Remo Went Rogue (15 page)

He dragged Remo’s boy into this, that asshole, and that fucking changes everything.

Remo’s eyes snap open.

He exhales with a focus he’s not known before today.

He grips the shotgun tight.

The tension is wire tight.

Everything that happens from now on, happens really fucking fast.

33

Blam!

The hinges blow off the back door.

Remo whips around, leveling his shotgun. The back door is kicked loose from the frame, sending it slamming and sliding along the kitchen tile. In the same moment, a crash sounds from a front window as Chicken Wing dives through, hurling himself into the mattress, ripping free the nails holding it in place. Chicken Wing rides the mattress down to the hardwood floor. As he slides with the pillow-top mattress, he manages to come up with his .357 pounding.

Chunks fly off the pillar Remo hides behind.

Ferris and the thug flood the room and Remo opens fire, trying to hold them back. Ferris and the thug dive in two different directions as they scramble for cover.

Dutch steps through the front door. Remo is now completely surrounded.

Chicken Wing continues laying down hammering fire, and Remo spins from the pillar letting loose a shotgun blast that misses wide.

Chicken Wing’s shot doesn’t miss.

His bullets cut the air, Remo catching a bullet in the center of his Kevlar vest. It spins him like a top. Better than being shot without a vest, but still hurts like a bitch. Another shot from Chicken Wing hits Remo’s arm and pain explodes, burns throughout his body. His teeth grind as white-hot pain spreads from his wounded arm. His shotgun falls down to his side.

Ferris comes up behind Remo, sawed-off at the ready. Remo collapses to a knee holding his arm, still trying to find some air for his lungs after taking that bullet to the vest. As he falls to his knees, Chicken Wing unleashes a reckless barrage of .357 fire while screaming like a banshee. His uncontrolled blasts miss Remo as he thrashes from side to side.

They don’t miss everyone, however.

.357 slugs tag Ferris in the chest and face tearing thick, fleshly ice cream scoop style wounds.

Chicken Wing’s .357 clicks empty.

Ferris tumbles dead in a heap to the hardwood. What’s left of his head bounces off the floor.

Chicken Wing stops cold. Stunned. I just killed my brother. That reality grabs hold, twists and strangles the youngest Mashburn’s simple little head. Remo sees an opening. Now or never. Summoning every fragment of strength he has left, ignoring the greatest pain he’s ever felt in his painless life, he pulls his battered body up. His feet slide and scramble to find traction as he flees down a hallway. Dutch unleashes a flurry of fire, blasts churning up the floor behind Remo’s scampering feet. The thug follows suit, blasting away.

A blood trail winds behind Remo as he slips into a room at the end of the hall. He slams the door behind him, bullets tearing through the walls. Remo stands in his home office, a room lined with thick books, random office supplies and other lawyer shit. A large, solid oak desk sits at the back of the spacious room, a long window along the far wall. Remo locks the door, wedging a chair quickly under the knob.

He regards the blood pouring from his arm. No time to fuck with it. He rushes to the heavy desk. With everything he has left in his tank, Remo pushes the desk over, toppling it to the floor. He slips down, taking cover behind it.

Back in the living room, Chicken Wing is a manic mess, his eyes flooded with tears of anger.

Chicken Wing screams silently as he holds what’s left of his dead brother. His mouth is wide open, but nothing comes out. His face is a dark red, veins bulging and popping from his neck and forehead.

Dutch, cold and inhuman, allows Chicken Wing a second to grieve. That’s it. He storms over, slapping the taste from Chicken Wing’s mouth as he barks new orders. “Not now. Pull it in.” Chicken Wing pushes the tears down, controls his breathing. Dutch loads the .357, shoves it back in Chicken Wing’s hand saying, “Everything inside you right now, use it. Feed on it…and kill him.”

Huddled behind the office desk, Remo reloads the Mossberg with his good arm. Pumps. Grits his teeth. The sound of something wicked plowing down the hallway shakes him to the core.

A guttural scream from Chicken Wing gains power as he stampedes down the hallway. Stripped of all human traits, the primeval Chicken Wing slams his body into the door with all that he is, zero regard for his shoulder wound. He plunges his full weight into the door repeatedly, bloody smears from his arm’s hard contact with the wood covering the door.
 
He steps back to get a running start and lands a solid foot to the door.

Another.

Then another, and another.

As Hollis drives his Lexus out of town, his mind is in a twist. He turns on the radio, flipping the stations.
 
Turns it off. He hates himself. It’s all over his face. He hates himself for even thinking about Remo. “Fuck him. Fuck. Him.” Hollis knows he’s almost out of this; the city limits are in his sight. He’s done enough for that prick. More than anybody ever should, that much he knows. He tries the radio again.

Then…

Hollis spots a black Escalade, windows blacked out with heavy tint. A gangster ride if ever there was one. It’s completely out of place here. This isn’t the kind of neighborhood where this type of pack would travel. Not without a reason. Not without a score, or a score to settle. He watches the Escalade pass by him. The driver’s window is down and Hollis catches a glance at the passengers . . . a heavy-hitting crew of bad boys.

