Chapter 15

Clay walked into a dark alley toward the back entrance of Vincent’s convenience store. His headache pounded, but he’d have to deal with it later. Vincent was clear—drop off the money tonight or else.

He stepped over a puddle and tightened his grip on the bag of cash, thinking about the clerk struggling to breathe. He’d shot him, and now the poor guy was probably going to die.

Nausea rolled through his gut.

He stopped and put a hand on his stomach. If that clerk died, he’d probably feel sick for the rest of his life. “And I’ll deserve it,” he thought as he began to walk again.

Open apartment windows, back door exit signs, and the occasional safety light bolted above a steel-reinforced fire door cast weak circles of light as he moved down the alley. Clay stayed in the light when he could. Even with a pistol shoved in his waistband, he kept his distance from the darkness pooled along the edges of the alley. It made him uneasy.

He slowed. The back entrance to Vincent’s store was at the end of the alley. The light above the door was either burned out or turned off. It was pure dark down there. He wiped his clammy hands on his pants, slipped his pistol from his waistband and crept forward.

He strained to see the door that led into Vincent’s store. It had to be there, but the darkness was so complete he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face.

A rustling sound rose behind him.

He lifted his pistol. A breeze caressed the back of his legs. He spun around. “Who’s there?” he said.

Voices murmured.

“You escaped us.”

“But we can still take you.”

“Come with us.”

His gaze swept the darkness. The voices sounded like static molded into words.

Threads of panic gathered, tightening every fiber in him.

Something cold bumped the back of his leg.

He spun and fired his pistol. Even with his ears ringing from the shot, he could’ve sworn he heard a static storm of laughter. Light cleaved the darkness as the door to Vincent’s store screeched open. Something nosed Clay’s ankle. He kicked it and ran toward the outline of a man standing in the open doorway.

A gun jammed his ribs as he made it to the door. The man holding the gun was Vincent. His dark hair was slicked back, and the smell of cigar smoke surrounded him. He pulled Clay inside.

“What the hell are you doing?” said Vincent.

Clay shoved his gun into his pants at the small of his back. “Close the door, Mr. Vincent,” he said. “Something’s out there and—just close the door—please.”

Vincent shoved Clay into the back hall. An older guy in a white dress shirt with forearms as big as bowling pins stepped by him and slammed the door shut. Another man in a black turtleneck stepped in front of the closed door. He was younger, maybe late twenties. His turtleneck was a second skin on his muscled chest and arms. Long dark hair, clean shaven and big jawed. Women probably loved this guy until they saw his eyes. They were shark’s eyes. Clay could tell this guy strangled kittens for fun.

Vincent jammed the gun into Clay’s ribs, pushing him toward the two men. “Hold him for me,” he said.

The older guy grabbed Clay’s right shoulder, the guy in the turtleneck grabbed his left. Their grips were steel vises.

Vincent gestured with the gun as he said, “I told you to make sure no one sees you coming here, didn’t I? You figure firing a gun behind my store won’t bring attention? Are you stupid?”

Clay felt the hands on his shoulders bear down. Any more pressure and he’d be on his knees. He could feel the gun tucked in the back of his pants but there was no way he could get to it. The pain in his shoulders made him forget about his pounding headache.

“But someone’s out there Mr. Vincent,” he said. He reached in his coat and pulled out the bag of money. “With all this money of yours, I figured shoot first and ask questions later.”

Vincent stared at Clay. His brow furrowed. “Someone’s out there? In the alley?”

Clay nodded. “I swear. They’re right outside your door.”

“You see anyone out there when we opened the door, Benji?”

The Hercules in the turtleneck grunted, “Nah. Door was only open a second before Freeman ran in here like a little girl.”

The older guy added, “Looked like something scared him.”

Vincent jabbed a finger toward the older guy. “I didn’t ask if he was scared. I asked if you saw anybody. Did you?”

“I didn’t get a good look.”

Clay watched Vincent raise on tiptoe to get in the older guy’s face and say, “Well, go get a good look.”

Vincent yanked the back door open, slamming it against the wall. “Search the whole alley. And if you see anyone…” Vincent shook his fist. “Say hello for me.”

Clay wanted to tell the older guy to stay out of the dark—that something was out there. But he knew he’d sound crazy, so he just watched Vincent usher him outside and close the door.

“Let’s go in my office,” said Vincent. “And wipe that look off your face, Freeman. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Johnny’ll take care of whoever’s out there.”

