Lisa Paris
12-04-2006, 07:04 PM
Set the Fire - Part Two
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Earlier Same Day – Noon
Don took one last look at his testimony before closing the file with a snap. He’d read it through at least a dozen times and could probably recite it word for word. Carmine Redondo, Human Trafficker, specialising in young boys. General, all-round sleaze-bag, and blight on the human race.
Don shivered, he couldn’t help himself. The case had been particularly distasteful from a personal point of view. Redondo had come onto him big time and his intentions had been very clear.
Don had heard all about the man’s predilections, but had never once, expected to be the focus of them. He was far too old, for one thing. Too straight-talking, too straightforward . . . if you got right down to it, he was just too straight. He’d be relieved when his part in it was over. When this piece of scum was safe behind bars.
“The Redondo case?” Megan Reeves came into the bullpen and glanced over his shoulder. “Aren’t you meeting up with the Assistant DA about that, later on this afternoon?”
“Yeah.” Don nodded briefly. “You know I’m in court tomorrow, right? Once the jury hear what I’ve got to say, the case should be cut and dried. Even Carmine Redondo’s fancy lawyers can’t grease him out of this one.” He got to his feet and picked up his jacket, eager to change the subject. “Gotta go. I’m having lunch with dad at Echo Park. Should be back here around 4pm when I’m finished with the ADA.”
“Lunch?” Megan sighed after him soulfully. “I seem to vaguely remember that concept. Must be nice to be boss man and actually get to eat at midday.”
“Suck it up, Reeves!” He shot her a parting smile over his shoulder and strolled towards the elevators, glad to be leaving the air-conditioned offices in exchange for a little sun on his face.
With any luck, Alan would have brought his trusty picnic hamper. They could sit by the lake, beneath the trees, and he could grab a rare and welcome breather. Pastrami on rye from Langers, fresh tomatoes from the back-yard, and if he was really fortunate, some of dad’s cold, roast chicken. Don discovered his mouth was watering. He was actually hungry for a change. His stomach had almost forgotten what it felt like to eat proper food at lunchtime.
‘Well, man, and even FBI agent, cannot survive on coffee alone.’
Don’s face curved into a smile. Trust Alan to get the timing just right. Trust dad to know something was bothering him. The old, parental antennae must have been working overtime. Somehow, when life started weighing him down, he could always rely on dad.
He tucked the Redondo file under his arm and stepped out of the elevator. He’d be glad when this one was dead and buried, finished and out of the way. The DA had gone off the deep end and been worried about his safety, but Don had clamped down on the suggestion he might be at any personal risk. He dealt with slime on a daily basis - there were plenty of villains who bore him a grudge, several more who’d sworn they would kill him. He wasn’t on many Christmas card lists. It came along with the territory. Don was damned if he’d alter his habits to accomodate the sleaze-bags of this world. The only fear which haunted him always concerned dad and Charlie. If someone ever went after them because of what he, Don, did for a living . . . even thinking about it made his gut clench with dread.
If he’d really thought he was in serious danger, he would have taken the appropriate precautions. He would have ordered some protection for dad and Charlie and reluctantly, considered his own safety. As it was, in the months since Redondo’s arraignment, life had carried on just as normal. The case had gone fairly quiet and Don hadn’t heard a thing.
A part of him was a little surprised there’d been no form of intimidation. No attempts at financial inducement or phone calls late at night. He’d heard nada from the Redondo camp and that suited him just fine. Once the court case was over and done with, he could file it neatly away. He’d spent three months undercover with Carmine himself and the memories still made him feel dirty. For some reason, Redondo had liked him - the man’s regard had been genuine enough - but that liking had been based on a fake ID and the man he thought Don was.
Other than two women getting into the elevator, the underground basement was deserted. Don walked towards the SUV and reached into his pocket for the keys. He sensed rather than heard them behind him, but by then, it was already too late. He was preoccupied with Redondo – still brooding over the case. It was a lack of concentration which was about to cost him dear. The prod of a gun in the small of his back brought him back down to earth with a sickening twist. Before he could speak, an arm hooked around his throat and forced back his head with a jerk. Don twisted abortively in his attacker’s grip as the pressure increased on his windpipe. The man responded by tightening his grasp and cutting off Don’s air.
