Fear Gives Men Wings: Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Jack flopped down into the driver seat of his black Continental. Questions danced around in his mind. The Gebbins murder, the Russians, the FBI were all connected but the lines were blurred and frayed. The pieces were there but the puzzle was far from complete. Jack sighed deeply and started the car. The ride home could help with the process, he thought. Questions without answers made him weary. Leaving the force wasn’t the easiest thing to do, but at least he wasn’t constrained by the rules and regulations, by the badge or by the word of the chief. Being a private investigator didn’t get him friends but it had its perks compared to being an officer of the state. It wasn’t that he didn’t like being a police officer. Jack felt burdened by the overwhelming sense of responsibility that came with being a cop. As a private eye, he could say yes or no to any case he wanted and he could name his rate. It wasn’t easy but it was something that he felt much more at ease doing.

The black Continental’s high beams sliced through the breaking light of morning as Jack pulled into his driveway. The house was silent; she was either home and asleep or still at the bar. Jack didn’t mind that she stayed at the bar all night; it was her baby and she wanted to do her best at taking care of it. The garage door opened and the headlights shone on the cluttered space inside. She had asked him to clean it up over the weekend, but he had a feeling that it would have to wait.

As he stepped into the dark kitchen, his phone rang. “Hello?”

A tiny squeak of a voice was on the other end. “Detective Bradshaw?”

         “Mrs. Gebbins, I have bad news for you.”

         She interrupted. “Yes, Detective, I’ve been informed.” The metallic ring of her voice did not hide the sorrow.

         “I’m so sorry for your loss. I wish there was something I could do.”

         “There is something that you can do, Detective. Find the man responsible and bring him to justice. I know those damn Russians had something to with it. I will double the current rate for both you and Detective Arnold’s services.”

         “Mrs. Gebbins, that won’t be necessary.” Jack was accustomed to the loss of life. It came with the job. It had always hung around him, like a dense fog, for as long as he could remember. “The rate will stay at what it is. We will utilize every skill we have to bring your husband’s killer to justice.”

         There was a pause. “That’s a promise?”

         “Yes.”

         “Thank you, Detective. I will let you do your work. Have a good night.”

         Jack closed the phone and sighed heavily. Every question that he had been thinking of on the way home had just been intensified tenfold. He checked the red blinking clock on the coffee maker. It was 4:15 a.m. He rubbed his face and staggered upstairs. He didn’t bother changing out of his damp clothes and collapsed face first onto the bed. Darkness enveloped him and he fell into a deep sleep.

A splash of golden sunlight poured in through the windows of Jack’s bedroom. He awoke and found himself under the sheets, in only his boxers. Blinking himself into alertness, he sat up. The other side of the bed was completely unsettled; either she had been home and was already up or she had not been at home at all. The second thought worried him. It was not like her to stay at the bar. She rarely did it and if she ever did she would call him and tell him. Then why didn’t he have his clothes on? He remembered falling asleep with them on. Had she come in and undressed him without even waking him? Highly unlikely; he was a light sleeper and she surely would have woken him. Maybe he had done it himself and just forgot about it? Another unlikely scenario. Rubbing his face, he climbed out of bed. His clothes were in a messy pile on the floor. He picked up his pants and found his phone in the front pocket. No messages and no missed calls. He put the pants on and grabbed a T-shirt out of his dresser. He was striding toward the bedroom door when it opened slowly.

         A scream made Jack jump.

         “Jack! Jesus! I didn’t think you’d get up so soon! You were sleeping like a dead man last night.”

         “Lilia! You scared the crap outta me!”

         “Sorry, thought I could come back in and watch you sleep for a bit.”

         “When did you come in and when did you undress me?”

         She smiled. “A couple minutes after you did, I think, ‘cause you were still wet. I tried waking you but you were out.”

         Jack laughed and sat down on the bed. “Well, you scared me there. I thought something might have happened to you.”

         Lilia plopped down next to him and fell backwards. “Yeah, I was out real late, or early, at the bar. A huge fight broke out and I had to stick around and clean up the mess.”

         “Aw, poor girl. You didn’t sleep at all I assume?”

         She stretched and yawned. “I know, I’m so tired. I think I’m gonna sit around all day. What about you? Why were you home so late?”

