The Consultant Page 18

  He stared coolly at Nick as he spoke.

  “Before we go any further, I’d like to know who the fuck you are and I wanna see your fucking warrant.”

  Nick eyed Chains for a moment, then walked up to him until their faces were a half inch apart.

  “I’m RCMP Chief Nicholas Sharp, you little piece of shit. Now get yourself against the wall real quick or I’ll blow your fucking brains out.”

  He leaned the barrel of his withdrawn Colt .45 against Chains’ right temple as added incentive. Following a fiery ten second stare, the gang member stepped back and slowly moved to the wall. Nick gestured and a number of his officers began frisking the bikers while others went off to explore the rest of the house. Quickly, the pile of compulsory switchblades grew in the middle of the carpeted floor.

  Scanning their prisoners, Nick’s stomach tightened as he realized that his main objective was not present.

  “Where’s Jimmy Sanchez?” he demanded.

  In response, Jimmy strutted in from the next room, apparently having been simply waiting for his cue.

  “Howya doin, Nicky-boy?” he smirked as he dropped on a nearby sofa.

  “Up against the wall, Sanchez,” Nick ordered.

  “Come on, Nick,” Jimmy sneered as he leaned back into the couch. “You think Jimmy is stupid enough to walk in here armed when such important guests come to visit?”

  “Up,” commanded Nick, motioning with his revolver. “Don’t screw with me, Jimmy.”

  “Chief’s got a rock up his ass this morning, boys,” Jimmy stated loudly as he rose and moved to the wall. ‘Alright, Chief. Search me. But don’t play with my balls too long. I don’t go for that shit.”

  Quickly and expertly, Nick frisked the gang leader, amidst the hoots and jeers encouraged by the gang leader’s comments.

  “Now, Chief,” Jimmy resumed as he returned to the couch. “Let’s get down to business. I wanna see your fucking warrant. Now.”

  Nick reached into an inside pocket of his vest and pulled out a folded document, tossing to Sanchez. The biker scanned the piece of paper for a moment, scowling as he read.

  “Reasonable reason to believe major quantity of illicit narcotics on property?” he said incredulously, looking up at Nick. “What is this shit? Who’s your informant, Nicky? Because he’s fulla crap. You ain’t gonna find squat in this place. Nothing. I just might sue you fuckers for harassment.”

  Nick stared hard at Jimmy for a moment before turning to François.

  “Anything on any of these guys?” he asked.

  “They all had switchblades,” François replied. “Those aren’t legal. Two guns. A little grass, hash and coke.”

  “Possession of illegal weapons and drugs,” mused Nick, staring once again at Jimmy. “Take them in. All of them. We’re pressing charges.”

  “What is this garbage, Sharp?” argued Jimmy from the couch. “Why you fucking with us like this? You’re gonna bust my guys for knifes and grass? You won’t have time to start the fucking paperwork, they’ll be back here. Why don’t you fucking leave us alone?”

  Nick gazed at Jimmy without answering, waiting for the other gang members to be handcuffed and led from the house. After a moment, they were alone.

  “You’re wasting everybody’s fucking time, Sharp,” Jimmy snarled, his anger obviously growing. “You ain’t gonna find anything in this fucking place. Understand?”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, asshole,” Nick replied calmly, almost gently.

  He reached into his bulky protective vest, pulled out two one kilo bags of cocaine and tossed them to Sanchez. François, who had re-entered the room in the interim, came forward, throwing another bag on the couch. A third officer came in from the dining room holding two additional bags.

  “You see, Jimmy,” Nick continued softly. “You’re wrong, asshole.”

  Stunned, Jimmy stared at the five bags of coke as he quietly muttered, “Motherfuckers,”

  Looking up at Nick, he suddenly screamed, “MOTHERFUCKERS!” as he pulled out a revolver from between the cushions of the couch.

  Long before he ever had time to get the gun clear, all three officers raised their weapons in response, firing five shots in total. Thirteen minutes after the raid had commenced, it was over and Diamond Jimmy Sanchez was dead.

