Rescue, page 7
part #7 of Codename - Chandler Series
Rosalina.
She held the purse by the strap as he dug around for the Hardballer. He checked ammo—six rounds and one in the throat—and peeked out the side window. As the attack car pulled up, Tequila blew out two tires. It went skidding off into another Starbucks. Apparently Starbucks was just as pernicious in Italy as it was in the US.
Rosalina said, "Wooooof!"
Tequila pointed his gun at the dog.
"Don't you dare!" Hammett warned.
"She wants to eat me."
"She's not hungry," Hammett said. "She already ate two other guys."
More gunfire, from the opposite window. Tequila crawled over to it, Rosalinda at his heels. As he was aiming, she dropped a paw on his back, so big it pinned him to the seat.
"Awww," Hammett said. "She wants to shake hands."
Tequila twisted around and pressed the gun to Rosalina's face, where it got lost in all the hanging skin.
"Get her off of me, Hammett!"
"Rosalina! Sit!"
The dog took back its paw and sat.
"I think she knows English," Hammett said.
Tequila turned his attention back to the window, ducking immediately as it exploded in a shower of glass.
Rosalina yelped.
Tequila stuck his hand through the hole in the window and fired, sight unseen. The tram rocked as the pursuing car rammed into the side. Then it squealed off to the right, hitting a streetlight.
"Did a dog get shot?!?" Hammett's voice was urgent, almost frantic.
Tequila looked. Rosalina was lying down, her shoulder bleeding.
"I don't know," Tequila said. "There's blood."
"If she dies I'll fucking kill you."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Put pressure on it."
"You're insane. She'll bite me."
"Fucking put pressure on it!"
Tequila did a quick scan of the periphery, making sure there were no more cars following them. Judging it clear he ripped off part of his shirt and stared into the dog's huge brown eyes.
"Easy, girl. I'm trying to help you."
He slowly pressed the cloth up against her wound.
The dog whined.
The other five dogs surrounded Tequila, growling.
"Sit!" Hammett ordered.
They sat, but didn't look happy about it, continuing to stare at him like he was a chew toy they were prepared to fight over.
Rosalina kept whimpering. Tequila gave her a tentative pat on her head. Her tail wagged.
"We need to get off this tram," Hammett said. "Can she walk?"
"How am I supposed to know that? Want me to ask her?"
Hammett jammed on the brakes, metal wheels screaming. Tequila was knocked off balance, bumping hard into the biggest of the dogs. Wario, according to his tag.
He snarled at Tequila, his chest rumbling like thunder.
"Hammett…"
"Come!" she yelled.
All six dogs, including a limping Rosalina, followed Hammett off the tram. Tequila tried to take the bag from Rosalina's jaws, but she had clamped on tight. When he pulled, she stopped and stared back at him.
He tailed her to the street, and then into an alley. They went in deep, far from the main street. In the distance, sirens blared.
"We need another van," Hammett told him.
"Sure. I'll just call Vans R Us."
She tilted her head to the side, then dug out her cell phone as she checked Rosalina. That's when Tequila noticed Hammett's left arm. Or rather, the bullet hole going through it.
It was bad. Real bad.
He tore off more of his shirt, intending to wrap up her wound. Hammett pushed him away.
"Take care of the dog," she said.
"You're losing a lot of blood. I think it's an artery."
"The dog!"
As Tequila went back to putting pressure on Rosalina's wound, Hammett spoke rapid-fire Italian into her cell. Then she pocketed the phone and put her back against the wall, slowly sinking until she was on her ass.
The dogs huddled in around her. She scratched Mario behind the head.
"They're pack animals," Hammett said. "They treat humans like other dogs. I killed their leader, so I'm the new alpha."
Luigi began to lick Hammett's bloody arm.
"What's the plan?" Tequila asked.
Hammett didn't answer.
"Hammett, what are we doing next? You're too injured to move. And we're not going to get anywhere with six giant dogs."
"Canus lupis familiaris. The dog. Genetically identical to wolves. It was the first domesticated animal. They hung around the campfire when we were hunter-gatherers, feeding off of scraps. In return, they protected us. We co-evolved with dogs. Without them, our species wouldn't have survived."
Tequila looked at Rosalina, who still had a firm grip on the bag. Then he looked out into the alley, watched police cars race past. He could try to slip away. Maybe Hammett would sic the dogs on him. Maybe she wouldn't. But it didn't make much sense to stick around.
Killing her was still an option. Maybe then he'd become the new alpha. And in her weakened condition, it wouldn't be too difficult.
"They have genes that make them docile around people," Hammett said. "All domesticated animals have them. It limits their fear and aggression. Allows them to trust us. It's a trait you and I don't have."
Tequila heard the whine of an ambulance, different than the police cars. It grew nearer.
"Vans R Us," Hammett said, winking at him.
The ambulance pulled into the alley and Tequila tucked away his gun and beckoned him forward. A paramedic hopped out the back. He stood in the alley and stared.
