Mean Business on North Ganson Street (39 page)

A red dot appeared on the distant door, and suddenly, Tackley was standing beside Bettinger.

The detective checked his ballistic mask, his bulletproof vest, and his silencer-equipped gun. Ready, he nodded.

Bettinger and Tackley stalked forward, abreast, their quick but gentle footfalls muted by the carpet. The light that glowed beneath the closed door at the end of the hallway shone like a beacon.

Soul music sounded from somewhere, and to the detective, it sounded like a memory from another lifetime. Underneath his tactical vest, his heart thudded against his hurt ribs.

The distance between the associates and the sliver of light diminished to ninety feet.

A dog barked.

Bettinger paused, as did Tackley.

The creature did not offer a second complaint.

Cautiously, the policemen resumed their stealthy approach. Eighty feet lay between them and the door.

Again, the animal barked.

The policemen stopped.

A second dog tossed basso woofs, and a third yipped, remonstratively.

The time for stealth had ended.

Bettinger and Tackley bolted toward the door at the end of the hall.

Dogs barked, clamorously.

The detective leveled his gun, and the mottled man put his red dot directly beside the brass handle.

A shadow darkened the line underneath the door.

The assault rifle spat white fire. Bullets chewed up the wood, and a woman shrieked.

Bettinger's blood went cold.

The brass knob flew from its housing, and light spilled through the hole. Dogs barked and growled.

Pain lanced the detective's side as he ran, and the mottled man gained the lead.

“Sebastian!” yelled the woman.
“¡Ayúdame!”

Tackley slammed his shoulder into the door, knocking it wide.

Toenails clicked across the floorboards of a room that had pine green walls as Dobermans charged the intruder. White fire flashed, pulverizing snouts, tearing off jaws, and severing paws.

Dogs squealed.

“¡Mis hijos!”
shrieked the woman.

Bettinger reached the doorway of the pine green room, which appeared to be a waiting area. Sebastian's petite sister Margarita was on her back, cradling a gory hand that had only two remaining fingers.

Tackley stepped on the woman's right ear, slammed her head to the ground, and fired shots across her face into the floorboards. Gunpowder scorched her eyes.

Margarita wailed as Bettinger hastened toward the oak door that was the only other way into the waiting area. Knocking over a huge bag of dog food, he slammed his shoulder to the wall.

Something clicked.

Automatic gunfire rattled in the adjacent room. Bullets tore through the oak door, sending splinters everywhere. A brass placard that read
JUDGE'S CHAMBER
flew into the air like a frightened butterfly.

Bettinger kept his shoulder to the wall, and Tackley crawled behind the front counter, dragging Margarita by her long black hair.

A moment later, the woman shrieked.

The gunfire stopped. A hole that was the size of a long-playing record sat in the middle of the door, surrounded by a constellation of smaller apertures.

“Come out with your hands up,” the mottled man yelled, “or your sister gets a makeover.”

“Tackley?” There was disbelief in Sebastian's voice.

Tackley wound a thick clump of Margarita's hair around his hand, made a fist, and tore off a patch of her scalp.

The woman's shriek filled the room.

“Here's an answer,” said the mottled man, tossing the hirsute clump through the hole in the door.

Bettinger focused his thoughts on his mission and his family. Nearby, a Doberman with two legs stepped on its own entrails as it tried to stand.

“There's some disturbing stuff on the news,” Sebastian remarked from the judge's chamber. “Is Dominic okay? How about Perry and Huan? I'm very concerned about you guys.”

“Come on out,” ordered Bettinger. “Now!”

“Do I know you?”

“One of your guys stabbed my wife and killed my son.”

“Oops.”

A bright red urge to run through the door and strangle the cripple filled the detective, but he restrained the impulse.

Tackley tore another piece of scalp from Margarita's bleeding skull, and tossed it through the hole.

“¡Ayúdame!”
yelled the agonized woman.
“¡Por favor!”

“Throw your gun through that hole right now or I'll shoot her in the bladder,” said the mottled man.

