Kill on Command (5 page)

III

Doc’s

Walnut Street, Shadyside - Friday Night

Doc’s is a Pittsburgh institution, sitting at t
he corner of Walnut and Bellefonte.  It has a storefront window facing Walnut and smaller window and an exit on the Bellefonte side.  Inside there is a well-worn bar that is the centerpiece of the establishment.  Like any good restaurant, the bar is where the energy or mojo of the restaurant emanates. A handful of tables are scattered through the bar (however most people were standing).  In the back, stairs lead to the roof top bar. 

9:30 P.M. - it was already getting crowded.   The smell of old beer permeated the place.  Some like it.  Some don’t.  To those that liked it, it smelled like fun.  Like good times.  Those that don’t like it should not come to Doc’s. 

Early alternative rock married with classic rock set the mood.  Of course, Donnie Iris played once an hour.  It was the law.   Sean and Brian went right to the roof bar. They climbed the narrow wooden stairs to the landing.  Old buildings have charm, but their charm does not often extend to functionality.  The landing was also the home to the restrooms and like any bar already had a line.  They pushed their way through the crowd and saw Brian’s girlfriend, Stacy who fancied her his fiancée, sitting at a table out on the deck.  No ring, however.  Sean doubted she would get one.  She did not care for Sean.  Stacy was trying to reach 5’5”, but never quite made it.  She had blonde hair.  Not real.  Tonight she was sporting a conservative skirt and red blouse.  She lived with Michelle, Sean’s former girlfriend.

The Pittsburgh evening was crisp but not cold.

The deck, constructed of wide wood planks, had a few heat lamps scattered about and was framed by old maples that grew up in the vacant lot behind the building.  Leaning over the edge of the roof, you could see all the way up and down Walnut Street.

“Hey, Stacy,” Sean said, doing his best to be pleasant.  She was obviously checking him out.  It had been a couple months since he had seen her.  His travel schedule was crazy, plus she avoided him.

“Hi Sean.  You look good.  You been working out?”  She asked hanging on Brian who was clearly uncomfortable.  Sometimes, people try too hard.

“Like a crazy man!” Brian said laughing.  Sean looked away and headed over the bar to grab a drink. 

He leaned against the bar and ordered a Rolling Rock.    Like most in Pittsburgh, he was incensed when Rolling Rock was acquired by Anheuser Busch.  He even stopped drinking it for a while.  Rolling Rock is brewed in Latrobe, not New Jersey or wherever it is now.  He tried Molson for a while, but switched back to the “Rock”.  The bar was a peninsula of sorts – if bars can be such a thing.  On the other side, were six booths filled with people eating and drinking – mostly drinking.  He appreciated the no-nonsense attitude that Pittsburgh was famous for.  You wouldn’t see this in pretentious locales such as Dallas or Atlanta.  People having fun without regard for having the latest drink, purse or whatever.

Casually watching ESPN on the TV, he caught something out of the corner of his eye and looked across the bar.  Staring at him was a striking girl with flaming red hair and piercing ice blue eyes that bored right into him.  She made his heart skip.

“Here’s your beer, Sean.  No charge.  Brian said he’s covering you tonight,” Flynn, Doc’s best bartender, explained.

“What?  Why does he keep doing that?”  Sean answered, taking his eyes off the girl and digging in his pockets for a tip.

“Sean, there worse things.” 

“You’re right, Flynn - as usual.” 

Finding a buck, he looked up, handed it to Flynn, but unfortunately, the girl was now gone.  He felt like he had seen her before.  Something about those eyes.  Something.  He could not put his finger on it.  He looked around the bar for her but could not spot her.  He did not have time to dwell on it as his buddies were calling him.  Sean made his way over to the table where Brian was sitting.

“Brian, did you see that girl up at the bar?  The one with the red hair?”  Sean asked, sitting down.

“Sorry dummy, I did not,” Brian replied, looking at Stacy.

“I wish you guys would stop calling each other dummy,” Stacy sneered.

“We can call you that if you want, or I can come up with another name,” Sean answered.  Stacy did not respond. 

“Very strange,” Sean said rubbing his head and grimacing. 

“What’s strange? She not throw her panties at you buddy?” Brian quipped. 

“You OK, Sean?” asked Stacy, pretending she cared.

“Yeah, just a headache.”

IV

Hey Red

Pittsburgh - Friday Night

Sandy sat at the bar staring at Sean for what seemed like five minutes when it was in actuality only a handful of seconds. He saw her, but it did not appear he recognized her, which was good.  When he reached for his cash, she headed for the stairs, pushing through the crowd congregating at the bathrooms.  She could kick herself for being that close and then being spotted like that.

“Stupid,” she said to herself.

Sandy, a smidge taller than 5’11,” was one of those people that tried to play down her looks.  She failed most of the time.  She had the look of a young Olivia Newton-John.  She could have been a Sandra Dee stand in.  She was dressed casually - navy scooped neck t-shirt and comfortable jeans and shoes.  Her arms were toned from hours of working out.   She was light on her feet.  Clearly an athlete.   She might have looked like everyone else but she was not.  She was a killer.  In job function and attitude.

She took her first step down the stairs and felt a hand on her arm. 

“Hey, red!”  A local who had started “getting his drink on” way before happy hour tried to spin her around.  “Where are you headed?  Why don’t you come over and sit down with us?” he stammered and gestured towards a table full of his buddies.  They thought he was funny.  He was a good thirty pounds over weight.  A bit of his food was still left in the corner of his mouth and he had clearly spilled beer on his shirt.

