Jack Daniels Six Pack (150 page)

Munchel tried yelling. Tried slapping his hand on the floor. Tried talking sweet. Tried begging. He even tried nudging the litter box, but
that’s the move that provoked the biting, and he isn’t going to attempt it again.

Munchel’s lower lip trembles, and the tears come. His stomach is getting even worse. It’s not even about escaping anymore. Even if he shot off the handcuffs, he wouldn’t have the strength to get to the truck.

Munchel wants the gun for another reason. His final request. He wants to shoot that split-tail and that one-armed guy who did this to him. And the cat. He really wants to shoot the cat.

Then he’ll use the gun on himself and end this terrible pain.

Just do it,
he thinks.
It’s just a cat. If it scratches you, no big deal. You’re going to die anyway. Be a soldier and do it!

Munchel extends his hand toward the revolver for the tenth time. He shows no fear, and doesn’t hesitate. The cat watches him, unblinking, as he gets within ten inches of the gun.

Eight inches.

Six inches.

Four inches.

Two inches.

Munchel grabs it! He lifts the gun up, his index finger seeking the trigger, and then there’s a blur of yellow fur and the cat has all four claws
and
its teeth locked onto Munchel’s hand. Munchel can’t help it—the cat hits a tendon or something that makes his hand pop open, causing him to release the gun. He screams, reining his arm in, lifting it up to beat the cat against the underside of the workbench. But before he can, the cat releases him, hopping back into the litter box.

The pain doesn’t abate. It feels like the cat is still clawing, still biting. Munchel looks for the gun, and sees it’s even farther away now.

And the cat, the damned cat, is licking Munchel’s blood from its paw.

There’s some noise, from the opposite side of the garage. Munchel swivels his neck around, and through a gap in the boxes he spies someone climbing in through the window.

It’s the woman. The badass woman who was trying to kill the split-tail cop. She navigates the boxes and walks over to Munchel, staring down at him.

The woman has a killer body, but her face is Phantom of the Opera. Still, she’s trying to kill Jackie. She could be a possible ally.

“We both want the cop dead,” Munchel says.

The woman lifts her foot up, lightly touches her toe to Munchel’s stomach. He howls, all thoughts of a possible alliance being wiped from his mind. Everything gets bright, then dark.

“It’s your stomach acid,” she says. “It’s leaking through the bullet hole, and dissolving all of your other organs. Bad way to die. Takes hours.”

She moves her foot up higher, nudges his shoulder. Munchel wonders if maybe he blacked out for a few seconds.

“What happened to your hand?” she asks.

Her eyes track from Munchel’s arm to the litter box, then to the revolver. The woman’s face twitches.

“Kitty won’t let you have the gun? That’s pretty damn funny.”

The woman bends down, looks at the cat, and says, “Scram.”

The cat hisses, then bounds out of the garage, back into the house. The woman picks up the revolver.

“Is this what you wanted? So close, but so far. That must have been awful for you.”

Munchel knows what he has to say, but can’t bring himself to say it.

“Let me take a wild guess.” The woman crouches next to him, wipes away one of Munchel’s tears with her thumb. “You want me to shoot you. Right?”

Munchel nods, and manages to add, “Please.”

“Normally, I’m a merciful chick. But you and your boys—well, you really fucked up my plans for the evening. So I think the best thing for both of us is for you to die in horrible agony.”

She’s not going to help him. But maybe he can force her to.

“I’ll…I’ll scream,” he says. “I’ll scream that you’re here.”

The woman straightens up and places her foot on Munchel’s stomach again, taking his breath away.

“No you won’t. Because I can make it worse.”

She reaches over his head, onto the workbench, and grabs two items: a funnel, and a bottle of liquid drain cleaner. She drops them next to Munchel.

“You make a sound,” she tells him, “even the tiniest sound, and I’ll fill you up with something that hurts a lot worse than stomach acid. Got it?”

Munchel nods, pissing his pants once more.

“Who has the keys to that truck outside?”

“Pess…Pessolano.”

“He the guy in the living room?”

Munchel nods again, wishing he would die.

“Inside. Are they armed?”

“…the guy, Harry…he’s got a Desert Eagle…only one bullet.”