An assault rifle flew through the opening and clattered across the waiting room floor.

“You've got ten seconds to come out.”

“Melissa needs to unlock the gurney,” said Sebastian. “Give—”

“Nine seconds.”

Tackley rolled something across the floorboards that knocked against Bettinger's left boot. Lying there was an unarmed stun grenade.

“Eight.”

The detective picked up the nonlethal explosive, pulled its pin, and held the spoon against the cylinder.

“Seven.”

The red dot landed directly beside the doorknob, and unseen gurney wheels squeaked.

“We're coming, little man,” said Sebastian.

“Six.”

“We're coming, goddammit.”

Bettinger let the spoon fall to the ground, extended his arm, and dropped the stun grenade through the hole in the door.

“What the fuck was—”

Light boomed, filling the judge's chamber, and Tackley's assault rifle spat fire.

“Stop!” screamed Sebastian.

Bullets devoured oak, and sparks shot from the doorknob until it flew into the room.

Tackley released his trigger. In the quietude that followed, Bettinger prostrated himself behind the jamb, reached out, and shoved the door. The blasted panel swung away.

Smoke billowed into the waiting area.

The detective adjusted his ballistic mask and peered around the edge. Ten feet from the door and lying on a gurney was Sebastian Ramirez. His gaunt face, narrow chest, and stick-like legs had been seared red by the stun grenade, and his blue satin robe was in pieces. Pressed into the bottom of his chin was the barrel of the huge revolver that he held in his right hand.

A red dot appeared on his elbow.

“I know what you want to know,” announced Sebastian. His eyes were watery, their photoreceptors overstimulated by the stun grenade, but his voice was cool and remarkably even. “Let the girls go or I will take my own—”

The assault rifle flashed.

Sebastian's elbow cracked. His revolver tilted forward, and he fired, blasting white fire across his own jaw and nose.

Tackley shouted something that was not a word.

Sebastian's pistol fell to the ground, and quick footfalls sounded deep inside of the judge's chamber.

Bettinger raced through the doorway and kicked aside the gurney. In the far corner of the luxurious chamber stood a ladder that led to a hole in the ceiling. The bare legs of a woman in a rose-colored robe were near the top rung.

Gun raised, the detective fired.

Lead clanked against aluminum, knocking the ladder sideways, and Melissa Spring fell from the ceiling. Her back slammed against the floor.

Bettinger stepped on her hand, which held a snub-nosed pistol, and pointed his semiautomatic at her face. Although the slim and pale brunette was twenty-three years old, she did not even look old enough to drive.

“Drop the gun,” said the detective.

The revolver tumbled from young woman's fingers.

“Who the fuck're you?”

The man wearing the devil mask claimed the relinquished weapon, but did not reply to her inquiry.

“FBI?” suggested Melissa. “No way these local idiots could ever find us here.”

“You get her?” Tackley asked from the waiting area.

“I did.”

A pair of steel handcuffs flew through the air, struck the carpet, and bounced.

“And her legs,” the mottled man added as a second set landed beside the first.

Melissa looked toward the door. Her face stiffened, and soon, tears filled her eyes. “Sebastian…?”

Bettinger clapped handcuffs onto the stunned woman's wrists and ankles. Massaging his hurt side, he stood upright and looked toward the door.

A reddish-black crater had replaced the bottom half of Sebastian's face. Three molars sat in the exposed roof of his mouth, directly above a white splinter that was all that remained of his jawbone. His death was imminent.

Tackley dragged his bound and unconscious captive to the door by what remained of her bloody hair.

Bettinger searched the judge's chamber for what he needed, found the object in a plastic container, and carried it toward the gurney. A song that had played at his wedding emanated from the stereo, which was connected to a small solar generator.

The mottled man pocketed his ski mask and looked at the blasted invalid. “So I'll interview the women instead.”

Tears sparkled in Sebastian's eyes.

Yellow teeth appeared between Tackley's milk-white lips when he saw what it was that Bettinger held.

“No!” yelled Melissa, struggling against her bonds. “No!”

