Lola on Fire

by Rio Youers

  They were looking for positive ID, then Jimmy’s army would roll in. And she couldn’t run—not with her son on the battlefield.

  * * *

  Lola leaped the fence, took cover behind one of the ash trees, then broke and ran at Brody from the side. She hit him like a linebacker, carrying him across the driveway, to the cover of a tree on the other side. It happened too quickly for him to struggle. She held him down with her knee to his chest and placed the barrel of her handgun to her lips.

  Mama says shhhh.

  * * *

  No vehicle sounds. She waited. Brody started to squirm and she shot him a warning glance, the gun still pressed to her lips. Her other hand was on her phone, waiting for it to vibrate.

  Nothing.

  “Don’t move, baby boy.” She lifted her knee from Brody’s chest and dashed to the other side of the driveway. From here, through the trees, she could see a section of Big Crow Road as it approached her property. She counted to sixty. Still nothing. Brody clambered to his feet. She held up one hand: Wait. Another count. She heard the murmur of traffic on Highway 183, but that was all.

  Might they advance from the north, having used Brody as a decoy? Unlikely. They would come from the front, probably in armored SUVs. They would come in force.

  So where were they?

  Lola moved back to Brody. He brushed dirt from his jacket (not his jacket—it was Ethan’s; Lola recognized it immediately) and for a moment wouldn’t, or couldn’t, look at her. His teeth were clenched. Maybe he hadn’t been followed.

  “Talk to me,” she said.

  His eyes flashed across hers, then fixed on the branches above. His hands trembled. There were too many emotions for her to read. Just when she thought he wouldn’t say anything—that she would have to do the talking, at least to begin with—he found his voice and blew her world apart.

  “Jimmy Latzo found us. He killed Dad and I’m next.”

  He cracked, then. The strength went out of his legs and he sagged. He might have fallen if Lola hadn’t caught him. She gathered him close, as she had a thousand times. He placed his head on her shoulder. A tired, scared boy.

  “I need your help,” he said.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jimmy had offered her a room at his house rent-free—she was his numero uno and he wanted her close, he liked the extra security—but Blair insisted on her own space. Not just a room, but an apartment, a place she could kick off her boots and distance herself from work. She was a twenty-five-year-old woman, after all. Somewhere inside, behind the cunning and the knives, that twenty-five-year-old woman wanted to burn toast and sleep on the sofa and listen to her neighbors fuck, and it was important she had the opportunity to do just that.

  More than anything, she needed time away from Jimmy. She was his power source, his battery. Just being close to him was draining.

  Her phone buzzed at 11:48 a.m. A message from Jimmy: GET UR ASS HERE NOW!!! Uppercase. Three exclamation marks. There were rarely fewer than two, whatever the message. Such was his nature.

  Blair waited a couple of minutes, then texted back: on my way

  All lowercase. Not even a period.

  She poured two half-empty glasses of wine down the sink, picked her clothes up off the floor. Memories of last night—or early this morning, to be more accurate—flickered through her mind. He said his name was Gary but she checked his wallet when he used the bathroom and it was actually Peter. He lived in Seven Springs, not Manhattan (liar), he was forty-one years old, not thirty-five (liar), and his business card revealed that he was an insurance broker, not a literary agent (liar). Peter was a competent lover, though, and he’d made her laugh more than once. A sense of humor was not as important as honesty, but it was a good quality, nonetheless.

  “Should I call you?” he’d asked spiritlessly, rooting around for his socks at 6:03.

  “No.”

  Blair often felt that these intimacies were as close as she’d ever get to feeling normal.

  * * *

  12:17 p.m.

  WHERE THE FUCK R U!!!

  the traffic sucks today

  U DIDN’T TAKE THE EXPRESSWAY??

  no. stopped at rite-aid. needed eyeliner

  FUCKING EYELINE I TOLD U 2 GET UR ASS HETE!!!

  be there in 15

  FUUUUUCCCCKK!!!

