Rum Runner - A Thriller (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries Book 9) Page 13

  Still, it was nice to fantasize.

  Herb found the door handle and climbed out of the RV, staring at ranks and files of outdoor storage units, all with bright green garage doors. McGlade followed him out. Homeboy was perched on his right shoulder, pirate-style. Herb couldn’t resist.

  “Maybe you need to replace your prosthetic hand with a hook, Long John Stupid.”

  “Maybe you should go on the Jenny Craig diet. I’ll warn Jenny that you’ll try to eat her.”

  McGlade tugged the garage door open and turned on the light. Most of the entire locker was occupied by some huge vehicle, draped in tarps.

  “What the hell is that? A tank?”

  “Actually…”

  McGlade pulled on one of the tarps and tugged it off, revealing—

  A tank.

  Herb whistled. “Crowd control, huh?”

  “Works for the military. Should work for us. We need to hook this up to the trailer hitch.”

  “Is it full?”

  “Yeah. Ten tons worth.” McGlade continued to yank off tarpaulins, and then frowned. “Shit. Tires are low. Need air.”

  “Where did you even get this thing?”

  “I bought it used. I collect weird vehicles, among other things. Did you know I’ve got one of the original Wisconsin Ducks?” McGlade kicked a tire. “I’ve got a compressor in the Crimebago Deux. Be right back. And don’t touch my dildo collection.”

  Harry pointed to several large cardboard boxes stacked in the corner of the garage, DILDO COLLECTION written in black marker on the sides.

  “I’ll try to restrain myself,” Herb said.

  He checked his phone, searching for Wisconsin fire, and got over five hundred hits from the last half hour. The governor had declared a state of emergency. So far, there were no reported deaths, but the fire was out of control with no end in sight. The cause was unknown. Herb found an update on areas that were burning, and was relieved to see that, so far, Lake Niboowin was out of harm’s way.

  His relief was short-lived.

  Most cops were cynical and suspicious, and Herb Benedict was no exception. This fire could have been a coincidence. Or it could have been set purposely, as a distraction. A gang of a hundred-plus, coming into town, would draw attention to itself. Unless something bigger was happening nearby.

  Herb recalled Terrence Wycleaf Johnson’s trial. Jack had been allowed to testify undercover, but he’d never seen her so scared. The scene at the Robert Taylor homes had affected her, badly, and it took a few months for his partner to get her mojo back. She ceased practically all undercover work after that. Her insomnia, which she’d always had issues with, became worse. She’d even told Herb she wanted to quit the Job, and he’d managed to talk her out of it over a late night beer drinking session.

  Herb understood her fear. They arrested bad people, and bad people had a habit of holding grudges. But Herb had assured Jack her anonymity would protect her. She’d be safe.

  Now, two decades later, there was a very real possibility that Herb had been wrong.

  And that frightened the shit out of Herb. He absently touched the scar tissue under his eyes—physical evidence of an old case that had come back to haunt him—and knew that even with Harry’s secret weapon they didn’t stand a chance against a gang.

  “HOMEBOY! HOMEBOY! METH!”

  Harry had returned, pulling along a small air compressor on a hand truck. Homeboy was perched on top, his featherless wings outstretched. Maybe he was pretending to be flying.

  “You said you’ve got reinforcements,” Herb said. “Who?”

  “Tom Mankowski is supposed to call me back.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who?”

  “If I told you who it is, she’d probably kill you.”

  “Seriously, McGlade. Who else is coming?”

  “I’m being serious,” Harry said. “I have some friends in low places, and I sent word out to one of them. A specialist. The less you know, the better.”

  Herb didn’t like that. Not a bit.

  “So we got me, you, Tom, and your mystery lowlife friend.”

  “Tom hasn’t committed. He’s got some other stuff going on.”

  “So we got me, you, and your mystery lowlife friend.”

  “And Homeboy.”

  “HOMEBOY!” said Homeboy.

  “Against a hundred,” Herb said.

  “When you put it like that, it sounds suicidal. And actually, I haven’t heard back from my mystery lowlife friend.”

