I sure do appreciate you following along.
Billy lives in a world none of us will ever know. Heck, it may not exist at all, but that’s what makes it enjoyable. There are all kinds of justice. This story highlights Billy’s justice system. You won’t find it in the Constitution or for that matter any jurisprudence text…but it’s highly effective.
So let’s see what our anti-hero is up to this week.
While Genna was cleaning her wounds I was left to move two bodies into a car and then change two tires. Poor planning on my part. If I’d thought it through I would have never slashed those tires before killing Jake and his goon. Oh well, thems the breaks, as they say in the Hood.
Two slashed tires and one spare. I was cussing myself a blue streak as I contemplated the latest problem. The snow drifted down with renewed vengeance. The cold infiltrated my coat and set my teeth to chattering. Two slashed tires and one spare. Jesus H. Christ! Christ on a crutch, my old man would say. Whatcha going to do now, you crazy Mick bastard? This had always been my problem, react first and think second. You’d think, just once, I’d get it right and use my brain first.
There’s no fixin’ the unfixable! Another of my old man’s sayings. The bodies would have to go in our car. The disabled car would have to sit in the driveway while we took care of immediate concerns. I could explain away a disabled car. There was no way to shuck and jive a cop about two bodies with my bullets in them.
I grabbed Jake by his wrists and pulled him outside, down the steps, sixty feet across the yard to our car. I opened up the trunk as sweat poured off me and snow whitened my hair. I wrestled him up over the bumper, pushed, shoved, cussed and cajoled until he was tucked nice and neat inside, then slammed the damn trunk shut. One down, the light one. His buddy was considerably bigger but there was no getting around the inevitable. It had to be done.
Sixty feet back to the porch, into the house, grab the big bastard by the wrists and start the second wrestling match with the dead. The good news is my heart was pounding and his never would again. The bad news, well, there was so much of it I refused to concentrate on it. I got him to the porch when Genna emerged from the bathroom and joined me there. Just then a bug buzzed by my ear. Strange, I thought, a bug in December, middle of a snowstorm. Then another plucked at the sleeve of my jacket.
Bullets….silencer…it’s one of those times when memory kicks in immediately….Hawthorne Street, 2002, shootout between two drug dealers, you don’t forget that buzzing sound. I looked out into the yard and saw some big mother approaching from the road, arm extended, fully intent on blowing my damn head off. Time slows in those situations. I clearly saw the car parked along the road, clearly saw his buddy stepping out of the driver’s side. Two hostiles approaching, drop the wrists, grab Genna and dive into the house just as another bullet hit the doorframe. I slammed the door shut.
From the frying pan into the fire.
The Bad Guys Never Forget
You can take that to the bank, my friends. The bad guys have long memories. Do them a bad and they will hunt you down until the end of time. My quick glimpse at the two gorillas approaching the house told me Russians. They had the classic eastern European look to them, plus they were shooting Makarov pistols, the favorite weapon of Ivan, their former boss, who I had gunned down a few months earlier in Washington Heights, splattering his brainpan across the pirozhki he was eating in Petra’s Café.
For whatever reason, the thought crossed my mind that I wouldn’t be making it to work by eight-thirty.
Genna was holding onto my arm. I could feel her shaking. I knew the feeling.
“Is there ever a day, Billy, when someone isn’t shooting at you?”
“Hey, that’s not fair. We’ve had a good month of tedium before today. Granted, this one is a dandy but hey, one out of thirty? That’s not bad. Now, I’d love to chat further, but right now I think I need to take care of our unwanted guests.”
What were the odds? Her pissed-off husband and the Russians on the same day; I half-expected to see the Mexicans pull into the driveway to join in the festivities.
Another of those lessons from my crazy-Mick father came to mind. “Billy,” he once told me. “When the pricks have you cornered and your escape route is gone, strap on some balls and take it to the bastards. Crazy will beat skilled any damn day.” I doubted the vodka-swilling Neanderthals outside were skilled marksman. The Russian mob doesn’t have basic training. Usually you are accepted into the mob if you meet two requirements: you are Russian and you are willing to kill. Simple as that. Swear allegiance and they hand you a Makarov. Decision-making is not their strong suit. Military tactics are for trained soldiers and not the Russians.
