RUFF STUFF
A
Novel by Smcallis.
This is a work of fiction. No similarities between any person living or dead is intended, and any such similarity is purely coincidental. All characters © 1992 by Smcallis.
Novel by Smcallis.
This is a work of fiction. No similarities between any person living or dead is intended, and any such similarity is purely coincidental. All characters © 1992 by Smcallis.
Chapter 14
EAGLES HUNTING EAGLES
EAGLES HUNTING EAGLES
CURTIS ISAAC WAS DYING. The elevator needle crawled slowly, in the longest assent of his life. The fucking bitch shot him! Isaac’s hand clutched his black tattooed belly, great gouts of blood pulsed between his fingers with every heartbeat. Isaac lay a wounded animal; his thoughts were a haze. First, he couldn’t fathom how it was possible to shoot someone you couldn’t see, secondly, the elevator door with a combined thickness of fifteen inches, clad in stainless steel, to his way of thinking represented an impenetrable barrier. The fucking bitch shot him―straight through the elevator door. Isaac was dying and he didn’t even understand why.
The AK-47 up to this point, so important, clattered to the ground, useless. He didn’t have the strength to hold it. Blood seeped from his arm, his lung and his liver. Isaac coughed, blood spat from his mouth. The only reason he wasn’t dead outright, was the bullets that cut through his flesh were armor piercing. The hard tungsten cores smashed through the stainless steel elevator door, and pierced his body like a pincushion; the resulting trauma was three neat holes. Isaac continued to bleed out. Lea Swift, viciously understood the dynamics of a gunshot wound. She knew only too well that she only needed to pierce the intervening barrier and smash the flesh and bone beyond to kill.
Isaac scrambled across the floor, fell, clawed and stumbled his way down the corridor. He clutched his stomach, where his liver lay. Blood seeped between his fingers. His breathing was labored, each second his life pulsed before his eyes, he grew weaker. He wasn’t done yet. He hated Lea Swift. He hated her so much; he tried to figure out a way to harm her. His grip tightened his 9 mm Glock, even as he slumped down between the wall and against the back of the refrigerator. He felt a feeble thump, the girl was still alive. Isaac felt a warm sinister flush, before a sort of veil came over his consciousness.
“Yo, dawg, you is busted up!”
“Reggie?” Isaac groaned, he never knew such pain.
A familiar face loomed over him. Loyal to the end, it was High-Top. High-Top opened Isaac’s shirt. He didn’t like what he saw.
The AK-47 up to this point, so important, clattered to the ground, useless. He didn’t have the strength to hold it. Blood seeped from his arm, his lung and his liver. Isaac coughed, blood spat from his mouth. The only reason he wasn’t dead outright, was the bullets that cut through his flesh were armor piercing. The hard tungsten cores smashed through the stainless steel elevator door, and pierced his body like a pincushion; the resulting trauma was three neat holes. Isaac continued to bleed out. Lea Swift, viciously understood the dynamics of a gunshot wound. She knew only too well that she only needed to pierce the intervening barrier and smash the flesh and bone beyond to kill.Isaac scrambled across the floor, fell, clawed and stumbled his way down the corridor. He clutched his stomach, where his liver lay. Blood seeped between his fingers. His breathing was labored, each second his life pulsed before his eyes, he grew weaker. He wasn’t done yet. He hated Lea Swift. He hated her so much; he tried to figure out a way to harm her. His grip tightened his 9 mm Glock, even as he slumped down between the wall and against the back of the refrigerator. He felt a feeble thump, the girl was still alive. Isaac felt a warm sinister flush, before a sort of veil came over his consciousness.
“Yo, dawg, you is busted up!”
“Reggie?” Isaac groaned, he never knew such pain.
A familiar face loomed over him. Loyal to the end, it was High-Top. High-Top opened Isaac’s shirt. He didn’t like what he saw.
“Dawg! You is fucked-up.” High-Top searched the room for a compress, he found a clean baby diaper and used it to apply pressure on the worst wound to Isaac’s stomach. He had some experience in this matter, and the bleeding seemed to slow. At least it wasn't an artery.
“It’s over man, duh boyz, deh all be dead. We is alone. Crack’n Coke, Big Dick, dat bitch shot ‘em through the head! Like they wuz noth’n. You is gonna die too, less’n we get you to the hospital.”