~

Vincent poured a glass of Remy Martin and pushed it in front of Clay. Sitting in front of Vincent’s desk, Clay looked around the office. It was wood-paneled and smelled of cigars. Three bare fluorescent tubes glowed from a ceiling fixture. A green area rug covered the floor. A painting behind Vincent’s desk showed a city street wet with rain. An old, black, depression-era car tore down that street with a guy hanging out the side, shooting a machine gun at a pursuing cop car. Books and a few photos sat on the shelves behind Vincent’s desk. One photo showed Vincent standing next to two men on grass so green it didn’t look real. The three of them had golf bags slung over their shoulders and cigars clamped in their teeth. Vincent held up a roll of cash and a golf ball.

Clay lifted the glass of liquor and took a sip that spread heat into his belly.

Vincent leaned forward in his big leather chair. “Good, isn’t it?” he said.

“Sure,” said Clay.

Vincent settled back. “Glad you’re enjoying it. Now hand that money over.”

Clay gave him the grocery bag and pushed his chair back, getting ready to leave. Vincent waved. “Sit down,” he said. “Relax for a minute.”

Clay sipped his drink as he watched Vincent count the money. Finished, Vincent put the money back in the bag. “Good job,” he said, rolling down the top of the grocery bag. “It’s all here.”

Clay grabbed the arms of his chair and started to stand.

“Benji!” Vincent yelled. “Go see what’s taking Johnny so long, will you?”

Clay lowered back into his seat. He heard the steel security door grate open as Benji went looking for Johnny. Vincent eyed him. “So, my clerk’s dead, huh?” he asked.

Clay nodded. “Yeah. I think Danny’s dead.” Cold swept over him. How’d he know the clerk’s name?

“What do you mean, you ‘think’ he’s dead? Either he’s dead or he’s not.”

Clay straightened, rigid in his seat.

Vincent leaned forward, his eyes hard. “Well, which is it? Is he dead or not?”

Clay crossed his arms, trying to get his thoughts straight. The butt of his pistol pinched his lower back. “He wasn’t dead when I left him,” he said. “Didn’t look good but he was still breathing.”

“What the hell?” Vincent said, pushing his chair back to stand. “So, what happens if he comes out of this and tells the police about you robbing and shooting him? I’ll tell you what happens—he’ll pick you out of one of their ex-con books. And then they’ll walk door-to-door with your picture until someone remembers seeing me let you in here tonight. And you can bet one of the nosey old ladies around here saw me let you in after you shot up my back alley. Godammit.”

Vincent ran his hands through his hair. Clay shifted forward in his seat to take his weight off the pistol digging into his lower back. Vincent came around the desk toward him. For a split second, Clay thought Vincent was going to wrap his hands around his throat and strangle him. But Vincent walked past and stepped into the hall, yelling, “Benji! Johnny! Over here! Now!”

Clay pulled Danny’s watch and wallet out of his pockets and put them on the desk. “I got these off Danny,” he said. “We should probably get rid of this stuff.”

Vincent looked over his shoulder and raised his eyebrows. “Get that out of here—don’t you know anything about DNA?”

The back door screeched open. The phone on Vincent’s desk rang.

“Put that stuff back in your pockets and answer the phone,” Vincent said. “It’s probably my wife. Tell her I’m in the middle of something and I’ll get back to her.”

Clay put Danny’s wallet and watch in his coat pocket. He reached for the phone and then stopped, watching Johnny and Benji cram in the hallway next to Vincent. The two men talked in hushed tones to Vincent, gesturing toward the back door. The phone rang again. Vincent turned toward Clay and said, “Didn’t I tell you to answer that?”

Clay froze as Vincent and his two men stared at him. It looked like they were thinking hard. Especially the older guy, Johnny. His jaw was clamped shut and a strand of hair was out of place, waving back and forth over his sweaty forehead. The younger guy, Benji, had a crazy light in his eyes, his biceps tightening as he folded his arms over his chest. Clay sipped his Remy Martin, feeling it burn its way into his gut. He picked up the phone. The woman on the other end sounded frantic.

“Danny! You have to come over to Metro Central right now. Something’s wrong with Joseph. They just took him from me, but I…I…”

The lady hadn’t even given him a chance to say hello before she started crying. He heard Vincent say something, then yell something, but he didn’t pay any attention. The lady’s voice jarred something loose in his head. He pulled out the wallet he’d taken from Danny. He took out the driver’s license and stared at Danny’s photo. Strange, familiar images filled his mind.

Shooting Danny.

Getting shot.

Being back in the store.

That dark thing coming for them.

Danny’s cousin Gloria saving them.

And doing it all with the man on the driver’s license—Danny. He’d faced that dark thing with him. Danny had given him the money so he could pay his debt to Vincent. And Danny’s kid, Joseph, was in the hospital and not doing well, based on what the woman just said. The woman’s voice broke his train of thought.

