Resurrecting Midnight (27 page)

Her hand raised high. She threw the money in his face.

Medianoche didn’t flinch. His hands became fists, his eyes on her neck.

She said, “You fucking piece of shit.”

Tango shoes rushed across the wooden floor, stepped on broken glass.

The door opened.

She said, “I broke into the main files. I wasn’t going to be part of a fucking group of low-IQ losers without having a leg up, and that ain’t no sex joke. I know more about what happened in North Carolina than you do. I know more about this Hopkins shit than you do. Fucking follower. You’re nothing but a one-eyed loser that fucks whores because he doesn’t know how to hold down a conversation and get laid by a real woman. You fucking piece-of-shit loser.”

“Get out of my apartment. Take your lies and get out of my apartment.”

“Don’t you want to know what else I know?”

“Asking me about the package. Throwing yourself at me. You think I’m stupid?”

“The files, what I read, what I know.”

“How did you know the Uruguayan man was going to run up and not down?”

“The Beast is not your friend.”

“Why did you come out above me when the other Horsemen were down below?”

“I was the best thing you had going. To think I actually had a crush on your old ass.”

“How did you know? Explain yourself.”

“Racist, abusive, misogynistic fuck. Use that good eye and watch your back, old man.”

“You weren’t surprised to see that chopper. You fired, but you didn’t hit the bird.”

“You’re on your own, you delusional, one-eyed, broken-down GI Joe.”

“How did you know which way the Uruguayan would run?”

“That’s all you need to know.”

He barked, “Explain yourself.”

“I know what I saw. I’m the one with two eyes, you broken-down, one-eyed prick.”

Tango shoes clacked at an angry pace. His door slammed.

Medianoche scowled at the mess they’d made.

He heard Señorita Raven’s door open. Then her door slammed.

He picked up his gun. Expected her to come back with her .22.

She had gotten inside his head. He was ready to put her down. Like he should’ve put Gracelyn down. He knew what he had to do. At some point he would put Gracelyn down.

That would be the only way to stop that program, to end that memory leak.

But for now, Señorita Raven. The dampness of her sex on his genitals, her perfume on his suit.

He waited in the darkness, watched it become a new morning.

Long after sunrise. He stood up. Angry. Was time to pay Señorita Raven a visit.

He heard the elevator open. Heard the Tres Marías and Rodríguez. The chortles of new lovers. Castellano chatter. All of them talking and laughing.

Señor Rodríguez’s door opened. Then his door closed. Talking and laughter faded.

Medianoche sat in the dining room with the window open. Cool air came inside. He heard a moan that sounded like a beautiful flute. Another that sounded as seductive as a violin. Then another that was as musical as an
arpa de dos órdenes.
Then came the sound of a man, a melodic Spanish guitar.

Random moans, like foreplay, as if they were tuning up.

Then they found their rhythm.

Song after song, he heard the musical moans of his Tres Marías being sullied.

He nodded.

The Tres Marías had moved on without hesitation. They had failed the loyalty test.

He went to the front room. Broken glass. Fallen pictures.

His chest rose and fell.

He looked down at his soiled clothing. He felt no relief. Only anger. Unadulterated anger. For being weak.

He picked up his Beretta.

He wanted to put a bullet inside Señorita Raven’s thoughts and memories.

His breathing thickened with anger.

He picked up his phone. Called The Beast. There was no answer. He was calling to request permission to kill Señorita Raven.

The air in his lungs was fire. More anger than he could control.

He stood and walked across his wooden floor. He checked his weapon. Made sure it was loaded to the teeth. He went into the hall, stood back, about to kick open Señorita Raven’s door, knowing he was strong enough to kick the door flat-footed and cause that door to fly off its hinges.

Then Señorita Raven’s door opened.

She knew he would come. She was waiting. She was ready.

There was nothing but darkness inside her apartment. Had to be a trap.

The fire in his lungs didn’t care. He’d leave her in a shallow grave. In the conservation park in Puerto Madero.

