Rum Runner - A Thriller (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries Book 9) Page 16

  Could a monk hate somebody? Or did that violate some inner-peace rule?

  “I hate him,” Herb said to Homeboy.

  Homeboy didn’t reply. He was sitting on his perch, one eye closed, the other staring blankly into space.

  “You asleep?”

  No response. His featherless chest was moving, so he wasn’t dead.

  “Want some meth?” Herb whispered.

  Homeboy’s other eye immediately opened and he screeched, flapping his naked wings like crazy.

  “METH! METH! AAAAAAAAAAAAARG! METH! METH!”

  Herb shushed him, using soothing tones. When that didn’t shut him up, Herb tried holding up the peanut bag and shaking it seductively. The bird kept on flapping and screaming, its eyes bugging out, shifting weight from one foot to the other in some sort of junkie dance.

  The poor thing really wanted some meth. Herb was worried it would give itself a little birdie heart attack. And, knowing McGlade, this stupid exotic animal probably cost thousands of dollars. Herb had taken a staycation because money was tight. He couldn’t afford to buy Harry a new parrot.

  “METH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARG! METH!”

  In an effort to get it to settle down, Herb tossed a handful of peanuts at the animal. This seemed to agitate Homeboy even more. Homeboy stopping screaming “METH!” and just screamed, like he was being torn apart by dogs.

  Apparently throwing things at birds didn’t have a soothing effect.

  Desperate, Herb opened the cage and reached inside. Maybe petting or holding the animal would calm it down. It was either that, or Herb would have to hit the streets and try to score some meth.

  Rather than shy away, Homeboy leapt onto Herb’s arm. Herb hadn’t expected that, and was startled enough to take several steps back, taking Homeboy with him as the parrot continued to scream. Herb fell onto the floor, and Homeboy jumped onto his face, his talons latching on to Herb’s nose. It perched there, its wings outstretched, squawking so loud Herb could feel it in his whole body.

  That’s when the cabin door opened. Both Herb and Homeboy stopped panicking and looked in the direction of the sound. Harry McGlade stood there, holding a toddler on his hip.

  “I knew it. I’m gone for two minutes and you try to eat my bird.”

  Herb found himself peeking up at Homeboy’s plucked ass. Not a good position to be in.

  “Get this thing off me, McGlade.”

  Harry made no move to help. Instead, he took his cell out and began taking pictures.

  “Harry…” Herb warned.

  “You asked why I picked you up before running errands? Because: this. Say something funny for YouTube.”

  “Harry, if this bird shits on me…”

  “That would totally go viral. See the birdie, Harry Junior?”

  Harry Jr. said, “Plab!”

  Herb reached up and gently grabbed Homeboy. It reminded him of the one unpleasant time he petted a Chinese Crested puppy; a hairless bag of bones with loose, warm skin. Incredibly, Homeboy allowed himself to be held without fighting back, and Herb returned him to his cage.

  “That was anti-climactic,” Harry said, putting his phone away.

  Herb waited a few seconds, allowing his blood pressure to settle, before asking, “Why is your son here?”

  “Because: sex. Have you met Junior’s baby mama? She’s a hot yoga instructor. Great body, but dealing with her is like licking your finger and sticking it into a light bulb socket.”

  “Why is Junior here in the RV, McGlade?”

  “Because it’s Daddy’s court-appointed visitation time. Don’t worry, we’re dropping him off with a babysitter. Don’t tell the court.” Harry set the diapered child on the floor, where he flopped onto his face. “Watch him while I drive. Don’t let Junior touch Homeboy. Birds have all kinds of nasty diseases.”

  Herb frowned. This adventure just kept getting better and better.

  Harry Junior managed to get up on all fours, and crawled past Herb and toward the kitchenette.

  “Is this vehicle baby-proofed?” Herb asked Harry, watching Junior attempt to open up a cabinet. “Are there child locks on things?”

  McGlade didn’t answer, instead turning on the music.

