Saint
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Hard To Be A Saint free porn video
With a screech of rubber the Crown Vic fishtailed around the corner, narrowly missing a homeless man, asleep in a box before crashing into a dumpster, sending a startled cat flying over a wall.
"You crazy-assed bastard," hissed the homeless man, stumbling, bleary-eyed from his box. "What der fucks with you? Are you high you mutha-"
"Get the fuck back," snarled Bumfelt, almost falling from the car door, he dropped his badge and then his gun. "I'm in hot pursuit you box dwelling cunt. Get the-"
Bumfelt fell- into an oil and shit filled puddle. He rolled onto his back so at least he didn't drown. Everything was spinning, blood from a head laceration stung his eyes. Bumfelt tried to regain his feet but something wasn't working. He passed out and was u*********s whilst the angry homeless man rifled through his pockets before taking a piss on him.
Just another night on the streets of the Big Apple for Detective Eddie Bumfelt.
You live reckless and there's a good chance you're gonna die young. And it ain't romantic like in some Hollywood movie. Dead is dead. Close the curtains. The end. You hang out with the wrong guys, grow up on the wrong side of the streets, mix with the wrong set of mooks and you're gonna get hurt or worse.
Springsteen sings about : it's hard to be a saint in the city. Never a truer word was written. The place eats you up and spits you out on the sidewalk. Takes what's good and makes it bad. Or simply takes until there's nothing left. Nothing left worth knowing or giving two shits about.
You grow up on those streets and alleyways and you either grow up strong or you don't grow at all. The weak are preyed upon. It's a jungle. Concrete, subway tunnels and glass towers--but a jungle all the same.
Two boys grew up on the same streets. They run the same scams, run the same alleys, fought in the same fights--each blood brothers. Each would take a beat down for the other. They said they'd die for each other. Wasn't just words. They were the princes of paupers. Talking trash and being king of the alley. They hustled the pimps and corner boys. They spent evenings watching the hard girls over on Easy Street. Making a buck here and there. Stealing. Always stealing and then running from the cops to dive into the subway tunnels and the heat. Often they'd sleep down there--the rhythm of the tracks clacking would soothe the harsh sounds of the streets away.
Two boys from the backstreets that became men. Jimmy 'the Saint' grew up to be what he always dreamed of being--a gangster.
His best friend grew up to be something else. They remained best friends--blood brothers. Right up until they couldn't be that no more.
"What we got, Ketch?" asked Detective Eddie Bumfelt, sipping from a coffee cup, wincing at the taste, throwing it aside.
"What we always got, Eddie, ' replied a tired looking cop, rubbing at a ketchup stain on his tie. He should leave the stain. It was a fuckin ugly tie. "A dead body. Great way to start the Christmas holiday."
Bumfelt stepped past his partner, looked at the body. Two gunshots. Double-tapped. Chest and head. Executed.
"Fuck me," snarled Bumfelt, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw.
Detective Ingleton looked up from his ugly tie.
"What's the matter, Eddie?" he asked. "You know this guy?"
Bumfelt nodded.
"I grew up with him," he said. "That's Jimmy the Saint."
"Is there one day when you don't fuck up in some way?" stated Chief Hallohan in stunned exasperation. "One day?"
Bumfelt opened his mouth and-
"No. Not a word. Not one single word, Detective," continued the Chief. "You just bought yourself a ticket on The I Fucked Up Again and Now Get To Ride The I'm Getting Every Shit Detail Train."
"Oh come on!" snapped Bumfelt. The Chief hard stared him into silence.
"You got yourself onto this train and you'll ride it to every station until I tell you that you can get off," continued The Chief. "Traffic duty-"
"No!"
"Two weeks-"
"Fuck no!"
"Three weeks," glared The Chief. "Mandatory ethics and professional responsibility training-"
Bumfelt looked like he would say something-- decided not too.
"You'll do a week's school education classes-"
Bumfelt couldn't believe what was happening.
"You'll take a piss test because I'm pretty damn sure that somebody who fucks up in such a monumental manner must be on something. What is it, Bumfelt? d**gs? Drink? And you'll present yourself for a psych evaluation. Out. Get fuckin out."
Bumfelt got out. Ketch Ingleton slipped from behind his cluttered desk, following his partner across the squad room.
" How'd it go in there? "
"I'm on the Shit Express, " snarled Bumfelt. "Stopping at all fuckin stations until the boss says I can get off."
"Fuck, partner," said Ingleton, shaking his head. "Wanna get a drink?"
"I can't," snarled Bumfelt. "I gotta piss in a pot in the morning. Fuck-"
"-this dirty doctor pussy," gasped Dr. Swallows as Bumfelt went to town on her ass. "Bang me, Eddie."
He did. Hard. Twice.
"Did I pass my eval?" asked Bumfelt, tying his shoes.
"You passed, Eddie," rasped Swallows, putting her tits back into her bra, buttoning her satin blouse.
"Eddie?" she said, as he opened the door to her office. "Don't leave it so long between fuck ups next time."
Bumfelt grinned and left the office.
"You want yer usual, Ed?" asked Micky Foyle, owner of Foyle's. A cop bar on Twenty-second Street.
"Just club soda," muttered Bunfelt, taking a stool at the bar. Foyle looked puzzled.
"You on the wagon again, Eddie?" he asked, cleaning a shot glass.
"I'm on the Shit Express," replied the detective. "Gotta take a mandatory fuckin test."
"Ill piss on the specimen bottle for ya," replied Foyle.
"Thanks, Mick," said Bumfelt. "But I'd like ter keep the shitty job until I got my twenty in."
"The offer's there, Mick," said Foyle, pouring a soda.
The news was playing on a television behind the bar.
"Hey, turn that up," said a burly man at the end of the bar. "Bumfelt, yer on the news again."
Bumfelt looked up and there he was- a picture of him on the news behind an attractive blonde news reader.
"Our sources say the two FBI agents are recovering from gunshot wounds and are expected to both make full recoveries," narrated the blonde. "Detective Bumfelt, who you'll remember from the Basket Case Murders has been linked to the case after apparently crashing his car close to the scene and-"
"Turn that shit off, Micky," demanded Bumfelt, motioning to the drinks behind the bar owner. Foyle clicked off the television and brought a bottle of bourbon, placing it with a shot glass before the detective.
"Hey, Bumfelt," laughed the burly man at the bar. "Did you shoot those two feds?"
"Keep running yer mouth, Kowolski," muttered Bumfelt, pouring a shot. "And I'll fuckin shoot you, yer-"
"Piece of shit!" snapped The Chief. "I specifically told you to clean up your act and I get a call that yer piss sample contains alcohol and Oxy. Yer on suspension. Get the fuck out."
Bumfelt was ten hours into his suspension when there was a knocking on his apartment door.
"Fuck off!" he hollered from the sofa on which he lay, watching Mindhunter on Netflix.
Whoever it was didn't fuck off. More knocking.
"For fuck’s sake," muttered Bumfelt, clambering from the sofa, tripping over several discarded beer cans and bourbon bottles.
"Jesus fuckin christ," he muttered, unlatching the door. "Are yer fuckin deaf or-"
She was blonde. Attractive. Very. Good suit. Great legs. Smart tart. Bumfelt paused for a moment, puzzled.
"Errrr, did I order you from Secret Seductions? " he mumbled. "Because if I did, I don't remember doing -"
The woman held up a badge. Federal Bureau of Investigation. Bumfelt closed the door. More knocking. This dame wasn't going away anytime soon. Bumfelt unlatched the door, walked across the apartment, flopped onto the sofa, popped a can of beer open and drank.
The woman let herself in. Stood opposite the Detective. Bumfelt studied her from behind his beer can. She really did have incredible legs.
"Shithole," she said, surveying the apartment. Bumfelt raised his can in a mock salute.
"Maid's year off," he said, offering the woman a beer. "Now when you've finished critiquing the place where I play, with my toys- what the fuck do you want Agent-"
"Stone.," she replied, declining the beer. "Special Agent Demi Stone."
"Well, Special Agent Stone," smirked Bumfelt, motioning to the television and alcohol. "As you can see I'm a little busy and-"
"Grow up, Detective," interrupted Stone. She walked across the apartment, avoiding discarded bottles to open a window.
"Start by taking a shower," she ordered, fixing him with cold but beautiful blue eyes. "You stink. Kitchen?"
Bumfelt pointed.
"Hurry the hell up," Stone ordered, moving to the kitchen. "I'll make coffee."
"Not for nothing," said Bumfelt. "But why?"
"Because, Detective," the agent replied. "You're no fucking use to me drunk."
Bumfelt showered.
"The two Donnie Brascoes that were shot were mine," said Stone, sipping from her cup of coffee. Donnie Brascoes were deep cover agents named after a famous agent who infiltrated the New York mob.
"What I want to know is what you were doing there?"
Bumfelt gave pause, looked her in the eyes and lied.
"I wasn't there."
"I urge you not to go down the road of subterfuge and misdirection, Detective," said Stone coldly, putting down her cup. "We know you were there."
"Is that what these agents have said?"
"No. The agents have said that an individual in a hoodie took out the three assholes that were about to execute them," replied Stone. "And then there's this-"
Stone passed her phone to Bumfelt. He watched the high definition video clip. A man in a suit slammed open a door and ran up an alleyway and moments later a second man in a hoodie exited the rear of the club. Face caught for two seconds under a street light.
"Looks a bit like me," mused Bumfelt, passing back the phone. "But that's not me."
He sipped from his coffee.
Stone hard stared him. She looked hot.
"That was Sonnie Carbone, button man for Jimmy the Saint, running up the alley," continued Stone. "And that was you chasing him. So what I want to know is why a decorated police officer who guns down three assholes about to kill my agents is at a club owned by the late Jimmy the Saint?"
