Chapter 11

All day Dutch had been out with Claudette trying to track down a guy involved in a drive by shooting. Five witnesses had identified the man, a white guy who was on parole. He'd spent ten years in jail for previous involvement in drive bys, and had only gotten out a week ago for good behavior. That was why he was on the top of the list. And sure enough, when shown some photos, all eyewitnesses had picked out the same guy.

Wow, this case had turned out to be easy.

Unfortunately, tracking down the guy wasn't as easy as identifying him.

Claudette had informed his parole officer of his violation of parole, while Dutch had made contact with local new stations and gave them a description and faxed them his picture. This had been broadcasted half an hour ago, and several calls had come in.

Dutch and Claudette had split up to deal with the calls, and Dutch was on the latest one, making his way to a shabby old bar in a ghetto-like area several miles from The Barn. A call had come in from a bartender saying that the guy was in the bar, and he would do his best to keep him there.

So when Dutch pulled up in front of the old, broken down place and got out of the car, he was expecting to find the guy inside. He was expecting to make an easy arrest. That was why he walked in so boldly, looking for his suspect.

But, quite to his dismay, he found the bar emptied.

The door was slammed shut behind him, and he stiffened, looking at the five men that stood before him. "Hey," he said, glancing over his shoulder to see a sixth locking the door. "Whatever you guys are doing, just think about it, OK? I'm a detective."

"Yeah," a young white boy with shaggy brown hair said as he stepped forward. "We know who you are. Holland WagenBach, right?" The boy's cronies sniggered at Dutch's name. "But you go by Dutch, yes?"

Taking a step back, thinking that if he could just get tot he door he would be able to unlock it and run, Dutch was pushed by the sixth man, who lingered by the door. He shoved him forward and kicked out at the back of his knees, knocking him down on all fours.

"Now bark like a dog," the apparent leader said, walking towards him with a beer bottle in his hand.

Looking up at him, Dutch gnawed the inside of his lips, trying to figure out what to do. He still had his gun. Maybe in just a few minutes he could draw it and shoot... But for now he needed to keep them preoccupied somehow.

"Who are you?" He asked.

"You can call me Connor," the boy said, slapping the full bottle against his open hand.

"So you got in here and chased everyone out?" Dutch said. "Just to call me and get me here alone?" He pretended to muse over this for a moment. "Pretty damn impressive. I mean, the chasing all the bikers out part. The part about you needed five back ups to take one guy, that's pretty pathetic."

Connor threw his head back and laughed maniacally. "Don't bother with that psychobabble shit. I'm not really very concerned about my image here."

At this instant, while the boy was looking at the sixth man behind Dutch, he went for his gun. He had it in his hand, he had it pointed at the boy called Connor, his finger was on the trigger-

The sixth man's hands were on Dutch's wrists, and they jerked him to the side as the trigger was pulled. A bullet slammed from the muzzle of the gun and struck a boy behind Connor. He jerked to the side as a burst of blood sprayed from his chest; all the tiny spatters of red looking almost like shattered glass as they glittered through the air.

The boy's body hit the ground with a thud, and Connor moved quickly, bringing his foot up into Dutch's chest.

An unbelievably painful cough caught in Dutch's throat, and his eyes budged as his gun fell from his hand. He fell flat against the floor, clutching at his throat, feeling as though he couldn't breath.

"What the fuck, man?" Connor hissed, kicking Dutch's gun away from him. "I thought we could do this the easy way! Shit!" He looked back at his boy, the body going through it's least pangs of life as the muscles convulsed before death brought down his final strike. Then the boy lay still. "Shit. Now I may have to kill you."

After a few moments, Dutch was sucking in ragged breaths, his eyes watering badly as he pushed himself up onto all fours again. But he really didn't get very far. As soon as he started sitting up on his knees, Connor lifted the beer bottle and brought it crashing down on the back of Dutch's skull.

With a silent cry of pain, Dutch fell back to the floor as the glass shattered down around him and beer spilled over his shoulders. He hit the floor hard, and felt his cheek split on the dirty wooden floor.

Pulling back a little to gain as much force as he could, Connor delivered a crushing kick to Dutch's ribs, turning hi over on his back, making him cringe. He seemed confused as to where to grasp - his head, his bruised neck, his side, or his bleeding cheek.

Bending down and putting a gagged edge of the broken bottle against Dutch's neck, just above the jugular, Connor snarled in his face. "Do you know what this is about?"

Dutch wanted to speak, wanted to say "No" but he was scared that if he moved even in the slightest the sharp glass would go through the fragile skin at the jugular and his blood would spill out. "No," he whispered, moving as little as possible.

