a little dead? 5 (508 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1.33 on 16 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Allyson (View user info) at 2006-09-15 01:06:20 EDT
a little dead? 1 http://www.ubersite.com/m/92917
a little dead? 2 http://www.ubersite.com/m/92962
a little dead? 3 http://www.ubersite.com/m/92978
a little dead? 4 http://www.ubersite.com/m/93031
The Bronx, 6:33PM
"WHO THE FUCK WERE THEY?!?!?!?!"
"Boss, try and relax a -"
Miguel Diaz looks up from his seat with burning eyes, boring through the suddenly nervous hood in front of him.
"RELAX?! FUCKIN' RELAX?!" In a flash the diminutive drug lord is on his feet, squaring up to the gangly barrio thug across from him. He barely comes up to the guy's shoulder but there's no doubt which one of them is more afraid. "TWO FUCKIN' COCKSUCKERS BLOW AWAY FOUR OF MY GUYS AND ALMOST KILL ME, AND I'M MEANT TO FUCKING RELAX?!"
With a yell he slaps the guy hard across the face, back of the hand. The stinging blow makes the thug wince but he doesn't even think of retaliating. He just stands there, looking at his feet with blood dripping from his nose, praying his padrone won't take it any further.
They're in a small box of a house in the Bronx, invisible amongst a long street of identical houses. The SUV's in the garage and half-a-dozen armed hoods watch the front and back door. This is one of many bolt holes Diaz has got set up for when he needs to disappear for a while. Pablo Herrera stands to one side, leaning against the wall. He's been silent almost the whole time, letting his boss for five years vent his awesome rage.
Let him get it out first. Then tell him.
"Pablo?" He looks up as Diaz says his name. "You said you knew one a' those fucks, right?"
Herrera takes a breath and pauses, still a little unsure. He'd only seen the other shooter for a few fleeting seconds, but is sure he's seen that face before. One of Pablo's quirks is that he never forgets a face: it makes it a lot easier to remember one's enemies, and he's sure that he's seen that face before. Frowning, he dredges through memories of all the twisted, vicious shit he's done, searching...
Florida?
"Hey!" He's jerked out of his reverie as Diaz barks at him. "Fuck're you doin'?"
Pablo straightens up and gathers his first, now sure.
"Freelance job I did for an old friend in LA. I owed him. I think that shooter was one of the targets."
Diaz's eyes widen, certainly not expecting this. Truth be told, Herrera's a little shaken by the sheer cosmic coincidence of this, but a face is a face, and now he's seen the same one twice. Where he's seen it is irrelevant.
"Who is he?"
Pablo shrugs, genuinely ignorant. He owed his friend in LA a debt and the job was the way to settle it. He wasn't going to quibble of ask stupid questions, he would simply do as he was told. Still, if the guy's a shooter, he has connections.
That means he can be found.
"I dunno, I never asked. But if he's still in the city, on contract after you -"
"Then the cocksucker won't be going anywhere 'til I'm on a fuckin' slab!"
Diaz finishes it for him and sits back down, messaging his forehead briefly with both hands. The bleeding hood takes a moment to slink into the kitchen and get a towel for his nose, leaving a fuming Diaz and ice-cold Herrera in the front room.
"Can he be found?"
Pablo nods, certain. He knows that Diaz has built up some very impressive connections all across the city; they're one of the reasons he's still alive. The Colombian has friends in the police, the DEA, the courts, Customs, not to mention innumerable one-time contacts in God knows how many legit companies. It all added up to a web across the city, and if this shooter is here, he'll get caught in it.
"Yeah. Connections you got, we'll find him."
Diaz nods firmly, eyes a picture of sheer hate. The sheer fucking nerve of someone trying shit like this, the bastards!
Fuck'll beg me to kill him...
"OK..." he sits up and looks at Pablo, pointing firmly at him. "I want you to take a couple of guys and get looking. I don't give a fuck how much or how long, just find him!"
He stands up and does a quick stretch, the last hours drama making him stiff as shit. He keeps talking as he heads for the stairs, ready for a shower.
"Bring him to the warehouse in Queens after. Then we'll find out exactly who he is."
