The Tilsons Got Killed

These fuckers were hoping to stop that. I pulled out my Glock and Ryker's Uzi submachine gun came on display at the same time. They all looked at us especially the Uzi.

"Dudes," I said. "Ever seen an Uzi in real life? Isn't it fucking awesome? So small, yet so powerful. You know they were developed by the Israeli military to kill fuckers like you and can shoot 30 rounds a second. Isn't that cool?! The Secret Service uses them to protect the President of the United States! Imagine that! The actual fucking President of the United States! Once my buddy here starts firing, you'll have less than a minute to live. Have any last prayers you want to say?"

Not surprisingly, they all started talking amongst themselves until macho wannabe up on the porch started to aim, and I had to shoot him between the eyes.

He dropped like a two-bit whore falling onto a bed.

"Who's next?" I asked.

"Nice shooting," Ryker said. "Ragan will be on your ass about that."

"Yeah, I know."

I look at the rest of them. "Anyone else? Bueller? Bueller?"

They didn't get the joke.

"So, where's the boss?"

"Ain't no boss here, bro. I'm the boss," said Teardrop.

"The fuck you are. Who's the boss?" I raised my Glock and put it between his eyes." "You want to be next?"

"I'm telling you, man, there is no boss. I'm the boss. The orders come to me and I deliver them."

"How?"

"Burners dude. Are you totally clueless?"

I wasn't and nodded. A dead end.

We waited until Ragan and the homicide squad showed up to clear the scene. He wasn't pissed.

"Thanks for the help cleaning up the streets."

I nodded. "Can we split?"

"Yeah. Be available later for questioning. Your clock is ticking, by the way."

Like he had to tell me.

Chapter 16

I went back to my office that had thankfully been scrubbed clean by a commercial cleaning service that the cops recommended for crime scenes. I needed to think things over leaving Ryker behind to answer questions and clean up the mess when my door opened again without a knock.

I looked up to see a chiseled jawed, well-built individual who looked like the spitting image of Marvel Comics Sgt. Fury from the '70s wearing a $3,000 custom made suit.

He looked like a guy who could eat a bar of metal for lunch and be shitting nails in the afternoon. He sat down in my guest chair.

"Nice suit. Hugo Boss custom?" I asked. "I have one or two of those, but I prefer Ozwald Boateng out of London. That's in England, you know."

He just sat there looking at me with dead eyes.

"And how can I be of service, today?" I asked. "What kind of trouble are you in?"

"Oh, I'm not in trouble. You are." And Chiseled Jaw soldier boy looked at me.

"Oh, why?"

"My boys asked you nicely to stay away and you killed one of them."

"Well, that is an interesting question since you asked it. I did not kill him. Ryker killed him, but then again, he drew on Ryker. That was his big mistake. Even I wouldn't do that. However, I suppose, you could technically say, I killed him since he was in my office trying to kill me and my friend. So, yeah. Okay, Sgt. Fury, I guess I killed him."

"Do you think this is a laughing matter?"

"Oh no. I think this is very serious."

"Really? Why?"

"Gosh, Sergeant. May I call you Sergeant?"

"I'm not a fucking Sergeant!"

"Really? Has anyone ever told you that you look just like Marvel Comics' Sgt. Fury in their comic books in the '70s? Seriously, you look just like him. You know, that was my favorite. A lot of my friends liked Spiderman and the Fantastic Four and the others, but Sgt Fury was always my favorite. You ever read him?"

"No, I never read Sgt.-fucking-Fury, and fuck you! I'm not him and I'm no fucking Sergeant!"

"Oh gosh darn, please excuse me. I guess I was confused by that "death before dishonor" tattoo you have over there on your arm. Special Forces. You know, Ryker, who your man, Fireplug, drew on, has the same tattoo: Army Ranger. He spent a lot of time in the deep jungle. You?"

"Fuck you, asshole. Yeah. I did. Now listen to me, I'm telling you this is going to stop right here and now. I now understand that my boys were under-matched for you. My mistake. I underestimated you and you have my respect, but you are now going to deal with the big boys and this is over. Got it?"

"Sergeant, no. I'm sorry. You killed Courtney Tilson's family, made her an orphan, destroying her life in an attempt to make even more illegal money. I am going to track you down and either see you in prison for life or kill you and everyone involved as the dogs you are. No mercy. I'm going to get you and you are a dead man walking."