“Reggie . . . I'm shot." Isaac was incoherent, he continued to babble. "The bitch shot me! She’s here, somewhere in the building, that crazy white bitch is gonna kill me.” He tried to get up, his legs buckled underneath him. For the first time in thirty years of thug-life, Isaac knew fear . . .
“I know dawg, I know. I’s gonna try to call her off. Give her the girl home, she just wants the girl.”
“Kill ‘er brother.” Isaac raised his Glock weakly.
“No fucking way!" Anger flash on High-Top's face. "I did what you wanted dawg! You say dat job don't amount to noth'n, just one old man. Let me truthenzie you muthafucker! Dat one ole man he kill my crew! Dey all be dead. Dat ole man, he be duh devil! Now, you tell me, go cap dis white woman. Dat bitch is dangerous, dat bitch is a killer. I say we git duh hell out of 'ere, give her what she wants, I gits you to the hospital. Dawg! Listen to me, its Reggie talk’n,” High-Top took a hold of Isaac and shook him back to consciousness. “Stay wit me dawg, stay wit me.” High-Top slapped his boss; Isaac’s eyes rolled back in his head and finally came into focus. “Dis is important dawg. Where is the girl? Where did you put the girl?”
Isaac shook his head. He hated that dumb little nigger-girl almost as much as he hated Lea Swift. He felt a faint thump on his back, the refrigerator. It gave him cruel pleasure. He was determined to ride this thing down in flames.
“Reggie . . . I'm shot." Isaac was incoherent, he continued to babble. "The bitch shot me! She’s here, somewhere in the building, that crazy white bitch is gonna kill me.” He tried to get up, his legs buckled underneath him. For the first time in thirty years of thug-life, Isaac knew fear . . .
“I know dawg, I know. I’s gonna try to call her off. Give her the girl home, she just wants the girl.”
“Kill ‘er brother.” Isaac raised his Glock weakly.
“No fucking way!" Anger flash on High-Top's face. "I did what you wanted dawg! You say dat job don't amount to noth'n, just one old man. Let me truthenzie you muthafucker! Dat one ole man he kill my crew! Dey all be dead. Dat ole man, he be duh devil! Now, you tell me, go cap dis white woman. Dat bitch is dangerous, dat bitch is a killer. I say we git duh hell out of 'ere, give her what she wants, I gits you to the hospital. Dawg! Listen to me, its Reggie talk’n,” High-Top took a hold of Isaac and shook him back to consciousness. “Stay wit me dawg, stay wit me.” High-Top slapped his boss; Isaac’s eyes rolled back in his head and finally came into focus. “Dis is important dawg. Where is the girl? Where did you put the girl?”
Isaac shook his head. He hated that dumb little nigger-girl almost as much as he hated Lea Swift. He felt a faint thump on his back, the refrigerator. It gave him cruel pleasure. He was determined to ride this thing down in flames.
“The girl―the girl is the money. The girl is the money . . .”
High-Top was no stranger to violence; his three decades on the streets were a long litany of drive-by shooting, murder close-up. His own heart was hardened; he was a callous killer, a man to be feared. Yet he had no idea the height width and depth of Isaac’s monstrous depravity. That such cruelty existed, he had no doubt. He was a businessman, a businessman with a gun, but to kill a child with out justification, or profit, such an act simply did not make sense. What twisted logic gave Isaac continued pleasure in the grips of his own death throws was the knowledge that just two feet beyond, entombed in the blackest ignoble hell of a derelict Frigidaire, a child lay suffocating.
High-Top didn’t hear the child’s cry or feeble thumps.
“What ‘cha all talk’n ‘bout dawg? The girl is the money? Where you come up with dis bullshit? The girl is the money? You is fucked up in your head.”
For a fleeting second, High-Top turned his back on his boss.
“No, you is fucked.” Isaac pointed the Glock and fired.
High-Top was no stranger to violence; his three decades on the streets were a long litany of drive-by shooting, murder close-up. His own heart was hardened; he was a callous killer, a man to be feared. Yet he had no idea the height width and depth of Isaac’s monstrous depravity. That such cruelty existed, he had no doubt. He was a businessman, a businessman with a gun, but to kill a child with out justification, or profit, such an act simply did not make sense. What twisted logic gave Isaac continued pleasure in the grips of his own death throws was the knowledge that just two feet beyond, entombed in the blackest ignoble hell of a derelict Frigidaire, a child lay suffocating.
High-Top didn’t hear the child’s cry or feeble thumps.