Bumfelt said nothing. Stone glared at him. Hit buttons on her phone.
"It's me. No. He isn't talking," she said into the phone. "Get Judge Adler. I want an indictment for conspiracy on this asshole and-"
"Whoooah!" blurted Bumfelt, throwing up his hands. "Steady the fuck on. Jesus. I may have been there."
Stone stared at him. Her look cold but hot at the same time.
"Okay. Fuck," said Bumfelt. "It was me. I was there."
Bumfelt heard the two shots followed by laughter. It came from a room at the rear of the club. Bumfelt slipped his Sig from his shoulder holster. Too late. The two feds were dead.
But- then he heard voices.
"I don't know anything. Fuck, man," said a voice. "Jesus, Sonny. You know me. You know us. We don't-"
"Shut der fuck up, mook."
Sonny Carbone- enforcer and hitman for Jimmy the Saint.
"I fuckin know yous alright," continued Carbone. "I fuckin know yer rat bastards dats what I know. I know dat yer gonna tell me what I wanna know else I'm gonna do yer wives and yer k**s. Dats right you fed fucks. We know."
Bumfelt slipped quietly to a doorway--Sig raised in two hands.
"We fuckin know. Yer sneaky little rat bastards," hissed Carbone. "Fuck dis. Sal, do the other one."
Bumfelt moved fast.
"You've got a leak. Shit. You could be the leak," said Bumfelt. "You should start by thanking me and then get yer fuckin house in order. We done here?"
"Bullshit. The Saint ordered the agents death," Stone replied." It came from the top before he got whacked and-"
"Jimmy didn't even know there were rats in the house," interrupted Bumfelt.
"How do you know?"
"I know, okay," said Bumfelt, moving across the room to a window. "I went to Jimmy's club because I was contacted by Sammy the Cripple. I went to stop your boys from taking one in the back of the head. If anything you fed fuckers owe me and yet here I am riding the Shit Express and- DOWN!"
The window shattered and high powered rounds hammered through the apartment walls. Bumfelt flung himself across the room, diving into Stone, sending her tumbling and landing on top of her.
She felt good beneath him.
" Get the hell off me, " hissed Stone, pushing against him. "Now!"
Bumfelt rolled aside. Stone drew a Glock from a hip holster, scurrying low to the rear wall of the lounge. Bumfelt crawled to a table, rolled under it and rolled back out- a Mossberg shotgun in his hands. More rounds hammered into the apartment.
"They'll be comin'," hissed Bumfelt.
They came.
Two booms. Armoured shotgun rounds. Hinges blew off and the apartment door was kicked in. Machine-pistol rounds zipping through the doorway.
"Jesus fuckin christ!" gasped Stone, hunched low, Glock in both hands.
Something exploded to her left. The Mossberg- Bumfelt rapid firing six rounds at the doorway. Three figures rushing in. One dropped. The others didn't.
"Armoured!" hollered Bumfelt, drawing his Sig.
Stone put her Glock around the wall and blew through a magazine. Snatching her hand back and laying low as the wall erupted in blown out plaster. She swapped out magazines and blasted rounds back. Bumfelt put six rounds through a wall. Walking them up from abdomen to head height. Somebody grunted and fell into the hallway. Bumfelt put a round in the assaulter's head.
"Behind you!" screamed Stone, bringing her gun up, blasting away at an armoured man through the balcony window. The man fell back, sub-machine gun blazing into the sky as he fell down the fire escape stairwell.
Something clunked and a steel egg rolled into the lounge.
"Grenade!" hollered Bumfelt, he literally smashed Stone aside, rolling them both into the kitchen, pulling the freezer door open, rolling behind it. Bumfelt covered the agents body again. Damn- she felt good.
Boom!
Ears ringing. Head spinning. Disorientated. The freezer door buckled and scarred by shrapnel. Bumfelt glanced up. Figure in the doorway. MP5 assault weapon coming up. Bumfelt emptied the magazine into him. Rocked him back. Didn't drop him. Bumfelt went for a new magazine. Slapped it in and-
Boom, boom boom a boom!
Stone dropped the assaulter. Pink mist exploding from his head.
"Move!" ordered Bumfelt, dragging Stone to her feet.
Sirens. Too fucking late now.
Stone looked shocked but her eyes were all business. She was still in the game. Others wouldn't have been. They moved. Clearing the apartment--quickly but carefully making their way to the front door.
The first assaulter that had been through the door moaned as they stepped towards him. His body armour was shredded. Chest shredded beneath it.
"We've gotta go, Stone," ordered Bumfelt, pausing astride the shot to shit assaulter. . "Wait. I know this piece of shit. I fucking know you. He's a cop. Now move."
They moved. Made their way from the apartment.
"For fuck’s sake, Bumfelt," said a neighbour, peeking from a small gap in his door. "What the fuck is this shit that-"
Bumfelt pointed the Sig at him. Door closed. They made it onto the street. A crowd gathering. Sirens closer. People screamed and stepped back seeing that they held guns.
"This way," ordered Bumfelt, taking Stone by the hand, leading her down an alley. Stopping traffic by raising his gun, they crossed a road and the detective led the FBI agent through a series of alleys and down to a subway station.
A miserable looking foreigner sat behind a glass panel, picking at his grubby nails. He barely glanced up from arguing with some British tourists, wearing Springsteen t shirts.
Bumfelt led Stone to a turnstile.
"Hey, asshole," he snarled. "Open the gate."
"You not paid, asshole," muttered the man in the ticket booth. "That's how the system works. You buy ticket and- okay. You can go."
Bumfelt took the barrel of the Sig from the glass--where it pointed right between the grumpy man's eyes.
"Out of the way, dickheads," growled Bumfelt, pushing past the Springsteen fans.
"Excuse me, mate," said one, small man with a cockney accent. "You know where the R-line is?"
"In yer ass, numbnuts," snarled Bumfelt, hurrying down a series of stairs. "Fuckin' Boss fans. He ain't no fuckin boss. Get der fuck out of here."
Train pulled up at the platform. Bumfelt put his hand on Stone's. It shook. Just a little. He eased the hand to her side and holstered the Glock. Holstered his own Sig and they got onto the train. It pulled away.
" Are you, okay? " asked Bumfelt, patting the FBI agent down, looking for blood, any sign of injury. "Are you hit?"
"I… I'm...I'm okay," replied Stone, batting his hands away. "I just can't stop shaking. I feel.. Oh god.. I may be sick."
"It's the adrenalin," said Bumfelt. "It'll pass. Take deep breaths. Relax. It's over."
The subway train clattered through the darkness. Stone threw up.
Sammy the Cripple was in a bad place. Real bad. He was hanging upside down by chains in a warehouse in the Meat District. If that wasn't a sure sign that he was fucked. The assortment of blood stained power tools on a blood streaked table was a bit of a giveaway.
"I don't know what ter tell yer, Sal," laughed Sonny Carbone, peeling a couple of hundreds from a money clip. "I don't reckon The Cripple will tell us what we want to know. He's loyal. He ain't gonna talk. Are yer, Sammy?"
"Oh he'll talk," said Sal Carmouchie, taking his suit jacket off, rolling up his designer shirt sleeves. "Where's der fuckin money, Sammy?"
Carmouchie picked up a sledgehammer from the table. It unexpectedly pulled his skinny arm down. Thudding on the concrete floor.
"Fuck," he laughed, hefting up the hammer. "This shit's heavier than I thought. Last chance, Sammy. Then we gotta go ter work on yer."
To his credit, Sammy The Cripple said nothing. At first.
"Okay, have it your way, mook," snarled Carmouchie, glancing to Carbone, smirk on his face. "Hey, Sonny, which is his gimp leg? I'm gonna straighten it out for him."
Carbone laughed and lit a cigarette. "The right one I think. Never paid any attention to the limpy fucker. Do the right one."
Carmouchie did the right. Screams. A lot of screams.
"Oh come on, Sonny," cackled Carmouchie, pointing at the cripple's twisted legs. "Fer crying out loud, Sonny. The left was his bad one. Would yer just look at that shit."
Several thugs laughed at their bosses sick humour. Carmouchie slapped the cripple awake.
"Hey, fuckhead. Dat's as good as it's gonna get and it ain't gonna get dat good again," said Carmouchie. "Just tell us what yer know and I'll make it nice and clean. One in the head."
He jabbed the cripple between the eyes.
"Boom! Lights out. What yer say, Sammy?"
Nothing.
"You believe the balls on this guy, Sonny?" said Carmouchie slowly walking to the table, shaking his head. "He's got some balls don't he?"
"He does," smirked Carbone. "Some fuckin big balls. Gotta give the mook that."
"Apron," snarled Carmouchie, motioning to a thug. He brought a heavy canvas apron over, putting it over Carmouchie's shoulders.
"Goggles," ordered Carmouchie. A second thug brought plastic goggles. Carmouchie put them on.
"It's about ter get bloody, Sammy," said Carmouchie. "I want you to know. You had a chance."
Carmouchie picked up an industrial sander.
Bumfelt took out his phone.
"Who you calling?
" A friend," replied Bumfelt.
"Hey, the cripple's fuckin phone is ringing, " said Carbone, picking it up, flicking his cigarette to the ground.
"Heyyy, fuck. What the fuck are you doing still alive," laughed Carbone. "Wait. Wait. I'll put you on speaker."
"You fuckin hurt him and I'll kill all of you fuckers," growled Bumfelt. "Let him go. He doesn't know-"
"Hey, Bumfelt, fuck you," laughed Carbone. "I thought you'd be dead about now. How the fuck are you not ? No matter, yer will be."