  Harry Junior was able to get the cabinet open—answering Herb’s question about child locks—and reached inside. He yanked out a plastic tray, filled with knives.

  Herb scooped the child up, getting a whiff of a full diaper.

  “Your child needs to be changed!” Herb yelled over the tunes.

  “Try changing him into a stripper. That would be awesome. Or a case of beer. Try Grain Belt. I haven’t had that beer in years.”

  “METH!” screeched Homeboy.

  Herb stared at Junior. “I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news, kid. But you’re probably going to be in counselling for the rest of your life.”

  Junior’s lower lip began to quiver, and then tears suddenly appeared and he was bawling.

  The kid was even louder than Homeboy. Which Homeboy must have taken as a personal challenge, because his squawking went up several decibels.

  McGlade dealt with it by turning up the music. He began singing something about the howling of dogs and wailing of babies and being miserable.

  Herb could relate.

  JACK

  You were aiming at that guy’s head,” I said to Phin, putting down the binoculars and giving him the stink eye.

  “Wind must have taken it,” Phin said, completely deadpan.

  “The trees shield against the wind. You took the headshot.”

  “Well, I missed.”

  “You shot his ear off.”

  “Wounding him. Which is what you wanted.”

  I wasn’t sure how to make Phin understand, because I didn’t know if I fully understood myself.

  “Hon,” I said, using his pet word for me. The one he hadn’t used in months. “The only thing that separates the good guys from the bad guys is the choices we make.”

  “The dude wears a vest made of scalps. Human scalps.”

  “That’s horrible. But it proves my point. We can’t be like that.”

  “They’re trying to kill us, Jack. They’re the enemy.”

  “And we have to be better than the enemy. We have a daughter together. A beautiful, wonderful daughter filled with unlimited potential. Is this the example you want to set for Sam? Kill or be killed?”

  “If we don’t live through this, we won’t be able to set any kind of example.”

  “Well, it’s the example I want to be. What if Sam came up to you one day and asked about the bad things you’ve done. Would you tell her?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’d tell her about everything? The drugs? The robberies? The deaths?”

  Phin didn’t answer. But his expression softened a bit.

  “Phin, you think our daughter wants to know those things about you? I don’t even want to know those things about you. Did you notice I didn’t ask how many people died at the Walmart?”

  “I did notice that. I made a judgment call.”

  “This is a judgment call, too. And we’re choosing to wound, not kill. Okay?”

  Phin closed his eyes. Then he nodded. “Okay.”

  “Arms and legs.”

  “Okay.”

  “You promise?”

  He looked at me. Really looked at me. I saw acceptance there. And determination. And most of all, love.

  I hoped he saw the same things in my face.

  “I promise,” my husband said.

  “Kiss on it.”

  Phin gave me a soft kiss on the lips. He cared enough to listen to me, even if I wound up being wrong.

  I really didn’t want to be wrong.

  “We’re going to live through this,” I said. “But I want to be able to live with myself, and with you, when it’s over.”

  “I will shoot to wound, Lieutenant. You have my word.”

  He went back to the balistraria. I picked up my Bushmaster and took the merl
on next to him.

  The gang was in panic mode, running this way and that way. Many were trying to take cover behind trees that weren’t wide enough.

  There were arms and legs aplenty.

  Long distance shooting required many of the same skills as my specialty, which was handguns. Steady hands were important, but so was concentration and patience. I’d seen men no more than a few meters away unload an entire magazine and miss every shot because they’d been too excited or emotional. The calmer you were, the better your aim.

  I sighted an exposed shoulder, roughly a hundred and fifty meters away. I relaxed, letting the rifle become an extension of my body. Pointing a gun was like pointing a finger.

  To my left, Phin fired.

  “Hit,” he said.

  I kept focus, pulling the trigger so gently I felt the exact moment of the breakpoint. The firing pin snapped home, the bullet went where it was supposed to. I watched the man spin and fall, clutching his new wound.

  “Got two,” Phin said.

  “It isn’t a contest. These are human beings.”