Take it to the bastards. Crazy beats skilled.
I pulled out my Glock, checked to make sure I had a full load and kissed Genna on the forehead.
“Stay down. I’ll be right back.”
I took a quick peek out the front window. The two idiots were grouped together, three feet apart, walking towards the house with guns extended, about fifteen feet between them and us. Now or never. I yanked open the door, extended arm and gun and started firing. The element of surprise is worth one second at worst, two seconds if you’re lucky. I was lucky. They never expected the door to open. They sure as hell never expected one-hundred and eighty pounds of crazy Irish to approach them shooting. My first bullet gut-shot the guy on the left. The second bullet missed. Damn adrenaline. The third hit the guy on the right in the arm. Three more bugs buzzed by me. Mister Gut-Shot was down. My head shot kept him down. Fifteen degree turn to the right, blow out the heart of the second guy. Elapsed time, six seconds, five bullets, one miss.
Take a deep breath. Assess the damage. The countryside was quiet. The snow continued to fall. The door behind me opened and Genna rushed to me. Her arms wrapped around my waist.
“Oh my God, you are a crazy Mick bastard. Oh, shit, you’re bleeding, Billy.”
True enough. Evidently, one of those bugs didn’t miss. The sight of my own blood jumpstarted my nerve-endings and my right arm started to throb. I checked it. I was grazed. It was bleeding like a stuck pig but I’d live.
“No time to worry about that now, Genna. We’ve got a few things we need to deal with, like four dead bodies and two cars, none of which we can explain away to the authorities.”
“So what do we do?” Damn, she was a beautiful woman. Her large eyes were pleading with me for an answer as the snow layered upon her caramel skin.
“Again with that damned question, Genna. Well, here’s the thing, darlin’. We can’t stay here. The best we can do is arrange the stage and make it look like a gunfight gone bad between your husband, his friend and the two Russians. Go pack the suitcases while I do my best to make this believable to the cops.”
Setting the Stage
Genna headed upstairs to pack. I spent ten minutes dragging Jake and his friend back into the house. I put my Glock in the hand of Jake’s friend, fit his finger around the trigger and pulled. The bullet went harmlessly into the kitchen cabinet. Next I took his gun and put it in my waistband. My gun was unregistered. For awhile it would look like Jake’s buddy had shot the Russians and Jake and died from return fire.
Next I went outside and picked up one of the Makarov pistols, took it back inside and shot Jake and his buddy with it. Took it back outside and put it next to the Russian. The snow was doing a fine job of covering the drag marks and footprints. To a sharp forensic team, what I was doing was merely a delay tactic. Once they found two types of bullets in Jake and his friend, suspicion would then turn to Genna and me, but we had used aliases so there would be another delay as they sorted it all out, if they ever did. I know this is hard to believe, but I’ve never been finger-printed. If the same was true of Genna then we just might tiptoe out of this cluster.
I checked the wallets of all four men. That netted us nine-hundred and forty bucks.
Was it perfect? Hell no, but my life was littered with imperfections. All Genna and I needed was time to put some distance between us and Mount Pleasant, Iowa.
On the Road Again
By nine-thirty Genna and I were in our car leaving the scene. The snow continued to cover the carnage. From the road it simply looked like two cars parked. The bodies were already covered by a blanket of white, the sins of the morning disappearing from view.
“Where are we heading, Billy?”
“Well, evidently we didn’t go far enough west. How about we try the real west, Montana or Wyoming, one of those “ah shucks” states where guys wear cowboy boots and chew Red Man?
“Will the day ever come, Billy, when we don’t have to run?” Those damn eyes were pleading with me again.
“I don’t know, Genna. That’s the truth. All I know is the next time they send someone, they better send more than two. I’m slightly insulted by that last weak-assed attempt. Now let’s eat up some highway. We’ll take state highways instead of the interstate, straight across Iowa and Nebraska. We should be in Wyoming for breakfast.
Yes, It Will Be Continued
I’m too intrigued by this story to end it now. Let’s see how many bodies Billy can rack up as he sees the U.S.A., shall we? Thanks for stopping by, and if you see a crazy Mick bastard with a stunning black woman, it might be a good idea to give them a wide berth. Just sayin’
2015 William D. Holland (aka billybuc)