John Locke: Callie’s Last Dance

The tenth book in the Donovan Creed series, 2012

RIDLEY’S WIFE, CONNIE, doesn’t cheat very often, but when she does it’s going to take place in room 316 at the Winston Parke Hotel in downtown Cincinnati.

Three-sixteen, because it’s her lucky number.

Her date of birth.

March sixteenth.

Ridley knows this, he’s followed her there several times.

While he strongly disapproves of Connie’s extra-marital affair, the guy she’s fucking is Tom Bell, the number two ranked mixed martial artist in the world. Ridley’s no wimp, but Bell could kick Ridley’s ass with one hand while fingering Connie with the other.

Which is why Ridley plans to kill them from a distance.

Ridley may not know martial arts, but as a commercial builder he knows a thing or two about concrete. For example, he knows concrete floors in modern hotels are usually eight inches thick and pre-stressed, while seventy-year-old floors, like those in the Winston Parke, are only four inches thick and composed of light-weight concrete.

Ridley also knows hand guns. He’s collected them all his life. For example, he knows his Nitro Zeliska is the largest, most-powerful handgun in the world. Knows it fires a 900-grain,.600 round at 1,950 feet per second while producing a whopping 7,591 foot pounds of muzzle energy. He knows it set him back nearly twenty grand, plus forty bucks a bullet.

The Winston Parke lobby has a café on one side, a bank of glass elevators on the other. Ridley’s sitting in the café, sipping his coffee, watching Connie and Tom Bell take an elevator to the third floor.

For Ridley, it’s come full-circle.

He’s the one who introduced Connie to room 316 years ago, when she was in design school. He’s the one who wined, dined, and married her, the one who adored her, took care of her, and introduced her to society. He’s the one who gave her the life of luxury, funded her home decorating business, showered her with gifts, took her places she’d never been…

And this is how she pays him back.

Ridley stares at his coffee, trying to forget what he saw.

Tom, patting his wife’s ass.

Connie, showing Tom the bedroom smile Ridley used to get.

He sighs.

What kind of wife would do him this way?

He knows the answer.

A younger one.

What it all comes down to, the younger wives want a guy on the side. You shower them with love, bring them all the way up the ladder of success, and get what in return?

Gratitude?

Loyalty?

No. What you get is attitude. After a few years of fucking you, they want to fuck what you’re not.

Ridley’s got it figured out. He’d say if you want to predict who your wife’s gonna fuck, look for the guy who’s nothing like you. If you’re handsome, they’ll fuck ugly. If you’re ugly, they’ll fuck handsome. If you’re rich, they’ll fuck poor. If you’re poor, they’ll fuck rich.

They just won’t fuck you.

And these younger wives are cocky.

Well, today it ends.

Ridley’s gun is waiting for him in room 216.

He finishes his coffee, rides the elevator to the second floor, enters his room. He removes the gun from its case.

Zeliska revolvers are twenty-two inches long and weigh thirteen pounds. The weight helps control the recoil.

Ridley dons his eye protectors, inserts his custom ear plugs, loads five rounds into the cylinder. He lies on his back on the bed, centers himself, and looks up at the ceiling, thinking, my wife’s twelve feet above me, fucking Tom Bell .

He imagines Connie moaning with pleasure. Giving Tom oral. Allowing him free reign over every inch of her body.

She barely knows the guy!

Is she really capable of doing things to him she won’t do for the man who loves her?

Of course she is.

That’s how it works.

When they spread their legs for another man, they go all the way.

Ridley lifts his gun, extends his arms, locks them. The barrel’s eight feet from Connie’s back, if she’s on the bottom, or Connie’s front, if Tom’s doing her face down. Or eight feet from Tom’s back, if Connie’s on top.

He cocks the gun anticipating what could happen. First, the bullet will send fragments of concrete in all directions, and cover him with concrete dust. No problem. People in the lobby might remember seeing a guy covered in dust later on, but they won’t associate him with being the shooter. Second, due to freak luck, the bullet might ricochet into Ridley, and kill him instantly. That would be unlikely, but Ridley’s prepared to die. If he doesn’t make a clean getaway he’ll be in prison the rest of his life, and he’d rather be dead than in prison. Third, the first shot might not make it all the way to the target, so he intends to pump all five rounds into the ceiling, shooting each successive shot into the hole made by the first bullet. With any luck at all, the first shot will kill whoever’s on the bottom, the rest will kill whoever’s on top.

Ridley takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, then pulls the trigger.

In this enclosed area, even with his ear plugs firmly in place, the gunshot sounds like a bomb detonating. The concrete above him explodes in a cloud of smoke. Sharp pieces of plaster and concrete nick his body, and would have shredded his eyes, but for the safety goggles. The recoil nearly caused him to lose his grip. The gun gas makes him retch.

He can’t see the hole his first bullet made, but makes an educated guess and fires again. This time the recoil is so fierce, Ridley’s arms can’t prevent the gun from shattering his face. As he cries out in pain, a two-foot slab of concrete disengages from the ceiling, hangs precariously for a split second, then falls seven feet onto Ridley’s exposed neck, killing him instantly.

Cincinnati, Four Days Earlier…

Donovan Creed.

“THEY’RE PLAYING MUSIC!” Callie says, with a burst of sudden enthusiasm. “You think Sal set up a dance floor?”

“I hope not,” I say.

It’s mid-morning, fourth of July. The sun’s bright, but not yet hot. We’re crossing a perfectly-manicured lawn, heading toward the main tent to greet our host, crime boss Sal Bonadello.

“Don’t be a spoil sport, Donovan!”

“Spoil sport? What does that even mean?”

“It means if they play our song I expect a dance.”

Here’s something you don’t know about me. I’m a terrible dancer. I mean, I know enough ballroom dancing to get laid. But when the music’s fast and I’m dancing freestyle I look like Quasimodo trying to put on a suit.

“We don’t have a song,” I say.

“Are you insane? Of course we do!”

“What’s ours?”

“You’ll know it when you hear it.”

I laugh. “So you don’t know, either.”

“Every couple has a song, Donovan. We just haven’t heard ours yet.”

“Wait. Did you just call us a couple?”

Callie sighs. “Does this make sense to you?”

“What?”

“In all these years we’ve never shared a dance.”

“That can’t be true. Perhaps you’ve forgotten.”

“Trust me, I’d remember. I love dancing. But you avoid it like Superman avoids kryptonite.”

She’s right, of course. And her kryptonite analogy’s a good one.

Callie and I have worked together eight years. We’re assassins. She’s the only person on earth I trust not to kill me, and that’s only on good days. But we haven’t danced because, overlooking the fact I look stupid while doing it, dance floors are high-risk locations. You’re moving around, people around you are moving, you can’t keep track. Is the guy in the blue suit wielding a knife? Is the older lady palming a derringer? Maybe the lady with the gun isn’t on the dance floor. Maybe she’s a guy dressed like an old lady, sitting at a table across the room holding a purse that contains a gun with a silencer. When she shoots, the small sound gets drowned out by the music. Maybe she’s watching me dance, waiting for the perfect time to squeeze off a shot. She puts her hand in her purse, grips her gun, gives the signal. On the dance floor, a pretty redhead nods, then purposely backs into me, knocks me off balance. The older lady shoots, kills me, and waltzes out the room.