THEY DROVE up the graded road at night, Michael at the wheel of the SS, Ornazian beside him. Thaddeus Ward was in the backseat. The headlights were off. Michael navigated by the light of the moon. They passed the house in the pines, and Ornazian told him to keep going, and then, after a hundred yards, he told him to turn around. Nearing the house, Ornazian instructed Michael to pull over and cut the engine.
“Wait,” said Ward. “Back it into the woods instead.”
“What if we get stuck?” said Ornazian.
“It hasn’t rained for a week,” said Ward. “Ground’s packed hard. We’ll be fine.”
Michael did it. The Impala was partially hidden by oak and scrub pine, its nose out. They could see the house clearly. The curtains were drawn, and lights were on inside. Only the Cherokee and Silverado were in the gravel driveway. There was no Charger.
“Where’s our boy?” said Ward.
“Who knows?” said Ornazian. “Still at work? It doesn’t matter. We don’t want him, we only want what they stole.”
“We could wait till Kelly gets back,” said Ward.
“There’s no telling when or if he’s coming back tonight. I don’t think we should wait.”
“Okay,” said Ward, trying to think of all the possibilities. “They know someone broke into their house. They’ll be on alert.”
“What’s your point?”
“We have to go in hard. I’ll use the ram and you need to cover them with the shotgun.”
“Right.” Ornazian clipped a two-way radio to his belt and handed its mate to Michael. “Stay on channel eleven.”
“Like last time.”
“Kelly’s tall with a long face and a broad forehead,” said Ornazian, speaking to Michael. “If he comes back to the house, remember, you’re with us. You know what that means.”
Michael said nothing. But he understood what Ornazian was saying. He was expected to back them up.
“You done speechifying?” said Ward.
“Not yet,” said Ornazian. “I just want to remind everyone that these are bad people. They drugged and assaulted a girl. They’d just as soon see you swinging from a tree as look at you, Thaddeus.”
“You don’t need to gin me up,” said Ward. “I was a kid in Washington in the fifties. My father was a veteran of World War Two, a taxpayer, and a straight citizen, and still, I heard him get called a nigger many times. Do you know what that does to a boy who looks up to his father? My mother worked for the federal government, but come Easter, she couldn’t buy a hat or a dress in one of those downtown department stores or walk into the Garfinckel’s on Fourteenth Street and spend the money she’d earned. That is, until 1968. That’s when we burned Fourteenth Street to the ground. So, yeah, I know who these people are. It’s you who don’t know. You too, Hudson. Either you never took the time to learn your history or you forgot. It’s the forgetting that allows trash like them to come back.
“This past year been the darkest time I can remember. But I did smile once. When that white-supremacist dude came to town and someone just up and coldcocked him right in the face. This is Washington, man. The percentages are down, but it’s still a black city. Always gonna be a black city to me. Some white boy comes into D.C. and starts talking that filth, he’s gonna get his punk ass handed to him real quick.
“So there ain’t no need for you to get my blood going, Phil. I got a daughter. She’s more accomplished than any of these people will ever be, and still, in their eyes, she’s mud.”
“I have kids too.”
“Yeah, your black kids. You white folk get all self-righteous when you taste a little of what we’ve been swallowing for almost five hundred years.”
“I know what side I’ll be fighting on if the race war comes,” said Ornazian.
“So do I,” said Ward. “But before we get all apocalyptic, why don’t we just handle what we got right here tonight?”
“Y’all finished?” said Michael.
“I reckon,” said Ward.
Michael released the trunk lid as Ornazian disabled the dome light of the car’s interior then opened his door. He and Ward got out of the car and went around to the open trunk. Ward had transferred many items from his Crown Vic to the Impala when they picked him up in the parking lot behind his shop. They had already removed the trunk’s light. Ward took a mini Maglite from his multipocketed jacket, turned it on, and put its ass end in his mouth. They gloved their hands and worked by that light.
