Sallow City

by Jim Heskett

  Micah peeked at the AK-47 on the ground, halfway between him and Rourke. It was closer than the Glock he’d jettisoned.

  Gustavo’s fingers were on the triggers, though. He wouldn’t have time. And if Micah attempted anything, Gustavo would know instantly.

  “How come you’re the only one here?” Micah said.

  “I want to show them your dead body, not tell them. It will be more dramatic.”

  Only Gustavo had seen Micah. That gave him a tiny amount of hope, at least. And it made sense. If they’d all spotted him, he’d be facing a firing squad right now.

  On the other side of the mall, the rabble of gunfire had died down in the last few seconds. A moment of silence thundered all around them. Then, a chorus of police sirens chirped, and a new round of weapons blasting began.

  “Cops are coming,” Micah said.

  “I am not concerned,” Gustavo said with a grin. “You won’t live to see them arrive. They will not be coming to your rescue this time.”

  Micah wondered if he could keep Gustavo distracted long enough for the cops to circle around the back and find them. And, if upon seeing police cars, Gus would empty his clip into Micah’s head before dashing into the trees.

  “Tell me this,” Gustavo said. “What went wrong with you, Michael? How could you have turned on our family? How could you have talked to the federal government and put so many of our brothers and sisters in prison? I have always wanted to understand what possessed you to do such a thing.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Micah caught Rourke frowning.

  Rourke had to be working on a plan to get to that AK. Or, maybe he had another gun stashed on him somewhere. Either way, he was too injured to move quickly, and maybe he knew that. Maybe he realized that if he tried something, Gustavo only had to flick his finger to kill him.

  “Tell me,” Gustavo said.

  Micah shook his head. Wouldn’t give the bastard the satisfaction.

  Gustavo lowered one of the Desert Eagles to point it at Micah’s knee. “Then this is what we will do. You will die today, no matter what, because of your recent treachery. But, because of your loyalty before that, I will give you a choice. You can tell me everything that happened, and I will shoot you in the head. Or, you can stay silent, and I will start with your knees, and the end will only get worse from there.”

  “What the hell is going on here?” Rourke said. The other two ignored him.

  Micah’s stomach churned. His eyes blurred. He could tell his hands were shaking, and the last thing he wanted was for Gustavo to see how afraid he was. Micah had always suspected that the cartel would someday catch up with him. By coming to Michigan, he had delivered himself to them, wrapped in a bow.

  “I gave you a choice, Michael. Are you deciding?”

  In a flash, Micah understood everything Frank had been trying to teach him about powerlessness. That Micah had been unable to accept that there were conditions and events in the world that he could not change. He had no control over this situation, and his crime had been thinking he could fix all of this.

  The sudden understanding filled him with a distinct buoyancy as if he’d heaved a lungful of air and grown an inch taller. Too bad he’d be dead long before he got appreciate this new enlightenment.

  “I need your answer,” Gustavo said.

  Micah gritted his teeth. More sirens chirped, now coming closer.

  Gustavo sighed. “Sounds like we won’t be able to play anymore. Get on your knees.”

  Time to die.

  But then, he remembered Harvey’s pistol, stashed in his back pocket.

  Micah’s knees bent, and he slowly sank to the ground while lowering his hands. His eyes stayed on Gustavo as he moved, and Gus apparently didn’t notice that his hands were nearing his waist. Gustavo’s smug grin told Micah where his attention was.

  So as his hands were at the same level as his waistband, Micah snatched the 9mm pistol from his back pocket. Whipped it forward. Shot Gustavo in the stomach. Gustavo pulled his trigger, but the bullet went over Micah’s left shoulder. Micah heard it blast away a chunk of the Dort Mall.

  He had just enough time to see the look of shock on Gustavo’s face before Micah squeezed the trigger three more times, hitting his target twice in the chest and once in the shoulder.

  His old boss twisted and fell to the ground. Micah leaped forward and kicked the guns away from him. Gustavo’s eyes darted back and forth as his hands flailed, trying to search the ground around him for his pistol.

