Kill Zone: A Lucy Guardino FBI Thriller (10 page)

Giselle gasped, a high-pitched noise that echoed through the room. He didn’t blame her. It was the same noise Andre had made when he’d first caught a glimpse of his reflection. MD stepped back, his gun in his hand, looking down at it as if he didn’t know how it’d gotten there. It was pure defensive reflex. You see Frankenstein’s monster, you grab a pitchfork.

Darius leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes gleaming. The man actually licked his lips as he imagined the hell Andre had survived. It took everything Andre had to meet his gaze—it felt like Darius was some kind of vampire, wanting to devour Andre’s pain.
 

Sick SOB, that was Darius. He'd used to tie M80s to the tails of alley cats when they were kids. Laughed when Andre tried to save one only to almost get burned himself.
 

“Have a seat.” Darius gestured to the champagne flute waiting for Andre.
 

Andre slid into the empty chair. Darius took his time, examining Andre’s face up close. The missing ears. The mouth, half the size it used to be, carefully reconstructed from muscles re-routed from Andre’s shoulder. The nose with its nostrils fused to Andre’s cheeks. The heaped up scars, like ugly pink worms, that crisscrossed Andre’s scalp. The shiny skin with no hair where they’d used shark cartilage to grow artificial skin when the original grafts failed.

The face that would make Frankenstein’s monster look like a beauty queen in comparison.

Darius nodded and raised his glass. “To coming home.”

Couldn’t argue with that sentiment. Andre raised his own glass, touched it to his lips but didn’t try to drink—he did best with a straw, otherwise he tended to dribble. “Coming home.”

“You eating, Andre?” Darius asked. He wasn’t concerned about Andre’s diet, he meant was Andre earning money.
 

“I do okay.” Gram’s house was paid off and the VA took care of his medical bills. Between his pension and Gram’s social security, he was able to keep food on the table and the heat on for the two of them. Didn’t need much else, and it was more than most folks around here had. Honest folks, at any rate.

Andre pretended to sip his champagne. The bubbles tickled the sensitive skin the surgeons had used to create his new lips. It was a weird feeling, painful, yet not painful, kind of like an electrical tingling.

“Government should give you a million dollars. You risked your life for their little war and they send you home looking like that—I were you, I’d sue or something.” Darius sensed Andre’s attention drifting and snapped his fingers at Giselle, who slithered off the leather couch to join them. She stood over their table, her breasts at Andre’s eye level, her expression blanked by the drugs as if she wasn’t really even there.

Andre was used to going without a woman for long periods of time. Stationed in remote combat outposts with a few dozen men, sex and death the main topics of conversation, no running water, no electricity, long boring duty followed by short bursts of intense live-or-die adrenalin, there was no choice but learn to endure it. But he still hadn’t gotten used to the idea that he might never have a woman again. At least not without paying one to sleep with a monster. And he hadn’t gotten that desperate, not yet.

As Giselle leaned over him, refilling his glass that didn’t need refilling, he raced past desperate to outright surrender. Ready to beg. His mouth went dry and all the blood in his body seemed to rush below his belt. He shifted his weight, sliding his chair forward, to hide his obvious erection. Felt like a goddamned schoolboy who couldn’t control himself.

Darius chuckled. “What do you say, Giselle? How much money and crank would it take for you to go down on Andre here?”

Giselle’s gaze caught Andre’s and her expression turned to pity mixed with revulsion. She blinked and stood up quickly, turning to attend to Darius.
 

Pity. Quick fire way to smother any arousal. From her jerky movements and the way she brushed up against Darius, he could tell she was trying to distract him. Afraid he’d order her to fuck Andre, knowing the consequences if she refused. Her entire body trembled and a line of sweat slipped down the length of her spine.

Andre felt sorry for her. At least he could defend himself against Darius and the Rippers. She, like the other women here, was trapped. By addiction. By weakness. By the very fact that she was a woman and the Rippers treated all women the same: as objects to be used up and cast aside once they were done with them.

