Countdown to Mecca Read online

  “Mr. Jack Hatfield,” said Sol. “You just pissed all over one of my biggest clients.”

  Jack closed the flap on his tablet and stopped to talk to the mobster. “The businessman or the skunk?”

  “Ha!” Sol laughed. “I knew you were good, even when you were investigating my operations back in the day.”

  “That’s high praise, coming from you,” Jack acknowledged.

  “This isn’t our first rodeo, Truth Teller,” Minsky reminded him. “You know I always respected you.”

  “Even when I got close to finding out what the cops never could?” If Jack expected the mobster to react negatively, he was disappointed. The blockhouse of a man merely snorted.

  “Especially when you got close,” he said, his grin matching Jack’s. “When push comes to shove, you may find we disagree on less than you think.”

  Minsky’s “hail fellow well met” approach put Jack back on his guard. Acquaintances who were this chummy out of the gate bore watching. Jack intended his next words to put Sol in his place.

  “So what does Herr Schoenberg run for you?” Jack asked, glancing around to make sure no one was recording them. “Guns?”

  “Oh, you’re very good!” Sol said. He shrugged. “The big macha transports them on his planes. Let it not be said that we don’t support freedom fighters in Syria, Kurdistan, and elsewhere.”

  Jack grinned. “No one’s listening, but how do you know my recorder was off?”

  Sol shrugged. “You got honor. You don’t do ‘ambush.’”

  Jack acknowledged the compliment with a nod. “What about those guys?” He cocked his head toward the hall full of journalists, a few of whom were eyeing Sol as though trying to figure out what he was doing here. “Aren’t you worried they’ll try to pin your ears back?”

  “Those bloggers and hacks? They’re here for the free food and ads. Anyway, I could be in Sacramento, buying politicians, before they’re done posting anything on their impuissant little minds.”

  “Impuissant?” Jack marveled. “My, my. A thug with a vocabulary.”

  “It’s called ‘an education,’” Sol said. “We’re not all no-neck ignoramuses.” Minsky was Israeli and Jewish. He spoke fluent Hebrew and Arabic, having grown up in Bethlehem. His father and mother were slaughtered by Arabs in front of his eyes during Sabbath prayers in their little house. Sol was saved at the last minute by a Special Forces squad of IDF. He was taken to the United States to live with an aunt and uncle in Los Angeles, where he grew up. Rather than becoming just another vicious Jewish lawyer, Sol discovered early on he had a knack for something more dramatic. He liked to fight and kill if need be. He was very much the new age version of an ancient Israelite.

  Jack chuckled as his phone rang. He was surprised to see the caller ID. He hadn’t spoken to Sammy in over a year, since they’d had a falling out over his half brother’s fondness for drink and drunk dialing. Still, Sammy was Jack’s only family. He answered.

  “Hello, Sammy. Is this important or can I call you back?”

  “It’s important,” Sammy said. “Jack, we’ve got a situation. A general, coming for me and my neighbor.”

  “Is this on the level?”

  “I haven’t been drinking, if that’s what you’re asking,” Sammy replied.

  “A general coming after you—why?”

  Jack glanced apologetically at Sol Minsky whose expression conveyed only curiosity, not irritation.

  Sammy explained and Jack listened. A word jumped out at him, a word that wasn’t good. A word that sounded like code for something someone should not have heard.

  When Sammy was finished, Jack said, “Both of you stay put. I’ll be right there.”

  “Jeez, thanks, Jack. Thanks a lot.”

  “No sweat.” Jack hung up, glanced after the retreating industrialist, then told Sol he had to leave.

  3

  Jack had walked to the Hyatt. He intended to get a cab.

  “You’re coming with me,” Sol told Jack.

  The men started toward the street. “I don’t know what this is about,” Jack said. “I’m not sure I need heavy artillery. Not your kind.”

  “You’re not sure you don’t,” Sol said. “Don’t worry—this is on the house. The ride, anyway.”