“What the hell?” Don struggled in-spite of the gun in his back, cursing himself for such negligence. Gold flecks were dancing before his eyes as the man exerted force on his jugular. Careless. He’d been stupid and careless, to think Carmine would allow him to testify. He’d been applauding himself on staying clear of Redondo, but perhaps he’d been a little too smug. His self-congratulatory pat on the back had jumped up and bitten him on the ass. The man held something up in his other hand and Don saw the shadow of a needle. His heart gave a lurch of remembered fear – what the hell was it with him and being drugged?
‘God damn it, Eppes, better fight your way outta this . . .’
Don clasped hold of his wrist for momentum, smashing back his elbow as hard as it would go. He felt the gratifying crunch of nasal cartilage and bone as the man gave a yell of pain. The syringe fell out of his nerveless fingers and bounced unused to the ground. Don experienced a brief flash of satisfaction as it rolled underneath the SUV.
“Bastard!” His attacker was hurting. His nose was a bloody mess.
Don didn’t known if the man fell or not, he was too busy looking out for himself. He was hazy from lack of oxygen – still trying to catch his breath. He swung around and reached down for his gun but the other man was already on him. Something struck him hard across the rib-cage and he doubled over in pain. He managed to drag his Glock out of its holster, single-minded in his tenacity, but the second man shoved him violently aside and knocked it out of his hand. Don fell to one knee on the ground and knew he was a lifetime too late.
“Okay, Eppes, we do this the hard way." The man was short of breath from exertion. "A little present from Carmine Redondo.” He pointed a gun at Don’s head.
Don saw the parking lights gleam on the gun. The dull, grey metal of the silencer barrel. He looked straight into its deadly eye and knew there was no way out. Not this time – maybe not ever. Perhaps it had just been inevitable. Not so much a question of if but more of a when and how. Don sensed the change in the man’s demeanour; felt the buck of the gun in his hand. Ironically, he felt preturnaturally aware in the precious, last moments of life.
For a split second, time seemed to waver . . .
The concrete floor was cold beneath him. There was a sharp smell of gasoline. Car tires squealed in the distance and echoed through the underground spaces. Don was aware of mild surprise, then a feeling of sudden dismay. ‘It couldn’t . . . it was going to end like this . . . so careless – he’d been stupid and careless. So sorry, Charlie . . . Dad . . .’
And then his skull exploded in a blossom of white. A brief starburst of sudden agony.
TBC
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Earlier Same Day – Noon
Don took one last look at his testimony before closing the file with a snap. He’d read it through at least a dozen times and could probably recite it word for word. Carmine Redondo, Human Trafficker, specialising in young boys. General, all-round sleaze-bag, and blight on the human race.
Don shivered, he couldn’t help himself. The case had been particularly distasteful from a personal point of view. Redondo had come onto him big time and his intentions had been very clear.
Don had heard all about the man’s predilections, but had never once, expected to be the focus of them. He was far too old, for one thing. Too straight-talking, too straightforward . . . if you got right down to it, he was just too straight. He’d be relieved when his part in it was over. When this piece of scum was safe behind bars.
“The Redondo case?” Megan Reeves came into the bullpen and glanced over his shoulder. “Aren’t you meeting up with the Assistant DA about that, later on this afternoon?”
“Yeah.” Don nodded briefly. “You know I’m in court tomorrow, right? Once the jury hear what I’ve got to say, the case should be cut and dried. Even Carmine Redondo’s fancy lawyers can’t grease him out of this one.” He got to his feet and picked up his jacket, eager to change the subject. “Gotta go. I’m having lunch with dad at Echo Park. Should be back here around 4pm when I’m finished with the ADA.”
“Lunch?” Megan sighed after him soulfully. “I seem to vaguely remember that concept. Must be nice to be boss man and actually get to eat at midday.”
“Suck it up, Reeves!” He shot her a parting smile over his shoulder and strolled towards the elevators, glad to be leaving the air-conditioned offices in exchange for a little sun on his face.
With any luck, Alan would have brought his trusty picnic hamper. They could sit by the lake, beneath the trees, and he could grab a rare and welcome breather. Pastrami on rye from Langers, fresh tomatoes from the back-yard, and if he was really fortunate, some of dad’s cold, roast chicken. Don discovered his mouth was watering. He was actually hungry for a change. His stomach had almost forgotten what it felt like to eat proper food at lunchtime.
‘Well, man, and even FBI agent, cannot survive on coffee alone.’
Don’s face curved into a smile. Trust Alan to get the timing just right. Trust dad to know something was bothering him. The old, parental antennae must have been working overtime. Somehow, when life started weighing him down, he could always rely on dad.
