Iron House Read Online Free PDF Page B

them both in under a second. They dropped and he heard shouts from the stairs. Three men, maybe more. Fear in their voices. Michael said nothing, but crossed the room and stood four feet from the left-hand door, which remained closed. Fear was a cancer for those who were not used to this, so time was on his side, but not by much. He listened for steps on carpet, and when shoes showed through the gap beneath the door, he put two rounds through the wood, center mass.
    A body hit the floor, and Michael rounded onto the landing, where he found three more men, two in full retreat down the stairs and another with a gun in his hand and pointed. But it takes more than a trigger finger to shoot a man. When someone is shooting back, it takes the kind of cool that rock stars can only fake. Michael had that cool, and so did Jimmy.
    No one else in the house was even close.
    Two bullets flew wide of Michael’s shoulder, and he tapped the shooter once in the forehead, stepping past before he was even down. The other men pulled up short, one shooting wildly, the other hands up and empty. Michael shot the first and kept both guns trained on the second. He was late-sixties, a street thug from the old days kept around for sentimental reasons. He was a gopher now: ran errands, cooked food. His hands were steady above his head, his face resigned. Michael stopped one step above him and put a barrel so close to his cheek he could feel heat from the metal. “Where’s Jimmy?”
    “Gone. Ran.”
    “How long?”
    “Just this second.”
    Michael glanced down at the open door, the hint of city beyond. He pressed hot metal against the man’s cheek. “If you’re lying, I’ll kill you slow.”
    “I’m not lying.”
    “What about the nurse? The priest?”
    “Same thing.”
    “Are they on the payroll?”
    The man nodded, which meant they would keep their mouths shut. Michael looked again at the open door. “You have car keys?”
    The man pulled a ring from his pants pocket. “The Navigator,” he said. “Out back.”
    “Anyone else in the house?”
    He shook his head. The smell of burned powder was everywhere, a gray haze under the chandelier. Michael studied his face and remembered a few conversations they’d had. His name was Donovan. He had grandchildren.
    “Tell Stevan I’m out.” Donovan nodded, but Michael realized the lie even as he did. The old man was dead at Michael’s hand. Blood ran down the walls, the stairs. He was nowhere close to out. Not after this. Michael gestured with the gun. “Go.”
    Donovan fled, and Michael went back upstairs. He stood by the bed and looked down on the husk of the man he’d killed. He’d been a hard man, but full of kindness for those he loved. Michael remembered a conversation they’d had on the morning of his fourteenth birthday. A year had passed since that day under the bridge, and the old man wanted to know why.
    Why was I on the streets?
    Yeah.
The old man turned his lips, tilted his head.
Smart kid. Good looking. You could have gone to the authorities, anybody. Why take the hard road? Why the streets?
    I had my reasons.
    That’s all you’re going to say?
    Humor shone in the old man’s eyes, a kind of pride.
    Yes, sir.
    Whatever you were running from, Michael, it can’t touch you now. You know that, right? Not here. Not with me.
    I know that.
    And you still won’t tell me?
    I have reasons for that, too.
    He’d ruffled the boy’s hair, and, laughing, said,
A man should have his reasons.
    And in all this time, Michael had never told him why he’d chosen the hard road. Because the old man was right. A man should have his reasons.
    And his secrets.
    Michael straightened the old man’s arms and smoothed the blanket across his chest. He kissed one still-warm cheek, then the other; when he stood, tears burned hot in his eyes. He lifted Hemingway’s novella from the bedside table, then stood for a long while, looking down. “You were good to me,” he said, and when he left, he took