Part 7 (the end) from ttaylordude’s Twitter novel.
“Mr. Gantt, I have something for you,” said Kamal. He held a gym bag. Gus could see he was carrying a weapon. He figured that much.
“What’s that?” said Gus, gripping his .45 tightly at his side, kicking the bag gently. “I’m tired of this mysterious shit. Lay it out.”
“A young lady will meet you here. Just give her the bag,” said Kamal. “All of this will end after that.” Kamal slid the bag closer.
Gus made no effort to pick it up. “This should have ended a while before now,” he said. “But it will end right here one way or another.”
Kamal stared at the bag. Gus stared at Kamal. The bag did not interest Gus; Kamal was his focus, especially his eyes and hands.
“Yes, Mr. Gantt, you are right,” said Kamal. “It will end right here.”
“You could take it and leave, said Kamal. “There’s $250,000 in there. Cash. I know what I’d do.”
“”Why didn’t you do it then?” said Gus. “You had the chance. You drove up with it. 250 grand? Why didn’t you just keep driving?”
“That money’s not mine. The people who sent it wanted it here intact,” said Kamal. “I got it here.” He lifted a gaze across the lake. “Intact.”
“What you do with it is your business. Give it to the girl or keep it. I did my job,” said Kamal. Gus waited. He knew there was more, he gauged when it would start.
Gravel crumbled under their shoes as they shifted their weights, bracing. “Who the hell are you and who do you work for?” said Gus.
“You’re not a cop anymore, Mr.Gantt, so don’t act like one,” said Kamal. “You’re just like me, a screwdriver in a toolbox – expendable.
“Not being a cop makes it easier to kill you,” said Gus. “That will end it, at least your part of it. One less screwdriver.”
“Where’s Jimmy?” said Kamal. It was the only question that made him nervous.
“Dead,” said Gus. “Shot at the funeral home today. Is that what you want to hear?”
“You’re to casual to have just lost your father in a shootout,” said Kamal, studying Gus’ face. “You’re not a good liar like your brother.”
“You have the look of a guy who shouldn’t use an Uzi without adult supervision,” said Gus.
“You have the look of a dumb-ass who couldn’t keep his brother from walking into an easy ambush in his own front yard,” said Kamal.
Gus digested the clear implication. He considered shooting Kamal on the spot, but he knew there were others nearby.
“All of this over a dead pimp?” said Gus. “So when does Jolene show up?”
“It’s not about a dead pimp, it’s about everything,” said Kamal. “We’re all connected. It’s like catching a cold, pretty soon, everybody has it.”
“Everybody. Even people who aren’t connected to this?” said Gus.
“We’re all connected, carbon footprints, the rain falls on the good and the bad, you know how it lands. Like Unc and his wife,” said Kamal. “Glenie, was her name, right? Just happened into the machine. The machine gets fed. Life goes on.”
Gus brought his .45 up level with Kamal’s face, not three feet away. “Let’s see if the machine is impressed by how fast I can empty this clip.”
“Unc got two men with that antique rifle of his,” said Kamal, having stared down the barrel of his share of weapons before.
“Maybe Unc missed you,” said Gus. “ But I won’t.”
“I won’t miss either one of you,” said Jolene, leaning behind a pine, elbows locked, her 9 mm aimed at Kamal’s head. Gus and Kamal turned slowly to see her. Kamal had wondered where she was. Gus finally got to meet Jolene in person.
‘Why play this out?’ thought Gus. Just shoot the son-of-a-bitch and be done with it. Then shoot the girl too. Lock it all up. Someone was going to die right here, he knew that. It might be him if he was careless or if Jimmy missed. Everyone within 10 feet had a gun.
He cut his eyes from Kamal to Jolene. Jolene alternated the 9 mm between both men. She did not look picky about which one she might shoot.
“Jolene,” said Gus. “Put down the gun and let’s all work this out.” The cop in him was hard to erase. He knew his words were useless.
“You’ll be the first to go,” she said. “Then I’ll cap this asshole before he can even turn. Keep screwing around, both of you will be dead.”
“The money is yours,” said Kamal to Jolene, turning his head over his shoulder. “Minsky told you the truth. Come get it.”
“Yeah. Come get it. Come out in the open. I’m a dumb blonde, right? So why is this cop here?” she said coldly. “He don’t have any money and he’s been on my ass for a while. You brought the bag. What’s his job?”
