Enforcer (52 page)

Connor heard the click of the hammer being let down followed by the sound of the gun being thrown into the dirt on the other side of the Lincoln. He peeked his head up just enough to see Vadim walk around the end of the car and into the open. Connor stood up, the gun pointed halfway between Vadim and the ground. Petre stood up from behind a jumble of rotted drywall and studs. He walked toward Vadim, his gun still pointed at his partner’s chest.

“Trainers, not helpers,” Petre said and shot Vadim in the chest, adding a second round through the man’s face after he collapsed to the dirt.

“No!” Connor screamed, raising his gun toward Petre. “No! No! Why did you do that?”

“I had to, my friend,” Petre said, dropping his gun to the dirt and falling to his knees.

Connor ran to him, remembering to remove his finger from the trigger of his own pistol.

“Why? Why did you have to?” Connor asked as he knelt down. He sucked in a breath at the blood covering Petre’s face and hands, a pittance compared to the blood soaking into his expensive shirt and jacket.

“It is the only way to be sure you can be free. Both of you. No ties, no worries, no looking under the shoulder.” Petre’s cough sprayed a fine mist of blood on Connor’s shirt.

“Over your shoulder, you fucking asshole,” Connor said, ripping Petre’s jacket and shirt open to see where the man had been hit.

“Sunt bine.”
I’m fine
. Petre coughed again. “Most of it is from Dracul.” Petre’s grin was a mix of white and bloodstained teeth. “Go. See to Jera.”

Connor paused for a moment, trying to make sure Petre would be all right. Petre gave him a rough shove, making Connor stumble backwards until his ass struck the dirt floor. He growled as he got up, but immediately forgot Petre when he saw Jera. He shouted her name as he ran, skidding to a stop on his knees when he got to her. He saw the blood first, mixed with what looked like pink and cream-colored bits. Connor grabbed her shoulder, chanting her name over and over as he turned her on her back.

Tears fell from his cheeks onto hers as he caressed her face, his finger tracing lightly over the small hole just behind her right ear. The exit wound on the other side was the size of a golf ball, no longer leaking blood and brains. Her lifeless eyes stared at the ceiling, unable to see him. He screamed her name until Petre dragged him away and into one of the Lincolns.

CHAPTER 43

Connor’s memory of the next few hours became a blur of panic, rage, misery, and disbelief. Petre had been healthy enough, lucid enough, to drag Connor away, ordering him to drive to St. Luke’s. Instead of letting Connor walk him into the emergency room, Petre almost leaped out of the moving car. He stumbled then leaned in through the missing passenger window after closing the door, one arm draped around his stomach, the other propping him against the Lincoln. Connor wasn’t sure how his friend wasn’t dead already, having bled enough for three men going by the man’s drenched suit and the Lincoln’s sopping wet passenger seat.

“You must go to the office and get the contract,” Petre commanded. “And your money.” The Romanian turned away and limped into the emergency room without looking back.

Connor made it to Ojacarcu’s office, somehow avoiding any curious Ada County Sheriff’s deputies and Boise P.D. officers who would have surely noticed a Lincoln that had two bullet holes in the front windshield and at least ten more in the body. His luck held as he rifled through Ojacarcu’s desk. He retrieved his contract, his money, and another small laptop case under the desk that had a stack of bills stuffed into it. Connor worried, as he transferred money from the laptop case to his duffel bag, that his luck would run out at some point and Greg, Iuliu, or one of the other Romanians would confront him. They’d ask him why he was covered in blood, carrying a bloody contract in one hand and a bag of cash in the other.

The only place Connor could think to go was down to the locker rooms in the arena. He didn’t want to risk going back outside while looking like a blood-soaked psychopath who had just murdered a group of people. He prayed that the team was out of town, unable to remember the schedule through his madness. He didn’t want to have to explain to his teammates, and especially his coach, as to why he was intruding into their domain. Most of them already thought he had serious issues after he had flipped out and fractured an opposing player’s skull.

