Arcadia Investments.
The name was strange, yet it was linked to large transactions of money. Paul was working the Internet to hopefully find the truth. All I knew about now was the stupid empty field. Seeing as how I was a short drive from the area, I decided to take a second look.
What could it hurt?
The scenery changed dramatically the closer I got to the field. There were old factory buildings and warehouses, their windows shattered, brick walls pockmarked with graffiti. Most of the original businesses were boarded up, except for liquor stores, gas stations and convenience stores. The place was basically a wasteland, a patch of dirt and debris in a rough part of town, a dead zone where nobody would want to do business.
When I reached the field, I parked the Maverick on the street and got out. I stood there for a moment, taking it all in. The ground was littered with garbage—old tires, broken glass, an abandoned shopping cart tipped over on its side. A few scraggly weeds pushed up through the cracks in the torn-up asphalt.
Why did you pick this address, Richard? I wondered.
Slowly, I turned and did a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn. When I stopped, I saw only one thing that didn’t really fit in. In the far, far distance, way beyond the ghetto but still in sight, was a hotel.
There were plenty of big old hotels down here, some abandoned, some renovated, quite a few in between. This appeared to be in good shape with an unblemished exterior and windows that appeared intact. That area, I knew, was entirely different. Closer to the action of downtown where the Lions and Tigers played, it had a bustling social scene with restaurants and bars. Hence, the need for hotels.
I stared at the hotel for a while, my mind working. Why choose this empty lot for Arcadia Investments, a place that wasn’t even a real address? Maybe because it wasn’t about the location itself. Maybe Richard had meetings with his “Arcadia” people in that hotel. Maybe when Richard told Amelia he was on a “business trip” he was actually there, doing God knows what. And if he stayed in one of the luxury rooms, which are usually on the higher floors, he would have been able to see the vast, empty field, and gotten an idea for the address of the phony Arcadia corporation.
I was still piecing it together when I heard the sound of an engine approaching, fast. The tires squealed as the car came to a skidding stop. I turned to see a black sedan, a Cadillac, parked at an angle to the curb. The doors opened, and three men got out, all of them vaguely similar: big, wearing dark clothes, and each with a weapon.
He who hesitates is lost, someone once said. This wasn’t a western showdown where you wait for the other guy to draw.
Thanks to the inherent danger of the neighborhood, my hand was already near the butt of my .45 auto, so instead of waiting for them to make the first move, I pulled my pistol from its holster and fired.
The first shot hit the guy in the lead square in the forehead. His head snapped back and he toppled backward, and landed in the field, barely visible thanks to the high weeds.
I’ve already told you about my hands. They’re huge. So the guns in my private armory back in my loft are all custom fit for me. In this case, the .45 I carry every day is Belgian and carries fifteen rounds plus one in the chamber.
A spare magazine was on the other side of my holster.
So, thirty-two rounds in all, minus one.
Without taking the time to line up the next target in my sights, I fired three shots as fast as I could pull the trigger. The guy in the middle twisted to the side, and I figured I’d hit him in the shoulder.
The last guy, on the left, had his weapon, some kind of Uzi submachine gun, up and aimed my way. I dove to the left, hit the ground and belly crawled until I heard him empty his magazine. I jumped to my feet and ran for the back of a liquor store on the edge of the field.
Just as I was about to make it, they opened fire again and I felt a sharp sting as a bullet grazed my calf, but I kept running and reached the corner of the building and ducked around it, pressing my back against the wall.
The wound felt like someone had taken a razor-sharp knife and slashed me across the calf. I glanced down. Blood was draining onto my shoe. But not enough to concern me.
Peering around the corner I saw the guy with the Uzi coming fast, his face set in a grim line. The other guy was hobbling toward the front of the liquor store, holding his shoulder.
I dropped down on one knee, pivoted around the edge of the building, and fired off the rest of my clip. Rapid firing tends to raise the muzzle of a pistol so I purposely started low. It looked like one of my bullets hit him in the solar plexus because he jerked like he’d been kicked in the nuts and then another shot tore out his throat. He staggered and fell.
To my left was the parking lot and there were a few cars lined up against the building. A group of men, maybe three or four, were passing a bottle in a brown bag around, and smoking weed.
Keeping my pistol down along my left leg, I hurried past them.
“You the one shootin’, white boy?” one of them asked. They were totally unperturbed by the gunfire. Detroiters through and through.
Around the corner I went and there was an SUV, jacked up with huge custom wheels and all kinds of lights. A woman was sitting on the step in front of the liquor store, a pint of brown liquor in her hand.
I took up a position at the rear of the tricked-out SUV.
Listening, I could hear the third man’s labored breathing. I holstered the .45 and waited. When he came around the back of the truck, I reached out, got him by the throat with one hand and grabbed his wrist of the hand holding his weapon. I squeezed both of my hands until I heard the gun clatter to the pavement. Briefly, I let go of his throat only to hook his head along the jawline with the inside of my arm. With a powerful twist of my body, his neck broke.
I let go and he dropped at my feet.
“Jesus Christ,” the woman said. “Y’all some crazy fuckers, I’ll give you that.”
Not waiting for the police to arrive, and figuring it would take quite some time, I walked back to the Maverick, my leg burning, the pain sharp and hot. It seemed like a good idea to put as much distance between myself and the scene as possible.
But first, I would cruise by the hotel and see if my hunch was right.