by Mark Kelly
The Toronto gang leader walked over and sat on his Harley to watch. He flicked a finger at a small stuffed animal tied to the bike’s handlebars. Lucia’s heart stopped when she saw it was a toy fox.
Petit Henri smirked. “Do you sleep with it as well?”
“Fuck off. It’s a souvenir. I told you we stopped for a little fun. It turns out that a little fun is a lot of fun.”
A switch flipped in Lucia’s brain. She walked across the space that separated her from the two men. Petit Henri eyed her warily, but the other man grinned as she approached. He climbed off his motorcycle. “You want some of me?” he asked, staring at her chest.
“I want all of you,” she answered, stepping nearer. He reached over and yanked her hair, pulling her closer.
She slipped her hand under her shirt for the Colt 1911 and pressed it tight against his abdomen. His eyes opened wide in shock when he felt the cold metal. She flipped the safety off with her thumb and pulled the trigger twice. The crack of the big .45 echoed across the parking lot. The biker’s mouth gaped open in shock. He grasped his bleeding stomach and dropped to his knees and she shot him one more time in the center of his forehead.
“Tabernac!” Petit Henri yelled. He lurched backward, reaching for his own gun.
“Don’t!” she warned, pointing the 1911 at him. Jumping to the side, she put his massive body between her and the rest of the bikers. “Tell them not to move or you will die.”
He froze and slowly raised his hands. “Do as she says.”
The bikers from Toronto ignored his command. Two of them fired hurried shots at her but missed. A woman standing at the front of the crowd screamed in pain as blood poured from a wound in her thigh.
The next flurry of gunshots came so quickly, Lucia barely had time to register them. Three bikers, including the men who had tried to shoot her, fell to the ground.
“Drop your weapons or the rest of you will die,” Baker’s voice boomed out from behind her. She didn’t dare turn to look but could hear the sound of movement as the people in the crowd scurried to follow his command.
“I’m talking to you,” Baker shouted at the bikers. “On your knees with your hands clasped on top of your head.”
One by one, they lowered their weapons and followed his orders. Lucia chanced a look over her shoulder. The crowd had scattered, leaving Baker alone in the middle of the parking lot. A wounded woman lay on the ground to his left, moaning in pain.
Slowly, he advanced towards her and Petit Henri. When he reached them, Baker snatched the big man’s gun from his holster and dropped it on the ground and kicked it away.
“Watch him,” Lucia said, meaning Petit Henri.
“Stop. What are you doing?” Baker shouted at her as she walked away.
“Taking care of unfinished business.”
She stopped by the side of the Toronto biker’s Harley and untied the stuffed animal from the handlebars. Then with the toy in her hand, she marched across the parking lot to where the two surviving bikers from Toronto were kneeling on the pavement.
The rage which had consumed her moments earlier had evaporated, replaced by an icy calmness. When she reached them, she kicked their guns aside and stared down at the two men.
“You prey on the weak, stealing what isn’t yours. You kill and rape and maim. You destroy. You enslave. You give nothing and take everything. You are worse than the bacteria, but unlike the bacteria you can be stopped.”
“Please don’t…” one of the men begged. He pointed at the man she had killed first. “It was him. He did it. We never touched the girl.”
“If you watched and did nothing, you are just as guilty.”
As she uttered the last word, she raised her gun and pulled the trigger twice, shooting them both in the head. They fell forward onto the pavement, blood pooling around their lifeless bodies.
8
She needs help
Lucia turned back to see the people in the crowd staring at her. She pointed at the woman the bikers had wounded and shouted, “Don’t just stand there, help her.” When no one moved, she aimed her gun into the air and pulled the trigger.
“I said help her. Do it now!”
The crowd stirred into action. The two men she had threatened earlier scurried over to help the woman.
Baker was somber as he looked down at the dead gang leader and spoke. “Next time, you decide to do something like this, warn me first, would you?”
“There was no time,” Lucia replied angrily. “He deserved it. They all deserved it.”
“I’m not saying they didn’t deserve it, but you could have been killed.”
“Then I would be dead,” she said, annoyed by the chastising tone in Baker’s voice.
“We both could have been killed,” he replied angrily as they locked eyes.
He was right, but it didn’t change anything.
“We need to figure out what to do with the rest of them,” he said, motioning towards Petit Henri and his three remaining men.
Lucia glanced at the giant French-Canadian. He stood with his hands in the air. The tiniest hint of a smile poked through his beard, irritating her.
“What is so funny?” she growled at him.
With a slow shake of his head, Petit Henri spoke. “Your friend, he is a soldier, I can tell from the way he carries his rifle, but you? I don’t know what you are. You are hardcore, lady…very hardcore.”
He looked away from Lucia and Baker and stared at the Toronto gang leader’s body. “C’est un estie de cave.”
When she frowned, he explained in English. “He was an idiot…An idiot for sure, but a dead one now, I am sorry to say.”
“Why are you sorry?”
With a grand wave of his arms, Petit Henri motioned towards the truck stop and the surrounding land.