The dressing room was empty. Connor turned on the lights and made his way to his locker. Coach Lamoureux hadn’t disturbed it, which made Connor eternally grateful to the man. He stripped off his clothes, stuffing the contract into the bag, then the bag into the locker under his shoulder pads before stumbling to the showers. He hit the button, shivering at the freezing water that sprayed out of the shower head at first, gradually settling under it as it went from arctic to almost scalding.

Connor stood under the spray and bawled for almost ten minutes, expelling everything he had left within him through tear ducts and cries of misery. He fought wave after wave of revulsion until his stomach overpowered him and ejected its contents onto the wet tile. He thought he was over the worst of it when the memory of his finger tracing the edges of the hole in Jera’s skull made him double over, screaming in fury as bile and snot found its way into the shower drain. He threw up again when his finger found the hole in his bicep, the burn of the soap as it entered the wound making him grit his teeth until he thought they would shatter.

When he felt absolutely nothing left within him, no pain, no tears, no love, only emptiness, he turned the shower off and walked into the locker area. Griff, Coach Walters, and Coach Lamoureux stood at the doors to the hallway, staring at him. Connor didn’t acknowledge them other than accepting a clean towel from Coach Walters as he passed by.

“Connor…” Coach Lamoureux began until he got a good look at Connor’s arm. He quickly hustled the other two men out of the locker room.

*****

“Can you repeat that?” Agent Gauthier asked from the other end. “I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

“I said, Ojacarcu is dead. So are all of his henchmen, or bodyguards, or whatever they were. So is one of their prostitutes.” Connor’s voice sounded as if he were talking underwater.

“And how do you know this?” Gauthier asked as he tried to get his mini-pad out to take notes.

“Because I killed them.”

“Connor, are you fucking with me?”

“No.”

“Okay. Where are you?”

“Sitting on the patio of the Starbucks you first found me at.”

“And where are all of these bodies? We haven’t heard anything over the wire.”

“They’re in some old abandoned construction site north on 55. I don’t know exactly where, but there’s a road, just past Dry Creek I think.”

“Caldera Way,” Gauthier said immediately, giving Connor the impression that he knew Ojacarcu had ties to the place.

“Whatever. The building looks like a bunch of homeless people tried to nail up sheet metal for walls. There are six bodies inside.”

“Stay right where you are, Connor. I’ll come and get you in ten minutes.”

*****

Agent Gauthier took one look at Connor and knew the young man was in trouble. Connor’s skin had become ashen, his eyes bloodshot. He was barely conscious when Gauthier arrived, caffeine and sugar the only thing keeping him from from passing out.

“Jesus, Connor. Have you been shot?” Agent Gauthier asked, peeling back Connor’s sleeve, wincing as the shirt stuck to the strip of white towel that had been tied around the wound in his bicep.

“Maybe,” Connor slurred. “I might take some.”

Gauthier looked away from the blood-soaked towel to Connor’s face.

“Wake up, Connor,” Gauthier commanded, snapping his fingers in front of Connor’s eyes.

“If you’re ready,” Connor said before slumping forward. Gauthier caught him by the shoulders before his head could slam into the metal tabletop.

Gauthier looked around, wishing he’d brought someone else with him. He laid Connor’s head gently on the table and walked into the coffee shop. He took in all of the customers and employees that were visible, finding one that looked like he could help. He walked up to a husky young man wearing a typical orange Boise State t-shirt and showed him his badge. The kid looked for a moment like he might bolt, until Gauthier assured him that he wasn’t in any trouble. The kid followed Gauthier outside and helped him load Connor into the car.

“You never saw me. Or him,” Gauthier suggested, when he noticed the young man was unable to stop staring at the bloody mess of Connor’s arm. “Got it?” he asked a little louder than necessary when he received no answer. The young man nodded without taking his eyes off Connor’s poor bandaging skills.

