John Hart - Iron House

Hair swung over her face.

The thirty-eight fell out of her pants.

Before Abigail could move or blink or utter a word, Jimmy kicked her in the head, sent her sprawling in the dust. He kept a gun on Michael. “Uh-uh.” Michael forced himself to stillness. Jimmy kicked Abigail in the ribs, drove her on her side, where she rolled halfway to the wall. He took quick strides; kicked her again. She came off the ground and hit a wall covered with tools. A shovel fell, the handle cracking her on the head. Metal rattled and scraped. A sledgehammer toppled on its side. A jar of nails spilled with the sound of dull, metal chimes. Jimmy waited, but Abigail didn’t move. She slumped, on all fours. Her head hung loosely, eyes swimming. He tapped her on the head with the barrel of his gun. “Stay there, you crazy bitch.” He looked at Michael. “Can you believe that? Jeez. People.”

Michael risked a glance at Elena, then back at Jimmy. “I didn’t know she had that.”

“You think?” Sarcastic. Biting. “I didn’t train you to trust a woman with a gun. Jesus. Give them anything more dangerous than a salad fork, and they’re liable to ruin somebody’s day.” He tucked one of the pistols back into his belt. “Now, where was I?” He looked at the bag of cash. “Ah.”

Jimmy stooped for the bag. Michael surveyed the room. His pistols were seven feet away, which may as well be the moon, fast as Jimmy was. A collection of knives and other edged instruments sat on a table by Stevan, but again, too far. He looked at Abigail. She was breathing, eyes open, but barely. Near her were axes and scythes and sickles. He’d never get his hands on them.

Across the room, Elena was crying.

Jimmy lifted the duffel, and kicked the thirty-eight into the far corner of the barn. A smile lit his face. Account numbers were great and all, but there was something about cash-and he could see large, green bundles of it. “You never cared enough about money.” He stood with the bag, waved the pistol. “That was always your problem, Michael. Priorities. The scale of your ambition. I could never get you to see past Otto Kaitlin, to see the things you could be.”

“We had the same job, Jimmy, did the same things.”

“But I was never content. That’s the difference between big men and small. You’d have been Otto’s whipping boy for the rest of your life.”

“Otto was a great man.”

“Otto fed you scraps.” He shook his head, disgusted. “But you took it, didn’t you? You were all about family this and family that. Otto never loved you like you think he did.”

“And yet he left his money to me.”

“But it’s not all about money, is it? It’s about being more. About seeing and taking and making the world feel you. That’s where my true disappointment lies.” He stabbed the gun at Michael. “We could have run the city, you and me, done things Otto never dreamed in all his years. Jesus, Michael. I’d have made you a fucking prince.”

“With you as king?”

“Who’s more your father than me? Otto may have found you, but I made you.” He gestured at Elena. “She understands. She gets it. That’s why this is such a disappointment. You used to care about family.”

“Family? Are you serious?”

“It’s not too late. You can have the girl. We can still do great things.”

“Don’t screw with me, Jimmy. I know you better than that.”

“Well, okay. She’d have to die. But you and me…” He grinned. “No one would stand against us.”

“I just want us all to walk out of here alive.”

“That’s your answer?” His voice hardened. “That’s your sole ambition?”

“Take the money, Jimmy.”

“You really think that’s all I care about, don’t you?” He stepped toward Stevan, spread on the tractor. “You’re the one who made this personal. You’re the one who left. And for what? A woman?”

“It’s a lot of money.” Michael spread his fingers. “Just let us go.”

“You never change, do you? Always in control.”

“Just like you taught me.”

“Always chilly.” Jimmy kept the gun trained on Michael as he heaved the bag up and dropped it squarely on Stevan’s bloody stomach. “This guy, though…” Jimmy patted Stevan’s ruined face, smiled. “Finally good for something.”

He looked back at the cash, and Stevan-tortured, skinless and half-dead-turned his head and sank perfect, white teeth into the meat of Jimmy’s hand.

Abigail watched it all as if she was falling down a smooth, dark shaft. She saw Jimmy’s back arch, and then his scream grew faint as light constricted.

Her fingers closed on something sharp.

Pain behind her eyes.

Michael moved as Jimmy howled, as Jimmy’s gun came around to meet the curve of Stevan’s skull. A shot crashed out and Jimmy’s hand came free, a ragged chunk missing between the thumb and first finger. Another step and Michael dove for the forty-five, right hand on the grip, shoulder rolling to take the fall. He felt dust in his teeth, movement as he came up on one knee and slid in the dirt. Jimmy fired first, two rounds that should not have missed, but did. Michael snapped off a shot, hit Jimmy high in the chest. Staggered him. But Jimmy’s finger was still on the trigger, still pulling as shots crashed through the barn, and Michael took one in the leg. The shot knocked him down, pain enough to star his vision, but not nearly enough to take him out. Michael fired half-blind, buying seconds. He got a hand down, steadied himself as Jimmy lunged left, going for the dowel that hung four feet away. Maybe he knew he was done; maybe he thought he’d use it to get Michael under control. Michael fired again, took a piece out of Jimmy’s neck. He stumbled, hand out and grasping. Michael fired another round, hit an inch right of the spine. It drove Jimmy forward, all but dead on his feet. But his hand was out and close.

Inches.

Spread fingers coming down.

Michael moved for a head shot, but knew he’d be too late. Three and half pounds of pressure. Jimmy’s fingers almost there.

Then Abigail Vane came out of nowhere, small and fast and lightning sure. Michael hadn’t even seen her get up, but there she was, a crescent of rusty metal in her hand-a twenty-inch sickle that rose in a blurred, brown arc and took Jimmy’s hand off at the wrist. The stump of his arm hit the dowel, made it swing.

Michael put the next one in his skull.

Abigail drove them out. She looked small behind the wheel of the Mercedes, shoulders rolled, head tucked down as if to dodge a blow. In the back, fingers twined, wet and slick. Blood pooled in the seats as Michael cradled Elena and fought the pain in his leg. They kept their heads down, and no one spoke until Abigail pulled into the lot of a dump motel two towns over. She found an empty spot under the limbs of a tree. Traffic flickered beyond a chain-link fence. “You alive back there?”

“We’re still here.”

“Stay in the car.”

She didn’t look at them as she got out.

Air blew warm from the vents. A coppery smell. Gun smoke and clean leather. Michael kissed Elena’s hair, and her hand tightened on his arm. She was in shock, he thought, her skin cold to the touch, lips dusted blue. He gentled bits of tape from her skin, her hair. An acorn hit the roof, and she jerked in his arms. “It’s okay, baby.”

There was silence and breath and dark eyes staring.

“You keep saying that.”

It came as a whisper, her first words since he’d carried her out. Michael kissed her forehead, and when she turned her cheek into his chest, she said, “You came for me.”

“Of course I did.”