"Let's just say," Connor said, putting some pressure on the bottle at Dutch's throat, "that we have a friend in high places who you managed to piss off. If he goes down, so do I. And I'll take you down before I let myself go down. Got it?"

Suppressing the urge to nod vigorously, Dutch hissed, "Yes."

"Good," Connor said, spitting in his face.

As the disgusting wad of saliva hit his face, Dutch jerked unconsciously to the side, and felt a small pang of hurt at his neck. His hand went quickly to it, and felt that the glass had grazed his skin, but done no serious damage. It was barely even bleeding.

Slowly, Dutch sat up, already become stiff from his injuries. He wiped the saliva from his face, glaring up at Connor as the boys all laughed at him.

"You're pathetic," Connor said, taking the bottle firmly in his hand. "How do you feel about pain?"
Before Dutch had time to respond, he felt hand grabbing him from behind, and Connor reached forward with the bottle, slashing across Dutch's clothes. Connor took hold of the torn fabric and tore it away, taking the bottle over his head and taking it down in a harsh slash across Dutch's chest.

Letting out a cry of pain, Dutch tried to wrestle his hands free to defend himself, but Connor raised his boot quickly and slammed it into Dutch's stomach.

Doubling over, Dutch coughed and groaned, hardly able to believe what was going on. Vic did this to me, he thought, all because of what I said to him before?

"Get him on his feet," Connor said.

Feeling himself being dragged to his feet, Dutch made to lift his eyes, but almost instantly Connor's hard knuckles cracked against Dutch's jaw and snapped his head to the side. Connor thrust another punch into Dutch's stomach, then yet another into the other side of how face, whipping his head around the other way.

"How do you feel now, copper?" Connor hissed as he stepped forward and took hold of Dutch's shoulders. "How do you fucking feel now?" With as much force as he could muster, he brought his knee up into Dutch's groin, not once, not twice, but three times.

The man holding Dutch on his feet let him fall to his knees. Dutch didn't know how many times he had tried out in pain, or if he had at all. All he knew was that he was suddenly falling down, curled up on the ground, holding his damaged crotch.

Connor was laughing hysterically. "Let's see yuh try and fuck now, pig!" Connor shouted. "I am having too much fun. Thanks for the sport."

Turning away from Dutch's pathetically crumpled form; Connor bent over and picked up the gun that had been taken from him earlier. He held it up and admired it. "Nice piece yuh have here," Connor murmured as he walked back over to Dutch. "How much does one of these things cost?" He looked down at Dutch, who had neglected to answer due to his injuries. Connor nodded to one of the men, and he bent down, bringing Dutch back up to his knees.

Lifting his eyes, seeing blurry because of the tears gathered in them, Dutch cursed himself for having been taken so easily. What is wrong with me? He wondered as Connor approached him.

"Open your mouth," Connor said, holding the gun out.

"No," Dutch hissed.

"Open your fucking mouth," Connor said, tilting the gun a little and pressing it against Dutch's lips. "Come on... Eat it, copper."

"Don't do this," Dutch said, turning his face away from the gun, trying to reach up to knock the gun away and finding that his hands were being held behind him.

"Why not?" Connor said with a smile.

"I have a wife," Dutch said, turning his head further away from the gun.

Connor just laughed. "She must be pretty ashamed to let you inside her."

"They won't even try to cut you a deal when you're caught," Dutch said.

"What makes you think that we'll be caught?" Connor asked.

Dutch closed his eyes as Connor pressed the gun closer to Dutch's lips. "Are you kidding me? They're not going to let a cop killer escape."

"You know, I wasn't going to kill you," Connor said, reaching forward and taking hold of Dutch's chin, his long fingernails digging into his skin as he pulled Dutch's head back, forcing Dutch to face him. "Then you killed one of my boys."

"That wasn't my fault," Dutch said.

"Really?" Conner against pushed the muzzle of the gun against Dutch's lips. "You pulled this gun, didn't you?"

Dutch glared up at Connor, feeling so full of hatred...what was he supposed to do with all this hatred?

"Eat it," Connor said, pressed the gun harder against Dutch's lips.

Taking a deep breath, Dutch opened his mouth and felt the cool metal slide over his tongue.

"Good boy," Connor whispered, grinning wryly. He tilted his head, looking at Dutch with the gun in his mouth. He laughed a little. "Too bad you're not my type," he mused. "This makes me really wanna fuck something." He pushed the gun hard into Dutch's mouth, jerking his back and backing him gag a little.

The boys laughed as Dutch continued to gag on the gun. Connor just held it in place for a few minutes then pushed it further, forcing Dutch to bend his head back more. He tried to cough, tried to breathe freely, but was unable to with the gun shoved into his throat.