  * * * *

  Alex “Kid” Wilson stood on the porch of the St-Sauveur residence, still fuming at having to be there. That was thanks to his brother, Chains, the high and mighty second in command, who had volunteered him for the job.

  “The exposure will do you good, Kid”, the senior Wilson had said. “You’ve got to do a job once in a while or the other guys won't respect you.”

  The other gang members had stood around with smirks on their faces.

  Alex enjoyed being in the gang for several reasons; status, drugs, women, money. He just didn’t like having to work to obtain these lifely pleasures and being Chains’ little brother usually got him excused from the lowlife tasks.

  Recently however, some of the other members had started bitching that the “Kid” was riding for free and this was quickly becoming unacceptable. Everybody had to do their share. This was why Kid now stood on this porch, enjoying the pleasures of the sub-zero winter.

  At least he had gotten the porch. He’d made that clear as soon as they’d arrived. There was no way he’d go stand out in the woods and freeze his balls off.

  As he mulled over his frustration, he noticed a man rush clumsily among the trees near the road and hide behind a massive pine. After a few seconds, the intruder dashed again, moving another ten feet, to the cover of a large rock. He raised his head a foot above the rock, looking towards the house for several seconds before dropping back into hiding. He resembled a young child playing war games, badly. Even when he attempted to hide, he was clearly visible to Kid.

  Taking hold of the rifle he had slung over his back, Kid crept cautiously off to the left, taking a circular path to approach the unwelcome visitor from behind. Within in a minute, he had covered forty yards and could now clearly see the man, still crouched behind the large rock. He approached quietly, thinking of the glory coming his way. The “Kid” would show those assholes what he was made of. He would single-handedly bring this job to its conclusion.

  He reached the intruder from behind just as the latter was once again attempting to peer towards the house over the rock. Pressing the gun barrel into the back of the man’s neck, Kid spoke in a quiet, sure tone.

  “Get up real slow, motherfucker. Real slow.”

  The stranger stood up, instinctively raising his hands above his head.

  “Turn around, asshole,” ordered Kid, backing away a couple of steps. “Watcha looking for?”

  “Uh, n-nothing,” stammered Jonathan. “Just looking, that’s all.”

  “Looking for what?” Kid demanded. “Looking how you can get inside that house, maybe? We’ve been waiting for you, mister.”

  He finished his sentence, oblivious of his impending fate. From behind, Chris, armed with a heavy club improvised from a fallen limb, swung at the gang member’s head. Death was immediate, the blow so forceful that Kid’s body literally lifted off the ground and was projected a half dozen feet away where it slammed into a large maple tree.

  “Thanks,” said Jonathan as he moved towards the lifeless form.

  “I owed you one,” responded Chris, scanning the area to make sure they had not attracted any attention.

  “Where did you learn to hit like that?” asked Jonathan, examining the messy wound on the dead biker’s skull.

  “Years of practice,” Chris replied.

  * * * *

  Bryan drove through the village of St-Sauveur, feeling strangely calm. He would be back at Matt’s chalet in a little under ten minutes, five if he hurried. But he was in no hurry.

  He had respected the speed limit during his hour long drive, although he could have easily driven faster with little risk of getting pulled over, just by following the Sat
urday morning traffic; city dwellers rushing to the multitude of ski centres available to them all over the Laurentians. People whose prime concern was to get out there to breathe fresh air and pack in as many runs as they could in one day; people who read about drug traffickers and murderers in the papers and found such things horrible. He had been surrounded by such people on the drive down and had found it quite comforting, being amongst the normal, generally good people. He had not been in any rush to part company with them.

  The cellular phone still wasn’t functioning. He’d tried it several times on the way down but to no avail. The battery was fully charged but he couldn’t get a signal. He chuckled to himself as he thought of Wayne who was probably freaking out by now, waiting for a call. Well, Wayne wouldn’t have long to wait now before finding out what was going on. Bryan would be there in a few minutes and he’d bring his friend up to speed.