"Cos'è questo?"
Hammett shot him in the head, then shot the driver through the front windshield.
"I need to take care of this," she said, indicating her arm. "I'll need your help."
Tequila thought about refusing, quickly decided he didn't want to be shot in cold blood or torn apart by dogs, and nodded. He pulled the dead paramedic into the front seat, next to his dead partner, as Hammett covered him with her gun. Then he helped her into the ambulance, and she ordered the dogs in behind them.
"Find rubber tubing, hydrogen peroxide, Demerol, scissors, tweezers, sutures, a plasma IV, and some type O."
Tequila was not a stranger to triage. As he hunted down supplies, Hammett knelt next to Rosalina, patting her massive head.
"It's going to be okay, girl," Hammett soothed. "I'll fix you up."
"I only found one Demerol," Tequila said, holding up the syringe. "There's some stronger stuff."
"Hand me the Demerol."
He did as Hammett instructed. Rather than use the local anesthetic on herself, she gave Rosalina the shot.
"Wind the tube around my arm, stop the bleeding. Have you ever stitched someone up?"
"Yes."
"Get to it."
As Tequila hooked up the bags of fluid and cleaned and dressed Hammett's arm, she trimmed the fur away from Rosalina's wound.
"It's okay, girl. It's okay."
Hammett's bullet hole was jagged. Ugly. Right above her elbow, passing completely through.
"I can't tell if the bone is broken."
"Just close the wound."
He went to work. Hammett didn't flinch, but she didn't make it easy for him, either. As he stitched, she was probing Rosalina's wound with the tweezers.
"It's okay, it's not a bullet," Hammett said, holding up a piece of glass. "She's going to be… just… fine…"
Her eyes rolled up in her head, and she passed out onto the floor of the ambulance.
Rosalina dropped the gun bag and began to lick Hammett's face.
Tequila carefully grabbed the bag and looked inside. The Caricato. The Rhino prototype. The LeMat. The Medusa. The Stechkin wasn't there, but Tequila patted Hammett down and found it in her jacket.
He opened the back door and hopped out into the alley.
Time to get the hell out of Rome.
A dog whined.
Tequila didn't know why, but he turned back and looked. All of the dogs were staring at him. Like they were waiting for an order.
Another whine. Rosalina. Directed at him.
"I don't like dogs," Tequila told her.
She stood up, limping over to him. Stuck her big face in his.
Licked.
"I like guns," Tequila said. "They can't hurt you. I mean, they can hurt you. But not on their own. Guns don't think. They don't feel. They don't care. That's what I prefer."
She licked him again.
"It wouldn't work out," Tequila told the dog. "My only friends are inanimate objects. That's the way it has to be. That's… safest."
Tequila gave the beast a scratch on the muzzle.
Then he shut the ambulance door and got out of there.
Hammett
The Mafia had found her.
Hammett wasn't being tortured for answers. She was being tortured for revenge. A thick, hot blanket wrapped around her face, cutting off her air, smothering her as a great weight pressed down on her chest, preventing her from inhaling.
She struggled, trying to thrash but unable to move, screaming in her throat as her whole body, her whole being, begged for just… one… breath…
Hammett jackknifed into a sitting position, gasping, disoriented and frightened, opening her eyes and frantically looking around and seeing nothing but…
Dogs. Lots of big, hairy, wrinkled, smelly, panting dogs, crowding around her in the back of the ambulance.
Wario had half his enormous body in her lap, and he must have been lying on her chest and face, prompting the suffocation nightmare. Hammett gently tried to push him off. When gentle didn't work, she put her back into it. He moved, but the action caused a flare of pain to surge through her arm. She looked at her injury, found it expertly bandaged. The bags of blood and plasma hanging from the wall were empty. She tugged out the IV needles, then squinted through the back window at—
Sunshine.
How long was I out?
Where's Tequila?
Hammett looked around for her guns. They were gone. So was her knife, and her blowdart.
The bastard had left her unarmed.
She told the dogs to stay, then pushed open the back door, expecting the worst.
The air was cool, clean, and smelled like the woods. Which made sense, because all she saw were trees. She scooted over, stepping outside.
"Good morning."
She turned, saw Tequila sitting against a tree. He had a knife in his hand, wood shavings covering his legs.
"Morning," Hammett said.
"Been whittling for about an hour," he told her, holding up a thin stick. "My fourth attempt."
"I see. Where are we?"
"I didn't know where else to go. So I drove back into the forest. Near the weapons facility you conned me into visiting yesterday. Figured it was a good place to lay low."
Hammett nodded. Tequila put the stick up to his lips.
A moment later, all six dogs jumped out of the ambulance and stood at attention, staring at him.
"Fourth time's a charm," Tequila said.
Hammett petted Daisy on the head. "So why didn't you…"
"Take off? Kill you?"
"Yeah."
"You know that gene dogs have? The one that makes them tame?"
Hammett nodded.
