by James Hilton
42
Antonio Urquidez wheeled his father’s bicycle the length of the garden and rested the handlebars against the dividing wall. He had been playing quietly with his meagre collection of Star Wars action figures when strange noises had captured his attention. A sharp series of retorts echoed in the morning air. Was Mr Bell beating a carpet? First he tried peering through a small gap in the cinder-block wall that separated his house from the one next door. Mr and Mrs Bell had no children for Antonio to play with, but Mr Bell, who liked to be called Garnett, had shot more than a few hoops with him when his own father had been too busy watching Dr Phil on TV. His father was often too busy but Antonio didn’t mind much. Mr Bell was good fun and Pico Vasquez who lived down the block was good to hang with as well.
Balancing carefully upon the aluminium frame of the bike, he peered over the wall. There was a man in Garnett’s backyard. The guy, who Antonio had never seen before, was hitting and kicking the big punchbag. The man’s hands were a blur. Antonio tried counting the punches but couldn’t keep up. Then the man backed up and planted a foot into the leather. The bag folded around his foot, nearly in half.
Antonio had taken some karate classes last summer but this guy looked way more dangerous than Sensei Perry. When Sensei had demonstrated a move he had looked smooth and practised but this guy was way more… savage. He looked like he was trying to kill the bag, not just hit it. Antonio reckoned that if the two met, Sensei Perry would get his ass canned in less than ten seconds.
To his disappointment, the man finished his assault on the bag and began to move through a series of stretches. As he did, the shirt he wore rode up and exposed a large patch of pink mottled scarring, which stood out in stark contrast to his tanned skin. Antonio’s friend Pico’s sister had a burn scar on her arm that looked a little like it, but this guy’s scar was about ten times the size.
The man next door had finished his exertions and went back into Garnett’s house. Antonio huffed, disconcerted. Usually nothing ever happened around here. He wished he lived up on the mainland. Orlando would be cool, or even Miami. Pico said all the girls in Miami were dying for it. Antonio wasn’t exactly sure what they were dying for, but if Pico said it was so—it was probably true. He climbed down off the frame of the bicycle and went back to his Star Wars action figures. He wondered what Pico was up to this morning. Discarding his toys in an untidy heap he plucked his skateboard from its resting place next to the back door and headed out to find his friend. He wanted to tell him about the dude next door who was faster than Bruce Lee.
* * *
Some three hundred yards away, Chad Casey slouched comfortably in the front seat of his Dodge Challenger. The dark-red paintwork glinted in the early morning sun. He took another long sip from a bottle of Gatorade. The sugar-laden drink was like an elixir that worked wonders in keeping him awake and alert. He then placed a tiny yellow pill under his tongue. Within seconds the wonder-bean kicked in and he felt an almost euphoric rush of warmth spread though his system. He watched a woman emerge from the pilot’s house and turn towards the morning sun. A small gym bag swung from her shoulder. He considered calling in for a moment then decided against it. It was the man of the house he was after. The woman was certainly something to look at, though. Her figure was damn near perfect. Nice rack, too. Chad wasn’t really into the black thing but he thought he would make an exception on this occasion. Rubbing unconsciously at the ring of scars around his neck, he settled back into the seat as the shapely woman turned the corner and was lost from view.
After ten minutes a young Hispanic boy emerged from the house next door to the pilot’s and began to make an attempt at riding a skateboard down the middle of the road towards Chad’s parked car. His board skills were pretty dire. Chad gave him no more than half a glance as he passed. Refocusing his attention on the house, he dialled Lincoln’s cell phone.
“Any movement at the house?” Lincoln said.
“No. A woman just left. Assume it’s his wife or girlfriend. When you’re ready come on over and we’ll grill the pilot as planned.”
“Okay. I punched the location into your truck’s GPS last night so we’ll be there in five.”
“Cool. Then we can get down to business.”
* * *
“Saddle up,” shouted Lincoln. His team responded accordingly. Firearms were retrieved from their resting places and live rounds racked into chambers. Within a minute the Presidents were in their borrowed minivan and they traced a steady path through the picturesque tree-lined avenues.