  He wasn’t sure what Wayne’s next plan of action would be. All he knew was that if it wasn’t absolutely brilliant, he was hopping a plane and getting the hell out. He had more than enough to retire on and frankly, he was growing tired of the cold Quebec winters.

  * * * *

  “Yeah, well, no doubt about it,” Jonathan confirmed as he stood from Kid’s body. “He’s definitely dead.”

  “We’re gonna have to dump him somewhere,” said Chris as he surveyed the area. “He’s too visible from the driveway and the road.”

  “I’ll look after that,” Jonathan replied, nodding. “You go and check out the house. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

  He picked up the dead man’s rifle, slinging it by its strap over his right shoulder then hoisted the corpse over his left. He had noticed a rather deep ditch which ran alongside the road and ended just across the driveway and was certain that their latest victim would be comfortable there. As he moved off, Chris headed through the thick woods towards the house, and Sandy.

  * * * *

  Bryan drove up the hill, the last stretch of road before reaching the cottage. As he came around the bend, he thought he caught a glimpse of some movement behind a cluster of thick evergreens. Suddenly, it dawned on him that Barry might be here. After all, with the way Matt had been mutilated, it must have been to make him talk. A cold shiver gripped his body as he realized that he was quite possibly in extreme danger.

  He slowed the vehicle as he pulled out his small .22. He wouldn’t die without a fight.

  * * * *

  Having made his way around to the west side of the house, Chris examined the building from across the fifteen foot clearing which obviously served as a parking area. He found what he was looking for, just as the blueprints had indicated; a four foot square door leading to the basement. Its usual purpose was to facilitate the bringing in of firewood. Today however, it would serve nicely as his point of entry.

  * * * *

  The driveway leading from the road to Matt’s chalet did not run in a straight line. Rather, it zigzagged around a number of mature trees which the original owner had wished to preserve. The added benefit was intimacy as one could not really see the house from the road through the multitude of trees.

  This landscaping, and the cover it offered, pleased Jonathan as he hurried across the driveway towards the ditch on the other side, loaded with the guard’s body.

  A sudden glint of light through the trees down the hill, followed by the rumble of an engine caught his attention. Someone was coming.

  As he reached the edge of the ditch, he glimpsed the approaching silver grey vehicle through an opening amongst the heavy pines. Hurriedly, he heaved the corpse off his shoulder, catapulting it into the ditch. With barely time to turn around, he saw the Mercedes veer slowly into the driveway and come to an abrupt stop, the driver staring at him.

  He approached the car, holding the rifle across his chest, the picture of an alert guard.

  “Sorry, private property, Mister,” he informed the driver through the partially lowered window.

  “Who the fuck are you?” demanded Bryan, his small .22 concealed just below the bottom of the window, his finger on the trigger.

  “Ice,” Jonathan coldly replied. “Now, who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m staying here for a few days,” Bryan shot back.

  “Are you Bryan Downey?” asked Jonathan, his tone slightly less aggressive.

  “Y-yes. Yes I am,” responded Bryan, relaxing a little.

  “Can I see some identification, Mr. Downey,” continued Jonathan. “Jimmy told us to be real careful about who we let in.”

  “Sure, sure,” answered Bryan as he slipped his gun into his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet. “There you go.”

  Jonathan gave the driver’s permit a cursory glance and handed it back.

  “Thanks. Sorry if I came on strong, Mr. Downey. Jimmy gave us strict orders.”

  “No problem,” Bryan reassured him. “Better safe than sorry. What happened to the other guy that was here?”

  “Jimmy sent me to replace him,” replied Jonathan. “They needed him back in town for something.”

  “Well, good,” Bryan grinned. “He was a little too much of a snot nose whiner for my taste. No problems so far this morning?”

  “No sir,” Jonathan answered. “We’ve got things under control.”

  “Excellent,” approved Bryan. “You guys keep up the good work.”

