Rum Runner - A Thriller (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries Book 9) Read online

  Phin blew out the man’s knees, burning through the full mag in less than two seconds.

  The gangbanger fell, his gun skittering across the floor in front of him.

  Bright motes danced around the edges of Phin’s vision because he still couldn’t suck in a breath. He ejected the empty magazine and tried to force in a fresh one, but it wasn’t fitting correctly.

  The banger began to crawl for his dropped gun, dragging his bloody legs behind him.

  Phin flopped onto his side, finally able to suck in a breath. It came in a stuttering, agonizing gasp, and Phin still didn’t know if he was bleeding and didn’t waste time to find out. He continued to struggle with the mag until he realized he was trying to jam it in backwards.

  The banger reached his Scorpion, raising it up.

  Phin aligned the mag properly, released the bolt knob, and fired at the same time his opponent did.

  The gangbanger took the rounds in the face.

  Phin took them in the chest.

  Everything went bright, then dark, then bright again, and Phin found himself on his back, staring at the ceiling. Then the pain came. Full body pain, like he’d been thrown into the back of a cement mixer with a pallet of bricks. Without lifting his head, he gently ran his hands over his torso and then checked his fingers for blood.

  Incredibly, there was none. It didn’t feel like it, but the vest had stopped every bullet. He turned his head and spat. No blood there, either. Maybe he’d actually survive.

  Another scream, from the back of the store. Phin rolled over with a wince, got to his feet with a groan, and then picked up the nearest Scorpion. He charged a new mag and headed toward the sound, coming to an abrupt stop in the Automotive section. It took Phin a moment to wrap his head around what he saw.

  The older cashier was on the floor, her jaw open and crooked, blood leaking out of the gaps where teeth used to be.

  The girl sat next to her, her eyes streaked with black make-up.

  The two remaining gangbangers were taking off their pants.

  Phin didn’t announce himself. He didn’t give them any chance at all to surrender.

  He just shot both of them in the backs of their heads, execution style.

  They dropped, and he went to the women. In shock, but alive. He asked for their phones, got no response, and went through the girl’s purse. No signal on her cell phone, but she had keys to a Chevy.

  Next, Phin patted down the dead gangbangers. He found two cell phones. Again, no bars. A back-up SIG Sauer P238 in .380. Three full Scorpion magazines. A Krieger switchblade. A set of brass knuckles. Cigs, weed, rubbers. As he searched them, he asked the women about the law in town, why the cops hadn’t shown up yet.

  They clung to each other, not answering.

  Phin helped them up. They needed a hospital. He could drop them off using the girl’s Chevy, then borrow it to get back to Jack.

  They moved slowly through the aisles, like a broken, six-legged animal, moaning and hobbling.

  Phin came across three more dead employees, and another dead gangbanger, one he’d shot earlier. He picked up one more magazine for the submachine gun and another cell, no signal.

  Maybe it was a coincidence that nobody’s phone worked. Maybe this part of the country was one of the few dead spots left when it came to cell coverage.

  But Harry had told them the town had coverage. Which made Phin wonder.

  Was someone preventing calls? Is that why the police hadn’t stormed in yet?

  Phin knew about cell phone jammers. He’d dealt with a situation like that once before. Is that what was—

  The girl holding Phin’s shoulder squeezed, hard. He turned to look, saw the terror on her face as she stared off into the distance, just before the bullets stitched up her body and jerked her head back.

  She fell, and Phin raised the Scorpion, looking around for the shooter, and spotted him just as the red dot caught Phin in his right eye. Before he could duck, the man’s weapon sprayed.

  But Phin wasn’t hit. At that very moment, the panicked cashier ran directly into the line of fire. Her body spun—a full pirouette that almost seemed graceful except for the ribbons of blood spraying everywhere—and when she fell Phin dropped to one knee and cut down the shooter, taking off part of his head.

  Phin did a quick scan around for more assailants, didn’t see any, and turned his attention to the girl.

  She was still.

  CPR wasn’t an option.

  Phin checked on the cashier. There would be no life-saving measures there, either.

