Jack Daniels Six Pack (145 page)

Munchel nods. He allows Pessolano to turn him around, examine his back.

“Vest stopped it. You hurt?”

Munchel shakes his head. It feels like he’s been snapped by a rubber band.

Holy shit,
he thinks.
I actually got shot.

I got shot and I survived.

He can picture himself in a seedy bar in South Africa, playing poker and drinking rotgut with a bunch of other mercs, casually mentioning how he got shot on his first job. A crazed smile appears on his face.

“He’s in the woods,” Pessolano says. “If we rush at him from two sides, we can flush him out. You ready?”

Munchel nods, feeling invincible.

“Let’s do it,” Pessolano says. “On my count.”

Munchel doesn’t wait. He stands up and charges straight into the trees.

11:18 P.M.
PHIN

P
HIN RETREATS INTO THE FOREST
, moving fast. He’s lost one-sixth of his ammunition, along with the element of surprise. All he’s gained is the secure knowledge that his recently acquired revolver sucks. He’d been less than fifty feet away, aiming directly at the man’s head. The bullet hit the lower back instead.

At least the gun didn’t explode in my hand.

From the short amount of time he’d observed the two men, Phin didn’t get the impression they were cops. They aren’t soldiers either, despite their camouflage outfits. And Phin doesn’t recognize them, though he didn’t get a good look at their faces.

But it really doesn’t matter who they are. The only thing that currently matters is that they’re coming after him. And they have much better guns.

Phin ducks under some low-hanging branches, jumps over a fallen tree, and finds himself in a small clearing. He jogs around the edge of it, kicking up dead leaves. Then he cuts back into the woods and heads back toward Jack’s house, approaching it on an angle.

He steps onto Jack’s property, on the southwest corner of her house. It’s completely dark. He can hear the men fumbling through the forest behind him. Phin jogs across the open stretch of lawn, energy fading. When he reaches the window by the garage, Phin considers his
options. He can go for help, but by the time help arrives the yahoos with the Desert Eagles might kill Jack.

Of course, she might already be dead.

He can continue to play hide-and-seek, try to pursue his pursuers. But Phin has no training, no military experience. He can fight, and he can shoot, but that’s the extent of his commando skills.

Or he can break into the house, grab Jack and whoever else is inside, and try to herd them all to safety.

That seems best. Phin fishes out a pocket flashlight, attached to his key chain, and peers in the garage window. He sees stacked cardboard boxes. Phin strips off his T-shirt, wads it up against the glass, and smacks the cloth with his gun. There’s noise as the glass shatters, but not too much. He clears away the big pieces of glass, spreads his shirt over the pane, and climbs inside, wiggling between the wall and the boxes.

Phin holds his breath, listens. Hears nothing.

The boxes are all various sizes and weights. He tucks the revolver into the back of his jeans and wastes a few minutes finding his way through the cardboard maze, picking up, climbing over, and shifting all of Jack’s crap. When he finally makes it to the middle of the garage, a space opens up, and he sighs in relief.

That’s when someone hits him in the head with a shovel.

Phin stumbles forward, then falls to the right, feeling the wind of another swing sail past his face. He waves his mini-flashlight, sees the shovel coming at him again, and rolls out of the way.

Phin gets on all fours, reaches around his belt for his gun.

It isn’t there.

He scuttles backward until he has some room to get to his feet. His head hurts, but it’s bearable. He does a quick sweep of the floor with the light, looking for his dropped gun but not finding it, then raises the beam to view his attacker.

Alexandra Kork.

Now it made sense why Jack called. Alex forced her to. Once upon a time, Alex almost killed Phin. Apparently, she wants another chance.

“Hello, Alex. You’re looking well.”

Alex smiles, but the scarred side of her face doesn’t move. She holds up a hand to shield her eyes from the flashlight beam.

“I like the bullet holes,” she says, pointing the shovel blade at the healed pockmarks on his torso. “Sexy.”

Phin and Alex begin to circle each other.

“Those your friends outside, standing guard?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “No. Jack is Miss Popularity to night. Apparently she collects enemies. She’s got something about her that really pisses people off.”

Alex moves in closer. Phin steps back, out of range.