Pablo nods slowly as his boss disappears, then heads for the door, lighting a cigarette. He walks past the two thick-necked thugs hold Kalashnikovs by the door, pausing before he exits.
"Anyone but our people so much as come near this place." He opens the door and pulls his shades on, face now inscrutable. "Kill 'em, and get rid a' 'em."
One of the thugs nods and he continues outside, walking swiftly towards the Escalade with a grim smile on his face.
Time to go hunting...
Manhattan, 6:40PM
Every lock on the door's bolted, along with the chair lodged under the handle. Windows locked too, and curtains drawn. There's a SIG by the toilet and the Remington's under the mattress, but the Beretta in Danny's hip holster is the most reassuring thing about the place right now.
Small fucking comfort.
He's sat on the edge of the bed with a clean cell phone in his hand, in this particularly shitty motel on the edge of Hells Kitchen. He'd checked out of the Stamford as soon as he'd got back, packing up the guns and his things in about five minutes. Now way was he sticking round there after that clusterfuck.
"C'mon, c'mon..." He takes a deep, tense drag of his cigarette and stubs it out as the phone rings. He knows that it'll take longer to connect considering it's a satellite phone, one of many Mike uses.
"Yeah?"
"This phone clean?"
Mike pauses for a second, instantly hearing the unfamiliar tension in Danny's voice.
"Yeah, what the Hell's -"
"It went bad. Your backup's dead, the mark got away."
There's another pause as Mike takes this all in, which only inflates Danny's impatience. For the last hour he's been a bundle of nerves, his icy persona failing him for now. But now, in a clean room with a clean phone and an arsenal under his bed, he feels he can get back to the job.
However the fuck that's gonna work...
"Can you still do the job?"
That's what Danny wanted to hear. No bullshit about Enrique or exactly what had fucked up: eye on the ball, just like Mike always is. Divorce yourself from all emotion, and just concentrate on the job.
"Yeah. I'll go under for a while, wait 'til the mark stops going nuts searching. Then I'll get it done."
"You want someone else as backup?"
"No." Danny doesn't even hesitate with that question. He isn't petty enough to blame Mike for this disaster - Enrique had fucked up, not him - but there is no way in Hell he's taking on another partner, at least none the outfit can supply. "I ain't gonna argue here, man. That's it."
"But you can do it alone?"
"Yeah. If it gets tough there's a guy I can call. Used to work with him." Danny briefly remembers ol' Jimmy Wade, one of his closest friends in the Rangers. Despite growing up on opposite sides of the country they'd become fast friends, comrades sharing that unshakeable loyalty that only combat can create. "But that's only if I can't do it."
"OK, OK..." back in Tampa Mike massages his forehead in his office, not relishing the call he's going to have to make to his bosses after this. But he has faith in Danny; he hasn't failed yet, backup or no backup. "Handle it, any way you want. Anything else, get back in touch."
"Understood."
CLICK!
The line dies and with a heavy sigh Danny falls back onto the bed, arms spread-eagled across the rough spread. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, letting the phone fall fro his hands onto the floor. Jesus, he's so exhausted, the anger and confusion of the day draining him.
Few hours sleep, then handle this. Just a few hours...
He closes his eyes again, and is asleep inside five minutes.
The morgue smelt of jack shit, despite Christ knows how many bodies lying peacefully inside it, and that was what made Danny most uneasy. That and the fact he's here to identify the burnt bodies of his wife and infant son.
"Um, Mister Thorn?"
He barely hears the coroner's voice, fixed as he is on the sheet-covered mounds in front of him. One is about adult-sized, the other... the other's far smaller.
"Mister Thorn?"
"Y... yes?"
The coroner looks at him with polite concern, a fifteen-year veteran of grief like this. He can see it all over Danny's face: the shock, the disbelief, the pain... the pain most of all.
He gestures lightly at the two tables, made all the more stark by the two bright surgical lights above it. Danny takes a shuffling step forward, still dressed in the two-day-old clothes he'd worn when he got Mike's call in Seattle.
"You gotta come home."
"Why? Jobs nearly done and -"
"Just come home, Danny." That had been when Thorn had realized this was serious, and it wasn't strictly business: Mike never called him by his name over the phone, never. "Just do it."