“101, this is 5-2,” he said into his radio as he flipped on his light and sped toward the nearest hospital.

“Go ahead 5-2,” dispatch replied.

“Advise county and local that I have an emergency transport en route to St. Luke’s.”

“Roger 5-2, will advise.”

*****

Connor woke in a hospital bed, bright light streaming through the gaps in the blinds. He tried to raise his arm to shield his eyes and immediately regretted it. The small movement felt as if his arm had been ripped out of its socket. He tried to flex his fingers into a fist. His index finger couldn’t seem to curl around enough, his middle finger only slightly better, his ring and pinky fingers able to complete the task. Pain slashed through his arm again, and he gave up.

Connor looked at the mess of wires and tubes that surrounded him, became part of him. He panicked, afraid that he was in another nightmare, afraid the tubes would morph into strands of spider silk. He spent a few minutes waiting for the nightmare to begin wandering down its usual terrifying road, sure that Ojacarcu or Dracul would come through the door any moment. They’d probably tell him something wonderful, like he had a brain tumor, that he’d imagined everything that had happened for the last few years while strapped to a bed in a mental institution. Connor wished it was true. It would mean Jera was still alive, even if she was only ghostly creation in his diseased mind. He held her memory until he fell asleep.

He woke sometime later to voices. His vision was blurry, the only light in the room from the soft glow-strip above his head.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Dunsmore?” one of the blurs asked him.

“Like shit,” Connor grumbled.

“I would imagine so,” the other blur said. “I’m Doctor Tu. This is Doctor Hornacek.”

Connor raised his good arm in greeting, his hand barely making it above his hip.

“Do you know what has happened to you?” Doctor Hornacek asked him.

“Shot,” was all Connor could get out.

Doctor Tu leaned down slightly, smiling at Connor. “We removed the bullet, no fragmentation. The muscle is torn and the surrounding tissue is damaged, but nothing too severe. Can you move your fingers for me?”

Connor tried to make a fist, and again found that his first two fingers seemed to lose communication with his brain at the halfway point.

“Does this hurt?” Dr. Tu asked, using his own fingers to help Connor finish the fist.

“No.”

“The bullet was pretty deep,” Dr. Hornacek said. “Looks like it might have nicked a nerve. You’ll probably get full movement back, but there’s a chance you might retain this as a permanent injury.”

“That’s okay,” Connor said, feeling himself fading out again. “Numb hands are good for fighting.”

When he woke again, light was coming through the open blinds. He turned his head to see Agent Gauthier and Agent Kline sitting in chairs next to his bed, both tapping at their tablets. Connor coughed lightly, hissing at the pain that shot through his arm.

“Welcome back to life,” Agent Gauthier said with a smile.

“How do you feel?” Agent Kline asked.

“About as sour as your sense of humor,” Connor said.

Gauthier chuckled at Kline’s expression.

“Connor, do you feel like talking?” Gauthier asked.

“Sure, why not?” Connor answered. “But only if you get me something to drink.”

Kline stood up and poured Connor a cup of water. The cool liquid burned as it slid down Connor’s throat. He wondered how long he’d been drifting in and out of consciousness.

“Are you sure?” Gauthier asked.

Connor nodded, taking another sip and holding the cup out so Kline could refill it.

“We found the scene exactly as you described,” Kline said, setting the pitcher down. “It was pretty wild. We’re both amazed that you got out of there with only that scratch on your arm.”

“Fuck you,” Connor said. Kline’s frown made him laugh, which made his arm erupt in pain. “Don’t make me laugh, damn it. Hurts.”

“How many did you say were there?” Gauthier asked after Kline sat back down.

“Six. Seven?” Connor mumbled to himself. He tried to remember faces and count, but doing both tasks at once became a challenge.

“We found six bodies at the scene,” Gauthier continued. “Costache Ojacarcu, Vadim Zaituc, Pavel Kazaku, Ovidiu Bratianu, Jera Gellner, and one that we still haven’t identified.”