Sandy looked back to see if Sean could see her.  He could not.  He was back talking to his friend, the cop and rubbing his head.

“Let go of my arm and get lost!” she said jerking her arm out of his hand and heading down the stairs, pushing past those heading up the stairs.

“Wait!  Don’t go!” The drunk stumbled down the stairs after her.

Sandy shoved the exit door open onto Bellefonte Street and turned right.  A black Tahoe idled mid block.  Inside were two former RECON Marines.  They called themselves Bill and Bob.  Both were nearly six feet tall, white, extremely fit, but not too bright.   They had served together from day one – basic all the way through the grueling Recon training.  They had seen action in Iraq and Afghanistan.  They looked like bookends.  Both had dirty blonde hair and average looks.   They were good with guns, knives and their hands.  They found that contract work suited them and their bank accounts better than working for the Corps.  They did not know who Sandy really was, her real name or where she came from.  All they did know was they were getting rich and that they should never, ever, turn their backs on her.  They both thought she was smoking hot, but kept it to themselves.  The last operator that said something about her was found with a screwdriver sticking out of his ear in a ditch outside of Warsaw.

Sandy started towards the Tahoe.  The Marines sat straight up.  Behind her the drunk stumbled onto the street, desperately trying to catch her.  Two more of his friends were following him.

“Wait!”  He reached out and grabbed her arm again, making contact with her left shoulder.

“This should be great!”  Bob said to Bill. 

Sandy snatched the drunk’s left hand with her right and twisted his wrist.  He immediately fell to his knees and she turned to face him.  She knelt down close to his face.  Tears were in his eyes.  Beads of sweat were forming on his forehead and upper lip.

“When a girl says “no”, she means it,” she whispered, releasing his wrist and pushing him onto his back with her foot.  She turned and kept walking.  The drunk’s friends ran over to him.

“You’re a bitch tease!” he stammered, holding his wrist.  They headed back to the bar.

Sandy ignored him and kept walking.  She had been called worse.  The Marines looked at each other. 

“Next time we should bet,” Bob said to Bill.  They chuckled as the rear passenger door opened.  They both turned around as Sandy slid into the back of the truck.

She looked at them before speaking.  “Turn off that dome light!”   Bill flipped off the light.

She continued, “Number two is up on the roof.  I want one of you across the street where you can see both doors to this place.  There’s a bar over there, Cappy’s. Set up there.   We need to take up a position inside Doc’s to maintain a visual.  I am going back to St. James.  I have the tracker.  If you see anything unusual, report it.  I will be listening.”  Always.

“Unusual.  Like what?”  Bob asked.  Sandy adjusted herself in the seat and pulled a Glock 19 from behind her.  She set it on her leg.  Bob looked at the weapon.

“Oh, I don’t know?  A kill team maybe?  You know what that looks like don’t you?  If you don’t, look in the mirror.   You have heard the chatter.  We have not made many friends over the last several months.  Wake up!  If you two don’t get it, I will get someone else!”  Sandy said, placing the Glock back in her waistband. 

“Yes. We get it,” Bill said.  “We are on it.”  Sandy opened the door and headed back down Bellefonte to the duplex on St. James.  Two minutes later Bill and Bob exited and took up their positions.

She stopped at the corner of Walnut and Bellefonte and looked around briefly before heading left down past the store front windows of Doc’s.  Inside, three angry drunks were watching her.

“I say we follow her.  Put a good scare into her,” one drunk said to the others.  “Let’s go.”  All three got up and left Doc’s.  

Sandy walked to the corner of Walnut and South Aiken and jogged across the street, turning right and walking past the old Athlete’s Foot.  The drunks followed her across the street.   Sandy turned left onto Pembroke Place, which would hook up with St. James.  Pembroke Place was once the site of some grand old homes, but now was lined on the right side of the street by expensive, but cheap looking condos.  Old trees blocked out most of the streetlights.   She was about half way down the street when she heard a familiar voice.

“Hey Red!” 

She saw the same guy from Doc’s, but now with two friends - both drunk like their friend and dressed like slobs - baggy jeans and dirty shirts.  “You sure are a nasty bitch,” he shouted.

Sandy turned to face them.  She was as tall as they were and she was sober.  They immediately surrounded her, one on the sidewalk in front of her, one on the grass to the right - the third positioned on the sidewalk behind her. 

They were laughing. 

They were confident. 

Drunk on stupidity.

“Look guys, just leave me alone and go sleep it off,” she said as she positioned her feet, ready for them to attack her. It was safe to say that her hand-to-hand combat skills were above average.

“Ha!  Not so smug now are you,” the guy she embarrassed from Bellefonte Street laughed.  Suddenly, the guy on the right, in the grass lunged at her.  Sandy side stepped him and grabbed his collar and used his momentum to send his head into the side of the old Volvo behind her.  He immediately was out cold.  There was a nice head sized dent in the side of the car. The guy on the sidewalk behind her wildly swung at her head.  She dodged, caught his arm and broke it at the elbow.  The snap could be heard down the street, likewise his scream.  No more tennis for him.  He collapsed grasping his useless arm.   She looked up at the remaining man.

“What were you saying?” she said.  He took a step forward.  She extended her left leg and crushed his right leg at the knee, snapping it to his left.  He went down in a heap.