“He worked for Tajo,” said Kamal. “That’s why he was tracking you. He wanted that money you took.” Kamal smiled at Gus.
“You need to get your bullshit lined up better,” said Jolene. “If Tajo wanted money I took, why would you be bring even more of it and act like Santa?”
Kamal said nothing, just smirked at her like he did think she was stupid.
“I’d have killed Tajo if I got the chance,” said Gus. “Somebody beat me to it. Do I look like one of his lackeys?”
“You look like Ab Gantt to me. I can see some Jimmy in you too,” said Jolene. “Can’t see any suck-up to Tajo, though. That would be this guy’s job. Mr. Santa boy, here.”
“I work for Minsky,” said Kamal. Tajo worked for us.
“He’s just playing his odds,” said Gus. “Somebody wants us all here in a little wad so they can pick us off like bottles. This guy knows who and where and he’s just stalling until somebody lines up a clean shot.”
Jolene leaned back behind the tree. “Let them get to it, then. Just toss me my money. I don’t give a shit what happens to you two.”
Kamal did not move. Gus leaned down to toss Jolene the money, but hesitated, cutting his eyes up at her.
“Did you kill Bass Johnson?” he asked. “And Broussard? And Lewis?”
Kamal laughed. “Damned, how long is the list?”
“Pretty damned long,” said Gus. “Jolene gets around with that 9 mil.”
“Since we’re keeping score and you two are about to be gator snacks, add Tajo to the list,” she said. “And that perv car dealer.”
“Tajo was a pro shot. Several hundred yards. No way,” said Kamal. “Jimmy maybe, but not you, honey. Not buying that.”
Kamal was, indeed, stalling, wondering why it was taking so long. What was Minsky waiting for? Mosquitos were swarming.
“Technically, you can add the lawyer in there too, I guess,” said Jolene. “Call me honey again and you’ll be picking metal out of your ass, too.”
“Are we still going to be here for breakfast?” asked Gus. “Let’s finish it.” He picked up the bag. “You want this?” He nodded at Jolene.
Kamal looked anxious. Jolene extended her arms around the tree to lock the gun on the two men. “Open the bag,” she said. “Make sure.”
It was almost dark. Splashing fish, turtles or gators plowed the lake. Cicadas whined a shrill edge through the trees. Gus unzipped the bag. 300 yards up the hill, Minsky watched the three through his night scope. He was prepared to kill them all, even Kamal, especially Kamal.
Dead-ends made good, closed cases because cops usually sniff until they get a body they want. Kamal was that body today. Kamal was at Unc’s, the funeral home shooting and at Ab’s murder. Ballistics would prove that. His prints and shell casings were everywhere.
Besides, Kamal was foreign – Middle Eastern foreign. His looks and slight accent would make him an instant suspect, and a tidy corpse. Prejudice made for quick paperwork. Kamal had the look of a man who would fly a plane into a building. He was the perfect perp. They would soak him with half of the open crimes across 2 states. Minsky had thought it all out. But where was Jimmy? He scoped the area. It was quiet. Maybe Jimmy was wounded in the afternoon shooting.
Adjusting his posture, Minsky sighted Gus’ head in his scope and waited for the moment. Gus bent over and picked up the bag. A shot rang out in the woods up a slight rise to the southwest. A .45 caliber pistol. Gus hit the ground, his own .45 ready.
Kamal dropped and crouched behind the car and pulled his 9 mm. Jolene dove behind the tree into the wet leaves. Just one shot. The echo reverberated across the glassy lake and bounded back from the trees on the other side. No round landed near anyone, no metal pocking, glass breaking, no bark snapping.
On the hill, Minsky lay face down, paralyzed in the rotting undergrowth with a slug in his spine. He wheezed desperate breaths into the burnt earth, could hear but not speak. Air rushed from him in pathetic drizzles. He was dying with each heartbeat, pumping blood into the charcoaled ground. His expensive rifle lay in a cooked bush in front of him. He did not hear the footsteps. Minsky arched his eyes upward to see Jimmy standing above him holding a .45 and a sniper rifle with a night scope.
“That’s how you shoot a man,” said Jimmy. “Not 17 times like you shot my son. Not 300 times like at the funeral home today. One clean shot, put just where it needs to be.”
Jimmy leaned over. “It will take a few seconds for you to get to hell,” he said. “Enjoy the ride.” Minsky’s breathing slowed into a rasp.