Now he's standing in rumpled clothes before a spotless white sheet, unable to identify a single emotion that he's feeling. There's nothing now but a bleak emptiness, sheer disbelief that... that this has happened.
Maybe they made a mistake? Maybe they weren't home... maybe...
He's standing there for half-a-minute before he sees the coroner stir restlessly from foot to foot. Danny's eyes slide over to him coldly and the guy looks down, seeing the obvious menace in his eyes. Give the man a moment or two... or a hundred.
"OK... do it."
Without a word the coroner lifts back the sheet, and Danny disintegrates right there in front of him.
"No..."
The ex-Ranger, a veteran of more brutal and savage firefights than anyone else in his old company, feels the strength go out of his legs the second he sees Rosalia's body, burnt almost beyond recognition.
But only almost. And that's what finishes him.
He braces his hands against the cold, steel table and closes his eyes, as if blocking out the sight of her will make it all better. But when he opens them again, she's still there, and still dead. All his training and professionalism fly from him in a single shuddering breath that takes him to his knees.
The coroner shakes his head and then lowers it. In fifteen years he's only seen a couple of people take it this badly. But he still has a job to do, much as he hates it right now.
"Err... Mister Thorn?"
Once again Danny doesn't seem to here. Lost with his eyes closed and blood pounding in his ears, the coroner's voice is a dull, indistinct sound to him now. But after a few seconds he's got enough sense to make out the voice, and looks up. Oddly, there are no tears in his eyes.
"Is this... your wife?"
All Danny can do is nod. He tries to speak but his vocal chords don't seem to work. All sound is just strangled in his throat before they reach the lips, and so he just nods mechanically, burying his head in his arms again.
"Um... would you prefer to identify the... other one, later?"
Danny hears that. Anything referring to his son cuts straight through anything he's thinking. He manages to stagger to his feet, red eyes fixed on his wife... or what was left of her. He turns a mildly shaking head to the coroner, who swallows again.
"N... No... Do it now."
The coroner moves smoothly over to the other table, Danny shambling behind him. He's managed to take his eyes of Rosalia, and seriously needs a drink, or a joint, or a needle, anything to take away this agony that's ripping his insides apart.
"Are... are you ready?"
Danny manages to get to his feet, wiping a little snot from his nose, and just nods.
The sheet comes back, and a charred doll that used to be a three-month old baby lies on the metal table like a burnt roast dinner. Danny manages to look at it for a few moments... then breaks.
"RRRRRRRAAAAANOOOOOOOOOO!"
The sheer despair of the endless wail rises and fills the room like a hurricane, rising and rising inexorably. The coroner takes it at first but it just keeps getting louder. It's like all the rage and pain and torment Danny's feeling is being vomited up in this storm of sound. He grips the side of the table until his knuckle are white, disbelieving eyes bleeding tears as he stares down at his dead son.
Only when he collapses next to the table does the screaming stop.
Danny awakes with a jerk on the bed, lying just as he'd fallen asleep but dripping with sweat. He shrugs off this, the latest nightmare, with practiced ease. They were all as bad as each other and after a while he just learned to... adjust.
Yeah, great way to look at it.
He shakes the cobwebs out of his head and sits up, looking at the clock. Christ, he really had only slept for a couple of hours. Danny stands, getting ready to move again. He doesn't want to stay anywhere for very long now; constant movement might be the only thing that will save him.
Get to Jimmy's, see if he'll help.
As he packs his stuff his mind drifts back to Jimmy. The Philadelphia-born Wade had clicked with Danny the second they'd met each other, in the same bunk as they were. Both had tough upbringings, and one way or another were running from something. Like many men looking to vanish for a while, the Army had been as good a place as any.
Those two days in Bosnia. Coulda' left me and got back to base camp any time... stayed the whole fucking time...
He zips his massive hold all closed, packed with the rest of the guns. The CAR-15 and the MP5SD had been dumped into the Hudson as soon as he'd been able. No way did he want those hot items around for what he had left to do. Still, wasn't exactly like he needed them, arsenal he had here.
Danny stands and looks over the rest of the apartment one last time. Apart from the dent in the bed, there isn't a single sign he's even been here. Satisfied, he picks up the hold all and heads for the door. All he had to do is return the key to front desk: this shithole wasn't exactly famous for asking details. It's the main reason he's here.