“What did you want, Darius?” Andre broke the tension by asking. He was tired of the damn power games.

Darius blinked, glanced at Andre then Giselle as if considering, then finally jerked his chin, dismissing Giselle once again. Andre caught her arm. She flinched, but he didn’t let go, instead pulled her to him. She glanced over at Darius in panic, but Darius smiled at her fear.

“We each build our own prisons,” Andre whispered into her ear. He hoped the Doc didn’t hear it—it was Callahan’s favorite homily.

He released Giselle. She hurried back to her spot on the couch, this time hunched in the corner where she sucked greedily on the glass pipe.
 

Darius rapped his knuckles against the table, commanding Andre’s attention. “Got a job for you. Remember how good you were building those bang-bangs for us back when?”
 

Pipe bombs. Incendiary devices. Andre had a gift for making them, setting them in just the right spot. Big enough to scare whoever the Rippers wanted scared, aimed so they wouldn’t kill.  The Rippers weren’t afraid of killing, but in this city gang killings were noticed big time, bringing the wrath of the cops, the media, and worst of all, the old ma’ams.
 

When you had grams raising not just one but two, sometimes three generations, nothing got them hot and bothered more than an “innocent” getting killed. The old ma’ams did not believe in collateral damage and when they hit the pavement the Rippers’ income stream would dry up for weeks.

So the Rippers learned to play the game. Kept their trigger fingers in check, mostly, in exchange for free rein to run Ruby Avenue. It was a win/lose situation in the long run, but with so many mouths to feed and clothe and raise up, the old ma’ams only had so much energy to spend on a fight.

“I’m out of that.” Andre set his glass down a bit harder than he needed to.

“Things have changed around here. We’re partnering with the Mexicans now.”

What kind of fools were they?
Andre wondered. Mix in the Mexicans and all of a sudden you got bodies hanging from streetlights. No one wanted that kinda shit on their streets. Not for the first time he wished he could find a way to get Grams the hell off Ruby Avenue. But she’d never go, never leave her home. "Never surrender," was how she put it.

Andre shrugged. “What’s it gotta do with me?”

“We need men with your talents. We’re gonna deal with the Gangstas. Once and for all.”

He did not like the sound of that. Last time the Rippers and Gangstas went to war an entire block burned down. Andre frowned, his facial muscles bunching. Frowning hurt as much as smiling. It used too many muscles, stretched too many raw nerve endings, so he tried not to do either. He stood. “You got plenty of soldiers. You don’t need me.”

Darius smiled, the kind of smile you didn’t turn your back on. “You’re right. You’re right. Only reached out to you because we go back and I wanted to give you a chance to get right with us. Do what you’ll probably end up doing anyway.”

“What the hell you talking about?” Andre was tired of this riddle-me-this bullshit. “All I intend to be doing is taking care of my Grams and minding my own damn business.” He turned and stalked toward the door.

“Raziq.”

Andre froze. Every muscle in his body quivered as adrenalin and fury sliced through him. He turned back. “What did you say?”

“Raziq. Towelhead working with the DEA. Busting us right and left. Mexicans want him dead and gone.” He raised his glass to Andre. “Could be the start of a beautiful relationship.”

Andre’s stomach churned with the urge to run away from this madness. But every other part of him, parts long numb to any feeling, parts he thought were dead, they fired to life at the thought of revenge.

“
Rashid
Raziq?”

Darius nodded. Again with the smile. He slid Andre’s champagne glass towards Andre. “Word is he’s the same guy set that school on fire, killed all those girls and your soldier buddies. Same guy that left you looking like something the dog chewed up and crapped out.”

Andre downed the entire glass, half of it running down his chin and onto his shirt. He couldn’t think. All he could do was feel flames licking his skin, hear the roar of the fire and the screams and his own blood-curdling cries of pain, and all he could see was Raziq’s face, smirking as his men mowed down Andre’s squad.