"I killed no one," he retorted. "Listen to me you stupid fucking fuck, if I were you, I'd watch my fucking step because I sense a fucking funeral coming up very, very soon."

And Sgt. Fury turned and left.

Chapter 17

I met with Ragan, Walker, and of course, Ryker in one of the back booths at Art's Deli in Studio City in the Valley where "Every sandwich is a work of Art." Art's is nearly all booths and very private because it is mostly show business and everybody is too concerned about themselves. I saw Annette Bening and her kids with Warren Beatty in one booth. Jamie Cromwell in another. I waved hi. He was a client a few years back, and Mark Wahlberg in the large corner booth with what looked like his management team. I didn't wave hi, since he is an asshole.

Our orders came.

"I'm telling you this is the Elizabeth Taylor of corned beef sandwiches," I said.

"I thought you preferred Langer's pastrami," Ryker said.

"My good man, you cannot compare pastrami to corn beef. That is like trying to compare a fine cabernet sauvignon to an award winning pinot noir, a Picasso to a Rembrandt, Sofia Vergara's breasts to Scarlet Johansson's ass. A true connoisseur appreciates them all."

He had ordered a hot dog.

We started to compare notes. After all, they were the actual homicide cops on the case. I filled Ragan and Walker on everything so far including Sgt. Fury's office visit.

"Did you get him on camera?" Ragan asked.

And I flipped the stills to him.

"We'll run this guy local, state, and national. If he was Special Forces, we'll find him. Downtown, you still thinking this I-beam thing?" he continued.

"It's the only thing that makes sense. COVID has screwed up the supply chains. Tilson gets the two big contracts, the interstate, and the stadium, and because of the political pull of both, he's going to the top of the queue on materials coming out of the San Pedro docks."

They both nodded, Walker taking notes.

"Hong was the materials broker. Deep Southeast Asian roots and connections. The perfect mule for the I-beams. Higgs was dirty and on the payroll, that's why they had to kill him. Loose ends. The Tilson family were collateral damage. He was the target. I believe they figured without him the company would fold. It's an old story. There was a big-deal developer out of San Luis Obispo named Madonna who helped to build the town. Not the singer. He built the Madonna Inn on the 101. He died and a bunch of his country and city projects laid there like a latka for years because his company went belly up, and they had to start the bidding process all over again. Kill Tilson, the contracts dry up and the I-beams start to flow."

"Hey!" Walker said. "My wife and I have stayed there. In the men's room, you pee into a giant clamshell."

"Yeah. That's the place."

"Okay," said Ragan. "That passes the smell test and sounds right. What are your thoughts going forward? It would be good to be on the same page."

"Look, this stuff is being stored in a warehouse down by the docks somewhere. Probably one of those setups where one side of the warehouse is bonded and still considered "international" and the other side is the USA. Those places have a customs station in them. When it passes into the other side, it's here. Find me Sgt. Fury and his property holding or whereabouts, and we've got the motherfuckers."

"You know that is a matter for law enforcement," Ragan said.

"Yeah, but can you get a warrant?"

"Probably not."

"Figured, that's because your badge isn't as shiny!" and I smiled.

Chapter 17

I filled the good counselor in on the developments so far since she was footing the bill and had nice legs on our way over to the Tilson Building in the Brown Bomber to do the same for Courtney, having nothing to do with her money or her legs.

Ryker and I were with her in her office on the 55^th floor. I brought her up to speed, gingerly, including Ms. Hong, my visit from Sgt. Fury, and what the cops and I have been talking about.

That's when the attack came at the end of the day. Two of them, dressed in black with knit watch caps, and plastic reflective masks to thwart facial recognition from the cameras. One came through a side door on the south, the second from the north.

They popped both of our guys guarding the downstairs lobby with one in the head, from behind before they knew what hit them. Then for no reason killed the married cutie at the reception desk. Damn, I liked her and now her husband was a widower. I hoped there were no kids.

They went to the bank of elevators and punched them all to the 55^th floor, and then worked their way up the stairways, instead, also both sides. Got to hand to them. These guys were fit because they made it up 55 flights in no time flat.

But we were ready for them. They didn't know that we had wifi-two-way body cams on everybody and our four guys had taken positions watching the elevators and other access to the floor.