Medianoche stepped to the open door, his gun leading the way.

Saw her across the room. Waiting, not hiding.

She stood there. Anger heating her face. Unadulterated anger. She held a gun in her hand. Not the .22. A nine. She had upgraded her firepower.

Her gun was in her right hand, being held steady by her left.

Medianoche wasn’t afraid.

From next door came the sound of a headboard slapping against the wall, a maddening violence that blended with the moans from one of the Tres Marías being fucked to high heaven.

Medianoche stepped inside Señorita Raven’s apartment.

Gun trained on his body, Señorita Raven was naked, her young breasts standing firm.

No bulletproof vest. An open target. An easy target.

She said, “You want to know why I tried to kill myself? I’ll tell you. I was so broke, so down and out, I gave an asshole a blow job for a hundred dollars. That messed up my head more than the war ever did. That took me to a new low, put me in the gutter with Norway rats. And now you fuck me and throw money in my face like I’m one of those sluts working at Newport.”

“Lower your weapon.”

“Lower yours. Lower yours and I’ll lower mine.”

He lowered his gun, knowing she would do the same. Like she had done on the roof.

Then he would shoot her, leave hot blood spurting on white walls and wooden floor.

This time was different.

While the desperate sounds of unrelenting sex covered his auditory senses, while a headboard banged the wall like the Devil was fighting to get free, it happened.

With tears in her eyes, the psychotic bitch fired twice.

Chapter 26

The report of .22s
killed the silence in the open field.

Underneath overcast skies, sweat ran down my face and trickled down my back as I stood in red clay earth, the reverberation of death and violence a deadly song.

One of the .22s was in the hands of a gunman with short blond hair. He had a strong build. The other gunman had strong legs, was as dark as the night, his roots in southern Africa.

Hawks wasn’t with me. We had parted ways, her next assignment across the pond.

Another gunman appeared, this one huge, hands the size of baseball gloves, fists like bricks. He raised his shotgun and pulled the trigger, its blast shattering its target. That destruction paused us all. The shotgun blast was an exclamation point. A powerful blast that would leave a man’s guts on the ground as his soul rose to be judged by the king of judges.

The sound of violence faded as the scent of cordite mixed with the humid winds.

I was back in North America. The southern portion of the United States. Georgia. Standing in an open field a few miles beyond Woodstock. At an abandoned horse farm that was a long way from civilization as we knew it. A place surrounded by trees, an area where no one could hear anyone scream. The closest house was more than a mile away. Our gunfire would be unnoticed.

I looked to my left, my attention on the blond-haired German boy and his dark-skinned African brother. Steven and Robert, both dressed in jeans with jackets over their soccer jerseys. They were in elementary school. They were the boys I took care of with my blood money.

Steven motioned toward the battered wooden fence; most of the bottles and cans were knocked down or shattered. Without smiling he said, “
Dieses mal ist es mir besser gelungen
.”

The boy with the blond hair and the solid build had a fading German accent.

“
Ja, das stimmt
.” I cleared my throat. “Now say it in English.”

“I did pretty good this time.”

“You’re getting to be pretty good.”

“I held the gun the way you taught me and did much better.”

“Yeah, you did pretty good this time. Much better.”

Robert said, “Are we done shooting?”

His accent was more British, each word articulated and clear. That clarity was a reason for the other kids to tease him. The way he played soccer was a reason for them to admire him.

I nodded. “We have to get back. Alvin has to meet with Catherine.”

Robert frowned. He was intense. No one scared me, but he rattled me. Because of the guilt.

I wondered if his mother would approve. But the dead couldn’t approve of anything.

Robert said, “They always had guns. I remember them well.”

“Who?”

“The devils on horseback. They did bad things to people. They did bad things to my mother. I still see them in my dreams. I see what they did to my mother.”

I rubbed his head. Wanted to fix his problems. Didn’t know how.