“Anything else?”

“…no…please…”

She finally takes her foot off his stomach. Then she swings out the cylinder on the revolver, slaps it back in, and cocks it, heading for the doorway to the house. Before she goes through she looks at Munchel.

“Remember,” she says, putting a finger to her lips. “Shhh.”

Munchel closes his eyes and focuses all of his energy on being very, very quiet.

12:09 A.M.
JACK

I
WAKE UP WITH MY HEAD
in Phin’s lap. He appears concerned, an emotion I’ve never seen from him before. It softens his features, making him look like a different person.

“What happened?” I ask. The lawn is cool beneath my legs, and my various aches and pains are a little less acute.

“You passed out. After you jumped off the roof to save me.”

“I landed on an azalea bush. And I landed funny.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Not that kind of funny. I think the plant got to third base.”

“Frisky, those azaleas. Did it buy you dinner first?”

“No. Not even a glass of wine. Where’s Alex?”

“She ran into the woods.”

I try to sit up. Phin helps. I’m groggy, but I can function.

“She might head back to the house,” I say. “We have to get there.”

“She’s unarmed.”

“That doesn’t mean she isn’t dangerous.”

Phin nods. “Good point. I think we can handle her, though. Let me show you.”

He hands me the shotgun, then sticks his head in the passenger door of the truck and presses something on the dashboard. Then he
walks around to the rear door and opens it up. Inside are two sniper rifles, half a dozen handguns, and box after box of ammo.

“I couldn’t bring it back to the house all by myself, but if we both load up, we can manage. Unless Alex is driving a tank, she won’t be able to get to us.”

“Let’s hurry.”

There’s a metal suitcase lined with foam, with cut-out impressions for the two Desert Eagles. I tear out the foam and fill the suitcase with bullets. Phin finds a duffel bag, and we pile in the guns and more bullets. We barely cram everything in.

I reload the Desert Eagle, Phin adds a few shells to the shotgun, and then I help him strap on the duffel bag, which weighs a ton. The suitcase and both rifles are mine to carry.

Satisfied we haven’t left a scrap of ammo behind, we head back toward the house.

My load is cumbersome, unwieldy, and after a few steps I have to rest. Phin urges me on. You never realize how big your lawn is until you’re hauling a hundred pounds of ordnance across it. I really hope Mom doesn’t change her mind about moving back to the city.

“I still have to find the cell phone jammer,” I tell Phin between labored breaths. “If you cover the front, and Harry covers the back—”

My words are cut off by the sound of gunfire, coming from the house.

12:11 A.M.
KORK

T
HE REVOLVER IS A
.38. There are five bullets in the cylinder. That’s more than enough.

I creep into the house, silent and powerful. After a little hiccup in the plan, I’m back in control. Harry and his single-shot Desert Eagle don’t concern me. Even if he manages to get a shot off, he’ll most certainly miss.

I slip into the living room and grin when I see the cast-iron pot with the wire attached. Idiots. Then I kneel down next to Pessolano. His pants are a bloody, sticky mess, but I manage to fish out the keys to the Bronco. I shove them in my pocket, then concentrate on the hallway.

I hear whispering. Coming from the bathroom, behind the refrigerator.

I pause. Shall I shoot to kill? Or is there time for a little fun first?

I decide to play it by ear.

I bend down low, measuring each footstep, careful I don’t make a sound. I feel most alive during moments like this. I’m in control, a hunter stalking her prey. It’s what I was born to do.

“She’s in the house! She has a gun!”

Dammit. That sniper idiot. I thought I paralyzed him with fear, but he must have been made of stronger stuff than I assumed. I meld into the shadows, pressing my back up against the wall.

“Is that you, Alex?” Harry asks.

I wonder whether or not to answer, decide there’s no harm now.

“It’s me,” I say.

“Found yourself a gun, huh?”

“Yep. And I have more than one bullet, Harry. Where should I shoot you first? I’ll let you decide.”

“Come a little closer and I’ll tell you.”

I laugh, then take a step forward.

“You think you can hit me left-handed, Harry?”

“I don’t have to. Mom has that particular honor.”

Another step. “That old lady with the crippled hands? She can’t even hold a gun.”

