The China Dogs (13 page)

Explosives.

Only when he's absolutely certain that nobody has interfered with the machine does he disarm the alarm, unchain the wheels, and start it up.

The street is empty but he still checks all around him. Not out of a sense of road safety, but in case there are people slouched low in parked cars, ready to follow him or alert others to their movements.

Danny knows that when you do what he does, you break a lot of laws and make a lot of enemies.

He revs the black Kawasaki and enjoys the throaty growl of its engines before finally pulling away.

He always leaves his building with time to spare. Not because he's an arrive-early kind of guy, but because most times he goes back. He circles the block and returns to the outside of his apartment, almost as though he's forgotten something. Then he retraces his steps and goes through all his checks all over again.

It's like some kind of OCD madness. A compulsion, but one that keeps him out of trouble. The way he figures it, if someone were going to try to steal his computers, or worse still, the data in them, then they'd have to give themselves maximum time to do it. Starting the moment he leaves.

Half an hour later he makes it to Wall Street and begins another laborious set of checks.

Only when he's absolutely certain that he's not been followed or watched does he go up to the loft and begin his day of intensive criminal activity.

45

Historic District, Miami

T
he digital clock beside Ghost's bed shows 6:59.

He reaches his arm over Zoe and tries not to wake her as he clicks off the alarm before it brings a rude end to their night together.

As quietly as possible, he shaves, showers, and dresses for work in a green linen suit and matching silk shirt.

He watches her as he buttons up.

She looks peaceful now but had been thrashing around in her sleep, mumbling and sweating her way through some kind of nightmare. It had been the kind of thing he was afraid of happening to himself when he called and asked her to be with him. See enough shit in your life and eventually it comes chasing you in your sleep.

Ghost stands at the end of the bed, unsure whether to wake her or leave her to sleep. Somehow, with messed-up hair and zero makeup, she's even more attractive than when she's in a pretty dress and all her paint and finery. He leans over, tenderly touches her face and whispers, “Hey, Zoe, I'm going—”

Ghost never finishes.

She grabs his hand, twists it and forces his fingers back so hard she almost breaks his wrist.

The move knocks him off balance.

Ghost tumbles onto the bed and across her legs.

Zoe sits bolt upright, still holding the wristlock. Her eyes are filled with fury. She's set to drive an elbow smack into the middle of his nose—when she comes to her senses and stops herself.

Ghost sees her change. The aggression dissolves and almost becomes fear. She must have been asleep, in the middle of another bad dream when he'd touched her. She'd mistaken it for violence. Maybe even a delayed aftershock to the incident with the robber in the street. “It's all right. You're okay.”

She releases his hand. “What the fuck were you doing?”

He rubs his wrist. “I was saying goodbye. Seeing if you wanted anything before I left. Oh, and maybe I was trying to be
affec­tionate
.”

“Then fucking don't be when I'm asleep.” She slips naked out of the quilt and angrily scans the room. There's no gown in sight so she grabs a shirt off a laundered pile on his dresser.

“Suits you.”

She starts to fasten the middle buttons.

“I'm sorry if I spooked you. I had no intention of hurting or frightening you.”

“You didn't.” Zoe finishes buttoning up and starts to feel stupid about getting angry. “I just don't like being touched—not unless I'm expecting it.” She rolls up the shirtsleeves.

“That's sad.”

“That's my rule.”

“Then it's a sad rule. Why did you invent it?”

“Because men need rules.”

“What's wrong, Zoe? Were you thinking about the robbery?”

“No.”

“Then what? What's eating you so badly that it makes you this angry?”

“Memories. When I'm asleep they become all too real. That's what makes me angry.”

46

Montgomery Correctional Center, Jacksonville, Florida

F
olks used to call the place “City Farm Prison,” and many locals still do, especially those who've got ancestors who spent time there. Ever since it opened, inmates have worked the soil as part of their stretch, and boosted the local economy in the bargain.

Back in '58, Jonboy Layton was one of the first admitted to a new, plaster-smelling cell as punishment for trespass, disorderly conduct, and assault, and Justin Cartwright was one of the wet-behind-the-ears “screws” who got to crack a stick around Jonboy's legs when he misbehaved in the crop fields. And so was born a spark of interfamily hatred that still burns brightly more than half a century later.

Montgomery has grown over the years and now covers 640 acres of northwestern Jacksonville. It provides close to $200,000 of crops and services to the community.

This fine August morning, Justin T. Cartwright is the officer-in-charge of the ten-man Landscape and Nursery detail working the prison's two-acre vegetable field. As usual, thirty-three-year-old Jax Layton is one of the slackers.

The big, dark-haired officer shouts across the soil. “C'mon, less chatter and more work, Layton. Those peppers aren't going to pick themselves.”

“I need a minute.” He bends a little, puts a soiled hand beneath his prison issue T-shirt and rubs at his heart. “I got a stitch.”

Cartwright thinks he's faking. He walks around the row of dark green plants bulging with waxy orange peppers. Gets up close to the muscular inmate and issues his second and final warning. “It's stitches you'll be
needing
if you keep mouthing off. Now get those habaneros harvested.”

“Give me a minute.” He really does have a stitch. Or at least that's what he hopes it is. His old man died of a heart attack in his early forties and it's always at the back of his mind.

The big guard leans over Layton and shoves the rounded end of the baton into the soft nest of flesh under the man's chin. “Get the fuck up and start working.”

Tension sparks across the plot. A guard dog barks. One of the officers slips the safety off his rifle. Other inmates stop working and watch in silence.

Stitch or no stitch, the way Jax Layton sees it, he's been left with no choice but to stand up for himself. If he lets Cartwright humiliate him now, then he'll never get over the loss of face.