  He looked at his own hands, which were shaking and spattered with blood that wasn’t his, and a clipped sound came out of him that almost sounded like a dog whimpering. Phin sucked in a stuttering breath, blew it out through clenched teeth, and took a moment to center himself, because he knew if he tried to walk his legs would give out. When he managed to regain control, he knelt down and gently closed the girl’s make-up streaked eyes.

  Still no police. No paramedics. No ambulances. No National Guard, or Army, or Coast Guard, or Foreign Legion. No one to help.

  Phin was all alone.

  He wandered up to the eighth man, wondering how he’d missed him. It didn’t matter. Phin had counted wrong, and people had died. Nothing he could do about it now. Phin checked the gangbanger’s cell, saw no signal, and almost tossed it away when he noticed it had a text message on it. Phin read the exchange and felt his whole body get very cold.

  He went into town.

  Waste him.

  And the cop?

  Kill the signal. We take her. Now.

  Phin scrolled up to a picture. It was of him, Jack, and Samantha at the house, getting into their SUV that morning, before they left for Wisconsin.

  Phin didn’t stop to think.

  He ran.

  JACK

  The manual for the X15 flamethrower was surprisingly thin, and on a whim I leafed through it. McGlade apparently hadn’t read the instructions, because he wasn’t supposed to leave the tank full of gas or pressurized with CO2, yet he’d done both. I’d never fired a flamethrower, and knew I never would, so I set it aside and began to load a duffle bag with other things.

  I took the bag back to the control room, sorting through weapons while watching the security monitors. The house was surrounded—at least three dozen men—but no one had attempted a breach yet. I found a volume knob and turned it up, listening to ambient forest noise mixed with voices too far away to make out.

  I loaded a twelve gauge Mossberg 590, which conveniently had a bandolier sling already containing shells. That’s when I saw T-Nail.

  At first, I was surprised because he appeared to be walking, and last I’d heard he’d been paralyzed from the waist down. Then I noticed he was strapped to some sort of upright motorized wheelchair. I fiddled with the control panel, and was able to use a joystick to zoom in on his face.

  He’d gotten old.

  But then, so had I.

  He still had that same look in his eyes. They were just as intense as the last time I’d seen them, in court over two decades ago. Prison apparently hadn’t reformed him.

  I put on a nylon fanny pack with a full hundred-count box of .38 ammo. I also added a retractable asp baton, a set of brass knuckles, and a Kimber pepper spray gun. The pack was heavy, but my hips were wide enough to keep it from falling down.

  Thank you, Samantha.

  One eye on the monitors, I noticed T-Nail wasn’t the one giving orders. I zeroed in on a younger, slighter man wearing a fur vest who seemed to be running the show.

  Interesting. I wondered how T-Nail felt about that. Locked up for decades, taking direction from some kid half his age.

  I buckled on an ankle holster that held a subcompact Hellcat 389, and pulled my jeans down over it. On my other ankle I Velcroed a six inch Buck knife. Harry had ample rifles to choose from in his armory, and I’d gone with a Bushmaster Predator with a Nightforce NXS scope. Five extra mags, thirty rounds each, went into a ba
ckpack. Finally, I strapped on my shoulder holster, with my Colt Detective Special. Even over the Kevlar, it felt like old times.

  When I stood up, in full gear, I weighed thirty pounds more.

  A tiny part of my brain wondered if this was what I’d wanted. It seems, for the past two years, I’d been waiting for death to come calling. Now it finally had.

  I wasn’t good at waiting.

  But I hated fighting even more.

  The chili I’d eaten last night seemed to be alive in my stomach, sour and angry and looking for a way out. My palms were wet, my throat too dry to swallow, and I’d begun to breathe through my mouth in what could only be called a pant. Not seeing Sam again, not seeing Phin again, had gone from an abstract, intangible worry to a real thing that I had to immediately deal with. And I had no idea how it would pan out.

  McGlade had built a fortress. But T-Nail had brought an army.

  And I stared at the monitors as the army began its attack.