Just in case, we had run a few drills with all personal from secretarial to Courtney on what to do if something like this happened. The alarm sounded and everyone took their safety positions, scared and shivering.

I made sure Courtney was in her safe place under her desk. We had used corporate funds to get a bullet-proof metal desk for her with a nice wood patina before she went back to work.

Joining the troops, Ryker and I also positioned ourselves strategically using the doors for cover.

The elevators arrived at the 55^th floor and opened, seemingly empty, but one of our guys had to go in to clear them and make sure while we covered. The two assassins surprised us arriving from the stairwells on the sides instead and one of them killed him. Hitting him square in the back, before the assassin was blown away by Ryker and one of our other three.

His partner wasn't so lucky. He barely made it around the corner before I hit him with the standard LAPD three-shot pattern in the chest sending him to his heavenly reward.

The devil got his money's worth that night.

We went to investigate the scene. "Reflective masks," I said as I pulled one off. I reached for his sleeve, pulled it back to reveal a tattoo.

"God damn, I think this might be our guy!"

"Why not body armor?" Ryker wondered.

"I'm guessing too obvious in downtown during the daytime. I mean, would you?"

"I wouldn't need it."

I shook my head, "Nope, I suppose you wouldn't."

LAPD showed up shortly. Ragan and Walker weren't far behind.

"You thinking that's our guy?"

"I am."

"Maybe Christmas came early. I'll get the lab guys to get the Feds involved in this too."

He looked at me, "You know, the body counts getting pretty big on this one, Downtown."

"Tell me about it. I'm looking forward to a nice, quiet divorce case where the only shooting is his dick in the other woman."

After all of the appropriate things and words, and the cops were done, we left the team, and the company employees, because we had Courtney to deal with.

Ryker and I sat in her office in the conversational grouping.

"I should give everybody the option to go home," she said.

I nodded, "Probably a good idea."

She did.

"If you would prefer to go home yourself we will take you," I said.

"No. I won't let them chase me away."

"Want to talk about it?"

"You promised me that I was safe. Was I safe?"

"You were," I reassured. I'm very sorry about your receptionist downstairs. I liked her and feel bad for her family, but all of the bad guys are dead. As long as I am alive no one will get to you."

She nodded her head about the receptionist and looked relieved regarding herself.

"Do you want us to escort you home to recover? This must trigger a lot of fresh feelings and memories."

"No, I'm here to run this company and see this through and that is what I'm going to do."

And she looked me square in the eye.

"And to hell with them, if they think they are going to scare me. I'm not going to let them!"

I was surprised, impressed, and delighted.

"Good. We will bring in fresh troops, you will be safe."

"Do you have anything on my family's killer?" she asked plaintively.

"I think we got him."

"Really?!"

"Yeah, I think he is dead on the carpet outside your door."

"I want to see him."

"I'd advise against that, Courtney," I cautioned.

"I want to see him!"

And she got up and walked outside to the hallway looking at a phalanx of cops and folks from the coroner's busy around the scene.

"Which one is he?"

I pointed him out.

Courtney walked over to him. A uniformed police officer held out his arm and said, "Sorry ma'am, you can't go in there."

"The hell I can't," she snapped. "I own this building and you are standing in my hallway. Get the fuck out of my way!" and she barreled in with us following.

The coroner looked up.

"Is that him?"

She lifted her skirt. She was going commando! Bent down, and pissed on his face. A damn river! -- until the shocked coroner shouted, "No!!!"

As they pulled Courtney away she turned back and shouted, "Burn in Hell, fucker."

Chapter 18

Everyone else had gone. I was sitting with Courtney on the couch softly talking things over, her anger and adrenalin slowly melting away. Reality was finally settling in about another traumatic experience. I was waiting for that. She leaned into me.

"Well, that made a statement. Feel better? What happened to your underwear?"

"I peed in my pants before."

"It happens to everybody. Don't worry, you are not alone."

"I hate him."

"I know," and put my arm around her.

"Anthony, is this going to be okay? I have no one left to talk to," and she started crying.

"You can always talk to me."

I let her sob.

We stayed like that for a while. I brought her a few tissues.

"Here. You'll need these."

A few nose blows and eye wipes later she was back into my chest with my arm around her shoulders.

"You know, I have no one to love me anymore."