"Just let, Sammy go," continued Bumfelt. "He doesn't know anything and-"
"Anything about what?" said a puzzled Carbone. "Anything about what, Eddie?"
Silence. Bumfelt sensed Stone's cold eyes burning into him.
"Look, Sonny, we can talk about this," continued Bumfelt. "Just let him go. He doesn't know anything."
"He really doesn't?" Carbone motioned to Carmouchie. He drew a nine mil semi automatic.
"No. Look we can-"
"Then he's no fuckin use to me," said Carbone. "Is he?"
Boom!
"Where's the money, Eddie?"
"Where are we?" demanded Stone, stood on a house porch.
"Be quiet," ordered Bumfelt. "This is the last place anyone would think to look for us. But it will take a little finessing,"
The door opened.
"You got some nerve, Eddie," said Roxanne Ballsakey, hands on her slim hips. "Some fuckin nerve."
"We need a place to stay," said Bumfelt. "I wouldn't ask. But we're in trouble."
The wife of his ex-partner, whom he had put into a grave gave his words some thought. Stood aside and let them in.
"I've got our people in the department looking into Bumfelt. We've gotta grease some greedy hands there. Four went to the morgue and the other one's critical," said Carmouchie around a mouthful of pepperoni calzone. He dabbed sauce from his lips. "Our boys are on the lookout and it's only a matter of time until we pick the prick up unless he runs. You think he'll run, Sonny?"
"No. He won't run. He's a stubborn bastard," replied Carbone. "We sure the cop ain't talkin'?"
"I got people over at Bellvue. He's on life support. Induced c***," continued Carmouchie. "It's all good. He ain't gonna be waking up ter talk ter nobody. I got that covered."
"Make it happen. I don't like loose ends," ordered Carbone. "Which is why I wanted that fucker, Bumfelt taking a dirt nap. Can you believe he came for me? That ballsy muthafucka."
"You think he was in on it all this time?" asked Carmouchie, swigging from a Budweiser bottle.
"I don't know. That prick came for me when he knew we were gonna make a move on Jimmy," continued Carbone. "Perhaps just because they go a long way back. Loyalty. Some blood brothers type shit. But I'm starting ter think that prick knows something."
"Eight point five million is a lot of reasons to find this prick," said Carmouchie. "Lot of fuckin reasons."
"I want that money, Sal," said Carbone. "Those assholes killed my cousins. They've all gotta die for that. That's only right, but I also want that fuckin money."
"What was the last thing I said to you, Eddie?" said Ballsakey, fire in her sexy eyes. "The last fucking thing?"
Bumfelt gave it thought.
"Cum for me, baby. Cum inside my tight fuckin ass?"
"No. Fuckin no, Eddie," snapped Ballsakey, blushing a little. "I said. I'm taking a shower. Don't be here when I get back. And yet, here you are."
"We needed some place," said Bumfelt. "I didn't know where else to go and-"
"You're a fuckin dirt bag asshole!" snapped Ballsakey. "Ohh hi hun. Better?"
"Yes. Thank you," said Stone, wrapping her hair up in a towel. She looked good in a pair of Ballsakey's sweatpants and t-shirt. Bumfelt looked. Ballsakey looked. Nice.
Silence.
"I'll be upstairs. I ordered pizza. There's beer in the fridge," said Ballsakey, eyes briefly lingering on Stone. The agent looked to her.
"I'll leave you to it then," said Ballsakey.
"Thank you, again," said Stone, lightly touching Ballsakey's arm as she passed.
"So what's the deal here?" asked Stone after the woman had gone upstairs.
"She sounded angry at you. Why does that not surprise me?"
"It's complicated," replied Bumfelt, stood at the fridge. "Beer?"
"Yes, please," said Stone, sitting at the table, rubbing her hair dry. She looked up from under the towel. Bumfelt was staring at her. He coughed and glanced away.
"Start talking, Detective and I want to know everything," ordered Stone. "You almost got me killed today. Tell me everything and don't leave anything out."
Bumfelt laid it down.
Stone was stunned to say the least.
They ate pizza. It was good. And Bumfelt talked some more.
"It was all Jimmy's idea," he continued, swigging beer. "And it worked a charm. Until it didn't."
"How so?" asked Stone.
"We took the Russians for just over eight million. They were moving hundreds of millions every week in dollars. d**g money mostly. They needed hard currency," continued Bumfelt. "To send back to Moscow. We set these two pricks up to take the fall. Pair of dumb wop bastards. Jimmy didn't trust em. So it made sense."
"What happened?"
"We took the van out before it got to the docks," continued Bumfelt. "Nobody was supposed to get hurt. Apart from the two assholes. They had to go. But the two pricks executed the Russians. They said that one of em had seen their faces, but that was just bullshit."
Bumfelt drank more beer.
"Those fuckin idiots would have brought down a lot of heat," continued Bumfelt. "Those Russians don't forget. Ever. I knew where the drop off was going to be. We planned it that way."
"And your part in all this?"
"I killed the two wops," Bumfelt said.
"You murdered them," said Stone.
"You could call it that," said Bumfelt.
"I am calling it that," said Stone.
"Look, Stone. I ain't clean. Who is?"
"Me. I'm fucking clean!" hissed the agent. "You..you're… I don't know what the fuck you are."
"The two wops were lowlife," continued Bumfelt. "I ain't saying it makes what I did any less heinous but those pricks had it coming. They were selling to minors and I'd found out they'd ****d a girl. Just sixteen years old. They had it coming. Jimmy wanted em gone."
"You don't get to go around executing people," snapped Stone. "You're not judge, jury and executioner. There are rules and-"
"Street rules! There's rules and then there's Street rules," interrupted Bumfelt. "And one of them rules is k**s don't get hurt. Ever. I ain't proud of what I did. But I'd do it again."
Silence.
"Fuck, Stone," said Bumfelt. "They had to go for what they'd done. And they were the key to the Russians never finding out it was us that fucked them over."
"Convenient for you," snapped Stone.
Bumfelt hard - stared her across the table.
"Jimmy was going legit," he continued. "The club, some restaurants, property. We were out of the life. We waited fifteen years before anyone touched the money. Gave time for Jimmy to build his empire and so it would look like he'd made his money from the streets. Shit. Half the business he did was with the Russians. We grew up on those streets and it made us what we are. Who we were. I won't apologise for that. For who I am. We were the Princes for fucks sake. Jimmy did his thing and I did mine. I've put a lot of bad fuckers down. In prison or in the ground, but I am a bad man. Make no mistake about that."
"So what now, Bumfelt?" asked Stone, eyes flicking to her holstered weapon on the kitchen counter. "You gonna kill me?"
"What? Fuck no," snarled Bumfelt, catching her glance to her gun. "What you take me for? Jesus fuckin christ, Stone."
"Where's your share?" demanded Stone. "Where's your share of the money?"
"Wait there," ordered Bumfelt. "I'll be back in a minute."
"Where are you going, Detective?"
"Sit there. I'll be back," said Bumfelt crossing the living space.
"Roxanne! You're gonna want to come down here!"
He left the house.
"Everything going okay down here?" asked Ballsakey, taking a beer from the fridge. The light on the fridge highlighting her taut body under the red and black Dutch Courage chemise.
"Oh, jesus, Eddie," she exclaimed as Bumfelt came back from the garage. He held a crowbar in his hands. "What are-"
"Stand over there, Roxy," ordered Bumfelt. "Remember I had Sammy Lehane put in this floor for you?"
"Yes, the nice guy with the bad leg," replied Ballsakey.
Bumfelt slammed the crowbar into the teak flooring. It splintered. He worked the crowbar. Prising up several planks of laquered wood.
"Fuck, Eddie!" snapped Ballsakey. "What the fuck? You're ruining my floor and-"
"You can buy a new one," said Bumfelt.
"Oh my fuckin god," gasped Ballsakey.
Three point four million dollars. Bound in shrink wrap plastic. All in twenties, fifties and hundreds.
"I think I just came in my panties a little," gasped Ballsakey.
Bumfelt and Stone looked to her.
Stone was licking Ballsakey's pussy like a lollipop. Long swirls of her tongue that were driving Ballsakey insane with desire. Bumfelt pounded Stone from behind. Doing her doggy and doing her hard.
"Fuck me, fuck me hard," gasped Stone, between tongue flicks on Ballsakey's beautiful pussy. " Fuck me."
Bumfelt did. Fucked her on a bed of money. Dollars spilling onto the floor as he drove into her tight pussy. Ballsakey, chemise pulled up to her tits came with a clit pulsing orgasm. Stone climaxed, her legs trembling and twitching as Bumfelt went balls deep. Bumfelt exploded and almost passed out.
Then they did it all again. In different combinations.
Quite the night.
"Now what do we do?" said Stone, sipping coffee, sat at the table on which 3.6 million dollars now sat.
"Way I see it is you can turn me in," mused Bumfelt, spooning scrambled eggs into his mouth. "Or you let me put those fuckers in the ground."
"That's a lot of money," said Ballsakey. "Could be used to do a lot of good."
"It's d**g money," said Stone.
"Carbone isn't going to go away," continued Bumfelt. "He thinks there's eight million out there. He would have killed your agents and he tried to kill us. He's gotta go."
"And then?" said Stone.
"I don't think I was ever going to use the money. Hell. Maybe I was," continued Bumfelt. "There's more than enough to go around."
"That would make us complicit in your crimes," said Stone.
"That would make us rich," said Ballsakey.
"It would make us as bad as him," said Stone.
"You're already bad," smiled Ballsakey. "Such a bad, bad girl."
Bumfelt smirked.
"So bad," he said.