         “Well, we got a case last night that took a turn for the worse. The man we were supposed to find wound up dead and his wife wants me to find the killer. I gotta call Ben, get him up and moving. This thing is turning serious real quick.” He stood up and walked into the bathroom. Thirty minutes later he was out, freshly shaved and showered. Lilia’s face was buried in a pillow and she was sound asleep. He dressed quickly and made his way out.

         The sun was in the middle of the sky as Jack eased the Continental out of the driveway and down the street. He pressed a number on his phone and put it to his ear.

         The voice was muffled and slurred on the other end. “Jack? What time is it? It’s too early for work.”

         Jack shook his head. “Ben, wake up. Get some strong coffee and meet me at the office. We got a lot to discuss.”

         There was a groan on the other line before it went dead. Before Jack could close the phone, it rang.

         “Jack Bradshaw.”

         “Detective, its George Miller, forensics. You gave me your card last night?”

          “George, how’re things?”

         “As good as they can be,” he said with a laugh. “Listen, I had a chance to look through the evidence from last night.”

         “Hold on, let me pull over so I can write this down.Ok, go.”

         Miller recounted to Jack what Watson had outlined, then went into the specifics. “A Sig Sauer was used, probably the P226, forty caliber slugs, close range. The gun was used on both the victim and his mistress. The shotgun was standard, licensed under Mr. Gebbins, with ammunition bought from a local gun shop. Fingerprints are being analyzed and should take a few days or so to get them through processing.”

         Jack thanked Miller and hung up. He rubbed his face hard with both hands. He looked at himself in the rear view mirror. He looked old, tired. Bags had begun to form under his eyes, product of many late nights and early mornings. He shook away the fatigue as he pulled in front of the office.

         Ms. Stevens was already behind her desk when he walked in. “Late night Jack?”

         “It’s that obvious?” He said as he took off his coat and placed it on the rack.

         “Kind of. At least you shaved. Mrs. Gebbins called you?”

         “Yeah, this morning. How did you know?”

         “She left a message here.” She shifted in her chair and started typing on her keyboard.

         Jack walked up close to her and tried to look her in the eyes but she kept avoiding him. She looked down, the left before finally crying out and collapsing into her folded arms on the desk.

         Jack put his arm around her and rubbed her back. “What is it, Jules?”

         She was sobbing heavily, and tried to speak in between deep sucks of air. “A man…came by…earlier…said he was from…the FBI.”

         “FBI? What did he look like? Was he bald? I mean completely bald?”

         The crying stopped. Julia looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes. “Yes, how’d you know?”

         “What did he want? What did he say? You have to tell me everything right now, Jules.” Jack slid a chair up and sat down.

         She looked at him, smoothed out her skirt, wiped away a tear from her eye and began. “I had just gotten in, when the bald man showed up. He flashed a badge real quick at me, said he was with the FBI. He said he talked to you earlier but you weren’t cooperative. He said that I should tell you that we were not to get in his way again or there would be consequences. I asked him to see the badge again; I didn’t believe he was an actual agent. What right did he have coming in here and making threats? We’re a licensed company; we’re working within the parameters. He refused so I asked him to leave. And then he slapped me!” She sobbed hard again, burying her face into her arms.

         Jack leaned back in the chair and pushed his hand through his hair. Son of a bitch, he thought, Max Gordon had come here and threatened his secretary! It was unbelievable! He leaned forward and touched Julia on the shoulder. “What else did he say?”

         “You deserved that. Now stay out of my way or I will come back here and getting slapped again will be the least of your concerns. Then he got up and left.” She cried some more, then choked out, “I have never been so scared in my life. Those eyes, black, soul-less….” She didn’t finish. Jack stood and nodded slowly. Things were coming together in his mind. Max Gordon, FBI or not, was something of a suspect in this. Where the hell was Ben? Jack shook his head. Ben was developing a bad habit of being late at the wrong times. “Julia, go home. Get some rest, see a movie, do something other than this. We’ll be alright by ourselves here.” He walked back to the coat rack and took up her jacket.

         She stood met Jack at the door. She placed a small kiss on his cheek and walked out into the sun.

