Take Me, Outlaw(71)

Growler nodded and reached out, the chalk trembling in his fingers. I searched my memory, and with a sinking feeling, I remembered that Growler had always poured drinks with his right hand. Fuck, he lost his best hand. Writing with the left one will be a bitch.



His handwriting was awkward and slanted, but the word he wrote was clear: Vole.



Another cheer roared through the bar and I felt a cold satisfaction in my gut, knowing that the rotten rodent who started this whole stupid war was out of the picture for good.



The chalk fell from Growler's fingers. Bard picked up it and it looked like he was about to put it in Growler's hand again, but Giggles tapped Bard on the shoulder and took the chalk from him. “That's enough,” Giggles said. “I need to start working on him now. If you've got more questions, you can ask them after I've stabilized him, assuming that I can.”



Bard nodded and Giggles directed the three Reapers to help him carry Growler to one of the back rooms. The Reapers broke off into groups, sitting at tables and drinking toasts to Growler as they traded favorite memories of him.



“I wish I'd had the chance to ask him about where he was being held,” Bard said quietly. “If it's the same place Giovanni's holed up, we could go there in force and try to end this now.”



“Yeah, but what are the odds that it is?” I asked. “Giovanni's got plenty of places all over. Houses, buildings, businesses. Maybe he came in to watch the torture now and then. Big G is a sick asshole, so it wouldn't surprise me. But staying there full-time when he knows we're looking for him? It doesn't seem likely.”



“You're probably right,” Bard conceded. “Still, even knowing where they were holding Growler could give us clues about where Giovanni's been hiding out.”



I heard loud shouting outside, followed by gunshots. The Reapers sprang into action, brandishing their weapons and heading for the door.



Both of the Reapers out front were dead. Their bodies were sprawled on the pavement and riddled with bullets.



Three cars were idling in front of the Nest, all of them filled with Bonaccorso soldiers. Four of them were shaking out large jugs of clear liquid over our bikes. The smell immediately confirmed that it was gasoline.



We opened fire on the four men as they ducked back to their cars. One of them was hit in the shoulder as he reached the back door of the first car, and his friends pulled him inside as the car started forward.



Another of them caught a bullet in the back of the head and tumbled forward, his face bouncing off the trunk of the second car. It left a bloody smear as he slumped to the ground lifelessly. The car accelerated, following the first one as it pulled away from the Nest.



The third and fourth men made it to the safety of the last car in time, slamming the rear doors behind them. A man leaned out of the back window as the car lurched forward after the other two. I recognized him as Tommy Bone-Saw, the Bonaccorsos' favorite enforcer. With bullets from our guns flying around his head, he produced a Molotov cocktail, lit it, and hurled it at the row of bikes. A shot from my .38 grazed his ear and he yowled with pain, pulling his head back into the car as it sped away.



The bottle shattered and the flames instantly consumed the bikes as we all watched in horror. Rubber tires burst and melted. Leather seats crackled. Coats of paint were reduced to charcoal. Smoke billowed into the sky.



My beautiful Lola was burning. Just watching her in flames made my guts feel like they were being squeezed in a fist. After everything we'd been through together, all the repairs I'd made to her after the chases and crashes, I had always believed we'd be together forever.



Bard grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me hard, snapping me out of it. “Get the cleaning buckets inside! Get water!”



I ran back into the Nest as three Reapers came out holding fire extinguishers. They blasted the bikes with white foam, trying to control the blaze. I could see that it wouldn't be enough. Boomer had already filled the big yellow bucket that came with the mop in the supply closet. He was carrying it back, cradling it against his chest as the water slopped over into the floor.



I ran to the supply closet and found two more buckets. I handed one to a dazed-looking prospect. He looked like he'd never seen a fire in person before. “Here, fill this up at the bar and go toss it on the fire.”



He took the bucket, looking at it uncertainly. “Okay, umm...then what should I do?”



“Come back and do it again! Jesus!” I yelled, running my own bucket into the bathroom. I filled it in the sink, cursing the water for flowing so slowly. When the bucket was finally full, I carried it out to the sidewalk and splashed it on the remaining flames. Other Reapers had taken the trash cans from all of the rooms in the Nest, and they were pouring more water over the fire.