“What ‘cha all talk’n ‘bout dawg? The girl is the money? Where you come up with dis bullshit? The girl is the money? You is fucked up in your head.”
For a fleeting second, High-Top turned his back on his boss.
“No, you is fucked.” Isaac pointed the Glock and fired.
* * *
Lea heard the report. A single gunshot, down the hall. She considered the implications, it either meant that the gangsters settled all business, or Isaac had shot himself. There was no time to waste.
Lea Swift took off her clothes.
First, she took off her cap, her jacket, and holster and revolver. Then she laid down Grand Pa Doc’s pistol followed by a couple of .45 clips of ammunition. She kicked off her shoes, socks, and pulled down her pants. Her white blouse, along with her bra and panties went next into the heap. Lea Swift stood naked in the middle of the foyer on the sixth floor of “Hornets.”
“I am the beast, and the beast killed five people . . .”
The beast did not come upon her. Lea tried again, she got down on all fours. Still Phoebe did not come; Phoebe had abandoned her. Lea was left hanging in the breeze, naked, vulnerable, feeling foolish.
Lea was naked, she didn’t have time to waste getting dressed, she grabbed Grand Pa Doc's Colt from the pile. Luka, was out there, somewhere, dying. If Phoebe didn’t want to help, then Lea was going to have to do it herself. Isaac, that sonofabitch, if he was still alive, she would deal with him. There was a copious blood trail; a blood trail Lea hoped would lead her to Luka. She would kill Isaac, and find Luka, of that she was certain.
The trail to where Isaac lay dying and to where Luka was entombed was not all that difficult. Indeed no Native American tracking was required. There was blood; pools of blood, splashes, droplets of blood directly from the elevator door, with three neat round holes punched in the car, to the last room on the left hand side of the corridor.
The trail led to here.
Lea Swift stood naked in front of Room 629 in the upper most South West corner, the last room in the Henry B. Horner Project building. Lea didn’t really mind so much being naked. Isaac was in here. She cocked the slide on the Colt auto-pistol. She paused long enough to run her fingers over the weapon, for a fleeting instant she was transported back to a day in Stillwater Oklahoma, as a little girl she remembered well each fantastic Aztec deity cut deep in fine silver. She heard Grandfather's great laugh, as he puffed his cigar and regaled her with tales of fantastic myth, magic, and legend. This was Grand Pa Doc's pistol. She recalled she'd never actually pulled the trigger. The weapon seemed to exude a power all its own.
“I am the beast, and the beast killed five people . . .”
The beast did not come upon her. Lea tried again, she got down on all fours. Still Phoebe did not come; Phoebe had abandoned her. Lea was left hanging in the breeze, naked, vulnerable, feeling foolish.
Lea was naked, she didn’t have time to waste getting dressed, she grabbed Grand Pa Doc's Colt from the pile. Luka, was out there, somewhere, dying. If Phoebe didn’t want to help, then Lea was going to have to do it herself. Isaac, that sonofabitch, if he was still alive, she would deal with him. There was a copious blood trail; a blood trail Lea hoped would lead her to Luka. She would kill Isaac, and find Luka, of that she was certain.
The trail to where Isaac lay dying and to where Luka was entombed was not all that difficult. Indeed no Native American tracking was required. There was blood; pools of blood, splashes, droplets of blood directly from the elevator door, with three neat round holes punched in the car, to the last room on the left hand side of the corridor.
The trail led to here.
Lea Swift stood naked in front of Room 629 in the upper most South West corner, the last room in the Henry B. Horner Project building. Lea didn’t really mind so much being naked. Isaac was in here. She cocked the slide on the Colt auto-pistol. She paused long enough to run her fingers over the weapon, for a fleeting instant she was transported back to a day in Stillwater Oklahoma, as a little girl she remembered well each fantastic Aztec deity cut deep in fine silver. She heard Grandfather's great laugh, as he puffed his cigar and regaled her with tales of fantastic myth, magic, and legend. This was Grand Pa Doc's pistol. She recalled she'd never actually pulled the trigger. The weapon seemed to exude a power all its own.
Lea threw her weight against the door.
“ISAAC! YOU ARE SO FUCKED!”
Isaac was dead.
He bled out; he lay there slumped to one side. A pathetic testament to a wasted human life. Another man also lay dead, shot at close range through the back of the head. Lea turned him over, it was Reginal Carr. It appeared that today was the day that the Curs settled all business. The room was conspicuously empty. Why was there a refrigerator in the Living room? It was singularly the only object in the room. Lea rushed forward and actuated the lock mechanism.