Ward checked the load on his Glock, holstered it behind his back, and put several sets of plastic restraints of varying lengths in his pockets. Ornazian broke open the wheel of the .38 Special, saw rounds fitted in its chambers, and slid the revolver into the dip of his jeans. He took the Remington 12-gauge out of its blanket and hefted it.
“Tipped slugs,” said Ward. “Don’t rack it yet. They’ll piss their drawers when they hear that sound.”
Ward unzipped the duffel bag, brought out the battering ram, and laid it on the floor of the trunk. He then opened a case and produced something that looked like a gun but was not. Ornazian knew exactly what it was. He had bought one himself on the black market. Ward found an extra cartridge in the case and fixed it to the end of the butt.
“What’s that?”
“Speed load,” said Ward.
Ward slipped the weapon into a plastic holster and clipped the rig to his belt. Then he and Ornazian pulled stockings down over their faces. Before Ward picked up the ram and closed the trunk, Ornazian grabbed the retractable steel baton and walked it around to the driver’s side of the SS. He handed it to Michael Hudson.
“You might need this,” said Ornazian. Michael put the baton on the seat beside him.
Ward was standing next to Ornazian, squinting, looking across the road at the house.
“Can you see them?” said Ornazian, whose night vision was poor.
“No,” said Ward. “But I’m guessin they ain’t watching TV. You saw to that.”
“Back door?”
Ward nodded. “We busted it in good. They probably haven’t had time to fortify it yet.”
“Let’s go.”
They crossed the road, walking low, avoiding the gravel driveway. They went to the side of the house and pressed themselves against it. They allowed themselves to calm their nerves and steady their breath, and then they went to the back of the house, where Ward ascended the concrete steps to the back-door landing. He cautiously peered into the kitchen. Ornazian came up behind him in a crouch, giving him room to make his play. Ward looked at him once, held up two fingers, and nodded, then gripped the ram by its top and left-side handle. He swung it into the jamb and the door crashed open. Ward dropped the ram onto the landing and drew his Glock. Both of them stepped into the house.
“Don’t nobody move,” said Ward.
Richard Rupert and Tommy Getz, startled, were seated at the small table. There was a semiautomatic on it. Richard stood and reached for it as the invaders entered the kitchen. He stopped at Ward’s command and the sound of the rack of the shotgun in Ornazian’s grip. Tommy had not gotten up from his seat. His hands were visibly shaking.
Ward jacked a round into the Glock as he moved forward. Ornazian leveled the 12-gauge on the young men. The one who was standing had the pretty-boy haircut, shaved sides, long on top. The seated one’s hair was down to the scalp. Their shirts were off and they were barefoot and wearing jeans. They were both cock-strong but had no lines or beard shadows on their faces. Ornazian had to remind himself that they were violent men. They looked like kids.
“Put your hands up,” said Ward.
They did it. There was hate and embarrassment in the standing one’s eyes.
“Say your names,” said Ward.
“Fuck you is my name,” said Richard Rupert.
Ward stepped forward so fast he blurred. He swung the barrel of the Glock, and Richard went down to the floor. He rubbed at his jaw and worked it. Soon it would be swollen and blue.
“Mind your tongue and stand up,” said Ward. “Now, what’s your name?”
“Richard.”
“You?”
“T-T-Tom,” said the other.
We have a stutterer, thought Ornazian. He knew what Ward would do with that. It was his show.
“Take the rest of your clothes off,” said Ward. “Not just your blue jeans. Everything. Your panties too.”
Richard began to take off his clothes. Tommy Getz hesitated.
“You too, T-T-T-Tom.”
RICHARD AND Tommy were cuffed to the table chairs, hands and feet secured by plastic ties. They were naked and sweating. The room smelled of their rank perspiration.
“Y’all motherfuckas stink,” said Ward.
“What do you want?” said Richard.
“We’re here for the Tiffany bracelet. The one you stole from that house in Potomac. Don’t waste my time and act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“I got rid of it,” said Richard.
“I don’t believe you.”
“You already tossed our house. That was you who broke in, right? So you know it’s not here anymore.”
