John Locke - Callie’s Last Dance

The tenth book in the Donovan Creed series, 2012

RIDLEYS WIFE, CONNIE, doesnt cheat very often, but when she does its going to take place in room 316 at the Winston Parke Hotel in downtown Cincinnati.

Three-sixteen, because its her lucky number.

Her date of birth.

March sixteenth.

Ridley knows this, hes followed her there several times.

While he strongly disapproves of Connies extra-marital affair, the guy shes fucking is Tom Bell, the number two ranked mixed martial artist in the world. Ridleys no wimp, but Bell could kick Ridleys ass with one hand while fingering Connie with the other.

Which is why Ridley plans to kill them from a distance.

Ridley may not know martial arts, but as a commercial builder he knows a thing or two about concrete. For example, he knows concrete floors in modern hotels are usually eight inches thick and pre-stressed, while seventy-year-old floors, like those in the Winston Parke, are only four inches thick and composed of light-weight concrete.

Ridley also knows hand guns. Hes collected them all his life. For example, he knows his Nitro Zeliska is the largest, most-powerful handgun in the world. Knows it fires a 900-grain,.600 round at 1,950 feet per second while producing a whopping 7,591 foot pounds of muzzle energy. He knows it set him back nearly twenty grand, plus forty bucks a bullet.

The Winston Parke lobby has a caf on one side, a bank of glass elevators on the other. Ridleys sitting in the caf, sipping his coffee, watching Connie and Tom Bell take an elevator to the third floor.

For Ridley, its come full-circle.

Hes the one who introduced Connie to room 316 years ago, when she was in design school. Hes the one who wined, dined, and married her, the one who adored her, took care of her, and introduced her to society. Hes the one who gave her the life of luxury, funded her home decorating business, showered her with gifts, took her places shed never been

And this is how she pays him back.

Ridley stares at his coffee, trying to forget what he saw.

Tom, patting his wifes ass.

Connie, showing Tom the bedroom smile Ridley used to get.

He sighs.

What kind of wife would do him this way?

He knows the answer.

A younger one.

What it all comes down to, the younger wives want a guy on the side. You shower them with love, bring them all the way up the ladder of success, and get what in return?

Gratitude?

Loyalty?

No. What you get is attitude. After a few years of fucking you, they want to fuck what youre not.

Ridleys got it figured out. Hed say if you want to predict who your wifes gonna fuck, look for the guy whos nothing like you. If youre handsome, theyll fuck ugly. If youre ugly, theyll fuck handsome. If youre rich, theyll fuck poor. If youre poor, theyll fuck rich.

They just wont fuck you.

And these younger wives are cocky.

Well, today it ends.

Ridleys gun is waiting for him in room 216.

He finishes his coffee, rides the elevator to the second floor, enters his room. He removes the gun from its case.

Zeliska revolvers are twenty-two inches long and weigh thirteen pounds. The weight helps control the recoil.

Ridley dons his eye protectors, inserts his custom ear plugs, loads five rounds into the cylinder. He lies on his back on the bed, centers himself, and looks up at the ceiling, thinking, my wifes twelve feet above me, fucking Tom Bell.

He imagines Connie moaning with pleasure. Giving Tom oral. Allowing him free reign over every inch of her body.

She barely knows the guy!

Is she really capable of doing things to him she wont do for the man who loves her?

Of course she is.

Thats how it works.

When they spread their legs for another man, they go all the way.

Ridley lifts his gun, extends his arms, locks them. The barrels eight feet from Connies back, if shes on the bottom, or Connies front, if Toms doing her face down. Or eight feet from Toms back, if Connies on top.

He cocks the gun anticipating what could happen. First, the bullet will send fragments of concrete in all directions, and cover him with concrete dust. No problem. People in the lobby might remember seeing a guy covered in dust later on, but they wont associate him with being the shooter. Second, due to freak luck, the bullet might ricochet into Ridley, and kill him instantly. That would be unlikely, but Ridleys prepared to die. If he doesnt make a clean getaway hell be in prison the rest of his life, and hed rather be dead than in prison. Third, the first shot might not make it all the way to the target, so he intends to pump all five rounds into the ceiling, shooting each successive shot into the hole made by the first bullet. With any luck at all, the first shot will kill whoevers on the bottom, the rest will kill whoevers on top.

Ridley takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, then pulls the trigger.

In this enclosed area, even with his ear plugs firmly in place, the gunshot sounds like a bomb detonating. The concrete above him explodes in a cloud of smoke. Sharp pieces of plaster and concrete nick his body, and would have shredded his eyes, but for the safety goggles. The recoil nearly caused him to lose his grip. The gun gas makes him retch.

He cant see the hole his first bullet made, but makes an educated guess and fires again. This time the recoil is so fierce, Ridleys arms cant prevent the gun from shattering his face. As he cries out in pain, a two-foot slab of concrete disengages from the ceiling, hangs precariously for a split second, then falls seven feet onto Ridleys exposed neck, killing him instantly.

Cincinnati, Four Days Earlier

Donovan Creed.

THEYRE PLAYING MUSIC! Callie says, with a burst of sudden enthusiasm. You think Sal set up a dance floor?

I hope not, I say.

Its mid-morning, fourth of July. The suns bright, but not yet hot. Were crossing a perfectly-manicured lawn, heading toward the main tent to greet our host, crime boss Sal Bonadello.

Dont be a spoil sport, Donovan!

Spoil sport? What does that even mean?

It means if they play our song I expect a dance.

Heres something you dont know about me. Im a terrible dancer. I mean, I know enough ballroom dancing to get laid. But when the musics fast and Im dancing freestyle I look like Quasimodo trying to put on a suit.

We dont have a song, I say.

Are you insane? Of course we do!

Whats ours?

Youll know it when you hear it.

I laugh. So you dont know, either.

Every couple has a song, Donovan. We just havent heard ours yet.

Wait. Did you just call us a couple?

Callie sighs. Does this make sense to you?

What?

In all these years weve never shared a dance.

That cant be true. Perhaps youve forgotten.

Trust me, Id remember. I love dancing. But you avoid it like Superman avoids kryptonite.

Shes right, of course. And her kryptonite analogys a good one.

Callie and I have worked together eight years. Were assassins. Shes the only person on earth I trust not to kill me, and thats only on good days. But we havent danced because, overlooking the fact I look stupid while doing it, dance floors are high-risk locations. Youre moving around, people around you are moving, you cant keep track. Is the guy in the blue suit wielding a knife? Is the older lady palming a derringer? Maybe the lady with the gun isnt on the dance floor. Maybe shes a guy dressed like an old lady, sitting at a table across the room holding a purse that contains a gun with a silencer. When she shoots, the small sound gets drowned out by the music. Maybe shes watching me dance, waiting for the perfect time to squeeze off a shot. She puts her hand in her purse, grips her gun, gives the signal. On the dance floor, a pretty redhead nods, then purposely backs into me, knocks me off balance. The older lady shoots, kills me, and waltzes out the room.