  Their first act was taking away my vehicle. Or rather, they slashed the tires, smashed the windows, and set it on fire.

  Then they attacked the front door. It began with kicks, followed by shoulder smashes. When that didn’t produce results, they tried a handheld battering ram. I could hear the blows through the monitor speakers, but when I turned down the volume I couldn’t hear anything inside the house. They were swinging the heavy hunk of metal with some serious, but McGlade’s door was so thick it was practically sound-proof.

  It also seemed to be bulletproof. I watched, half-amazed, as a gangbanger approached with a 9mm handgun and emptied the magazine.

  The door held.

  The next guy swaggered over with a large revolver—looked to be a .357 Magnum.

  Six shots, and the door held. The paint had been chewed off, but the steel beneath didn’t even appear to be dimpled.

  The next contestant, who was white (it was a small reassurance to know that the C-Notes had embraced racial equality), had a shotgun, and he unloaded on the door. When it didn’t make more than a dent, he was so irritated he spat on it.

  Current score: Gangbangers, zero. McGlade’s Wealthy Privilege Paranoia, five.

  The next attempt made me lean up to the monitor, gripping the desk.

  They had a grenade.

  I racked a shell into the shotgun, ready for the breach.

  The breach didn’t come. When the explosive went off and the smoke cleared, McGlade’s door had an indentation at the bottom, but it remained closed and sealed.

  T-Nail seemed irritated by the delay, but the guy in the fur vest looked pensive. As the gang took a break, I familiarized myself with McGlade’s security board, finding a button called BLUEPRINTS. When I pressed it, one of the monitors showed the house layout with an architectural draft superimposed over it. Sort of like a Google Map, which labeled the streets as well as showing a satellite view. This schematic had lines leading to definitions of equipment and armaments. The front door, according to the plans, was fireproof, bulletproof up to 15,000 foot-pounds, and could withstand a Category 5 hurricane.

  It would have been laughably overkill, if I hadn’t just had a street gang try to get in using grenades. A minute earlier and I would have mercilessly chided McGlade for his extravagant waste of money. But now I was ready to kiss his lumpy ass.

  I looked at the garage door specs, and it was rated as high as the front and rear doors. There were no windows, but there was something called balistraria. Eight of them, on several of the walls. It wasn’t a word I’d heard before, and I couldn’t look it up without 4G or WiFi. I made a mental note to physically check it out later, and then zoomed in on a written list labeled OFFENSE.

  Harry apparently wasn’t content to just sit there, waiting for the enemy to figure out how to get in. He’d come up with some ways to fight back. I looked at a dial labeled SPRINKLER that had a LED gauge next to it which read 155°.

  I hit the dial and watched the monitors. A moment later, everyone jumped up like they’d been simultaneously electrocuted. It was followed by yelling, waving arms, and a mass exodus off the property. As the camera lens misted up, I realized what I’d just done. Harry had installed sprinklers on the grounds. But rather than use them to care for his lawn, they sprayed scalding water.

  It wasn’t as gruesome as pouring molten lead off a castle wall, but it was just as effective. The last one to get away was T-Nail, his wheelchair having gotten stuck on a fallen log. Having been burned once or twice in my life, my mom-genes switched on and I turned the water off before he was parboiled. Sympathizing with the man who wanted to kill me probably wasn’t wise, but I wasn’t the type to steam a disabled man alive while I watched on a video monitor.

  I hiked up the volume on the outdoor speakers. There was a cacophony of voices, most of them swearing, coupled with wilderness sounds like birds and the wind.

  As the gang regrouped, I left the control room and went to check on the integrity of the front door. As I’d hoped, it was secure in its jamb. I needed to check if it could still open, for when Phin returned. I knew he would return. The only thing that would stop Phin was death.

  Which was a problem. A better strategy than coming to my rescue was to scope out the situation, then go and get help. But Phin wouldn’t be able to resist checking to see if I was okay. He wouldn’t get help. He’d barricade himself in here with me.

  Strangely, that’s what I wanted more than anything. To hold him. To kiss him. Even if it put both of us at risk.

