Rough Company

by R. A. McGee

  Badway moved as far right as he safely could. Porter peeked his head out of the storage unit and then back in. Several shots rang out. Porter vaulted across the gap and next to Badway.

  “What’s the plan?” Badway said. “Usual move is to fight through an ambush.”

  “They have long guns and we don’t,” Porter said. “How far away do you think they are? Hundred fifty yards?”

  “More or less.”

  “I can hit that far out with my pistol, if I have all day to sit and line up a great shot. Maybe. They aren’t gonna give us time like that. We’re out-gunned.”

  “I’m not disagreeing,” Badway said.

  Porter dug through the bed of the pickup.

  “What the hell, Porter?” Cat hissed from the storage unit. She hadn’t moved back like the Shelbys, and was watching everything.

  “We need a diversion,” Porter said. He pulled out the camp stove with its small propane tank. Porter shook it, and it felt full.

  “Blow that thing up,” Cat said.

  “Doesn’t work like that,” Badway said.

  A fresh volley of rounds peppered the area.

  “Shit,” Badway said as something struck him in the back.

  “You good?” Porter asked, eyes still in the back of the truck.

  “No good piece of shit,” Badway said. “Could you move any slower?”

  “I’m working, I’m working.”

  “Just blow that thing up,” Cat said again.

  “I need something to light it,” Porter said.

  “I have flares,” Jake Shelby offered from the back of the storage unit. “In my tan bag in the back of the truck.”

  “There’s no damn bag, Jake,” Porter said. He threw objects out of the back of the truck as he searched.

  “It has to be in there,” Jake said.

  Porter thought for a minute. “Carol?”

  There was a muted reply from the Shelbys’ storage locker. “Yes?”

  “Is there a tan bag in there with you?” Porter said, dreading the answer.

  “Yes, I see it,” Carol Shelby said.

  “Damn it,” Porter said.

  There was no way Carol could throw the bag to him without stepping into the line of fire. Porter thought quickly.

  “You gonna live, Sarge?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll be right back.” Porter scrambled into the bed of the pickup truck. The bed topper offered some concealment, but wouldn’t stop a bullet. Porter kept his head low, crawling up on his belly. He reached the front of the bed and stuck his head through the window that led to the cab. The driver's side door was open. He could see Carol Shelby, hugging the interior wall. “Carol?”

  Terror racked the woman’s face, and her brown hair was plastered to her cheeks.

  “Carol? Can you hear me?” Porter said.

  “Why are people shooting at us?”

  “I need you to throw me that bag. Can you do that?”

  Three firecracker shots rang out. There was a new spiderweb in the tinted windshield.

  “No, no, no. I can’t,” Carol Shelby said.

  “Carol, listen. The bullets can’t hit you in there, okay? All you have to do is grab the bag, and throw it as hard as you can into the inside of your truck. If you do that, your kids will be safe. Do you hear me, Carol? Give me the bag and your kids will be safe.”

  Carol nodded and crawled across the floor of her storage unit, picking up a medium-sized tan bag with pouches attached across the front of it.

  With a grunt, she threw the bag, which landed on the leather front seat.

  A single shot answered the movement.

  Porter pulled his head back through the small window, and reached his arm into the cab, fingers straining until he felt the strap of the bag. He pulled it through the window and down out of the bed as he slid back to the rear of the truck.

  “You still good, Sarge?”

  “Hurry up already.”

  Porter ripped the bag open and dug through bags of food, rolls of duct tape, emergency medical kits, and thermal blankets. At the very bottom, he found two kinds of safety flares: the kind that looked like a stick of dynamite and the kind that looked like a big, fat pistol. Porter took both.

  Kneeling behind the truck, Porter took several of the dynamite-style flares and quickly taped them around the propane tank. He then taped several bags of the loose food to the tank as well.

  Two shots rang out, skipping underneath the truck and missing Porter.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Cat said. “Hurry up.”