  “Your guns are gone,” Micah said.

  Gustavo’s chest seized. His breath wheezed out one last time as his eyes fluttered and his head lolled to the side.

  “You okay?” Micah asked Rourke.

  Rourke staggered to his feet. “I’m shot. That son of a bitch shot me.”

  The echoing blue and red lights came from around the corner of the mall. The nose of a car poked out, and Micah’s pulse skyrocketed.

  “We have to go, now,” Micah said as he shoved the pistol in his waistband. He snatched the Glock off the ground and scurried over to Rourke.

  Rourke lurched forward, bent, grabbed the duffel bag, and grunted as he hoisted it from the ground. “Sorry, Carter,” he muttered. “You deserved better than this.”

  Since Rourke was distracted by the heap of flesh on the ground that used to be his friend, Micah grabbed him by the shirt sleeve and dragged him off toward the trees.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Micah sneaked one last glance at the bodies of Carter and Gustavo as he helped Rourke across the parking lot and into the trees past the edge. Rourke dragged the duffel bag behind him by the strap, with his other hand squeezing his stomach. The duffel’s zipper scraped along the concrete. Blood dribbled over Rourke’s hand as he ran.

  “Where’s your car? You have one here, right?” Micah said.

  Rourke grunted. “Just on the other side of these trees.”

  The revolving blue and white lights bounced off the exterior of the mall, then faded as the two thieves disappeared into the trees. Micah glanced back to see one of the cars stop a few feet from the dead bodies by the back door.

  Two cops jumped out of the car, weapons drawn. Shouting at the dead people to put their hands on their heads. One of the cops squatted next to Gustavo and felt for a pulse.

  “Wait, wait,” Rourke said.

  Micah let go of his arm and Rourke backed into a tree, then closed his eyes. “I just need a second.”

  The duffel fell out of Rourke’s bloody grip. He tried to grab it, but his hands were too slippery. He was in bad shape, and would bleed out in a few minutes if he didn’t get to a hospital.

  “We have to leave,” Micah said. “They’re going to come back to these woods, too.”

  Rourke ignored him. “I can’t believe they’re dead. Twenty minutes ago, they were alive. Now, they’re not. It’s me. I did this. I did all of this and now…”

  Micah recognized that look of consciousness on Rourke’s face. The adrenaline was wearing off, and he was becoming aware of the consequences. Understanding what he’d lost.

  “I’m sorry about your friends, Rourke. There was no way a robbery like this was going to go smoothly. You’re lucky any of you made it out alive.”

  “I knew this might happen, but still…”

  Micah knew what he meant, and a pang of memory burned at him. “Yeah, it doesn’t make it any easier, knowing that. I’ve lost friends before, too.”

  Rourke looked up, meeting Micah’s eyes for the first time since they made it out. “What did that guy mean back there, about you turning on your family and something about the feds? Why did he call you Michael?”

  Micah hesitated because too many people knew his secret. But Rourke knew enough already that he could probably guess the rest. If he lived, anyway. That hole in his side wasn’t going to close itself.

  “I was a member of the cartel, a few years ago. The feds caught up with me, and I had some pretty serious charges on my head. S
o I chose to snitch instead of spending my life in prison.”

  “So these people that Crossroads was fighting against, those are your people?”

  Micah shook his head. “Not anymore.”

  “Because you’re in Witness Protection?”

  “I was. Dropped out not too long ago. If you don’t have any more questions, can we please go now? Give me your keys and I’ll drive.”

  Rourke moaned as he dug his bloody hand into his pocket to fish out the keys. He tossed them to Micah. Micah barely caught the slippery things. Rourke nodded a few hundred yards to the right, at a car parked in a small clearing in the woods.

  Micah helped him stumble through the trees, duffel bag trailing behind. The damn thing weighed a ton, and as Micah’s adrenaline was also waning, his body begged him to take a break. His muscles felt like taffy stretched to the breaking point.

  Once at the car, Micah helped Rourke get in and then he slid into the driver’s seat.

