Page 95 of Lone Wolf

The capo’s smile had returned, his choppers a polished wedge of insincere mirth.

“You really think—”

Domenic propelled himself off his good leg, lunging for Evan. Without lowering the shotgun from the capo, Evan lashed out with a side kick, driving his heel into Domenic’s chin. The guard’s head torqued with an audible crackle, and his body hit the floor, convulsed twice, and stilled.

After that the capo didn’t see fit to finish his sentence.

Easing backward, Evan reached the door, knocking on it twice to set Jacko at ease outside. Then he jerked through onto the porch and slammed the door behind him. Jacko leapt up from his folding chair, blade in hand, surprise on his face. His arms had snapped into knife-fight readiness— forearms out to present muscle, not tendons—but the rest of his body was misaligned and off-balance.

Evan flipped the shotgun horizontally at Jacko’s face. Instinctively Jacko dropped the knife and caught the Benelli with both hands before the barrel struck the bridge of his nose. Evan snatched the folding knife as it fell and drove it straight up through the big man’s throat.

It was as messy as he’d anticipated. Jacko flailed back, gurgling. Evan relieved him of the shotgun as he fell over. Crouching, Evan doused his hands in the stream issuing from Jacko’s neck and smeared it around his own face. Jacko looked up at him uncomprehendingly, head joggling back and forth on the concrete of the porch until it didn’t jog anymore.

Sirens, louder.

Evan backed down the walk and onto the sidewalk, jamming the shotgun beneath the gate to pin it open. After liberating the zip ties from the Fritos bag, he nestled the bag back into the gutter, stuck his hands through the plastic loops, cinched them tight with his teeth, and collapsed on the sidewalk.

Squealing tires, roaring engines, and finally lights as the cavalry blasted around the turn, four police units, paddy wagon, ambulance.

They arrived, pouring from vehicles, weapons out, pouncing on the scene.

“Help me,” Evan croaked. “Help … I called. I called for help.”

A shadow fell over Evan, gloved hands tilting his head, checking for injuries. “You okay?”

He thrashed his head weakly. “Yes. My friend’s daughter … inside. Please … careful.”

Medics hoisted him up and pulled him back. He let them, dragging his boots weakly, nearly disrupting the Fritos bag in the gutter. They brought him to the rear of the ambulance parked just out of the line of fire, giving him a quick once-over, and cutting off his zip ties.

“Thank you. I’m okay. I’m okay. There’s a woman inside. She’s injured.”

“Wait here—wait here.” The medics crept into safe position near the gate, standing by for after the entry.

The cops had cautiously unfurled themselves across the front yard, vectoring at the door, shouting. There were enough to make a shoot-out a bad option.

Evan sat hunched forward, blanket across his shoulders, staring at the back of the paddy wagon about twenty meters away. It was parked across the street in front of the burned house. Jacko’s blood dried across the side of Evan’s neck, tightening his skin. The Fritos bag was about five meters ahead of him, obscured by leaves. He made no move for it. The timing would have to be perfect.

Across the yard, that massive reinforced front door opened, the men emerging weaponless, hands held high, the capo coming last. Evan couldn’t hear everything he was saying, but the words “lawyers” and “regret” carried on the breeze.

The underlings were put down roughly on their stomachs in the front yard, cuffed, frisked head to toe. Then they were brought one by one across the street and loaded into the paddy wagon. Evan watched them shuffle into the vehicle, handcuffs making it hard for them to navigate the big step up.

A female cop emerged at last with Amber and delivered her to the medics near the gate.

The capo remained behind on the front lawn, answering questions and asking a few of his own. He stayed relatively calm, arguing with the cops as they steered him through the gate. They moved him toward one of the police units parked behind the paddy wagon. He bucked a bit, but a firm hand on the back of his head guided him down into the back of the sedan.

The medics brought Amber to the ambulance, and Evan got up to make space for her.

One of the medics said, “It’s okay, pal. Relax. We’ll get to you in a second.”

Evan nodded and waited a few feet off the rear bumper. Inching along the gutter, he made his way toward the mound of leaves. Then he sat on the curb, his legs on either side of the Fritos bag. He slid his hand in, withdrew his RoamZone. The phone numbers were queued up one, two, three, ready to dial.

He gauged the scene.

The cops were circled up in two groups, one on the front lawn, the other near the paddy wagon, comparing notes and talking into radios. None of them took note of Evan.

Directly across from him, the capo sat alone in the back of the cop car. His head lowered, shoulders shuddering with a cough.

Then his face lifted and he saw Evan sitting on the curb across the street.