Desperate Souls Read online

  The other men nodded in agreement.

  “I appreciate that,” Joe said. “Make yourselves comfortable. I told Toni to stock the fridge with Heineken and malt liquor, and that woman has never let me down. Chess, you’ll find menus in the kitchen. Let’s order up some pizzas as soon as a joint opens.”

  “You got it, boss man.”

  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going upstairs to say hello to my little girl. Y’all stay alert down here.”

  Joe opened the door to Shana’s room and saw his six-year-old daughter on the bed, rubbing sleep from her eyes, Toni beside her.

  “Daddy!”

  His heart filled with warmth, and he knew he really was ready to leave the business behind. “Hey there, pumpkin. Come give your daddy a hug.”

  Shana jumped up and ran across the mattress. Joe opened his arms, and she flew into them. He squeezed her tight.

  “I missed you so much,” Shana said.

  “I missed you, too, baby girl.” Over her shoulder, he saw Toni shedding tears of joy.

  “But you know what? I’m never going to leave you or Mommy again.”

  “Mommy says we’re going to fly on an airplane!”

  “Two of them,” Joe said. Everything was going to be all right. Better than all right.

  Then he heard glass breaking downstairs and machine guns with silencers firing.

  Chess came back from the kitchen armed to the teeth with Heinekens, which he distributed to his men. His men. He had worked too hard for too long to just walk away from the empire he had helped Joe build. He had always expected to inherit the kingdom, and now was his chance, regardless of Malachai’s designs.

  Fuck that traitor and his supernatural bullshit.

  “What’s the plan, Chess?” Jackson said.

  Chess held up a bottle opener and started prying off the metal caps on the bottles held by his men. “First we see Joe off safely. He’s earned that much. Then we take back our streets. To do that, we need an army. So we gotta start recruiting little shorties. I know that ain’t Joe’s way, but this ain’t Joe’s business anymore. Once he leaves town, we don’t worry about what he likes or doesn’t like.”

  Chess raised his bottle in a toast, and the six men touched their bottles to his.

  Then the windows on either side of the front door exploded, and gray-faced assassins opened fire. Chess watched in startled horror as his men—some of the most ruthless killers he had ever known—danced the jitterbug as gunfire riddled their bodies. None of them even got off a shot, including him.

  Toni screamed, and Joe shoved Shana into her arms.

  “Wait here,” he said, drawing his .32 from his waistband. Downstairs, the gunfire had stopped.

  “No! No!” Toni was hysterical, which caused Shana to scream.

  Now they know where we are for sure. He loved her with all his heart, but she lacked street instincts. Stupid bitch can’t help herself, I guess.

  Joe strode to the door and opened it. He saw six of Malachai’s soldiers storming upstairs. Six bullets, six of them. Not very good odds. I can’t exactly go Tony Montana on their asses. Popping his head back inside, he closed the door and pushed in the doorknob’s feeble lock. Then he turned to Toni with a hopeless look on his face.

  “No,” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks as Joe crossed the room. “It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair. We were so close …”

  Joe raised the .32 and shot her in the head at point-blank range, the gunshot reverberating against the walls. Toni collapsed to the floor, and Shana rolled screaming from her arms. The things in the hall pounded on the door, and Shana ran to her closet and pressed herself against the wall.

  Joe advanced on her. “It’s okay. This won’t hurt. You’re going to see Mommy real soon …”

  She looked at him with petrified eyes. Before he could fire, the door crashed open and the zombies stood there, clutching AK-47s.

  No! I have to spare my little girl—

  The zombies fired their weapons, which had been reset to semiautomatic. Single rounds from each gun blazed across Joe’s torso, ripping his flesh. He felt their impact but no pain. Shock, he knew. He would feel it soon enough. In the meantime, his gun fell from his hand, and he crumpled to the floor in a bloody heap.

  The soldiers filed into the room and circled him, guns aimed at him.