  The heart was stupid. I could have made love to Phin anytime in the last six months, and I’d chosen not to. And now, when I was surrounded by a gang trying to kill me, I longed for his lips on my body.

  Maybe my heart wasn’t the stupid one. Maybe it was me.

  I unlocked the door, gave it a swift tug.

  It opened.

  No one was out there.

  I locked it again. Then I went back to the control room, watching the monitors.

  My man would return.

  If he wasn’t already dead.

  Please. PLEASE. Don’t let him be dead.

  HERB

  Sergeant Herb Benedict was in his easy chair watching Netflix and wondering if anything could be worse than zombies conquering the world when something worse walked into his living room.

  “When I see you sprawled out like that, I find myself looking for a tiny Princess Leia on a chain leash.”

  Herb frowned. His wife Bernice had broken the one solemn vow of a staycation; no outside calls or visitors. And of all the people to break that vow for, it had to be Harry McGlade.

  “Where’s my wife?” Herb asked. “I’m going to tell her to find herself a good divorce attorney.”

  “I don’t think she’s home. I let myself in. Your front door lock is like a child’s toy. You don’t even have a deadbolt. And I don’t mean to be the bearer of bad news, Jabba, but your neighborhood isn’t the best.” Harry lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “I think I saw a minority outside.”

  “Racism isn’t funny, McGlade.”

  “It’s kind of funny. In an ignorant, fear-based kind of way. Besides, we’re all genetically suspicious of people who look different than us. The PC crowd demands diversity, but they still put their wallets in their front pockets when they see someone of color in the same Starbucks. Basically, all people suck.”

  “Why are you in my house?”

  “Because you won’t answer the phone.”

  “I’m on vacation, and don’t want to be bothered. Especially by you.”

  “What if I brought you éclairs?”

  Herb’s anger subsided a tiny bit. “Did you bring éclairs?”

  “No. Because I know you don’t have the will power to fight your diabetes on your own.”

  The anger returned. “I don’t have diabetes.”

  “That’s the diabetes talking. I can smell your blood sugar from here. Smells like Butterfingers.”

  The more Herb engaged him, the more McGlade would make fat jokes
. So Herb clammed up and waited to hear the reason this idiot stopped by. Then he could kick him out and go back to The Walking Dead.

  “You’ve got something stuck in your moustache,” McGlade said, rubbing his own upper lip. “I think it’s a whole turkey leg.”

  Herb refused to be baited.

  “And an ear of corn.”

  I’m a rock, Herb told himself. Rocks can’t be insulted.

  “Okay, no more jokes,” Harry said. “I saw a pair of women’s shoes by the door, but Bernice isn’t here. Answer me honestly; did you eat your wife?”

  Rocks don’t react.

  “There were bones on the kitchen table. Could be pork. Could be human. Was it homicide? Or hamicide?”

  Rocks are solid. Patient and unmoving.

  “I can’t hear you,” Harry said. “I’d come closer, but I don’t want to be sucked into your orbit.”

  Even rocks have a breaking point. “Tell me why you’re here or I will get up and get my gun.”

  “Do you need help? I’ve got a jack and a crowbar. I also know a place that rents block and tackles.”

  Herb heaved his bulk out of the chair and took two threatening steps toward Harry, who held up his palms in supplication.

  “It’s Jack! She might be in trouble.”

  Herb halted. “Talk.”

  “She and Phin went up to my hideout up in northern Wisconsin near Lake Niboowin. They’ve been having some problems in the marital department. I think it’s a butt sex thing. Anyway, I got a call this morning from Tom Mankowski. Terrence ‘T-Nail’ Johnson escaped from prison last night.”

  Herb processed the info quickly, and his automatic reaction was, “Ah, hell.”

  “I haven’t been able to get ahold of Jack or Phin. Cell, texts, email. No answer.”

  “You try a land line?”

  “Don’t have one. Place is off the grid. Has its own well, house runs on wind power.”

  “Internet?”

  “Which word in off the grid is perplexing you? It’s a hideout. It’s supposed to be cut off from the rest of the world.”

  “There a local Sheriff?”