by Lee Brait
fell, both hands clutched between his legs, he twisted to the left and his shoulder pinned Linc's legs. Linc tried to kick free. The second wrestler leaped for him. He twisted his torso left and braced the screwdriver against the floor in his right hand. Let gravity do the work. Let gravity kill him. The wrestler landed with both forearms on Linc's neck and shoulder, pinning him to the ground. The screwdriver glanced off an elbow.
Two more, normal sized bikers, burst out of the meeting room and held Linc's legs while the first wrestler groaned some more and rolled off . The second wrestler put a knee on his back, pinned him face down and punched him twice on the cheek, like two sledgehammers. No use struggling now. Try to survive. Save the fight for later.
"Check Jimbo." The voice from the meeting. It seemed familiar, even through his daze.
"He's dead boss."
"A pizza boy did this? In our house?"
"Ain't no pizza boy boss. It's that Freemore prick. I won't forget the face that killed your brother."
"What the hell's he doing here? Well. It doesn't matter now. He'll be with his family soon enough."
"He got Widget too," said Wanda, stepping in from the kitchen hall.
"Looks like he was playin' with himself while he was on watch again." There was a shrill in her voice now. "Never saw it comin'."
Wanda stepped closer. Her heels were huge and looked impossible to walk in.
"Hold down his hand."
The wrestler moved Linc's hand toward Wanda and held it for her. He tested his strength, tried to jerk his hand back but it might as well have been set in concrete.
Wanda placed her heel on the tip of Linc's forefinger, pressed her weight down and twisted until his fingernail popped off.
He bit his lip and crammed the air back into his lungs, restrained himself to a grunt.
"That's for Widget," said Wanda. "He may have been a pervert but he was our little pervert. There will be more where that came from later."
"That wife and child important to you are they Freemore?" It was the meeting room voice, behind hm. "Light of your life? When I'm done you'll wish they never existed."
"Get him in the back of the van. I'll ride in the front."
Whoever the boss man was disappeared back into the meeting room. The wrestler bashed Linc's head on the floor. Polished walnut seemed harder than rock and his vision blurred. He was wrenched to his feet. The wrestler grabbed his arms with paws like shovels. Grips like clamps. He bundled him down the hall and into the yard, slamming him into walls and door frames on the way out. He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, better to walk than be dragged. They hauled him left, up the driveway and into the garage.
The wrestler opened the side door of the van and threw him onto the floor. He turned away and beckoned to whoever was following. Light flashed off something in his waistband, something tucked in his belt. A handgun. A mistake. His chance to finish this.
Linc grabbed the gun and aimed at the back of his head.
His finger stung like a bitch as he pulled the trigger.
Click.
Click click click click click.
Nothing. It was empty.
The wrestler turned and rammed a giant fist into his chest and knocked the gun from his hand and the wind from his lungs. He thudded against the wall and tried to squeeze some air into his lungs but none came.
The wrestler picked up the gun with a handkerchief, "okay, I got the prints. We'll plant this one at the neighbors'."
"Give me your phone."
"I don't - have one," Linc choked.
He waited for his diaphragm to accept air again. None came.
"I'll be more than happy to hurt you. And I'll still get your ."
Linc scratched around in his pocket and handed it over. It was no use broken anyway. He leaned back against the front passenger seat and made himself as comfortable as possible. He managed a gulp of air.
Rest up and try to be ready. It's a decent drive to Calistooga and there has to be some opportunity to get away.
Both front doors opened and two more climbed in. Linc turned to see. A set of thick fingers clamped his throat and squeezed, "Eyes rear, asshole. Nothing for you to see up there."
The van started and moved down the drive, passed through the gate and stopped. The other wrestler crawled in next to the first, gingerly. Linc spun his head to the right to avoid the bitch-slap but it still connected. His head throbbed again.
He stared through the windows in the rear doors as they passed the boarded up houses along Peacock Creek Drive, right onto Clayton Road, through the village and right onto Kirker Pass Road. The smogged sky flickered sullen orange in the distance and the arid gulleys seemed even more desolate as headlights from occasional passing cars washed over them.
