John Hart - Iron House

“Getting to a hundred percent.” Jimmy selected the pink pen, and spun it between his fingers. It had no cap, and some kind of grunge on the point. “There’s a certain frustration with Stevan, and I understand that. What I want you to tell me is this: If Stevan were gone, would the men follow me?”

“If he was gone…”

“Retired. Missing. Dead.”

Both men knew only one of those words mattered. “Look, Jimmy-”

“I know the men are scared of me, but would they follow me? Would they trust me?”

“If Stevan… retired?”

“Exactly.”

Robins shrugged. “Stevan has the money. The companies are in his name. The real estate. The old man is dead, but the Kaitlin name still carries weight on the street.”

Jimmy nodded. “That matters, of course.”

“And most of the guys are comfortable with him. He may not be his father, but they know where he stands. He’s steady.”

“And with me, they worry.”

“Truthfully?”

Jimmy smiled. “We’re friends. You can speak plain.”

“You’re edgy.” Robins showed his palms. “Unpredictable.”

“And how about you, Clint? Where would you stand?”

“Look, Jimmy, I don’t feel great about this conversation.”

“I guess that’s your answer, then.”

“Kind of.”

Jimmy offered a thin smile. “Hey, I asked for the truth and you gave it to me.”

“Still friends?” Nervous.

Jimmy held out his hand. “Just keep it between us.”

“Of course. Obviously.” Robins took his hand-relieved-and was still holding it when Jimmy slammed the pen into his eye socket. He drove it deep, made a bright pink pupil in the ruined eye. The body went limp, one leg twitching as Jimmy lowered him to the floor. Blood was minimal. Little sound. Jimmy wiped his hands on the dead man’s shirt. “Now, we’re at a hundred percent.”

He stepped to the bed and dragged a hard case from underneath. He put it on the bed, opened it. Inside was an array of weapons, none of them indiscriminate. No Uzis. Nothing fully automatic. He selected a nine millimeter and released the clip so bright casings and copper jackets shone. When Michael shot his way out of Otto’s house, he’d killed six men with only seven bullets. That story was already on the streets.

Six armed men, seven bullets. A legend in its infancy.

Michael, Michael, Michael…

Jimmy thumbed out every bullet in the clip, then reloaded seven and racked one into the chamber. With Robins dead, there were seven men in the house. Seven men, seven bullets. ’Course, he wasn’t going to kill Stevan just yet.

But still…

Jimmy lifted a second weapon from the foam padding. It was one of his favorites, a twenty-two automatic that was light, accurate and held an awful lot of bullets. He tucked that one against the small of his back.

Vain as he was, he wasn’t stupid.

Closing the case, he slipped it back under the bed. In the mirror, he looked ready enough to wink at himself, so that’s what he did: a slow wink over a happy grin.

Sixty-seven million dollars.

Finality.

Change.

He went down the stairs on light feet, rounded into the living room without slowing down. Part of him knew it would never meet the challenge Michael had overcome, but most of him didn’t care. So the men were half-drunk and not expecting it, so they blinked like cattle when the gun came up in Jimmy’s hand. So what? The gun felt light as a feather. Reflexes sharp as a blade, vision perfect.

Two men were standing when Jimmy came into the room. They went down first; both shot center mass and lifted off their feet. Two more were seated, one trying to stand. Jimmy took head shots for all of them, rounds snapping off as he pivoted and dropped to a crouch.

Five down. Where was the sixth?

There.

Kitchen door, gun coming out of his belt.

Jimmy shot him through the mouth before the barrel cleared leather. Then there was silence and smoke in the air, a taste like matches in the back of Jimmy’s throat. He checked the room, no movement.

Six bullets. Six dead.

Eight seconds, max.

He had one bullet left, and there was Stevan. He stood in the door, eyes so pink and glassy they did not look real. His hand came up as Jimmy straightened. “You…”

“I know. It was something, wasn’t it?”

“Something?”

Jimmy shook his head as he stepped wide to clear a patch of bloody carpet. “Yeah. Did you see how fast that was? Michael couldn’t do it that fast.”

“You killed them.”

“Obviously.”

They were only feet apart, now, Stevan’s shock wearing off. Color spiked in his cheeks as he found his anger. “What the hell, Jimmy?” He stopped and drew up taller. “You’re fucking done. I don’t even know what to say, you insane bastard, you dumb, stupid shit.”

“You still don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

Jimmy put his last bullet in Stevan’s knee.

There was near-perfect silence in Elena’s room, stillness as every muscle strained against the iron bar on the headboard. Her feet pressed the wall, widely spread and white from the pressure. The cuff cut cruelly into her wrist. It bruised bone, tore skin, but she pulled harder, sweat popping on her face, her free hand on the chain, fingers slippery-wet, three nails already broken. The other manacle scraped up the length of the iron bar, peeling white paint as it moved. Elena dug deeper, and it hurt as if the bones in her narrow wrist were burning.

She pulled harder, misery in her back, now, legs shaking as she built a sheltered place in her mind, a tall, square room with soft floors and cotton sheets that touched her skin like feathers. A cool fountain gurgled in the corner. There was music, and Michael waiting beyond a closed door. She tried to feel it, thick stone walls and a breeze on her face. For long moments, the vision held, then the sound of gunshots brought it crashing down.

They were loud and close, concussions she actually felt. She sat up on the bed, handcuffs forgotten.

What was happening?

She had no idea. Everything felt compressed after the noise, the stillness absolute.

Then voices. Another gunshot.

And screaming.

God, the screaming…

Elena held herself still, and knew she’d never been so scared. Not when Jimmy took her from her hotel room. Not when he doused her with gasoline. This was so sudden and absolute, a handful of seconds and screaming like she’d never heard, a horrible, animal sound that went on and on and on. She watched the door, knowing that it would open and she would be the next to scream and die. She knew it, felt it as sure as anything.

But it didn’t happen.

The screaming faded and she heard a door slam, then the noise was outside. Elena got off the bed and moved for the window.

Cuffs.

Damn!

She gripped the iron frame and pulled the bed across the floor. At the window, she had a view of the yard and the barn on the other side of it. A low moon hung over the trees, and in its light she saw Jimmy dragging a man across the dirt. She couldn’t tell who it was, but thought maybe it was Stevan. Jimmy had him by the foot. The barn rose above them, and its shadow obscured them until Jimmy opened the door and light spilled out. Then she saw them clearly: Stevan on the ground, clutching his leg; Jimmy in the open door. He had a baling hook in his right hand. She could see it clearly-dark metal, a vicious point-and remembered them from childhood, from long days on her grandfather’s farm.

Stevan had his hands up, now. Voice lower.

Begging.

“Oh, God!”

The words escaped her throat, and she felt her stomach lurch as Jimmy swung the hook in a fast, looping curve that drove the point through the palm of Stevan’s hand and jerked the arm tight. For a second, the image froze-arm extended, hook rising from a palm stained black-then Stevan screamed again, feet drumming dirt as Jimmy dragged him into the barn.