the fender, and took one long pull off the bottle.
“You ever listen to Dolly Parton?” He hit the bottle again.
“I hate country music.”
“Your loss, convict, your loss.” His trembling stopped with the whisky. Climbing out he looked up the dirt road. “Sure you want to do this? These are some mean mother truckers.”
“Let’s go.”
“It’s your neck and your razor.” He led us around the bend. At the end of the dirt road, a Quonset hut sat surrounded by oaks and scrub. Mikayla circled around the back, through the trees. I gave her a few minutes before moving to the front door. Pinning myself against the wall, I leveled the 12 gauge at Harry’s chest. His fist pounding on the metal door echoed into the quiet morning. Heavy footsteps on concrete. The peephole darkened.
“Open up, the Russkies sent me, we got trouble.” Sweat beads popped on Harry’s forehead. A steel bolt slid and the door started to open. Shoving Harry aside, I slammed into the door. It flew open, the man behind it was quick, instead of toppling, he used my force to propel himself into the shadows. I was stumbling into the room when he fired the first burst. Flame jumped out of the darkness. The doorway I had been in was filled with the buzz of lead. Falling to my belly, bullets ripped holes of light into the wall behind me. Aiming at the flame, I pulled the shotgun’s trigger. It slammed into my fucked up shoulder, sending shivers of pain with every shot. I pulled the trigger as quick as I could, the Remington’s smooth auto load kept the shots coming. I didn’t stop until the breach locked open. All went silent. Dust motes and gun smoke drifted in the shafts of light piercing in through the bullet holes. Setting the Remington down, I pulled my Beretta and crawled towards the shadowed form. Buckshot had taken the Israeli’s head off at the jaw line. Bloody pulp smeared the wall behind him. I swallowed and kept moving.
Stepping into a back room that had been converted into a kitchen, I slipped on something wet and almost fell. The floor was slick with blood. A man lay on his side, his hands locked on his throat where he had unsuccessfully tried to stop his life from flowing out of a razor cut.
Through a door on the left, I found Mikayla leaning over Gregor. In the small windowless room, he sat on the floor. She cut the plastic cuffs off his hands and feet. When she pulled off the hood covering his face, he blinked against the light, then looked up at me.
“How’s it going, boss?”
“Been better, you?”
“Been worse.” Standing up, he almost fell over, grabbed the wall for support.
“Sit.” In the corner, I found his clothes. I pulled on his jeans as gently as possible, he didn’t scream but I could tell he wanted to. Bruises, gashes and rips left no part of his body unharmed. I had to cut the top off his left boot to fit it on over his broken toes.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”
“Fuck it, boss, comes with the job.” When he smiled, I saw he was missing a tooth and two others were chipped. “You get Anya?”
“No.” I couldn’t look him in the eye.
“Then what the hell are we waiting for. That white haired old fuck took her.” He was pulling on his shirt and hobbling for the door.
“You need a hospital, kid.”
“Fuck that, boss. What I need is to kill some Russians.” Stepping past the bloody mess in the kitchen, he spat on the dead body. A tarot card lay on the guy’s chest.
Mikayla met us on the way out with a filled army blanket slung over her shoulder like some dark version of Santa Claus. Gregor grunted and nodded his head at her.
“She’s with us,” I told him, and that was all he needed. I was stepping out the door when Mikayla grabbed my arm.
“What?”
She pointed down. A foot off the floor, a piece of fishing wire was drawn taut. It ran through an eyehook and to the pin of a hand grenade that she had strapped to a five gallon gas tank.
“You’ve been busy.”
“Had to do something while you two were playing dress up.”
“I like her, boss, she’s got balls.”
“Yes, she does.” Careful not to blow us up, I stepped out the door, the daylight blinding me for a moment. I almost tripped over Harry. He was curled onto his side. Bullets had stitched a line across his gut. His eyes stared up dully. Whatever he had deserved, I doubted it was to die in the hills of Chatsworth.
I helped Mikayla lift him into the Quonset hut. I tucked the near empty Four Roses bottle under his arm. Where he was going, I figured he’d need a drink.
CHAPTER 19
Gregor was stretched out in the back seat, head lolling, eyes closed. Mikayla sat beside me, her bundle on her lap. A thin electronic version of Queen’s
“Your blanket’s calling.”
“If I answer, they’ll know something is wrong.”
“Then don’t answer it.” We were treated to two more bars of Queen done badly before it clicked over to voice mail. Mikayla dropped the cell phone back into her pile of booty. At a quick glance, I could see wallets, a laptop, several manila folders, a watch and who knew what else. The woman was a scavenger, a vulture who survived off carrion. But who was I to judge. After loading Gregor into the car, I had gone back and collected all the guns and ammunition I could find. Her skill with a razor had blinded her to the fact that for where we were going, we would need firepower.
“Jesus H Christ, what happened to you?” Helen stood in the door of her Silver Lake hillside home.
“Ran into some folks who didn’t like the cut of our jib.”
“Goddamn it, Moses, don’t. This is way past funny, Ok? I write about vampires and gangsters for the WB, I don’t know how to… shit, Moses, shit.”
“Can we come in?”
“Yes, damn you, yes.”
Gregor stumbled under his own steam over to the sofa and dropped down. Helen looked him over, shaking her head. “He needs a doctor.”
“No he doesn’t,” Gregor said.
“The girls?” I asked.
“Downstairs, poor little things.” I nodded to Mikayla, who set down her bundle and headed for the stairs.
“No you don’t, not before you wash the blood off your hands and face. Those girls have seen enough horror shows for this lifetime.” She got Mikayla a towel and showed her to the bathroom. Coming back, she looked worried.
“Nice company you’re running with.”
“Where’s Peter?”
“Locked up in my office, typing, calling. I haven’t seen him take a bite or a crap since they got here.” Dark circles ringed her eyes. I wished I could make it all go away. I wished I had something to say, but I was all out of sorrys.
Peter’s head snapped up when I entered. His eyes were black pin points surrounded by red. The shades were drawn and the only light was from the computer screen. In a machine gun rant, he told me of the article he was writing. His editor was holding a front page slot for him. This was going to blow the fucking top off those slave dealing bastards. He was sure once the story broke, the state department would have to give the girls asylum. He had reached out to a woman from the Angel Coalition, and another from Stop The Slavery. They would help the girls
