by R. A. McGee
“You need to chill out,” Porter said. “Calm your ass down.”
“That asshole won't even admit he knows who you’re talking about.”
“Aren’t you the one who just lectured me about SERE school? What do you expect, he’s gonna tell us the truth? It’s never like that.” Porter squinted at his cousin. “How many interrogations have you done?”
“None,” Badway said with a shrug.
“None?”
“We don’t interview people in the Army, at least not in any job I ever had. We had people who did that. I may have practiced it a few times in training, but it isn’t my cup of tea.”
“Listen. Just let him talk. That’s all you have to do. Eventually we’ll get to something that helps us. Until then, yelling at him isn’t going to help.”
“You’re right,” Badway said. “I just hate his face, you know? Smug bastard.”
“Let him be smug,” Porter says. “You have a crystal ball, you know how this dance ends, so just enjoy it as we go. I promise, he’ll get his.”
Badway nodded and Porter smacked him on the shoulder. The two men exited the decrepit office and went back to Vance. The cousins sat in their chairs, Badway shifting and fidgeting.
“Where were we?” Porter said.
“You guys had an animal problem. Have you considered calling the ASPCA? They can help.”
“I’ll take that under advisement. Mind if I ask you a personal question?” Porter said.
“I’d love nothing more.”
“Do you make as much money as it seems like you do? Multiple houses, cars—hell, that big-ass watch you’re wearing. Is the mercenary game that lucrative?”
“‘Mercenary’ is such an ugly word. We have euphemisms now, so people don’t look down their noses at us.” Vance licked his lips. “Can I get some water?”
“No. Water in the building’s off. Tell you what, you be good and I’ll try to rustle you up some later.”
“Whatever.”
“Has Congress looking into your operation put a dent in business?”
For the first time, Vance’s cool demeanor cracked. “Screw Congress. Just a bunch of self-righteous assholes who’re always looking for someone to blame. Just because they can’t run a war doesn’t mean they need to lay things at my feet. All we were doing was a job.”
Porter pressed. “Massacring children, from the news articles I read. I guess that’s a consequence of your top-tier hiring practices at Parabellum.”
“What the hell do you know? I give people jobs. Some of them are unemployable, and I hand them a way to make a living. I’m providing a service.”
“Interesting,” Porter said. “Is it anything like the service you’re giving Stacy Brown?”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Vance said.
Badway stood. Porter eyed him for a moment to make sure he was cool, then continued. “You don’t know Stacy? Then it doesn’t make sense for you to have killed Kevon Brown, does it? If you off your old lady’s husband, I get it. Guys have been killing each other over women for a long time.”
A flicker of confusion passed through Vance’s eyes. One brown and one blue moved back and forth. He opened his mouth to speak, but slammed it closed.
“What?” Badway said. “Still don’t know Stacy Brown?”
“Definitely not,” Vance said.
“Then why kill her husband?” Porter said. He studied Vance’s face as he answered.
“I didn’t kill anybody’s husband,” Vance said.
“I know you didn’t,” Badway said. “You’re a pussy. But you definitely had one of those criminals who work for you do it. At least admit it.”
“Listen, I don’t know what you guys think you know, but I didn’t kill anybody and neither did my guys. Why would I lie? You clowns are never letting me out of this chair no matter what I say.”
Before Porter could stop him, Badway stepped over and cracked Vance with a left hook, separating the man from consciousness. Alex Vance’s head rolled and came to rest looking down in front of him.
“They say I have a temper.”
“I’m sorry. Shit, I’m sorry, bro,” Badway said.
Porter stood. “We had him talking.”
“I know, but I can’t listen to his bullshit.”
Porter grabbed his cousin by the shirt. “Come on.” He pulled Badway across the bay and back into an office, one that still had chairs. Porter slammed the door. “That’s it, man, you’re out.”
“What do you mean, out? We’re in this together,” Badway said.
“Don’t be dramatic. I’m saying you can’t talk to Vance anymore. Not until I get what I want from him,” Porter said. “You keep hitting him like that, he’ll be a vegetable before we can find out anything else. Now we have to hope he wakes up sooner rather than later.”
“I pulled the punch. Not like when I hit him in his house.”
“When we get done, I want you to tell me what happened in there. It’s gotta be a hell of a story,” Porter said, trying to lighten the mood.
Badway shrugged and rubbed his mustache.
“You good with sitting here and cooling off? I’m going to see if I can wake Vance up.”
“Fine, but don’t leave me in here for too long. Let me know when he says something,” Badway said.
“Will do,” Porter said, and stepped out of the room.
His first clue that something was wrong was the fact that Alex Vance was gone. The tape that had held him was still stuck to the chair in some spots, but the owner of Parabellum had disappeared. Porter pulled his Glock from its holster.
Porter’s next clue that things were going sideways was the explosion.
Thirty
The front of the warehouse disintegrated. Pelted with a shower of brick shards, Porter ducked behind the engine block of Badway’s truck. The noise was deafening, and glass from the overhead windows rained down on Porter as he covered up.
