Jersey."
It took a few more strikes until he obtained the exact address. Actually, he didn’t expect the weakling Alec resisted so much before telling all he knew, which otherwise wasn’t too much. Enough for a new encounter with the blonde.
"All right, red, I think that's all," said the detective when he realized he wouldn’t get anything else useful. "Say goodbye, little shit."
"Fuck you, Cutf ..."
With a single stroke, Cutfield nailed the bar of iron in the Irish's skull, causing him to leave his sentence unfinished. If he had been a little apprehensive, he would have felt certain uneasiness whilst looking at corpse’s opened eyes and mouth, while a half-red half-gray liquid was leaking out the place where he’d encrusted the bar. Luckily, he wasn’t.
A House at Jersey
As he walked down the Duncan Avenue, with Lincoln Park on his left, Cutfield thought about what he would find when he reached that house. In the worst case scenario, the blonde would be there with all her fucking association. In the best, she would only be in the company of the boy with hat and overalls. Everything depended on whether she thought paying the Irish or passing him away.
His heart was pumping hard as he approached the house. ¿Nerves? No, not really. Rather, it was due to how pissed off he was; they had been using him as a puppet, and now it was time for pulling out the wires and strangle the puppet master with them. Or the puppet mistress, more likely.
Although the interior was illuminated, the detective wasn’t able to hear even a whisper. It wouldn't be as simple as the warehouse; that was pretty clear. Now he will face well-prepared people. Unscrupulous people, who hadn’t hesitated to mark him as a target when his task was accomplished.
Cutfield, along the way, had been thinking and clarifying ideas. Even though he had no doubt of what happened, that didn’t mean he couldn’t be wrong again. He took out once more his revolver and prepared himself for the last dance.
The dance began earlier than expected.
Even at those moments when the sun still didn’t dare to make its appearance across the horizon, he wasn’t able to hear the shot. A silencer, no doubt, and a good one. But he felt it, piercing his left shoulder. Had been a fool not to realize that the house would be guarded, and that stupidity almost cost him his life. Despite the sharp pain he felt, didn't drop his weapon and managed to hide in some nearby bushes. A refuge that wouldn’t stop bullets, and would have helped not much at daylight. The darkness of the night, however, proved to be an ideal hideaway.
He heard the impact of projectiles close, two or three of them. Then silence came back. A silence that was showing a false security that wouldn’t last long; the occupants of the house, unable to kill him from afar, would soon go out for him. Defending himself would be no easy task, as if he shot at any one of them the noise would attract the others to where he was. He tucked the gun and pulled out a small pocket knife.
That was going to be unkind.
He felt his shoulder was burning inside, but Cutfield tried to abstract from that and focus on his priority: to survive for the next few minutes. He advanced, hidden in the shadows, to a nearby house.
"Are you sure it's around here?" A male voice asked. Another man replied affirmatively. They were getting very close to him, and with his small pocket knife he couldn't finish both of them fast enough. Everything seemed lost when a noise was heard in the distance. The first man walked toward it, asking his buddy to continue searching the area. Good.
The detective approached, with all the stealth he could, to the guy who had now been left alone, standing behind him. With some effort, he used his left hand to cover his mouth, as hammering the knife in the neck of the bully. He did it twice, burying the blade all he could. After his death he decided to get his weapon, which would have a silencer.
"Hey!" The guy who was away had been able to notice that something was wrong. He raised his gun in the direction of Cutfield, who had no time to grab the pistol from the other. Instinctively, he threw the knife towards whom was about to become his executioner.
Cutfield could not see how the blade passed through the cornea of the thug, keeping the object stuck in his eye, but watched as he fell. A thud that undoubtedly would alert the other ones. He took the pistol from the ground, and prepared for the arrival of the rest of the gang. With little glamour, but much efficiency, one by one they were eliminated with the detective's accurate shots.
Now nothing separated him from his ultimate goal.
