Remo Went Rogue (13 page)

27

Dutch and Ferris enter Remo’s apartment.

They find Chicken Wing hogtied on the floor with the electrical cords. His face is swollen, still pulsing from being busted up by Remo.

Ferris snickers, “Such a tough guy.”

“Fuck you piece of shit fuck-face cock sucker —”

Dutch cuts in, “Get him up.”

Ferris goes to his little brother’s aid.
 
Dutch leans over Chicken Wing, looking him over. “You think this behavior somewhat dampens the element of surprise?”

“In his defense, Lester fucked that up,” Ferris chimes in.

With Ferris’s assistance, Chicken Wing begins the process of pulling free from the cords. He fires back with a face-saving, “And I fucked Lester up.”

“You're lucky Remo didn't bounce to the cops,” says Ferris.

“Remo tried to run away,” whines Chicken Wing, getting more and more defensive.

“And?” prompts Dutch.

“And I tuned him up.”

Ferris raise his eyebrows. “Yeah, looks like you showed him good.”

If looks could kill, Ferris would have ninety-seven bullets in his brother by now. Chicken Wing, finally loose from the cords, tackles Ferris to the floor. They go at it as homicidal brothers will do. Every third or fourth punch lands, a stray foot here and there. They’re pretty rough-and-tumble dudes, capable of taking a beating as well as dishing one out.
 

Dutch lets it go on for a while; they need to get it all out. He looks to a clock and decides that’s enough. “Stop.” They pull away from each other immediately, as if Dutch was their father with a belt. “If he hasn't gone to the cops by now, he won't. He has too much to lose. We just have to adjust our plans.” He turns to Ferris. “We still got safe passage?”

Ferris shrugs. “If we can afford the freight out of town.”

“Then nothing changes. Get our money, make Remo wish he'd never been born, and take a long holiday.” Dutch looks around the luxury apartment. “Tear the place apart. Find out where he is. He’s going somewhere he feels safe. Rather not wait for his invite.”

Dutch looks around, taking in the digs where Remo resides. He thinks of his last residence. The closet. The dog pen. The 10 x 6 Rikers condo he lived in during his little stay in shit-town
U.S.A.

He reflects on that first night, when Rudy tried to fuck him. Literally. Rudy must have had some daddy issues—or a thing for older men—considering Dutch was at least twenty years older than the boy. Dutch remembers hating himself for choking Rudy to death, after taking out one of his eyes. Not out of some remorse for taking the life of one of God’s creatures. Please. Dutch hated the idea that this sick fuck probably liked being choked like that…until he died, of course.

That time in Rikers was all made possible by one man; Remo. Now Dutch stands in this gorgeous apartment where Remo eats, sleeps, shits and fucks. Probably fucks pretty women at will. Probably lounges around watching the tube in his underwear, never knowing the fear that comes from the ever-present possibility of gang rape. Remo probably ate well, not knowing anxious moments in a chow line. Those moments of checking your blindside for some bitch who wants to show the yard how hard he is by taking down Dutch Mashburn.

No, pretty sure none of that was an issue here for Remo.

If it wasn’t clear before its crystal clear now—Dutch fucking hates Remo Cobb.

The younger Mashburn brothers, having been given their orders, are ripping through the place, scavenging like wild bears looking for good eats. Kitchen drawers get thrown, dumped. Dishes spin like Frisbees into earth tone walls and shatter, pieces falling to the floor. Chicken Wing tosses the king size mattress aside, as Ferris digs in the dresser without regard for the fine oak finish.

Dutch watches his brothers as he calmly pours over Remo’s office desk for something that will help. Let those guys do heavy lifting. He digs through files, checks some random business cards—mostly massage parlors—some random strippers’ cell numbers, and a Subway punch card. He opens a drawer, finding a stack of bills. Flipping through them, he finds a few utility bills with an
East Hampton
address in Remo’s name.

Compares them against Remo’s other bills.

