Макс Коллинз - Killing Quarry

“You can’t really believe that. Get serious, Jack! We’re friends!”

“Right. Because you wormed your way into my poker group six months ago.”

He said nothing.

And I knew what he’d been thinking, or at least thought I did. He came around my corner of the world often enough, dropped by the Welcome Inn for a meal and/or a drink. He was no stranger. Must have asked Charley what kind of family I had, and my loyal employee must have known about my old man being my heir. I’d been kidding myself that the old reprobate wouldn’t get curious and look inside that envelope I’d left in his safekeeping. Not that safe, apparently .

“Okay,” I said. “So you know about my old man in Ohio, who would have no reason not to sell the property and make his own killing. Do you know why I’ve had no interest in selling, though?”

Now his curiosity kicked in.

“No, Jack,” he said, dropping all pretense. “No idea. It was stupid of you not to.”

“So then you don’t know,” I said, “who, or what, I am.”

He shrugged. “I do now. You’re just another filthy drug dealer.”

I laughed. “No! I’m another filthy contract killer. That lakeside A-frame is my retreat. I’d never sell it.”

The blood drained from his face.

“The so-called Envoy knew who and what I was,” I said. “I thought maybe he’d told you. Tell me, Dan. Did your Chicago friends just advise you to do your best to pry my property out of me? Or were they behind the contract itself?”

Again, he said nothing.

“I’m guessing the contract was your idea,” I said. “I’m guessing you wanted to pick my property up for a relative song, and then go partners with the Outfit.”

Had anyone ever moved so fast?

He came at me, and I fired, but the slender son of a bitch only got grazed along his side, gouging his Pucci suitcoat and maybe not his flesh at all, and he’d flung himself at me so hard, he lifted the couch half-off the ground. Both his hands were on the wrist of my gun-in-hand and he twisted the nine mil from my grasp, sending it clattering to the wood floor beyond the hunting rug. I was blocked by the couch arm but he wasn’t, and he dove to the floor and had the gun in his hand now. He swung the big automatic toward me and I leapt over the facing couch as two bullets thunked into the cushions.

I was scrambling now, and the door to the outside was right there, and I reached up for the knob, twisted it, opened the door and clambered out of there. The cold was startling, like a splash of ice water, and the world was an ivory thing in the moonlight, dark but not dark. In front of me was the parking lot, and beyond that the frozen sort of a lake that was the golf course waterhole.

With no immediate route of escape, which took me a millisecond to compute, I tucked to one side of the door, which I’d left ajar, and waited. He came through moving fast, and you know what? I tripped the motherfucker. He skidded face down on the pavement of the parking lot and I jumped on his back, jamming a knee into the base of his spine. He yelped in pain and now it was my turn to try to wrest my nine millimeter free from his grasp, my hands tight and twisting on his wrist. His fingers managed to fling the weapon rather than give it up and it went skittering across the slightly icy pavement and disappeared under his parked Jag.

I scuttled off him to retrieve the gun and knelt to see where the thing had gone — it had spun to a stop under the car. I tried to reach it and something tragic happened: a bullet whanged into the side of the Jag, puckering a beautiful door.

He was still down on the pavement, looking dazed the way you do when a kick in the head hasn’t quite knocked you unconscious, but pushing up on his left hand and pointing a little gun at me, a .25 auto I think. Hadn’t thought he might be packing, even if it was a dainty little fucking thing like that.

I couldn’t reach the nine mil and he would only get less dazed and take better shots, so I had to get away from him fast, and the parking lot and frozen waterhole were shit options.

But off to my left was the start of the thickness of pines that climbed the so-called mountain, and I headed into that cover, fast, thinking only of putting something between me and my pursuer that wasn’t cold air.

A ski path angled through the forest of firs, some other non-conifer trees mixed in, skeletal spectators, but it was easy enough to avoid that openness, and the trees weren’t planted so close together that I couldn’t wind through them. Not to where I could run, but I could manage a jog, all right, and periodically pause behind a tree, many of which were substantial enough for cover.

No additional gunshots had rung out since I had fled frantically into the trees, but I could hear him back there, feet crunching through the snow, not running or jogging but moving quickly enough to stay a threat.

The cold was not a problem — it kept me alert — but running in it was taxing. My breath soon came hard, and plumed in front of me, as if I were one big punctured tire oozing air.

“ Jack! ”

Not close, but closer than I would have liked.

“ Jack, stop! Talk to me! We can work this out! ”

He never could bluff worth a damn.

But without a weapon, I had no goal in sight. Being in first place in a race with a guy in second place who had a gun was no way to win. Maybe I could double back around behind him. The semi-snow-covered ground was a problem, though — especially the leaves and pine cones beneath the snow, which gave away movement. After all, that was how I could have a sense of where, and how far back, Dan was.

So I started working my way over toward the winding ski path. If I stayed along the edge, I wouldn’t be so exposed, and anyway Dan wouldn’t be expecting me to head back down, not yet anyway. And the going should be less noisy, with fewer pine cones and leaves.

That proved to be the case, while at the same time Dan’s crunching grew louder, as he came closer to my new position, but unaware of doing so. I paused when his footfalls got loud enough to indicate he was passing me.

That was when I spotted the broken wooden ski pole, snapped in two. I paused, picked up the half with the metal tip, tossed the other half away, and headed back up, again hugging the side of the ski trail.

The crunching of Dan’s feet up ahead grew louder.

Gaining, I cut through the trees and moved toward the sound. When I saw him in the moonlight, his back to me, I slipped in behind him — he was maybe ten yards up there — and walked in his footsteps. Which was easy — they were distinct impressions.

He paused, listening for me.

I paused, holding my breath, giving him nothing to hear.

Then, when I was a few feet behind him, I said, “ Hey! ”

He swung toward me.

Had I been him, I would have shot as I swung around. Like I said, immediate response is what keeps you alive in combat.

But he didn’t shoot as he swung round, and as soon as he faced me, I jammed the half-a-ski-pole’s spike into the hollow of his throat, while my other hand slapped that little .25 out of his hand, where it dropped like a doe turd in the snow.

His mouth was open wide. Gurgling. His eyes were open wider. Bulging. He was tottering. The half a ski pole was sticking out of his neck like an Indian had flung a spear at him, pissed off about the land grab.

The hill was steep enough to encourage him toppling forward, and the damnedest thing happened: apparently when that spike hit his spine, it couldn’t break through to the other side, so for a few moments that wooden half-a-pole supported him. He wasn’t quite dead yet, and his hands were waving like a skier trying to keep his balance.