         Jack let the door close behind him and went back into the office. Sitting behind the desk, he booted up his laptop. The blue screen lit up and the machine whirred to life. He pulled his cell phone out and punched in Ben’s number. Straight to voicemail. Jack snapped the phone shut hard and slammed it on his desk. He swiveled around and stared out the window. The view was minimal from his seat, but in times of crisis he liked to look through the glass at the brick wall of the building next door. The situation was getting chaotic as more questions came into play. Max Gordon had some part in this game and Jack was running short on time and options. Ben was missing in action and his secretary was emotionally distraught. Then, a thought entered his mind. Hugh would know. Hugh Swanson, retired CIA, now working free lance as an intelligence agent for any government willing to hire him. Jack had his house number somewhere. He tore apart his desk looking for the number before finding it mashed between two books.

         A light voice answered on the third ring. “Hello?” 

         “Mrs. Swanson?” Jack never knew Hugh had married; he actually didn’t know much about him. Hugh was just good for intelligence when Jack’s jurisdiction was limited. “This is Jack Bradshaw. I’m looking for Hugh?”

         “Ah, yes, he’s around. I’ll just be a moment.” The phone was placed on a surface and Jack could here a distant call for Hugh.

A few seconds later a gruff voice came on. “This is Hugh.”

“Hugh? Jack Bradshaw. I need your help with a name.”

“Bradshaw? Someone told me you were became a private eye or something?”

“That’s right.”

“Good for you, son, always need a good PI out there. Is this your office number?”

“Yeah.”

“Right. Let me call you back.”

The line went dead and Jack stared at the phone. Something Jack did know about Hugh was that he was a paranoid old man who had read 1984 one too many times. Hugh had always talked about Big Brother being out there, listening.

The phone rang again and Jack quickly picked it up. “Yeah?”

“Jack. Hugh. Let’s make this quick. The last call was too long, easily traced. You said you needed a name?”

“Yeah. FBI agent Max Gordon. I don’t think he is who he says he is.”

“Got it. Max Gordon?”

“Right.”

“Give me a couple of minutes.”

Jack closed the phone, then quickly reopened it and dialed Ben. The phone rang three times before the call was ended. Jack dialed the number again and this time got straight to voicemail. He slammed his fist onto the desk so hard that the laptop jumped and the screen fell forward. Where was he and why wasn’t he picking up his phone? Ben’s absence was aggravating and at the same time puzzling. There was nothing else that Ben did, except….Jack wanted to shake the thought out of his mind but it seemed to stick there. Ben had taken a call about a ‘side operation’ but hadn’t told anything to Jack. Jack again tried to get out of his mind what conclusion he knew he was coming to. It was impossible. He reached to dial Ben again when the phone rang.

“Jack? Hugh. Look, I did some digging and this Max Gordon fellow supposedly died on an assignment some two years ago.”

“So, I’m dealing with a fake or a dead guy?”

“Right. What do you have in mind?”

“I need to find him first. Thanks, Hugh. I’ll be in touch.” Jack closed the phone and began scribbling down everything he could remember about the fake Max Gordon. A completely bald man, about six feet tall, stocky but not overly thick, coal eyes, walked around with a fake FBI badge. Jack didn’t see how it would be hard to find a man who had no hair, but then again it could be nearly impossible if this man was smart with his disguises. Jack also needed to find out where in the hell his partner had gotten off to. Jack would have to see Prophet.

Jack had met Prophet five years ago while he was still on the force. Prophet was an old, blind man who lived alone in a small house near the middle of Lansdale. He was well-traveled for a blind man, having visited almost every continent and dozens of countries. He had not been blind for his whole life. Prophet worked for awhile in the seedy underbelly of the city as an informant for the police. He knew every single rat, bookie, tough guy and Joe Schmoe the city had to offer. One night, after far too much to drink, Prophet let slip some information that only someone on a police salary would know. This led to a Russian gangster by the name of Vassily cutting out both his eyes and leaving him for dead in a ditch. Prophet had been through a lot in his life. If Jack wanted to find someone who knew who Max Gordon was and where Jack could find him, he would have to make his first trip to Prophet’s house in ten years.