“They’re coming,” Phin says. “Two of them.”

“They’ve been shooting at the house for almost three hours. They can’t hit shit.”

“They’re not using rifles anymore. They’ve got handguns. If they get in the house, we’re all going to die.”

Alex stops moving. Phin can see her working it out in her head, can see she doesn’t like the odds any better than he does.

“What’s the situation inside?” Phin asks.

“No ammo. No guns. Where’s yours?”

“If I had one, you wouldn’t be standing there right now. How many people are in the house?”

“Jack. Her mom. Her boyfriend. Her partner. And Harry.”

Phin tries to sound casual, tries to keep the hope out of his voice. “Is Jack okay?”

Alex smiles again.

“Got a little crush on her, Phin? Isn’t she a bit old for you?”

“Is she okay?” Phin asks, harder.

“I kicked her ass, but she’s alive. Everyone in there is pretty beaten up. In fact, I shot Latham. Maybe he won’t make it, and you’ll have a shot at your secret crush.”

Phin realizes he took too much time navigating the boxes. The men are going to bust in here any minute. He can’t afford to waste time sparring with Alex.

“You’ve got to make a choice, Alex.”

“Really? What choice is that, Phin?”

“Those guys are going to come in and kill anything that moves. They’ve got Desert Eagles. You ever see one?”

“I had one. Beautiful weapon. It can shoot a hole through a brick wall.”

“They’re coming, and they’re coming now. You and I can go a few rounds while they’re sneaking up on us. Or we can figure out how to defend ourselves.”

Alex snorts. “Are you serious? You want me to help you?”

“Either help, or leave. I don’t have time to deal with you right now.”

“The enemy of my enemy. Is that what you’re saying, Phin?”

“Make your choice.”

Alex stares at Phin for a moment. Then she starts to laugh. It’s a genuine laugh, and she shakes her head in obvious disbelief.

“Life certainly throws a few curves, doesn’t it?” she says.

Then she drops the shovel.

11:31 P.M.
KORK

I
DON’T TRUST PHIN
any more than he trusts me. And I’m sure that if he gets his hands on one of those Desert Eagles, the first thing he’s going to do is blow my head off.

Which, of course, is the first thing I’m going to do. I just have to make sure I get one before he does.

I turn up my palms and say, “Okay, we’re on the same side. Now what?”

Phin shrugs. “You were in the marines. I was hoping you’d tell me.”

“Any good marine knows when to fight and when to retreat. We should retreat.”

“You go ahead. Run east. I don’t think I saw them there.”

Which probably means he saw them in the east. Or maybe not.

This is going to be an interesting alliance.

“Okay,” I say. “Tell me what you saw.”

“Two men. They’re wearing vests, and each has a Desert Eagle. They took them out of the back of a Ford Bronco parked down the street.”

“Any more weapons in the Bronco?”

“I couldn’t see.”

“Keys?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

“Did they put their rifles in the Bronco?”

“I heard rifle fire, but didn’t see any guns.”

Which means the rifles might be abandoned on Jack’s property somewhere. Why did the shooters ditch their rifles? Out of ammo? Or do they figure they’ll finish the job with the handguns, then pick them up later?

I can remember where the shots came from. If I did a perimeter check, I might be able to find a rifle. And unlike those knucklehead snipers, I hit what I aim at.

I stare at Phin. Of course, he may be lying. Maybe he knows where the rifles are, and plans on getting one for himself.

Detente is a bitch.

“How about a third shooter?” I ask.

“I only saw two.”

Phin lowers his eyes to the floor. He’s looking for something.

I bet it’s a gun. He must have had one, and dropped it during our scuffle.

“We need a plan,” I say, moving a bit closer to him. If he finds the gun and makes a move for it, I’ll punch him in the throat, break his windpipe.

“I’m all ears.”

“They have two choices for entry. Front door, and the patio door. Patio door is thick glass, might be tough to break through. Front door is smarter. Two shots at the lock and a swift kick, and they’re in.”

“Maybe they’ll split up,” Phin says. “Each take an entrance.”

“The house is dark. They might shoot each other. Did they have night-vision scopes or goggles?”

