Hard as Nails

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

"I'll go in through the door I blew," said Angelina. "You go around by the terrace. I think we'd better wrap this up fast Baby Doc looks like he's ready to take off without us, and it might be to his advantage to do it. Get Toma and his guy and we'll get the fuck out of here."

Kurtz nodded and they split up.

Kurtz was still carrying his ditty bag, but there was no need for night-vision goggles now. The house was fully engaged, the second floor pouring flames out of its high windows, the roof cedar-shake shingles smoking and more smoke billowing out the first-floor windows on the east and west sides. The flickering light from the flames illuminated everything out to the Bell Long Ranger.

Kurtz paused at the corner of the house and then swung around onto the terrace overlooking the cliff.

Gonzaga's guy, Bobby, swung a shotgun his way.

"Hey!" said Kurtz, holding his hands and the Browning high. "It's me."

Bobby lowered the shotgun. He was watching the open doors to the library and the Major's room, which lay behind two closed, heavy, windowless doors.

"What's the situation?" asked Kurtz. He popped one cartridge out of the Browning's chamber and dropped it in his pocket. Then he racked the next cartridge in, dropped the empty magazine to the terrace, and slapped in another ten-round clip.

"The boss is still in there, gathering up papers and shit and keeping the Major in his room. The whole fucking place is beginning to burn in there, so the boss won't be staying much longer."

This last information was redundant The flames were pouring out of the second floor windows above the terrace and the heat was significant.

"I think the Major's room connects to Trinh's next to it," said Kurtz over the crackling of the flames. "The old man could get out that way."

Bobby shook his head. "The boss had me shove what was left of that library table up against Trinh's bedroom door and pile up a bunch of shit on it The Major ain't getting out that way. Not in a wheelchair."

"Anyone else in there with the Major?"

"We don't know. The boss don't think so. We got some handgun fire from the bedroom door right when you left. Then the Major closed and bolted it. The boss thinks he's in there alone."

"C-4?" said Kurtz.

Bobby shrugged. "I guess. Me, I'd let the old fuck burn." He said it loud enough to carry through the outside doors.

"Go help Gonzaga," said Kurtz. "I'll watch out here."

When Bobby had run into the smoking library, Kurtz backed away, then peered over the edge of the cliff to the valley floor far below. There were emergency vehicles down there—he could see a fire truck and at least three sheriff's cars, as well as a gaggle of big SUVs—but no one was coming up the winding drive or climbing the ziggurat staircase.

Kurtz walked off the terrace and stepped around the south corner of the burning house. Inside, something heavy collapsed. There was movement at the opposite end of the house, and Kurtz turned with the Browning before he saw that it was Angelina, Gonzaga, and Bobby, carrying bags of stuff and heading for the helicopter.

"Kurtz!" called the female don. "Come on. We're leaving."

Kurtz nodded and waved. And waited where he was.

It was about three minutes later when the barred doors were flung open and the Major came wheeling his chair out onto the terrace. The old man was in pajamas and a robe, a huge service.45 on his lap, both hands busy pushing the manually powered wheelchair away from the smoking doors and the burning house.

The Major got to the edge of the terrace and stopped, coughing heavily and spitting.

"Freeze," said Kurtz, stepping out onto the terrace, Browning aimed and braced with both hands. He walked toward the wheelchair, taking time to glance into the Major's bedroom. It was roiling with heavy smoke. If anyone was left in there, they were out of the game unless they were wearing a respirator. "Keep your hands on the wheels," Kurtz said, stepping to within six feet of the old man.

The Major turned his head and shoulders, keeping his hands on the metal grab-ring of the chair's wheels as instructed. The military man who'd looked so powerful here on this terrace eleven hours earlier looked old and haggard and worn out now. His white crewcut was sweaty and matted, showing an old man's pink scalp. The pajama tops were open, showing the muscled chest but also gray hairs and old scars. Major O'Toole's eyes looked tired and watery. A line of soot under each nostril showed that even old military men couldn't breathe pure smoke for long.