Dutch smiles on the inside—smiling on the outside is for women, fags and children. He turns to a laptop on Remo’s desk, pulling up Google Maps. He enters the starting and destination addresses. A nice blue line shows the way. Those prison workshops are good for something.
 

He calls out to his brothers.

PART IV

(they’re going to eat me alive)

28

The pounding sound of relentless gunfire rattles and echoes in the background.

Remo and Hollis stand over a table sprawling with guns, guns, and more guns. It’s a jaw-dropping buffet of firepower. Remo is excited with a mutated form of boyish glee. Hollis looks like he’s buying toothpaste.

“I need an AK, right?”

“No,” Hollis replies without even looking at Remo.

“I’d like an AK.”

“You’ll only hurt yourself. Give me two of those, Terry.”

Terry, an old war-torn strap of beef jerky, is the proud proprietor of “Click and Pow,” a haven for gun enthusiasts and anyone else who likes firepower. He grunts with every move he struggles to make, the years have been tough on Terry. He hands over two shiny 9mm Sig Sauers.

Hollis calls out items like ordering at a bakery. “One of those.” Terry moves down the rack behind the counter. “Stock?”

Hollis thinks. “Pistol grip. And one of those.”

Remo has no idea what’s going on.

At the outdoor tactical course, Hollis walks alongside Remo through the close quarters course designed to simulate interior combat. Hollis thinks it’s a poor simulation of what it’s like to be boxed in with multiple murderers. Actually, that’s impossible to simulate, but it’s the best they’ve got.

Fake walls that form fake rooms and fake hallways do provide reasonably good practice for entering and clearing rooms in a way the average person might actually find themselves forced to do. The simulation uses human shaped targets that pop out at you without warning. Some are children with lollipops, others are masked men with .45s. They keep the targets somewhat racially nondescript so as not to offend anyone who has a profiling bug up their ass.

Remo is equipped with a pistol grip Mossberg 12 gauge shotgun. A target jumps out.

Remo fires.

The force of the blast causes the shotgun to fly from Remo’s hands, skidding across the dirt floor in a dust cloud. “Fucking shit!” Remo shakes his hands violently, trying to get feeling back in them.

Hollis steps up holding a custom-made swivel sling he got from Terry. He picks up the shotgun then pulls out a pair of strategically padded tactical gloves with the fingers cut off.

Remo is starting to panic as he says, “There’s no way. Might as well do it myself.” Only half-kidding, Remo pulls the Sig from his hip, trying to jam it in his mouth. Hollis disarms Remo effortlessly, stopping him as easily as he would his two-year-old with a butter knife.

“I’m completely fucked, right? Fucked.”

Hollis gives him a calming look, a look from someone who knows a little something about the art of click and pow. He attaches the strap to the shotgun and pulls the sling over Remo’s head and shoulder, essentially turning the shotgun into a purse. The shotgun hangs down by Remo’s side for easy access, but doesn’t leave his body.

Hollis helps Remo slip the tactical gloves—gloves specially designed for gunplay—over his pampered, manicured hands.. Hollis and his buddies would guzzle beer after a successful job and make fun of people who needed these things, but now he realizes they have their place, and that place is on Remo’s little bitch hands.

Hollis speaks with an even, calculated tone, not wanting to either scare or bullshit Remo. “These guys have been violent since birth. They have a huge advantage in the categories of balls and killing.”

“Still not helping, Hollis.”

“You have home-field advantage and better tools.” He points to the cardboard “bad guy.” “Look what you did to the target.”

The shotgun blast sprayed the target from navel to forehead. If it were a real person—a Mashburn—he’d be smoking a turd in hell right now.

Hollis taps the shotgun that now hags by Remo’s side. “This is a Mossberg 12-gauge gas-operated semi-automatic shotgun. Perfect for close quarters. Point and fire. Can’t miss.”
 

Remo looks at the mangled target. Starts to calm down a bit.

Hollis speaks in level tones, coaching and teaching, working to build Remo up; trying to make him a good enough killer to survive this. “Try it again with the sling. Feel the weight, get comfortable with the sound and the recoil.”