Though Jack had not been there in a while, the location of Prophet’s apartment was not something that he had forgotten. Because of his employment with the local PD when he had his eyes gouged, he was living on a very good pension straight from the government. His house was located in a quiet neighborhood off of White’s Road. The place was settled off the street, behind a bigger house. Jack parked on the street in front of the bigger house and walked down the driveway that led to Prophet’s house. The house itself was made of brick, like most houses of the area, but it was covered in thick foliage and the front door was almost hidden from view. A beat-up Volvo was parked outside though its tires were flat from lack of use. Rust had begun to eat away at the blue paint. The grass was knee high and yellow. Prophet didn’t worry about maintenance; he never left the house. Jack had not heard that the Prophet had died; it was unlikely that his death would go unnoticed in the city.

Jack waded through the dying grass and crunched over dead leaves then knocked on the screen door. The knock seemed to echo throughout the hose. After a few seconds, without any sound of movement from within, Jack knocked again. Still no answer. Maybe he’s sleeping, Jack thought, then made his way around to the side entrance. The sight of the side door made Jack draw his pistol. It was barely hanging on its hinges; kicked in with tremendous force. Dammit, Jack thought, where was Ben when he needed back-up? Logic told Jack to play it safe, call Ben and wait around until he got there. But the reason told him that if Ben hadn’t picked up the first three times and had lied when he said he was on his way, he was not going to come now. Jack eased the door open slightly with his elbow, recoiling hard at the loud creak the door made. His heart began beating heavy; it had been awhile since his adrenaline had kicked in like this. Jack felt the twang of fear in his chest. It was normal, he told himself, when danger loomed people were naturally afraid. Jack slowly stepped into the doorway keeping his pistol poised for any sort of movement. Jack fought to suppress the voice in his head telling him that everything was dead, at the same time concentrating on making as little noise as possible. As he entered the house, the smell of death floated to his nostrils. It was something he was accustomed to; a death had occurred a while ago in this house.

Jack lowered his guard slightly, assuming that the killer had made his escape long ago. He stepped lightly over piles of yellowed newspapers and stacks of unopened mail. Prophet had stopped functioning at all. Dread swept through Jack’s body like a tornado. He quickly checked the kitchen that was piled high with dirty dishes and rotten food. Cockroaches scattered as he checked the bathroom. The family room was empty save for a dusty armchair. Jack moved slowly to the back hall when he stepped in something. Looking down, he found his shoe in a trail of blood. The blood ran the length of the hall and back into a room. Jack crept to the side of the blood, careful not to step in it again. he slid up against the frame of the door then swung quickly into the opening, pistol swinging from side to side, checking down the room. He let his gun drop at the sight of Prophet lying on the bed with sheets doused in red. Jack stepped into the room, avoiding the splotches of red that stained the carpet and made his way up to the corpse on the bed.

It was Prophet. A little older than the last time he had seen him but the missing eyes were the give-away. Jack holstered the gun and moved to the side of the bed for a closer look. Prophet’s face was badly bruised and blood had dried all over it. His throat had been deeply and crudely cut. From the jagged lines in the flesh, he assumed that the murder weapon was a saw of some kind. Jack shook his head at the grisly sight of his old friend. Hope of finding who Max Gordon was had just been dimmed. Jack sat down carefully on the wooden rocking chair next to the bed. He wanted to call the police, tell them what had happened, do something for Prophet. His mind bet against it. Questions would have to be answered, papers filed, suspects needed. Jack didn’t have time for that game. He had gotten into sleuthing to get away from it. As he sat and contemplated what to do, something stood out in the fading sunlight. Underneath the bed, partly hidden by Prophet’s leg, was a rusted, blood caked saw. Jack knelt down to inspect it. The saw was small, hand-held, with a handle made of wood. Jack considered strongly that this was, in fact, the murder weapon. He would have to take it. He needed to know who killed Prophet and why. The questions had become an almost unbearable pile. Anger ripped through Jack. He clenched his fists in rage, wanting to lash out at anything in the vicinity. The anger stemmed from not only the death of his friend, but the absence of his partner. Where in the hell was Ben? Jack stood, took in some deeps breaths, then made his way back to his car. He had gloves and plastic bags in the trunk just for these types of instances.

Jack picked up the small blade and placed it carefully into the bag, before sealing it tightly. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped down all the things he thought he had touched, then turned to Prophet’s body.

“Goodbye, Prophet.”

