Don’t be in such a hurry, I thought. You could be the first to die.
I walked up the steps, not wanting to make eye contact with the man, focusing instead on the pistol in his belt. Wondering if he’d want to look in the bag. Before he could, the driver of the Monte Carlo opened his door and called out, “Denny! What’s that guy doing out here?”
I knew the voice. Daggett himself.
“He needed something from his car,” Denny said.
“Like what?” Daggett asked.
I didn’t want him to hear my voice, so I mumbled something low beneath my surgical mask.
“Didn’t catch that,” Daggett said.
I shrugged.
“I’m talking to you,” he said. “What’s in the fucking bag?”
“Let’s see it,” Denny said.
I let my shoulders fall in a big sigh, trying to play the exasperated, arrogant surgeon. I unzipped the bag and held it open. As Denny leaned in to see what was in it, I lashed out with a front kick that caught him under the chin and sent him flying backwards, unconscious before he hit the ground. I snatched the Beretta out of the bag and whirled around. Daggett was standing by the driver’s-side door, no gun in sight. A big man was pulling himself out of the passenger seat, one hand on the door frame, the other holding a pair of aluminum crutches. It was the guy Jenn had hit with her car.
I jumped down from the loading dock, keeping the gun on him, and pulled the mask away from my face.
“Fuck me,” Daggett said. “If it isn’t the Lone Canadian.”
“Put your hands on your head.”
“Or what? You know how many guys I got inside?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “As long as I have you. Now put your hands on your head. And you,” I said to the big man, “drop the crutches. Do it.”
“How’m I supposed to walk without them?”
“You’re not.” I pointed the barrel of the gun at his thigh and squeezed the trigger. With the suppressor on, all I heard was the dry snap of the hammer striking the cartridge. And the big man’s cry as he crumpled.
“You fucking crazy?” Daggett yelled. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I am a little crazy,” I said.
The big man rolled back and forth, clutching his thigh as blood oozed through his fingers. “Take off your coat,” I told Daggett.
“Fuck that, man, it’s cold in here.”
I pointed the gun at his leg and he shrugged and took off his coat. I saw a chrome gun butt in his waistband. “Take it out with two fingers,” I said. “Drop it and kick it over here. Now!”
He did as he was told. I picked it up and tucked it in my bag.
“Turn around. Lift your shirt.”
Again he obeyed. I saw no other weapons.
I kept the gun on him as I moved to the back door and pushed it open and felt a flood of relief when I saw Dante Ryan and Victor waiting there, guns at the ready.
“Started without us?” Ryan said.
“Had to.”
“This the cunt that took Jenn?”
“Yes.”
Ryan walked over casually and circled Daggett as if all he wanted to do was survey him up close. When he came around the front, he slammed the butt of his shotgun into Daggett’s gut. He collapsed with both hands around his middle. I came up behind him and put the Beretta into the soft spot where his head and spine joined. I grabbed his hair with my other hand and pulled him to his feet.
“How does that feel?” I asked.
“Is it supposed to hurt?”
I stepped away from him then shifted my weight right back in a side kick that caved his right knee in. He yelled as the ligaments tore and the leg buckled under him.
“Bastard,” he hissed, rocking on his side and clutching his leg.
“You’re lucky you’re not worth the cost of a bullet. Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
I drew my leg back.
“Inside,” he said.
“Inside where?”
“Prep Room B.”
“If she’s been hurt in any way, you’re dead.”
“Relax, Hymie,” he panted, “she’s been asleep the whole time. On an IV drip.”
I could only hope it was true.
I told Victor to check the big man for guns. He found a Glock under his left arm and dropped it in his coat pocket.
“Put him in the trunk,” I said.
Victor and Ryan put their guns down, took hold of the man’s arms and legs. He howled in pain as they lifted him.
“Shut your hole,” Victor said.
The man told him to go fuck himself.
They got him into the trunk. Ryan was about to slam the lid when Victor said, “One sec,” drew his fist back and threw a punch. I didn’t see it land but I heard the cold hard smack. Heard the man tell Victor to go fuck himself again. Ryan said, “We got no time for this shit,” and closed the trunk before Victor could hit him again.
I told Daggett to get up.
“I can’t walk,” he said.
“You can limp. Get up, now, before I make it worse.”
We made him go first, my gun dug into his neck, my fist gripping a tight knot of his hair, the same way he’d handled Jenn. We went up the stairs, Victor behind me, Ryan behind him. I made Daggett open the door and we started down a long hallway that was carpeted and panelled in a dark wood. Soft light from wall sconces made it gleam.
“You killed Carol-Ann Meacham,” I said.
“Wasn’t she found in Franklin Park? I’d have to say it was muggers. Probably your African-American types.”
“The cops will find something to connect you,” I said.
“Like fuck.”
“What about Harinder Patel?” I asked.
Daggett said, “Who?”
“The Indian man who died on your table. Where’s the body?”
“On the advice of my lawyer, I-”
I pushed the gun barrel harder into his neck. “Cut the shit. You’re this close to dying.”
“We’re all close,” he said.
“Where is he?”
“Ashes to ashes, man.”
“What does that mean?”
“This place did cremations, that’s what it means. And the equipment still works.”
Shit. Poor Sammy. If Daggett was telling the truth, no body would ever be found. Sammy and his mother might have to wait years to have him declared officially dead and collect any insurance. But Jenn had to be my focus now. Only Jenn.
I had the layout pictured in my mind. This hallway led to the main foyer. From there we would turn left past the chapel to another hall where the two prep rooms were. One for extraction, one for transplantation. I listened for voices, footsteps, creaks in the floorboards as we moved as silently as we could over the carpet.