Jimmy stood. “You figured I thought Tajo was running this gig, didn’t you?” said Jimmy. “You paid Tajo and Lewis and all the others. I’m just paying your tab, again, Minsky, like at the restaurant that night, remember? You never pay your own tab.” It didn’t matter. Minsky was already dead.
Kamal figured Minsky had shot Jimmy in the woods. He raised his head slightly and looked at Gus. “One down. One to go.”
Jolene raised her 9 mm. Gus already had his .45 on Kamal. Kamal had his 9 mm on Gus. The contract on Gus had risen to $20,000 the day before. Kamal thought about taking the $250,000 in the bag, but he would not have lived 24 hours. Minsky was a deadly businessman with contacts. His partners were lethal businessmen with tentacles in everything.
Jolene knew there was no easy money, but that was the only reason she was here – money. If she could get a good angle, she would have it. The sun was below the tree line. Darkness filled the forest, making it harder for Jolene to shoot Gus or Kamal with any accuracy.
She considered just emptying the clip into their general direction, but if she did not hit them both, she would be defenseless. The bag was between them.
“Got the guts to pull that trigger?” said Kamal. “I say no. Too much cop in you.” Gus knew that he was close to the truth. Too much cop.
Of the two men, Kamal had shot ten times more people than Gus. Even Jolene had shot more people than Gus – in the last two weeks. Jolene ran to another tree to get a better shot. She just didn’t know which one to shoot first. She had the clear line of fire she needed. Both men beat her to it, firing almost at once. Kamal’s shot had a millisecond advantage and hit Gus in the chest below his collarbone. Gus’s altered shot blew Kamal’s ear off and burrowed into the rent car’s fender. The impact knocked Kamal’s head back and deafened him. Both were stunned, but regained composure. Kamal fired twice more. Gus once. Gus missed. Kamal hit Gus in the arm and the shoulder.
Gus’ .45 bounced into the gravel. Kamal smiled, struggled to his knees and brought up the 9 mm to fire the last shot. Gus was soaked in blood. Jolene had the shot on Kamal. She lined it up in the darkness and prepared to put at least 5 into him.
It only took one.
Gus closed his eyes and thought of Ab. It was if his brother was grinning, sunburned at the lake, a beer in his hand, with Bren on the pier.
“It’s okay,” said Ab in Gus’ head. “Pop loves you in his own strange way.”
It seemed an odd message from his dead brother, but somehow he understood. Jimmy’s love was different, but his loyalty was total. Families may fight amongst themselves, they may live dysfunctional relationships, but when someone threatens the family, that threat is dealt with through extreme prejudice. Justice and revenge was the same thing to Jimmy.
Kamal’s face was smeared with blood, his ear gone, but he was laughing. Gus figured this is how it would end. He looked at the bag of money; people dying for money, the injustice of it all, little pieces of paper with the supposed backing of the federal government.
In the middle of Gus’ internal conflict about dying for money, the top of Kamal’s head lifted off like a jar lid. The rear window shattered safety glass over Gus. Then her heard it. One shot. The sound lagged like fireworks over a park on July 4th. The air was a haze of crimson mist settling. Kamal was dead instantly.
Jolene never pulled the trigger. Jimmy had beaten her to it again, shooting Kamal in a trajectory through the rear windows of the car.
“Son-of-a-bitch.” said Jolene with a grunt. “Jimmy.” She knew it was him.
Kamal’s body slammed backwards into the fender of Unc’s stolen 1970’s car. His brains slid down the landau roof like spilled chili. For the first time, outside of police photos, Gus got a good look at Jolene up close as she held the gun on him, examining Kamal’s body
Without a bath, soaked in sweat and rain, and blown by riding, Jolene was as beautiful as Gus had heard. He knew she would kill him, too. Her eyes caught his attention. She had Jimmy’s eyes, the sea-green eyes of a person who could kill without guilt.
He wanted to ask her again about Bass Johnson and Human and the man who called himself Broussard and the others, but pain overcame his questions.
“Get down.” said Gus, gurgling to breathe. The round in his chest had clipped the edge of a lung. Bright red foam bubbled from his mouth.
Jolene cut her eyes from him to the bag. “I know you are the cop who’s been chasing me from the start,” she said. “I need that money, you understand that. I need it to get the hell away from this shit. I can’t be a slave anymore.”
“Take it,” said Gus. He pressed a finger into the chest wound to staunch the flow. “Just remember the man in the woods will kill you.”
