David Hosp - Among Thieves

“I don’t give a fuck what address they gave you,” Kent said. “I’m telling you, we didn’t order any fuckin’ pizza. Get the fuck out of here.”

The driver ran his greasy fingers through greasier hair. “Fuck,” he muttered. “I hate this job.” He tossed the pizza box into the backseat. Then he slid into the driver’s seat and pulled away.

“Fuckin’ moron,” Kent said. He stood there, his eyes searching the street. He’d never seen Ballick so concerned, and he didn’t understand why. Kent had his best men in place, and they were ready for anything. After a moment he turned and started back to the little shack by the water.

He took two steps before the shot tore through the center of his back. It felt as though he’d been hit with a baseball bat, and he pitched forward onto the pavement. In his mind he was moving, his gun out as he whirled around to shoot back, shouting directions to the men in the trees. In reality, he lay still. The bullet had blown through his spinal column just between his shoulder blades, and the instructions from his brain had nowhere to go. His mouth was moving, but no sound came out. Blood fought its way up his esophagus and trickled out of the corner of his mouth onto the driveway. He was dead within seconds.

Liam was moving as soon as he pulled the trigger, silently shifting his position ten feet to the left. The bushes where he’d been standing exploded from the rounds fired from the trees along the driveway. He watched the flashes and took careful aim at the spot from where the shots came on the left, firing six quick rounds into the trees.

Then he was moving again, running toward the driveway.

More shots rang out from the right-hand side of the driveway, and Liam could hear the shots whistle by him. Then he heard a number of gunshots coming from behind him, and he knew that Broadark was returning fire, just as instructed. The gunshots from the trees stopped, and Liam kept moving, hurtling the metal fence and diving toward the far edge of the row of trees.

The trees were now his allies, providing him with cover as he moved quickly down the row toward the shack. Halfway down the driveway, he came across the body of one of Ballick’s men. He was slumped against a tree trunk, his neck tipped back at an awkward angle, his eyes wide open, staring at the overhanging branches. Liam bent down to feel his neck for a pulse, though he knew there would be none. He could see the hole that had been ripped in the man’s chest.

Now he had a decision to make. He’d seen the man who came out to chase away the pizza delivery boy take a long look at the canvas mass to the left of the shack, and it gave him a good indication that the fourth man was hidden there. The approach would be better from the other line of trees. At the same time, that line would require that he cut across the narrow drive, leaving him exposed. He decided it was necessary-not only to give him a better angle at the fourth man, but also to make sure that the shooter in the opposite row of trees was dead. There had been no shooting from there since Broadark ripped off his rounds toward the rifle flashes. It was possible that the shooter was merely playing possum, waiting for Liam to get overconfident and show himself in the open. It was unlikely-these men weren’t that well trained. Liam was that well trained, though, and he knew better than to leave any loose ends.

He crouched down low, in a runner’s stance, slowing his breathing and filling his lungs. Then he fired out with his legs, driving forward across the driveway.

He kept his head moving, looking out for shots both from in front of him-from the man in the trees-and to his left-from the canvas-covered stack. He was almost hoping that the man under the tarp would take a shot; the chances of a hit at that range on a moving target were slim, and it would confirm the man’s location. He was fairly certain that the fourth man was there, but confirmation would have been nice.

No shots came.

Liam slid under the branches of the trees on the far side, and almost toppled into the other shooter. He was lying there, a few feet from the tree trunk, breathing heavily. A rifle lay a few feet away. Liam moved forward, kicking the gun even farther away from the man and kneeling on his chest. There were at least two wounds he could see; one in the belly and one in the throat. Neither had been fatal as yet, though the throat injury looked severe. It appeared as though the front half of the man’s windpipe had been blown out. As he sucked for breath, Liam could see the hole in the man’s neck whistle and contract; any air he was getting was coming from there, not from his mouth or nose. He looked down at the man, and could see his lips forming the words, Help me, please!

Liam nodded to the man. Then he pulled out his knife and slipped it into the wound, slicing deeply in one motion, severing the carotid artery that had somehow been spared when the man was shot. The man’s eyes went wide with terror, but darkened in a matter of seconds as a flood of dark red flowed from the wound, around his neck and into the soft ground beneath him.

Setting his gun on the ground, Liam pulled the body into a sitting position and slipped the sweater off it. He removed the man’s shoes and wrapped them in the sweater, tying the bundle tight. Then he picked up his gun and moved down toward the last tree in the line, which sat no farther than thirty yards from the shack.

He crouched under that last tree for a few moments, watching the area in front of him. Whoever the fourth man was, he was the best trained of them all, and he hadn’t given up his position. He also, undoubtedly, had seen Liam move across the road, and had a rough idea of the direction from which Liam would be coming.

After a while, it became clear that the fourth man had no intention of betraying himself, and Liam decided to take the fight to him.

He picked up the bundle he’d made of the dead man’s sweater and shoes and moved to the side of the tree closest to the driveway. Holding his gun in his left hand, he threw the bundle as hard as he could with his right hand out from under the tree branches, then dove to the other side of the tree’s coverage.

As the shirt and shoes skidded across the driveway, tumbling in the dark night toward the shack, several gunshots rang out from under the canvas, and Liam could see quick flashes illuminating the slit opening in the center. The man was a decent shot, at least, as the bundle jumped and hopped, hit twice by the bullets.

It was the confirmation he needed.

He slid to the edge of the branches and aimed carefully at the opening. Then he unloaded the rest of the clip at the spot from where the shots had come.

He waited a moment, listening carefully for any signs of life. There were none. The nature of his mission-and the betrayal that had inspired it-ran through his mind. Then he slid a fresh clip into his gun, took aim at the opening in the canvas that was now flapping slightly in the breeze, and fired another fifteen rounds.

“Hello?” the guard said.

Devon held up his badge so it could be seen on the security screen. “BPD,” he replied. “We’ve had a report of a disturbance on the grounds. They sent us out to make sure everything’s okay.”

“We haven’t seen anything,” the guard said. “Who reported the disturbance?”

“One of the neighbors,” Devon lied. “If you’ll let us in, we can do a quick search of the place and get out of your hair.”

“I don’t know.” There was a slight quiver in the guard’s voice. “I’m not supposed to let anyone in after hours.” Devon could sense that the guard was deliberating; it was taking too long. He nodded to the Irishman to assure him that this wasn’t a problem. It was to be expected. It would have been nice if the guard had buzzed them in without any resistance, but that wasn’t realistic. Devon was prepared to apply whatever pressure necessary.