Smith's Monthly #25 Read online

  From outside he heard a loud bang, more than likely a gunshot, and then a scream. A woman’s scream. What the hell was a woman doing out on the street? Stupid, really stupid.

  Then another two shots and the sounds died away, leaving him to peacefully enjoy his beer and beans.

  He alternated on the cans.

  A gulp of beer.

  A big spoonful of beans.

  Another gulp of beer.

  The beer won the race and the can lofted at the overflowing trash can. Again his shot was high, but this time the can spun and hit the television. Ten days ago hitting the big screen with an empty beer can would have been unthinkable. Now he counted that as an extra point.

  Two more mouthfuls of beans and that can and spoon headed in the same direction. The can actually stayed on top of the pile.

  Three points.

  The spoon ended up behind the decorative drapes over the window on the other side of the room. A streak of brown beans dripped down the wall beside the television like blood.

  He shook his head and stood, heading for the kitchen for another beer. These days everything looked like blood. And the only way he was going to ever escape those thoughts was just keep drinking.

  This time he took the entire case of beer and put it beside his chair before sitting back down. Screw the exercise. He hadn’t needed it when he worked his old corporate job, he didn’t need it now.

  Screw what his second wife had said.

  Screw what the insurance man had said.

  Screw what his doctors had said. They were all going to die at the same time he did, if they weren’t already dead from the riots and fires. He wasn’t going to live any longer just because he had exercised for years.

  He drank most of a beer in one gulp and tossed the can, watching it roll to a stop on the wood floor as he grabbed another.

  Screw them all, and the stupid world as well. He, Peter Danials, just didn’t give a rat’s ass any more.

  Five, maybe six beers later, he drifted off.

  Or passed out.

  TWO

  The next thing he knew more shots were echoing through the streets outside, it was pitch dark in the apartment, and his bladder was about to explode.

  He stumbled through the apartment to the bathroom, aimed in the general direction of the full toilet, and then leaned against the wall, his eyes closed, pretending everything was fine as he relieved himself.

  He could still feel the beer buzz, but not enough to dull the ache and the fear of dying, or the smell of the toilet that hadn’t been flushed in days. Outside, from all the shouting and gunshots, it sounded like some of the riots had moved closer to his apartment. God only knew what people were fighting about now. To him there just didn’t seem to be much point.

  Why didn’t they all just find some beer, have a party, screw each other into peaceful sleep, and then get up and do it all over again until things ended? Nope, not the idiots who called themselves humans. Instead they were fighting and killing each other and just being stupid.

  Well screw all of them. He had his beer, his apartment, the rest of his short life. He didn’t need anyone else.

  He finished peeing, bean-farted twice, and then felt his way out of the bathroom and toward the kitchen.

  After days and days of having the power gone, he’d gotten pretty good at not kicking anything in the dark. He had matches, a few candles, and a slowly dying flashlight, but there just didn’t seem to be much need to turn them on.

  Outside the fighting slowly moved into the distance, leaving the night in the city dead quiet. He felt around the counter knocking over empty cans and dirty dishes until he found the last case of beer. Maybe now, before he started drinking again, he should try to make his way out to find some more supplies.

  Or maybe he should just give it up, drink the last of the beer, eat the last of his food, and then find his pistol and put a shot through the roof of his mouth.

  Or maybe, better still, take the beer to the roof, drink it all, and then stumble over the edge. That wouldn’t be as quick as the gun, but good enough.

  Decisions, decisions. What was a man to do?

  His last wife had always said that he made decisions without enough facts. Maybe that was true. She had decided to leave him when the “big day of doom” was announced. Why, he would now never know. She had simply packed a few clothes and walked away without a word. It seemed she didn’t want to drink away her last five days of life.

  Well screw her. She didn’t know what she was missing.

  So now how much time did he have left anyway? He’d lost track of what day it even was. He needed facts to figure out what path to take.

  In the pitch darkness of his kitchen he found the flashlight right where he’d left it on the windowsill over the sink. Usually that window looked out on the open courtyard in the middle of his apartment building. He and his wife had always kept it open, letting the breezes and city smells fill the apartment.

  Now the window was locked closed and the blinds were tightly drawn. But even with the blinds drawn, he turned his back on the window and huddled over the light as he turned it on.

  The beam was amazingly bright, making him blink as his eyes adjusted.

  Then, cupping the light so no one might see it through the blinds, he turned and looked at the calendar on the wall. October fifteenth was crossed out in red and he had scribbled over the page the words “End of the World.”

  He turned and quickly found his expensive watch where he had put it on top of the refrigerator. The watch was still running, and the little calendar said it was October thirteenth.

  Two more days to live.

  Damn! He didn’t have enough beer for two more days.

  He was either going to have to end it soon, or he was going to have to break out the bottles of vodka and gin he kept for guests if he wanted to be drunk when the big rock came powering in two days from now.