  Rourke hefted the bag onto his knees and unzipped it. “I don’t know if it’s fair for me to give you half. I think maybe Ethan and Carter’s families should get their share. Maybe. I can’t think straight right now.”

  Micah stared at the unzipped bag, at the green stacks bubbling up to the top of the opening. He could do a lot with that money. Money stolen from a white supremacist gangster, who had himself pilfered it from others. Maybe not stolen, exactly. They’d lost it gambling in his casino, or had bought heroin or crack from him, or spent it on Harvey’s whores.

  “I don’t want a share,” Micah said. “Give your friends’ families their share.”

  Rourke looked puzzled for a second, then he slowly nodded. “Where are we going?”

  Micah started the car. “Hospital.”

  He piloted the car out of the clearing and onto a dirt path with tall trees lining the sides. This path connected with a park, then the main road. He joined it, found no cops in the immediate vicinity. Still, he drove swiftly but not erratically. They were so close, couldn’t make any mistakes now.

  Rourke groaned and pressed on his bloody stomach. “What’s it like to be in Witness Protection?”

  “Lonely.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Micah buzzed the door outside the third floor of the hospital, waiting for someone to let him in. An old-style coiled phone hanging on the wall chirped.

  Micah picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Can I help you?” said a woman’s distorted voice.

  “I’m here to see Frank Mueller. His room is… 315. I think.”

  “Are you family, sir?”

  “More or less. He’s my boss.”

  The woman hesitated, sighed, then the door clicked and cracked open a fraction of an inch. Micah pushed through, then poked around for the room signs. When he found 315, he yanked the heavy door to find Frank in a hospital bed. He was awake and smiling. A woman was sitting in a chair, her back to Micah.

  “Hey, kid,” Frank said.

  The woman turned. Frank’s sister Anita. Her broad grin and brilliant white teeth lifted Micah’s heart. He gave his best effort to mirror her smile.

  “As I live and breathe. Micah Reed. How are you, dear?”

  Micah crossed the room and leaned in to kiss Anita on the cheek. He sneaked a glance at Frank, in the bed. The old man looked weary but alert.

  “It’s good to see you, Anita.”

  “Did everything turn out okay?”

  Micah nodded. “Basically. Maybe it’s better if you don’t know all the details.”

  “I understand.”

  “How is DC these days?”

  She batted a hand. “Oh, you know. The people without the power will do anything to get it, and the people with the power will do anything to keep it. The names on the offices change but everything else stays the same.”

  “The cycle of life,” Micah said, and Anita giggled. She was a bit of a flirty old woman.

  “Anita,” Frank said, “do you think you might give Micah and me a minute?”

  She looked back and forth between them, then quietly got up to leave the room. She paused in front of Micah, put a hand on his arm.

  “I know you don’t want to give me details, but was it a productive visit? Are things better now than they were before?”

  Micah shrugged. “It’s hard to say.”

  She smiled knowingly, even though there was no way she could understand what Micah had learned. Gave him a peck on the cheek and she waddled out of the room.

  Once she was gone, Frank motioned to the now-empty chair.

  “You were right,” Micah said.

  Frank chuckled. “You’re going to have to be more specific. I’m right a lot.”

  “About powerlessness. The first step.”

  Frank swished his lips back and forth, considering. “It’s not an easy lesson to digest. It’s even less fun to learn because it usually comes with some kind of hardship. Growth comes from pain, is what my friend Red Sweater Barry used to say about it.”

  “You feeling okay?” Micah said.

  “I’m good. Not much pain. They cut out a part of me that I don’t need, and I don’t miss it. I’ve mostly been sitting here, wondering why the hell God put that in me in the first place, if it was only going to make me feel like my guts were being ripped out, all this time later.”

  “Who knows?”

  “Anyway,” Frank said. “Aside from some residual smoker’s lung damage, they gave me a clean bill of health. I get out tomorrow.”

  “Good.”