“He could have killed me a long time ago if he wanted,” she said. “He’s got some crazy thoughts, but killing me ain’t one of them.”
Footsteps interrupted Gus’ bleeding thoughts. Jimmy walked out of the woods across the gravel toward them. Jolene held her gun on Gus.
“You sure you want to shoot your old man,” said Jimmy. “He’s been shot enough already today, don’t you think?”
Jolene pointed the gun at Jimmy. “Stop it.” she said. “I am finished hearing your bullshit about my daddy. I know who my daddy is.”
“You are my kin,” said Jimmy. “But if you don’t ease your ass down with that 9 mil, you’ll be dead before you hit the ground. I’m not past doing such a damned thing, and you should know it. Gus is my last son. I ain’t been much as a daddy, but nobody’s killing any more of my family. Not even you, Jolene. And you are family. So don’t make me break my rule to enforce my rule.”
He smiled at her down the barrel of her gun. Jimmy seldom smiled. “Take the money, but lower that gun, now. My boy needs help. Your daddy needs help.”
Gus squinted at Jolene, then at Jimmy. “What the hell are you saying, Pop?” he whispered weakly. His vision smeared. He was bleeding out.
“What a crock. You got me mixed up with somebody else,” said Jolene. “Your shooting is good. I’ll give you that. Your info is screwed. You don’t know me. You don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground.”
She still held the gun at Jimmy, but his calmness made her cold and hesitant. “Why do you keep this up?” she said. “What’s your angle here?”
Gus tried to wave his hand but it wouldn’t move in the direction he wanted. “I told you to take the money,” he said. “I can’t arrest you. Jimmy will let you go.”
Jimmy was not bothered by Jolene’s gun. Guns he knew. “He is your real father. Accept it at your own speed, but that’s the truth. And he’s a damned better man than I have been. You should be proud.”
Jolene shook her head as if to ignore Jimmy’s assertion and wiped the sweat from her face with her forearm. “Such bullshit,” she mumbled. 22 years after I’m born and I hear this total horseshit now. Where were you then, all my life? If you were my daddy, why did that old woman beat and abuse me forever. What kind of damned daddy are you? And who is my real mother?”
“I never knew,” said Gus. “This the first I have heard of this. It’s all new for me too.”
“You’re Jolene Gantt,” said Jimmy. “We need to get him to a hospital. Those are the two things we’re dealing with here.”
“This ain’t a family reunion, you crazy son-of-a-bitch,” said Jolene. “I’m done.”
Gus was confused. “Pop, why are you doing this? She’s a hooker from Florida. She damned sure ain’t my daughter. Why start this now?”
“It’s the only decent thing I’ve done in years,” said Jimmy. “And it’s the truth.” He looked at Jolene. “Like it or not. Let’s go.”
Jolene picked up the money. “You can take him to a hospital.” She lowered the 9 mm and turned to walk away. “Hope you make it, Mister.” she said.
Halfway to the Harley she was still mumbling. “This is twisted as hell. And I’ve seen some twisted hell.”
Nothing else was said. Jolene took the money and rode away on the bike back through the curvy dark into the woods toward the highway.
Jimmy hoisted Gus into the back seat. Unconscious numbness shaded Gus’ brain. Jimmy had done this before, carrying the wounded to help, except it was in Southeast Asia and in Somalia and Central America and in The Middle East.
Almost four decades earlier, he had saved as many as he had shot. His ratio since then, however, involved less saving and more shooting. Different side of the business.
Jimmy drove through the night, hoping his last son would live, but knowing the odds were slim. Optimism wasn’t his strong suit. Reality was. In Jimmy’s mind, Gus has a 40º chance to live. Good odds in his world.
Arriving at the ER, Jimmy eased Gus onto the sidewalk, waved at the desk attendant inside, yelled “we got a gunshot man here,” and left. No one noticed him go.
Gus sat, slumped on the curb, bleeding a puddle. A group of nurses surrounded him and began their routine. Treating gunshots was becoming routine for them. The gurney squeaked down the tiled hallway to surgery. People in white and green scrubs and lab coats attached tubes and wires to Gus. A doctor leaned in.
“Mr. Gantt, can you hear me?” asked the doctor, working on his leaking chest. “Stay awake. How did you get here? Talk to me, sir.”
Gus mustered a moment of alert annoyance. “Don’t worry, I have insurance,” he rasped, falling into a void, his eyes glazed from drugs.