  Maybe the gun wasn’t a bad idea after all. He drank vodka, but he didn’t like it as much as beer. Warm beer or warm vodka, he’d take the beer every day. But he doubted there was any beer left anywhere close by that he might be able to loot.

  He took a beer from his last case, opened it, and took a long warm drink. This was a decision that would take a few beers to figure out.

  THREE

  He turned and started back toward the living room, taking the flashlight with him.

  Suddenly, two steps from his chair, every light in the apartment came on, then the television blared into life.

  “What the….”

  He stared at the big screen television as the cameras panned what seemed like millions of people dancing and cheering in the streets of some city.

  Then the announcer came on, clearly dirty and unshaven, but smiling like Peter had never seen anyone smile.

  “For those of you who are just getting power back,” the announcer said, “we can report that the asteroid is going to miss Earth. This is not just false hope, people. This is real. The asteroid will barely graze through the planet’s high atmosphere in two days, but will not be pulled into a full collision. Scientists have been working on new computer models and there is no doubt we will all survive this.”

  At this point the announcer went on into details about what had happened, what caused the change,—or better put, the mistake—of a few hundreds of miles in calculating the asteroid’s path.

  That mistake had caused the entire world to think it was going to end.

  How many people had died because of that mistake?

  Peter stopped listening and dropped down into his lounge chair, the empty beer can still in his hand. One minute he was going to die, the next he was going to live.

  Everyone was going to live.

  That was something that took some time to sink in, just as the news of the asteroid collision had taken time to sink in when announced.

  He sat there watching the pictures of the people dancing in the streets.

  An hour, maybe two. He did
n’t pay any attention. It just wasn’t sinking in.

  Then slowly, outside his closed windows, he started hearing cheering and shouting and loud crying.

  He looked around his garbage-filled apartment, then stood and moved over to the window. At first he peeked out cautiously; then, when he saw the people hugging and dancing and pouring out of the buildings, he opened the window wide and took a deep breath of the fresh air.

  Unbelievable, simply unbelievable, just like the news of the end of the world had been.

  Now the world was saved.

  Now things would continue. Maybe not the same, but they would continue.

  He watched the crowds for a few minutes, maybe longer, then went back and stood in front of his television watching the images coming in of celebration after celebration around the world.

  It was real.

  It was real, of that there was no doubt.

  The world was going to live.

  He moved back to the window to watch the crowd again, letting the news sink in finally

  Then he turned and looked at his apartment.

  It was a mess, and so was he.

  So was the entire world, but things could be cleaned up. It would take time, but it was possible.

  He went to the bathroom and flushed the toilet without looking at it, then moved back into the kitchen and opened up the window to try to clear some of the smell of rotted food and dead beer.

  Glancing around, he nodded to himself and pulled out a black garbage bag, and moved into the living room to try to take back, and try to forget, the last three days of his life.

  That too would take time, but it was possible if he moved slowly.

  One empty beer can at a time.

  In the first installments, Seattle Police Detectives Bonnie and Craig, while taking a late night walk on a Scottsdale Arizona golf course, happen to overhear a conversation between two men plotting to kill a United States Senator.

  At the same time, a young golf professional’s wife is kidnapped. Scheduled to play with the Senator, he must do what they ask or his wife will die.

  Bonnie and Craig get the FBI and local police involved. Everything is set and they play with the Senator to help protect him.

  Nothing goes wrong, but that night, they see the two men again who they had overheard.

  Now, the next morning, starting the second round of golf, everyone waits and watches.

  A horrific accident on the golf course almost kills the Senator, but he is fine and sent on to Washington while they set a trap for the man coming to kill Danny, the young golf professional.

  The man is killed in the hotel room by Craig and an FBI agent.

  Danny’s wife is rescued and at that point Bonnie and Craig think they can now go back to their vacation. Nope.

  They are kidnapped and locked in a closet of the home of the man who tried to kill the Senator.

  AN EASY SHOT

  Part 8 of 8

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Monday, April 10th

  3:10 a.m.

  MAXWELL LOOKED AT the rumpled and very tired Hagar as he staggered into the police station. A couple other night-shift detectives laughed, but no one said anything.

  “This had better be damned good,” Hagar said. “I was dreaming about swimming naked with a dozen women when you so rudely woke me up.”

  Maxwell laughed. “No wonder you look so tired.” He pointed at the screen of a monitor sitting on a desk and punched play. He had watched these images a dozen times over the last ten minutes and still couldn’t figure out exactly what they meant.

  Hagar frowned. The image showed a tall wall and some people coming down the street toward the camera.

  “The Robins estate,” Maxwell said. “Filmed less than an hour ago.”

  “I know where it’s at,” Hagar said, “but who are the people?”

  “Wait,” Maxwell said.

  On screen the images of the people became clearer and clearer.

  “Holy shit, you’re kidding?”

