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  KILL: TWO

  Copyright © 2018 by Blake Banner

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  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

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  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  EPILOGUE

  WHAT'D YOU THINK?

  READY FOR THE NEXT MISSION?

  ALSO BY BLAKE BANNER

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  ONE

  I stepped out of the side entrance to Quincy Market and looked up at the sky. It was a pleasant blue. There were clouds, like mounds of whipped cream, out over the ocean. Their edges were tinted with darkness.

  Abi came up on my right and hugged my arm, resting her head on my shoulder. A moment later, Primrose came up on my left and took that arm. Sean ran down a couple of steps ahead to the red-cobbled street crowded with milling people. He stopped and turned to look back at us, squinting in the early fall light.

  “Can we get something to eat now?”

  I looked at the South Market Street gate, scanning the stalls in the plaza. The crowds were thick, jostling, slow moving. There was a guy looking at a woman’s handbag: a hundred and ninety pounds, mostly muscle, crew cut, jeans, T-shirt and leather jacket. He let go of the bag and moved away.

  Sean’s voice again: “Hey, dude!”

  Abi tugged on my arm. “Come back?”

  I smiled at her, then at Sean. “Sure, of course. What’s your belly asking for?”

  Primrose rested her head on my shoulder and groaned. “Something that isn’t pizza or burgers, please!”

  I only half-listened. I looked toward the Clinton Street exit. The crowds were not so dense there. Nobody stood out. I said, absently, “McCormick and Schmick’s.”

  Primrose hugged my arm and gave a couple of little jumps, Abi kissed my cheek, and Sean sighed. “Oooh kaaay…”

  Two men in suits and shades walked fast, coming in off Clinton Street. They scanned the crowds as they walked, then turned onto Crocks. One of them made a comment and they both laughed.

  Primrose’s voice, edged with sarcasm: “So are we going, or are we going to gaze at the beautiful crowds all day?”

  I nodded, then smiled again. “Yeah, let’s go.

  We came off the steps and turned left into North St Marks Street. I could hear Abi talking, but wasn’t aware of what she was saying. I scanned the people as we moved through them. Three abreast, we were cumbersome. Primrose let go of my arm and went ahead with Sean. I glanced behind us. There was a guy about two hundred and ten pounds, not fat, muscular, short hair, jeans, T-shirt and brown leather jacket. He looked like the guy I’d seen earlier. He was looking at his cell as he walked.

  Abi said, “Lacklan? You’re not listening to a word I’m saying.”

  I turned and looked down into her face. Her eyes searched mine, frowning, worried. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I seem to be distracted today.”

  “Today?”

  I sighed. “Lately, I guess.”

  “What is it? We’re in the same house but we’re in separate worlds… Lacklan?”

  I was watching Primrose and Sean. She was leaning her forearm on his shoulder, laughing as they walked. Fifty yards ahead of them, two men in jeans, T-shirts, leather jackets, and short hair walked purposefully, not talking: their eyes on Primrose and Sean, then on Abi and me.

  I looked behind me. The guy in the leather jacket had put his cell phone away. He’d been joined by another man and they were both reaching behind their backs.

  We had drawn level with Dick’s Last Resort on our left. On our right was the entrance to the North Market Building. I didn’t think. I roared, “Run!” grabbed Abi by the seat of her pants and her collar and hurled her stumbling through the entrance to the market. I heard her scream, but I was already charging down on Primrose and Sean. I heard the distinctive firecracker snap of two automatics behind me as I leapt, the whine of a ricochet and the shattering and splintering of plate glass as I folded my arms around their legs and we crashed to the ground.

  Then I was on one knee, my Sig Sauer p226 in my hands. The crowd was screaming, churning in all directions. The two guys ahead were pulling their weapons, but they were being jostled and pushed by running, panicking people. I screamed at Primrose and Sean, “Into the store! Now!”

  They ran as I turned. Two more cracks. The guys behind me were trying to get a bead on Sean and Primrose. I saw a woman go down. In moments like that, you aim intuitively, through muscle memory. I knew these two were going to kill anyone who got in their path. I had to take them out. It took less than a second. I pointed and fired and the guy who’d had the phone did a funny kind of dance and fell backward with a red circle in his forehead.

  The crowds were clearing fast. There was a lot of screaming. I dodged and rolled to my right. The two who’d been ahead of us were storming down on me now, closing in. So was the guy who’d joined the cell phone man. I shot him in the belly. I saw him wince, then he knelt down like he’d just got some really bad news. Behind him, I could see Abi cowering in the doorway and I knew the shooting had to stop.

  I let out a horrible roar, turned and charged the two remaining guys who were running at me from behind, trying to line me up. They were maybe fifteen feet away. The nearest one, on my left, had a pale blond mustache and white eyelashes. Behind them, I could see fear and rage. He had me sighted and was about to fire. His pal, on my right, was bigger, with deep brown eyes, and his face was twisted into a snarl of contempt.