“Yeah? Where’s the money you made from the sale?”
“I put it in the fucking bank.”
“You’re too stupid to have a bank account.”
Richard stared defiantly into Ward’s eyes. Tommy looked down at his lap.
“Tom,” said Ward. “Look at me.” Tommy looked at Ward. “Where’s the bracelet?”
“Don’t say nothin to him, Tommy,” said Richard.
Ward drew the Taser from its holster. He flicked off its safety and stood directly in front of Tommy.
“The company made some improvements on this model right here,” said Ward. “Lawmen complained that it wasn’t powerful enough. Used to be twenty thousand volts, so they upped it to fifty. The darts were smooth, but now they got barbs on ’em, like little fishhooks. According to a video I watched, if the Taser is sighted just below the sternum, the lower dart kind of harpoons the genitals.”
Ward sighted the Taser. A red dot appeared below Tommy’s sternum. “That’s where the top electrode gonna hit. The bottom one will hit your privates.”
“Don’t,” said Tommy.
“Fifty thousand volts to your p-p-penis and scrotum, Tom. You gonna feel that up into your spine. If I hold down the trigger long enough, it’s gonna burn you too. Leave you—what’s that word…nonfunctional. Nerve damage, all that. You ain’t never gonna be the same down there again.”
Tears broke and ran down Tommy’s face.
“Leave him alone,” said Richard.
“Okay,” said Ward.
He stepped over to Richard Rupert. He trained the laser on the area of Richard’s solar plexus where a tiny swastika had been inked into his skin. “It was you who raped that girl. Wasn’t it, Richard? You don’t look like much, but I’m guessing you fancy yourself a real rooster.”
Richard held Ward’s stare.
“Where’s the bracelet, Richard?” said Ward.
“It’s up in your fat ass.”
Ward triggered the Taser, igniting its gas cartridge. Two conductive wires shot out of the muzzle. The electrified darts found their marks and invaded Richard Rupert’s nerves. His muscles contracted violently. He bucked and writhed in his chair. His hands flopped in their cuffs and he toppled over, convulsing, as the smell of burned hair and flesh permeated the room. Tommy Getz turned his head and vomited.
“Enough,” said Ornazian.
Ward laid the Taser down on the floor and walked back over to Tommy.
“Now you need to tell it, Tom.”
MICHAEL HUDSON’S eyes were on the house in the pines when headlights came up the road. He watched as a car, looked like a Dodge from the lamps, slowed and pulled into the gravel driveway. Had to be a V-8 from the sound coming out the pipes.
Michael picked up the two-way and keyed it.
“Come in, Number One,” said Michael.
“It’s me. What’s going on?”
“We got company. Looks like our man.”
“We’re almost done here,” said Ornazian. “Handle it.”
Michael dropped the radio on the seat beside him and picked up the steel baton.
AFTER TOMMY had given it up, Ornazian went to Richard’s bedroom and moved the boxes of promethazine, codeine, and NyQuil that were stacked in the corner. He then picked up a throw rug to find a cutout in the hardwood floor. He crouched down and pulled on a ring set in a grooved-out portion of the floor. The cutout came up, revealing a framed-out box below.
In the box were an automatic, a revolver, several pieces of jewelry in a paper bag, a rubber-banded stack of cash, and a robin’s-egg-blue box marked TIFFANY AND CO. Inside that box was the diamond-and-platinum bracelet.
They had missed the stash when they tossed the bedroom the first time around. It had been here, under the stacked ingredients of the Lean.
Ornazian pocketed all of the jewelry, the bracelet, and the cash in his tan Kühl jacket. He ejected the magazine of a nine-millimeter Beretta and removed the bullets from the revolver and put those in his jacket as well.
He went back out to the living area to scoop up Ward. It was time to go.
TERRY KELLY noticed the car across the road, its front end jutting out of the woods, as he got out of his Charger. Looked like an old Chevy, maybe an Impala. A police package car, or Feds, maybe. There were no residents close by, and there wasn’t any good reason for anyone to be parked in those woods.