“This was all mine. The territory of Les Chevalier de Montréal, but I gave it to the Cyclones to form une alliance stratégique. We made a pact to divide the land and not fight each other. He was, how do you say it in English—an ally?”
She looked down at the lifeless body on the ground beside her. “Not anymore. He is no one’s ally. He is dead.”
“Yes, but the alliance is not.” Petit Henri pointed to the other bodies. “Those are just a few of his men. A very small number. There are hundreds more in Toronto. One of those men will assume his place and whoever that is will expect Les Chevalier de Montréal to follow the spirit of the truce.”
“And do what?” she asked.
“Help them find and kill you.”
“Then maybe we should kill you first.”
“Even if you were to kill my men and I, there are people who saw you shoot the leader of the Cyclones. They may have hated him, but as long as they are alive, they will talk. Are you willing to kill them too?”
Lucia stared at him. They both knew that wasn’t going to happen.
“But perhaps there is another way I can help you,” he said.
“Why? What’s in it for you?” Baker asked.
Petit Henri glanced at him and smiled. “I think that maybe your friend is a bit crazy, but she took care of a problem that at some point I would have had to take care of myself. That man, the leader of the Cyclones, was une chien enragé—a mad dog to be put down before he could infect others.”
“Assuming we believe you, what are you suggesting?” Baker asked.
“As long as I am not in danger, my men will not make a move,” Petit Henri replied. He lowered his hands to his side and said, “I will give you a head start and then I will send my men after you—in the other direction.”
Not much of a proposal, Lucia thought. Other than his word which meant nothing to her, there wasn’t anything to stop the biker leader from sending his men directly after them. She glanced at Baker. Judging from the look on his face, he shared her opinion.
Screw this.
She poked Petit Henri with her gun and said, “We do not like your proposal. Lie down on the ground with your hands on top of y
our head.”
When he didn’t move immediately, she poked him harder and whispered, “Do as you are told or I might do something you will regret. You know I would, I’m a bit crazy, right? Isn’t that what you said?”
Petit Henri looked to Baker for help, but Baker shrugged. “She’s the boss. I’d listen to her.”
The biker grunted his displeasure and lay down face-first with his hands on top of his head.
“If any of them moves, kill them all,” Lucia said to Baker in a voice loud enough the remaining bikers could hear her. Then she started to walk towards the semi-trucks where they had parked their motorcycles and trailer.
“Where are you going now?” Baker asked.
“To get our things.”
“Hold on. We’re not done here.”
“What are you talking about?”
He grinned and pointed at the surviving bikers who were on their knees with their weapons on the ground in front of them. “The second rule of combat is never leave a usable weapon near someone who might want to kill you with it.”
Scowling at her stupidity, she paused for a moment and couldn’t help but ask, “What is the first rule?”
“Stay alive long enough for the second rule to matter.”
She shot a nasty look in his direction, but in just a few short minutes, the bikers were separated from their weapons. There were brass knuckles, a mishmash of handguns, knives of every imaginable type, and a menacing looking sawed-off shotgun that wouldn’t just kill its target, would turn it into a mangled mess.
“You will leave our weapons?”
With his French accent, it sounded like a question, but Lucia knew Petit Henri meant it as a statement. Even lying on the ground with his hands on this head, the big man exuded a pompous arrogance.
“Are you serious?” she said, incredulous.
“Yes, of course. They are ours.”
She laughed out loud. “We will take them with us. It is a fair trade.”
He lifted his head to scowl at her. “Fair trade for what?”
“For not killing you.”
“I will go and get the bikes now,” Lucia said to Baker. “Or do you have another lesson that you wish to teach?”
“Would you listen if I did?”
“No…probably not.” She gave him a wicked grin and turned to walk away, but stopped and picked up a gun from the pile she had collected from the bikers. The gun was similar to, but smaller than her own, and with its shiny metal plating, it almost looked like a toy.
“Commander model 1911,” Baker said as she inspected it. “Looks like it’s in good shape. You might want to think about keeping it. Less kick, but more capacity than what you’re carrying now.”
She checked the safety was on and tucked the nickel-plated 1911 in the back of her pants.
“Help, I can’t stop the bleeding!” The younger man she had warned when they first arrived was on his knees by the side of the woman who had been shot. His hands and the cuff of his shirt sleeves were stained crimson with blood.
“It won’t stop,” he said when Lucia ran over and knelt beside him. “Every time I move my hand, it starts to bleed again.”
“Then don’t move your hand,” she replied, more harshly than she intended.
“Where is the wound?” Baker yelled to her.
“Upper thigh I think, but it is covered by her pants.”
“Cut them off.”
Lucia reached for the young man’s knife. He flinched at her sudden movement and pulled his hand away. Blood gushed from the wound. “I said don’t move your hand,” she shouted at him.
Using the tip of the knife’s blade, she poked a hole in the heavy fabric and cut the woman’s pant leg off just below the crotch.
“What color is the blood?” Baker asked.
“Red,” she said, wondering why he was asking such a stupid question.
“Bright red or dark red?”
Lucia glanced at the blood trickling out from beneath the young man’s hands.
