Blu Heat Page 9
Blu had a feeling he and the kid would be giving them more reasons to be questioned anyway, so it didn’t matter. There was still the Englishman to deal with. He was most likely going to come after them.
Chapter Twenty-One
Simon sped through three lights before he calmed down enough to think. Rolf was surely dead. And they had the girl now. And she would tell them everything.
As he pulled to a stop at the next light, one thought came to mind: He was finished.
“Dammit!” He hit the steering wheel with his fists.
Yes, he was finished.
The house on Montagu Street wasn’t even his idea. He got stuck with it. Had to make sure it stayed hidden, open, and profitable. Well, he hoped his “bosses” in Atlanta liked the situation now. Because it was all over.
Rolf told him they needed help with this. Why didn’t he listen?
But he knew damn well why he couldn’t listen—because if Atlanta had found out, he was done anyway. City bosses like him had to be able to handle their own towns. Calling for reinforcements would get the job done, but Simon knew he’d be finished in the business. Maybe even in this world.
Except now he still needed help. As before, everyone had to die. It was the last play left. He’d get Carraway and Pelton and then go and hunt down the Hollander girl and Carraway’s daughter again. Dead witnesses didn’t talk. Or press charges.
The light turned green.
Simon gunned the Jaguar SUV’s engine and sped away.
As he did, he placed another phone call.
After the police released Pelton, Blu followed him as he drove to drop off his dog at a fancy house on the Isle of Palms in the same gated community he’d tailed him to when all this started. The very nice lady of the home introduced herself as Trish. Her husband, Chauncey Connors, Pelton’s lawyer, had quite a few questions for the kid.
Blu almost felt sorry for Pelton as the elder counselor grilled him. From his viewpoint, the old man was acting more as a father than a lawyer.
Afterwards, the Connors treated the three of them, Blu, Pelton, and the dog, to a five-course meal.
Chauncey, good friends with Adam Kincaid, Blu’s previous client, showed him a lot of respect—something rich folks only did when they needed his services. Usually, he was no better than their lawn service.
After the large meal, the kid said goodbye to his dog and followed Blu back to his house.
During the drive home, Blu couldn’t get over the feeling that this wasn’t over, that it had just escalated.
And then he got a call from Patricia telling him the giant died in the hospital. Something about a medication mix-up.
It was as he thought—no loose ends.
The thundering of hooves woke Blu from a deep sleep. They slowed to a crunch on the crushed shell drive in front of the house and, for a moment, he thought one of them might knock on the door. Then he remembered horses didn’t knock, they neighed.
And he recognized the loud-pitched tone of the black-coated leader, the one he’d named Murder. The horse let out three yells in increasing decibel succession.
Something or someone had spooked them. And they were pissed off and letting Blu know. He grabbed his Beretta and went to get Pelton.
The kid was already off the couch, Colt Python in hand, and looking out the window. He said, “What’s going on?”
The hooves thundered again, which wasn’t a good thing. The horses would be heading where the intruders weren’t.
Blu said, “The British are coming.”
“Thought so. You take the front, I’ll take the back.”
“You got extra bullets tucked in your boxer shorts or something?” Blu asked.
The kid put on cargo shorts over his boxers and dropped four speed-loaders in each side pocket.
Blu dialed 911 and reported intruders. From experience he knew their response time to his property was at least twenty minutes. Then he took his own advice, went to his desk, and picked up three extra clips. He put on an old pair of jeans and slipped on sneakers. He’d tried walking barefoot on the shell drive once, and spent the next week nursing cuts on his feet.
The kid slid sandals on and made his way to the back door.
They looked at each other. Thanks to a decent amount of moonlight creeping through the shades, visibility wasn’t that bad.
With no idea how large the attacking force was, but knowing there was no other way out, Blu made a countdown with fingers: three, two, one.
They flung open the doors simultaneously.
Automatic gunfire ripped apart the back door. Blu stole a quick glance and saw the kid had done the same thing he’d done and stayed inside.
The kid fired twice through the window just to the left of the door, putting holes in the mosquito screen, the Python so loud the concussion rattled the timbers of the old house.
A scream that could only be described as death came from somewhere outside.
Blu put a ball cap on the end of the bat he kept by the door and stuck it out the front door.
Someone shot the cap off the bat.
They were pinned in.
Pelton said, “I’m going out.”
Before Blu could suggest it might not be the best idea, the kid was out the door. Blu ran to the back window and took a few shots, providing cover fire.
The front door exploded off its hinges.
Blu heard the distinctive racking of a shotgun. He turned as a crouched figure stepped into the front room. The Berretta barked three shots in less than three seconds, dropping the figure before he could get a shot off, the shotgun clattering to the wood-planked flooring.
Blu slid the hot Berretta in his waistband, ignoring the searing pain, ran over, picked up the shotgun, and stepped back in.
Another figure tried to enter the home. The shotgun blast blew the man back out the doorway. Blu racked the gun in time for a third to run in. And get blown out.
What was this, Whack-a-mole?
A voice from outside said, “Mr. Carraway. I think it’s time we all had a talk.” The British accent told Blu all he needed to know.
Blu yelled, “Talk is cheap.”
“I believe you’ll want to hear what I have to say. Especially after you understand the rules just changed.”
“You’ve got five seconds. Then I’m going to kill all of you.”
Blu heard a grunt from outside.
The British voice said, “I’d like you to hear from someone you already know.”
Another grunt. Then from outside, the kid said, “Kill all six of them, Blu!”