Luka appeared to the entire world to be dead.
“ONE, TWO, THREE, BREATH! Lea did chest compressions, until there was a gasp, a stir, Luka had aspirated her own vomit, but she was alive.
For a long time, Lea sat and held Luka. She stroked her hair, and sang softly, a song her mother often sang, when she was a little girl . . .
“ISAAC! YOU ARE SO FUCKED!”
Isaac was dead.
He bled out; he lay there slumped to one side. A pathetic testament to a wasted human life. Another man also lay dead, shot at close range through the back of the head. Lea turned him over, it was Reginal Carr. It appeared that today was the day that the Curs settled all business. The room was conspicuously empty. Why was there a refrigerator in the Living room? It was singularly the only object in the room. Lea rushed forward and actuated the lock mechanism.
Luka appeared to the entire world to be dead.
“ONE, TWO, THREE, BREATH! Lea did chest compressions, until there was a gasp, a stir, Luka had aspirated her own vomit, but she was alive.
For a long time, Lea sat and held Luka. She stroked her hair, and sang softly, a song her mother often sang, when she was a little girl . . .
♫ Missus Pussy slick and fat, and her kittens four, sat upon the mat, by the kitchen door . . . ♫
Lea sang even though she knew the child couldn’t hear. Lea examined the girl all over; there were no apparent wounds, until she found the place on the child's leg along her pantie line, still swollen, where Isaac savagedly etched sixteen numbers. Sixteen numbers tattooed in cigarette ash on the thigh of ten-year-old girl. Sixteen numbers was the cause of all this carnage and death. Lea recognized them for what they were, these were bank security numbers, dead or alive, this child was worth a great deal of money.
* * *
“LEA SWIFT. You are positively every bit as beautiful naked as I could have possibly imagined.”
Guy Painter sat ensconced in his armored black limousine. The smoke glass windows rolled down. One hundred thousand dollars worth of gold sparkled on his impeccably manicured fingertips, his black Armani suit shown with a special luster and immaculate sheen that was the style of billionaire, Guy Painter.
Guy Painter sat ensconced in his armored black limousine. The smoke glass windows rolled down. One hundred thousand dollars worth of gold sparkled on his impeccably manicured fingertips, his black Armani suit shown with a special luster and immaculate sheen that was the style of billionaire, Guy Painter.
“I trust everyone is dead?" Guy sniffed his carnation, "You did kill all of them, didn’t you? That’s what I pay you to do.”
“Guy!” Lea didn’t know what to say, she was in shock. She wasn’t ashamed; there was no shame in being naked. She was standing there, holding a child clutched in her arms. The child was alive, but weak.
“Guy! Am I glad to see you. We need to get to the hospital.” Lea rushed forward, her path was blocked by two goons Lea had never seen before. They cut her off and made it very clear that something was amiss.
“Tut, tut. Lea Swift you are a marvel. Butt naked in January and you still act like you’re in control, well, you’re not in control. I’ll take it from here. Just put the girl down, and go back inside and put some clothes on. Boris, Ivan, get the girl. Miss Swift needs to go and get dressed.”
“The Russian Mafia! The fucking Russian Mafia! Guy! You sonofabitch! You used me! I thought you were my friend. I trusted you!” The tangled twisted nature of the situation came crashing down. Lea tried once more to appeal to their long time friendship.
“Guy!” Lea didn’t know what to say, she was in shock. She wasn’t ashamed; there was no shame in being naked. She was standing there, holding a child clutched in her arms. The child was alive, but weak.
“Guy! Am I glad to see you. We need to get to the hospital.” Lea rushed forward, her path was blocked by two goons Lea had never seen before. They cut her off and made it very clear that something was amiss.
“Tut, tut. Lea Swift you are a marvel. Butt naked in January and you still act like you’re in control, well, you’re not in control. I’ll take it from here. Just put the girl down, and go back inside and put some clothes on. Boris, Ivan, get the girl. Miss Swift needs to go and get dressed.”
“The Russian Mafia! The fucking Russian Mafia! Guy! You sonofabitch! You used me! I thought you were my friend. I trusted you!” The tangled twisted nature of the situation came crashing down. Lea tried once more to appeal to their long time friendship.
“Guy, don’t do this to me, you have to help me . . . we’re friends, we go way back. I thought you were my friend.”