Jack put the bloodied saw under the passenger seat and made his way back into the heart of town. He found a pay phone outside of a diner and dialed 911. Jack gave the operator Prophet’s address and then hung up the phone. Back in the car, he put his head in his hands and ran his fingers fiercely through his hair. Things had gone from bad to worse and he was alone in it. Jack picked up his phone and dialed Ben. The phone rang twice and Jack was ready to end the call when Ben’s voice came on the other end.

“Jack! Jesus, I am so sorry!”

“Shut up! Just shut the hell up!” Jack shouted into the phone. “Where the hell have you been! Scratch that, get to the office right now!” Jack ended the call and sped back to the office.

Ten minutes later he was behind his desk and Ben was seated in front of him, face to the ground.

“Ben, what the hell!? I’ve been trying to call you all day! The shit has hit the fan and you’re off doing what-the-fuck-ever leaving me to deal with all the problems!” Jack slammed his fist onto the desk, sending shockwaves through that cracked one of the legs. “What do you have to say for yourself!?”

“I’m sorry, Jack. I let you down, I know. I was busy following up on a lead with Miss Stephanie Black.” A small smile began to curve across Ben’s face.

Jack grabbed the laptop and threw it across the room. It smashed into the wall and broke into pieces. “Goddammit Ben! You think this is a fucking game, don’t you!? You think you can just screw around all you want and at the end of the day the bad guy will be caught!? That’s not how it works!”

“Jack, I said I’m sorry! What more do you want?”

“I want the partner that I used to be able to count on. Now, you’re like a ghost! You appear and disappear randomly! I can’t count on you to be there. I needed you out there and you were nowhere to be found!”

“What do you mean? What were you doing?”

“Oh, no you’re interested in the job? One of my friends is dead and this Max Gordon character isn’t who he said he was.”

Ben looked up. “Max Gordon? Who’s that?”

“A liar.”

“Why?”

“Don’t worry about it, partner. Listen, we need to go to see Earl. I got something I need fingerprints on. Something that killed my friend. I’m sorry that I got pissed there. I just need to know that you’re reliable, Ben.”

“I swear, Jack, I’ll be as reliable as ever. It’ll be like the old days.”

“We’ll see. Let’s go. I’ll fill you in on everything on the way.”

Earl Barnes was the police department’s top forensic analyst and Jack’s go to guy when it came to things being kept under wraps. The police department sat in the dead center of the city. It was a looming structure that took up an entire block by itself. Parked on the street opposite the back entrance of the building, Jack dialed Earl.

“Earl Barnes.”

“Earl, it’s Jack.”

“Bradshaw, so funny you should call. Heard Miller had a talk with you earlier about the mayor’s aide murder last night?”

“Yeah, I gave him my card.”

“Cheating on me, Jack? I’m heartbroken. Miller’s a two-bit hack. Come to me next time you need something real to work with.”

“Let me know the next time you’re in the field and I’ll give you my card again. Listen, I need a favor.”

“Of course, anything for Jack Bradshaw. What is it this time?”

“I have a murder weapon I need some prints from.”

Barnes sighed. “Jack, did you call it in this time? I don’t condone taking evidence from a crime scene.”

“Sorry, deceased was a friend of mine. Can you help?”

“Yeah alright.”

“Sitting outside.”

“Five minutes.”

Five minutes passed and a short, balding man with Coke-bottle glasses came strolling leisurely out of the back door. Barnes made his way slowly around the chain-link fence and up to the car. He leaned up to the open window and showed an empty black bag.

“Dump it in.”

Jack produced a fifty dollar bill and, along with the plastic bag, dumped it in.

“That’s bribery, Jack.”

“How soon?”

“Two days. I’ll call you.” With that, he strolled off and disappeared through the glass doors.

Ben, sitting behind the wheel, glanced at Jack.

“What?”

“Still mad at me, big guy?”

“Ben, we got work to do. Put on your serious face.”

Ben smiled then slid his hand across his face while changing the smile to a stoic look. “Where we going?”

“I don’t know. Gebbins was killed by a ghost and so was Prophet. We have to assume that they were done in by the same guy, right? But what’s the connection?”

Ben rubbed his chin and tapped out a rhythm on the steering wheel. “I don’t know either, Jack. Should we visit Johnny? He might’ve heard something.”

“You know where Johnny is?”