Once the heat dissipated, Porter stood, pistol raised toward the now nonexistent front wall of the warehouse. Two sets of headlights cut through the dust and debris. Porter aimed at one vehicle, unable to see through the brightness of the lights.
Staying behind the engine for cover, Porter fired several shots in quick succession. Rounds volleyed back at him, slicing through Badway’s truck.
Porter was pinned down. He crouched behind the front of the truck, then peeked his head out from his kneeling position to shoot at his target.
From his left came more shots. This time it was Badway, who had made his way out of the office and was pushing forward, moving toward their assailants.
Fighting through the ambush.
Porter couldn’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears. He saw the headlights splashing on the floor in front of him disappear. He peeked his head out again and saw taillights as the vehicles sped away from the warehouse. Porter stepped around the truck and sprinted through the new exit to the outside of the building, trying to get a glimpse of the vehicles.
On his left, Badway was chasing the cars, firing shots as he went.
Porter dropped his arm to his side, letting the pistol hang. Badway stopped and slammed his gun back into its holster. Porter grabbed him by the shoulder. “We have to go.”
“Huh?” Badway rubbed his ear.
Porter pointed toward Badway’s truck. “We have to go. Now.”
Badway looked where Porter pointed and understood. The men raced to the Ford, which was worse off than when it had arrived at the warehouse. The thrill of the new car was gone.
Badway pulled backward out of the bay, pulling over rubble as he did. The ride was bumpy, and at one point something on the ground stalled the truck. Badway smashed the gas and rolled over it, and the Ford was free. He put it into drive and left the building behind.
“Don’t go straight home,” Porter said. His cousin didn’t turn his head. Porter smacked him on the shoulder.
“What?” Badway said, his voice much louder than ne
cessary.
“Don’t go straight home,” Porter said, over-enunciating the words.
Badway nodded and sped past the Bump House’s front doors.
Moments later, Porter heard a muted siren. He wasn’t sure if the noise was far away, or just sounded that way due to his abused eardrums. He pulled out his smartphone, which had a cracked screen. “Shit.”
Porter’s phone wouldn’t accept his thumbprint, so he forced the PIN code through the splintered glass. He went to the call log and tapped the last number there. Amy Olson’s number expanded across the screen. When he tapped call, the order wasn’t accepted.
“Damn glass.”
“What?” Badway said.
“Forget it,” Porter said. “Where’s your phone?”
Badway stared straight at the road.
Porter shook his head and looked around the cab until he located Badway’s phone, plugged in and sitting below the console. “I need to use this.”
Badway nodded, checking the rearview mirror as he did.
“Unlock it,” Porter said.
Badway didn’t hear.
Porter slapped his cousin in the chest. “Unlock it.”
Badway took the phone and typed in a code. The phone opened.
Porter typed Amy’s number into his cousin’s phone and hit dial. He glanced at the dashboard.
It had been a long time since he’d had such a bad day before seven a.m.
No way she picks up. This early and it’s a strange number? No chance.
Three rings later, Amy Olson’s voice came through the speaker on the phone.
But Porter couldn’t make out a word she said.
“Amy? It’s Porter. Hey, can you hear me?”
“She can hear you, stupid; her eardrums aren’t blown out.” Badway was paying enough attention to understand what was happening.
“Amy? Amy? Screw it, I’m gonna text you. Text me back.”
Porter hung up the phone. As he was looking for wherever Badway stashed the text application, a notification popped up.
‘Why are you yelling?’
Porter typed. ‘Rough morning. Can we come over and tell you about it?’
‘Two questions. Is Baddie coming? Are you being chased by cops?’
Porter typed as quickly as his large fingers would let him. ‘Yes. Probably not.’
‘Works for me.’ Her address was the next thing texted.
Porter put it in the GPS and placed the phone on the dashboard in front of Badway, pointing to the directions. Badway studied the path the GPS laid out and gave his cousin a thumbs up.
Porter watched out the window as the world was waking up. The sun was rising higher in the sky, by now burning off the traces of the night. Porter wished he could let the sun do its magic on his wet shoes.
Badway pulled off the highway and onto a surface street. Porter slapped him and pointed to a bagel shop. He pulled over and Porter ran in, brick dust in his beard and glass falling from his clothing.
He reappeared, minutes later, carrying a large bag with an expanding grease spot and a cup holder with three big paper cups of coffee.
He motioned for Badway to drive.
Within minutes they were pulling past a row of white townhouses, generic but neat. Badway found a place to park in a communal lot among the smart, clean, affordable vehicles.
The Ford looked out of place.
Porter consulted the phone to get Amy’s unit number, and led Badway down a sloping hill to a sidewalk that led around one row of townhomes, revealing a second row. From the walkway between the buildings, Porter could see a golf course.
He’d never quite understood golf. He’d tried it many times to humor his friend, Ross, who had an affinity for the game. It wasn’t for him.
Porter was better at contact sports.
Verifying the small black numbers on the front of Amy’s townhouse, Porter walked three steps up, leaning on the wrought-iron railing as he went. He pressed the doorbell, pinning the button all the way in.
Moments later, Amy Olson swung the door open. She wore short running shorts and a thin hooded sweatshirt. Her face was flushed red and her white-blond hair was pulled off her face.