A soccer ball was near Steven’s feet. He kicked the ball and ran toward the car, left his gun where he was supposed to leave it. Robert chased Steven and called for the ball.

Then I looked to my right, looked at a man who was big enough to block the sun.

I said, “Time to clean up.”

“Yup.”

That big man was Alvin White. He was the size of a mountain and built like a superhero, Captain Steroids. He was a former heavyweight boxer who was known in some fighting circles as Shotgun. They called him Shotgun because when he hit a man, it sounded like a powerful shotgun blast. He was willing to do whatever he had to do to make money and feed his family.

He said, “You should go ahead and look at that DNA stuff.”

I nodded. “Time to get you to your appointment, Shotgun.”

“Ain’t nobody called me Shotgun in a while.”

“Time to get you to Catherine. She’ll be waiting on you.”

This was my last obligation. Promises I had made to the boys. Yesterday I had taken the boys bowling at Midtown Bowl in Atlanta, then we drove to Skate Towne in College Park, skated for four hours, then ate at the Cumberland Mall because the boys wanted Chick-fil-A. After that we had gone shopping at Old Navy on Cobb Parkway, updated their wardrobes before we ended the evening by catching a movie next door at the AMC.

Catherine had had yesterday to herself. And based on the surveillance, she’d been busy. Busy up until I brought the boys home in time to get a late dinner and go to bed.

Steven got my attention and pointed up the road. “Somebody’s coming.”

Robert turned nervous, fear in his eyes as if he were back in his nightmares. Not all devils came on horseback. Some came on iron horses manufactured in Detroit.

Two GMC trucks pulled up and slowed about fifty yards away.

I thought about that shootout in Miami.

I yelled, told the boys to get behind the car.

With my right hand I reached inside my jacket and pulled a fresh clip from my pocket and reloaded. Alvin knew I had some problems that only bullets could fix and did the same, reloaded his shotgun, fast, like he was the new and improved Rifleman. He stood strong, a warrior ready.

One was a Ford F-150, the other a larger F-350. Rebel flags on their front license plates. The good ol’ boys parked. Two men, two women, three teenagers, and around six children and two toddlers eased out of the vehicles. The men and the teenagers had lumps in their jaws. Chewing tobacco. Wore Braves baseball caps turned backward. The women each had a baby on one hip, and on the other hip they carried six-packs of beer. They wore their hair pulled back in ponytails, tight jeans and worn Levi’s jackets. Both women had cigarettes dangling from their lips.

They all had weapons. The kids had rifles. Carried them like they were professionals.

My mind went back to Miami Gardens Drive. To the Lebanese woman in Starbucks.

I said, “We better go.”

Alvin said, “You see their license plates?”

“Was too busy keeping my eyes on their guns.”

“Both of them start with the number 14 and end with the number 88.”

“Know what 14-88 means?”

“White supremacists.”

“Yeah. The number 14 represents the fourteen words written by David Lane.”

“Any idea what those fourteen words might be?”

“ ‘We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.’ ”

“The 88 part?”

“Eighth letter in the alphabet. The letter
H
. Double
H
.”

“Double
H
?”

“As in ‘Heil Hitler.’ ”

Alvin grunted. “For real?”

I nodded. “A lot of them name their kids that way.”

“What way?”

“First and middle name both start with an
H
. Double
H
. Heil Hitler.”

“Hidden right in front of our faces. Will have to pay more attention to that from now on.”

I said, “Let’s get you and the boys out of here.”

Alvin shook his head. “The way I see it, if I leave right now, it will look like I’m running.”

“Could look that way.”

“I don’t run from nobody who walks in the same dirt I walk in.”

“Neither do I.”

“The boys have to learn not to run from people like them.”

“Yes, they do.”

“Especially Robert. He’s African. If he’s going to live in the United States, he’ll get fed that racism every day. Too many of them down here. Always leave when you’re ready to go, not when they want you to leave. A man has to learn to stand his ground, or get buried in the ground he’s standing on.”