Josh Stallings - Out There Bad

“Quit years ago,” I told him.

“Me too.” His eyes were rimmed with red, and he looked old.

“Who did it, Manny?”

“This is none of your concern.”

“Bullshit. Someone comes in my club, fucks with my people, it’s my business.”

“It is not your club. It is my club, and I’m telling you to stay out of it.” His voice was flat and devoid of emotion.

“Was it the Russians?”

“Go home, Moses. This is family trouble, I will handle it.” Without meeting my eyes he turned and walked back into the hospital.

Walking to my car, it hit me. How fucking stupid could one man be? In the mansion, we trussed up the old man and his thugs, but we left the girls free. They may have hated the mutants who held them captive, but without passports, or any cash, the girls didn’t have a lot of options. I made sure the Russians didn’t know my name, but Marina sure as hell knew my name and where I worked. If she sold me out to save her own skin, I didn’t blame her, I blamed myself for not thinking of it. Now Turaj was in surgery, he had taken the weight meant for me. Whether he gave me up straight away or they beat it out of him, fact was, I was sure they had my address.

Running to a pay phone, I fumbled two quarters in and dialed home. The phone rang fifteen times before I clicked off.

I parked around the corner from my house, I took my 1911.45 from the tire well, slipped it in my belt and moved quickly along the sidewalk. An empty black Mercedes was at the curb. Keeping their car between me and the house, I crouched down by the fender. It takes more force than most think to slit a tire, even with a razor honed buck knife. The air escaped with a crisp hiss. I peeked over the hood, but nothing moved in the house.

Slipping along the side yard, I stole a glance into the bedroom. It was free of Russian dick heads. With a Bullmastiff as an alarm, I had taken to leaving my windows open. Pulling up onto the sill, I dropped silently to the floor. From the living room or kitchen, I heard several men speaking in Russian. I needed to cross the open doorway to get to the closet, and the hidden cabinet where I kept the big guns. Holding my breath, I took one long step across the opening. Pinned against the wall, I waited for them to come running. But they kept talking in the same casual tone.

Sliding my hanging clothes aside, I pushed the spring lock on the cabinet set into the back wall. The lock popped much louder than I had hoped. The conversation in the living room stopped abruptly. Footsteps moved quickly toward the bedroom. I grabbed the first gun my hand hit, my Mossberg 12-gauge street sweeper.

The first man through the door was a tanned muscle boy, he was sweeping the room with a small automatic when I rolled out of the closet. From the floor I fired up, the blast of buckshot took him in the chest and sent him doing the rag doll tumble into the living room.

Racking a fresh shell in, I fired through the open door. Noise and gun smoke filled the small room. Crawling back into the closet, I grabbed my battle bag. It was a duffle I always kept packed and ready with cash, false and real ID, a change of clothes, my handguns and enough ammunition to end a small war.

My bedroom exploded in a hail of bullets. Several Russians swung into the doorway and emptied their pistols, bullets pocked the walls and ripped my mattress to shreds. Shards from a mirror mixed with the spent shells hitting the floor. If I hadn’t been in the closet, I surely would have died in the blitz.

The noise stopped as quickly as it started. When they ducked out to reload, I leapt up. Firing one aimless shot at the living room, I dropped the Mossberg and dove out the ruined window. Rolling when I hit the soft earth, I jumped to my feet and started running. Hitting the Crown Vic, I stomped on the gas and burned two black lines in the asphalt halfway up the block. It wasn’t until I hit Eagle Rock Boulevard that I let off on the pace.

Parking in Foster Freeze’s lot, I listened for sirens. Thankfully, my home was in Highland Park, it would take the cops at least twenty minutes to respond if the neighbors even bothered to call it in. Down here, we take care of our own, and keep our mouths and eyes shut when it comes to the cops.

The adrenaline eased off enough to lower the thump in my ears to a dull roar. What had happened to Gregor and Anya? If they were in the house and still alive, I doubted the Russians would have been talking so calmly. Fuck! If Angel was there, she would have run to me when I crept in. If those freaks killed my dog, I would paint the walls with their blood.

Jamming into reverse, I squealed out onto the street. I was flying, rage driven, when I rounded the hill that separated Eagle Rock from Highland Park. The Vic slid around the sweeping corners in a four wheel drift.

Victor was kneeling by the Mercedes’ front passenger tire. He was finishing tightening the lug nuts on the spare. His head jerked up when he heard me roaring down on him. He leapt up just in time to meet my grille. His legs flipped forward and his chest slammed down onto my hood. He left a face sized dent where his head smashed down. I stamped my foot down, locking up the massive brakes, and Victor rolled, tumbling off the hood and onto the pavement.

Pulling my.45 I jumped out. I didn’t bother checking Victor, his threat factor had surely hit zero. The rest of the Russian crew were piled into the Mercedes. Spinning backwards, they bumped over the jack. Standing in the middle of the street, I popped off all seven shots in the clip as they sped away. Their windshield spider-webbed as the bullets struck it. They were gone too soon for me to know if I hit any of the occupants, but I didn’t have any time to worry about them. The cops would be rolling. Even Highland Park has its limits, and emptying a clip in the street, I was sure I had crossed them.

I took the four steps up to my door in one big leap. Running from room to room, I searched for signs of death. If they had killed Gregor, Anya or my dog, they had done a damn clean job of it. Picking up the Mossberg, I heard the soft wail of sirens coming on fast. It was time to jet. Pulling down the blinds, I deadbolted the front door behind me.

After policing up the.45 shells off the road, I grabbed the twisted and broken Victor and tossed him into the back seat. I drove quickly away from the oncoming cop cars. He was bitching and moaning in Russian as I took a series of sharp turns, losing myself in the hills of Mount Washington.

Pulling behind a tall wild bramble on an empty hillside lot, I killed the engine. Slapping in a fresh clip, I racked a shell into the.45 and pointed it over the seat at Victor. “Where the fuck are they?” I said, fighting the urge to splatter him.

“Who… I don’t know…” He was mumbling through clenched teeth.

I struck his broken arm with the barrel of my.45. His scream sounded more animal than human. “Motherfucker. Talk or die, I don’t give a fuck which.” I shoved his head down with the pistol.

“No!” His eyes were wild with pain and fear.

“What did you do with my people?” I tapped his head hard with the pistol, to be sure I had his full attention.

“No one… we found no one,” he said between moans.

“Wrong answer.” I covered my face with my free hand to avoid getting blow-back gore in my eyes.

“Pravda! No one!” His panicked fear was overriding his pain. I dropped the.45 into my lap. Down in the valley, the sounds of sirens had died out. There would be no going home now that it was a crime scene. I could only hope they wouldn’t link me to the house and put out an APB.

It was time to go off the map, slip into the unregistered world where cash was king and all names were false. The Russian mobsters would be hunting me with deep vengeance in their hard little hearts, the cops might be looking for me, the feds were in the wings someplace and I was no closer to finding Anya’s sister.