  “Almost ready.” Porter grabbed the entire tank and handed Badway the flare gun. “If this doesn’t work, you may need to set it off. Got it?”

  “Make it happen,” Badway said through a clenched jaw.

  “Get ready,” Porter said to Cat.

  “Ready for what?”

  “When this thing goes boom, run out the way we came,” Porter said.

  “Are you kidding me? That’s the plan?”

  “Stay if you want,” Porter said. He took the tops of the flares off and used the rough end of the cap to strike all four in sequence. The propane tank now looked like a misshapen Christmas ornament. With one arm he flung the tank over the bed topper. It sat, ten feet in front of the truck and off to the right, smoking and sparking a red glow.

  The response was immediate. Rounds peppered the truck. Porter switched spots with Badway, pulled his pistol, and dropped to the pavement. Once he was stable, he aimed for the sparking propane tank and pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  Sure he had missed, Porter readied another shot, but a flash of light stopped him.

  A thunderous boom echoed between the two storage buildings. Gas and metal and food particles exploded into the air, turning the entire area into a foggy mess.

  “Now,” Porter said, pushing to his feet and rushing away from the truck.

  Badway was off like a shot. Porter remembered seeing him run with a football, but never with speed like that.

  Porter stalled for a moment, allowing Cat to get out in front of him, then followed behind her to the fence. Every step he took pounded his body and he felt the shock in the gash on his head, vibrating the staples Badway had given him.

  As he ran, the suppressed crack of the rifle rang out, but Porter saw no evidence of shooting around him—no dust, no sparks, no bullet holes. When Cat and Porter reached the fence line, Badway was already through, pulling open the fence flap.

  “Go, go, go,” he said as he ran out to the tree line.

  Cat slid through. Porter ducked low, so as not to rip a staple on the jagged edge of the fence. A few more steps and Porter was in the tree line, following Badway and Cat deeper into the woods.

  Twenty-One

  “That just happened? Are you kidding me? Is this real right now?” Cat said. She chirped the tires on the BMW and skidded out of the fast food parking lot.

  “Slow down,” Porter said. “Those guys are long gone. The last thing I want to do is survive an ambush and get smoked in a car crash.”

  “Yeah, slow down. Are you hitting every single bump?” Badway said from the back seat. He was flat on his stomach, bent at the knees so he could fit.

  “Shut up back there and try not to bleed in my car,” Cat said.

  “Where’s your compassion? The person who pays you has been shot in the back,” Porter said.

  “In the woods, you said it was just shrapnel. I operate on the assumption you two meatheads know what’s going on. A little piece of scrap metal in the back isn't getting sympathy,” Cat said.

  “Tough crowd,” Badway said.

  “Where am I going?” Cat said.

  “Badway’s.”

  “No, Porter, that’s dumb. Don’t the people who shot at us know where he lives?”

  “We gotta patch Sarge up, keep him from bitching anymore. Not to mention I’d like to get my rifle,” Porter said. “Told you I’d need it.”

  �
�Oh, shut up,” Cat said, and fell silent.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Porter saw her hand trembling on the steering wheel. The dump of adrenaline from the ambush had worn off and she was coming down.

  “You okay?” Porter said.

  “No, I’m bleeding back here,” Badway said.

  “I was talking to her.”

  “Not even close,” Cat said. “I mean… we haven’t even talked about Kevon. He’s dead? Just like that?”

  “Looks like it,” Porter said. “Vance said he’d make sure Kevon never saw his son again. At least he’s a man of his word.”

  “We have to go to the police,” Cat said. “We have to tell them what happened.”

  “Tell them what? We think a guy killed another guy? That’s not probable cause to arrest Vance. Besides, I’d be willing to bet Badway’s nightclub that Vance has a great alibi. Unless you know who was pulling the trigger, it’s gonna be tough to get the cops on your side.” Porter adjusted his shirt around his pistol.

  “You have Kevon’s license. That’s proof,” Cat said, deftly slipping the BMW between traffic.

  “We both know that won’t work.”

  “So we let those guys win? Get away with murder?”