"Troy," Connor said, motioning to one of the boys behind him. "Come hold this for me."

A short boy with red hair and freckles - he couldn't have been older than fifteen - took the gun and held it steadily in place as Connor got down on his knees in front of Dutch.

Connor leaned forward and ran a hand up Dutch's chest and over his shoulder. The kids hand was like ice, and Dutch wanted to jerk away, but the guy behind him held him so tight he couldn't move.

His hand continued over Dutch's shoulder, under his shirt and over his shoulder blade. "Oh," Connor said, lifting his eyebrows and grinning, hissing into Dutch's ear. "What's this?"

The man behind Dutch moved a little to side, holding each of his hand individually as Connor pulled Dutch's jacket and shirt down from his shoulder, looking at the cuts on his back. "Crystal..." Connor said quietly. "That your wife? Pretty name." He was quiet for a moment, tracing the cuts with his finger. "Maybe I'll pay her a visit next. Show her what a real man is."

Dutch jerked his head to the side, finding that he had more freedom of movement with the jackass holding his arms separately. He kicked out, his foot striking the redhead in the knee. As he fell down his finger tightened in pain over the trigger, shooting up at the roof.

Connor had his hands around Dutch's head, threatening to break his neck, but Dutch had just wrestled one arm free, and he reached up, clawing at Connor's face.

It seemed now like a thousand men were on him all at once. Somehow he had managed to wrestle his other arm free, and he was striking out with fists, elbows, feet, and knees. He caught somebody on the jaw, and sent somebody onto the floor curled up holding his crotch.

Spinning over onto his stomach, Dutch fumbled for the gun and finally found it, turning over to find a man directly on top of him. A hand seized his throat and began to crush his windpipe. But he lifted his gun, pressed it against the man's head, and pulled the trigger.

Bang.

The man's head jerked back and Dutch kicked the man's body from him, jumping to his feet. He stepped back several paces, holding his gun out. Those weren't injured badly stood before him. This included everybody but the boy with the shattered knee, the dead man, and the guy still cradling his wounded crotch.

He pointed the gun threatening at them all, a manic laugh rising in his throat. "Who should go first?" He sneered; unable to recognize his own voice as it spilled from his mouth, tasting disgustingly metallic.

Connor laughed at him. "You won't do it."

Dutch pointed his gun directly at the throat of the center man and pulled the trigger. An explosion of blood spattered the guys standing beside him as the body fell backward. As Dutch watched the unbelievable beautiful scene, the bloody mist still in the air like a kaleidoscope of red, he never lost his smile.

The boy standing to the right of Connor turned and ran at the door, finding it locked. He fumbled with it, crying. Dutch pointed his gun, pulled the trigger. The boy's body hit the door as the bullet struck his between the shoulder blades, and his body fell to the floor in convulsions.

Connor looked down at the two bodies, his jaw slack in disbelief. "Oh, well," said Dutch, that crazy grin still on his face, his voice still sounding so unfamiliar. "Look at that. I've learned to smile while I kill."

His gun now aimed at Connor, who was practically shaking where he stood, his eyes fixated on the muzzle of the gun, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

"And it's so much better than killing a fucking cat," Dutch snarled, stepping stiffly forward. "Get on your knees." By the time Dutch stood inches away from Connor, the boy was on his knees, looking up, terrified, at the man he had just beaten. "Open your moth mother fucker."

Connor opened his mouth obediently.

Dutch pushed the gun inside of Connor's mouth, knowing how the boy felt, and yet feeling absolutely no sympathy himself.

"You really pissed me off, you little shit," Dutch snarled. "I almost feel like showing you what a real man is." Dutch's smiled twisted a little, making him look all the more crazy. "Sadly, I think you hurt me a little too bad for that." He pressed the gun further into Connor's mouth, so far into his mouth that he gagged. Dutch jerked it forward, pressing harder until Connor lurched, and jerked to the side, throwing up all over the floor.

While Connor was bent over, Dutch lifted the butt of his gun and brought it down on the back of Connor's head. Blood soaked his hair as he fell forward onto the ground, unconscious.

Dutch dropped his gun, lifting his hand to the back of his own head, feeling blood in his hair.

The insane fire that had been growing wild inside him seemed to die down, exhausted, as Dutch let his hand fall to his side.

He looked around, at the boy shrieking and holding his shattered knee, so wrapped up in his pain he was oblivious to what had just happened. The man who had been clutching his groin managed somehow to have snuck out through the back door.

Connor lay at his feet, bleeding profusely, and four young men lay dead.

Holy shit, Dutch thought, feeling the bile rise in his throat. He rushed towards the door, fumbling with the lock and throwing the door open, falling down on the hot dirt in front of the bar and vomiting.

What have I done?