  Blair turned off her phone, cranked the radio, and made her way to Jimmy’s. The traffic flowed smoothly and she hadn’t stopped at Rite-Aid for eyeliner. These deceptions weren’t in Gary the Literary Agent’s league, but they were plausible, and necessary. When the boss was three-exclamation-marks excited, it was often prudent to vent him before getting too close.

  * * *

  His cigar was as fat as a table leg. Bluish brown smoke wreathed his head. Blair approached coolly. There was a smile inside the smoke—or what passed for a smile on Jimmy’s damaged face.

  “Here she is. At long last.”

  “What’s going on, Jimmy?”

  A smile, yes, but he wasn’t fully vented. She could tell from the tension in his voice, and by the way the tip of his cigar jittered ever so slightly. Brad Lemke stood to his right. Lorne Dupont towered on the left. Six hundred pounds of muscle between them. Maybe enough IQ to fill an inkwell.

  There was a stack of $2,000 straps on the desk in front of Jimmy. Fifteen of them. He gestured at the cash with an appraising nod.

  “Yours,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “It’s a thank-you.” Jimmy drew on his cigar and his smile lengthened. “We used to call it a ‘bonus’ back in the day. But whatever, you’ve earned it.”

  The penny dropped—the reason for Jimmy’s excitement. Not anger, but elation. Blair looked at the money but didn’t touch it. She hadn’t earned it yet.

  “Eddie should have contacted me first,” she said, and curled her lip. Eddie the fucking Smoke, stealing her thunder. “I engineered this. It’s my job.”

  “The fuck it is,” Jimmy said. “You work for me, so it’s my job.”

  Blair rolled her eyes. As if Jimmy—who had all the deftness of a land mine—could ever finagle something so intricate.

  “Fine,” she said.

  Jimmy knocked ash from his cigar, grabbed his phone, swiped through a couple of screens. “Eddie sent me these an hour ago. They were taken this morning, between nine-fifty and ten o’clock central time.”

  Eleven photographs, crisp quality. The first five showed a middle-aged woman with bleached blond hair bucking hay onto a flatbed trailer. She wore black jeans, a blue denim shirt. Eddie’s zoom was powerful enough to pick up the red Levi’s tag stitched to the front pocket. The next three photographs were close-ups of her face, one of them in profile. The final three were of her running across a field, keeping low. White fencing provided some cover, but Eddie was elevated enough—probably positioned on the roof of his car—to see the pistol in her right hand.

  “She dyed her hair, and her ass is a little rounder than it used to be.” Jimmy puffed smoke and pointed at the phone in Blair’s hand. “But that’s her, all right. Lola Bear. We found the bitch.”

  “We?”

  “Yeah, well . . . thanks to your crazy-ass plan.” He pointed at her with the soggy end of his cigar. “But shit, Blair, it worked. The kid led us directly to his mommy.”

  “He did it knowingly,” Blair said. “He’s prepping her for a fight.”

  “And I’m going to oblige.”

  A distracted smile touched Blair’s face. She wanted to revel in the satisfaction of having located Lola Bear, but the job was only ninety percent complete. Jimmy didn’t appear to comprehend this. He pushed the money toward her—$30,000 in total—and said something about her spending it when they got back, then he laughed maniacally and banged the desk with his fist. Brad and Lorne laughed, too, with all the character of rocks in a sack. Blair looked from one face to the next. She didn’t want to dampen the mood, but felt it important to point out that there was still work to do, and didn’t they�
��

  “Whoa, hold on just a second.” Blair cut through her own train of thought. Jimmy’s words had finally sunk in. “When we get back? Back from where?”

  “Nebraska,” Jimmy replied. His smile faltered. He flicked ash and nodded at the phone. “Lone Pine, or some shitkicking town like that—”

  “Lone Arrow,” Blair corrected him. She’d already scrolled to Eddie’s message and clicked on the address. It brought up a satellite image of Owlfeather Farm. Blair zoomed in.

  “Arrow. Yeah. Whatever.” Jimmy’s cigar sizzled as he pulled on it. “Leo and his boys are already in place. That’s five. You three make eight. Jared Conte and the Tucson Tank are meeting us at the airport. Ten will be enough. I’ve chartered a jet that will have us touching down at four-oh-five central.”