  An army, he thought. Staring up at them, he knew the whispers were true: Daryl’s thugs were dead. Robots made of flesh. Zombies. He saw nothing in their eyes as they looked into his. Turning his head left, he saw Shana frozen with terror in the closet. Turning right, he saw his .32. He had meant to shoot Shana first to spare her a terrible death, then blow his own brains out. But he could not reach the gun because he could not move his arms. A horrible sucking sound clawed its way free of his chest.

  Punctured lung, he decided.

  “Stand back,” said a familiar voice. The zombies standing at his feet parted like the Red Sea, and Marcus Jones, Daryl’s chief lieutenant, strode into the room. Ascertaining that Joe had been immobilized, he called out, “It’s all clear.”

  A second living being entered the room. Tall and muscular, with a conceited gleam in his eyes. His nephew, Daryl.

  “Good job, Marcus,” Daryl said as he leaned over Joe. “Hey, Uncle. Whazzup?”

  Joe coughed up blood that tasted like bile. “Go to hell.”

  Daryl raised his eyebrows. “You first.”

  “You … little … shit …”

  Daryl’s face scrunched up into an angry mask, and he kicked Joe in his groin.

  Grimacing, Joe squeezed his eyes shut.

  “I’m not little anymore, and I’m not shit. But you look very small now, and you are shit. You’re through and I beat you. There’s no retirement for Papa Joe, no hiding in obscurity. I won’t let that happen.”

  Joe’s eyes flicked to the closet. He just wanted to see Shana one more time before he died. But Daryl jerked his head in that direction as well and saw the little girl, too frightened to move.

  No! Why had he given her up? He should have known better.

  A smile spread across Daryl’s features. “Well, what have we here?” Taking a step forward, he extended one hand. “Come here, girl. Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you. We’re blood, you and I. This man killed your mommy, but I won’t let him hurt you.”

  Confusion clouded Shana’s eyes.

  Oh, God, please no, Joe thought. Run! But he knew she could never escape them.

  “Bring her to me,” Daryl said.

  Marcus moved to the closet. He snatched one of Shana’s little arms and dragged her into the room. She screamed and tried to resist.

  “Let her go,” Joe said, pleading.

  “Is that what you want, Uncle?”

  Joe nodded.

  “Then say my name. My proper name.”

  “M-m-malachai.” Joe could barely hear himself over his sucking wound. “Prince Malachai.”

  Daryl smiled. “Very good.” He faced Marcus. “You do her.”

  Without hesitation, Marcus drew a pistol from his belt and aimed it at the little girl’s forehead.

  No! Joe thought.

  “No!” said a female voice.

  For a moment, Joe thought that Shana had uttered the word. But this voice belonged to a woman. Toni—?

  A woman entered the room. Beautiful and black, with long straight hair. Joe recognized her: Daryl’s woman, the Mamba. Katrina.

  “What are you doing?” Daryl said, his displeasure evident. “I told you to wait in the car.”

  “Put that gun away,” Katrina said to Marcus, ignoring Daryl.

  Marcus turned to Daryl for guidance, an impatient look on his face.

  Interesting dynamic, Joe thought.

  Daryl spun the woman around by her bicep. “You don’t tell my people what to do—you hear me?”

  “Then you tell him to put that gun away.”

  “She’s a witness!”

  “Tell him to put the gun away.”
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  Joe thought his nephew wanted to bitch slap her. Instead, he threw up his arms and told Marcus, “Put the gun away.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Marcus said. “She saw everything, including our faces!”

  Katrina cocked her head at Daryl, as if to say, See what I mean?

  Daryl took a step closer to Marcus while Katrina watched. “Who gives the orders around here?”

  “You do,” Marcus said.

  Sure, you do, Joe thought. This bitch has you completely pussy whipped, boy. He wanted to laugh, but his chest ached too much.

  “Then the girl lives.”

  Katrina kneeled before Shana and cupped the little girl’s face with her hands.

  Joe grimaced. Get your hands off my daughter, you witch!

  “Everything will be okay, honey,” Katrina said. “No one is going to hurt you. Do you understand?”

  Shana nodded.

  “Come on. Let’s go downstairs.” Standing once more, Katrina extended one hand.