"Turn around," said Kurtz.

The Major swung the chair around. Both men were obviously aware of the.45 on the old man's lap, but there was no way to get rid of it unless Kurtz allowed the Major to lift his hands or Kurtz stepped closer to grab it. The old cripple couldn't kick it away from him.

Kurtz decided to leave it alone for now.

"Mr. Kurtz," said the Major and then began coughing again. He started to lift a fist to his mouth, saw Kurtz thumb the hammer back on the Browning, and finished the coughing fit with his big hands firmly clamped on the wheels. When he was finished, he raised his soot-streaked face and said, "You win, Mr. Kurtz. What do you want?"

"Did you order Peg O'Toole killed?"

The old gray eyes widened. "Order my niece killed? Are you crazy?"

"Who did?"

"I have no idea. I presume it was one of your Mafia friends."

Kurtz shook his head. "You killed your brother, John. Why not his daughter, too?"

The Major flinched as if Kurtz had slapped him in the face. His powerful arms and huge hands flexed.

"Why'd you kill your brother?" said Kurtz. "He was a cop, but close to retirement No, wait… it was because he found out you were trying to move your heroin ring into Lackawanna and Buffalo, wasn't it?"

The Major snarled—he literally snarled.

"So did you sic your crazy son on Peg O'Toole as well?" pressed Kurtz.

"My son…" said the Major. The old man's chiseled face seemed to shift, like some morphing special effect in a movie. The strong bones seemed to sag. "My son is dead. Sean Michael is dead. He died fifteen years ago in a fire."

"Your fucking son, the Artful Dodger, dodged that fire, too, didn't he, Major? Who'd you send to be a corpse in his place? One of your Vietnamese lackeys? No, it'd have to be someone who looked more like a crazy Irish bastard, even after he was burned up, wouldn't it? And then you supplied the dental records, didn't you?"

"My son is dead!" snarled the Major. He grabbed for the.45.

Instead of firing, Kurtz lunged closer and kicked the wheelchair, wedging his boot between the old man's withered knees and pushing hard.

The Major let out a cry and dropped the.45, grabbing the steel rims of the wheels with both of his powerful hands, leaning forward to brake the sliding chair just as it slid back to the edge of the rain-slicked terrace. The gun bounced on the flagstones.

"I'll kill you, I'll kill you, I'll kill you," panted the Major. He obviously wanted to grab Kurtz's leg, get both hands on Kurtz's throat, to choke the life out of him. But to do that, the Major would have to release the wheels.

Kurtz hopped on one leg, Browning still aimed, and kicked again, pushing hard with all of his weight The wheelchair, wheels locked, slid and screeched another yard, until it teetered right on the edge of the near-vertical ziggurat staircase.

"Who shot me?" gasped Kurtz, leaning closer. "Who shot Peg O'Toole? Who did you send?"

"I'll fucking kill you," panted the old man. Sweat flew from his straining forehead and pelted Kurtz's face. The Major's breath smelled of smoke and death. "Fucking kill you. Kill you." His upper body strength was tremendous. Kurtz was being pushed back, his right leg folding back as the wheelchair moved forward six inches… then another six inches.

"Send your crazy, fucked-up son to do it," panted Kurtz. His right leg was cramping wildly, but his boot remained firmly planted on the chair between the Major's knees.

"Aarrrrgggghhh!" screamed the Major and lifted both of his huge hands to grab Kurtz's throat, to choke the life out of him, to drag him over the edge with him.

Kurtz threw his upper body back, avoiding the lurching hands as he'd avoid a cobra strike, throwing himself almost horizontally backward. He landed heavily on one elbow, the Major's huge hands still grasping air above him. Kurtz gathered his legs like springs and kicked the wheelchair and the Major's withered knees with both boots.

The wheelchair and the flailing old man flew backwards off the terrace and over the cliff.

By the time Kurtz stood and stepped to the edge, the broken chair and flying, screaming figure had already pin-wheeled off thirty steps and were picking up speed as they tumbled into darkness.