Road to Heaven
Chapter Eight
Joe threw himself down, managing to grasp one of Frank's feet as he fell, but Frank was too heavy and Joe was pulled forward toward the stairwell. The man who had opened the door grabbed Joe's waist, pulling with all his might. Joe's and Frank's downward momentum ceased and the man sat on Joe's back as he leaned over and grabbed Frank's leg. Pulling backward, Joe grunted in pain as he took the weight of his rescurer and Frank. The man got off of Joe and helped a shaken Frank and a sore Joe to their feet.
"What are you doing here?" Frank hissed at the man, quietly, not daring to alert anyone to his prescence.
"Come on inside," the man replied and preceded them into the apartment. "Now, what are you two doing here?" he asked, his green eyes questioning.
Frank looked at the red haired man who stood an inch taller than his own six foot one frame. He had seen this man several thousand times but normally he looked like an older version of Frank, complete with brown hair and brown eyes.
"Dad," Joe said, "what are you doing here? We thought you had gone undercover in Chicago."
"I did," Fenton replied, sitting down in a chair and waving his sons over to a sofa. "But the trail came here," he added. "Now, what are you doing here?" he asked again and this time Frank and Joe both knew from the stern expression on their father's face no more of their questions would be answered until his was.
Joe explained about witnessing Testerman's murder, his kidnapping, and Kenny's subsequent murder. Frank then took over and told his father Con had sent them here to talk to Terry Mikeal.
"So why are you here and Terry isn't?" Joe demanded, his blue eyes alight with curiosity.
"Peter Mikeal, Terry's father, works for the DEA in Chicago," Fenton explained. "He believes when Craig was murdered by being given an overdose of heroin, Terry was the real target."
"Do you have any idea who did kill Craig?" Joe asked.
"Not an idea, Son," Fenton replied. "Barnes, Andrews, Benton, and Testerman were in charge of the hit, but Testerman is the one who did the actual killing."
"So Kenny got his justice after all," Joe said softly, causing his father to look at him sharply.
"Joe, what Kenny did was wrong. There is no excuse for what he did," Fenton said sternly.
"I know that," Joe replied, his blue eyes still sad. "But the man lost the person in the world he cared most about. It's understandable he would want justice," Joe pointed out.
"That was murder, not justice," Frank argued.
"Yeah," Joe said softly, but his voice got louder with his next words. "But if all justice does is protect the guilty, then what?"
"Joesph!" Fenton shouted, rising to his feet and glaring at his youngest son. "You know better than that."
"Do I?" Joe retorted, standing up and staring his father in the eyes. "How many men have you arrested who got no more than a slap on the wrist?" he demamded.
"Sinking to their level isn't the way to get justice," Frank said, rising and joining in the arguement on his father's side.
"Neither is giving up," Joe asserted and left before he could hear his father or brother agree with him.
Joe went outside and got in the van. He pulled a notepad and pencil from the glove compartment and scribbled a note telling Frank he would be home by dark. Then he got out of the van, locking it behind him, and took off. Too upset and confused to pay much attention to his surroundings, he never noticed the two men who followed as he turned the corner and left Sneedham Drive headed toward town.
About a mile down the road Joe pasued in mid-stride and looked around as he heard a car slow down. "Need a lift?" asked a man with short black hair and hazel eyes from inside a white Toyota.
"No thanks," Joe replied with a slight frown. Something about the man made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. The man shrugged, waved at Joe, then drove on down the street around a curve and out of sight.
After a few more yards, Joe heard footsteps advancing from behind. He turned and looked, his eyes widening as he saw two of the men from outside the apartment building. He took off running with the men in hot pursuit.
Joe picked up his pace, putting distance between himself and the men as he reached the curve. He glanced back at his pursuers as he rounded the curve and came to a sudden, painful stop.
He had crashed full speed into the Toyota which had just passed him. As he lay on the ground gasping for air, he looked up at the three men who now surrounded him.
"So much trouble," said the man who had driven the Toyota, pulling a pre-filled syringe from his pocket and stooping beside Joe.
He injected the needle into Joe's arm. His vision began to blur and although he tried to shout for help, his mouth would not work. As the other two men bent over Joe, everything faded to black.