"We do it legitimate," said Stone. "We call in reinforcements and-"
"No. We don't know who we can trust. That was an NYPD swat team that tried to take us out," said Bumfelt. "Somebody ratted out your Brascoes. Sammy was working on finding out who. But none of that matters if we drop Carbone and make no mistake he's getting dropped."
"Is there anyone we can trust?" asked Stone.
"You can trust me," replied Bumfelt.
"Is that supposed to be fucking funny?"
"I've got an idea," continued Bumfelt. "But it's not going to be easy. It's gonna get bloody."
"What's your plan?"
Bumfelt grinned.
"We're getting the Russians involved."
They divided up the money. It took all morning. They split it three ways. Seemed only fair. They kept three hundred thousand aside and this they bound and put firmly into hard cases that they put into a van that Bumfelt stole from outside a hardware store.
"Now we make some calls," said Bumfelt. "These assholes take each other out and we ride in as heroes."
"Rich heroes," smiled Ballsakey.
"Rich naughty heroes," said Stone.
Bumfelt made the calls.
"Yuri. Put your boss on the phone," ordered Bumfelt.
"Who da fuck is dis?"
"Put him on the phone, asshole," continued Bumfelt. "I have good news for him. Regarding eight million missing dollars."
Bumfelt laid it down.
"Ketch, yeah, it's me," said Bumfelt. "We're okay. No. It's complicated. Yeah. They were sent by Sammy Carbone. Internal affairs can sort that out. Keep this on the down low. I need you and three or four others. One's that you know you can trust. I'll tell you when and where. Bring guns. Lots of guns."
Next call.
"You, you piece of shit. I can't win this. I realise that. So I wanna make a deal," said Bumfelt. "You leave the Fed alone. I don't have all eight million but I have my share. You get that. Three million and change and we walk away. I'll tell you where."
"It was that asshole, Bumfelt," said Carbone to Carmouchie. "He wants to make a deal. His life and that of the fed for his share. Three million plus."
Carmouchie pursed his lips and nodded.
"I'll send out the call," he said. "I don't trust this fuckin mook so I'll get guns. Lots of guns."
"I always thought there was something wrong with that Bumfelt," said Carbone, opening a desk drawer. "He grew up with the Saint. Same streets. Same fuckin crimes. I'm gonna put one in the back of his head myself."
He jacked a round into a nine millimeter Beretta.
Bumfelt finished cleaning his Sig, reassembling it, checking the arming slide and the action. Oiled. Smooth. He holstered it and then started cleaning the military grade M4 that he'd taken from a hidden lockbox in Ballsakey's garage. Stone was reassembling a Franchi-Spas semi automatic combat shotgun from the same lockbox.
"Jesus," said Ballsakey, painting her nails. "Looks like you're going to war."
"We are," said Bumfelt.
"They're going to be at the old rail switching yards," said Bumfelt. "Yes, I understand the risk I'm taking. But you don't know who I am you stupid Russian prick. Fuck you. Shut up. The money will be in a white van- says Harry's Hardware on the sides. Nine o'clock. Any later and they're gone."
Bumfelt listened for a few minutes.
"The two guys killed in the robbery," he said. "They were family, right? You've waited years for this. You can get revenge and provide a degree of peace for their families. Nine o'clock."
Bumfelt hung up.
"The Russians are in," he said, dialling. "Ketch, you ready. Good. The drop's at nine. The old switching yards. Let them fuck each other up first. And Ketch, Carbone is mine."
A final call.
"Carbone, old rail yards. The money will be in a white Harry's Hardware van," said Bumfelt. "Eastern side of the yard. You get the money and we walk."
Bumfelt hung up.
"Stone," he said. "Let's go."
"Come back safe," smiled Ballsakey. "Both of you."
They left.
"We grew up on those backstreets together. Catching trains to the outskirts of the city. Sleeping in an old abandoned beach house. Getting wasted in the heat," said Bumfelt. "We tried to be like the heroes that we thought we had to be. But we were just boys, that became men that became bad men. One with a crew, the other with a badge."
Bumfelt opened the van door. They climbed out. Bumfelt looked under the van. It was parked over a six foot deep trench. A service tunnel over which trains would have been parked in the past. Bumfelt pointed across the tracks.
"Only one road in," he said, he pointed to the trench. "These pathways criss- cross the yard. There's steps out, every two hundred yards and over there are the entrances to the subway system."
Bumfelt showed Stone the plan.
"This area around the van is the killbox. Any asshole that comes this way gets dropped. Centre mass shots. Put them down. We let them fuck each other first and then we take out the rest. You ready?"
Stone nodded. Afraid she wouldn't be able to speak her mouth was so dry.
"Put yer shield where it can be seen. Ketch and the guys are expecting a woman but take no chances," said Bumfelt. "Remember, centre mass. Don't freeze when the shit goes down."
Three cars and a blacked out Suv came up the road and through the gate. They parked up, doors opened and heavily armed men got out.
"Bumfelt!" shouted Sal Carmouchie. "Show yourself. Get out of the van!"
Nothing.
"What der fuck is dis?" muttered Carmouchie, assault rifle in his hands. He looked into the Suv. "What der fuck, Sonny?"
Carbone got out. Bumfelt put the M4 sights on him.
"Boss, we got company," said a man holding a Saw rifle. Five cars thundered up to the fence on the other side of the yard.
"I don't like this," said Carmouchie. "What is this shit?"
Men exited the cars, carrying various assault rifles and a-
"Rocket!" shouted Carmouchie. The rocket propelled grenade blew one of the cars into the air and all hell broke loose.
Suddenly everyone was firing at everyone else. Six or seven on each side went down in seconds. The italian with the Saw let rip and a russian Suv and its occupants were torn to pieces before the italian's head was blown off.
"Get some!" snarled Carmouchie, dropping two Russians as they fled the exploding Suv. "Motherfuckers!"
Carbone hit the dirt just as Bumfelt fired. The round zipping over his head. Bumfelt put six more rounds into the side of the Suv and then went full auto where he thought the gangster had rolled. Dropped the magazine out, slapped in a new one and then put single shots into two other italians.
"You fuckin cocksuckers!" shouted Carmouchie, running from one car to another, firing as he ran in the direction of the van. He stumbled, fell as a round hit his armoured vest, got up, shot a russian and dropped into the trench.
He slapped in a new magazine, pulled back the arming slide, looked up and- Stone blew him away.
Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom!
There was pretty much fuck all left of him when she stopped firing.
Carbone rolled under the Suv and out the other side. Keeping low as a barrage of automatic fire shot up the side of the vehicle, shattering glass, tearing metal and bursting tyres.
Bumfelt was moving, M4 up, hitting targets. Missing others. Russian and Italian. He wanted Carbone. That cunt was as good as dead.
A second rpg exploded and Bumfelt was slammed against a car. Stunned, he fumbled for the fallen M4- a shadow fell over him.
A wop brought up an MP5 and- his chest blew out. He dropped - Stone stood behind him.
And then she rocked back, bullets hitting her right arm, shoulder and chest.
"Stone!" shouted Bumfelt, fast drawing his Sig, dropping a killer. Carbone ran from behind the Suv, running for the tracks and the subway system. Bumfelt fired but he had no angle and missed. Ducked low as more rounds impacted around him, rolled and dragged Stone into the trench.
"I'm fucked up," spluttered Stone, coughing blood, tears of pain running from her eyes.
Sirens. More gunfire. Ingleton and his men. That meant There'd be emergency services enroute.
"Hold on, Stone," snarled Bumfelt, pushing her hand to the hole in her chest. "Press here hard. Hold on. Help's coming."
He snatched up his phone. "Officer down. Federal Agent down under the white van. I repeat under the white van. Agent down."
"Get him, Eddie," gasped Stone. "Go get that bastard. I got this."
Bumfelt held her eyes for a second. Such beautiful damn eyes.
"I got it," smiled Stone. Bumfelt took his hand and eyes from hers and then he was running along the tunnel. In pursuit.
Carbone ducked around a stationary train. Glanced back. Nothing. Bullets sparked off the metal and zipped past his head. Carbone ran.
Bumfelt rushed up the steps and onto the tracks. He sighted on the fleeing gangster and- a fucking subway train got in the way as it thundered past.
"Lucky son of a bitch!" snarled Bumfelt, running to the track, the train hurtling past him in a blur of metal, heat and noise.
Carbone fired wildly over his shoulder and ran into the tunnels.
"Got you now, motherfucker," snarled Bumfelt, giving chase into the heat and gloom of the system.
Bumfelt thought about his friend. Two k**s from the same streets. Each one fighting for the other. Thought about the good times. The shit that they'd pulled together. Him, Jimmy, Sammy and the others. Blood brothers. It had been one hell of a ride.
Boom, boom, boom.
Wild shots. Not that close.
"Let's do a deal!" shouted Carbone. "We can work something out!"
Boom, boom.
Footsteps.
Carbone was running again. Close. Going for lights ahead. A platform. A way out. Fuck that.
Bumfelt levelled his Sig. Waited. Waited. Fired.
Scream. Clattering of a fallen gun.
Bumfelt jogged forward. Sig at his side.
Carbone crawled onto the platform, heaving himself upright. Blood trailing behind him.
"It's over, you piece of shit," snarled Bumfelt.
Carbone slowly turned around.
"Fuck you," he spat. "Do it. Fuckin do it!"
Bumfelt levelled the Sig.
"Time makes a fool's joke out of the promises we make. Promises to others, to ourselves. The world just strips away who we are, what we want to be, what we dream of being," said Bumfelt. "Jimmy was no saint. None of us were. We were pieces of shit, just like you. But we were brothers until the end."
Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom. Splat!
Bumfelt turned and walked away. Lost for a fleeting moment in the heat and the comforting clacking of the subway. Back for that moment as a c***d, running with his best friend, playing King of the mountain out on the end.