Terry knew what Richard would say if he went into the house and told him and Tommy about the car: Dumbass. Why didn’t you check it out?
Terry reached under the driver’s seat and found his gun, a nine-millimeter Beretta he had bought on the street. He pulled back on the receiver and eased a round into the chamber. He snicked off the safety, slid the gun into the side pocket of his jacket, and walked across the road.
He went to the car. The night was dark but he could see that there was no one inside the vehicle and as his eyes adjusted he made out its make and model. It was indeed an Impala, the muscled-out nineties version of the SS. Terry walked into the stand of scrub pine to the rear of the car and examined the animal badge on the trunk’s lid, the chrome pipes. He heard footsteps. His heart beat hard in his chest.
“Don’t move,” said a voice behind him.
Terry turned quickly and in that motion drew the Beretta from his side pocket and pointed it at the man standing before him, just three feet away. In the darkness he saw a tall, bearded man, nearly featureless in the dim light, holding a metal rod in his hand.
Though he held a gun, Terry felt the blood drain from his face.
“I don’t want to die,” said Terry, a quiver in his voice.
“Who said anything about dyin?”
“They sent you here to kill me, didn’t they?” said Terry. “Isn’t that right?”
“Who?”
“The Cherry Hill Road boys.”
“Ain’t nobody send me here. Toss that gun aside so we can talk.”
“I can’t do that,” said Terry.
Michael Hudson looked at Terry Kelly. He wasn’t hard. He was a stupid, confused kid. Michael had been in juvenile lockup and been incarcerated as an adult. He knew enough to see that this boy was weak.
“Do what I say,” said Michael.
“I can’t,” said Terry.
Michael swung the steel baton. It struck Terry in the temple, and he lost his legs. Terry fell to the ground in a heap of deadweight.
Michael tossed the gun into the woods. He got down on his knees and felt the blood on Terry Kelly’s face.
I’m a murderer, thought Michael.
I killed a man.
IN THE living room, Ornazian told Ward that he had found what they’d come for. Richard was still in the toppled-over chair, conscious but disoriented. His genitals were burned and there was some blood where Ward had pulled out the barbs. He had voided his bowels. Ward had poured water on his face, but he was white as milk.
Ward told Tommy to let the incident go. Warned him what would happen if they went back to the house in Potomac or tried to retaliate in any way.
“Do you understand me?”
“Yes.”
Ornazian and Ward left them there, bound to their chairs.
Outside the house, they crossed the road to the Impala and found Michael seated on the ground beside Terry Kelly.
“He’s dead,” said Michael.
“Put your light on him,” said Ornazian to Ward.
Ward trained the mini Mag on Terry as Ornazian got down on his haunches and pressed his index and middle fingers to the carotid artery in the young man’s neck. Then he found a bottle of water in the trunk and wet Terry’s lips and poured some of it on his bloodied forehead and temple.
“He’s not dead,” said Ornazian. “I’m guessing you concussed him, but his pulse is running strong. He should be all right.”
“We just gonna leave him here?” said Michael.
“He’s lying on a soft bed of pine needles. When he wakes up, he’ll go over to the house and cut his friends loose.” Ornazian cupped his hand around Michael’s biceps. “Listen, you did good.”
“Fuck you, man,” said Michael, pulling his arm away.
They drove off the mountain in silence. At Route 15, Michael headed in the direction of D.C. Ornazian cracked a window to get some air. He was sickened by what they’d done.
“You don’t look so good,” said Michael.
“I’m fine,” said Ornazian.
“Yeah? What’d you do to those guys in that house?”
“We got what we came for,” said Ward.
“That’s all that matters?” said Michael.
“Don’t get all high and mighty, young man,” said Ward.
“After tonight,” said Michael, “I don’t want nothin to do with y’all. Threaten me all you want. I’d rather go to prison than be with people like you.”
“But you’re still gonna take your cut,” said Ward.
Michael’s face was grim in the dashboard light.