“Morphine kicked in,” said the doctor who had been in Iraq and Afghanistan with the medical corps. Gunshots were his specialty. He barked precise orders and each of them worked.
His bearing was strictly military and almost cocky. “We got 30 minutes to pull this guy out. Lock and load. Lay out the knives, let’s save this cop’s life.” The doctor was Bren’s closest cousin, 4 months returned from a tour in Iraq.
In 15 minutes, Bren was in the ER waiting room. Word gets around in a small town. Gus was in surgery with the best guy for the job and she knew it.
On a highway near Destin, Jimmy left Unc’s car and used a pay phone next to a convenience store. His conversation was short. 30 minutes after his call, a black sedan drove up and popped the truck. Jimmy laid his rifle in the back and got into the passenger’s seat. The car had government plates. He had paying work to do. The driver gave him a leather case. Inside was $400,000 in $100’s and 9 surveillance photos.
Morning pinked the eastern sky to Jolene’s back. Almost $550,000 rode with her on the Harley. Gus was in surgery 10 hours behind her. The diner east of Dallas was already busy with truckers and laborers. Jolene seated herself. She ordered sausage, eggs, biscuits and coffee. Her coffee came, fragrant, inky and steaming. 800 miles to the east, the sun had been up for an hour outside a federal warehouse near Atlanta.
Jimmy watched two 18-wheelers sitting side-by-side behind a tall security fence. He felt déjà vu as he prepared his rifle.
Jolene pushed the bag of money against the wall of the booth. Men craned their heads to look at the dirty girl in the tight jeans. Brewing coffee and burnt toast mixed with hash browns and bacon grease. Early morning sweat hung between the booths and tables of the diner. Horizontal sunlight sliced through the unwashed windows, glaring off forks and spoons, bathing the tables in amber harshness.
Jimmy flipped through the photos, loaded the rifle and held the spotting scope to his eye. Agents were supposed to drive the heroin to D.C. The men in the photos were not agents. The load was being hijacked in a calm and orderly inside job. Minsky’s partners had compromised the shipment. Jimmy’s contacts had compromised the hijacking. That was why Jimmy was here.
Jolene’s food arrived. One man watched her longer than the others. She ate slowly, red-eyed and jumpy. The men watching pissed her off as she ate.
Jimmy’s job was to hit the trucks’ gas tanks with tracer ammunition. The result would finally end the rest of Tajo’s heroin.
Jimmy thought of Briggs and Ab as the men got into the cabs. He waited for them to drive away from the building and innocent people.
When she finished eating, Jolene pulled the bag of money from the booth, paid at the cash register and walked into the morning heat. Her Harley sat beside a truck that looked like every other truck in the lot.
“Hey darlin,” said a man standing next to the truck.
“Get in,” said another man. She felt a gun press into the small of her back. He shoved her into the backseat, lifting the 9 mm and the bag of money.
“Let’s take a ride,” said the chunky driver with the Hawaiian shirt. “Mr. Minsky’s partners at not patient people.”
“Minsky is dead,” said Jolene.
The man who pushed her into the truck hit her across the face with the butt of her own gun.
“His partners aren’t,” he said. She was out cold.
Jimmy’s first shot arched across 600 meters into the lead 18-wheeler’s tank. It leaped into a ball of fire, spreading metal across the lot. The sound slammed buildings across the industrial park.
His second shot missed the other truck and hit the cab. His third shot hit the tank. Both trucks were now in flames.
Eight hours later, a sheriff’s deputy was examining the hot-wired Harley outside the diner near Dallas. He called it in as stolen. It was registered to a dead man from Florida: Ab Gantt. They checked a few details. Gantt’s father was a suspect in several murders. His brother was a former Alabama deputy now in critical condition in a Pensacola hospital after being shot three times in an ambush. This was messy.
“Somebody stole the dead man’s bike,” said the Texas deputy to the second officer on the scene. “Guess they ditched it here. Nice Harley.”
At 2 pm, Jolene lay beside the highway near the Mexican border, beaten and barely alive. Her money was gone, her eyes swollen shut, her lips cracked and bleeding. She rolled into the ditch and stared into the sun. He ribs had been kicked hard enough to cause a bruise the size of a boot.
‘Why didn’t they kill me?’ she wondered as she crawled away from the highway into the scrub grass. “They should have,” she grunted, collapsing into the rocks, blowing dust into her face. She was abused, bleeding, scraped and hurting – but alive. “Big mistake.”
The End