  “So two against a hundred.”

  “Plus Homeboy.”

  “HOMEBOY!” said Homeboy.

  “So three against a hundred.”

  “But there is a potential for five. We can handle this. Remember The Magnificent Seven? Phin and I just watched that again. They went up against over a hundred.”

  Herb ticked off fingers. “The villagers helped them. And they had seven. And none of them was a naked parrot. And they had seven. And most of them died. And they had seven. And that was just a movie.”

  “Thank you, Negative Nancy. You know there’s a diner nearby that has the best cheese blintzes. Maybe that will cheer your lard-ass up.”

  Herb didn’t say anything, but the idea of cheese blintzes did, indeed, cheer him up.

  Which was a check in the plus column. But he still wasn’t keen on McGlade’s plan. Granted, Herb didn’t have a better one, but he didn’t like their chances. T-Nail had a well-trained, well-equipped army. They had a heavily armed recreational vehicle, a secondhand riot control device, an idiot with a robotic hand, his bald bird, two cops, and some shady underworld figure that might not even show up.

  Still, blintzes. He planned on ordering two plates; one for now, and one for the road.

  If Herb was destined to die that day, at least he’d die with a full belly.

  CODENAME: HAMMETT

  Years ago, she assassinated people for the government.

  Now she just did it when she felt like it.

  She’d been taking it easy as of late. Relaxing with her dogs. Taking occasional lovers. Plotting the end of humanity. It had been weeks since she’d killed anyone, when she got the email alert that someone had Tweeted her a message.

  Only a few people knew her Twitter account, and Hammett was just bored enough to check it out.

  Long distance work. ASAP. IATA: HYR. Lake Niboowin. 100+ OGs. BYOG.

  It was from @TheRealHarryMcGlade.

  McGlade.

  An idiot. But an amusing one.

  Out of boredom, she looked up the Sawyer County Airport, and its distance to Lake Niboowin. A little over five hundred miles as the crow flew. In her Beechcraft Baron 58, allowing for traffic to the airport, she could make it to Spoonward in about four hours.

  Add another hour to prep, and another to kennel her pack, and she’d be able to get there before sundown.

  Bring Your Own Gun wasn’t a problem. Hammett had many to choose from.

  But a hundred plus gangbangers was just plain crazy.

  She logged on Twitter as @NeoMastiffLvr17 and replied to Harry.

  Fee?

  It took less than a minute for @TheRealHarryMcGlade to respond.

  No fee. Rescue Op. But I’ll tap that sweet ass. :D

  His next tweet was latitude and longitude coordinates, and a vulgar comment involving oral sex that probably violated Twitter’s Terms of Service.

  Yeah. He was an idiot, all right.

  Hammett typed in HELL NO, sent it, and then called her dogs. She was quickly surrounded by five Mastiffs and a mutt named Kirk.

  “You puppies want to go for a walk?”

  Over a thousand pounds of dog began to howl. It was a rhetorical question.

  Hammett logged off of TOR, stretched out her long legs, got up from her computer, and padded into the foyer, surrounded by animals. As Hammett attached leashes to collars, she idly wondered what McGlade was doing in northern Wisconsin, and whom he was trying to save f
rom gangbangers.

  She quickly put the thought out of her head, because Hammett just didn’t give a shit.

  PHIN

  Just like The Magnificent Seven, he thought.

  In a movie filled with great scenes, the one that stood out for Phin was when Chico walked into the enemy’s camp, disguised as a bandit. By hiding in plain sight, Chico was able to eavesdrop on their plans. Because there were so many, no one recognized him.

  Which was how Phin, dressed in gang colors, walked up to Harry’s property without anyone giving him a second glance.

  But when he got into the thick of it, he realized Chico was a just a made-up character in a movie, because this was the stupidest damn thing Phin had ever done.

  He was surrounded—literally surrounded—by gangbangers. They were four deep, every direction he turned. Phin stopped counting at eighty guys. All armed. All focused on the house Jack was hiding inside.

  Phin couldn’t think of any way to get to her without getting killed.