  “Not at all, but we need to get our shit together. Game plan. Get more guns.”

  Cat assented, pushing the BMW even faster along the road. Sooner than Porter believed possible, she was pulling off the highway and onto the main road that ran in front of the Bump House.

  Porter pulled his pistol out of its holster and held it, muzzle down, between his legs. “Don’t park yet. Circle around a couple times.”

  The lawyer looped around the block several times, keeping a slow pace.

  “You see anything?” Badway said, voice muffled by the seat.

  “I don’t think so. If they’re here, they’re sneaky as hell.” He nodded at Cat, who pulled behind the club in between Badway's shiny new Ford and next to Porter’s disrespected SUV.

  She left the engine running.

  Porter hopped out, then opened the door and helped Badway to his feet. “You coming?” he asked Cat.

  “I was thinking maybe I should let you guys handle things your way. I don’t even know how to use a gun. I’m just a lawyer.”

  “Do what helps you sleep at night,” Porter said. “Just keep your phone on. I want to talk to your reporter friend.”

  “Done,” Cat said. Porter shut the door, and she spun the tires on the way out of the empty lot.

  Porter pulled his rifle from his trunk. An uneventful walk down the alley later, the men were in Badway’s apartment. Badway stretched out on the rough floor in the kitchen, face resting on a paper towel roll.

  Porter put the two-by-four against the door and checked it twice.

  Porter stepped into Badway’s room and returned with the medic bag. “Walk me through this, Sarge. I’m not much of a medic.”

  “Not much of a bomb maker, either,” Badway said.

  “Give me a break, it went boom,” Porter said.

  “Next time, leave the explosives to me.”

  “I didn’t see you coming up with a plan, so I went with it. ‘A good plan violently executed right now is better than a perfect plan next week.’ That’s the saying, right?”

  “Yeah, but you aren’t Patton.” Badway fished his hand into the side pocket of the medic bag and pulled out a coil of olive-drab wire.

  “Is that…?”

  “Det cord. I kept lots of it over the years. They practically gave the stuff away overseas. So when I tell you to leave the explosions to me, just leave them to me,” Badway said.

  “Point taken.”

  “Good. Now get the antiseptic.”

  Badway talked Porter through the necessary work on his back. There were four holes to the left of Badway’s spine near his lower back. Porter cleaned the holes and fished four small pieces of sheet metal from his cousin’s wounds. Porter cleaned the area again and made sure there were no other foreign objects, then closed the holes with a stitch or two each.

  Porter fumbled the tools, his large hands making the precise work difficult, but Badway didn’t flinch or complain during the process.

  “See? The hands of a pianist,” Porter said.

  “More like arthritic elephant,” Badway said.

  Porter helped him to his feet, then washed his hands while his cousin limped off into his bedroom. As he rinsed the soap off, there was a knock at the barred front door.

  Porter snapped his rifle up and pointed it at the sound.

  Badway stepped back out of his bedroom, shirtless. He aimed in with a Sig Sauer p226—a semi-automatic 9mm pistol—instead of his revolver. Fifteen rounds instead of five. He wasn’t an idiot.

  Badway stepped to the doorway, back flat against the wall while Porter kept his rifle pointed at the door. As Badway pulled away the two-by-four, there was another knock at the door. A quick three-count with his fingers, and Badway pulled the door the rest of the way open.

  Porter had his rifle pointed at Cat Castonguay’s collarbone. He pointed the weapon away from her. “Damn, you need to call or something before you stop in like that. At least do the secret knock.”

  “Is there a secret knock?” Cat said, completely serious.

  “He’s being a dick. Get in here,” Badway said.

  “Sorry. I should have realized you guys were on edge.” On the floor by her feet was a large, circular wreath of purple and white flowers. Tucked in the wreath was a big bottle, with a white label.

  “The hell is that?” Badway said.

  “I don’t know. When I decided to come back, I circled the block a couple times, like Porter told me to. This was on the front door of the club.”