"Sure you do. You have your extended family, your friends, the folks who work here. Of anyone I know you have the most folks who love you."

"But no one to love me!" and she squeezed my chest harder. "I need someone to love me. Will you love me, Anthony," and she looked up into my eyes.

"If you are saying what I think you are, that is not a good idea, Courtney."

"Yes, it is. I don't know what to do, and I have no one to turn to but you. You are my knight in shining armor. My bodyguard. I need you. And I need you now!"

And she moved up and kissed me.

I gently pushed her away.

"Really, this is not a good idea."

And she dove back in and shove her tongue into my mouth desperately like someone finally drinking water after days in the Mohave Desert.

"Make love to me, please. Make me feel good. Please make me feel good. I need someone to love me. Only me."

She kissed me some more and started to move all over me.

"Make me feel good, I need to feel good again. Will you please make me feel good, Anthony?"

Courtney's hands were everywhere. Her voice was desperate. Her lips were begging. My hands were roaming as I started to respond.

She leaned back against the couch, jutting her chest out, offering herself to me.

"Love me, please. You said you'd take care of me. Won't you make me feel good?"

Against my better judgment, I began to kiss her back. Her lips were sweet and tender. Her breasts were young and needy as was her body.

With her skirt up to her waist, her pussy was wet and yearning. I kissed her again, looked at her, and said, "Are you sure you want this?"

Her eyes said yes. I entered her tenderly, slowly sliding completely inside her velvety warmth.

"Still okay?"

She answered pulling me in for a long, deep, everlasting kiss and we made love on her couch as "Oh yes, so good. Make me feel good," she continued.

I think I did.

Chapter 19

The next few days were filled with paperwork and looking into the little things.

Life had calmed down at Tilson and was slowly getting back to normal, the Feds came through and it was our guy. Ragan was right. After he left the Army, our guy had become an international hitman paid by Bitcoin, wanted all over the western world. Ragan was fielding calls from London to Sydney. It looked as if I was a hero in the international secret agent and spook ecosphere.

Damn, finally made the Hall of Fame!

I was shuffling paper waiting for Ragan to submerge from the international flood to give me some hints on the location of the possible warehouse.

So I asked Courtney if she'd like to have dinner.

We were sitting at a window table at Geoffrey's in Malibu. Great California-style cuisine seafood with waterfalls spilling into the ocean, and spotlights in the surf. Maybe the finest seafood restaurant in Malibu and I didn't even have to slip the maître d a hundred since I had helped him a few years back.

"Hi, Anthony."

"Scotty, I hope everything is cool and you guys are doing okay."

"Yes, we are. Thanks for chasing the son-of-a-bitch out of town. I took her back."

I was happy to hear the news.

"I have a nice ocean-view booth for you."

"Thanks," and they led us to the table.

Courtney ordered a lemon-drop martini -- yuck -- and I ordered my Maker's on the rocks.

"It's good to be with you in a normal life situation," I said.

"Yes," she sighed and melted into the booth.

"Then let's have a normal life like time tonight. What do you say?"

She nodded.

The appetizers came. I sprung for the seafood tower. Three layers of the finest shellfish on earth from lobster to shrimp to scallops, to crabs and oysters.

"Oh my!" she said and dug in.

It was nearly as luscious as Courtney.

We spent the rest of the evening talking like people, not private eye and client, getting to know each other.

She was wise beyond her years and had taken a year off for the Peace Corp. Started by JFK and thanks to Reagan a forgotten thing, but still a thing. She had been inland in Libya for a year.

"Do you know over three billion people, three billion! cook on an open fire in their homes? Many of those homes are simple huts. Imagine the danger to their life and health, let alone the pollution to global warming. A simple, small stove can feed and save an entire African family. The Grameen Bank, Nobel Prize winners, started an international micro-loan program to provide that. No collateral. Trust. A small loan that can buy a stove, or a goat, or two new water buckets. Things as simple as that can change and save lives over there."

I was listening enthralled by her brilliance.

"The Cookstove Project is doing just that. Believe it or not, they all have cell phones. It makes sense. There are no phone companies and cell service is changing the world. The Peace Corp put me in Libya for a year all over the country to try to get the population to download the Grameen Bank app. I did with 1,000s and that is saving and improving lives over there right now. They are wonderful people. But I was pulled out because it became too dangerous with the civil war brewing."