Chapter Eight
Joe threw himself down, managing to grasp one of Frank's feet as he fell, but Frank was too heavy and Joe was pulled forward toward the stairwell. The man who had opened the door grabbed Joe's waist, pulling with all his might. Joe's and Frank's downward momentum ceased and the man sat on Joe's back as he leaned over and grabbed Frank's leg. Pulling backward, Joe grunted in pain as he took the weight of his rescurer and Frank. The man got off of Joe and helped a shaken Frank and a sore Joe to their feet.
"What are you doing here?" Frank hissed at the man, quietly, not daring to alert anyone to his prescence.
"Come on inside," the man replied and preceded them into the apartment. "Now, what are you two doing here?" he asked, his green eyes questioning.
Frank looked at the red haired man who stood an inch taller than his own six foot one frame. He had seen this man several thousand times but normally he looked like an older version of Frank, complete with brown hair and brown eyes.
"Dad," Joe said, "what are you doing here? We thought you had gone undercover in Chicago."
"I did," Fenton replied, sitting down in a chair and waving his sons over to a sofa. "But the trail came here," he added. "Now, what are you doing here?" he asked again and this time Frank and Joe both knew from the stern expression on their father's face no more of their questions would be answered until his was.
Joe explained about witnessing Testerman's murder, his kidnapping, and Kenny's subsequent murder. Frank then took over and told his father Con had sent them here to talk to Terry Mikeal.
"So why are you here and Terry isn't?" Joe demanded, his blue eyes alight with curiosity.
"Peter Mikeal, Terry's father, works for the DEA in Chicago," Fenton explained. "He believes when Craig was murdered by being given an overdose of heroin, Terry was the real target."
"Do you have any idea who did kill Craig?" Joe asked.
"Not an idea, Son," Fenton replied. "Barnes, Andrews, Benton, and Testerman were in charge of the hit, but Testerman is the one who did the actual killing."
"So Kenny got his justice after all," Joe said softly, causing his father to look at him sharply.
"Joe, what Kenny did was wrong. There is no excuse for what he did," Fenton said sternly.
"I know that," Joe replied, his blue eyes still sad. "But the man lost the person in the world he cared most about. It's understandable he would want justice," Joe pointed out.
"That was murder, not justice," Frank argued.
"Yeah," Joe said softly, but his voice got louder with his next words. "But if all justice does is protect the guilty, then what?"
"Joesph!" Fenton shouted, rising to his feet and glaring at his youngest son. "You know better than that."
"Do I?" Joe retorted, standing up and staring his father in the eyes. "How many men have you arrested who got no more than a slap on the wrist?" he demamded.
"Sinking to their level isn't the way to get justice," Frank said, rising and joining in the arguement on his father's side.
"Neither is giving up," Joe asserted and left before he could hear his father or brother agree with him.
Joe went outside and got in the van. He pulled a notepad and pencil from the glove compartment and scribbled a note telling Frank he would be home by dark. Then he got out of the van, locking it behind him, and took off. Too upset and confused to pay much attention to his surroundings, he never noticed the two men who followed as he turned the corner and left Sneedham Drive headed toward town.
About a mile down the road Joe pasued in mid-stride and looked around as he heard a car slow down. "Need a lift?" asked a man with short black hair and hazel eyes from inside a white Toyota.
"No thanks," Joe replied with a slight frown. Something about the man made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. The man shrugged, waved at Joe, then drove on down the street around a curve and out of sight.
After a few more yards, Joe heard footsteps advancing from behind. He turned and looked, his eyes widening as he saw two of the men from outside the apartment building. He took off running with the men in hot pursuit.
Joe picked up his pace, putting distance between himself and the men as he reached the curve. He glanced back at his pursuers as he rounded the curve and came to a sudden, painful stop.
He had crashed full speed into the Toyota which had just passed him. As he lay on the ground gasping for air, he looked up at the three men who now surrounded him.
"So much trouble," said the man who had driven the Toyota, pulling a pre-filled syringe from his pocket and stooping beside Joe.
He injected the needle into Joe's arm. His vision began to blur and although he tried to shout for help, his mouth would not work. As the other two men bent over Joe, everything faded to black.