Frank knew automatic weapons fire when he heard it. Somebody was unloading on the front door with a machine gun, trying to blow it off its hinges.
It would work too. No door could stand up to that kind of punishment for long.
Virgil and Parker’s romantic rendezvous would have to wait. It didn’t matter. Parker wasn’t going anywhere. There would be plenty of time for him to watch her die.
First he had to take care of the fools who’d dared to come knocking at his door.
Under other circumstances he might have tried a tactical retreat—take the Jeep and escape through the freight door—but here and now, running was not an option. He was alive with the power of the beast. He would stand and fight.
He found the side door to the office and slipped inside. The office’s main door looked out on the foyer, with the street door beyond.
The machine gun coughed again. The door groaned, weakening. By now it must have been fatally compromised, but it was still upright, wedged in the frame. Then the gunfire fell silent, replaced by frantic scraping noises. Someone outside was working to pry open the door.
Wouldn’t take long. In a few seconds it would give way, and then the intruders would enter.
And he would gun them down.
A .22 wasn’t much good against people toting a machine gun, but he was unconcerned about that. Nothing could hurt him, not tonight. In the past few hours he had become something greater than a mortal man, a thing of raw fury that could not be stopped. He could take on the world and win. Let them drop a nuclear bomb on him; he would walk away.
These dumb bastards thought they had the edge, but they didn’t know what they were going up against.
He would kill them all, and drink their spurting blood.
- — -
It took Bonnie a few seconds to process the fact that the cage wasn’t in her face and Frank Lazzaro had gone away. Though she’d heard the noise from the front of the building, somehow its significance hadn’t registered.
Then her head cleared, and she got it. The Long Fong Boyz had come calling.
They might kill Frank, or he might kill them. One thing was certain. Whoever survived would be more than happy to kill her.
“Never knew I was so friggin’ unpopular,” she murmured.
The little joke cheered her, made her feel more like herself. She might have lost it for a minute, but she was still alive—and, for the moment, alone.
Except for Virgil. In the deep darkness she could hear the rat’s soft squeaks and the clinking of his chain.
- — -
A last screech of metal on metal, and the outside door leaned in and toppled with a crash.
Frank tensed, ready to fire.
Nothing happened.
Nobody entered through the doorway. Nobody was there.
He heard a sound, a faint metallic rolling sound, like a tin can kicked down the road. Something round or cylindrical, tossed through the doorway, traveling across the floor …
Grenade.
The thought reached him a split second before the thing went off in a shockwave of glare and noise. He spun, staggering, his world lost in a whiteout, his ears ringing. He felt drunk, his mind clouded, the floor strangely spongy under his feet.
A concussion grenade. Distraction and disorientation. It would provide the enemy with a few seconds when they could enter unopposed.
Fuck that. He didn’t need eyes or ears. He needed only the gun in his hand and the black beast at the heart of his soul.
He groped his way back to the office doorway and fired into the foyer, aiming at nothing, seeing nothing, but knowing the bastards were there. The gun bucked in his hand.
They thought they could take him out with a glorified sparkler. Idiots. He would empty the magazine and kill them all.
Already his vision was clearing. There were four of them, five, half a dozen. But one was already horizontal, and when he squeezed the trigger again, another one went down in a flop of limbs.
Two out of commission so far, and he could take out the rest. The blood he’d fed to Santa Muerte’s altar would guarantee his protection, now and forever.
He was taking aim at the asshole with the machine gun when the automatic opened up, a new burst stitching a seam in the drywall and showering him with plaster, and abruptly his hand was empty.
His gun was gone.
He didn’t understand it at first. The gun simply wasn’t there anymore. It had vanished. Magic.
In the next moment a wave of electric pain reached him, setting his arm on fire, and he realized the gun had been shot out of his hand, taking some of his fingers with it.
The room swam back into focus, and just like that, the animal was gone. The beast had retreated into some distant darkness, deserting him, and he was only Frank Lazzaro again. A man, nothing more. A beaten man.
Frank retreated in a daze, half blind, half deaf. A high hum rose in his ears, competing with the chiming of bells. He fumbled for the knife sheathed to his arm. He wasn’t sure what he could do with the knife, but he needed a weapon, any kind of weapon, and the knife was all he had.
A desk occupied a corner of the office. He found it more by chance than intention, stumbled behind it, and fell heavily into a swivel chair.
The knife was in his hand now—his left hand, because the right was a bloody mangle. He remembered an old-time hood nicknamed Johnny Three Fingers. If Frank lived, he might acquire that moniker for himself.
But he wasn’t going to live. He knew that.
Bodies crowded into the office. Someone switched on a flashlight, blinding him once more as it found his face.
“Jesus,” the one with the flashlight said in obvious surprise. “It’s fucking Lazzaro.”
So they hadn’t even known who they were shooting at. That was rich. Over the years, plenty of made men had gone out of their way to try to get rid of him, and they’d all failed. Now some bunch of nobodies had pulled it off without even trying.
The flashlight shifted, allowing Frank to see their faces. Chinks. Ridiculously young. Fucking kids, for Chrissakes.
He recognized the leader, holding the flashlight. Patrick Chiu of the Long Fong Boyz.
It looked like the war had started early.
“Where’s Parker?” Chiu asked
Frank liked that question. He liked it because he knew the Boyz would make Parker just as dead as he wanted her to be.
“Main room.” Each word came with grinding effort. “Tied to a chair.”
Chiu nodded. “She your gal Friday or some shit?”
Frank debated how to answer. If he told the truth, they might realize Parker hadn’t taken out Joey Huang, and maybe even let her live. That outcome was unacceptable.
“Yeah,” he said. “She hit your guy.”
“On your orders?”
“Sure.” What the hell, they’d never believe him if he denied it.
“If Supergirl’s your bitch, what’d you tie her up for?”
“She’s a loose cannon. A liability. I always planned to take her out.”
“You were worried about her, but not about throwing down with us?”
Frank raised himself a few inches, summoning his dignity and his remaining strength. “That’s right, Mr. Moto. I never lost no sleep over you pissant chop suey eaters. My organization ain’t gonna be taken down by some crew of fucking wannabe punks with more tats than brains.”
Chiu smiled slowly. “Don’t be so sure, Don Corleone. It’s a new world. Our world.”
“Tell that to your good pal Fuck Face.”
“Fish Face was his name. Where is he?”
“In a drum back there”—Frank nodded toward the main room—“swimming in concrete.”
“Did you kill him yourself?”
“You know it, slope. One bullet right between his slanty eyes.”
Chiu’s face, lit from below in the backsplash of the flashlight, showed no reaction. “And Parker? Is she dead too?”
“Not yet.”
“Good.”
Chiu raised his gun and shot Frank twice. The impact knocked him off the chair. He fell on the floor and put his hand on his waist, where he felt a quick pulse of blood.
Gutshot, and bleeding out. A crappy way to die.
But Parker would go with him. He drew comfort from that.