Washington glanced at the GPS fixed to the windscreen. Only two more blocks to go. He pushed down on the brake pedal as a group of four teenagers stepped out into the path of the Chrysler minivan. Instinctively he laid a heavy hand onto the horn. The tallest of the teens jumped back, clutching the skateboard to his chest. He gave Washington the finger and added a few choice comments about where he could shove the horn for better effect. The youth made to step towards the vehicle and raised the board as if to slam the hood of the Chrysler. The steely glare that Washington fixed him with soon gave him cause to reconsider. The small gang crossed the road but turned collectively and gave the occupants of the minivan the finger again. Washington smiled ruefully. He turned in his seat to see Bush lowering his window. A glob of phlegm sailed out of the open window and caught the nearest teen full in the face. This brought fresh insults from the gang but the Chrysler cruised onward. In the back seat Kennedy high-fived Bush. “With an aim like that maybe you should take over as the group sniper.”
Bush grinned at the compliment. “Little Conch asshole got off easy. Some towns he would have gotten a bullet for pulling that shit.”
Washington’s attention was called back to business by the Elvis ringtone of Lincoln’s phone.
“What? What did you say?” There was a pause. “Fuck. We’ll be right there, follow them.” Lincoln’s voice was hard with excitement. He ended the call and turned to Washington. “Step on it. Casey just saw the pilot leave the house with a woman matching the description of the target and two men, one big like the guy we saw on the news, and a smaller man. Could be the one who took out Clinton. They’ve been having a fucking sleepover! This makes our job a hell of a lot easier.”
Washington hit the gas and the Chrysler responded efficiently; the gingerbread houses became a passing blur. He spotted Chad’s Dodge Challenger speeding down the narrow street a couple of hundred feet in front of them. He knew that the pilot’s vehicle would be just ahead of Chad’s. The phone rang again, and Lincoln put it on speaker. Chad’s voice was loud and clear. “I see you behind me. I’ll cut over one street and trail you on a parallel course. The pilot is in the dark Infiniti SUV directly in front of me—”
All four men were suddenly thrown forward as Washington slammed on the brakes. A couple in an old Honda Accord had pulled out from the kerb into the path of the Dodge in front. It rear-ended the Honda with a sickening crunch and sent it lurching forward a couple of feet. The Chrysler minivan came to a halt inches from the Dodge’s rear bumper.
Lincoln cursed in fury. “You all okay?”
Angry grunts were given in response.
A few moments later the driver of the Honda stumbled from his car and clasped two hands to his neck.
Lincoln exchanged a look with Washington for a second then stepped out of the vehicle. He looked at the front of Chad’s Dodge Challenger, taking in the cracked fender. He leaned in at Chad’s window. “You okay? Only minor damage, she’ll still drive fine.”
Chad nodded. “I’m okay. Give that pissant what for.”
Lincoln turned to the driver of the Honda. Washington opened his door and stepped out to get a look at the man. He was not impressed. Faded combat trousers, a pale orange T-shirt emblazoned with the South Park logo and a badly bleached mop of something that loosely resembled hair.
“Nice driving there, sparky,” said Lincoln.
The look in the man’s eyes transformed as a thought solidified in his mind
. “I hope that guy is insured ’cos I’m sure my neck will take months of medical care to fix… and he’ll be paying.”
Lincoln nodded in understanding. “Your girlfriend all right in there?”
“No man, she needs a hospital too. This is gonna cost.”
“Here, I’ll cover it.” He nodded at Chad. “He’s a friend of mine. Take this for now.” The driver looked down at Lincoln’s outstretched hand, clearly expecting to see either cash for a quick pay-off or second best, insurance details. What he didn’t see was the fist that slammed up under his chin. The man’s tousled hair shook as if filled with a rogue electric current then he collapsed in an untidy heap at the side of the car. Washington grinned as Lincoln grabbed the man by the collar and belt and dragged him back to the kerb without ceremony. He then looked in at the woman in the car. Her face told of way too many late nights and way too much tequila. Thick black mascara framed her bloodshot eyes, deep frown lines etched into her weathered features. Her hair looked like it would benefit from a vigorous scrub with half a bottle of shampoo.