  “I’m not,” Maxwell said. “That’s Bonnie and Craig, their hands tied, being led into the Robins estate by two of Robins’ goons. I checked their room and they are not there.”

  “Robins kidnapped them?” Hagar almost shouted as the film showed Bonnie and Craig being walked right through the front gate. “Why the hell would he do that?”

  “I don’t know the answer to that question,” Maxwell said, “but they haven’t come out of there yet.”

  Hagar shook his head. “Didn’t they know your van was there filming everything?”

  “I guess not,” Maxwell said. “Or I doubt they would have taken them in this way.”

  Hagar glanced at Maxwell. “Are you thinking what I think you are thinking? You want to go in after them?”

  Maxwell nodded. “I’ve got agents flying up here from Tucson and down from Vegas. I can have a force of over thirty men ready to roll in forty minutes.”

  “And you think Bonnie and Craig are still alive in there?” Hagar asked.

  “At the moment I do,” Maxwell said, “but the longer we wait, the less chance I give them. And I give them no chance when Robins discovers they helped trick him with the Senator.”

  “Damn, you’re right,” Hagar said. He rewound the film again quickly and watched them walk past the truck and through the main gate.

  To Maxwell there was no doubt both Craig and Bonnie were tied and being led at gunpoint.

  “Robins might have over fifty men in there,” Hagar said, “and from what I’ve observed about those men, they aren’t afraid to defend that place.”

  “I assumed as much,” Maxwell said. “That’s why we need to work together on this.”

  Hagar just stared at him for a moment, then said, “You’re nuts, you know that?”

  Maxwell nodded.

  “Shit, shit, shit!” Hagar said, turning from Maxwell and picking up the phone.

  Ten minutes later Hagar had permission to work with the FBI from the Chief of Police.

  Thirty minutes later Hagar had a force of over fifty men, including a SWAT team from Phoenix, staged at different locations around the Robins estate, armed and ready to go when the order was given.

  Maxwell knew that if this turned into a gunfight, it was going to go down poorly. Their best bet was to try to talk their way in and disarm guards as they went.

  Hagar was convinced that there was going to be no talking their way inside those walls. He had calls out for even more help to stand ready. He told Maxwell that if this didn’t turn out to be the Alamo west, he’d be surprised.

  That was the last thing Maxwell wanted to have happen. But inside those walls were two kidnapped cops and a man they suspected of trying to kill a United States Senator. He had no other choice.

  They had to go in.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Monday, April 10th

  4:03 a.m.

  BONNIE HAD DOZED lightly for most of the past half hour, and Craig had let her. The closet had gotten cold and Bonnie had pulled down one of the expensive wool coats that hung in there to use as a cover. And she was using Craig as a pillow, something he didn’t mind at all.

  Craig had talked her into closing her eyes for a short time. There was just no point in both of them trying to stay alert. There wasn’t much they could do until Robins decided to let them out. Unless they wanted to take a chance on getting shot trying to escape, and at the moment Craig didn’t much like that idea.

  So until something happened, they sat on the floor, in the dark, and waited.

  Craig guessed that at least an hour or more had gone by since Robins had tossed them into the closet. And if that was the case, they were getting closer and closer to the Senator’s press conference in Washington. Craig had no desire to still be Robins’ prisoner when he discovered the Senator was still healthy and voting.

  A slight snoring noise rumbled the closet and Craig eased Bonnie sideways. Usually she didn’t snore, but considering how tired she was, and the c
ircumstances, it was understandable.

  Bonnie mumbled and cuddled against his side as the snoring sound happened again. He shook her lightly, then when her eyes popped open he whispered, “Shhh, listen.”

  The snoring sound came again.

  She sat upright in the darkness, then leaned toward him and whispered, “The guard’s asleep.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Craig said.

  “Think we can break that lock open?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

  “Yeah,” he said, silently standing and moving his legs to make sure the circulation hadn’t left them. He had taken out other locks much stronger than the one on this closet door. And from the sounds of the snoring, the guard was leaning against the door. So the break-out would have to be strong enough to snap the lock and shove the guard aside at the same time. If the wood in the door held, it would work.

  “What do you want me to do?” Bonnie asked.

  “Be ready to hit the guy on the head with one of those wooden hangers,” Craig whispered.

  The snoring stopped for an instant, the guy shifted against the door, moving more away from the lock, then a moment later the snoring started again.

  Craig let out the breath he had been holding. “Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be,” Bonnie whispered.

  Craig braced himself against the back wall of the closet. It was just a little too far from the door to give him the best force on his kick. He used both hands to lightly pull on the hanger bar. It seemed very solid and secure in place. It would hold his weight long enough for him to kick the door open, he was sure.

  He leaned toward Bonnie and whispered, “Here we go.”

  “Careful,” she whispered back.

  “You too,” he said.

  He put himself in position directly behind the door’s handle, then with two deep breaths, he pulled himself up on the bar and with all the force he could manage in both legs, kicked the door with both feet.