“She’s not holding it. I am. She’s aiming for me.”

I stop in my tracks.

“Mom’s an expert markswoman. She taught Jack how to shoot. Isn’t that right, Mom?”

“Stick your head out, Alex,” Jack’s mother says. Her voice is strong and sure. “I’ll teach you how to make some mincemeat pie.”

I back up. Maybe they won’t hit me, but maybe they will, and a .50 bullet in capable hands is not something to take lightly. I’ll sneak back outside, come in a different way.

I head for the front door, and see Jack and Phin heading toward the house, their arms filled with weapons.

Shit.
I buzz through a few quick scenarios in my head. I shoot at them, kill one, and the other rushes the house with superior firepower. Or I get lucky, kill them both, and Harry pops up behind me and puts one into the back of my head.

Maybe I could win with a better gun and more ammo, but a smart girl knows when to fight and when to run. It’s running time.

Still, I can spare
one
bullet.

I get down on a knee, support my wrist with my free hand, and draw a bead on Jack’s head. Then I wait for her to get within range. If
she’s too far away, I’ll miss. If she’s too close, that will give Phin a chance to catch me.

Fifty feet seems to be a good distance.

I’m a little disappointed that it will end this way, but I can come back for Harry and the others later. Let them mourn Jack for a few weeks. Settle back into everyday life. Then I can surprise them with a return visit, after I’ve finished with the other thing I’ve got planned.

Jack reaches the fifty-foot mark. I line up the sights.

“Bye-bye, Lieutenant.”

I squeeze the trigger.

Jack remains standing.

I missed.

It’s the gun. The gun’s aim is off.

Damn, that is one lucky lady.

Phin stops, pointing the shotgun at the house. It’s time for me to go. I hurry back into the garage, hearing the shotgun thunder behind me. The sniper is on the floor where I left him. His eyes get comically wide when he sees me.

“I thought we agreed to be quiet.”

“I’m…I’m a soldier…” he stammers. “Soldiers don’t make deals with the enemy.”

“Soldiers also die badly,” I say.

I don’t have time to savor it, but I make good on my promise and manage to jam the funnel in, along with half the bottle of drain cleaner.

His screams follow me through the maze of boxes, over to the side window. And that’s when I see Jack rush into the garage.

Maybe her luck has finally run out.

12:15 A.M.
JACK

A
SHOT BURIES ITSELF
into the lawn a yard ahead of me.

“She found my gun,” Phin says. “Go, I’ll cover you.”

I don’t argue with him. All around us is open land. The only cover is near the house. Phin aims the shotgun and fires, and I move as fast as I can, beelining for my front door. I feel like I’m running in slow motion, my feet in quicksand, each step harder than the last. But the thought of Alex in the house with the people I love makes me discover reserves I didn’t know I had left.

I make it to my porch without being shot, wheezing and dripping sweat. I drop the gear, pull the Desert Eagle, and go in low, keeping a two-handed grip on the weapon.

The living room is clear. I hear screaming, can’t pinpoint it.

“Harry!”

“We’re fine!” he yells from the bathroom. “Alex took off through the garage!”

I rush over to the garage door, get a quick peek at Munchel on the floor, his stomach wound leaking bloody foam. He’s the one screaming.

I look past him, see Alex heading for the side window. I fire twice, missing as she dives through.

I can’t let her get away.

I hobble between the boxes, crouching low if she decides to fire at me, sticking the barrel of my gun out the window and jerking left and right to see if she’s hiding on either side.

Alex comes up from below.

She grabs my wrist and squeezes like a vise. I keep my grip on the pistol but can’t aim it toward her. I sense, rather than see, her gun hand coming up, and I reach blindly and latch on to it, stiff-arming the barrel away from my head.

Alex tugs, dragging me out of the window, broken glass scraping against my stomach, hips, and legs. I fall on top of her, each of us trying to gain control of our weapons without letting the other do the same, my face inches from hers as we both grunt and strain.

She rolls, swarming on top of me, straddling my chest. Slowly, inexorably, her gun begins to swing toward my face. There’s nothing I can do to stop it. I’m injured, close to passing out again, and Alex is so big and so strong and so damn evil. She’s not a human being. She’s a force of nature.