He straightens up just as he was told to. Then he smashes his forehead hard into the bridge of the screw's nose. Before the blood even comes, he drives his knee hard into Cartwright's testicles. The second he does it, he knows he's only got time to swing one good punch before the other guards make their move.

Layton launches a jaw-breaking haymaker.

A warning shot goes off somewhere behind him.

The damned guard dog barks like crazy.

He straightens up. Steps away. Braces himself for the beating that he knows is going to come.

Only it doesn't.

The German shepherd is going mad. It's jumping all over its handler, George Jennings.

Only, it's not jumping.

It's biting.

The other guard, old man Foreman, waves his rifle back and forth but can't get off a shot for fear of hitting George.

Layton's glad they didn't set that damned dog on him. It's chewing up George real bad.

Foreman finally swings the rifle butt and manages to knock the mutt away for a second.

The dog shakes its big bloody head.

Someone across the soil shouts, “Jesus Fucking Christ.”

Now, everyone sees what a mess the dog has made of Jennings.

It's ripped holes in the man's face and arms.

The guy is blind.

He's on his knees. Blood drips through his fingers as he holds his hands to his face.

Foreman's frozen with shock.

He looks like a kid who just whacked a hornet's nest and knows he's about to get his ass stung to death.

As the German shepherd jumps Foreman, Layton turns his attention to Cartwright. He's still moaning and groaning, while curled in a fetal position holding his balls.

His gun is there for the grabbing.

It would be a crime to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Jax Layton sticks a knee into the fallen guard's side and unholsters the weapon.

Now anything is possible.

Anything on earth.

47

Historic District, Miami

G
host brews a pot of rich Colombian roast, while Zoe sulks in the shower and dresses. He hopes when she materializes she's calmer.

As he's getting white mugs from the cupboard, she walks into his kitchen of cool Italian marbles and brushed metals, wearing the tiny red dress she'd turned up in last night.

She looks self-conscious as their eyes meet. “Not quite the daytime look, is it?” She sits at a breakfast bar and fiddles with her phone.

“Oh I don't know—it still looks great to me. You want coffee?”

“Intravenously.” She reads mails on her phone. “You know those dog incidents you've been covering?”

“Aha.” He pours her a cup. “Cream and sugar?”

“Just black. I need the kick first thing.” She scrolls as she talks. “They're not just in Miami—the attacks.”

“What d'you mean?”

She looks up at him. “Well, I was interested in what you were doing, so after I saw you on TV, I set up a Google Alert on canine incidents, and look . . . ” She holds out the iPhone so he can see. “There are dozens of them. All over America. All over the world.”

Ghost puts her coffee down and looks over her shoulder. “There are a lot of dogs in the world, so I guess that naturally translates into a lot of bites.”

“And
deaths
, see . . .” She puts the phone into his hand.

DOG
ATTACK VICTIM TRIES TO SAVE OWNER'S
LIFE

New York Times

A cyclist who was attacked by four dogs shook off her bite wounds and battled to save the life of the animals' owner after he suffered a heart attack trying to pull them off her. The 47-year-old woman was out biking . . . See all stories on this topic>

MASTIFF
BITES PUT 7 PEOPLE IN
HOSPITAL

Error! Hyperlink reference not valid.

Police shot dead a mastiff that turned on a family and their neighbors in what onlookers have described as a rabidlike frenzy. The group were enjoying a BBQ when the two-year-old hound jumped and snapped at them, causing three adults and four children to need more than a hundred stitches among them. See all stories on this topic>

Ghost reads then hands the phone back. “I don't know if it's the heat or the fact that the economy has dipped again, but over the last few days things seem to have gotten worse.” He looks confused for a moment. “I really don't know what's at the root of all this. When Kathy Morgan died, I told the press that I thought the killer dog might be a stray. God knows there are so many roaming around these days. Then we found the guy on the golf course, and it looks like he'd been killed by his pet. Next we get the young boy playing soccer killed by a rottweiler.”

“You think they're all connected somehow?”

“That's why we've set up an Incident Room—to discover if there's a common denominator. But I don't see how there can be. Different breeds. Different people. Different times, places, and circumstances.” He glances at his watch. “Listen, I'm in danger of running late.” He nods to her coffee. “If you drink that quickly, I'll drop you back at your friend's place before I head into work. That way you won't feel too self-conscious catching a cab looking like you stayed out
unexpectedly
.”

She smiles. “Most considerate.”

“Or I could just give you a key?”

“What?”

“A key. I could give you one so you let yourself in and out, when you want.”

Zoe is speechless.

She feels like she's a little kid on a seesaw and some giant bully just sat down on the other end and is bouncing up and down.

“A lift would be great. Thanks.”

48

Montgomery Correctional Center, Jacksonville, Florida

J
ax Layton knows there isn't a member of his family who wouldn't stand up and applaud him if he put a bullet through Justin Cartwright's big dumb head. But as he's well aware, the punishment for that in Florida is the death penalty, and he has no intention of swapping his two-year stretch for a cell on Death Row.

Instead, he's going to do what Foreman should have done—had the old fool had the skill and nerve to do it. He's going to shoot the damned guard dog.

The German shepherd is ripping chunks out of the white-haired guard, and Layton reckons it's now or never. He rests Cartwright's 9mm on his left forearm, squints along the barrel and, because the dog's jaws are so close to Foreman, aims for its body. There's a crack of gunfire and the round disappears into a fuzz of black and gold fur.

Everyone holds their breath and waits for the outcome.

The dog jerks and stumbles but doesn't go down. Enraged, it bites hard on Foreman's leg.

The old guy falls to the dirt.

It's only a matter of time before the big dog chews him up.

Layton lands a second shot.

This time it's higher up, just under the shoulder.

The dog's front right leg gives way.

Layton knows that he has it now. All he has to do is get up close and finish the thing off.