaw is clenched, and his shoulders feel like a giant knot.

“Sit down, you idiot,” Swanson orders.

Munchel darkens, lowering his upraised palm. But he complies. They’re at a table in the back, and the place is crowded enough that no one is paying any attention to them. Like all sports bars, this one boasts an impressive number of TVs. The one nearest them is tuned to CNN, at Swanson’s request, and it’s still reporting live from Munchel’s massacre scene.

“What the fuck were you doing?” Swanson asks.

“I was following the plan.”

“The plan was to take out the target, not half the cops in Chicago.”

“They were witnesses,” Munchel says.

Swanson bunches up his napkin, squeezes it hard. He’s bigger than Munchel, by five inches and sixty pounds. But the smaller man is flat-out crazy, and this scares Swanson.

Swanson looks at Pessolano, hoping for some assistance. Paul Pessolano is wearing those stupid as hell yellow shooting glasses, which
make him look like a bee. His face is granite, impassive. He’s had military experience, but he must have had his communication skills shot off during Desert Storm. Either that or he’s seen
The Terminator
too many times.

As predicted, Pessolano offers nothing. Swanson turns back to Munchel, who is flagging down their server. He waits while Munchel orders a beer and one of those fried onion appetizers. When the waitress leaves, Swanson has to count to five in his head so he doesn’t start yelling.

“I’m the leader of The Urban Hunting Club,” he says, his voice as calm and patronizing as a grade school teacher’s. “I’m the one who brought us together. I’m the one who picked the targets. I’m the one who came up with the plan.”

Munchel rolls his eyes at Swanson, then nudges Pessolano.

“Hey, Paul, how many confirmed kills you got?”

“Eighteen.” Pessolano’s voice is rough, like he doesn’t use it much.

“I’m almost caught up to you. I just got twelve.”

“You got eleven,” Pessolano says. “One of the cops lived.”

Munchel shrugs. “Fine, eleven. Still pretty good my first time out.”

Swanson realizes that he probably shouldn’t have trusted guys who answered an ad in the back of
Soldier of Fortune.
But he didn’t have a choice. Where else was he supposed to find mercenaries? Swanson works in a home improvement store, in the plumbing department. He isn’t a killer.

Well, technically, he
is
a killer now. But he wasn’t a few hours ago. And he wasn’t a few months ago when he placed that ad.

When Swanson’s wife got…
attacked
…five years ago, he’d been devastated. Jen was, is, his everything. Then the bastard who did it got out five years early—for good behavior, what a fucking joke. Swanson couldn’t allow that. He had to kill the guy. For Jen. For himself. For society. It was more than just revenge. More than justice. The punk
needed to be killed, and Swanson felt the need to perform that particular public ser vice.

But he knew that if he offed the guy, suspicion would immediately fall on him. The authorities would look at his victims, following the revenge angle.