  “Enough about that. Tell me what happened today. I wasn’t sure if I was ever going to see you again, after that last phone call. You just had to go dashing off like a damn knight, trying to save everyone.”

  Micah opened his mouth, but he didn’t know where to start. His lip trembled, and a wetness came to the corners of his eyes. “Logan King’s mother Yvette. They came for her, and I tried to stop it. I wasn’t quick enough.”

  Frank frowned, then handed Micah a tissue from the box next to his bed. “I’m sorry, kid. I’m sure you did what you could, but if she was mixed up with them, her days were numbered. They would have gotten her eventually.”

  Micah dabbed his eyes with the tissue. “Maybe so.”

  “Tell me what happened at the casino.”

  Micah pulled in a lungful of air to compose himself. He figured he should stick to the high points. “You were right. You were right the whole time. The cartel figured out the Crossroads gang was trying to fool them, and instead raided the casino. There was a big gunfight at the standoff. Everyone’s dead.”

  Frank narrowed his eyes, lingering over his thoughts for a few seconds. “You’re not dead.”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  Frank grinned. “The rental car?”

  “Sorry, Frank. It’s toast. Took quite a few rounds from the cartel when I arrived at the mall.”

  “Hmm. Would have been better not to have it all shot up to hell, but I’ll figure something out. You didn’t get shot, and that’s what matters.”

  Micah eased closer in the chair. “Did we do something good here? I need to know that everything we and everyone else went through wasn’t pointless. Did we help?”

  Frank shrugged, then grimaced a bit at the movement. “Who can say? We made it out alive, with most of our parts intact. That’s what matters, I think. Sometimes, that’s the best you can hope for.”

  “I saw one of my old cartel bosses. He cornered me and I shot him four times.”

  Frank winced. “I’m sorry you had to do that. But with these people, it’s either them or you. Like I said, we’re still alive.”

  “What do we do now?”

  Frank shrugged, then groaned a little and put a hand on his side. “We go back to Denver and we meet up at the office on Monday. We find some new bail cases to work and get back into our groove.”

  The prospect of returning to his day job gave Micah a bit of calm. He wanted to be home. To return to the normalcy of regular l
ife.

  Frank opened his mouth to speak, but then his head jerked a fraction. “Wait a second. Did you say Logan’s mother was named Yvette?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yvette King?”

  Micah nodded.

  Frank tilted his head at the wall to his left. “I think you should check 321. Three rooms down on this side.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Just go look. I’ll be here when you get back.”

  Micah stood, thoroughly confused. He backed out of the room, maintaining eye contact with Frank until he had to pivot to find the door. Outside of the room, Anita was sitting in a chair against the wall, smiling her warm smile at him. Aging paperback in her hands.

  Micah turned left and passed 317 and 319, then paused in front of 321. A chart hanging from the wall outside read Yvette King. A few lines down, it mentioned throat lacerations. She’d arrived on the helicopter.

  “Excuse me?” said a voice from behind. Thick accent, something Creole.

  Micah turned to find a portly nurse in camouflage scrubs. Arms crossed.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m just going in to visit Yvette.”

  The woman pursed her lips. “She only got out of surgery a few minutes ago, and now she’s resting. Are you family?”

  “Yes,” Micah said, without hesitation. “I’m her son.”

  The nurse eyed him, clucked her teeth a couple times, then nodded at the door. “Go ahead then, child. But be quick about it. Quick, like a bunny.”

  He thanked her and opened the door. In a bed, hooked to beeping machines and with an IV bag hovering above her, Yvette King was sleeping. Bandage from her chin to her collarbone. Last time he’d seen her, he was positive she’d died after Bushy Eyebrows had slashed her throat.

  A neighbor must have heard the gunshots and called the police, who called an ambulance. Then the helicopter brought her here. There was no other reasonable explanation.

  Micah tiptoed into the room and slid into the chair next to her bed. Watched the rise and fall of her chest, the fluttering of her eyelids as she dreamed. One of her hands was above the blanket.

  Micah took her hand and laced his fingers through hers.