“Sure, he isn’t hard to find. He’s probably at Lucky Eddie’s getting plastered with the rest of those biker lunatics.”

“Let’s do it.”

Lucky Eddie’s was a crummy bar located on the west side of Lansdale. It was home to the Devil’s Advocates, a group of crazy bikers who had assumed the throne of biker organized crime after the Hell’s Angels weakened in power. They were not as violent as the Angels had been, though. They were new-school, all about making a profit and not getting caught doing it.

Ben infiltrated the ranks once during a contract trying to locate a missing girl. It turned out that the girl had joined the bikers and didn’t want to leave. The contractor had ordered Ben to get his daughter out by any means necessary, but Ben had refused. The contractor rescinded the contract and gave it to some chump amateur with a hard-on for big guns and action movies. The guy went into Lucky Eddie’s and left in a body bag after taking out two Advocates and almost getting the girl killed in the process. Sources said that the girl left the group after that incident and never went back. As for Ben, he left the group as a whole but kept close ties with its vice-president Johnny Marco. Despite being half Puerto-Rican, Marco had risen to the rank through sheer will and well above-average intelligence. He had organized a three million dollar cocaine deal with some Triad members and managed to sneak all the cocaine onto a ship bound for Hong Kong.

The only person standing in Johnny’s way was the Devil’s Advocates president, Chris Turnbow. Turnbow was an extremist, and thought violence was the answer to all the world’s problems. He was frequently at war with Marco over what the group should focus on. This led to immense tension amongst group members and almost led to a split in the group in 2005. Since then, Turnbow had been in complete control of all the groups’ actions and Marco’s leash was shortened in terms of power and authority within the Advocate’s.

Lucky Eddie’s bar was a medium-sized, cinderblock building squeezed in between a strip club and a tattoo parlor. Some called the three building stretch Biker’s Heaven. Uninvited guests would call it hell. Ben parked the car opposite the building an stepped out. Jack followed him into the darkened bar. Smoke hung from the ceiling and the sound of classic rock and pool balls clanking together filled the air. As they entered, either due to the fact that light had entered the room or they were not covered in tattoos and leather, all heads turned to them. Jack’s eyes swept back and forth, passing over long beards and tired faces. Ben moved silently and quickly to the back of the hall and knocked on a door that had a PRIVATE sign on it. The door opened slightly, then fully and allowed them to enter.

They stepped into a fluorescently lit room that was furnished with a metal desk, a leather chair behind it and two metal chairs in front. A grey-bearded, barrel-chested man was seated behind the desk, chewing on a thick cigar that was lit. On the desk lay a .357 Magnum, stainless steel with a black, customized handle. It bore the insignia of the Devils Advocates; a flaming skull with horns. A small nameplate was situated at the front of the desk. It read, in gold letters, Chris Turnbow. Standing behind Turnbow was another monster of a man. His shaved head almost touched the ceiling and the sawed-off, twin barrel shotgun that he held looked like a toy is his huge hands. Turnbow gestured to them to have a seat.

“Ben, long time no see. What brings you around to these parts?” Turnbow spoke through the cigar but kept his eyes locked on Jack.

“Big C, it has been a long time.” Ben smiled but when Big C turned to look at him, the smile vanished. “I need some information.”

Turnbow chewed on the cigar as if contemplating the offer. “What kind of information?”

“We need a name. It’s—“

“Hold it there, Ben.” Turnbow took the cigar out of his mouth, contemplation complete. “What’ve you got for me? This isn’t a one way street, you know that.”

Ben produced the thick wad of bills Jack had seen from the night before and tossed it onto the table. “That’s two thousand. Should be enough.”

Turnbow reached across the table, took the wad and handed it to the giant behind him. The giant flicked through the bills, then grunted. Turnbow smiled. “Now, what name do you need?”

“Max Gordon. He’s been posing as an FBI agent.”

“Posing? FBI? Ben you know how we roll. I’m not trying to get the attention of the FBI over one guy who’s faking. Too many questions, too many eyes. Sorry Ben. You know I’d love to help you but I’m looking out for what’s best for us. Now, I’ll give you your money back and you’ll be on your way.” Turnbow reached back and the giant placed the green wad in his palm.

Ben shook his head, stood, took the bills and turned to go. Jack remained seated, eyes boring a hole through Turnbow’s forehead.