"You got his phone, Tiny?"
"Sure have boss," said the wrestler without the swollen balls.
"I don't want any loose ends. Send a text message to the wife. Tell her to gather everybody and he'll be there in an hour to explain everything."
Tiny started to navigate his over sized fingers around the under sized key pad on Linc's phone. After a minute he squeezed into the large space next to Linc and held the phone where they could both see.
"Sign this like you usually do."
It read like the brother had told Tiny.
Linc typed, "Love XXOX".
Linc counted the seconds as they passed through the industrial zone and over the river where the acrid fume of burnt oil abated slightly. Angie had plenty of time to read the message by now. Plenty of time to figure out the code. She always replied.
She must be checking with Ryan. He knew the codes by heart. Extreme danger. Leave urgently. She was probably just being sure. Didn't want to abandon the house in the middle of the evening unless she was sure. Have patience. The reply will come. Give her time.
On the other side of the river the fires raged. The tanks were a mile or so left of the view from the rear window so the rise of flames were not visible. The bulking cranes at the docks and the long and low commercial buildings in the surrounding area danced aimlessly under the blaze.
The cranes shrank into the distance and the phone was quiet.
They passed the new development off Lopes Road. Husks and skeletons of half built houses lurked next to the freeway.
"How many have you buried there now boys?"
"At least a dozen boss." The first wrestler, Balls, seemed to have perked up a little. "Ain't nobody gonna find them under all that concrete."
"You should see the looks on their faces," Tiny chipped in. "They get out of their patrol cars and pull their handguns on you, thinkin' they're the shit. They see our M16's and panic. They know they're dead."
"Those guns were expensive. The company screwed three divisions out of their annual bonuses to secure that shipment. I hope you appreciate them boys."
"You bet. Feel like rambo every time we go out."
"The more of them you bury the better this works," confirmed the brother.
"We're just getting started boss," said Balls.
Still nothing from Linc's phone. How long could it take to check with Ryan? Was he asleep or out in the yard? Even so, she should have replied by now.
He wondered who could be behind this at work and how they kept it from Howard and the accountants. They must have found some clever way to hide it. Howard would notice. He was an optimist and he saw the best in everyone, but he was also a shrewd businessman. If there were clues he would know. And he would never sanction killing cops. Never.
But who was it? It had to be someone in upper management. Someone with power. Someone who could make big budget decisions without being questioned. Howard had brought in fresh blood, he'd made a real difference. But there were so many, using people up they way they do. Maybe it wasn't so hard to believe. Murder was a big step up, but he greater the financial reward, the greater the abuse of power.
The lights of the outer suburbs retreated and gloomy rows of grape vines began to f
ill the window. He could not let that argument with Angie be the last words they shared, "we're not going to sit around waiting for you to show up for the rest of our lives, if you're not going to spend time with your son then don't bother coming back." Angry, frustrated words that he'd planned to fix as soon as he got home. But his best friend had been killed and their names written on the wall. Their physical safety came first. Her frustration could could wait.
The distant lights of the suburb went black. Another power cut.
Maybe she'd left already. Maybe she was punishing him, making him sweat before she replied.
They passed into another township. With no lights he could not tell which one.
No. She wouldn't do that. She could be hot headed but she wouldn't risk Ryan's safety, or his own. No matter how mad she was. Deep down she knew that everything he did was for them.
He hoped she knew that.
Road reflectors blipped by, the only sign of light he could see outside the van, and the sweet rotten pungence of a slaughterhouse came and went.
The phone was silent.
The lights from a car in the opposite lane flashed over a road sign. St Helena. Less than fifteen minutes out.
Linc's phone vibrated
"That her?" demanded the brother from the front.
"No boss," replied Tiny.
He jammed a hulking elbow into Linc's rib cage, "Who is Shaz Cooper?"
"One of my co-workers," said Linc.
"Boss, looks like they've found their inside man," said Tiny. "It says: People who accessed both delivery manifesto & schedule include, Cara Simmons 100% of hijacked trucks, Howard Olsen 55%, Jack Reynolds 48%."
"Hasn't Cara Simmons been a naughty girl!"