"Maybe we have it to," Tequila said. "But maybe it just needs to be coaxed out."
Hammett looked up at the sun. Full and orange and blinding. She judged it to be around seven. If they really were at Riserva statale Tenuta di Castelporziano, they weren't very far from the dock. And her yacht. It was a twenty-two hour sail to Barcelona.
Plenty of time to wait for Tequila to fall asleep, murder him, and dump his body overboard.
"You have my weapons," Hammett said.
"I've proven that I'm not trying to kill you. You still need to prove yourself."
She turned to him, a smile playing across her lips. "Do you think you can tame me, Tequila?"
"I can give it my best shot."
* * *
Hammett's fifty foot Viking sports yacht was worth about half a million US dollars, according to its former owner. It hadn't cost her anything, other than some so-so sex and the time it had taken to slit his throat. She enjoyed the boat and enjoyed sailing. Few things compared to being out on the open water, no land in sight. It was a feeling of isolation, of disconnection, that was so complete it was like meditating. Rarely, if ever, did she feel as content, as relaxed.
Having the dogs around her enhanced the feeling.
The only thing spoiling the setting was Tequila. But he didn't press her, didn't bother her. Didn't speak unless spoken to. She figured she'd be able to endure him until it was time to kill him.
After leaving the dock, Hammett checked the forecast, which promised good weather. She set the Furuno autopilot, then went on deck and found Tequila in her stateroom, with the dogs. His shirt was off, and he was looking through the closet.
"I found a man's shirt," he said, holding up a tee. "Will he mind if I borrow it?"
"No."
"He's dead?"
"Yes."
"You killed him?"
"Yes."
"You're going to try to kill me, too, aren't you?"
"Probably." She walked over, lightly played a finger over his bandaged shoulder. "But I can think of something better to do at the moment."
* * *
Hammett guided Tequila's hands to her neck as he pushed inside her.
"Squeeze," she said.
He did.
"Harder!"
Tequila's hands tightened around her throat.
All six dogs began to growl.
He let go.
"They don't like it," Tequila said.
"Fine," Hammett breathed. "Then just kiss me."
* * *
Tequila slept.
Hammett crept out of bed. There weren't many places to hide a bag on a yacht, and she found his guns in one of the galley cabinets. She checked to make sure the .45 ACP Hardballer was loaded and silently padded back to her cabin. He was heavy, and she was injured, so maybe it would be smarter to order him above deck before shooting him. Then she wouldn't have to drag his body upstairs.
When she got back to bed, all six dogs were on the mattress with him. Piled up and snoring. They looked like an enormous, lumpy blanket. Hammett couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began.
She set the gun, unfired, on the nightstand.
There was barely enough room for her to squeeze in, but she managed.
* * *
Tequila was in the mess, sitting at the counter, bent over Customs forms. He looked up at Hammett when she entered.
"Just because I didn't kill you doesn't mean we're friends," she said.
"I know."
"I don't do well with human relationships."
"Neither do I."
"If we ever run into each other again, don't expect any favors."
"I won't."
Next to him, on the table, was the Stechkin.
"So I guess this is goodbye," Hammett said.
Tequila hefted the gun. "Not quite. There's one more thing I need to do. And you're not going to like it very much."
He pointed the gun at Hammett.
Then he blew the dog whistle.
All six dogs appeared, standing behind him.
Tequila
He placed the Caricato in the felt shadow box, then closed the glass lid and stood back to admire it.
The nicest thing he'd ever owned.
Well, the second nicest thing…
"What do you think, Rosalina?" he said, patting her giant head.
Rosalina said, "Woof!"
Hammett hadn't wanted to give the dog up. But he promised he'd email one picture a month, to show how she was doing.
It wasn't exactly regular human contact.
But it was a start.
"Good girl. Want to go for a jog?"
"Woof woof!"
"Go get your leash."
EPILOGUE
TORONTO
Hammett
She hated putting Kirk in the kennel, but the one she'd picked was the best in the city. Walks, treats, constant fussing over. Everything a retriever could want.
Except, perhaps, some brothers and sisters.
When he met the five Neo Mastiffs, he pissed all over Hammett's rug. But within a few minutes they were best friends, wagging tails, sniffing asses, jumping around.
That's the world I want.
A dog world. No people.
Hammett would miss the sex. But celibacy was a small price to pay for ridding the planet of humanity.
Tequila was wrong. She didn't possess that gene that made her tame around people.
She hated them. Hated them all.
Hidden in Toronto, Hammett had enough weaponized Ebola virus to start an epidemic that would kill every man, woman, and child a hundred times over. Everyone except for her, and a few others who were immune. But they'd be easy to take care of. Hammett had already taken care of the best disease experts in the world. The last one had been Dr. Lucio Damiano. With the best and brightest epidemiologists all assassinated, no one would be able to slow down the outbreak.
Hammett smiled.
Soon, the world would go to the dogs.
And she'd have a front row seat.
end
J A Konrath, Rescue