“Bright red.”
“The bullet probably hit the femoral artery. That’s not good. She’s going to bleed out.”
“What should we do?” Lucia asked, feeling helpless.
It seemed like forever, but was probably just a couple of seconds before Baker spoke again. “There’s not much you can do. Even with a surgeon and a fully equipped operating room that’s a tough wound to treat. There’s a tourniquet in the medical kit in the trailer, but that will just slow the—”
Lucia jumped up and ran towards the motorcycles. As she passed the fire pit, she yelled at the teenage girl.
“Come with me and help—Now!”
Startled, the girl dropped the firewood in her arms and followed Lucia to the motorcycles. They unhitched the plastic cover on the trailer and tossed it aside. The medical kit was in one of the plastic storage tubs, but Lucia had no idea which one.
“Quick, start taking boxes out,” she said to the girl. “We are looking for a small plastic container. It is in one of the bigger boxes.”
They started at opposite ends of the trailer, lifting boxes and opening them. A quarter of the way through the trailer’s contents, the girl held up a medium-sized translucent Tupperware container.
“Is this it?”
Lucia took the container from her and popped the lid off. The tourniquet, a bright orange strip of fabric with plastic buckles, lay on top of the other medical supplies. She grabbed it, placed the kit on the ground, and turned to run back to the wounded woman.
“You should take everything—just in case,” the girl said, snatching the kit off the ground and handing it to Lucia.
Lucia took the kit and ran. When she reached the woman, the young man was squatting on his haunches beside her lifeless body. There was a splotch of blood on his right cheek and a crimson smear across his forehead. He looked up at Lucia, an empty expression on his face.
“I’m sorry. She’s dead. I tried, but it wouldn’t stop bleeding.”
“It is not your fault” Lucia said. “You are not the one who shot her.”
“Maybe, if I had—”
“I said it is not your fault,” Lucia repeated, looking over her shoulder at the bikers. It is their fault—or perhaps mine, she thought, feeling a tinge of guilt. She shrugged it off. Guilt was a useless emotion.
She stood and spoke to the crowd. “Dig a grave for her.”
“With what?” a woman asked. “Our hands?”
“Yes, if you have to,” Lucia replied angrily.
The teenage girl turned and ran to the side of the building, returning a moment later with a shovel. She pointed to a grassy area by the side of the parking lot that was already populated with graves marked by small wooden crosses made from sticks that had been tied together.
“We can bury her there, with the rest of them.”
The young man climbed to his feet and took the shovel. “I’ll do it.”
9
A gift
Lucia returned to the motorcycles with the medical kit in her hand. The teenage girl followed her and without being asked, started to place items back in the trailer.
“Thank you, but you do not have to do this,” Lucia said, studying the girl who was in her mid-teens and pretty in a wholesome kind of way.
The girl shrugged and gave Lucia a half-smile. “I don’t mind. Besides, it’s better than carrying wood.”
“What is your name?” Lucia asked.
“Abigail, but everyone calls me Abbie.”
“Are those your parents? The ones at the fire-pit.”
“No, my parents are dead. That’s my aunt and uncle, but I wish they were the ones that were dead instead.”
“Why?” Lucia asked in a hard voice. “Do they hurt you or do other things?”
Startled, Abbie stammered, “N-No, nothing like that. They just make me feel like I owe them something for taking care of me.”
Lucia took a step towards her. “Do not rely on others. You must always be able to l
ook after yourself. Do you understand?”
“I guess.”
“Do you have a gun?”
“My uncle has a rifle. That’s what he used to shoot the deer.”
“I do not mean your uncle,” Lucia snapped. “I mean you. Do you have a gun?”
“No.”
Lucia pulled the small nickel-plated 1911 from the back of her pants. “Here,” she said, sticking her arm out and offering the gun to the teenager. “You do now.”
Wide-eyed, Abbie stared at it.
“Take it. It won’t bite you. Do you know how to use it?”
Trembling, Abbie shook her head and took the gun, holding it in her hands like it was a piece of fine china. “This is the first time I’ve even held one.”
“It is easy to use. Give it to me and I will show you how.” Lucia took the gun back and quickly ran through the basic operation of the pistol. Then she handed the gun back to the girl and nodded approvingly as Abbie repeated what she had just been shown.
“Good…Practice whenever you have free time and do not ever let another person take your gun from you. Do you have somewhere to hide it?”
Abbie looked at the burned-out building and nodded. Then she turned back to Lucia and gazed at her. “Why are you doing this for me?”
Lucia stared into the girl’s bright blue eyes and said, “There are people who will take what isn’t theirs. You must stand up to them or they will keep taking, and they will never stop. Do you understand me?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, help me put the cover back on the trailer.”
Abbie grabbed a corner of the tarp and asked, “What’s your name?”
“My name is Lucia.”
“Is that your husband or boyfriend guarding those men?”
Lucia froze with the ends of the tarp in her hands. Baker wasn’t her husband, or even her boyfriend, but what was he? “He is my partner,” she said after a pause. “We have the same goal.”
“What’s that?”