The End.
deleted
"You crazy-assed bastard," hissed the homeless man, stumbling, bleary-eyed from his box. "What der fucks with you? Are you high you mutha-"
"Get the fuck back," snarled Bumfelt, almost falling from the car door, he dropped his badge and then his gun. "I'm in hot pursuit you box dwelling cunt. Get the-"
Bumfelt fell- into an oil and shit filled puddle. He rolled onto his back so at least he didn't drown. Everything was spinning, blood from a head laceration stung his eyes. Bumfelt tried to regain his feet but something wasn't working. He passed out and was u*********s whilst the angry homeless man rifled through his pockets before taking a piss on him.
Just another night on the streets of the Big Apple for Detective Eddie Bumfelt.
You live reckless and there's a good chance you're gonna die young. And it ain't romantic like in some Hollywood movie. Dead is dead. Close the curtains. The end. You hang out with the wrong guys, grow up on the wrong side of the streets, mix with the wrong set of mooks and you're gonna get hurt or worse.
Springsteen sings about : it's hard to be a saint in the city. Never a truer word was written. The place eats you up and spits you out on the sidewalk. Takes what's good and makes it bad. Or simply takes until there's nothing left. Nothing left worth knowing or giving two shits about.
You grow up on those streets and alleyways and you either grow up strong or you don't grow at all. The weak are preyed upon. It's a jungle. Concrete, subway tunnels and glass towers--but a jungle all the same.
Two boys grew up on the same streets. They run the same scams, run the same alleys, fought in the same fights--each blood brothers. Each would take a beat down for the other. They said they'd die for each other. Wasn't just words. They were the princes of paupers. Talking trash and being king of the alley. They hustled the pimps and corner boys. They spent evenings watching the hard girls over on Easy Street. Making a buck here and there. Stealing. Always stealing and then running from the cops to dive into the subway tunnels and the heat. Often they'd sleep down there--the rhythm of the tracks clacking would soothe the harsh sounds of the streets away.
Two boys from the backstreets that became men. Jimmy 'the Saint' grew up to be what he always dreamed of being--a gangster.
His best friend grew up to be something else. They remained best friends--blood brothers. Right up until they couldn't be that no more.
"What we got, Ketch?" asked Detective Eddie Bumfelt, sipping from a coffee cup, wincing at the taste, throwing it aside.
"What we always got, Eddie, ' replied a tired looking cop, rubbing at a ketchup stain on his tie. He should leave the stain. It was a fuckin ugly tie. "A dead body. Great way to start the Christmas holiday."
Bumfelt stepped past his partner, looked at the body. Two gunshots. Double-tapped. Chest and head. Executed.
"Fuck me," snarled Bumfelt, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw.
Detective Ingleton looked up from his ugly tie.
"What's the matter, Eddie?" he asked. "You know this guy?"
Bumfelt nodded.
"I grew up with him," he said. "That's Jimmy the Saint."
"Is there one day when you don't fuck up in some way?" stated Chief Hallohan in stunned exasperation. "One day?"
Bumfelt opened his mouth and-
"No. Not a word. Not one single word, Detective," continued the Chief. "You just bought yourself a ticket on The I Fucked Up Again and Now Get To Ride The I'm Getting Every Shit Detail Train."
"Oh come on!" snapped Bumfelt. The Chief hard stared him into silence.
"You got yourself onto this train and you'll ride it to every station until I tell you that you can get off," continued The Chief. "Traffic duty-"
"No!"
"Two weeks-"
"Fuck no!"
"Three weeks," glared The Chief. "Mandatory ethics and professional responsibility training-"
Bumfelt looked like he would say something-- decided not too.
"You'll do a week's school education classes-"
Bumfelt couldn't believe what was happening.
"You'll take a piss test because I'm pretty damn sure that somebody who fucks up in such a monumental manner must be on something. What is it, Bumfelt? d**gs? Drink? And you'll present yourself for a psych evaluation. Out. Get fuckin out."
Bumfelt got out. Ketch Ingleton slipped from behind his cluttered desk, following his partner across the squad room.
" How'd it go in there? "
"I'm on the Shit Express, " snarled Bumfelt. "Stopping at all fuckin stations until the boss says I can get off."
"Fuck, partner," said Ingleton, shaking his head. "Wanna get a drink?"
"I can't," snarled Bumfelt. "I gotta piss in a pot in the morning. Fuck-"
"-this dirty doctor pussy," gasped Dr. Swallows as Bumfelt went to town on her ass. "Bang me, Eddie."
He did. Hard. Twice.
"Did I pass my eval?" asked Bumfelt, tying his shoes.
"You passed, Eddie," rasped Swallows, putting her tits back into her bra, buttoning her satin blouse.
"Eddie?" she said, as he opened the door to her office. "Don't leave it so long between fuck ups next time."
Bumfelt grinned and left the office.
"You want yer usual, Ed?" asked Micky Foyle, owner of Foyle's. A cop bar on Twenty-second Street.
"Just club soda," muttered Bunfelt, taking a stool at the bar. Foyle looked puzzled.
"You on the wagon again, Eddie?" he asked, cleaning a shot glass.
"I'm on the Shit Express," replied the detective. "Gotta take a mandatory fuckin test."
"Ill piss on the specimen bottle for ya," replied Foyle.
"Thanks, Mick," said Bumfelt. "But I'd like ter keep the shitty job until I got my twenty in."
"The offer's there, Mick," said Foyle, pouring a soda.
The news was playing on a television behind the bar.
"Hey, turn that up," said a burly man at the end of the bar. "Bumfelt, yer on the news again."
Bumfelt looked up and there he was- a picture of him on the news behind an attractive blonde news reader.
"Our sources say the two FBI agents are recovering from gunshot wounds and are expected to both make full recoveries," narrated the blonde. "Detective Bumfelt, who you'll remember from the Basket Case Murders has been linked to the case after apparently crashing his car close to the scene and-"
"Turn that shit off, Micky," demanded Bumfelt, motioning to the drinks behind the bar owner. Foyle clicked off the television and brought a bottle of bourbon, placing it with a shot glass before the detective.
"Hey, Bumfelt," laughed the burly man at the bar. "Did you shoot those two feds?"
"Keep running yer mouth, Kowolski," muttered Bumfelt, pouring a shot. "And I'll fuckin shoot you, yer-"
"Piece of shit!" snapped The Chief. "I specifically told you to clean up your act and I get a call that yer piss sample contains alcohol and Oxy. Yer on suspension. Get the fuck out."
Bumfelt was ten hours into his suspension when there was a knocking on his apartment door.
"Fuck off!" he hollered from the sofa on which he lay, watching Mindhunter on Netflix.
Whoever it was didn't fuck off. More knocking.
"For fuck’s sake," muttered Bumfelt, clambering from the sofa, tripping over several discarded beer cans and bourbon bottles.
"Jesus fuckin christ," he muttered, unlatching the door. "Are yer fuckin deaf or-"
She was blonde. Attractive. Very. Good suit. Great legs. Smart tart. Bumfelt paused for a moment, puzzled.
"Errrr, did I order you from Secret Seductions? " he mumbled. "Because if I did, I don't remember doing -"
The woman held up a badge. Federal Bureau of Investigation. Bumfelt closed the door. More knocking. This dame wasn't going away anytime soon. Bumfelt unlatched the door, walked across the apartment, flopped onto the sofa, popped a can of beer open and drank.
The woman let herself in. Stood opposite the Detective. Bumfelt studied her from behind his beer can. She really did have incredible legs.
"Shithole," she said, surveying the apartment. Bumfelt raised his can in a mock salute.
"Maid's year off," he said, offering the woman a beer. "Now when you've finished critiquing the place where I play, with my toys- what the fuck do you want Agent-"
"Stone.," she replied, declining the beer. "Special Agent Demi Stone."
"Well, Special Agent Stone," smirked Bumfelt, motioning to the television and alcohol. "As you can see I'm a little busy and-"
"Grow up, Detective," interrupted Stone. She walked across the apartment, avoiding discarded bottles to open a window.
"Start by taking a shower," she ordered, fixing him with cold but beautiful blue eyes. "You stink. Kitchen?"
Bumfelt pointed.
"Hurry the hell up," Stone ordered, moving to the kitchen. "I'll make coffee."
"Not for nothing," said Bumfelt. "But why?"
"Because, Detective," the agent replied. "You're no fucking use to me drunk."
Bumfelt showered.
"The two Donnie Brascoes that were shot were mine," said Stone, sipping from her cup of coffee. Donnie Brascoes were deep cover agents named after a famous agent who infiltrated the New York mob.
"What I want to know is what you were doing there?"
Bumfelt gave pause, looked her in the eyes and lied.
"I wasn't there."
"I urge you not to go down the road of subterfuge and misdirection, Detective," said Stone coldly, putting down her cup. "We know you were there."
"Is that what these agents have said?"
"No. The agents have said that an individual in a hoodie took out the three assholes that were about to execute them," replied Stone. "And then there's this-"
Stone passed her phone to Bumfelt. He watched the high definition video clip. A man in a suit slammed open a door and ran up an alleyway and moments later a second man in a hoodie exited the rear of the club. Face caught for two seconds under a street light.
"Looks a bit like me," mused Bumfelt, passing back the phone. "But that's not me."
He sipped from his coffee.
Stone hard stared him. She looked hot.
"That was Sonnie Carbone, button man for Jimmy the Saint, running up the alley," continued Stone. "And that was you chasing him. So what I want to know is why a decorated police officer who guns down three assholes about to kill my agents is at a club owned by the late Jimmy the Saint?"