  There was no time to argue. Sol’s car was parked right out front with a goon. The mobster whispered something to the bodyguard then dismissed him with a jerk of his thumb and got behind the wheel. Jack climbed into the passenger’s side of the mobster’s factory armored S-600.

  “Want me to punch directors into the GPS?” Jack asked.

  “GPS?” he scoffed. “This is my town, too, Jack. Just tell me where we’re going.”

  Jack did and Sol peeled from the front of the hotel. He shot into traffic like a shark going after a seal.

  “What’re you getting into?” Sol asked as they zipped through the late afternoon traffic. Jack filled him in on what he knew. “Sounds interesting,” Sol said neutrally.

  “Yeah,” Jack agreed as he used his cell phone to look up the general Sammy had named. “Or it could all be nothing. My brother isn’t the best judge of character. This girl could be on drugs or just crazy or lying.” Though that would be a hell of a strange lie to make up, Jack thought.

  “I’ve heard people spill their guts when they’re on drugs,” Sol said. “Their narratives lack cohesion.”

  “Everyone lacks cohesion these days, including CEOs,” Jack shot back.

  “You know why?” Sol asked, nodding toward the windshield. “See there? You got a trolley driver, a postal carrier, a police officer. You know what they all have in common?”

  “Uniforms?”

  “Unions.”

  “Meaning?”

  “There’s a buffer between them and personal responsibility,” Sol said. “You know why I do what I do?”

  “Power.”

  “Not me. It’s the risk I like. Every day’s a gamble. When I succeed, I make money. Those around me make money. But if I screw up, I’m a dead man. Those guys in the unions screw up? They got strength in numbers. Even when someone makes a mistake and people die because of that mistake—like an air traffic controller who takes a personal call when he should be watching planes—he’s got an organization that insulates him, pads the fall. I got none of that. I am rewarded for what I do or I have to answer for it. You, too. You’ve got personal responsibility.” He wove around a car that was going too slowly. “What we’re doing now is about personal responsibility, about duty to family, about doing what’s right. That used to be the American way. It was done during World War II when the government worked with the Italian gangsters to find who was sabotaging ships docked on the East River. And let me tell you something else, Jack. In twenty years, you’re going to see the recruitment of white Aryan nation types by whites in gated communities to protect themselves from the armies of Obama’s spawn.”

  “No argument there,” Jack said with an angry shake of his head. “He and Clinton let the Muslim interests overrun this country. Not the religious, not the faithful, but the hateful. They failed to filter out the ones who have nothing but hate and murder behind their obsequious smiles and disingenuous eyes.”

  Sol snorted. “Who’s got the big vocabulary, now?”

  Jack snorted in return. “Words are like cojones,” he growled. “I got ’em when I need ’em. Hell, I’ll bet those functionaries have got a better health plan than you do.”

  “My health plan’s got six chambers,” Sol chuckled. “Hey, if I worried about my health, would I be in the business I’m in?”

  Jack couldn’t dispute that, either. “Did I miss the connection to the working girl?” he asked.

  Sol laughed. “Nah. I go off like that sometimes. So, the girl. I’ve met a lot more hookers than you—least I hope so. If they talk about themselves they’re lying, from the fake name to their sob story. If they’re talking about other hookers, rivals, they’re lying, too. If they talk about pimps or madams, they’re al
so lying. But if they’re talking about anyone or anything else, you can take it to the bank.”

  The big Mercedes was speeding and weaving toward Montgomery Street when a black SUV sped by as if Sol’s car didn’t exist. It only slowed when it got to the Filbert Steps in the shadow of Coit Tower. The SUV’s pitch-black exterior and blacked-out windows set off alarms in Jack’s head. One look at Sol and the reporter could see the mobster’s buzzers had been tripped as well.

  “Ford Explorer Limited,” Sol said. “Even the silver trim and wheel rims have been darkened.”

  The pair peered after the Ford, which parked a half block ahead of them. They watched as three men emerged. All wore dark slacks, dark zip-up jackets, dark caps, and dark sunglasses.