  “So you got out by yourself and got it?” Porter said as Badway bent down and grabbed the wreath and bottle.

  “Not a good move, I guess. But that’s why I came back. I was thinking about Kevon. He was a smart, capable guy and they got him. I’m smart, but not for this shit. I figured maybe we should stick together.”

  “Don’t lie. You missed us,” Porter said.

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” Cat followed Badway into the kitchen. She turned her back as she entered, facing away from the blood on the floor and couch in the living room. “Who are the flowers from?”

  “Not sure,” Badway said. He handed the bottle to Porter.

  “Artsakh? That’s what that says, right? Never heard of it.” Porter pulled out his phone.

  Badway pulled a small envelope from the wreath, folded and tucked inside the fragrant flowers. “It says, ‘There will be a funeral soon. You will be sure to attend.’ That’s it, no signature or anything.”

  “Artsakh is a brand of traditional Armenian vodka,” Porter said, reading from his phone. “Imported. Not cheap. One guess who it’s from.”

  “Petrosian?” Cat said.

  “Not very subtle of him,” Badway said. “But that doesn’t matter right now. We need to deal with the Parabellum situation.”

  “I spoke with Amy.”

  “What she say?” Porter said, reading the back of the vodka bottle.

  “She can meet us anytime and tell us what she knows about Vance and Parabellum.”

  “I can’t think of anything better than some intelligence on the assholes, can you, Sarge?”

  “Negative. Let me get my stuff. I don’t think I’m coming back here for a while.”

  “Need help?” Porter said.

  “I’m good. Wait one.” Badway disappeared into his bedroom.

  “It’s not safe here, is it?” Cat said.

  “No. But we needed to get a few things that are too hard to replace in the wild. It was worth the risk,” Porter said, putting his rifle on the counter.

  “I get it. I don’t like… this… but if everyone else is playing the game, so should we.”

  “We?” Porter said. “You got a mouse in your pocket?”

  “I came back, didn’t I? Kevon wasn’t just my client, I’d
like to think he was a friend. Anyone who could kill him like that, just because of a custody situation…” Cat shuddered. “So I’m in. I just wonder if we can at least consider a way to get them legally?”

  Porter crossed his arms and ignored the question. “Where are we meeting your friend?”

  “She doesn’t care. Anywhere private, I guess.”

  “I’ll think of something. When you tell her where to meet us, have her take a cab.”

  “Why? She bought this new… oh. You don’t want them to know who she is, right?”

  “With any luck, if someone follows us, we’ll be able to notice. If not, I don’t want anyone to run her license plate.”

  “I’ll tell her. Will you get your cousin to hurry up already? I don’t want to stay here anymore.” Cat’s eyes drifted to the bloodstained couch again.

  “Hell, I’m waiting on you guys,” Badway said from the doorway of his room. He had a large backpack on his shoulders, and the medic bag slipped on front-ways, like a mother carrying a baby in a carrier. In his right hand was a large, black, hard-sided rifle case. “We ready?”

  “Always be prepared, huh? Isn’t that the special forces?” Porter said.

  “That’s the Boy Scouts,” Badway said, moving toward the front door.

  Porter slung his rifle and followed Badway, pausing for a moment to grab the bottle of Artsakh. “Here. Hold this.” Porter handed the bottle to Cat.

  “You’re not going to drink this, are you?” Cat said.

  “Why not? I’ve never had Armenian vodka before.”

  Porter was first out the door, then Cat, with Badway bringing up the rear. The alleyway was clear and the group was quickly in front of their cars.

  “Am I driving?” Cat said.

  “I think we all should,” Badway said. “I don’t want to come back. We should caravan somewhere that isn't here, then decide who drives from there.”

  “Hard to argue.” Porter chirped his key fob and stepped up into his truck.

  Badway rolled his window down. “Follow me, I have a good spot.”

  Badway led out of the empty lot, followed by Porter and Cat bringing up the rear. She kicked up dirt and dust as she pulled out.

  Twenty-Two