Bumfelt said nothing. Stone glared at him. Hit buttons on her phone.
"It's me. No. He isn't talking," she said into the phone. "Get Judge Adler. I want an indictment for conspiracy on this asshole and-"
"Whoooah!" blurted Bumfelt, throwing up his hands. "Steady the fuck on. Jesus. I may have been there."
Stone stared at him. Her look cold but hot at the same time.
"Okay. Fuck," said Bumfelt. "It was me. I was there."
Bumfelt heard the two shots followed by laughter. It came from a room at the rear of the club. Bumfelt slipped his Sig from his shoulder holster. Too late. The two feds were dead.
But- then he heard voices.
"I don't know anything. Fuck, man," said a voice. "Jesus, Sonny. You know me. You know us. We don't-"
"Shut der fuck up, mook."
Sonny Carbone- enforcer and hitman for Jimmy the Saint.
"I fuckin know yous alright," continued Carbone. "I fuckin know yer rat bastards dats what I know. I know dat yer gonna tell me what I wanna know else I'm gonna do yer wives and yer k**s. Dats right you fed fucks. We know."
Bumfelt slipped quietly to a doorway--Sig raised in two hands.
"We fuckin know. Yer sneaky little rat bastards," hissed Carbone. "Fuck dis. Sal, do the other one."
Bumfelt moved fast.
"You've got a leak. Shit. You could be the leak," said Bumfelt. "You should start by thanking me and then get yer fuckin house in order. We done here?"
"Bullshit. The Saint ordered the agents death," Stone replied." It came from the top before he got whacked and-"
"Jimmy didn't even know there were rats in the house," interrupted Bumfelt.
"How do you know?"
"I know, okay," said Bumfelt, moving across the room to a window. "I went to Jimmy's club because I was contacted by Sammy the Cripple. I went to stop your boys from taking one in the back of the head. If anything you fed fuckers owe me and yet here I am riding the Shit Express and- DOWN!"
The window shattered and high powered rounds hammered through the apartment walls. Bumfelt flung himself across the room, diving into Stone, sending her tumbling and landing on top of her.
She felt good beneath him.
" Get the hell off me, " hissed Stone, pushing against him. "Now!"
Bumfelt rolled aside. Stone drew a Glock from a hip holster, scurrying low to the rear wall of the lounge. Bumfelt crawled to a table, rolled under it and rolled back out- a Mossberg shotgun in his hands. More rounds hammered into the apartment.
"They'll be comin'," hissed Bumfelt.
They came.
Two booms. Armoured shotgun rounds. Hinges blew off and the apartment door was kicked in. Machine-pistol rounds zipping through the doorway.
"Jesus fuckin christ!" gasped Stone, hunched low, Glock in both hands.
Something exploded to her left. The Mossberg- Bumfelt rapid firing six rounds at the doorway. Three figures rushing in. One dropped. The others didn't.
"Armoured!" hollered Bumfelt, drawing his Sig.
Stone put her Glock around the wall and blew through a magazine. Snatching her hand back and laying low as the wall erupted in blown out plaster. She swapped out magazines and blasted rounds back. Bumfelt put six rounds through a wall. Walking them up from abdomen to head height. Somebody grunted and fell into the hallway. Bumfelt put a round in the assaulter's head.
"Behind you!" screamed Stone, bringing her gun up, blasting away at an armoured man through the balcony window. The man fell back, sub-machine gun blazing into the sky as he fell down the fire escape stairwell.
Something clunked and a steel egg rolled into the lounge.
"Grenade!" hollered Bumfelt, he literally smashed Stone aside, rolling them both into the kitchen, pulling the freezer door open, rolling behind it. Bumfelt covered the agents body again. Damn- she felt good.
Boom!
Ears ringing. Head spinning. Disorientated. The freezer door buckled and scarred by shrapnel. Bumfelt glanced up. Figure in the doorway. MP5 assault weapon coming up. Bumfelt emptied the magazine into him. Rocked him back. Didn't drop him. Bumfelt went for a new magazine. Slapped it in and-
Boom, boom boom a boom!
Stone dropped the assaulter. Pink mist exploding from his head.
"Move!" ordered Bumfelt, dragging Stone to her feet.
Sirens. Too fucking late now.
Stone looked shocked but her eyes were all business. She was still in the game. Others wouldn't have been. They moved. Clearing the apartment--quickly but carefully making their way to the front door.
The first assaulter that had been through the door moaned as they stepped towards him. His body armour was shredded. Chest shredded beneath it.
"We've gotta go, Stone," ordered Bumfelt, pausing astride the shot to shit assaulter. . "Wait. I know this piece of shit. I fucking know you. He's a cop. Now move."
They moved. Made their way from the apartment.
"For fuck’s sake, Bumfelt," said a neighbour, peeking from a small gap in his door. "What the fuck is this shit that-"
Bumfelt pointed the Sig at him. Door closed. They made it onto the street. A crowd gathering. Sirens closer. People screamed and stepped back seeing that they held guns.
"This way," ordered Bumfelt, taking Stone by the hand, leading her down an alley. Stopping traffic by raising his gun, they crossed a road and the detective led the FBI agent through a series of alleys and down to a subway station.
A miserable looking foreigner sat behind a glass panel, picking at his grubby nails. He barely glanced up from arguing with some British tourists, wearing Springsteen t shirts.
Bumfelt led Stone to a turnstile.
"Hey, asshole," he snarled. "Open the gate."
"You not paid, asshole," muttered the man in the ticket booth. "That's how the system works. You buy ticket and- okay. You can go."
Bumfelt took the barrel of the Sig from the glass--where it pointed right between the grumpy man's eyes.
"Out of the way, dickheads," growled Bumfelt, pushing past the Springsteen fans.
"Excuse me, mate," said one, small man with a cockney accent. "You know where the R-line is?"
"In yer ass, numbnuts," snarled Bumfelt, hurrying down a series of stairs. "Fuckin' Boss fans. He ain't no fuckin boss. Get der fuck out of here."
Train pulled up at the platform. Bumfelt put his hand on Stone's. It shook. Just a little. He eased the hand to her side and holstered the Glock. Holstered his own Sig and they got onto the train. It pulled away.
" Are you, okay? " asked Bumfelt, patting the FBI agent down, looking for blood, any sign of injury. "Are you hit?"
"I… I'm...I'm okay," replied Stone, batting his hands away. "I just can't stop shaking. I feel.. Oh god.. I may be sick."
"It's the adrenalin," said Bumfelt. "It'll pass. Take deep breaths. Relax. It's over."
The subway train clattered through the darkness. Stone threw up.
Sammy the Cripple was in a bad place. Real bad. He was hanging upside down by chains in a warehouse in the Meat District. If that wasn't a sure sign that he was fucked. The assortment of blood stained power tools on a blood streaked table was a bit of a giveaway.
"I don't know what ter tell yer, Sal," laughed Sonny Carbone, peeling a couple of hundreds from a money clip. "I don't reckon The Cripple will tell us what we want to know. He's loyal. He ain't gonna talk. Are yer, Sammy?"
"Oh he'll talk," said Sal Carmouchie, taking his suit jacket off, rolling up his designer shirt sleeves. "Where's der fuckin money, Sammy?"
Carmouchie picked up a sledgehammer from the table. It unexpectedly pulled his skinny arm down. Thudding on the concrete floor.
"Fuck," he laughed, hefting up the hammer. "This shit's heavier than I thought. Last chance, Sammy. Then we gotta go ter work on yer."
To his credit, Sammy The Cripple said nothing. At first.
"Okay, have it your way, mook," snarled Carmouchie, glancing to Carbone, smirk on his face. "Hey, Sonny, which is his gimp leg? I'm gonna straighten it out for him."
Carbone laughed and lit a cigarette. "The right one I think. Never paid any attention to the limpy fucker. Do the right one."
Carmouchie did the right. Screams. A lot of screams.
"Oh come on, Sonny," cackled Carmouchie, pointing at the cripple's twisted legs. "Fer crying out loud, Sonny. The left was his bad one. Would yer just look at that shit."
Several thugs laughed at their bosses sick humour. Carmouchie slapped the cripple awake.
"Hey, fuckhead. Dat's as good as it's gonna get and it ain't gonna get dat good again," said Carmouchie. "Just tell us what yer know and I'll make it nice and clean. One in the head."
He jabbed the cripple between the eyes.
"Boom! Lights out. What yer say, Sammy?"
Nothing.
"You believe the balls on this guy, Sonny?" said Carmouchie slowly walking to the table, shaking his head. "He's got some balls don't he?"
"He does," smirked Carbone. "Some fuckin big balls. Gotta give the mook that."
"Apron," snarled Carmouchie, motioning to a thug. He brought a heavy canvas apron over, putting it over Carmouchie's shoulders.
"Goggles," ordered Carmouchie. A second thug brought plastic goggles. Carmouchie put them on.
"It's about ter get bloody, Sammy," said Carmouchie. "I want you to know. You had a chance."
Carmouchie picked up an industrial sander.
Bumfelt took out his phone.
"Who you calling?
" A friend," replied Bumfelt.
"Hey, the cripple's fuckin phone is ringing, " said Carbone, picking it up, flicking his cigarette to the ground.
"Heyyy, fuck. What the fuck are you doing still alive," laughed Carbone. "Wait. Wait. I'll put you on speaker."
"You fuckin hurt him and I'll kill all of you fuckers," growled Bumfelt. "Let him go. He doesn't know-"
"Hey, Bumfelt, fuck you," laughed Carbone. "I thought you'd be dead about now. How the fuck are you not ? No matter, yer will be."
"Just let, Sammy go," continued Bumfelt. "He doesn't know anything and-"
"Anything about what?" said a puzzled Carbone. "Anything about what, Eddie?"
