Family Feud - Part 8

Alliance
Trust must be earned.

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Shayne
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My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Shayne Spicer, Michael Corsey's right hand man.

"How fast can you get to 33 Grove St.?" he said in a low voice.

"From here about ten minutes. What have you got?"

"One of Harlan Meyers' friends is here. Zach Fowler. You killed Harlan and it looks like this guy is planning on killing anyone and everyone - especially you for it.  He's a freelance killer, loosely associated with the family and we found his name  and number in both Berkland's and Storm's cell phone records." He lowered his voice even more. "He's here and he's making phone calls all over.  This guy is calling up his buddies to come here and kill anybody connected with us."

"Shit!" I had been afraid of something like this. "What is he doing right now?"

"I can't see him now." he answered. "I was watching him through the window. That's why I'm trying to be quiet."

"Stay out of sight. Keep down until we get there." I ordered. "What's he driving?" I asked.

"He's riding a big black Harley, all black leather." he answered. "Another one of his pals  got here a few minutes ago.  I'll stay right here to keep track of them." he said. "Please hurry."

I hung up and quickly told Jerry where I was headed and why.

"I'll be right behind you." He answered. "I don't want to leave my car here."

"Good idea." I said. "Hurry."

Driving up the street I could see Shayne's car parked farther down.  I pulled into the driveway with the long grass again.  Jerry parked out on the street. We walked up the street trying to look as casual as we could.  Turning up the driveway, I could see the big Harley parked in the covered entrance way. A white van was visible around in the back along with another motorcycle. We pulled our guns and moved in. The front door was ajar and all was quiet.

"Better check the back." I whispered. Jerry nodded. "Shayne should be here somewhere."

The sound of a door closing inside and loud booted footsteps alerted us to the fact that we needed to move. quickly.  Standing behind the pillars We heard him get on his motorcycle and start down the driveway.

"Crap. Where is he headed?" I asked into the air, watching the black clad rider as he turned up the street and roared away.

"Shayne?" I whispered. "Shayne, where are you?"

The silence was ominous. He was nowhere in sight.

Hurrying around back we found the back as quiet as the front.  I started to get a sinking feeling.

Shading my eyes against the glass door, I cautiously peered in through the tinted glass.  I could see covered furniture, paint cans  and other signs of remodeling work inside. I could see something else as well.  Someone was moving around.

Trying the door I found it was locked. "Step back." I ordered as I screwed on the silencer.

One shot and the tempered glass exploded into a shower of granular fragments that scattered about the floor and patio.  Rushing through the door  I started toward the movement, Jerry close behind me.

*BLAM*  The shot rang out and shattered another large glass panel behind us. I aimed toward the shot and fired.

*Peyupp* "Unghh!"*Peyupp**Peyupp**Peyupp*
The gunman staggered back with each shot until he was almost to the wall.  He raised his gun to fire again.
*Peyupp* He stiffened as the bullet passed through his heart.

*Peyupp* the back of his head opened and sprayed bloody fragments of bone and brains against the wall.  The gun clattered to the floor and he toppled in a heap against the wall.

I kicked the gun away from the body and it slid out toward the middle of the room just as a denim and leather clad figure stepped through the door. I raised my gun and pulled the trigger.

*Click*

The man was standing there with a knife in his hand.  A wide grin  spread across his face.

"Not man enough to fight me with a knife?" he sneered.

Jerry holstered his gun and pulled his own knife.  "I've got this one." he said, moving toward the menacing figure.

"Throw that gun over there." He pointed.  "If you're not too much of a coward."

"You too." he turned to me. "I'm not carrying a gun, are you afraid?  I can handle you both."

"We'll soon see." I said, throwing my gun next to Jerry's and pulling my own knife.

Jerry started circling the newcomer. They made a few lunges, jabs and slashes, dancing deftly avoiding the blades and coming back, slashing with even stronger attacks.

From outside I could hear the sound of an approaching motorcycle. Probably Zach coming back.  This could get bad.

I hurried toward the front door and sure enough, Zach was slowly coming up the driveway carrying a six pack of beer under one arm.  He stopped his bike and dismounted. Balancing the six pack on the seat, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes, pulled one put with his lips and scowled into the now-empty pack, crushed it and tossed it on the ground. Leaning against his bike, he lit the cigarette and relaxed as the smoke swirled around him and blew away.

I wanted to pump him where he sat but my gun was in the other room on the floor. Unsure of what he was armed with, I watched furtively, back and forth between him on the outside and Jerry's battle in the other room.

Sometimes your circumstances make your decisions for you.

Somebody yelped with pain in the back room as the fight got noisier. Zach jumped to his feet and started toward the door drawing his knife as he moved.

I slammed through the door jamming it back against the wall and breaking the glass.  Zach stopped long enough to see whether I was friend or foe but by the time he knew who I was, I was already plowing  into him, shoving him back out across the driveway.  His cigarette blew away as we landed on the cobbled driveway, me on top of him, tightly holding on to his knife wielding right hand, my knee in his groin, and my knife blade driven deep into his ribs.

He raised his head, looking at his side where all the pain was coming from.  I shoved the knife to the hilt and pressed it against his side with most of my weight.

"Aaaaaggghh!" He screamed, straining against the pain, blood gurgling up in his throat.

His eyes opened wide, he held his breath, and suddenly dropped, limp and motionless.

I stood to my feet, snatched his knife from his hand and hurried inside.  Jerry was standing in the room staring down at the body laying on the seat that he had tumbled over, with Jerry's knife embedded in his gut.  His breathing was short, panting gasps as he lay dying.

"Nice job." I commented as I walked out into the room. "Glad to have someone that knows how to take care of himself

"Uuuuhhhhhh." The moan got my attention. The massive mound in his jeans just begged to be dealt with. He was dying and his body was attempting to sow his last seed. "I can help you with that, if you help me."

I rested my hand on the full, firm mound and gently massaged it for him.  "Where's Shayne?" I asked.

"Fuck you..." he growled weakly.

"Hey, you need this taken care of and I need to know - where's Shayne?" I demanded. He moaned again. "His car's still here.  Where is he?"

"Go to hell..."

His weak-assed tough guy bravado pissed me off. I punched his bulging crotch with my clenched fist and when he started to raise up in pain I slammed my hand on the pommel of the knife, driving it to the hilt.  He gasped shuddered and fell back gurgling his last breath.

I grasped the handle and yanked it free.  Wiping the blade across the softening mound in his jeans, I handed the blade back to Jerry.

"C'mon,  lets find Shayne," I said, "He must be here somewhere."

I opened the first door and looked in - nothing. Jerry grabbed the next, still nothing.  The third door was to the cellar. I cautiously descended the steps,

"Damn..."

Shayne was sitting on a chair against the far wall.  He had been bound and gagged with tape. Then someone had pulled his head back to the wall and slashed his throat almost to the backbone.  His eyes rolled back in his head and blood had flowed from the gaping wound. Now his sightless eyes searched in vain for help in his moment of terror.

"Wish we had made it in time, Shane." I muttered, trying to close his eyes.

"It's not your fault." Jerry prompted.  He must have been killed right after he called you.  They found him and there was nothing you could have done."

"That may be true," I answered, "but how many more did they call in before we got here?"

"How many, and what kind of damage will they do when they get here?"

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Lord, what fools these mortals be!

                                                  - Puck

A midsummer-Night's Dream -  Act III Scene II

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