Fun and Games - Duane Swierczynski [41]
Albanian gangsters had broken into Nate Parish’s suburban home and shot the detective and his family—thirty-eight-year-old wife, ten-and six-year-old daughters—to death, execution-style. Also at the scene was Hardie, who had been almost shot to death. He’d flatlined and everything, but EMTs were able to revive him. A couple of surgeries later at Pennsylvania Hospital, it became clear that Hardie was going to make it. Within six months he was walking around again.
But the strange thing wasn’t that Hardie survived; it was that Hardie had survived twice.
The first time was at his own home, which the gunmen had visited before they hit the Parish house. The Albanians sprayed heavy artillery all over Hardie’s place, with him inside. One reporter compared the scene to something out of Kabul. Broken windows, chopped-up woodwork, severed plants, exploded chunks of brick.
But Hardie survived the attack, even though he took anywhere from one to three bullets. (See, the Philly PD couldn’t really tell because he received more bullets from the same guns during the second attack.)
Anyway, badass Charlie Hardie not only survived but was able to rouse his bleeding self, make his way to the garage, start up his car, and race to his friend and partner’s house to warn him the Albanians might be coming for him, too.
But it was the worst thing he could have done.
Oh, if only he could take that back…
The gunmen arrived not long after Hardie did, giving them a second opportunity to kill him. They even stopped to reload, according to one account, and continued the execution. This time, Hardie didn’t get up and chase after them.
But he also didn’t die.
A local columnist dubbed him “Unkillable Chuck.”
At first everyone said he was a hero. A “Philadelphia-style hero,” some columnist said. Hardie had tried his best and lost—just like Rocky. That didn’t mean he didn’t give it his all. And that was something to be commended.
Soon, though, the tide turned, as it is wont to do. Some city council members questioned Hardie’s role with the Philly PD—was he a consultant or a hired thug? What had he done to piss off the Albanians so badly? Rumors of double-dealing and corruption spread through local papers and blogs. Hardie refused to comment; so did the Philly PD.
After that… the coverage pretty much died. Hardie spent six months recuperating, then went into exile.
Factboy had to admit, the story hit home. Turns out Hardie had a wife and kid, too, and luckily they weren’t home when the gunmen paid a visit. Factboy had a hard time thinking about something like this happening to him—to his wife and kids. It’s the kind of thing that went through his head in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep. This chosen profession of his.
Which made what he had to do next more than a little creepy.
But hey, it was his job.
O’Neal gave Mann the highlights as she finished repatching her eyes. He knew better than to try to persuade her to visit a hospital—or even the mobile doc they kept on retainer. She’d want to stay, finish the job. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to talk a little sense into her. Maybe propose a viable alternative.
“What about the team—on the other job?”
She pressed tape to her brow. “What about them?”
“They’re not on until tonight, and I know they’re in the area. Why not bring them over and have them finish these two off?”
“No.”
O’Neal ran his tongue along his teeth, looked down at the floor, tried again.
“It could be a home-invasion scenario. Simple enough. She holes up here, at her boyfriend’s place. Only somebody’s robbing the place at the same time. Things go south, she mouths off, gets shot…”
“Way too coincidental. And the minute you involve guns is the minute everybody and their mothers start picking apart the narrative. With guns, it’s almost never an accident, unless you’ve got a ten-year-old