Tackley handcuffed Sebastian's wrists to the gurney, seized his neck, and held him down.

Bettinger discarded his devil mask and jammed the stoma of a colostomy bag into the disabled man's mouth. “This is for my son and for my wife,” said the detective, squeezing the pouch like a bagpipe.

Feces shot down Sebastian's throat.

“Stop!” yelled Melissa.

The disabled man convulsed, shuddered, and vomited. Stool and bile refilled the colostomy bag, and Bettinger squeezed it again, sending the warm excreta back down his victim's throat.

Again, Sebastian retched. Brown fluid sprayed into the bag and squirted from his nostrils.

The detective withdrew the stoma, sprayed vomit and feces into his victim's eyes, and stepped away from the rank mess, discarding the pouch. His heart was pounding.

Blinded by excrement, Sebastian Ramirez lost consciousness. It was clear that he would never again awaken.

“You fucking animals!” yelled Melissa. “You crippled him, you killed our baby, and now—”

Tackley stepped on her mouth, eyed his associate, and motioned to the door. “Go help Dominic.”

Bettinger's blood grew cold. “What're you gonna do to her?”

“Go help Dominic.” The mottled man pointed to a set of keys that lay atop a television set. “Find that blue jeep.”

Melissa turned away from Tackley's heel and gasped. “Don't leave me with him. Please don't—”

The mottled man kicked the young woman in the stomach, knocking the air out of her system.

Bettinger's pulse raced. His voice was hard when he asked, “What're you gonna do to her?”

“Stuff.” The mottled man rested his hand upon the grip of his assault rifle. “Take comfort in the fact that you can't stop me.”

A red dot landed upon the detective's thigh.

“Go help Dominic.”

Earlier that day, the detective had defined his two objectives: Kill Sebastian and stay alive. He could not risk his life—and the future well-being of his wife and daughter—for a woman who had facilitated mass murder.

It was time for him to leave.

Jaw clenched, Bettinger snatched the car keys and walked toward the exit. The smells of blood and excrement filled his head.

“Meet me on the ground floor of the garage,” said Tackley. “This shouldn't take more than an hour.”

The detective covered his face with the devil mask.

Melissa wept.

Sickened, Bettinger circumvented Sebastian's corpse and Margarita's unconscious body. As he stepped over the duffel bag, he saw the pair of shiny items that the mottled man had taken from the cardboard box of kitchen supplies.

The objects were cheese graters.

Bettinger hastened across the floorboards of the pine green waiting area. Something whimpered behind him, and he could not tell if it was one of the women or one of the dogs.

 

LI

Partners

Suppressing hideous thoughts, the detective walked down the carpeted hallway, crawled through the tunnel, landed in the van, opened its side door, and entered the subterranean level of the parking garage. There, he turned on his tactical light and swung it in an arc. The bright beam divined no inhabitants.

Bettinger walked toward the exit, passing by rotten boxes and dead cars. A rat scurried from one vehicle to another for some purpose that made no more sense than did any of the terrible events that had occurred in Victory during the past twenty-four hours.

Ahead of him stood the entrance to the stairwell. A piece of cardboard that Tackley had wedged between the door and the jamb was still in place, holding it open.

Bettinger pointed his tactical light at the ground directly in front of the portal. Sitting in the luminous circle were familiar paw prints, the tread marks of his boots, and the small footprints of his mottled associate.

The detective killed his beam, approached the door, and put his shoulder to the wall. There, he turned his ear to the narrow opening and listened.

Thick breathing sounded inside of the stairwell. The pitch of these ugly respirations was familiar.

“Dominic?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm coming up.”

Bettinger turned on his tactical light and entered the stairwell.

Dominic coughed. “What happened?”

“We killed Sebastian.”

The detective climbed toward the landing where the big fellow was sitting.

“Where's Tackley?”

“Getting information from Melissa.”

“You make Sebastian suffer?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Bettinger ascended, his footfalls amplified by the acoustics. “Right now, we need to find that blue jeep.”

“Okay.” Dominic pulled his ski mask over his lacerated face.