A crowd of people had gathered in front of the Nest to watch the excitement. Some were homeless, while others looked like they were students at the nearby university. Many of the younger ones were using their phones to either call 9-1-1 or shoot video of the fire. I saw a middle-aged black man wearing an old brown suit and a bow tie. He held a folded newspaper under his arm, and his eyes were wide as he surveyed the damage the flames had done.



We finally managed to get the fire under control just as the police cars and fire trucks pulled up.



“It seems that Giovanni is unhappy about Growler's early release,” Bard said. His tone was mild, but he was staring forlornly at the blackened heap that used to be his Black Shadow.



“Fuck,” I hissed. “Now we've got a shoot-out, three dead guys, and a fire to explain to the cops, plus the chopped up Growler in the back. We're not getting out of this one. They've done it. The goddamn Bonaccorsos have finally screwed us.”



“Maybe not,” Bard answered. “Give me a moment.” He slipped back into the Nest, pulling his cell phone from his pocket and dialing it.



Unless you've got God's direct number saved on that thing, we're officially fucked, I thought. The cops were already lining Reapers up and asking what happened as the firemen made sure the bikes were really done burning.



When they ask what this is all about, what the hell am I supposed to tell them? “Gee, officer, a bunch of kids just came by and torched our bikes. Probably some kind of prank, right? What? What bodies? Oh, you mean those bodies with all the bullets in them? That's funny, I don't remember seeing them there before. What's that? I have the right to remain silent?”



A few minutes later, an unmarked police car pulled up. The driver's-side door opened and a cadaverous-looking man with close-cropped gray hair stepped out. He wore an expensive suit, and he had a long scar over his right eye. It took me a moment to recognize him since I'd only seen his picture in the newspapers before, and he'd been wearing his uniform in every photo.



It was Hollis Grady, the Deputy Superintendent of Police.



He strode over to the lieutenant in charge and spoke with him for several minutes. The lieutenant was clearly confused and angry about what he was being told, but Grady seemed to hold his ground. Finally, the lieutenant threw his hands in the air in a gesture of helpless fury and stomped away, ordering the other cops to return to their cars. Slowly, the uniformed cops broke up the crowd of bystanders and withdrew from the crime scene, their patrol cars pulling away one by one. The firemen did one last check to make sure the fire wouldn't start up again, and then they drove away too.



When Grady was the only one left, Bard came out of the Nest. Grady walked over to him, speaking through clenched teeth. “The coroner will be along soon to collect the bodies. They won't be asking you any questions about them, and the official report will state that these corpses were found elsewhere. The fire and gunshots will be filed as random mayhem, and no charges will be brought against any of your for the illegal weapons you're obviously hoarding and carrying.”



Bard extended his hand. “Thank you so much, Hollis—”



Grady smacked the hand aside. He raised his index finger, furiously jabbing it at Bard's face with every heated word. “Don't. Fucking don't. Just look me in the goddamn eye and tell me that we're square now.”



Bard nodded. “You have my word that we're square. And again, thank you.”



“Fuck your word, and fuck your thank you,” Grady spat. “Get this straight, Bard. If I ever get a call like this from you again, I'll step in and you'll wish I hadn't. I'll do my damndest to ensure that every cop who catches someone wearing a Reaper patch will make them eat it, and then I'll plant enough drugs on them to guaran-fucking-tee a mandatory 50-year stretch. Are we clear?”



“We're clear, Hollis,” Bard agreed evenly.



“That's Deputy Superintendent Grady to you from now on,” Grady said. “Don't forget it.”



Grady stalked back to his car and got behind the wheel, driving away. I turned to Bard and raised my eyebrows. “That was a pretty neat trick.”



Bard took off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked like he had a hell of a headache, and I couldn't blame him. “A bit of a one-off, I'm afraid,” he said sadly. “He was my commander in Delta. One night, he was pinned down by a squad of Iraqi soldiers and I saved him. He said that he owed me, and ever since then we've met for drinks a couple of times a year. We kept our history quiet for obvious reasons.”