Chapter 53
“What are we going to do with them, Detective?” Ashe asked without revealing any names.
“I’m still considering killing them,” Oscar answered.
The onslaught of rain seemed to grow more and more intense and Ashe worried about the handgun slipping away from his wet grip. Tightening his fingers, he pressed the weapon harder against the back of the man’s scalp. The psychologist was never quick to use guns. Instead he tried to use his intellect to solve dilemmas, but, like the current situation, there have been quite a few moments were brain power fell short and the need for firepower seemed to be unavoidable. However, even in those dire, those desperate circumstances, Ashe still regretted the need of a gun, the need of violence in order to end violence.
Did that make him weak? Ashe wondered. Should he, as a man, feel comfortable with a gun gripped in his palm? It didn’t matter. No matter how many firearm classes and training programs he completed, he would never feel comfortable while pointing a gun at another human being. It should never happen.
And yet, Ashe found himself pushing the barrel of the 9mm harder and harder into the scalp of the assassin, one hired to find and possibly kill Scott, his son, along with Amber Barrett, Lucky Barrett’s own daughter. Considering his son and what had brought him to that backyard, he chose not to lower the gun or pull it away. He continued to shove it harder and deeper against the assassin’s vulnerable flesh. Anger swelled up in the arms and face of the peaceful psychologist. He aggressively desired to push and push the gun until the man was forced to cry out in pain. He wanted to make it hurt. He wanted to make the man hurt very badly.
Glancing at Oscar, Ashe wondered why his old friend had pulled his weapon nearly a foot back and was currently positioning the barrel of the Browning behind the other assassin’s head, instead of against the skin, as he was doing. He then remembered why. But the mistake dawned on him too late to correct it.
The killer in black put the weight of his head back against Ashe’s gun and then spun his head and body promptly sideways. In reaction, Ashe’s finger flexed against the trigger, firing the weapon. But the barrel of his gun was suddenly facing an empty space where the man’s head once had been, causing the bullet to ridiculously miss its intended target.
The shot echoed and caused ringing in Ashe’s ears.
The unexpected discharge of the gun surprised Oscar, taking his attention from the killer in front of him. The killer elbowed the detective with a quick thrust, causing Oscars arms and his gun to swing out wildly. Oscar tried to bring the gun back around, but the killer twisted his torso and kicked Oscar on the top of his knee, causing the detective to crumple down to a kneeling position. Another well-aimed kick tossed the gun several feet out into the backyard. The assassin then jabbed twice at Oscar’s face, hitting him both times in the jaw.
In nearly a second of time, as Ashe watched from the corner of his eye, his old friend was effortlessly put to the ground by the expert killer. Within that same second, Ashe tried to strike out against the one that had easily dodged his own attack, trying to recover from the blunder, but the killer was ready. After slapping Ashe’s punch away, the assassin grabbed onto Ashe’s wrists, twisting it painfully until the handgun fell away. While the gun dropped lifeless toward the grass, the man in black kicked at Ashe, but the psychologist had a surprise for the killer.
Ashe forcefully grabbed hold of the killer’s ankle and immediately twisted it in an awkward right angle. Sliding his foot outward, Ashe was able to knock the assassin’s other leg out from under him. The killer dropped in surprise and Ashe stomped hard onto the nearest leg, planting his foot down onto the side of knee as hard as he could, cause the man to cry out.
The sound was glorious.
Just because Ashe didn’t like violence, didn’t mean that he wasn’t capable of any. Franklin Barrett was correct. Everyone is capable of violence. With Steven Reynolds always in the back of his mind, he never stopped training, whether it was at the gun range or martial arts dojo. He would be prepared wherever and whenever his wife’s killer returned. And against his own nature, Ashe would kill Steven Reynolds in many violent and painful ways.
From the side he heard the rushing of the other trained killer. Ashe let gravity take him to his butt, where he knew he would find the silenced pistol that had been dropped. But the killed that was running at him had also retrieved a pistol from the grass. It too was capped with an elongated piece of metal, used to silence the tell-tale sound of exploding gunpowder. The killer and psychologist raised their guns as if they were about to play a modern version of joust. Or a messed up version of an old west style duel.
Both men aimed and fired.