Silence. Bumfelt sensed Stone's cold eyes burning into him.
"Look, Sonny, we can talk about this," continued Bumfelt. "Just let him go. He doesn't know anything."
"He really doesn't?" Carbone motioned to Carmouchie. He drew a nine mil semi automatic.
"No. Look we can-"
"Then he's no fuckin use to me," said Carbone. "Is he?"
Boom!
"Where's the money, Eddie?"
"Where are we?" demanded Stone, stood on a house porch.
"Be quiet," ordered Bumfelt. "This is the last place anyone would think to look for us. But it will take a little finessing,"
The door opened.
"You got some nerve, Eddie," said Roxanne Ballsakey, hands on her slim hips. "Some fuckin nerve."
"We need a place to stay," said Bumfelt. "I wouldn't ask. But we're in trouble."
The wife of his ex-partner, whom he had put into a grave gave his words some thought. Stood aside and let them in.
"I've got our people in the department looking into Bumfelt. We've gotta grease some greedy hands there. Four went to the morgue and the other one's critical," said Carmouchie around a mouthful of pepperoni calzone. He dabbed sauce from his lips. "Our boys are on the lookout and it's only a matter of time until we pick the prick up unless he runs. You think he'll run, Sonny?"
"No. He won't run. He's a stubborn bastard," replied Carbone. "We sure the cop ain't talkin'?"
"I got people over at Bellvue. He's on life support. Induced c***," continued Carmouchie. "It's all good. He ain't gonna be waking up ter talk ter nobody. I got that covered."
"Make it happen. I don't like loose ends," ordered Carbone. "Which is why I wanted that fucker, Bumfelt taking a dirt nap. Can you believe he came for me? That ballsy muthafucka."
"You think he was in on it all this time?" asked Carmouchie, swigging from a Budweiser bottle.
"I don't know. That prick came for me when he knew we were gonna make a move on Jimmy," continued Carbone. "Perhaps just because they go a long way back. Loyalty. Some blood brothers type shit. But I'm starting ter think that prick knows something."
"Eight point five million is a lot of reasons to find this prick," said Carmouchie. "Lot of fuckin reasons."
"I want that money, Sal," said Carbone. "Those assholes killed my cousins. They've all gotta die for that. That's only right, but I also want that fuckin money."
"What was the last thing I said to you, Eddie?" said Ballsakey, fire in her sexy eyes. "The last fucking thing?"
Bumfelt gave it thought.
"Cum for me, baby. Cum inside my tight fuckin ass?"
"No. Fuckin no, Eddie," snapped Ballsakey, blushing a little. "I said. I'm taking a shower. Don't be here when I get back. And yet, here you are."
"We needed some place," said Bumfelt. "I didn't know where else to go and-"
"You're a fuckin dirt bag asshole!" snapped Ballsakey. "Ohh hi hun. Better?"
"Yes. Thank you," said Stone, wrapping her hair up in a towel. She looked good in a pair of Ballsakey's sweatpants and t-shirt. Bumfelt looked. Ballsakey looked. Nice.
Silence.
"I'll be upstairs. I ordered pizza. There's beer in the fridge," said Ballsakey, eyes briefly lingering on Stone. The agent looked to her.
"I'll leave you to it then," said Ballsakey.
"Thank you, again," said Stone, lightly touching Ballsakey's arm as she passed.
"So what's the deal here?" asked Stone after the woman had gone upstairs.
"She sounded angry at you. Why does that not surprise me?"
"It's complicated," replied Bumfelt, stood at the fridge. "Beer?"
"Yes, please," said Stone, sitting at the table, rubbing her hair dry. She looked up from under the towel. Bumfelt was staring at her. He coughed and glanced away.
"Start talking, Detective and I want to know everything," ordered Stone. "You almost got me killed today. Tell me everything and don't leave anything out."
Bumfelt laid it down.
Stone was stunned to say the least.
They ate pizza. It was good. And Bumfelt talked some more.
"It was all Jimmy's idea," he continued, swigging beer. "And it worked a charm. Until it didn't."
"How so?" asked Stone.
"We took the Russians for just over eight million. They were moving hundreds of millions every week in dollars. d**g money mostly. They needed hard currency," continued Bumfelt. "To send back to Moscow. We set these two pricks up to take the fall. Pair of dumb wop bastards. Jimmy didn't trust em. So it made sense."
"What happened?"
"We took the van out before it got to the docks," continued Bumfelt. "Nobody was supposed to get hurt. Apart from the two assholes. They had to go. But the two pricks executed the Russians. They said that one of em had seen their faces, but that was just bullshit."
Bumfelt drank more beer.
"Those fuckin idiots would have brought down a lot of heat," continued Bumfelt. "Those Russians don't forget. Ever. I knew where the drop off was going to be. We planned it that way."
"And your part in all this?"
"I killed the two wops," Bumfelt said.
"You murdered them," said Stone.
"You could call it that," said Bumfelt.
"I am calling it that," said Stone.
"Look, Stone. I ain't clean. Who is?"
"Me. I'm fucking clean!" hissed the agent. "You..you're… I don't know what the fuck you are."
"The two wops were lowlife," continued Bumfelt. "I ain't saying it makes what I did any less heinous but those pricks had it coming. They were selling to minors and I'd found out they'd ****d a girl. Just sixteen years old. They had it coming. Jimmy wanted em gone."
"You don't get to go around executing people," snapped Stone. "You're not judge, jury and executioner. There are rules and-"
"Street rules! There's rules and then there's Street rules," interrupted Bumfelt. "And one of them rules is k**s don't get hurt. Ever. I ain't proud of what I did. But I'd do it again."
Silence.
"Fuck, Stone," said Bumfelt. "They had to go for what they'd done. And they were the key to the Russians never finding out it was us that fucked them over."
"Convenient for you," snapped Stone.
Bumfelt hard - stared her across the table.
"Jimmy was going legit," he continued. "The club, some restaurants, property. We were out of the life. We waited fifteen years before anyone touched the money. Gave time for Jimmy to build his empire and so it would look like he'd made his money from the streets. Shit. Half the business he did was with the Russians. We grew up on those streets and it made us what we are. Who we were. I won't apologise for that. For who I am. We were the Princes for fucks sake. Jimmy did his thing and I did mine. I've put a lot of bad fuckers down. In prison or in the ground, but I am a bad man. Make no mistake about that."
"So what now, Bumfelt?" asked Stone, eyes flicking to her holstered weapon on the kitchen counter. "You gonna kill me?"
"What? Fuck no," snarled Bumfelt, catching her glance to her gun. "What you take me for? Jesus fuckin christ, Stone."
"Where's your share?" demanded Stone. "Where's your share of the money?"
"Wait there," ordered Bumfelt. "I'll be back in a minute."
"Where are you going, Detective?"
"Sit there. I'll be back," said Bumfelt crossing the living space.
"Roxanne! You're gonna want to come down here!"
He left the house.
"Everything going okay down here?" asked Ballsakey, taking a beer from the fridge. The light on the fridge highlighting her taut body under the red and black Dutch Courage chemise.
"Oh, jesus, Eddie," she exclaimed as Bumfelt came back from the garage. He held a crowbar in his hands. "What are-"
"Stand over there, Roxy," ordered Bumfelt. "Remember I had Sammy Lehane put in this floor for you?"
"Yes, the nice guy with the bad leg," replied Ballsakey.
Bumfelt slammed the crowbar into the teak flooring. It splintered. He worked the crowbar. Prising up several planks of laquered wood.
"Fuck, Eddie!" snapped Ballsakey. "What the fuck? You're ruining my floor and-"
"You can buy a new one," said Bumfelt.
"Oh my fuckin god," gasped Ballsakey.
Three point four million dollars. Bound in shrink wrap plastic. All in twenties, fifties and hundreds.
"I think I just came in my panties a little," gasped Ballsakey.
Bumfelt and Stone looked to her.
Stone was licking Ballsakey's pussy like a lollipop. Long swirls of her tongue that were driving Ballsakey insane with desire. Bumfelt pounded Stone from behind. Doing her doggy and doing her hard.
"Fuck me, fuck me hard," gasped Stone, between tongue flicks on Ballsakey's beautiful pussy. " Fuck me."
Bumfelt did. Fucked her on a bed of money. Dollars spilling onto the floor as he drove into her tight pussy. Ballsakey, chemise pulled up to her tits came with a clit pulsing orgasm. Stone climaxed, her legs trembling and twitching as Bumfelt went balls deep. Bumfelt exploded and almost passed out.
Then they did it all again. In different combinations.
Quite the night.
"Now what do we do?" said Stone, sipping coffee, sat at the table on which 3.6 million dollars now sat.
"Way I see it is you can turn me in," mused Bumfelt, spooning scrambled eggs into his mouth. "Or you let me put those fuckers in the ground."
"That's a lot of money," said Ballsakey. "Could be used to do a lot of good."
"It's d**g money," said Stone.
"Carbone isn't going to go away," continued Bumfelt. "He thinks there's eight million out there. He would have killed your agents and he tried to kill us. He's gotta go."
"And then?" said Stone.
"I don't think I was ever going to use the money. Hell. Maybe I was," continued Bumfelt. "There's more than enough to go around."
"That would make us complicit in your crimes," said Stone.
"That would make us rich," said Ballsakey.
"It would make us as bad as him," said Stone.
"You're already bad," smiled Ballsakey. "Such a bad, bad girl."
Bumfelt smirked.
"So bad," he said.
"We do it legitimate," said Stone. "We call in reinforcements and-"
"No. We don't know who we can trust. That was an NYPD swat team that tried to take us out," said Bumfelt. "Somebody ratted out your Brascoes. Sammy was working on finding out who. But none of that matters if we drop Carbone and make no mistake he's getting dropped."
