The Restoration Project

4.05 - Merrick

"We're almost there," Pierre shouted from the front seat.

"Good," Frankie said.

Merrick didn't know how to stop Frankie. Sanchez kept a watchful eye on him during the trip and even if Walther saw their approach and met them with force he was severely outnumbered. Merrick could probably get his hands on a gun, but both of them would die in a firefight. He sighed in resignation as they turned onto the lane-way leading up to Walther's farmhouse. His sense of defeat was replaced with worry, however, when he saw the front door hanging open, a black hole flanked by white siding. Walther never left his door open.

"Seems Walther already has company," Frankie pointed out. "Better go see who it was."

Pierre exited first and opened a ratty umbrella against the downpour, but the wind flipped it inside out and snapped the support struts. He then grimaced as he waddled to the back door, pelted with rain, and opened it for Sanchez. Sanchez lumbered over to the trunk, pelted with rain but not seeming to mind, and pulled out Frankie's wheelchair. As he was about to close the trunk, Pierre stopped him and rifled through it, finding another umbrella in slightly better shape. He opened it and was satisfied when it didn't blow away. Sanchez unfolded the wheelchair beside the door while Pierre created a roof with the umbrella. Frankie eased his way out of the car and into the chair.

It was five minutes before Merrick could shimmy out to follow. Four men stood outside each SUV by that time, wearing assault style gear and black matching parkas. Frankie spared no expense on his protection.

"Let's get inside, no need to catch a cold. Keep two on the porch and two by the cars," Frankie ordered.

Pierre abandoned their side as he relayed Frankie's orders to the other men. Merrick power walked ahead of Frankie and Sanchez, his eyes focused on the open front door.

"Where do you think you're going?" Frankie grumbled.

Merrick heard him, but kept his head down as he mounted the steps. He was almost at the top when a bullet ricocheted off the beam beside his head. He froze in place. One of Frankie's men—his facial features shrouded by a hood—lowered his gun as he stood beside Frankie.

"This is Clive. He has an itchy trigger finger," Frankie mentioned as Sanchez pulled him past Merrick and up the stairs into the house.

Merrick stepped aside and waited until they passed before following inside, aware of Clive stalking along behind. He smelled like stale beer and wet socks. As he entered the hallway, Father Frankie stopped twenty feet in front of him, staring into the kitchen. Merrick's gaze gravitated to the door leading to the basement; his muscles relaxing when he saw it closed. Clive shoved him from behind to keep him moving.

"Seems someone got to him first," Frankie muttered as Merrick joined him.

Merrick's jaw dropped when he saw Walther leaning against the kitchen counter, his eyes closed and his chin resting against his chest. He looked peaceful, aside from the blood running down his chest and pooling around his legs. Merrick jolted when Walther moaned. He was still alive. Merrick shot forward to crouch at Walther's side. Frankie raised a hand, stopping his entourage from pursuing him. He imagined Frankie enjoyed the spectacle.

"Walther, you're gonna be OK, we'll fix this," he said, not believing it was true. Walther's chances of survival were slim at best, unless, of course, they gave him a shot of the nanobots.

"Don't lie to me," Walter replied. His lips reddened as he coughed up more blood.

"Who did this?" Merrick asked. Frankie's chair creaked as he pushed closer.

"Don't know," Walther said. He grimaced and pulled something from behind his back. It was covered in congealed blood but Merrick recognized it immediately—his bag of credits.