Page 65 of Respect

Dad blew out a quiet chuckle. “You, son, are spoiled. You think because you live in a bigger house, your home is better, but you can’t know that. Home is home for lots of reasons.” He nodded out the windshield, to a historical marker. “There’s history here. These houses’ve stood for a long while, in a tsunami zone. They weren’t erased. For all we know, the people here’ve been here for generations. That says something—they are stronger than the ocean. The siding with the paint worn off, the cracked boards, the bare yards, that’s all the stuff that stood firm against harsh times. So be careful who you judge.”

Duncan thought of Phoebe’s house, the time-capsule-ness of the place. Every room was full of things long used and deeply worn. The peeling front porch shook with every step, and the siding was in serious need of a paint job. Yet he found that place quaint. Because he liked the woman who called it home.

Maybe that was why this little hamlet seemed so bleak to him. He was here to kill a man who called it home.

As if hearing Duncan’s thoughts, Dad nodded off to the side, toward Bruce Lopez’s house. “That’s the only place we’re here to judge.”

Duncan checked the time again—and noticed the words No Service at the top of his screen. Again. Jesus Christ. “He’s been in there almost ten minutes. And I lost the single bar I had out here.”

Keeping his focus on Lopez’s house, Dad nodded. “We knew phones were gonna be trouble. Arlo’s not late yet. We’ll give him—” He stopped because the sound of motorcycle engines—Harleys—rumbled up from behind them. They both sank low in their seats. Duncan peered into the side mirror and saw two bikes, a Softail and a Street Bob, roll around the corner.

They didn’t look like they were in any particular rush, but they pulled into Lopez’s driveway and dismounted.

Both wore the Nameless patch. Duncan had seen photos of all the Nameless several times, but he’d never been able to keep them all straight.

Whoever they were, though, something had gone wrong somewhere. All the squads were supposed to be hitting all the Nameless at about the same time. These two riders meant two hit squads without a target.

“Fuck,” Dad said, scooting up a little more to confirm what he’d seen. “That’s Graham and Stevenson. That’s Eight and Jay’s target and Fitz and Sam’s.”

“Does that mean it went wrong?”

Dad checked his phone. “I don’t have service, either. I don’t know. Time to improvise.” He pulled his Glock from its holster and checked the mag. Duncan did the same with his Beretta.

“You got your knife, too, yeah?” Dad asked.

Duncan patted his hip and nodded.

“Okay. You stay behind me. We go in low and quiet, try to get the lay of the scene first. We’re gonna have to take all three of the fuckers out—and be ready to have to take Arlo down, too. Maybe this is an ambush.” He checked his phone once more. “Fuck this shit. You ready?”

Duncan had no idea if he was ready, but he knew that didn’t matter. “Yeah.”

“Put your hood up,” Dad said as he pulled his own up.

They eased quietly from Arlo’s truck and went up the narrow alleyway behind Lopez’s house. Keeping close to any available cover, they inched through the yard and up against the house, under the raised deck. The house itself was on stilts about eighteen inches high, and the deck was raised more than six feet off the ground.

There were two windows under the deck, with open blinds. Dad pressed himself to the concrete wall and took a quick, sidelong peek through the nearest window. Without speaking, he nodded and held up four fingers—the men were in that room.

Because Apollo’s daughter was deaf, most of the Bulls had some facility with ASL. Because Duncan was of a generation with Athena and had grown up with her, he was fluent. Dad, deaf in one ear, had found it useful for himself in certain situations, so he’d become fluent, too. Now they communicated in ASL—one handed, as they were both holding their sidearms.

“All four men are in that room,” Dad signed. “Arlo’s down—dead or wounded, don’t know which. Lopez must’ve seen him coming and got over on him.”

“What do we do?”

“If these guys get away, the whole thing is fucked. We have to take them down, and we still have to be quiet if we can. So here’s what we’re going to do.” He reached under his hoodie and into his kutte, and he pulled out a suppressor. “Switch guns with me,” he signed.

“Why?”

“Because I only have one for my Glock, and I want you to use it. I’ll use my knife.”

That sounded crazy dangerous. “Dad—”

“Look, we don’t have time to fight about it. I want you at a distance. We’re busting in. I’ll go for Lopez, because he’s closest to the door, and you take out the other two. You’re a good shot, Dunc. You keep me safe by aiming true and not hesitating.”

“What if Arlo talked before he went down? What if they’re ready for us?”

Dad shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. We gotta get this done now, or the whole things goes ass over. You understand? There’s no choice here. We do it, or we’re fucked. Get over here and understand the scene, where everybody is.”

Dad pulled him forward to trade places, and Duncan pressed himself to the wall and peered through the side of the window. He saw Arlo face down on the floor. Lopez and the other two stood around him—Lopez was about five feet from the door, his back to it; he was bleeding from his forehead. The others faced him on the other side of Arlo’s feet. They were all agitated, talking over each other and gesturing wildly. From the little Duncan thought he could make out of their crosstalk, it seemed they did not know why Arlo had come after Lopez. That, at least, was something.

---