“Can you drive?” growled Lincoln.
She nodded, her lips a tight line under wide eyes.
“Then get this pile of shit out of my way right now or you’ll get the same as General Accident back there.”
It only took the woman a second to scoot over to the driver’s seat.
Lincoln walked back to Chad’s Dodge. “We’ll take point. Follow us.” Washington saw Chad give a salute.
By the time Lincoln had gotten back into the minivan, the Honda was back into the parking space it had originally occupied. The man still lay by the kerb. His movements were slow and erratic.
Washington steered around Chad’s Dodge and laid his foot heavy on the gas. “Fucking reprobates. That’s what’s wrong with this country. Too many asswipes like that looking for the pay-off without putting any work in first. Nice shot, by the way.”
Lincoln waved his hand in dismissal. “Hardly an achievement knocking that sack of pus on his ass. Now, we’re looking for a dark SUV.”
In a few minutes Washington saw a dark-blue Infiniti a block and a half ahead. Two cars separated them. Washington scanned ahead for an opportunity to overtake but the streets were narrow and cars were parked on both sides of the road.
Although unnecessary, Lincoln pointed at the SUV. “Turning left.”
“Got him,” said Washington.
43
Inside Garnett’s SUV the air-con was cranked up to the max and provided welcome relief from the steadily rising temperature. Clay and Garnett rode up front, while Danny shared the back seat with Andrea.
Clay turned in his seat. Andrea was looking under the weather, her skin pale. Poor woman. He couldn’t imagine how messed up she must feel after the past couple of days.
“How you feelin’?”
She smiled weakly. “When I woke up this morning I had no idea where I was. Then I remembered and had to run to the bathroom. I didn’t throw up though!” She leant forward to Garnett. “How far to the lock-up?”
“Just ten minutes or so. Just relax back there. You’re in safe hands.”
Clay was about to make a joke when an ugly-sounding metallic crunch cut through the morning air. He swivelled further in his seat. There, on the street behind them, an old jalopy had been ass-ended by a fine-looking Dodge. Someone had started the day on a crappy note. He watched the driver of the older car emerge into the street holding his neck. From behind the Dodge a man climbed down from a minivan and approached the driver. After a very brief exchange of words the driver was catapulted off his feet. Clay raised an eyebrow. Here was somebody who was certainly sharp with his hands. Ex-military, he was almost sure of that just by the man’s bearing. Well-muscled, hair just a little longer than a regulation army buzz cut. Even from the growing distance as the SUV pulled away, Clay could see the ferociousness in the man’s face. He watched Buzz Cut jump back into the minivan, the vehicle lurching forward with undisguised urgency. Two cars turned onto the street between the minivan and Garnett’s Infiniti.
Clay spoke. “Take the next left.”
Garnett looked questioningly at him but from the back seat, Danny, who had also been watching the confrontation, nodded in affirmation of his brother’s command. Garnett swung the vehicle around the next corner. One of the two cars between them and the minivan kept on straight ahead and the other made a right turn. The minivan turned left and kept pace with Garnett’s vehicle. “Take another left ahead.”
When the vehicle mirrored Garnett’s sequence exactly Danny cursed from the back seat. “Fuck! We’ve got a tail. They’re here.”
Andrea’s face blanched. “How?”
Clay didn’t bother to respond. It doesn’t matter how, now they’re here. He turned in his seat again. The minivan—a brand-new silver Chrysler—made short work of the distance that separated them and was now close enough for Clay to get a good look at the two faces in the front. Buzz Cut sat in the passenger seat, his face a mask of grim determination. The driver was hunched forward but big enough to be a professional wrestler. The eyes that peered back at Clay belonged more to a shark than a man.
Clay looked over at Garnett, whose jaw was set. “You okay with this?”
“I was chased a few times in my former career… but it’s been years.” He looked in the rear-view mirror. “And I figure these guys aren’t concerned with confiscating booze, cigars or counterfeit dollars.” He looked at Clay. “You carrying?”