“I am your friend, Lea, for about five more seconds. I’ll only ask you this once, give me the girl Swift.”
“Step off, Guy!”
“Your Grandfather’s dead.” Guy seemed to relish this revelation. “Oh―in the end, we had to blow him up, but that’s one Nazi sonofabitch who’s finally dead. Good riddance! You are in no position to bargin; you don’t have any of your naughty guns. Give me the girl, Swift, or I’ll have Boris and Ivan kill you . . . we don’t want more bloodshed, now do we? Be a good little kraut-mick and give me the girl!”
In a flash of pain and stupidity, Lea knew Grand Pa Doc's Colt lay somewhere forgotten on the sixth floor of the Henry B. Horner building. Her face didn't betray her anguish. Lea somehow knew Grand Pa Doc was dead. She felt his presence strongly; she wasn’t going to give Guy the satisfaction.
“Fuck you, Guy!”
“Kill her.” Guy said, with a cold-blooded inflection that conveyed no more sense of emotion than if he were ordering pastrami on rye at a deli.
Boris, the heavy set Russian pointed an enormous .50 caliber Desert Eagle, he was slow and clumsy to pull the trigger and he fired at Lea’s dust. Ivan, the laser sight of his MP 5 danced and arched across the courtyard, cut loose with a full mag of 9 mm. Lea was already gone.
Furious, Guy was so angry he bolted from the limousine, crushed his cigarette under foot, and waved a pistol in the air, such stupid henchmen! In the instant the limousine door swung open, what Lea did not see, what Lea could not see was on the floor of the limousine, lay Grandfather’s Colt. The other pistol, its menacing luster tarnished, the fine ivory grip blackened from fire, imbued with a mystic power, that neither Guy nor Lea could comprehend, the pistol was an entity, it lay in wait, ready to kill again.
Lea turned and ran. Lea lightened her feet and ran like the wind. Faster than a leopard, even the extra seventy-four pounds of the child’s weight made no difference. Naked, free, the one thing Lea Swift knew how to do was run.
“Kill her! Kill her you fools! You let her get away!” Guy shrieked his Irish brogue in full evidence. Now it was his turn to be afraid. “You fuck face Reds! Kill her! I tell you, she’s dangerous!”
“I am your friend, Lea, for about five more seconds. I’ll only ask you this once, give me the girl Swift.”
“Step off, Guy!”
“Your Grandfather’s dead.” Guy seemed to relish this revelation. “Oh―in the end, we had to blow him up, but that’s one Nazi sonofabitch who’s finally dead. Good riddance! You are in no position to bargin; you don’t have any of your naughty guns. Give me the girl, Swift, or I’ll have Boris and Ivan kill you . . . we don’t want more bloodshed, now do we? Be a good little kraut-mick and give me the girl!”
In a flash of pain and stupidity, Lea knew Grand Pa Doc's Colt lay somewhere forgotten on the sixth floor of the Henry B. Horner building. Her face didn't betray her anguish. Lea somehow knew Grand Pa Doc was dead. She felt his presence strongly; she wasn’t going to give Guy the satisfaction.
“Fuck you, Guy!”
“Kill her.” Guy said, with a cold-blooded inflection that conveyed no more sense of emotion than if he were ordering pastrami on rye at a deli.
Boris, the heavy set Russian pointed an enormous .50 caliber Desert Eagle, he was slow and clumsy to pull the trigger and he fired at Lea’s dust. Ivan, the laser sight of his MP 5 danced and arched across the courtyard, cut loose with a full mag of 9 mm. Lea was already gone.
Furious, Guy was so angry he bolted from the limousine, crushed his cigarette under foot, and waved a pistol in the air, such stupid henchmen! In the instant the limousine door swung open, what Lea did not see, what Lea could not see was on the floor of the limousine, lay Grandfather’s Colt. The other pistol, its menacing luster tarnished, the fine ivory grip blackened from fire, imbued with a mystic power, that neither Guy nor Lea could comprehend, the pistol was an entity, it lay in wait, ready to kill again.
Lea turned and ran. Lea lightened her feet and ran like the wind. Faster than a leopard, even the extra seventy-four pounds of the child’s weight made no difference. Naked, free, the one thing Lea Swift knew how to do was run.
“Kill her! Kill her you fools! You let her get away!” Guy shrieked his Irish brogue in full evidence. Now it was his turn to be afraid. “You fuck face Reds! Kill her! I tell you, she’s dangerous!”
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