  A moving target at close quarters can be real hard to hit. It moves too fast. I had leapt into the flying roundhouse kick just before the mustache pulled his trigger. I heard the crack, the smack on the cobbles and the whine, and then my boot connected with his jaw and he crashed back through tables, parasols and chairs.

  I landed and an arm like a vise fastened around my neck, squeezing, trying to crush my windpipe. I could feel his hot, moist breath on my ear and that made me mad. I rammed my elbow into his floating ribs, but he pulled back without releasing my throat. My lungs were screaming for air and my head was beginning to pound, but I couldn’t reach him wit
h my elbows.

  I lifted my feet off the ground and suddenly he was holding two hundred pounds in his arms. He lost his balance and stumbled. I turned as I slipped through his arms, landed on one knee, grabbed a handful of his balls, squeezed and twisted savagely. The scream was horrific. I didn’t wait or stop. I pushed him over on his back and went after the guy I’d kicked. He was struggling to his feet. He was unsteady, but he had a knife.

  He came at me, slashing wide, trying to back me toward the terrace of the Last Resort. I let him do that. I knew once I was there, he would go for the thrust, and that was what he did. He lunged with his left, grabbed a fistful of my shirt and rammed the knife at my belly.

  I didn’t grab his knife hand. I grabbed the wrist at my throat with both hands, took a big step to my right, away from the blade, and twisted. The knife tore at my jacket and he stumbled. Then I rammed the heel of my hand into his elbow and heard it crunch. I took his wrist in both hands again and turned it like a screw. He screamed and jabbed wildly at my leg with the knife, missing it by inches. If he’d given up then, he might have lived.

  I made a blade of my right hand and slammed it backhanded into his throat. His eyes bulged and he dropped the knife. I don’t like to see anybody suffer, not even an asshole like that. So I took his head in the crook of my right arm, twisted up and around and felt the vertebrae crack. His worries were over.

  The sirens were wailing on Clinton Street, coming closer. The pedestrian walkway was empty but for the four dead men, and a woman lying crumpled on her side. I went and checked her pulse. She had none. Her eyes were open and her skin was waxy and pale. By her side was a bag of groceries.

  I looked over and saw Abi curled up on the floor in the doorway of the market. I went to her, searching for Primrose and Sean as I walked. They were peering out of the door of the Samsonite store. I knelt by Abi’s side and took her hands.

  “Are you OK?”

  “Who were those men, Lacklan?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why did they want to kill us?”

  “I don’t know, Abi.”

  Primrose and Sean came running. Abi got to her feet and hugged them. They clung to her and Primrose started crying.

  Two patrol cars turned onto the street, pulled up close to us, and four uniforms climbed out. They saw the bodies. The sergeant issued orders and dispatched his officers to check the corpses, then came toward us, loosening his weapon in his holster.

  “You armed?”

  I considered him a moment. “Yes.”

  He drew his weapon and aimed it at me. “Take it out, nice and easy, and lay it on the ground.

  The other three had heard and were now approaching from inspecting the bodies, with their weapons drawn. I said, “Take it easy, we’re the victims here.”

  “Yeah,” he said with a dose of irony. “I can see that. Put your weapon down, pal.”

  I raised my hands. “OK.” I opened my jacket to show the Sig. “Can we move away from my wife and kids so you don’t shoot them?” I pulled the gun from my holster and laid it on the ground, then stepped away from Abi.

  “OK, now on your knees with your hands on your head.”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Sergeant. I don’t get on my knees for anybody. If you want to cuff me, you cuff me standing up. Not on my knees.”

  He hesitated.

  I said, “But before we get into any rough house stuff here, I suggest you call my attorneys. I am surrendering peacefully. You put a hand on me or my family and I’ll have your badge, your job, your car and your house.”

  He glanced at the five bodies and probably guessed I was serious.

  I repeated, “Like I told you, Sergeant, we are the victims here, and we would like to give our statements. You don’t need to threaten us or manhandle us. We are cooperating.”

  He pointed at me and scowled. “Stay put. Don’t move!”

  He got on his radio to dispatch and reported the homicide, with five victims. Meanwhile, his men started putting up yellow tape, cordoning off the area, and five minutes later, the sirens were wailing on Clinton Street again. Cars and ambulances started rolling up, the crime scene team arrived and started photographing the victims and scouring the area for shells and slugs, the ME arrived and detectives arrived, and the well-oiled machinery of homicide detective kicked into gear.

  The sergeant pointed the two plainclothes detectives toward us and they approached: a tough, athletic guy in his forties, in jeans and a polo shirt, and a woman in her thirties in a blue suit and tired make up. She went to talk to Abi and the kids, and he showed me his badge.