  Phin shot again. “Three.”

  I found a target, in full retreat sprint. Led him. Squeezed. His knee blew out, and he ate the ground.

  Phin fired again. Didn’t say anything.

  “Missed?” I asked.

  “What counts as wounded?”

  “Taking the man down.”

  “Well, he’s down.”

  “Phin…”

  “He could live. Maybe. With immediate medical attention. And a heart transplant.”

  I looked at him. “This isn’t a joke.”

  “I’m doing my best.”

  “Do better.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I located another poor sap who didn’t know the tree he hid behind was too narrow. He was two hundred meters away, which probably seemed like far enough.

  It wasn’t. I shot him in the hip.

  This went on for ten minutes. They continued to run away. We continued to shoot arms and legs.

  “They’re at three hundred meters,” I told Phin. “Remember how to read mil dots?”

  “No.”

  “Aim one and a half dots below center, allow for bullet drop.”

  If you fired a bullet straight at shoulder height, and dropped a bullet at shoulder height, they’d hit the ground at the same time. Gravity exerted its dominance over mass no matter how fast the mass was travelling forward. The work-around was the parabola. When you threw a ball, you didn’t throw it straight. You also threw it up, so it arced. It was the same with bullets. Raising the barrel meant the bullet went up before it went down. The round lost a little speed, but could go farther.

  “Let’s check the sides,” Phin said.

  We went to opposite balistrarias, across from each other in the living room. Here, the gangbangers hadn’t retreated as far, and I was able to pick off three in short order. Phin got one.

  We switched again, and plugged five more.

  By this time, they’d all gotten the point, and had either ran out of range, or had taken adequate cover. I went back to my original balistraria, and only saw men I’d already hit.

  “Give them time to grab the wounded,” I said, resting my stock on the floor.

  “You’re being too kind here, Jack.”

  “And when they come to get the wounded,” I continued, “shoot them.”

  He glanced at me, grinning. “I love you.”

  I wasn’t proud of the fact that we were bonding over this. But, truth was, I hadn’t felt this alive in months. Or years.

  Shit. Maybe I was one of the bad guys after all.

  I went into my duffle bag, reloading my magazine, and then Phin starting shooting as fast as he could pull the trigger. I hurried over to him.

  “What’s happening?”

  “We’re in trouble.”

  I looked through the binocs.

  Heading straight for the house, two hundred meters away and picking up speed, was a bus. I couldn’t see the driver; he’d stacked bulletproof vests on the dashboard.

  I let the binocs fall, bringing up my gun. “Aim for the engine block,” I told Phin.

  But Phin was gone.

  DEL RAY

  Del Ray pressed a clotting cloth to the remains of his right ear. In all his years of banging, he’d never been shot before.

  It hurt. A lot.

  They’d taken out a dozen of his men, but there were no fatalities. Either the cop and her husband were poor shots, or they weren’t playing for keeps.

  Interesting.

  It was also interesting how they’d done the shooting. Apparently, there were some sort of slits in the walls where windows should have been.

  Del wondered who the hell owned this place.

  Could it be somebody connected?

  That would be bad.

  Except for a few occasional and temporary alliances, the C-Notes avoided the mafia. Wiseguys kept their action to the ritzy parts of town, Folks kept it to the hood, and they stayed out of each other’s way.

  What if the cop was protected? Had they just started a war with the mob?

  It was a winnable war. The bangers had more men, and more guns, than the wiseguys. But there would be huge costs.

  How many brothers was T-Nail willing to lose just to have his revenge? These were Del Ray’s homies. He’d known a lot of them since he was a shorty. Some of them weren’t even born when T-Nail went to jail. They shouldn’t be forced to die for him.

  He watched Spread fire up the bus, and then he called one of his lieutenants, LeBron, over.

  “Take five guys to Walmart in town. I need you to do some shopping.”

  PHIN

  The punt gun was over three meters long, and when Phin went to grab it his ribs wailed at him. The weapon weighed damn near a hundred pounds.

