Action: Pulse Pounding Tales Volume 2

EXIT WOUND By Steve Christie

"Right! Out of the car you piece of shit!"

Drake, the man with the bruised face and his wrists tie-wrapped behind his back slowly eased his stiff body out of the boot of the car. He started shivering, due to the cold December wind. He had spent over an hour squeezed into the cramped dark boot of the BMW.

He screwed up his eyes trying desperately to adjust them to the light.

He stood in nothing but his underwear as he looked around and found himself in the middle of nowhere with nothing but trees surrounding him on all sides. The two men marched him further and further into the woods, the space between the individual trees got smaller and smaller with every step.

The daylight seemed to all but disappear, as if someone had flicked a switch, turning day to night.

"That's far enough. Turn around.”

The first gunman turned to the second.

“Are you doing him or am I Billy.

"Toss a coin Frank."

Frank laughed.

"I like your thinking son. I was just about to suggest the same thing."

He turned to their prisoner.

"You've really fucked it up now Drake, shagging Tony's missus, you must have known he'd go ape shit if he found out, which he obviously did or we wouldn't be in this situation.

Drake shrugged his shoulders.

"C'mon guys, cut me a break, eh? We've worked together for years. For fuck sake Frank, I used to work with your old man."

Frank shook his head.

"No can do, bud. If we don't do you, we're dead men ourselves; you know how Tony works. He insists on proof after every hit.”

Frank flicked the coin into the air; the three men watched it spin, it glinted in the low winter sunlight before returning to the back of Frank’s left hand.

He covered it with the other.

"Heads or tails, buddy?"

"Heads," said Billy.

And that's exactly where he shot Frank, straight through the temple.

The two men watched the look of astonishment appear on Frank’s face as he hit the dirt.

Drake gave a huge sigh.

"I was beginning to worry there, Billy."

"I didn't do it out of sentiment Drake. I’m wanting out of this shit. Just give me the twenty five grand you promised me and we’ll be on our way."

"Wait two seconds. You'll have to send Tony the proof of my demise. You got a cigarette?"

Billy lit two, handing one to Drake.

He took a deep draw of nicotine, handed it back and then walked over to Frank’s corpse. He turned him over, scooped up a large handful of blood and brain matter and rubbed it into his own forehead.

"How do I look?"

"Pretty fucking gory."

Billy gave it a closer inspection. He looked impressed.

"Not a bad looking exit wound actually, looks like we shot you through the back of the head."

"Good. Take out your mobile and take the pic.”

Drake lay on the ground and posed for the photo.

He heard a click.

"I’m all done Drake."

"You certainly are boy."

He shot Billy straight through the heart with the gun he'd pried from Frank’s dead hand. He picked up the mobile, found Harry's number and pressed send.

After dragging the two bodies under a holly bush he returned to his black BMW.

He opened the boot and took out the polythene wrapped suit and newly laundered white shirt. He never left home without a change of clothes. You never know when you might need them in our line of work an old acquaintance had once told him

After sprucing himself up, he helped himself to a line of coke from his stash in the glove compartment. He waited for the feeling of euphoria to take him over and then turned on the stereo.

Wagner’s The Ride of the Valkyries filled the car. Great motivational music he thought. It always reminded him of Apocalypse Now.

He floored the accelerator and headed back to town. He had a job to do.

Tony Scarpitta, after receiving the text, left his guests to their own devices at the masked ball he was hosting and wandered through to his study. He unlocked the ornate cupboard in the corner of the room and wirelessly sent the photo he had just received to his printer. He printed off two copies, one for his hall of fame and one for an entirely different reason.

The inside of the cupboard contained dozens of gory photos. He pinned up his newest acquisition.

"I'll put you dead centre Drake"

He laughed to himself, realising what he had just said as he locked the photo away.

Then he called Jennifer through. She looked nervous. He could see her eyes through her mask; they glanced everywhere, everywhere except at him.

"Got your stuff packed darling?"

He smirked.

"I don't know what you mean, are we going somewhere?"

He shook his head.

"Cut the shit!"

He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk.

"I have something to show you."

She stared at the photo of Drake and sighed heavily.

She removed her Pierrot mask; the single black tear was replaced by a multitude of real ones. They ran down her face and on to the photo, blurring the newly printed image of her dead lover.

"Thought I didn't know about your little secret, eh?"

He pressed a button under the desk. Seconds later two huge guys entered from a hidden door behind a bookcase at the other side of the room. They seemed to fill the study with their bulk.

"Take my darling wife down to the cellar until I decide what to do with her. I have guests to entertain.”

Drake looked at the clock on the dashboard. He was four miles away from Metro City. He still had an hour and a half left to tidy things up and take off with the girl. He had a private plane on standby.

He'd always planned on taking care of Tony before they both took off into the sunset, the old bastard had a distinct knack of finding people; they would never feel safe as long as he was alive. He'd planned everything perfectly, they were going to take care of Tony and then they’d both sneak off from the masked ball once it was in full flow.

Billy and Frank had fucked that up though, big style.

He’d really thought his number was up.

He couldn't believe it when Frank had gone to take a leak back in his apartment, he knew Billy would switch allegiance when he offered him the money; he'd always been a greedy bastard.

"Shit!"

He saw the blue lights in the mirror. He turned down the stereo; Wagner was replaced by the sound of sirens.

He pulled over to the side of the road and watched in his wing mirror as the traffic cop left the vehicle, the officer put on his hat and approached the car.