  And there was no way she was getting out.

  Not alive.

  He mulled it over, dead leaves crunching underfoot. Even if Jack saw him on the outdoor surveillance cameras, and he was able to signal her somehow, what next? Run for the house, she swings open the door, then locks it before anyone else gets in or guns them both down? If, by a miracle, that worked, then what?

  Then we’re both trapped.

  The fact that the bangers hadn’t gotten in yet meant something. Harry’s little hideaway was apparently a tough nut to crack.

  So now what? Stick around, waiting for the gang to get smart enough to find away in? Or try to get help?

  Phin thought about what had happened at Walmart. There had been no police. No help. And someone must have hit the alarm to alert the authorities.

  No cops, no phone service; this was intentional. All part of the same grand plan. Maybe Phin could make it to the nearest town, convince some cops to come with him. But how many? What good would even twenty armed men do against this army? And would they get back in time?

  What Phin needed was the National Guard. Or an airstrike.

  He spied the house through a gap in the trees from twenty meters away; for some reason the gang had formed a perimeter at that distance. The front door looked like it had been chewed up. There were scorch marks on the outside wall, and the roof. They’d tried to shoot their way in, and burn their way in, and had apparently failed both times.

  Nicely done, McGlade.

  But how much abuse could the house actually take? These guys were serious, and seriously well-equipped. Eventually, they would figure out how to get inside.

  He saw the Mitsubishi Outlander they’d driven up there in. Well, what was left of it. How disappointing. At the very least, they should have stolen it. Setting it on fire was just a waste.

  Phin sniffed the air, smelled traces of smoke. Then he looked beyond the house, into the unnaturally overcast sky. Was that clouds? Or smoke?

  This whole situation was seriously fucked-up.

  He began to meander through the sea of soldiers, watching and listening. Many of the gangbangers had damp clothes, and some were being bandaged for various burns. Phin found a kid who, based on his colors, was a member of the Six Corner Hustlers. Or maybe he ran with the Vicegods. There were so many sets and subsets, Phin got them mixed up. The banger had blisters on his neck and was wincing as he applied salve from a tube.

  “Just got here. What went down?”

  Kid made a face, showing a gold grill. Apparently that was still a thing. “Cop bitch turned on the sprinklers, burned us. Fuckin’ hurts, man.”

  “Goddamn,” Phin said, finding it difficult to keep his face neutral. Go Jack. “I smell smoke.”

  “We tried to torch the place. Sprinklers put it out. I say we just wait, let her roast alive when the big flames get here. Her sprinklers won’t put that shit out.”

  “Big flames?”

  “You dunno?” He grinned. “We set half of Wisconsin on fire, man. While the pigs deal with that, we can do our thing here. But it’s just a matter of time before the fire reaches us. Before we killed the radio, I heard the wind was shifting. The big burn is thirty miles away, but it’s coming.”

  Of course it was. Because things weren’t already bad enough.

  “What’s the plan?” Phin asked. “Just camp here until we all roast?”

  “Hell if I know. Ask Del Ray.”

  “Where he at?”

  “I dunno, man. Just look for the bad muthafucka with the scalps on his colors.”

  Phin had no idea what that meant, but he didn’t let on. He continued to weave through the crowd, stopping once to stare at what looked like a James Cameron villain; a huge black dude strapped to some sort of electric rolling machine. Even though the dirt ground was uneven and littered with detritus, his funky oval wheels turned like drill screws and glided over top, propelling the man forward, backward, and even sideways.

  Phin averted his stare before the man looked his way, but he caught the symbols on his leather vest. The man was War Chief; the leader of the Eternal Black C-Notes. C-Notes were one of the worst gangs in Chicago.

  Jack had apparently pissed off some very heavy people.

  Phin didn’t notice anything like scalps on the giant, so he walked past and kept looking. Finally, near an older model Chrysler van, he spotted a skinny kid with a big fro and a furry vest. The guy watched him approach. He had rat eyes. Round. Black. Unblinking. As Phin neared, he understood the scalp comment. The man’s gang vest was stitched with the scalps of the dead.