“You guys look like shit,” she said.
“I can’t hear you,” Porter said, pointing to his ears, “but I brought coffee.”
“Is that plaster?” Amy said.
“Yeah, I have a blaster. You need it?” Porter said.
“Just get in here,” Amy said, pulling the men into her home.
The inside of the house was simple and modern. She was obviously adept at putting together Swedish furniture.
Amy took the bag Porter was holding, and the coffee, and sat them on a large white table. “Take your shoes off.” She pointed at the men’s feet.
“Got it,” Porter said, kicking his Chucks off.
Badway followed suit.
“You guys need to shower,” Amy said.
Porter didn’t understand and nodded along.
“I’m not joking. Go take a shower.” Amy pointed to the hallway. “I have one upstairs and one downstairs. Each of you take one. You aren’t sitting in my place looking like death.”
“I don’t have any clothes,” Badway said, louder than necessary.
“That’s okay,” Amy said with a smile. She pointed at Badway. “Wait.”
Amy tapped Porter on the shoulder and led him upstairs to the guest bedroom, which had a bathroom en-suite. She leaned into the hallway and pulled a laundry basket into the room. “Dirty clothes.” She pointed to the basket. Then she showed Porter the bathroom, including the clean towels and a fresh bar of soap.
He was in no position to argue.
Amy left the bedroom and closed the door. Porter dropped his ragged, dirty clothes into the basket, stepped into the bathroom, and shut the door behind him. He brought his Glock with him.
Thirty-One
Porter turned the water on as hot as he could stand, washing away the grime of the woods and warehouse. He discovered several mosquito bites and numerous cuts on his left forearm. He wasn’t sure when those had happened.
Tearing into the soap, Porter cleaned himself, taking care to wash and rinse around the staples in his head.
The only shampoo he could find came in a purple bottle and smelled of lilacs. Porter worked up a large lather and ran it through his beard. The smell was familiar; lilac was one of Trish’s favorites. He’d often used her shampoo when they were married. He liked to smell her in his beard throughout the day. He shook his head, forcing the memory from his mind.
Badway was right. He needed to get on the horse again. It had been over a year since the divorce was finalized. Maybe it was time to move on to something besides brief dalliances.
Maybe not.
Porter washed the shampoo down the drain and turned the shower off. He paused, amazed that he felt almost human again.
The ceiling was high and the mirror hadn't fogged. Porter tried to check his head, but there was no way without a second mirror. His face had a few small cuts from the airbag deployment. He checked the other, older scars that he saw every day, reminding himself that the scars from where he’d been shot, stabbed, and battered before were never going away. It was as if every time he checked for them, he expected them to have dissolved.
Towel around his waist. Porter peeked his head out of the bathroom. There was a set of shorts and a T-shirt on the bed. His dirty clothes had vanished. He slipped the clothing on, amazed that it fit, and padded down the stairs, pistol held by his side.
Badway and Amy were at the table.
“You gonna strut around with that thing?” Amy said.
“No pockets,” Porter said. “And with the way things have been going, I should probably hang on to it.” Porter took the empty seat next to Amy. He set his pistol on the table, making sure it was pointed at no one. “Mind if I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” Amy said, taking a sip of the coffee.
“Whose clothes a
m I wearing right now?” Porter said.
“Why does it matter?”
“It matters because whoever’s shorts these are is a big guy. I want to make sure there isn’t a Mr. Olson that’s coming home soon and going to be pissed at us for being half naked in his house,” Porter said.
“Baddie asked me the same thing. You guys don’t miss a beat, do you?”
“He asked because he likes you. I’m asking because I don’t want to shoot some poor bastard,” Porter said.
Badway closed his eyes and shook his head. “That’s not true.”
“So you don’t like me?” Amy said, a smile creeping over her face.
“Well, I mean… you know, the thing is…” Badway stuffed a piece of bagel in his mouth and shrugged. The look said Sorry, can’t talk right now.
“Good answer,” Amy said. “There is no Mr. Olson. I told you I had four brothers, remember? I’m six feet tall and the runt of the litter. Josh visited a few months ago and forgot to take half his shit with him when he left. I’m too lazy to forward them to him. Voila! Clothes for random men who come to my house.”
“Good enough for me,” Porter said, reaching for the unclaimed coffee.
“Baddie was telling me what happened last night. And then this morning.”
“Oh, was he?” Porter said, eyes shifting to his cousin, who was still chewing the bagel.
“Relax. I’m on your side. Those assholes killed Cat. You think I care what you do to them?”
“That’s funny, because Cat would have said the opposite,” Porter said.
“I know she would have.” Amy was quiet for a moment. “But we were always two different people. That’s what made us so good together.”
Porter changed the subject. “I’m surprised you answered a random call so early.”
“By the time you guys called, I’d already finished my morning run. And I always answer the phone—I’m a journalist, remember? Anyone could be calling me for anything. If I don’t answer, my story could be blown to hell. I need to answer; it’s my job.”
“Makes sense,” Porter said.
“The real question is, how did those guys find you? Baddie says you guys weren’t followed. How could the Parabellum team have caught up to you?”