"Is there anyone we can trust?" asked Stone.
"You can trust me," replied Bumfelt.
"Is that supposed to be fucking funny?"
"I've got an idea," continued Bumfelt. "But it's not going to be easy. It's gonna get bloody."
"What's your plan?"
Bumfelt grinned.
"We're getting the Russians involved."
They divided up the money. It took all morning. They split it three ways. Seemed only fair. They kept three hundred thousand aside and this they bound and put firmly into hard cases that they put into a van that Bumfelt stole from outside a hardware store.
"Now we make some calls," said Bumfelt. "These assholes take each other out and we ride in as heroes."
"Rich heroes," smiled Ballsakey.
"Rich naughty heroes," said Stone.
Bumfelt made the calls.
"Yuri. Put your boss on the phone," ordered Bumfelt.
"Who da fuck is dis?"
"Put him on the phone, asshole," continued Bumfelt. "I have good news for him. Regarding eight million missing dollars."
Bumfelt laid it down.
"Ketch, yeah, it's me," said Bumfelt. "We're okay. No. It's complicated. Yeah. They were sent by Sammy Carbone. Internal affairs can sort that out. Keep this on the down low. I need you and three or four others. One's that you know you can trust. I'll tell you when and where. Bring guns. Lots of guns."
Next call.
"You, you piece of shit. I can't win this. I realise that. So I wanna make a deal," said Bumfelt. "You leave the Fed alone. I don't have all eight million but I have my share. You get that. Three million and change and we walk away. I'll tell you where."
"It was that asshole, Bumfelt," said Carbone to Carmouchie. "He wants to make a deal. His life and that of the fed for his share. Three million plus."
Carmouchie pursed his lips and nodded.
"I'll send out the call," he said. "I don't trust this fuckin mook so I'll get guns. Lots of guns."
"I always thought there was something wrong with that Bumfelt," said Carbone, opening a desk drawer. "He grew up with the Saint. Same streets. Same fuckin crimes. I'm gonna put one in the back of his head myself."
He jacked a round into a nine millimeter Beretta.
Bumfelt finished cleaning his Sig, reassembling it, checking the arming slide and the action. Oiled. Smooth. He holstered it and then started cleaning the military grade M4 that he'd taken from a hidden lockbox in Ballsakey's garage. Stone was reassembling a Franchi-Spas semi automatic combat shotgun from the same lockbox.
"Jesus," said Ballsakey, painting her nails. "Looks like you're going to war."
"We are," said Bumfelt.
"They're going to be at the old rail switching yards," said Bumfelt. "Yes, I understand the risk I'm taking. But you don't know who I am you stupid Russian prick. Fuck you. Shut up. The money will be in a white van- says Harry's Hardware on the sides. Nine o'clock. Any later and they're gone."
Bumfelt listened for a few minutes.
"The two guys killed in the robbery," he said. "They were family, right? You've waited years for this. You can get revenge and provide a degree of peace for their families. Nine o'clock."
Bumfelt hung up.
"The Russians are in," he said, dialling. "Ketch, you ready. Good. The drop's at nine. The old switching yards. Let them fuck each other up first. And Ketch, Carbone is mine."
A final call.
"Carbone, old rail yards. The money will be in a white Harry's Hardware van," said Bumfelt. "Eastern side of the yard. You get the money and we walk."
Bumfelt hung up.
"Stone," he said. "Let's go."
"Come back safe," smiled Ballsakey. "Both of you."
They left.
"We grew up on those backstreets together. Catching trains to the outskirts of the city. Sleeping in an old abandoned beach house. Getting wasted in the heat," said Bumfelt. "We tried to be like the heroes that we thought we had to be. But we were just boys, that became men that became bad men. One with a crew, the other with a badge."
Bumfelt opened the van door. They climbed out. Bumfelt looked under the van. It was parked over a six foot deep trench. A service tunnel over which trains would have been parked in the past. Bumfelt pointed across the tracks.
"Only one road in," he said, he pointed to the trench. "These pathways criss- cross the yard. There's steps out, every two hundred yards and over there are the entrances to the subway system."
Bumfelt showed Stone the plan.
"This area around the van is the killbox. Any asshole that comes this way gets dropped. Centre mass shots. Put them down. We let them fuck each other first and then we take out the rest. You ready?"
Stone nodded. Afraid she wouldn't be able to speak her mouth was so dry.
"Put yer shield where it can be seen. Ketch and the guys are expecting a woman but take no chances," said Bumfelt. "Remember, centre mass. Don't freeze when the shit goes down."
Three cars and a blacked out Suv came up the road and through the gate. They parked up, doors opened and heavily armed men got out.
"Bumfelt!" shouted Sal Carmouchie. "Show yourself. Get out of the van!"
Nothing.
"What der fuck is dis?" muttered Carmouchie, assault rifle in his hands. He looked into the Suv. "What der fuck, Sonny?"
Carbone got out. Bumfelt put the M4 sights on him.
"Boss, we got company," said a man holding a Saw rifle. Five cars thundered up to the fence on the other side of the yard.
"I don't like this," said Carmouchie. "What is this shit?"
Men exited the cars, carrying various assault rifles and a-
"Rocket!" shouted Carmouchie. The rocket propelled grenade blew one of the cars into the air and all hell broke loose.
Suddenly everyone was firing at everyone else. Six or seven on each side went down in seconds. The italian with the Saw let rip and a russian Suv and its occupants were torn to pieces before the italian's head was blown off.
"Get some!" snarled Carmouchie, dropping two Russians as they fled the exploding Suv. "Motherfuckers!"
Carbone hit the dirt just as Bumfelt fired. The round zipping over his head. Bumfelt put six more rounds into the side of the Suv and then went full auto where he thought the gangster had rolled. Dropped the magazine out, slapped in a new one and then put single shots into two other italians.
"You fuckin cocksuckers!" shouted Carmouchie, running from one car to another, firing as he ran in the direction of the van. He stumbled, fell as a round hit his armoured vest, got up, shot a russian and dropped into the trench.
He slapped in a new magazine, pulled back the arming slide, looked up and- Stone blew him away.
Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom!
There was pretty much fuck all left of him when she stopped firing.
Carbone rolled under the Suv and out the other side. Keeping low as a barrage of automatic fire shot up the side of the vehicle, shattering glass, tearing metal and bursting tyres.
Bumfelt was moving, M4 up, hitting targets. Missing others. Russian and Italian. He wanted Carbone. That cunt was as good as dead.
A second rpg exploded and Bumfelt was slammed against a car. Stunned, he fumbled for the fallen M4- a shadow fell over him.
A wop brought up an MP5 and- his chest blew out. He dropped - Stone stood behind him.
And then she rocked back, bullets hitting her right arm, shoulder and chest.
"Stone!" shouted Bumfelt, fast drawing his Sig, dropping a killer. Carbone ran from behind the Suv, running for the tracks and the subway system. Bumfelt fired but he had no angle and missed. Ducked low as more rounds impacted around him, rolled and dragged Stone into the trench.
"I'm fucked up," spluttered Stone, coughing blood, tears of pain running from her eyes.
Sirens. More gunfire. Ingleton and his men. That meant There'd be emergency services enroute.
"Hold on, Stone," snarled Bumfelt, pushing her hand to the hole in her chest. "Press here hard. Hold on. Help's coming."
He snatched up his phone. "Officer down. Federal Agent down under the white van. I repeat under the white van. Agent down."
"Get him, Eddie," gasped Stone. "Go get that bastard. I got this."
Bumfelt held her eyes for a second. Such beautiful damn eyes.
"I got it," smiled Stone. Bumfelt took his hand and eyes from hers and then he was running along the tunnel. In pursuit.
Carbone ducked around a stationary train. Glanced back. Nothing. Bullets sparked off the metal and zipped past his head. Carbone ran.
Bumfelt rushed up the steps and onto the tracks. He sighted on the fleeing gangster and- a fucking subway train got in the way as it thundered past.
"Lucky son of a bitch!" snarled Bumfelt, running to the track, the train hurtling past him in a blur of metal, heat and noise.
Carbone fired wildly over his shoulder and ran into the tunnels.
"Got you now, motherfucker," snarled Bumfelt, giving chase into the heat and gloom of the system.
Bumfelt thought about his friend. Two k**s from the same streets. Each one fighting for the other. Thought about the good times. The shit that they'd pulled together. Him, Jimmy, Sammy and the others. Blood brothers. It had been one hell of a ride.
Boom, boom, boom.
Wild shots. Not that close.
"Let's do a deal!" shouted Carbone. "We can work something out!"
Boom, boom.
Footsteps.
Carbone was running again. Close. Going for lights ahead. A platform. A way out. Fuck that.
Bumfelt levelled his Sig. Waited. Waited. Fired.
Scream. Clattering of a fallen gun.
Bumfelt jogged forward. Sig at his side.
Carbone crawled onto the platform, heaving himself upright. Blood trailing behind him.
"It's over, you piece of shit," snarled Bumfelt.
Carbone slowly turned around.
"Fuck you," he spat. "Do it. Fuckin do it!"
Bumfelt levelled the Sig.
"Time makes a fool's joke out of the promises we make. Promises to others, to ourselves. The world just strips away who we are, what we want to be, what we dream of being," said Bumfelt. "Jimmy was no saint. None of us were. We were pieces of shit, just like you. But we were brothers until the end."
Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom. Splat!
Bumfelt turned and walked away. Lost for a fleeting moment in the heat and the comforting clacking of the subway. Back for that moment as a c***d, running with his best friend, playing King of the mountain out on the end.
The End.
deleted
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