Phin shakes his head. “Not when they were chasing me.”

“Then they’ll probably stick together. We need to get inside, set up an ambush.”

Phin points his light to the left, moving the beam across the workbench. He rushes to it, grabbing Jack’s .45 that I threw there, pointing it at my head.

“It’s empty,” I say.

He pulls the trigger. Nothing happens.

“Sorry,” he says. “Had to make sure. No offense.”

“None taken. Check around for a crowbar, or something to pry the door open.”

He searches the workbench. I come up beside him and also search. We keep an eye on each other, in case one of us finds a potential weapon. I see Phin’s eyes linger on a hammer.

“The door is steel,” I say. “Hammer won’t help. If you pick it up I’ll grab the shovel again, which is longer and heavier and can do more damage.”

“I’ll attest to that,” he says, rubbing the bump on his head.

We both leave the hammer alone. In the dust under the workbench is a rusty old car jack. The handle is a removable lug wrench, steel, two feet long. It’s not a crowbar, but one end tapers, like a screwdriver. I put a hand on it the same time that Phin does. Together, we bring it over to the front door.

“It isn’t big enough for both of us,” Phin says, indicating the bar.

“You’re the big, strong man,” I say, releasing my grip. “Be my guest.”

I hold the flashlight, and Phin sticks the flat end into the doorjamb, under the still-protruding chain saw. He gets a solid, two-handed grip on the bar, and leans back.

The muscles in his arms and back bulge, twitch. Phin’s a good-looking guy, and it’s been a long time since I’ve seen a man without a shirt. On impulse, I trace my finger across his lats.

He flinches, spins around.

“Easy, tough guy. Just admiring the view.”

His eyes are hard. “Don’t touch me again.”

“I’m too ugly for you, huh, Phin? Can’t handle a few scars?”

“You were ugly long before you had the scars, Alex.”

Asshole. When I get my hands on a gun, my first shot is going to remove his sanctimonious balls.

Phin goes back to it. The door frame creaks…bends…then the door pops inward, and I’m highly amused to see Jack Daniels burst through the doorway and descend on Phin with a knife clutched in her hand.

11:36 P.M.
JACK

I
SEE AN ARM RAISE UP
, moving to block my knife, and I adjust the arc, getting in under it, aiming for the neck—

It’s Phin.

I try to put on the brakes, but momentum drives my strike onward. Phin’s eyes get wide and he jerks his body sideways. The knife tip nicks his chin, and then I bump into him and he catches me before I fall onto my face.

We both stumble backward, and then I tense up and lift up the knife again when I see Alex standing directly behind him. She’s smiling her half smile.

My energy is nearly gone, but I struggle with what little I have left, fighting Phin to get at the murderer over his shoulder.

“Easy, Jack!” Phin says, holding me back. “We called a truce.”

A truce? Is he out of his mind?

Alex steps closer, pinches my wrist and twists, making me release the knife.

“We can kill each other later, Jack,” Alex says. “Those idiots outside, they’re getting ready to come in. They’re armed. We aren’t. We need to come up with a plan, and quick.”

I can’t believe this. And maybe if I wasn’t so damn tired and
banged up, I’d stage a protest. But it makes a warped kind of sense. If the snipers break in, we have no way to defend ourselves. Alex is actually the lesser threat. For the moment, at least.

“Don’t trust her,” I say to Phin, keeping my eyes on Alex.

“I won’t.”

My chest feels damp. I glance down and notice Phin is bleeding on my shirt. I touch his cheek.

“Sorry,” I say. “Does it hurt?”

He smiles. “I’m tough.”

“I know. Thanks for coming.”

“We’re friends. You call, I come.”

I’m strangely moved by that, but being a hard-edged homicide cop I respond with a strong, curt nod. Phin, however, holds me closer, actually hugging me. I give him a perfunctory pat on the back, wondering what the hell he’s doing, but not minding it terribly much. His skin is cool to the touch, and he’s got the barest hint of aftershave, something that smells like pine. No, it actually is pine. I brush a pine needle out of his hair.

His breath is on my ear, soft and warm. He whispers, “I dropped a .38 somewhere in the garage.”