Remo grabs the grip, giving an uneasy nod. Hollis gives a wave to someone who works the course, starts moving alongside Remo again.

They round a corner. Remo scans the area with his Mossberg; it’s clear. They push through an open door.

A target pops out.

Remo fires.

Target gets blown completely to shit.

The shotgun flies from Remo’s grip again, but only swings down to around his belt. Another target pops out. Remo is able to grab the shotgun from his side, comes up blasting again. Not seamless, but better.

Remo glances to Hollis.

Fine?

Maybe.

Okay?

A sliver of hope.

29

Lester still can’t believe how easy it was to find Remo’s home address. Ask a few polite questions here and there, add in a few mouse clicks on the right websites, and what to do you know?

You can find anybody.

He gives the door a knock. He rubs his bible while he waits, caressing the leather. He looks down, checking out his clothes. His escape from the hospital garb. Sure, he’s a former killer, thief and convict, but as a newly reformed man of God he’s not pleased about running around NYC in a plain t-shirt and shitty sweatpants.

No answer at the door. He gives it another knock, pressing his ear to the door angling for a listen inside.

Nothing.

Lester checks the hall, making sure there are no pain-in-the-ass innocents watching. He turns the knob; to his surprise, it’s unlocked. He steps into the apartment, not surprised that it’s a ransacked disaster. It doesn’t take a criminal mastermind to deduct that Dutch and his bros were here. The place is ripped to shreds, not a single square-inch untouched.

He knows it’s probably useless, but he scans the place for Remo anyway, just in case he’s bleeding out on the floor somewhere. There’s no way Dutch would leave him here even remotely alive, but you’ve got to check all the boxes. He figures whiles he’s here he might as well see if there are any items he can use on his mission of mercy.

Lester enters the long runway of a closet, finding Remo’s impressive wardrobe. He and Remo are not exactly the same size, but close enough. Fishing through the tailored garments, he comes across a nice navy blue button-down with some Italian dude’s name on the tag. He tries on a couple of pairs of pants, finally finding a pair that will work for him. Nice cut, fine cloth. He completes the outfit with a pair of designer shoes with rubber soles.

At the top of the closet he spies a medium sized suitcase with rollers. He stuffs it with more clothes and slips his prized bible between some pants and socks to keep it safe. He makes a quick stop in the bathroom and checks behind the shower curtain. No Remo. Lester takes the opportunity to take a swipe at his teeth by squeezing out some toothpaste on his finger.

Rinse.

Spit.

He rolls the suitcase into the kitchen. There’s not much, but he finds a few non-perishable items: a can of soup, some crackers. They might get him through in a pinch. Lester helps himself to the loose change sitting in a large bowl on the counter. A set of culinary knives rests on the kitchen island in a wooden block. Lester inspects them, knowing that he will more than likely need something more than his hands and faith to stop the motherfucking Mashburn brothers. He slides the largest knife of the set out, a massive butcher knife.

He slips the knife into the front pocket of the suitcase and closes the zipper. He’d prefer to keep it in hand, but knows he can’t really walk around NYC holding a butcher knife. He dodges the debris littered everywhere as he rolls the suitcase through the living room. The suitcase stops rolling. Leaning down, Lester notices the back wheels of the suitcase are hung up on Remo’s baseball bat. Lester picks up the Louisville Slugger. Again, may fill a need down the road.

Lester gives the place another look over. He’s come a long way, there has to be something here to tell where to go. The Lord brought him here. No way his journey has ended with this. Seeing nothing, his heart sinks.

Poor, lost little Remo.

He rolls his new suitcase, packed with fresh clothes and weapons, toward the door. New items added his meager collection of Earthly belongings. Turning back, he gives the place one last look.

His eyes stop.

Remo’s laptop. The screen is dark, but the little glowing green light indicates it’s powered up. Lester flicks of the mouse.

The screen lights up.

It still has the Google map to the
Hamptons
pulled up. Lester studies it then scans the desk. Next to the laptop are the bills Dutch found.

Lester hits print.