“I’m sorry I’m crying Danny, but I can’t help it. How fast can you get to the hospital? I need you. Danny? Say something, please.”

Dropping the driver’s license on the desk, Clay pulled out the watch he’d taken from Danny. He turned it over. There was an inscription on the back.

“Love Always ~ Linda.”

He mouthed the words, then talked into the phone.

“Danny isn’t here, Linda, but I’ll make sure he gets the message. He told me your boy was sick. I’ll make sure he gets there.”

He hung up before she had a chance to respond. Vincent’s voice crashed over him. “You deaf or something? I asked who that was!”

Clay looked up. Vincent was in the doorway, looking in at him in disbelief. Benji and Johnny hovered behind him.

The old guy, Johnny, put a hand in the pocket of his suit coat. “Who’s in the alley? One of your low life friends? If I catch him, he’s done. He’s gonna learn what happens to people who creep around in the shadows, whispering my name, saying they’re coming for me.”

Clay picked up the phone. “I’m calling an ambulance. Danny might still be alive, and his wife is waiting for him at the hospital. His kid’s sick.”

Vincent charged into the office and slapped the phone out of his hand. “You’re dead!” he screamed. “I’m not leaving Danny or your dumb ass walking around to talk to the DA about insurance fraud, or how I set up the robbery. Kiss your life goodbye and say hi to Danny on your way to hell, you dumb—”

A loud bang put a period on Vincent’s rant.

Clay watched Vincent’s mouth work for air. More bangs filled the room. Vincent fell, his forehead knocking into the desk and some part of him making a crunching sound—probably his ankle or knee—as he crumpled into a heap.

The smell of gunpowder hung in the air. Clay looked at the smoking gun in his hand. He didn’t remember yanking the gun out or pulling the trigger. Another bang. Something buzzed by his face. Looking up, he saw Johnny aiming for another shot while Benji peered around the edge of the doorframe. Johnny squeezed the trigger. A bullet splintered the wood paneling behind Vincent’s desk.

Clay swung his pistol toward Johnny and pulled the trigger. Johnny’s hands flew up as the bullets hit him. His pistol pinwheeled through the air. He grabbed Benji, pulling him into the office as he staggered. Clay watched the two men slam into the wall, cracking the flimsy paneling. Gut-shot, Johnny grabbed and clawed at Benji.

Benji shoved Johnny away. He pulled a gun from his ankle holster. The barrel flashed with a bang. Clay spun sideways, feeling a tug on the side of his neck. He heard another bang and a second bullet zipped by, missing him. He touched his neck. It burned.

Johnny staggered back into Benji, giving Clay a moment to aim. Benji ducked behind Johnny, using him as a shield. Clay squeezed the trigger as fast as he could.

Bullets tracked along Johnny’s chest and stomach. Puffs of blood exploded into the air with each bullet’s impact. Clay pulled the trigger until the hammer clicked against an empty chamber. Johnny collapsed to the floor. Still on his feet, Benji stared at Clay. Then blooms of red spread across his torso where the bullets had passed through Johnny into his flesh. He fell face-first on top of his fallen friend.

Clay dropped his gun. He looked at the bodies. “Sorry, but you didn’t give me a choice,” he whispered.

He looked for the phone. The phone line ran under Vincent’s lifeless body. Clay rolled him off the phone and then dialed 911. The dispatcher asked what his emergency was. He took a deep breath before answering, then said, “My friend got shot and needs an ambulance. He’s in the park downtown, across from 140th and Delaware.”

The side of his neck burned where the bullet nicked him. Warm blood trickled down his neck. He propped a hand under his jaw. “Tell the driver he’s on the jogging path. I’ll meet him there.”

Clay hung up and started to walk out of the room, and then turned and walked back to the desk. He grabbed the bag of money and shoved it into the front of his jacket. On his way out, he looked at Vincent.

He’d killed him. But, unlike Danny, Vincent deserved it. Vincent was a bad guy. He ruined lives for a living. His death wasn’t going to haunt Clay. Not one bit.

Clay walked out of the office and then down the hall toward the back door. He’d killed Vincent—that was a good thing. But if he hurried, he might be able to do an even better thing.

He still might be able to save Danny.

He shoved the back door open, stepped into the alley, and broke into a run. Danny’s wife and son needed him. If there was one thing Clay could do with his crummy life, it would be to save that man. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he was sure.

If Danny died because of him, he’d never be able to forgive himself.

Saving Danny was the only way he could save himself.