  “Jimmy, listen to me—”

  “If all goes to plan, I’ll be spilling Lola’s blood—and plenty of it—before nightfall. I’m going to kill the kid, too. While she watches.”

  “Jimmy.” Blair didn’t raise her voice, but she gave it a keen edge, and it sliced through the room like a guillotine. Jimmy sat back in his seat, the cigar parked between two fingers. The tip still jittered.

  “What’s the problem?” he asked.

  “We’re not going to Nebraska.”

  “Oh, but we are.” He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. This looked like so many of his expressions, but she’d been with him long enough to know it was frustration, bordering on anger. “We are going, we will make misery, and we will sing ‘Beautiful fucking Nebraska’ while we do.”

  “You’re emotional. That’s understandable.” Blair took a deep breath, trying to control her own emotion. She hadn’t orchestrated this whole maneuver for it to collapse now. “But you’re not thinking clearly.”

  The tip of Jimmy’s cigar crackled, or it might have been the fire in his eyes. “I have dreamed about Lola every night since dragging myself off life support. Vivid, beautiful dreams. I have developed strength and endurance, and rebuilt my empire, for the sole purpose of making her pay for what she took from me. Now I know where she is.”

  “I know that, Jimmy, but—”

  “Trust me, Blair, I have never thought clearer than I’m thinking right now.”

  “She’ll kill us all,” Blair said. She spoke softly, but her words chimed with a certainty that was hard to ignore. Even Lorne, who likely wouldn’t feel a pool cue broken across his shoulders, looked uncomfortable.

  Jimmy stubbed out his cigar with angry little jabs.

  “Fuck you,” he said.

  “Look at this satellite image,” Blair urged, holding his phone so he could see. She centered on Owlfeather Farm, then pinched and zoomed out. “A farmhouse, a barn, a couple of small buildings—all of it surrounded by open land. She’ll see us coming and pick us off. One. By. One.”

  “Then we’ll attack at night, while she’s asleep.” Jimmy looked at Brad and Lorne for support and they nodded hesitantly.

  “We don’t know her defenses. She’s probably rigged the land with alarms and motion sensors. Jesus, she might have a bunch of redneck security guards armed with AKs.” Blair kept the incredulity from her tone. It wouldn’t do to make Jimmy feel as stupid as he actually was. “Of course, the biggest problem with infiltrating at night is that we won’t be able to see her.”

  “We’ll use night-vision equipment,” Jimmy said. He banged his fist on the desk again, not elatedly this time. “We’ll recon the property. Drive a fucking AFV through her front door. Whatever it takes.”

  “She’ll kill us all.”

  Jimmy stood up quickly, sending his chair skating backward. It thumped against the wall hard enough to leave a mark. He balled his fists and discharged a broad variety of expletives. Lorne Dupont wisely shuffled several feet to the left, removing himself from Jimmy’s radius.

  Blair said nothing. She stood with her eyes to the front and waited for the flames to die. Eventually, they did. Jimmy dragged his hands through his hair, then stepped to the window and looked out.

  “That oak has always been tenacious,” he said plaintively. “Some of its leaves are still green.”

  It might have been the silvery light against his skin, or the set of his shoulders as he expanded his chest and breathed, but in that moment Blair thought she saw the man he used to be, before Lola Bear, before the scars. She tried to envision a different life for him, as a doctor or teacher, but such imaginings were beyond her. Jimmy embodied infamy and vice like a Maserati embodied speed. It was in the slope of his neck, in the bumps of his knuckles, in every motor neuron and sensory receptor. His destiny had been rifled like a gun barrel.

  “What’s the point of all this?” he said a moment later. He had relaxed his body but his voice was still tight and high. “What’s the point of you, Blair? Or Leo, or Jared, or any one of the others? Why spend so much time and money on finding Lola Bear, if all we’re going to do is stand back and see what happens next?”

  “We’re not going to stand back,” Blair said, measuring not only her words, but the spaces between them. “This is when we make our next move.”