  What the hell was wrong with kids these days? Weren’t YouTube and Xbox enough to keep them busy?

  “General,” Phin said, seeing the tattoo on the back of his hand. “‘Sup?”

  It was a gamble questioning a higher-up, but Phin figured he ranked enough to give it a shot.

  “You just get in?” Del asked.

  Phin nodded.

  “How’s the action in Joliet?”

  Phin looked away, into the woods, and spat. “Aurora.”

  “Aurora. Right. Crazy Ks.”

  Phin stared at the kid, hard. “Crazy Js.” He’d taken the jacket from a Crazy J lieutenant, picked because it was one set he knew the symbols for. “You playin’ me, General? Or is this some kind of bullshit test?”

  Del Ray blew out a breath and said, “Shee-it,” drawing it out into two syllables. “S’your name, cat?”

  Phin thought fast. “Mick.”

  “Mick what?”

  “Glade.”

  “You got steel balls, Mick Glade. Thought I heard them clanging together when you walked up. Need a man with steel balls.”

  “What’s the play?”

  “We’re gonna hit the garage door, kamikaze style.” Del Ray held up one steady hand, then slapped the other into it. “Boom! Bitch is ours.”

  “In this?” Phin kicked the tire on the Town & County van.

  “You down?”

  Phin said, “Shee-it.” He rubbed his nose and exaggerated a sniffle.

  “Ride ain’t just for glory, Mick. You crack that door, we can set you up with ice.”

  “How much?”

  “How much can you snort, homes?”

  “A lot.”

  “Then the answer is a lot.”

  Phin grinned. “Always up for a drive in the country. Bucket got airbags?”

  “‘Course.”

  “When?”

  “Ain’t no time like the present.”

  Phin considered it. This might be a way to get close to Jack. With enough of a head start, he might be able to get her into the car and take off before anyone knew what was happening.

  Assuming Jack was watching the monitors.

  Assuming Jack would recognize him in gang colors, and see him through the windshield.

  Assuming Jack wouldn’t turn on the scalding sprinklers, or otherwise try to stop him.

  Lots of assumptions, there.

  And if he made i
t inside, then what? What if they couldn’t escape? Rather than only Jack being trapped, they’d both be trapped. Stuck there, sitting ducks, waiting to be slaughtered by gangbangers or burned alive by the approaching forest fire.

  If they were both killed, that would leave Sam without any parents. Phin didn’t want to think about what would happen to his little girl if she had to be raised by Harry McGlade.

  The better bet was for Phin get the hell out of there, try to find help. That’s what Jack would want him to do. Even if Phin did get to her, she’d no doubt be pissed off he took the risk.

  “So you down?” Del Ray asked.

  Was he down with seeing his wife for maybe the last time, even if it wound up becoming a huge fight with her screaming at him before both of them were killed?

  Phin looked toward the house, pictured Jack’s face, and said to himself, “Hell yeah.”

  JACK

  I stared at the monitors, listening to ambient sounds through the console speakers.

  It was like watching a natural disaster unfold live on CNN.

  I was afraid, of course. For me. For Phin. For Sam, because if we died I really didn’t want her being raised by Harry McGlade. She’d go to my mother first, of course. But Mom was old, and there was a convoluted relationship between my mother and Harry that could potentially lead to Samantha and Harry Junior becoming step-siblings, which was almost as frightening as the three ring circus outside.

  But underneath the fear and dread, my current situation was the stuff of black comedy. I’d spent two years, locked up in my house afraid that a lone serial killer named Luther Kite might show up, and the moment I leave I’m surrounded by a hundred killers who were not Luther Kite. Cue Alanis Morissette and her Ironic song.

  There had been no more attacks since the fire, which Harry’s sprinklers had finally extinguished. The temperature gauge registered 122°, and it had only risen a single degree since I’d shut off the water. I didn’t know if that was hot enough to repel them.

  Escape seemed impossible. They’d torched our SUV. The house was surrounded. The lack of any cell signal told me they’d secured their perimeter.