They had him. The rules had changed, but probably not in the way the Brit thought. The kid just let him know the size of the problem.
The Brit said, “You’ve got the same five seconds you offered me to come out here.”
Blu said, to Pelton, “I can do probably do four.”
The kid said, “Jokers to the left, clowns to the right.”
That was followed by another grunt.
Blu lowered the shotgun and pulled his Beretta back out. He peeked out the open front window, had a clean sight on three men, and didn’t hesitate, pulling the trigger three times. Then he dropped to the ground, crawled to the front door, and peered out. Two men were lying on the ground. Another raised a pistol to the kid’s head.
Blu took the shooter out, rolled across the front of the open door, spotted two more intruders, and fired at them. The kid head-butted the sixth and dropped him.
All were on the ground, groaning or dead.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Brack stood over the man he’d just head-butted, feeling very woozy. Two men had held his arms while another threw punches at him—face and gut shots. Slamming his head into the Brit on top of the beatings from his men and the giant earlier might not have been the best course of action.
But he was still alive.
And lucky that Carraway had taken out the other five. Brack knew there was no way he could have won this battle alone. Especially after they’d captured him.
Carraway walked over and put a hand on his shoulder. “You shot?”
“No.”
“Is that the Brit?” Carraway asked, pointing to the man out cold.
“Yes.”
Carraway aimed his pistol at the man lying on the ground. “I’m wondering if it’s a good idea for him to survive today.”
Brack knew he was not the one to ask in situations like this. He said, “Flip a coin.” After all that had happened, he’d back whatever play Carraway made.
After a moment, Carraway kicked the man in the ribs twice. “That’s for kidnapping my daughter.”
Brack wasn’t sure what he would have done if he were in Carraway’s shoes. He didn’t have a daughter, and he didn’t want to think about whether he would have pulled the trigger or not. If they had touched Darcy or Paige or Patricia or Shelby, he’d have put two extra bullets apiece in all of the men here on the ground.
At least the Brit would wake up with a concussion and several broken ribs.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Blu sat at a round table on the back deck of Pelton’s bar facing the Atlantic Ocean with Billie to his right and Hope to his left. The kid and his aunt were across from them. Shelby stood by his daughter’s side, his head in her lap.
A waitress served a large platter of peel-and-eat shrimp.
He took in everyone around the table as they talked and laughed—his daughter, Billie, and new friends—and raised his glass of sweet tea to his mouth.
Pelton looked him in the eye. “I never did thank you for saving my life.”
Blu said, “We’re even.”
“Actually,” the kid said, “I still owe you one good punch.”
“I’ve got two sets of gloves and a friend who runs underground matches. Just let me know when you’re ready.”
The kid winked at him.
All the crap they’d just been through and this kid was ready for more. Unbelievable.
Blu did the only thing he could think of and winked back—because popping the kid another good one at the table of his own bar would be in bad taste.
Patricia raised her wineglass. “I’d like to make a toast.”
Everyone at the table raised their glasses.
She said, “To my nephew and Blu. Thanks to you fellows, the world is rid of some very nasty characters, and the police found enough evidence on Simon to bust up a child pornography ring in that house on Montagu Street.”
Blu watched his daughter put her hand on the kid’s and felt his own blood pressure rise.
Hope kissed him on the cheek again and said, “And thanks for rescuing me, Sir Galahad.”
Everyone at the table except Blu said, “Hear, hear!”
The only thing going through his mind was that he had to somehow get his daughter away from Pelton. Or he’d end up having to kill him.
And then he’d be in another mess.
And still broke.
About the Author
David Burnsworth became fascinated with the Deep South at a young age. After a degree in Mechanical Engineering from the University of Tennessee and fifteen years in the corporate world, he made the decision to write a novel. He is the author of both the Brack Pelton and the Blu Carraway Mystery Series. Having lived in Charleston on Sullivan’s Island for five years, the setting was a foregone conclusion. He and his wife call South Carolina home.
Books by David Burnsworth
The Blu Carraway Mystery Series
BLU HEAT (Prequel Novella)
IN IT FOR THE MONEY (#1)
The Brack Pelton Mystery Series
SOUTHERN HEAT (#1)
BURNING HEAT (#2)
BIG CITY HEAT (#3)
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Henery Press Mystery Books
And finally, before you go...
Here are a few other mysteries
you might enjoy:
BIG CITY HEAT
David Burnsworth
A Brack Pelton Mystery (#3)
Lowcountry bar owner and Marine veteran Brack Pelton heads to Atlanta in the wake of a panicked three a.m. phone call. A woman is missing and Brack’s friend Mutt is in danger. Brack’s old flame, investigative news correspondent Darcy Wells, now lives there and is set to marry another man. If Brack was honest with himself, and he usually wasn’t, he’d realize that the missing woman isn’t the reason for his visit. His Semper Fi buddy Mutt can handle himself just fine.
When Brack and Mutt team up to find the woman, the Atlanta underworld revolts, the two biggest players target them, and people start dying. Most people would size up the situation, call it impossible, and walk away. But most people are not Brack Pelton. Impossible situations are his specialty. He made it through Afghanistan and when the military commanders mistook suicidal tendencies for leadership qualities they promoted him. Can Brack succeed at finding the woman, protecting his friend, and winning the girl without destroying the Capital of the South? Not since Sherman’s march across Georgia has the city of Atlanta been in this much danger.
Read all about it at www.henerypress.com