  “Oh right. Another move. You see, Blair, I think you’re taking this ‘patient approach’ thing too far.” He turned away from the window. The light, now, made him appear agitated and savage. “I say we go in full force and we get that bitch.”

  “It’s your call, Jimmy,” Blair said. Her voice fluttered—a touch of emotion sneaking through. “But if you do that, you can count me out.”

  “Fuck you, Blair. This is what I trained you for. The weapons combat. The Krav fucking Maga.” He blustered toward her, wringing his fists again. “What are you, scared?”

  “I am not scared of Lola Bear. I will dismantle that bitch. But taking the fight to her, on her turf, is suicide.” Blair tapped two fingers off the side of her skull. “Brains, Jimmy.”

  “Fuck brains, and fuck you.” Jimmy snatched his cell phone from her hand and looked at Lola’s photograph. “We finally have her in our sights. This is the time for brawn.”

  He scrolled to another photograph and stared at it for a long time. The years passed across his face like silhouettes on a screen. The dreams he’d mentioned flickered in his eyes. “Lola,” he breathed, then said it again, and again. His mouth glistened. Eventually, he turned off his phone, then pulled up his chair and dropped into it.

  Blair steadied herself and tried once again to reason with him.

  “You will need your army, Jimmy. Every man you’ve got. You’ll need me, too. But we have to stack the advantages in our favor.” She leaned across his desk, her fists knotted on the polished wood. “We have to bring the fight here.”

  Jimmy looked at her. He’d come a long way, but he was still wrecked inside. Too many open wounds. Only Lola could heal him completely.

  “I appreciate the bonus, but the job isn’t finished.” Blair pushed the money toward him. “I didn’t say I’d find Lola Bear, I said I’d deliver her.”

  Jimmy smiled humorlessly and shook his head. “And how are you going to do that?”

  There. She had him. Sweet relief. There’d been some tricky pieces, but they clicked into place, the same way they had when she got to Brody at Rocky T’s. The feel-good chemicals—dopamine, serotonin—flooded her. This was why she lived. The mastery, the control, the breathtaking rush of it all. She tingled to the tips of her fingers and smiled. If only Gary the Literary Agent could see her now.

  “You still want to go after the cripple?” she asked.

  Chapter Twenty

  All kinds of things were happening inside him. Fireworks. Meteor storms. Earthquakes. He was in his mother’s arms. She held him like she used to, one hand just above his left hip, the other cupping the back of his neck. Beneath the hay and sweat, she even smelled the same. This should have induced a flood of memories, but there was nothing beyond the meteor storms and earthquakes. It lasted only seconds, perhaps, but it felt longer, and just when he started to get a sense of himse
lf, she turned him around and planted her palm between his shoulder blades.

  “Move your ass.”

  They dashed toward the house, Brody in front, Lola right behind. She glanced over her shoulder several times, pistol at the ready. In the aftermath of the fireworks, a curious concern surfaced in Brody’s mind: What kind of life must his mother live, to be perpetually prepared for a situation like this? Her heart would be like a paperweight, he thought, keeping everything in order but essentially dead. Could she even dream when she slept with one eye open?

  They went in through the back door. Lola locked and bolted it behind her, then took the lead. Pistol in hand, she checked the downstairs rooms and made certain the front door was locked (Brody had a feeling it was always locked) before going upstairs. She paused on the landing, attentive to every small sound, then opened the door to her bedroom. After checking the closet and en suite, she motioned to Brody.

  “In here.”

  He nodded from a thousand miles away and entered the room. His mom glanced out the window, her gaze sweeping the land at the rear of her property.

  “I need you to focus,” she said, touching one shoulder and turning him toward her. “Can you do that for me?”

  “Sure,” he said with a cracked voice. He didn’t think he could, though. His focus was still on the driveway, having been knocked from his body when she tackled him broadside.

  “Okay. Good.” She looked into his eyes. “You’re here, Brody, with me, but do I need to worry about your sister?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure? Where is she?”

  “Safe,” he replied. It seemed he could only manage one word at a time.

  Lola stared at him a second longer—stared hard—then nodded and clapped him on the shoulder. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”