  Tears filled Joe’s eyes, blurring his vision. Don’t do it!

  Shana took Katrina’s hand, and without looking back at Joe, she followed her out of the room and down the stairs.

  Joe’s heart constricted. That about does it.

  Daryl stepped closer to Joe and kneeled beside him. “I promise you I will kill her before I leave this house.”

  “Sure, you will,” Joe said, forcing a wet laugh from his lungs that caused Daryl’s face to darken with anger. “Your woman looks good in a dress, but she’s wearing the pants.”

  Holding his right hand out to Marcus, Daryl said, “Give me a machete.”

  Marcus took a machete from the belt of one of the zombies and set its wooden handle into Daryl’s waiting palm. Gripping the handle, Daryl positioned the machete’s blade against Joe’s throat.

  “I beat you, old man.” He raised the machete high in the air.

  Joe refused to close his eyes, and the blade whistled down. He felt the impact, hot blood filling his mouth and spattering his face, and the last thing he saw was Daryl leaning on the machete with both hands.

  TWENTY

  Jake opened his lone eye to the sight of a nurse taking his temperature with a digital thermometer under his arm. He blinked several times, getting his bearings.

  A hospital room. Private, at least. Nighttime.

  But he did not know why he was here. Reaching back into the recesses of his mind, he wondered if he had been brought here after crashing into the barrier outside One PP.

  No, a lot’s happened since then.

  His throat ached, which triggered a memory. Someone had said something to him about a breathing tube recently. The blinds over the window were drawn. He looked from side to side, and dull pain filled the left side of his head.

  “Don’t do that,” the middle-aged black woman said. “You’ll only hurt yourself.”

  What am I doing here?

  He touched a thick pressure pad covering his left eye, causing a tidal wave of pain that ricocheted around his skull.

  My eye …

  Memories seeped into his conscious brain. AK had stabbed him in the eye, and Edgar had brought him here for emergency surgery.

  My eye is gone!

  In his mind he saw one hundred zombies processing Black Magic. He swallowed. “Time?”

  “It’s 2:00 a.m.,” the nurse said. “You’ve been out cold in here for two hours.”

  He swallowed again. “Bathroom?”

  “You can use the bathroom. It’s right over there.” She pointed across the room. “Let me help you get out of bed.” She lowered the metal rail and took Jake by his bicep.

  Still wearing a hospital gown, he swung his legs over the bed. “Groggy…”

  “That’s just the anesthesia. It’s perfectly normal.” She helped him to the bathroom and turned on the light for him. “Do you need any help?”

  He shook his head and entered the bathroom, then closed the door. Facing the mirror, he focused his good eye on the pressure pad covering his other eye and vowed to get revenge against Malachai, despite his previous vow to never again take a human life. After all, he had already broken that promise defending himself against AK.

  An eye for an eye.

  He opened the door after relieving himself, and the nurse helped him climb back into bed. His head swam in the darkness. “Salt …”

  “What?” she said.

  He fell asleep.

  Jake was eating scrambled eggs and toast when a dark-complexioned man of uncertain ethnicity entered. The doctor wore a blue shirt with his sleeves rolled up and a tie but no coat. Sunlight flooded the room through the blinds.

  “Good morning. I’m Dr. Rash.” He picked up Jake’s chart and studied it. “How do you feel?”

  “My eye hurts. My missing eye.”

  The doctor studied him through his glasses. “That isn’t your imagination. Your brain will continue to send signals to the muscles in your eye socket for the rest of your life. When you turn your right eye to look around, the muscles in your left socket will turn as well. Eventually, your muscles will adjust, and you’ll feel no pain. But for now, you must take painkillers and try not to move your good eye more than necessary.”

  “What kind of painkillers?”

  “Tylenol, Motrin …”

  Damn. “What happens next?”

  “A specialist will see you before lunch to ensure that you’re fine to go home; then we’ll discharge you. We’ll provide you with a healing gel and a saline flush for your eyelid. Your eye socket will be sore for about five days. Take Tylenol as needed. In three or four days, you’ll develop a shiner around the outside of the socket. Expect some discoloration for maybe ten days. In a week, you’ll come back for a postsurgical exam.”

