Page 49 of Hellbent

They walked over to the Subaru and drove off.

22

Dead Man’s Pocket

The headquarters were on Northeast Thirteenth at the very tip of Portland proper in a long-abandoned pest-control shop sandwiched between a trailer lot and a precast-concrete manufacturing plant. The drive over had been a descent into rough streets and heavy industry—truck parts, machining, welding. Gentlemen’s clubs were in evidence every few blocks despite the absence of any actual gentlemen.

The small pest-control shop, no bigger than a shack, had been retrofitted as a command center. Evan recognized the make of steel door securing the front entrance—the kind filled with water, designed to spread out the heat from a battering ram’s impact. A ram would buckle before it would blow through a door like that. That was incredibly effective.

When there wasn’t a back door.

Which Evan watched now. At the edge of the neighboring lot, he’d parked the Subaru between two used trailers adorned with cheery yellow-and-red sales flags. He had the driver’s window rolled down, letting through a chilly stream of air that smelled of tar and skunked beer. Joey sat in the passenger seat, perfectly silent, perfectly still.

Two cartons of different shotgun shells were nestled in his crotch, the shotgun across his lap. He had not loaded it yet.

A few blocks over, a bad cover band wailed an Eagles tune through partially blown speakers: Some-body’s gunna hurt someone, a’fore the night is through.

Evan thought, You got that right.

A Lincoln pulled up to the rear curb of the building. Evan sensed Joey tense beside him. A broad-shouldered man climbed out of the sedan. He knocked on the back door—shave and a haircut, two bits. Even at this distance, the seven-note riff reached the Subaru through the crisp air.

A speakeasy hatch squeaked open, a face filling the tiny metal square.

A murmured greeting followed, and then various dead bolts retracted, the door swung inward, and the broad-shouldered man disappeared inside.

Now Evan knew how he wanted to load the shotgun.

One nine-pellet buckshot load for the chamber, two more on its heels in the mag tube. He followed those with three shock-lock cartridges and had a pair of buckshot shells run anchor.

He popped in the triangular safety so it was smooth to the metal, the red band appearing on the other side. When he pumped the shotgun, he felt the shuck-shuck in the base of his spine.

“Stay here,” he said. He reached for the door handle, then paused. “You may not like what you’re about to see.”

He got out, swung the door closed behind him.

He walked across the desolate street, bits of glass grinding beneath his tread. The midnight-black Benelli hung at his side.

He could feel Jack fall into step beside him, hear Jack’s voice, a whisper in his ear. It’s too late for me.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Evan said quietly.

I want to know that I’m forgiven.

“You are.” Evan quickened his stride, bearing down on the door. He knocked out the brief melody and raised the shotgun, seating the butt on his good shoulder.

I love you, son.

The speakeasy hatch squeaked open, and Evan pushed the muzzle into the surprised square of face and fired.

There was no longer a face.

He shoved the shotgun farther inside, the muzzle clearing the door, and unleashed two buckshot rounds, one to the left, one to the right.

The three shock-locks were up next, copper-powdered, heavy-compressed centered shots that provided a total energy dump on one spot with no scatterback or frag.

Hinge removers.

He shifted the action to manual so he could cycle the low-powered breaching rounds and give them more steam. Then he stepped back and fired top to bottom—boom-boom-boom. The last slug knocked the door clear off the frame, sending it skidding across the floor.