Ashe felt the impact of two bullets against his vest. His own shot had missed. Holding a deep, strained breath, Ashe pushed away the pain and fired again immediately. The trained killer was nearly on top of Ashe when his face was jolted back by the impact of Ashe’s quiet bullet. Ashe continued to pull the trigger in rapid succession until all the was left was the clicking of an empty weapon. Blood and flesh from the assassin’s face back splashed against the surface of Ashe’s blue windbreaker, speckling it with streaks of blood and specks of skin. Swiftly rolling to the left, Ashe was able avoid the killer’s lifeless, faceless body as it took a dive onto the wet ground.
Still holding his breath, Ashe turned to the other killer, hoping that the leg he had stomped would have kept the man down. But Ashe knew better and was not surprised to see that the assassin was back on his feet and close to the 9 mm that Ashe had lost. Before the psychologist had a chance to aim his new weapon at the killer, Ashe saw a shadow spring to life. Oscar sprinted and tackled the remaining hired killer, throwing his shoulders against the man’s pelvis. After taking the killer down, Oscar scrambled on top and began to hit the man in the face. Again. Again. And again. He stopped long before the man was dead, but there was still a good deal of damage to be seen.
Using his strong arms, Oscar flipped the killer over to the stomach. He brought the man’s hands behind his back and restrained him using a police-issued zip tie that he quickly pulled from his waist, from his belt. “You are under arrest,” Oscar mumbled. “You have the right to shut the fuck up and bleed.”
The killer was unconscious. He didn’t resist the arrest.
Oscar stumbled over to the psychologist. “You okay, Ashe?” Oscar helped him to his feet. Ashe then dropped the empty, useless weapon.
Ashe didn’t have time to respond. A series of approaching lights, flashing blue and red, drew their attention. Oak Hill PD were arriving and they would need an explanation, what little bit that Ashe and Oscar could put into short and swift words. It would be hard to get any outside law enforcement to understand all the things that was taking place. They would have to keep it simple and exact. Straight forward.
“We need to go to them,” Oscar told Ashe. “We should brief them. We can figure out a way to breach the house once we establish a foothold.”
“It’ll take too much time. That will put Scott in more danger,” Ashe replied.
Glancing at the unconscious killer, Oscar insisted, “How could he get into any more trouble? This is serious shit. These are serious guys. I am not going in guns blazing…from this point on…I mean. It was a mistake trying to be a hero. We have no idea what is going on inside that house and I’m pretty sure that our surprise advantage is long gone. Are you with me?”
“You’re right,” Ashe said. “This was dumb. But I can’t help but to rush in when my son is in trouble. People are dying. I don’t know what to do, Oscar. There doesn’t seem to be any answers.”
“We can make a plan,” the detective said. “We just need to stop and think.”
While pointing to the still living but unconscious assassin, Ashe asked, “What do we do with him?”
Reacting to Ashe’s question, Oscar tied the killer’s legs with anot
her zip tie. “He won’t be going anywhere.”
Ashe nodded. “Do you have any more of those ties? They seem to come in handy.”
Oscar handed him a couple, which he slid into a pocket of his jacket.
“Right behind you,” the psychologist said. He let his old friend take the lead. Once Oscar had crossed through the gate, he slammed it shut. He hastily slipped a zip tie through a board of the fence and one of the gate. Pulling hard, he heard the teeth of the tie as they gripped, locking the gate in place. “This isn’t your fight, my friend.”
“Damn it,” Oscar swore, watching as Ashe put the other zip tie into place, all while thinking about the sharp knife that he had at his waist.
A spree of gunshot suddenly roared to life from the front of the house.
“Damn it,” the detective swore again, forgetting about his knife. “I hope you know what you are doing, Ashe,” Swearing one last time, Oscar turned and ran off toward the shooting.
After Oscar was out of sight, Ashe went to the back door, on the way grabbing the other silenced weapon. The door had a very small window, one that was curtainless. Ashe was able to see through it and into the kitchen. The darkened area was empty, no assassins standing guard. He checked the knob and found it unlocked, which he had expected. He listened but didn’t hear any voices coming from the other side of the door. Carefully, he turned the knob and let himself in. He immediately heard voices in the distance. He also saw a new light coming from the next room…most likely the living room.