  “They’re definitely packing,” Sol said.

  “By the hang of their jackets I’m guessing suppressed Glocks.” He stared grimly at the SUV. “We can’t get near them. They’ll know they’re made and try to deep-six us, too.” Jack was still holding his cell phone. “Get to the Filbert Steps. If we move fast, we may be able to cut them off at the pass.”

  Sol was already on that page as he sped around the edges of Pioneer Park, heading toward the base of the famous stairwell starting at Sansome Street, a locale in the Humphrey Bogart film Dark Passage. Jack thumbed the LAST CALL button. Sammy picked up on the first ring.

  “You got company,” Jack said evenly.

  “I heard. I figured it was them.”

  “You got a firearm?”

  “I’ve got a seltzer bottle, Jack’”

  “Then get out, now.”

  “We’re in the middle of the second floor. I could drop out the window but if she breaks a leg—”

  “No,” Jack said. “Just keep quiet. Keep alert. Keep the phone on. And follow my instructions.”

  While Jack told him what to do he studied a Google Earth map of the area. He zoomed in. He zoomed to the quaint three-story apartment building with its second floor bay windows and stucco roof tiles. It was nestled between two larger buildings on either side, so it was likely that one killer would go up the front stairs while the two others fanned out on either side of the building. The second man would probably cover the back exit and the third would watch any other egress. No doubt a fourth man was still in the SUV, behind the wheel.

  By then Sol had already parked at the base of the famous tourist destination. Its concrete and metal stairway rose above them, nestled in the brown hills, green grass, moss, and trees of Telegraph Hill.

  As Jack jumped out, he fervently wished he had access to the gun collection back at the boat where he lived. What he wouldn’t have done for his Colt Combat Commander .45 or SIG-Sauer .380 right now. As if reading his mind, Sol reached across the seat and tapped the glove compartment release. Inside were two narrow, polished pine-wood boxes. Sol opened one and removed a SIG-Sauer Mosquito automatic with a custom suppressor. He nodded toward the other box. Jack grabbed it. Inside was a suppressed Ruger MK II, its silencer already installed in the barrel.

  “Right tool for the right job,” Sol grunted.

  The mobster hurried from the car. He was loving this. The return of youthful pursuits bolstered by the wisdom of experience—what wasn’t there to love? The two hurried up the steps, going as fast as their legs would allow.

  “These are twenty-two caliber,” Sol wheezed. “We gotta get close.”

  “These are probably ex-military boys,” Jack said. “They may not act like the soldiers in your world—”

  “Team players,” he said. “Lone wolfs trump ’em every time.”

  The men saved their breath as they ran up the Filbert Steps. They pushed hard, and not just for Sammy: there was no way either of them wouldn’t keep pace with the other. They passed the art deco classic Malloch Building then surged up the final, moss-covered, stone stairs leading to Montgomery Street, Coit Tower glowing above them.

  The sight of Sammy’s apartment house galvanized them. Jack motioned Sol to slow and, guns hidden against their sides, they shuffled to the building’s front door as if they were occupants. They studiously ignored the SUV still parked at the curb. Sol quickly ran his fingertips over the door’s lock, then raised his eyebrows at the skill of their quarry’s entry. Any casual onlooker wouldn’t know that the front door of the building had been jimmied. Jack saw Sol’s right hand tighten almost imperceptibly on his gun. Jack didn’t use the key Sammy had given him when he was in rehab. He just went in the front door with Sol close behind.

  They made it to the second floor without trouble and stepped into the empty hallway. The bulb was out, the doorways dark. They listened. The door to Sammy’s apartment was opened a sliver; probably jimmied as well. There were hushed voices inside. Male voices.

  Sol kept a lookout while Jack tapped his cell phone’s keyboard, sending Sammy a text: Open door. Seconds later the door across from them eased open. Jack and Sol pushed quickly inside, closing the door behind them as swiftly and quietly as possible.

  “Thanks to God!” Anastasia blurted in relief.