Turnbow went to light the cigar when he caught Jack’s glare. “Did I stutter?” 

         “Where’s Johnny?”

         Ben reached back and grabbed Jack by the coat collar. “Let’s go, Jack.”

         Jack slapped his hand away and stood up, knocking the chair down behind him. “Can Johnny help us, yes or no?”

         The giant took a step forward, slightly shielding Turnbow from Jack. Turnbow eased to the left and looked Jack straight in the eye. “Johnny’s not here. And no, he can’t help you. Now, get the fuck out of here before we have a problem.”

         Ben was tugging at Jack’s collar as he stared down Turnbow for a second longer then spun and walked out the door.

Ben followed him through the haze of smoke and the piercing eyes of the bikers out into the fading sun. He grabbed Jack by the collar and whipped him around. “What the hell’s your problem, Jack?”

Jack jammed a finger into Ben’s chest. “He’s hiding something, Ben! I could see it in his eyes. When you said Gordon’s name, something in his eyes changed. He knows something and he’s not telling!”

“What do you want me to do, Jack? Go back in and put a gun to his forehead? We wouldn’t last two seconds in there!” Ben kept his gaze level with Jack’s.

Jack broke the eye contact and brushed past him.

Ben turned and grabbed him by the arm. “Jack, don’t go back in there.”

Jack wheeled and punched Ben in the face. Ben fell in a heap on the curb. Jack walked back toward the door and reached to open it when he heard the click of a hammer being pulled back. Jack turned slowly and found himself face to face with a black nine millimeter pistol. Ben held the gun to Jack’s face as blood spilled down his.

Jack shook his head at the pistol in front of him. “So, this is what it’s come to? You’re gonna shoot me over some bikers?”

“Yeah, I am. We can find Johnny ourselves and get information out of him! I know where else he will be, Jack. You don’t have to go in there.”

  Anger was running through Jack’s veins and seeping out his pores. He took a step forward, eyes locked onto the black abyss of the gun barrel. “Do it.”

Ben took a step back. “What?”

Jack took another step forward. “Do it!”

Ben backed up further, gun shaking in his hand. “Jack, what is wrong with you!?”

Jack took another step forward, grabbed the gun barrel and slammed it to his forehead. “Do it, Ben! Be a man and stand up for these fucking bikers! Blow me away! DO IT!”

“No!”

Jack ripped the gun out of Ben’s hand and stuck it to his temple. “Maybe I’ll just do it then! Save you the heart-ache!” Jack pressed the gun harder against his head and pulled the trigger.

Click.

Nothing.

Click.Click.Click.Click.Click. Jack sank to his knees pulling the trigger. “What the hell is this gun?”

Ben stepped forward and took the gun out of Jack’s hand. “I never load it before going to see the Devils Advocates. I’m sorry, Jack. I’m sorry about a lot of things.”

“I’ve never had a contract die, Ben. And now, Prophet is dead too.” Jack looked up with watery eyes. “The pressure is building and it’s becoming unbearable. All these mounting questions.”

“Jack, stand up.” Ben grabbed Jack around the shoulders and lifted him to his feet. “Do you think Prophet would want this, you crying in the middle of the street, trying to kill yourself? We can do this. It’s nothing we haven’t seen before.”

Jack shook his head as he wiped the tears away. “We have no leads; all our informants are getting taken out or aren’t cooperating. It’s like they know every step we’ll take before we take it and they’re there pulling out the rug.”

“We just need to take different steps, Jack. Ones they won’t expect.”

Jack nodded slowly then looked up at Ben. He was popping a clip into the nine millimeter. “So, we’re going in then?”

Ben nodded. “Fuck it. Turnbow did know something.”

Jack pulled his Beretta 92 out of his shoulder holster and snapped back the chamber. “Let’s get some answers.”

They strode to the door and Jack pushed it open to let Ben go in. Ben went left as Jack went right when they both stopped dead in their tracks.

The bar was completely empty. A Rolling Stones song was playing softly in the background but there was no one around to listen to it. Jack motioned to Ben and they moved slowly down the bar. Their pistols were trained for the first sign of life, but nothing stirred. They went back to the door marked PRIVATE and stood on either side of it.