Hollis knows they can only be headed to one place. After they pass, Hollis takes a self-loathing pause. Takes that time to try and determine the weight of the situation, understand what is actually happening here. Those guys are going to Remo’s. Of course they are. If Remo is even still alive, he won’t be for long. Hollis starts beating the steering wheel. “Dammit. Fuck. Shit.”

The Lexus does a screaming U-turn.

Dutch tears up the stairs to the second floor in search for his money. In the distance he can hear Chicken Wing going nuts, working that office door like a champ. Dutch pours through closets, behind furniture.

Nothing.

A feeling for Dutch . . . fear.

Where’s the money?

In the office, Remo is curled in a fetal position behind the pushed over desk. He can only watch and wait as the door is battered by Chicken Wing’s relentless attack.

It’s almost open.

Won’t be long now.

Remo’s mind spins, trying to find a strategy. He pokes his head up for a look.

Smash!

The thug flies through the window, squeezing off a couple of rounds in mid-air. Remo drops behind the desk. In the same instant, Chicken Wing finally busts through the door, his bloodlust in hyper drive. The thug lays down fire, holding Remo down behind the desk. Overwhelming fire rains down.
 
Remo is forced to stay down, pinned behind the overturned desk.

Chicken Wing runs wildly toward the desk, dropping the .357 and pulling his knife along the way. He wants the feeling of tearing, of ripping, of cutting Remo’s flesh by hand. He wants to slow-bleed this fucker.

From behind the desk, Remo hears Chicken Wing’s footsteps rumbling towards him. They’re slightly muted by the thug’s pounding fire, but the rolling thunder of storm Chicken Wing is coming.

Chicken Wing leaps, looking to go over the desk, looking to land his knife into Remo’s skull.

Remo pops up at the last second, getting a pointblank blast off with the Mossberg. The shot catches Chicken Wing in mid-air.

Almost cuts the kid in half.

As chunks of Chicken Wing’s corpse land with thick, wet sounds, his knife jams deep into Remo’s thigh. Remo cries out in agony. The thug keeps firing, shots hitting way too close to the thrashing Remo. Remo manages to turn his shotgun in the general direction of the thug. Knows his shot doesn’t have to be perfect—just point and shoot. He rattles off two fast blasts, blowing the thug’s upper body into pulpy bits.

Remo knows this is far from over. He pulls the knife from his thigh—to say it’s painful is the understatement of the year—clinching his teeth, his face draining of color.

Oh shit.

He’s bleeding badly, almost every part of his body something to be concerned about. Thinks he could pass out.

Gotta make a move.

Dutch whips around the corner, firing with double-fisted .357s.

Remo drops to his belly, managing to fire two blasts which push Dutch out of the room, back into hallway. Dutch takes cover behind the door. This is taking its toll on him as well.

In the distance, the sounds of sirens wail.

Dutch knows he doesn’t have much time. He calls out to Remo. “Hear that? Cops are coming.”

Nothing from Remo.

Dutch makes a silent two count and spins, coming hard through the door firing.

Remo is long gone.

He did leave behind Dutch’s almost cut in two dead brother and the bloody remains of a hired thug for Dutch’s viewing pleasure. Dutch has learned the valuable trait of compartmentalizing his emotions. It’s a skill that will get a man through a lot of bad days inside, if you can master it without completely checking out of your head. Dutch will, at some point, grieve for the loss his brothers.

Now is not the time for that shit.

He eyes the blown out window to his left.

It’s starting to get dark outside. Remo is running on fumes as he drags his beaten, barely functioning body through the woods. He takes cover, propping himself behind a tree where he has a good line of sight on the house. Remo readies his shotgun. He’ll wait for Dutch to come out, end this damn thing.

One way or another.

A decent plan, all things considered. Then he notices a dead, heavily tattooed body with a single, clean bullet wound between its eyes. Way too skilled for Remo.

Who the hell?

He looks around, sees another similar body. Same perfect wound.

The guys from the Escalade.

Of course, Remo doesn’t know this. Crunching footsteps sound behind him. Remo turns, readies his shotgun.

Movement from a tree not far from him.

Remo reacts without thought, doesn’t have time to process who it is before he pulls the trigger. His shotgun blast hits Hollis, sending him flying backward to the ground.

No! No!

Sure he’s killed Hollis, Remo dives to his side. Please no, not this. Remo can’t compartmentalize this the way Dutch can. Hollis is a friend, of sorts, and this is a cross that Remo cannot bear. Hollis’s face is cut up, a few stray hits in the shoulders and belly. Peppered buckshot shows all over his Banana Republic wrinkle-freeOxford.

However, there is no blood to speak of.

Through the holes in the shirt, shades of black show, giving the sight of the Kevlar vest Hollis is wearing. Wounded, but he’ll make it. Remo breathes again.

Hollis spits out, “You are such a fucking asshole.”

“Shit. Sorry.”

Hollis’s eyes go wide. Remo doesn’t have time to turn before Dutch is on them. He rams Remo at full speed, the force knocking Remo clear of Hollis. Dutch beats on Remo while screaming out, “Where’s my money? Where?!”

“Gave it away,” says Remo, taking a solid punch to face.

“Where is it?”

“Look at you . . . big, bad man. Listen good. Your money is with the family members of the people you and your piece of shit brothers murdered.”