  Jack snapped a forefinger to his lips. Sammy went one better: he clapped a hand over the escort’s mouth. He looked at Sol curiously.

  Introductions could wait. Jack had to get them out of the building and now there was only one way out. He motioned them all toward the window. He would go first, covering their exit, then Sammy, who’d catch Anastasia, with Sol covering the retreat. It was sloppy and risky, but there was no other option.

  Jack never got the chance to see if the plan would work. They heard footsteps at the door. The men must have heard Anastasia’s cry, her Russian accent, and were coming to investigate. Sol slipped to the left side of the doorjamb. Jack gave Sammy the Ruger and crouched at the door, ready to tackle whoever came in first. Sammy stood straight, framed in the window, the Ruger straight out in front of his face. Its sights aligned with his right eye. Every Marine must be able to deliver accurate fire on targets of up to five hundred meters, so whatever he fired at in that small space, he hit. Jack hoped he would be targeting the enemy’s heads rather than their chests. That was another difference between the military and the mob.

  The wait seemed endless. And then the door flew in, splintering as gunfire chewed around the knob.

  Sammy stepped forward and fired first. The .22 caliber bullets plowed into the killer’s bulletproof vest, saving his life but thrusting him back from Ana’s doorway. The next two bullets ripped out pieces of jacket sleeves—cripple the arms and you cripple the killer—and sent the other two killers spinning back.

  “Out!” Sammy bawled. “Out, out, out!”

  “No!” Sol boomed above him. “Their driver will pick us off!”

  “Down!” Jack yelled above the din, as the enemy regrouped in the hallway, raised their Glocks, and returned fire. Sammy grabbed Anastasia and threw her down, behind him. Sol dove for the bathroom as the studio apartment was sprayed with 9mm shards. Jack stayed where he was. He wanted one of those Glocks.

  Through the tearing and shattering of bullets into objects, Jack heard one of the killers bark, “Flash in the hole!”

  One of them was prepping a stun grenade. Jack eyeballed him with the intention of grabbing his arm when he came near but the covering gunfire kept him back. He saw the grenade loft into the room like a tossed spray-paint can.

  Jack prepared for death. Flash grenades are classified as nonlethal explosives, but they are designed to activate all the photoreceptor cells in the eyes, making sight impossible for a full five seconds. Jack knew that by the time he and the others could see again, the hit men would have pumped bullets into each of their brains.

  For some reason he thought that he would see his life go by in the flash of the detonation, and, anticipating it, was satisfied by what he knew he would see. He would miss his dog Eddie; he even felt a brief yearning for his former wife Rachel. But overall, he was pleased. Whatever peace he needed to make with his half brother—well, that would have to wait for the afterlife.

  Jack
didn’t know what happened next. Flash grenades are designed to deafen as well as blind, their loud concussions disturbing inner ear fluid to throw off a victim’s balance. Later, all Jack remembered was everyone moving, as one, into a closet that seemed to go on and on. When the trio of killers charged into the studio apartment moments later, it was empty.

  From around the back corner of the apartment building, Jack, Sol, Sammy, and Anastasia watched the SUV pull away from the curve and disappear. Anastasia’s hands rested in the crooks of the Hatfield brothers’ arms. Sol’s right hand rested on her shoulder. Although a flash grenade’s initial explosion is disorienting, recovery time is short, as long as the victim doesn’t have an assassin’s bullet in their brain.

  “What just h-happened?” Sammy stammered.

  Each man looked at each other in confusion. Then all of them looked at the blonde. Panting, Anastasia Vincent gazed back at them, her eyes still glowing.

  “It is as my grandfather taught me when I was very little, back in Russia,” she told them proudly. “Always have an escape route.”

  “And that was—”

  “A domestics’ entrance, built decades ago,” she said breathlessly. “That is the reason I used all my savings to rent this apartment. I knew something like this might happen someday.”

  “How could you know that?” Minsky wondered aloud. The haunted look on Ana’s face told him more than her words did.