  Phin hefted it onto his shoulder, the pain squeezing tears out of his eyes, and then stared down at the box of shells, each over four centimeters wide and the length of three D cell batteries. To grab them, he had to do an awkward squat, and he couldn’t lift the box. He was able to palm two of them, and barely got back into a standing position.

  Gunshots echoed throughout the house. Jack, firing at the bus.

  Phin went sideways through the doorway, and then carried the gun—step by agonizing step—into the living room.

  “Help me,” he called to his wife.

  She fired once more, and turned to him. Her eyes went wide. “Seriously?”

  But Jack immediately came over, helping Phin wrestle the gigantic barrel up into the balistraria, where it barely fit.

  “A hundred meters and closing,” Jack said, checking outside.

  Phin hurried back to the butt of the gun. He knelt down, his broken ribs grinding against each other, and stared at the hammer and the trigger assembly. He had no clue how to load the weapon.

  “Open the breach,” Jack said. “There should be a lever or a button.”

  There wasn’t anything. Phin could make out a seam, and a hinge, but he couldn’t figure out how to unlock it.

  “Eighty meters. Load it, Phin.”

  “Working on it.”

  Phin ran his hands along the underside of the stock, touching the trigger guard. It wiggled. He pulled on it, and the gun snapped open.

  “Seventy meters and picking up speed.”

  Phin slid one of the giant cartridges inside, closed the breach, and lifted up the weapon to his shoulder as he knelt there.

  “Fifty meters. Don’t shoulder it! You’ll break your collarbone.”

  He adjusted his grip so the stock was under his armpit and the recoil wouldn’t hit him.

  “To the right!”

  Phin shuffled on his knees.

  “More… more… stop! Fire!”

  Phin pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened. He’d forgotten to cock the hammer.

  “Thirty meters! Shoot!”

  Hammer back. Trigger squeeze.

  Nothing.


  “Bad round!” Jack yelled at him.

  Phin opened the breach again, tugged out the dud shell, rammed a new one in, and closed the weapon. He drew the hammer back.

  “Ten m—”

  He pulled the trigger and the punt gun went off with the force of a cannon, tearing itself out of Phin’s hands, skidding backwards across the wooden floor.

  A moment later, the house shook. Phin couldn’t hear the impact because he’d been deafened by the punt gun. But the bus must have hit them. Jack helped him up, and they jogged into the control room to gape at the monitors.

  What was left of the bus—the punt gun shredded the whole front of it—had narrowly missed the garage door, instead slamming into the side of the house. They watched a man stagger out of the missing side door, then half-run/half-stumble back into the woods.

  Jack said something, but Phin couldn’t hear her above the ringing. Guns were loud. Rock concert loud. But that punt gun was preternatural. It was like holding a firecracker next to your ear. He squinted at Jack, trying to read her lips, and her hands were on his arm, trailing down to his finger.

  Which didn’t look like a finger at all. Because fingers weren’t supposed to be jutting out at that angle. And facing the wrong way.

  When the punt gun recoiled, it had dislocated and broken his index finger, which now curled around like a stretched-out Slinky.

  Phin had a moment of sickly realization; the injury had been so quick, and his adrenaline pumping so hard, that his body didn’t know yet that it had sustained an injury. But the pain was going to hit, and hit hard.

  Which it did. Even harder than he ever could have guessed.

  On the plus-side, it made him completely forget about his broken ribs.

  On the minus side, he felt his knees give out, and the room got spinny, and as he fell onto his ass he hoped he didn’t throw up because he didn’t want to look weak in front of Jack.

  So instead, he did something even worse.

  He passed out.

  HERB

  Homicide Detective Tom Mankowski didn’t dress well enough to be called a metrosexual, but his long, reddish blonde hair was tied back in a bun, and his two-day growth of beard was manscaped just enough to call him a hipster. Which Herb didn’t do. But he did think of the word while shaking Tom’s hand. He also thought about how much this cop looked like a young Thomas Jefferson, straight off the nickel.