Andre sat the empty glass down, his fingers clenched around it even as his mind raced half a world away. “Raziq,” he whispered. He raised his eyes, met Darius’ gaze. “I’m in.”
 

Chapter 11

They were almost to the County 911 Communications Center. Lucy fumbled with her phone, calling Nick, avoiding Haddad’s question. It was way too early in the case to start assuming the worst about Fatima and the baby.
 

 Nick’s phone went to voice mail. Probably in the shower getting ready for their date night. Damn, she’d rather tell him in person that she had to cancel. Leaving a message was easier, but she knew how much Nick was looking forward to
The Nutcracker.
It didn’t feel right, taking the easy way out, so she simply said, “Call me when you get this. Thanks, love you.”

Haddad hunched over the steering wheel, easing closer to Walden and Raziq in the Tahoe. “They’re slowing down,” he muttered as they approached Lexington. “Why are they slowing down?”

Lucy dialed Jenna in the lead car to see what the problem was.
 

“The road’s blocked,” Jenna reported. “Propane tanker. It’s taking up the entire intersection so we can’t go straight and can’t turn down Lexington. Not sure what the problem is. We’re going to have to—”

Before she could finish, gunfire cracked through the night. Red lights filled Lucy’s vision as the Tahoe jammed on its brakes. Haddad stopped the Suburban inches from the Tahoe’s rear bumper. Lucy heard more gunfire, mingled with the sound of tires squealing, as Jenna tried to turn her Mustang around.
 

“Holy shit!” Jenna yelled over the open line. Then it went dead.

Lucy rolled down her window, craned her head out, and was able to see a large black SUV roll up on the south side of the intersection, coming to a stop beside the propane tanker. A man was standing up through the sunroof, aiming at Jenna with a submachine gun.
 

“We have to give her cover,” Lucy shouted. Haddad was already backing up to gain them room to maneuver.

“Tell Walden to get out of here with Raziq.” Haddad cranked the wheel hard, driving the Suburban up onto the curb and down the sidewalk.
 

Lucy called Walden. “We’ll run interference, you and Jenna get out of here.”
 

"On it," Walden said.

“Weapons?” she asked Haddad. This was his personal vehicle, but she hoped he was prepared.

“In the back.”

She squirmed into the rear of the Suburban to see what armament they had. The cargo compartment was nicely stocked: a ballistic vest, which she slipped into even though it was too large, a Colt M4 submachine gun with spare clips, a Remington 870—her own weapon of choice—spare ammo, night vision goggles, and a Kevlar helmet and second ballistic vest, both in camouflage and bearing the insignia of a skull impaled on the tines of a three-pronged pitchfork. Haddad’s personal armor from when he led the FAST squad in Afghanistan. No radios. Damn. But at least they weren’t rushing in without protection and firepower.
 

Bumping along the sidewalk, they passed the Tahoe as Walden reversed it back the way they'd come. The man firing the gun turned his weapon on the larger target, giving Jenna the chance to pull out of the kill zone using the Suburban as cover. To Lucy’s surprise, Jenna then made an abrupt right turn into the parking garage on the north side of the street.

She didn’t have time to wonder whether Jenna was abandoning them or simply planning a strategic retreat to get help via the 911 Communications Center that was on the other side of the parking garage. Headlights filled the street behind Haddad's vehicle: two Escalades, one in each lane. One of them was equipped with spotlights on a roof rack. Men leaned out the windows of both vehicles and fired machine guns at the Tahoe.
 

“Walden, get out of there!” Lucy yelled, not even sure if her call was still connected.

The Tahoe lurched from reverse into drive as it stormed into the parking garage, following Jenna's route. Haddad made a wide U-turn, angling their larger SUV crossways to block the narrow entrance to the garage from the oncoming Escalades.

By blocking Lexington to their east and the cross street behind them to the west, the shooters not only cut them off from any help, but they’d also cut off the 911 Communications Center. The ravine with the train tracks and Busway was on the other side of the 911 Center, leaving no escape except through the shooters. It was a perfect ambush.