Jack reached down and put a handle on the doorknob. Ben counted to three and Jack swung the door open. They burst into the room. The chair that Turnbow had been sitting was facing the wall. A slow, methodical clap filled the air as they both stood breathless. The chair swung around and Jack almost put a bullet between the eyes of the man seated in it. 

“Mr. Bradshaw. How good of you to join me. Mr. Arnold, we have not had the pleasure of meeting. I am—“

“I know who you are.”

“Very good, I rather hate introductions anyway. Will you have a seat? We have much to discuss.” Gordon gestured toward the seats they have previously filled. “Please, the guns are entirely unnecessary. Put them away.” They sat and holstered their weapons.

Gordon’s smile was a thin slice across his face. “Now, you may have plenty of questions for me, Detectives, but I shall begin with my own question: Do you know exactly what you are doing?”

“Shut the hell up, you coward.” Ben scowled. “Stop hiding behind your words.”

“Coward? Mr. Arnold, you have not known me long enough to label me as such. Shall I repeat my question? Do you know exactly what you are doing here?” He shifted his gaze to Jack.

“Yes. We are looking for the man that killed the mayor’s aide, David Gebbins. You are not who you said you were.”

Max Gordon folded his hands in front of him and nodded slowly. “Correct. I am not who I said I was. I have not ever worked for the FBI and nor have I wanted to. I was working under a false identity to protect myself. You should understand, Mr. Arnold.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ben stood and pulled out the nine millimeter. “Jack, call this in. we got the guy that killed Gebbins and he probably did in Prophet too.”

Gordon barely flinched at the sight of the gun. “Mr. Arnold, so quick to the gun when words will suffice.” He again switched his sights to Jack. “Mr. Bradshaw, could you please ask your partner to sit down so we can discuss this in a civilized fashion?”

Ben clicked back the hammer. “Jack, you know the gun is loaded this time. Just call it in or it’s gonna get messy.”

Jack looked at Ben sideways. “What are you doing? Sit down. He’s not going anywhere.”

Ben’s eyebrows pointed inwards as he glared at Jack. “What? Are you listening to yourself, Jack? This guy killed Gebbins and he cut up Prophets throat! You’re just gonna sit there and talk to him?”

Jack reached out a hand and motioned for Ben to lower the gun. “Just put it down, Ben. We have him. Now, we’re going to interrogate him and get everything we can out of him, then hand him over to the cops. Just sit down.”

Ben shook his head and reluctantly put the gun back in its holster. “This isn’t like you, Jack. Flipping emotional switched like this. Unbelievable.”

The thin smile emerged again between the lips of Gordon. “Very well done, Mr. Bradshaw. I would guess you were a hostage negotiator seeing how you talked Mr. Arnold down. Very good.”

Jack sighed. “Let’s get on with this before I do unleash him.” 

Gordon nodded again. “Very well,” he said, opening his arms wide, “interrogate away.”

“Who are you?” Jack asked.

“I am not the man you seek.”

“Bullshit! Jack, seriously, this is getting ridiculous!”

“Ben, do you want to wait outside?” Ben shook his head. “Then shut up. Who is the man we seek then?”

“I can tell you exactly where he will be in five days. On one condition.”

“That is?”

“You let me walk.”

“Jack, I know what you’re thinking. You can’t let him go. You don’t even know if he has credible information.”

“Oh, I do, Mr. Arnold, I do. Now, Mr. Bradshaw, do we have a deal?”

“Show me the information and I’ll tell you if we have a deal or not.”

“Fair enough.” Gordon reached slowly into his jacket and Ben whipped out his gun and stuck it in Gordon’s face. “Mr. Arnold,” Gordon’s voice was calm, “I am reaching for the credible evidence to show you that I am only an occasional liar.”

Ben shook his head and kept the gun where it was. “I don’t think so. I’ll take it from here.”

Gordon sighed and extended his arms out. “Very well.”

         Ben reached into Gordon’s jacket and pulled out a white envelope. He sat back down and kept the gun trained on Gordon. “Now that we have the information, Mr. Gordon, I don’t want you making any sudden movements.”

         Gordon chuckled. “Believe me, I will not.”

         Ben handed the white envelope to Jack, who ripped it open and dumped the two pictures onto the desk.

         “That is the man that you seek.”

         The energy left Jack’s body as his heart stopped. “Shit.”