I stepped out of the door and the night began to squeeze in around me. I shrugged my coat tighter around me as I began to feel the cold air trying to match my mood and the feeling I had inside my chest.
I stalked towards my car, trying to pretend that I didn’t feel the victim back in that storeroom, calling me, piling guilt on top of the righteous anger that I had brewing.
I knew that it was going to be a one in a million shot at finding Jack. That fable the dead scumwad fed me was probably a load of crap, but it was all I had.
I reached my car and got in without seeing a soul. Pulling onto the road I pointed the hood towards Smithson and dropped the hammer on the throttle. Raymond Cabrese was on my mind
I had been tracking him for years both in Narcotics division and Organized Crime. I had never found a solid lead that was prosecutable. He tended to blend in with the crowd and disappear at the most inopportune moments.
As I reached the border of Smithson, I slowed, not wanting the police to pull me over. This job was not on the books. It was personal. I couldn’t avoid backlash from this one if I screwed up. The guy in the storeroom may be mystery for a while, but they would be able to match my pistol with ballistics sooner or later.
I didn’t care. I was going to find Jack Regan if it was the last thing I did, with or without help. Knowing Cabrese, this would be the last thing I did.
From a quick perusal of the phone book at a dirty Shell station I knew there were 3 rest homes that covered this part of the state. The first turned out to be empty when I pounded on the front door.
As I pulled up to the second, I knew I was in the right place. Armed guards covered the doors. Cameras were everywhere. This wasn’t going to be pretty. I kept driving past the place so that I could ready myself. I stopped, got out and retrieved the bullet proof vest from the trunk.
I took a deep breath while Velcroing it into place. I inventoried my weapons. I had 4 magazines for the .45 each full with 10 rounds on my belt. There were 9 left in the weapon itself. I had 25 shotgun shells in the backseat that I retrieved and stuck in my jacket pockets. The shotgun was under the seat, a sawed off 12 gauge pump that few knew about. It is amazing how many illegal weapons cops end up with.
I was ready. I drove back to the rest home and pulled into the lot. I parked on the left side of the door. The guards there tensed visibly, watching my every move. I turned off the ignition and flipped the switch to keep the dome light off. I grabbed the shotgun all the while watching the guards. They hadn’t moved.
I flung open the door and stood up pointing the shotgun over the top of the car. I fired twice hitting both guards and killing them instantly. I waited for more to come. I heard no one. I eased around the car being led by the shotgun and saw no one.
I came to the door, ready to fire and again, no one was there. I entered, looking all around for bad guys. I didn’t run into one until the main corridor, 20 feet from the door. He looked startled and reached for his shoulder holster as my shotgun screamed at him to stop. 12 gauge shot is meant to be listened to.
I continued down the hallway in the flickering fluorescent light, dispatching justice to one more of Cabrese’s men with the shotgun. Suddenly, someone looped a length on nylon cord around my neck and pulled. I began to choke and dropped the shotgun. One hand fumbled with rope while the other scrabbled for my pistol. My air was gone and I was thrashing to try and dislodge the person trying to kill me.
My fingers hit the tab holding my .45 in its holster. I unsnapped it and drew the pistol. I was passing out but the guy behind me was dead, he just hadn’t realized it yet. I pointed to the side of my ribcage, and pulled the trigger. The muzzle flash seared my flesh as the bullet streaked to the bad guy. The rope loosened immediately and I fell to the floor gasping, still looking for more.