  “Yessir, Mr. Downey,” replied Jonathan. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  * * * *

  Chris scrambled across the clearing to the relative safety offered by the elevated porch which ran along the west side of the house. He quickly got to work on the lock of the firewood door but suddenly froze, straining to hear.

  Sure enough, as he listened, he detected the sound of tires crunching over the frozen snow, accompanied by the rumble of an engine. He pressed himself into the corner under the porch steps, breathing into his coat to avoid making steam.

  The sounds grew louder and the car suddenly appeared, stopping no more than a half dozen feet away. From where Chris sat, he could see the front left side of Bryan’s Mercedes, including the first half foot of the driver’s door. He had no idea if the driver, presumably Bryan, could see him.

  Being careful to move as little as possible, he withdrew the heavy revolver from the holster strapped under his right arm and waited. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it for now, but had no intention of getting shot himself, at least not without a fight.

  The car door opened, the driver disembarked and swung the door back shut. He took a few steps forward and stopped, scanning the woods which surrounded them. It was Bryan. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he turned and walked back, out of sight. Within seconds, Chris heard the man’s footsteps climb the staircase over his head, a key insert into a lock and the creak of hinges as a door opened and then slammed shut.

  Chris breathed deeply for a moment, realizing that he had been instinctively holding his breath then returned his attention to the task at hand.

  * * * *

  “Where the fuck were you?” bellowed Wayne as Bryan entered the house. “I asked you to fucking call.”

  “Wayne, go screw yourself,” Bryan tiredly responded, hanging his coat on a peg by the door. “Give me a fucking break. Matt and Greg are dead, okay? I saw their fucking bodies, not you. I tried to call you but my goddamn phone isn’t working anymore. I need a drink.”

  He stomped over to the bar and poured himself a healthy tot of scotch as Wayne slumped heavily into the couch.

  “The bastard killed them,” Wayne murmured softly, shocked by this latest unfavourable turn of events.

  “Yeah, the bastard killed them,” Bryan mimicked. “And judging from the condition of Matt’s body, he was obviously tortured, so now the bastard probably knows where we are.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” Wayne cursed. “What about Greg?”

  “I’m not sure if someone killed him or if the little twerp committed suicide,” answered Bryan. “I found him sitting at
his computer with his brains blown all over the room and a gun in his hand.”

  “We’re gonna have to get outta here,” decided Wayne.

  “And then what?” challenged Bryan. “Where we gonna go from here? What’s the big plan, Wayne?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Wayne shot back. “Let me think. Maybe Jimmy can help us out.”

  “Well, I’m seriously considering catching a plane and getting the hell outta the country,” Bryan informed his partner. “I’ve got enough to live on.”

  “Yeah, but you can have more, Bryan. Much more,” replied Wayne with conviction. “Let me think a little. I’ll figure something out.”

  “You better think quick, my friend,” Bryan decisively warned. “And it better be good. Otherwise, you’re on your own.”

  * * * *

  Chris had studied the blueprints which Matt had been good enough to provide him with and had a clear image of the house’s layout imprinted in his mind.

  Although the shades which covered the basement windows were quite opaque, enough daylight filtered in from the sides to render his flashlight unnecessary. Considering the absence of light, he was relatively certain sure that nobody lurked in any corner.

  If Matt had told the truth, and Chris was confident that he had, the only people on the property were Wayne, Bryan and the four guards; and, of course, Sandy. Since the four guards had been taken care of rather permanently, there remained only two to deal with.

  He quietly and cautiously began to explore the basement, a task which would consume little time. Most of it was actually one big room, the game room in which he currently found himself, equipped with a pool table, bar, fireplace, sound system and so on. A small complete bathroom could be found in one corner towards the back of the house and the furnace room, in the other corner. Sandwiched between these two rooms was a cold room.

  Considering the fact that it was windowless and had a heavy, locking door, it made an ideal place to imprison someone. Chris hoped that Sandy’s captors had also believed this. Getting her safely out of the building would make the remainder of the tasks of the day so much easier.