The Truth
The abrupt and wet awakening wasn’t very nice. The guy in the hat and overalls was still holding the metal bucket in his hand as he watched him amusing. By his side with a stylish black dress, it was Christine's sister. She didn’t seem too much pleased with how events had been happening. Cutfield was glad for that, although the situation was not for a laugh.
He remembered entering into the house through the large front window. A not too good idea that didn't only leave him covered in stab wounds, but also resulted in a severe blow to his head, performed probably by the hatted boy. An amateur mistake — that had all the earmarks of being his last one. From what little he could see, because he was tied to a chair, he wasn't on the ground floor of the dwelling; must have been taken to the basement. The amazing thing was for him to still alive.
"You may wonder why you're still alive, aren’t you?" The blonde approached him with something in her hand that Cutfield could not see well. "It was never our intention to kill you, I promise. Alec had orders to make sure you did your task, that's all."
"Bullshit, blonde!" The detective replied, leaning forward. That movement reflected in a painful response on his shoulder.
"We know many things," she kept saying, with little heed to the words of Cutfield. "Because of you, we discovered where they got the information from the girls, and did not take us long to get from Roger the names of those five. Then, we had to kill him, of course. There was no other option. When you get in touch with Alec, we did to him an offer ... how do I say? An offer that we knew he wouldn’t refuse.
"We could have taken on those four, but if it would you who finally did it, our association would be away from suspicion. Moreover, the case would be closed and nobody would investigate further what not to. You would have earned your reward, and we would get calm."
"I also know a few things, blonde" Cutfield said, trying not to be altered. "For instance, I know your fucking association is dedicated to getting details of rich and powerful men. I imagine it won’t be for the money, but the truth is I don’t give a shit what you use for the information. And, one day, these men from the warehouse discovered your little game. Maybe by accident or it could be that one of the girls would tell them. Fuck knows!
"With the help of the fat receptionist of the Diamond, they managed to enter the room when the girls were alone. After drugging them, obtained the information about the guy. Somehow, later they didn't remember the conversation and that's why you've never discovered all was happening in the motel. But you knew that information had come out of the girls, and you had to give an example, hadn't you? The other girls must know what would happen if they told about those secrets. You tortured them, slain them, and left a message; a brand that only your association had knowledge with a symbol in the middle that definitely identifies who made the odd job. An initial. In the case of your sister, it was an "A". "
"Amanda" the blonde admitted. "That's my name, Amanda Stonewell. It was me who ... did this mission. Being her sister, and leader of the association, was up to me be responsible for her death."
"She died for something that wasn't her fault!" Cutfield screamed. "They all died without any guilt. Nine innocent girls."
"Innocent? They were not, Cutfield! No one is innocent! I didn't want to, but I'm afraid you know too much to keep breathing. We were going to make you an offer, but you wouldn't accept it and, moreover, we cannot be sure of you keeping quiet."
The blonde Amanda raised her hand, showing what she held. It was a syringe with
a long needle. The detective knew that if he was punctured, would never again wake up. He inhaled all the air he could, gritted his teeth, and moved all he could forward. The impulse made the chair almost falling forward, and that caused that the murderous blonde react the way he thought. He got a hard blow in his face, and both he and the chair almost flew out backwards. The crash to earth did the chair break enough to liberate Cutfield's right arm.
Everything happened in split seconds. The kid in the cap with the cube in his hand, rushed towards him with the intention of beating him. They had taken the gun and the knife from him, but didn't find the small black gun, souvenir of an Irish, carried on his leg. A couple of shots in the stomach ended the impetus of the boy.
"Do not even think it, Amanda," he said, pointing to the blonde whilst she was about to run out of there.
"Now what, Cutfield? Are you gonna kill me too?"
The detective thought for a second about that. Then, he emptied the magazine against the blonde.
Victory’s Cigar
"Afterwards I went home. I needed to rest, and did pretty: until mid afternoon I didn't open my eyes. Do you know the enlightenment given by a restful sleep? While I smoked a cigarette and was preparing some meal, I thought again of all this.
"If that association did not was blackmailing their victims, I thought surely