Brian Haig - PrivateSector

A second later, my apartment door exploded from a huge blast that blew wooden splinters through the air.

Enough of this no-weapon shit-I scrambled around the floor, found Bill’s shotgun, rolled backward, and aimed it at the door. A dark figure came diving through, and I fired twice but couldn’t be sure I hit him. Then another figure dashed through, I fired again, caught him in the midsection, and he flew backward, right back into the hallway.

Spinelli had emptied his M16 and now resorted to his pistol. He was still firing at the porch, although when I spun around and looked, the figures on the ropes had vanished.

Then there was silence. I said, “Reload and stay down.”

Spinelli said, “Something’s stickin’ out my fuckin’ shoulder.”

I felt around the floor for Bill and Charlie. My hand crashed into a body, then a full head of silky hair-Bill, apparently, and I felt his neck for a pulse. The pressure brought a moan. His ticker was still pumping; faintly, but that’s all you need. I kept moving my hand around until it came up against Charlie; I could feel no pulse. Shit.

My ears were ringing, but then I thought I heard sirens. I tried to picture what just happened-three guys were hanging off ropes outside the porch, and at least two more had tried to make it through the door. Not one guy; five guys. I mean, what the…?

The phone suddenly rang. I crawled over and answered.

A male voice ordered, “Put Drummond on.”

The voice was baritone, but this weird mechanical baritone, as though it had smoked a million cigarettes, or was being distorted by some high-tech disguising device.

I said, “Who the hell’s this?” I mean, maybe I didn’t know who, but I did know what the call was about-roll call. Was I dead, or did I still need to be whacked? I’m not completely stupid, and I had no intention of confirming anything.

There was a weird laugh before he replied, “Tell Drummond it’s the dimwit from Boston. Stop wasting my time and put him on.”

I replied, “Can I take a message?”

“Heh-heh. You’re very funny, Drummond.”

Shit. “And you’re an incompetent fuckup. This is twice you missed. First Janet Morrow, now me. Your bosses know about this one yet?” “I didn’t do this one. I just dropped by to, you know, observe.” What an asshole. This guy’s ego was even bigger than I imag ined. I said, “I forgot. You only do unarmed women.” “I do who I want.” He added, menacingly, “For example, I’m going to do you.” “Before or after I mount your slimy ass on my wall?” “You have a wall left?” He laughed. “I heard a big explosion.” “The place was in need of a redo. Thank your pals for me.” “I’ll pass it along. But forget the redo. Waste of money.” “I’m out of your league, asshole. You do unarmed girls.” “You’d be surprised, Drummond. I kill guys all the time.” “You’re right… I’d be surprised.” We both let a moment pass, then I said, “You’re probably telling yourself the ghoulish things you did to those women were necessary to mislead the cops. Truth is, you’re a sick little pervert, and deep down, you enjoyed it.”

“You’re a shrink now? Stick with law.” I laughed. “Hey, truth is, I’m looking forward to meeting you.” “You’ll never see me coming.” “I’ve already seen you. Big, dopey-looking jerk-off who’s taken so many steroids your tiny dick’s stopped working. Maybe that’s why you enjoyed doing the women.” He paused a moment, then said, “ The priest… you were the one who yelled?”

“Confess to me, jerk-off. Tell me all how your mother mistreated you, how you saw her diddling Daddy, and how much that screwed up your head.”

“I’ll do better. I’ll tell you my life story as I cut body parts off you.” “I’ll be looking for the big pussy in ladies’ undies.” “Look all you want, Drummond. I never look the same twice.” “Discuss your identity issues with someone who gives a shit.” We both paused again, then I asked, “Incidentally, who trained you?”

“Self-help books and practice. Who trained you?”

“My little sister. That’s all I need to take your ass down.”

We both chuckled, a couple of adolescents trading dopey insults and playground threats. But we meant every word of it. And we both, through however we learned it, could deliver on our threats.

Then he said, “But in the interest of accuracy, Drummond, you don’t have a little sister. A brother, John, and a mother and father who also live in California, but no little sister. In fact, I have their addresses in my pocket.”

I felt a sudden chill. “Don’t even think about it, asshole. Go near them and I’ll make your death indescribably painful.”

He laughed. “Well, this has been really fun. I enjoy getting to know my victims. It makes my work so much more meaningful, and memorable.”

But before he could hang up I thought of something else, and I said, “Hey, don’t you owe Morris Networks a rebate? Weren’t you supposed to ice me before I figured out and exposed the scam?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Morris Networks, bozo. The assholes who overpay you for your screwups and mishaps. I know all about Jason Morris, and about Hal Merriweather and about… well, about the lawyers working with them.”

“Drummond, you’re starting to annoy me.”

“Wait’ll I kill you, sport.”

“And I’ll be sure you have the opportunity to tell me how much you regret your taunts.” He paused a moment, then said, “Ah… one last thing, please be sure to pass my regards to Miss Morrow. Tell her I haven’t forgotten her.” Then he hung up.

At that very instant the cops rushed through the door and all hell broke loose.

They came in like a SWAT team, rolling through the doorway, yelling and hollering. The lights were still out, so I yelled, “Just friendlies in here.”

A voice replied, “Drummond?”

It was a familiar voice, though I couldn’t place it. Spinelli, however, yelled, “Who the fuck did you expect, Martin?… It’s his fuckin’ apartment.”

Then a pair of flashlights popped on and somebody yelled, “Weapons down, and stand with your hands over your heads!”

I put the shotgun down, placed my hands over my head, and stood. Their flashlights and weapons were pointed in our direction.

One cop yelled, “Hey, asshole, I said put your hands up.”

Spinelli sourly replied, “Shut the fuck up. I’ve got a chunk of wood in my shoulder.”

I said, “Everybody relax.”

And everybody did. Somewhat.

Once the cops had collected all the weapons and determined that everybody was either disarmed, unconscious, or dead, two more figures came through the doorway.

A medical technician came rushing in first, and was directed toward Bill, who obviously needed more help than Charlie, who unfortunately was dead. Then in sauntered George Meany, sporting one of those nifty dark blue FBI windbreakers, an FBI cap, an FBI shirt, and for all I knew had “FBI” tattooed on his ass.

Nor had it escaped my notice that Meany waited until Martin cleared and secured the place before he decided to join us. George was smarter than I gave him credit for. Just a little chicken.

But there was something else that didn’t escape my notice. I glanced at my watch, and I recalled that the shooting started a little after 4:05, and while I didn’t know how long the firefight lasted, or even how long I chatted with Mr. Asshole on the telly, Martin and his guys got here awfully damned fast. I mean, it was only 4:15, and Supercop Meany is up and about at this hour, playing Johnny-on-the-spot.

But before I could ponder these facts further, the lights popped back on, and my eyes were drawn to the carnage. Two bodies were by the doorway, one inside the door, and one plastered like a swatted fly on the hallway wall. I was going to have to invest in new furniture, wall repairs, carpets, and so on. The guys hanging from the ropes had employed silencers, and until this moment I hadn’t fully appreciated how much lead they squirted through my porch door. The walls were peppered and my big-screen TV was a big-screen mess. It was a miracle only Bill and Charlie had been hit.