The hallways deserted as always, the smell a deterrent as much as anything else. Danny doesn't know exactly why New Yorkers feel the need to use corridors as urinals, but it's a consistent trait in places like this. As he strides towards the stairs he can see brown stains that don't look to inviting, even a couple of vials and needles, all "illuminated" by the world's weakest bulbs.
Fuck it. Can't argue with twenty bucks a night.
Suddenly a tall, dark figure steps down from the stairs, instantly making eye contact with Danny. In an instant he's alert, tense, expectant. The stranger keeps eye contact as he walks towards him, hands buried in his trench coat. Danny doesn't slow, but slips his hand into his jacket, gripping the SIG inside and easing his finger on the trigger. He's getting closer now, but still no move. He's just...
Looking. Staring... fixing me fucking rigid.
It comes together in a flash, but by then it's too late.
BZZZZT!
Danny tries to cry out as some massive impact slams into his back but the sound is killed off in his throat. The 25,000 volts blasting through him in an instant probably have something to do with it, but he never has the time to wonder. He just slumps heavily to the floor, eyes open but unseeing, lights out.
Behind him, Pablo Herrera grins as he lowers the stun gun in his hands, always impressed by the little bastard. He'd seen the biggest men on the block fold like spastics when it hit them, and as an added advantage, it had a pretty impressive range. Danny had never even heard him, although the tennis shoes definitely helped.
"Get him in the car."
(ps. i ended this in the middle of the paragraph, but it works.)
(pps. not too much sound effects in here. hope it's better.)
(ppps. sorry it's long again.)
User Reviews
Submitted by paint_it_black (user info) at 2006-09-19 01:02:41 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Bob_Dole (user info) at 2006-09-17 05:54:34 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Bob Dole is only sorry he didn't find this series when it started!
Excellent stuff.
Submitted by Allyson (user info) at 2006-09-15 23:57:45 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
next installment will be up in aprox 20 minutes.
i know you are all on edge... i mean, wow. look at all those comments last time.
fuck, i'm putting the rest of it. (about 30 pages more or less, haven't counted.)
get ready for a long ass read.
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2006-09-15 19:03:44 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by consuelo212 (user info) at 2006-09-15 09:44:05 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I didn't read it, but I'm sure it was really good.
Submitted by St_Jimmy (user info) at 2006-09-15 08:42:43 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I love this damn story!
Submitted by Spacegrass (user info) at 2006-09-15 08:10:38 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
This was good. I'm not sure I believe someone as competent as the Danny character gets hit in the back by a stun gun from a person he saw and identified as a possible threat.
Submitted by bcm (user info) at 2006-09-15 07:44:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I think all of these are wicked. I'm really enjoying them.
Keep up the good work.
Submitted by supadupapupa (user info) at 2006-09-15 03:44:27 EDT (#)
Ranking: -1
It was a little hard to read due to the formatting and a little boring.
Submitted by Allyson (user info) at 2006-09-15 03:18:32 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
fucking read this.
Submitted by Allyson (user info) at 2006-09-15 01:36:57 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
i'm a happy drunk.
it's fun.
and i don't care if i camp in my post, and watch the non comments come... cause i'm drunk.
in the morning i'll be pissed, but now it's time for some "Scud Light" aka Bud light. It's the only beer in the house, and my Jagermeister is all gone. :(
drunken nights online are teh l33t ( i don't know what i just said.)
Submitted by stok (user info) at 2006-09-15 01:28:54 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
HOORAY!!!!!!!!!!
Submitted by Allyson (user info) at 2006-09-15 01:27:19 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
hey! I have one of those too.
:)
Submitted by stok (user info) at 2006-09-15 01:20:33 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Allyson (user info) at 2006-09-15 01:17:40 (#)
Ranking: 0
???
you give a -2 and then No comment?
i can't get better if you don't tell me.
_________
i was just being a cunt.
Submitted by Allyson (user info) at 2006-09-15 01:17:40 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
???
you give a -2 and then No comment?
i can't get better if you don't tell me.
Submitted by stok (user info) at 2006-09-15 01:14:16 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
No Comment