  Just like that, Jake thought. “Then what?”

  “For the time being, you’ll wear an eye patch or a plastic cup over your eye. Your choice. Some patients prefer dark wraparound glasses. In a few weeks, you’ll be fitted for a glass eye. You can also apply for therapeutic cloning, although the waiting period can be extremely long unless you’re selected for an experimental program.”

  Jake snorted. “I won’t be cloning my eye.”

  “Why not? It will be healthier than the one you have now and a perfect match. Cutting-edge medical technology will allow you to live your life exactly as you did before.”

  Jake stared at the doctor. “No offense, but I’m not interested in living with any organs incubated in a petri dish.”

  “Are you religious?”

  Jake considered the question. “Not the way you mean. But I do believe there’s a natural order to the universe that Old Nick was not meant to change.” Just mentioning Tower’s nickname caused Jake to recall the replacement eyeball the billionaire had received before his death. No, thank you.

  Dr. Rash smiled. “Well, you have plenty of time to think it over. You don’t need to make such an important decision now. Can I have the nurse get you anything?”

  “More drugs.”

  “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Dr. Cyclops.

  With his head propped against a pillow, Jake mustered a smile.

  “Edgar!” Maria’s voice registered shock at her partner’s joke.

  “That’s Edgar for you,” Jake said. “Always making fun of other people’s misfortunes. What do you do for an encore? Kick a crutch out from under someone with a broken leg?”

  “I can’t let you feel sorry for yourself,” Edgar said.

  Maria’s face showed real concern. “How do you feel, Jake?”

  “Doped up. Unfortunately, it’s wearing off.”

  “When do you go home?”

  “I was supposed to get a final checkup an hour ago.”

  “Just like that?”

  He nodded. “It was a simple enough operation. I just want to get out of here and chow down on a Blimpie with everything on it. I’m starving.”

  Maria’s eyes widened with dismay. “A Blimpie?”

  “A la
rge one, with the bread soaking up that special Blimpie sauce.”

  Maria crossed herself. “Dios mio.”

  “I told you he was okay,” Edgar said. “He always ate like that.”

  Jake twisted his back, trying to get comfortable. “Thank you both for coming. Are you going to stick around and give me a lift home in a real unmarked police car?”

  Edgar clucked his tongue. “No time for that, buddy. We just got a call from Far Rockaway PD. Someone whacked Papa Joe and his old lady. From the sound of things, the perps took out everyone left in his crew.”

  Jake felt a familiar tightening in his stomach. “Machetes?”

  “I’m really not at liberty to say,” Edgar said in a slow cadence. “But we’ll likely be at the beach all day. I figured I’d check in on you and let you know I took care of that errand for you last night.”

  “Thanks.” He wanted to know what Edgar had done with AK’s body, but he couldn’t ask him in front of Maria. Edgar had obviously only stopped by to tell him about Papa Joe’s murder. “Call me later?”

  “You bet. Get some rest. Stay out of trouble. Maybe you shouldn’t go into the office for a few days until you get used to operating with one lens.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Edgar nodded at the door. “Let’s go, Maria. Dead bodies await us.”

  Maria gave Jake’s arm a gentle squeeze. “Take care of yourself.”

  “Thanks.” He found himself admiring her ass with his remaining eye as they left.

  Papa Joe has left the planet, and a prince has become king.

  Jake exited Saint Vincent’s after 1:00 p.m. with a white plastic bag containing eye pads, a plastic eye cup, and medication. No drugs, though.

  Just as well. I need to stay alert. It was fun while it lasted.

  But the fun had stopped. As he walked down Eleventh Street, he found himself looking over his shoulder and scanning the shadows ahead. Scarecrows, no zombies. Hungry eyes, not vacant expressions. His altered depth perception only added to his sense of paranoia. Worse, he had gone to the hospital unarmed, and now he felt naked without a weapon.

  I have to stop doing that.