He tucked the Redondo file under his arm and stepped out of the elevator. He’d be glad when this one was dead and buried, finished and out of the way. The DA had gone off the deep end and been worried about his safety, but Don had clamped down on the suggestion he might be at any personal risk. He dealt with slime on a daily basis - there were plenty of villains who bore him a grudge, several more who’d sworn they would kill him. He wasn’t on many Christmas card lists. It came along with the territory. Don was damned if he’d alter his habits to accomodate the sleaze-bags of this world. The only fear which haunted him always concerned dad and Charlie. If someone ever went after them because of what he, Don, did for a living . . . even thinking about it made his gut clench with dread.
If he’d really thought he was in serious danger, he would have taken the appropriate precautions. He would have ordered some protection for dad and Charlie and reluctantly, considered his own safety. As it was, in the months since Redondo’s arraignment, life had carried on just as normal. The case had gone fairly quiet and Don hadn’t heard a thing.
A part of him was a little surprised there’d been no form of intimidation. No attempts at financial inducement or phone calls late at night. He’d heard nada from the Redondo camp and that suited him just fine. Once the court case was over and done with, he could file it neatly away. He’d spent three months undercover with Carmine himself and the memories still made him feel dirty. For some reason, Redondo had liked him - the man’s regard had been genuine enough - but that liking had been based on a fake ID and the man he thought Don was.
Other than two women getting into the elevator, the underground basement was deserted. Don walked towards the SUV and reached into his pocket for the keys. He sensed rather than heard them behind him, but by then, it was already too late. He was preoccupied with Redondo – still brooding over the case. It was a lack of concentration which was about to cost him dear. The prod of a gun in the small of his back brought him back down to earth with a sickening twist. Before he could speak, an arm hooked around his throat and forced back his head with a jerk. Don twisted abortively in his attacker’s grip as the pressure increased on his windpipe. The man responded by tightening his grasp and cutting off Don’s air.
“What the hell?” Don struggled in-spite of the gun in his back, cursing himself for such negligence. Gold flecks were dancing before his eyes as the man exerted force on his jugular. Careless. He’d been stupid and careless, to think Carmine would allow him to testify. He’d been applauding himself on staying clear of Redondo, but perhaps he’d been a little too smug. His self-congratulatory pat on the back had jumped up and bitten him on the ass. The man held something up in his other hand and Don saw the shadow of a needle. His heart gave a lurch of remembered fear – what the hell was it with him and being drugged?
‘God damn it, Eppes, better fight your way outta this . . .’
Don clasped hold of his wrist for momentum, smashing back his elbow as hard as it would go. He felt the gratifying crunch of nasal cartilage and bone as the man gave a yell of pain. The syringe fell out of his nerveless fingers and bounced unused to the ground. Don experienced a brief flash of satisfaction as it rolled underneath the SUV.
“Bastard!” His attacker was hurting. His nose was a bloody mess.
Don didn’t known if the man fell or not, he was too busy looking out for himself. He was hazy from lack of oxygen – still trying to catch his breath. He swung around and reached down for his gun but the other man was already on him. Something struck him hard across the rib-cage and he doubled over in pain. He managed to drag his Glock out of its holster, single-minded in his tenacity, but the second man shoved him violently aside and knocked it out of his hand. Don fell to one knee on the ground and knew he was a lifetime too late.
“Okay, Eppes, we do this the hard way." The man was short of breath from exertion. "A little present from Carmine Redondo.” He pointed a gun at Don’s head.
Don saw the parking lights gleam on the gun. The dull, grey metal of the silencer barrel. He looked straight into its deadly eye and knew there was no way out. Not this time – maybe not ever. Perhaps it had just been inevitable. Not so much a question of if but more of a when and how. Don sensed the change in the man’s demeanour; felt the buck of the gun in his hand. Ironically, he felt preturnaturally aware in the precious, last moments of life.
For a split second, time seemed to waver . . .
The concrete floor was cold beneath him. There was a sharp smell of gasoline. Car tires squealed in the distance and echoed through the underground spaces. Don was aware of mild surprise, then a feeling of sudden dismay. ‘It couldn’t . . . it was going to end like this . . . so careless – he’d been stupid and careless. So sorry, Charlie . . . Dad . . .’
And then his skull exploded in a blossom of white. A brief starburst of sudden agony.
TBC
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