Drake waited for him to tap on the window, as he knew he would, they always did, it seemed to be a prerequisite of the job.

The second the cop’s knuckle connected with the glass he rammed the driver’s door into him, knocking him off his feet. He shot him through the head, spun through forty-five degrees and fired two shots through the police vehicle’s windscreen killing his partner instantly. He looked around; the road was still quiet.

Lady Luck seemed to be on his side.

He hauled the cop out the car and rolled him and his partner down the steep embankment, quickly followed by their car. He just made it before a huge HGV approached him from the other side of the road.

That was close, he thought, as he brushed down his black suit before stepping back into the BMW and continuing on his way.

One hour before takeoff he arrived at the Rowans, the large palatial home of Tony Scarpitta. The huge ornate gates, as usual, were patrolled by two of his bodyguards

He parked the BMW around the corner under a broken street lamp and removed the Glock and the silencer from under the leather driver’s seat. Then he put on the mask and walked back to the mansion’s entrance.

"Where’s your invitation!" cried one of the security guys, sounding pissed off with his duties for the night.

He showed him the invite and was ushered on through, no questions asked.

He barged his way through the crowd of smokers hanging around the doorway – no one was allowed to smoke inside the Rowans, except for Tony himself. He constantly walked around the place with a huge Cuban cigar permanently attached to his lips.

He entered the ballroom to the sound of Vivaldi's four seasons; he could see the string quartet on the small stage in the corner. After walking to the bar he ordered himself a bourbon and then went in search of Jennifer. Masked or not he should be able to recognise her; she promised to wear a red rose pinned to her dress.

After looking for a good ten minutes he gave up.

There was no sign of her, which could mean only one thing, Tony had her in the cellar, or the dungeon as he liked to call it. He'd seen a few bodies dragged out of that room in his time. Hell, he'd done the dragging himself on numerous occasions.

He hoped he wasn't too late.

He headed for the spiral staircase at the back of the house and clambered down them, then edged himself along the wall. He peeked out into the dingy lit corridor.

There were two of them.

Gerry and Guido, or, as he preferred to call them, Dumb and Dumber.

One stood in front of the door as the other prowled the corridor. He knew they'd both be armed.

He reached for the change in his pocket and scattered a few coins on the floor.

"What the fuck was that?" asked Guido in his strange nasal whine.

"No fucking idea," replied Gerry.

"Wait here, I'll take a look."

Drake watched the shadow approach him from his crouched position behind the stairs. He watched as Guido came around the corner and looked from side to side. Once he was satisfied that there was no one there he turned around, heading back towards the corridor.

It's what Drake was waiting for; he leaped out from his hiding place, put his arm around Guido’s neck and jerked hard until he heard a satisfying crack.

He dumped the body behind the stairs and adopted the same strange whine that the dead man had been afflicted with since birth.

"Gerry! Get your arse over here."

Gerry rounded the corner and came face to face with the steel silencer.

Drake removed the mask.

"How's tricks Gerry?"

A look of shock appeared across his face.

"I thought you were dead!"

"The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated. Now open the cellar."

He pushed the gun hard into Gerry's back and marched him towards the steel door.

Jennifer was alive; she was tied to a chair, her mouth gagged with duct tape.

"Untie her Gerry."

He did as he was asked.

She run into his arms and he inhaled the familiar peach smell from her hair.

Once he was sure she was okay, he put the gun against Gerry's head.

"Tell Tony you have a problem. Get him down here now. Your life depends on it."

The guard took out his phone and made the call.

"You'll have to excuse me senator," said Tony. "There's something that requires my immediate attention."

"Fucking useless bastards," he muttered to himself as he eased his huge bulk down the staircase. As he entered the dungeon he saw Drake then he felt a sharp blow to his head and everything went black.

When he woke up he was bound and gagged. He lay on his back in the corner of the whitewashed room. The opposite corner contained Gerry's body; his throat had been slit from ear to ear. His head lay in a halo of blood.

He looked down at his chest; he had an archaic looking mobile phone taped to his sweat stained shirt. He didn't have a clue what that was about. He laid his head back on the damp floor.

Someone would find him soon enough, and then he'd make the bastards pay. Wherever the hell they got to, he'd find them.

Drake and Jennifer sat in the small aeroplane enjoying the magnum of vintage Champaign.

"It's time to make the call I think," said Drake. “Do you want to do it or will I?"

"We could toss a coin."

"Jesus no!" replied Drake. “I had enough of that shit earlier.”

She laughed. "Give me the phone. I'll do it, I owe it to the old bastard."

He took out the phone and scanned through the address book till he found Crimson Tide.

"I meant to ask," said Drake. “How did you come up with the name?"

She took a sip of her drink. "The other night when we were planning things, you asked for a name. It was the first thing I saw in the TV guide. It's some movie about a submarine or something."

She shrugged her shoulders.

Drake laughed to himself.

"We'll I must say, it's very apt."

He tapped his glass against hers.

"Cheers."

He handed her the phone and she made the call.

Back in the Rowans the mobile strapped to Tony’s chest lit up. He just had time to acknowledge it before the C4 strapped to the phone blew his body into a million pieces, turning the whitewashed walls of the dungeon a glorious shade of crimson.

BIO:

Steve Christie is a real ale loving Scottish Crime Writer. He is the author of “Good Deed”, and is currently working on “Cold Shot”. You can find Good Deed right here at Amazon.