Iron House

His fingers had tightened as he pulled Michael closer.

You understand?

A coughing fit took him then, and when he could speak again, he released Michael to live life as he wished, then asked him to take his own life in return. There was no irony in his request, just hurt; now he was asking again.

“I can’t.”

Michael’s neck bent because the words were insufficient. He’d killed so many times that this should be the simplest of things. A gentle pressure. A few seconds. But he remembered the day the old man found him, cut a dozen times and fighting for his life under a bridge in Spanish Harlem. He said he’d heard of this wild boy who lived with the homeless, and had come to see for himself. He’d wondered if the stories were true.

A sound escaped the old man’s lips but there were no words beyond anguish. Michael had come to assure Stevan that he was no threat. Failing that, he’d hoped to find enough strength in the old man to make certain that his orders were followed, even after death. But seeing the agony behind his haunted eyes, what Michael felt was ashamed. He was thinking of himself first, and the old man deserved more. Michael took his hand and looked at the photograph of them leaning on the hood of the car. His arm circled Michael’s neck, head tipped back.

They were laughing.

It was the only photograph in existence that showed them together. The old man had been adamant. Too dangerous to have more, he’d said. Too risky. And for seventeen years the photograph had never left his room. It was a moment trapped in time-pure joy-and Stevan hated what it said about the leanings of his father’s heart. Yet, the old man had been unapologetic. Actions and consequence, choice and cost.

Michael looked down on the old man’s face. He saw how it had been, and how it was now: the life he’d had and the one he wanted to quit. Torment wracked his features, but through the pain and fear, Michael saw the old man’s soul, and it was unchanged.

“Don’t be afraid,” the dying man whispered.

Michael could barely hear him, so he asked, “Are you sure?”

The old man nodded without words, and Michael’s fingers tightened on his hand. “They’ll come for me,” Michael said. “Stevan. Jimmy. They’ll try to kill me.”

He needed the old man to know the repercussions of this thing he asked. If Stevan came, Michael would kill him. The truth of this filled the old man’s eyes, but it was only when he said “Make a good life” that Michael truly believed he understood. There was such sadness in his eyes, and it had nothing to do with his own death. Whether the old man lived or died, Stevan would come.

And Michael would kill him.

“I knew…” His voice failed, and Michael leaned closer. “I knew when I released you…”

Michael forced despair from his face. He’d killed so many, and loved so few. “May I have this?” He lifted the photograph that sat by the bed. The old man did not answer, but his fingers moved on the sheet. Michael slipped the photo from its frame, and put it with the other in his pocket. “Elena’s pregnant,” he said, but it was unclear if the old man had heard. Tears filled his eyes and he was nodding as if to hurry Michael on. Michael kissed him on the forehead, then placed one hand on his chest and the other across his mouth and nose. “Forgive me,” he said. And as he shut off the old man’s air, their eyes remained locked. Michael made a gentling noise, but the old man never fought, not even at the end. His heart stuttered, then beat a final time, and through his hands, Michael felt a rush of peace so immense it had to be imagination. He straightened as monitors flat-lined, and alarms screamed on the landing below. He closed the dead man’s eyes, and heard loud voices, feet on the steps.

The old man was gone.

And they were coming.

* * *

Michael moved to the bookshelf, his eyes on the black rectangle that had until a few minutes ago held the old man’s copy of Hemingway’s classic novella. In the space behind, he found the two nine millimeters he’d put there three months ago. Each one had fifteen in the clip and one in the chamber.

Vision.

Foresight.

Michael’s replacement lacked both.

He came through the right-side door with his own gun low and his smile half-cocked. Michael gave him three steps and enough time to see what was going to happen.

Then he shot him in the heart.

By that time two more men were in the room, both armed. Michael recognized the grunts from the foyer. One yelled, whoa, whoa, whoa but both were bringing up guns, barrels going long to short. Michael took one step and shot them both in under a second. They dropped and he heard shouts from the stairs. Three men, maybe more. Fear in their voices. Michael said nothing, but crossed the room and stood four feet from the left-hand door, which remained closed. Fear was a cancer for those who were not used to this, so time was on his side, but not by much. He listened for steps on carpet, and when shoes showed through the gap beneath the door, he put two rounds through the wood, center mass.

A body hit the floor, and Michael rounded onto the landing, where he found three more men, two in full retreat down the stairs and another with a gun in his hand and pointed. But it takes more than a trigger finger to shoot a man. When someone is shooting back, it takes the kind of cool that rock stars can only fake. Michael had that cool, and so did Jimmy.

No one else in the house was even close.

Two bullets flew wide of Michael’s shoulder, and he tapped the shooter once in the forehead, stepping past before he was even down. The other men pulled up short, one shooting wildly, the other hands up and empty. Michael shot the first and kept both guns trained on the second. He was late-sixties, a street thug from the old days kept around for sentimental reasons. He was a gopher now: ran errands, cooked food. His hands were steady above his head, his face resigned. Michael stopped one step above him and put a barrel so close to his cheek he could feel heat from the metal. “Where’s Jimmy?”

“Gone. Ran.”

“How long?”

“Just this second.”

Michael glanced down at the open door, the hint of city beyond. He pressed hot metal against the man’s cheek. “If you’re lying, I’ll kill you slow.”

“I’m not lying.”

“What about the nurse? The priest?”

“Same thing.”

“Are they on the payroll?”

The man nodded, which meant they would keep their mouths shut. Michael looked again at the open door. “You have car keys?”

The man pulled a ring from his pants pocket. “The Navigator,” he said. “Out back.”

“Anyone else in the house?”

He shook his head. The smell of burned powder was everywhere, a gray haze under the chandelier. Michael studied his face and remembered a few conversations they’d had. His name was Donovan. He had grandchildren.

“Tell Stevan I’m out.” Donovan nodded, but Michael realized the lie even as he did. The old man was dead at Michael’s hand. Blood ran down the walls, the stairs. He was nowhere close to out. Not after this. Michael gestured with the gun. “Go.”

Donovan fled, and Michael went back upstairs. He stood by the bed and looked down on the husk of the man he’d killed. He’d been a hard man, but full of kindness for those he loved. Michael remembered a conversation they’d had on the morning of his fourteenth birthday. A year had passed since that day under the bridge, and the old man wanted to know why.