“Always.” Clay responded by tapping the pistol tucked into his waistband. “I’m a Texan, it’s the law.”
Garnett looked into the back seat. “You two?”
Danny responded with a resounding, “Aye, pistol. Glock 37. But the MP5Ks are back at your place.”
Andrea clearly surprised Garnett by producing her revolver. He gave a grim smile. “Okay then. Do we lead them into Mallory and hope they don’t attack with all of the tourists around or lead them out into Parker’s Yard and take them on?”
“What’s Parker’s Yard?” asked Clay.
“It’s an industrial area over towards the naval base. Mostly lock-ups and storage sheds. It’ll be pretty empty this early in the day.”
“Parker’s it is.”
Garnett increased their speed. A soft whoomph sounded from the front of the SUV’s hood and a small brown tangle of blood and feathers slapped against the windscreen. “Chicken!”
Clay laughed out loud at the unexpected road kill. “Ten points for a cat with thumbs.” But the moment of levity was cut short by the Dodge Challenger that had pulled across the junction directly in front of them, effectively blocking the road. Garnett acted on instinct and the SUV slewed right, mounting the sidewalk. The vehicle bucked wildly as he fought to retain control. Clay grabbed for a handhold as the rear fender was ripped off the obstructing car as Garnett swung the SUV left, back into the road.
“Keep going,” yelled Clay. Garnett didn’t need to be told. Clay turned to see the driver of the Dodge slamming his hand into the steering wheel. He looks pissed. Was that intentional? “I don’t think that was an accident. They’ve got two vehicles.” Garnett swore. Clay turned and saw that the Dodge was disappearing down a side street, but the minivan was less than fifty feet behind them.
“Hold on,” said Garnett as he whipped the Infiniti around a tight corner, sending the rear fishtailing for a few uncertain seconds. The tyres found their traction and the SUV cut a path west down another picturesque street. He leaned hard on the horn as two young women on scooters emerged from a side street directly into their path. Their long hair wafted in cascades in the morning breeze. Both women wore only shorts and bikini tops—no helmets; any spill from their bikes would probably result in grave injuries or death. The nearest woman turned and mouthed a word that was a direct contrast to her prim features. This resulted in another blare of Garnett’s horn. The woman sneered, but they reluctantly pulled over close to the kerb, allowing the SUV to speed past. Garnett gave them half a wave
in way of apology. He got the talk to the hand gesture in return.
* * *
Cheryl Coster looked at her friend, her eyes extra wide for emphasis. “Do you believe that asshole?”
“He was black, he probably, like, totally stole that car anyway,” Chantelle opined. She tossed her hair in disgust and pulled back into the road without looking in her mirror. She never saw the Chrysler minivan as it slammed into her rear wheel, sending her cartwheeling off her bike. Her strangled screech was cut short as her nearly naked flesh met the sidewalk. She bounced once, leaving behind several teeth, one of her Gucci sandals and most of the skin from her back. Her face proved no match for a parked Hyundai Getz.
Cheryl watched her friend’s fate in what she perceived as slow motion. In her shock she steered her own moped into the hood of another parked car, coming to a very abrupt halt, her ribcage splintered around the handlebars.
* * *
Lincoln stared at Washington in anger.
Washington returned his stare. “What? I didn’t mean it. She just got in the way. You want me to stop?”
“Keep going.” Lincoln’s voice was furious, yet only a small portion of the ire he felt was directed at his wheelman. This should have been a relatively simple job. Collateral damage was sometimes unavoidable but dead civilians would bring the cops swarming in from miles around, something that he would rather avoid at all costs. “Just make sure we get them.”
Washington’s hand shot out, pointing at the rear window of the target vehicle. “That’s her. That’s the woman.”
Lincoln focused on the horrified face under a mop of blonde hair staring back at him through the window. “That’s right, bitch, I see you.”
44
“Jesus, they just ran those women off the road.” Andrea’s voice was like fingernails down a blackboard.
Danny nodded and felt something deeper than fury seething deep in his stomach. He would make them pay. Dearly.