  “Detective Byrne. They tell me you’re the victim. I wish all my victims were as healthy as you. You want to tell me what happened?”

  I nodded. “Those two.” I pointed at the two I had shot. “They’ll have rounds from my Sig Sauer. The woman was killed by a bullet intended for me or my family. Those two.” I pointed to the other two. “He has a broken elbow and a broken neck. The other guy hemorrhaged from busted testicles.”

  “You trying to impress me, tough guy?”

  “The name is Lacklan Walker, Mr. Walker to you. I don’t want or need to impress you, Detective. You asked me what happened. I’m telling you. We were walking to the restaurant on the corner. The two I shot approached from behind. The other two from in front. I noticed them pull their weapons and pushed my family to cover. Then they started shooting. That’s when the woman went down. I returned fire and took them out. After that, I put my weapon away to avoid any more collateral casualties.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “What are you, Rambo?”

  “I told you, I am Lacklan Walker.”

  “I’m starting to not like your attitude, pal.”

  “I haven’t liked yours or your officers’ from the start. An attempt was made on our lives and you are treating us like suspects because I protected my family.”

  “You killed four armed men…”

  “Two in front of me, two behind me.” I pointed at them. “They are all armed with automatic weapons. What’s your theory, Detective Byrne? That I cunningly placed myself in their midst with my family so I could kill four perfect strangers and make it look like self defense?”

  He looked like he wanted to hit me.

  I said, “Am I under arrest?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’m going to reach for my phone. Don’t shoot me.”

  “I ain’t finished talking to you, pal.”

  I didn’t answer. I just looked at him. I pressed four on my speed dial. It rang a couple of times and a warm, female voice said, “Lacklan, this is a pleasant surprise. How are you?”

  I kept looking at the detective’s eyes while I spoke. “Good morning, Cyndi. I have a bit of a situation. Four men just tried to kill me and my family at the Quincy Market. I killed them, in self defense, and Detective Byrne here is taking the view that I am the guilty party.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “Omega?”

  “I can’t think of anybody else.”

  “They won’t lie down.”

  “No. Could you have a word with Detective Byrne and explain to him that we are the victims in this case?”

  “Sure. Put him on the line.”

  He had a face that was asking, ‘What the fuck?’ I handed over the phone. “Senator McFarlane would like a word with you, Detective.”[1]

  While he stood there looking at his feet and saying, “Yes, Senator,” I went over to Abi. Detective Reynolds was obviously the brains of the outfit. She was taking statements from Primrose and Sean and looked up as I approached. She said flatly, “My partner is an asshole.”

  I nodded. “I think he’s in the process of getting a new one.”

  Abi came to me. “What does this mean, Lacklan?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You said this was over.”

  I nodded. “I know.”

  I heard Byrne’s voice behind me. “Mr. Walker?”

  I turned and took m
y phone from him and said, “I’ll give you a detailed statement tomorrow of exactly what happened. Do I need to deliver it through my lawyers?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. Then if you’re done…?” I looked at Detective Reynolds. She nodded.

  We made our way back to the car. I scanned every street and every corner as we walked, aware that I didn’t have my Sig under my arm, and that Abi, Primrose and Sean were like three luminous targets around me. But I saw nothing. The attack was over, and it had failed. This time.

  We climbed in the car and headed back to Weston. We didn’t talk. Abi rode in the back with Primrose, who kept crying, and Sean rode up front with me. I could see him smiling, and his eyes were bright. Abi wouldn’t like that. I glanced at him. He glanced back and smiled.

  “You OK?”

  He nodded and spoke quietly. “You bet!”

  TWO

  I had phoned ahead to Kenny, the English butler I had inherited from my father when he had died, and he had the house on lockdown. He met us at the door as we pulled into the drive and handed me my other Sig Sauer when I climbed out of the car. We herded Abi and the kids through the door, he bolted it closed and armed the alarm system. As we went through to the drawing room, I asked him, “Are you armed?”

  “Yes, sir, and I took the liberty of taking one of your HK 433s down to the kitchen.”

  “Good, and the perimeter is active?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How is Rosalia?”

  Rosalia was my cook and housekeeper. Like Kenny, she’d been with us since I was a kid. I knew she’d be OK and Kenny confirmed that.

  Primrose had sat in a large armchair with her back to the French windows. The lawn looked luminous behind her in the sunlight, and a silent wind was bowing the trees in the hedgerow. Abi was on the sofa. She had drawn Sean close to her and was holding him tight. I went and stood by the fireplace and looked at them each in turn. Sean pulled away from his mother and sat up. He was eager and expectant. Primrose was still shaken, but she was pulling herself together. Abi—I searched her face and realized that she was searching mine, looking for an answer to a question.