by Baron Sord
He snorted, “They weren’t that organized. We kicked their asses.”
“I kicked their asses! You watched. And they saw both our faces! And almost killed you!”
“But they didn’t, so calm down. They don’t even know who we are. We left our wallets and phones in your rental car, Remember? We’re fine.”
I grumbled, “Only until that guy Gray Eyes and his gun-toting thugs come knocking on our front door one night when we’re both asleep.”
“They’re welcome to try,” he said dismissively. “I’ve got my Glock. And you’ve got you. They can’t take both of us.”
I rolled my eyes. “What if I’m not there? One Glock against seven guns, or ten, or twenty, or however many they have is not going to cut it.”
“Would you quit worrying? That’s never gonna happen. You know as well as I, we’ll probably never see those guys again.”
I wanted to believe it, but I didn’t.
After running into members of FwCK four times since getting my powers, something told me we’d be seeing them again sooner or later.
With any luck, it would be much much later, long after Arnold died happily of old age.
—: Chapter 24 :—
“What are they doing down there?” Arnold whispered as we peered through a grimy skylight.
“Packing drugs,” I offered.
We were on the roof of a nondescript rectangular building south of downtown in Logan Heights, near Harbor Drive and the San Diego Bay.
Someone inside this building was about to get shot.
I didn’t know who.
Inside the building, rows of tables were lined up underneath fluorescent lights. Teams of women working at the tables were transferring white powder from large blocks into small baggies. Two male supervisors watched them carefully.
Surrounding the drug work floor were rows of multi-level industrial shelving. The shelf rows were about 20 feet tall and contained all manner of boxes on palettes wrapped in heavy-duty plastic wrap. Obviously, this warehouse wasn’t used for packing drugs during the day. It was some kind of legit business.
“Do you think they’re packing heroin?” Arnold asked.
“I have no idea, but it isn’t powdered sugar.” I rolled away from the skylight so nobody inside would see my orange glow.
Arnold sat back in the shadows. “Do they not realize the Navy has all their ships parked like two blocks from here?”
From our position on the roof, I could just make out the lights on the Coronado Bridge leading over to Coronado Island where the Navy kept all manner of warships. “Not all of them. Only a portion of the Pacific Fleet is here in San Diego. The rest are at the headquarters in Pearl Harbor or out to sea. You should know that. You work for SPAWAR.”
“We do computers, not ships.”
“Then you should at least know the Navy isn’t the drug police.”
He smirked, “I can see why. They can’t stop crime under their own noses.”
“That’s the police’s job,” I sighed. “Or the DEA. Or the Coast Guard. Not the Navy.”
“I don’t care whose job it is. Nobody is doing it. Except us. And we’re not even getting paid for it.” Arnold offered a knowing smirk.
I took another look through the skylight and muttered quietly to myself, “It’s not about the money.”
On the periphery of the work floor, three big drug thugs paced the shadows along the walls, watching the women workers carefully. Probably security. Two of the three drug thugs carried automatic pistols in their belts. The third held his up and was tapping the nickel-plated barrel gently against his cheek. He periodically glared at the women workers. A reminder to them of the consequences for stealing product.
I muttered, “Maybe you should sit this one out, Arn. In fact, maybe we both should.” I pulled away from the skylight.
“Why?” Arnold asked. “I’ve got my vest and my Glock.”
“Because we’re not the DEA. I’m trying to help people who need it, not fight the war on drugs. That’s the government’s thing.”
“I thought you said someone was going to get shot. That’s why we left Oceanside in such a hurry. Don’t you wanna help?”
“Do I want to stop a drug dealer from getting shot?” The last time I’d tried, I had accidentally killed Sumo Miguel and Golden Grill Javier.
“Yes. Drug dealers have families too.”
Miguel and Javier were a family. What a mistake that was.
Unaware of my thoughts, Arnold continued, “Just because someone sells heroin doesn’t make them evil. Maybe one of those ladies down their stuffing baggies is gonna get shot. Maybe she works here because she needs extra money for food for her kids or grandkids. Who am I to judge?”
I groaned. Sadly, he was making sense. I thought for a moment, then said, “What if the guy getting shot—”
“You’re assuming it’s a guy. It could easily be one of those women.”
“True.” The distress voice I had heard in this case was distorted and faint, probably because of the distance from here to Oceanside where I’d first heard it. “If it’s not one of these women getting shot… and it’s one of the men…” I pictured myself down there fighting with the three drug thugs and accidentally punching one of their heads clean off their neck, sending it bouncing around the warehouse like a bloody basketball. That image was grimace-worthy.
Arnold shrugged, “You’re the one with the ESP. Can’t you tell if it’s a guy or a girl who’s gonna get shot?”
“Let me try again.” I rolled away from the skylight, closed my eyes, and listened for a fresh distress message pertaining to this particular situation. I wasn’t getting anything new. I’d have to go on memory. Concentrated and let the mental recording play.
…He shot me. He fucking shot me…
I sighed, “I don’t know. It sounds all panicky and high. It could be male or female.”
“What are they saying?”
“He shot me.”
“He? The only people down there with guns are the guys. It could totally be one of those women getting shot.”
Then I remembered all the feminine Spanish voices I’d heard back in Oceanside, but couldn’t translate. Arnold was right. These women were in danger. Any one of them might end up dead if I didn’t do something.
He said, “We totally need to go down there and — oh shit!”
SPACK!
SPACK!
SPACK!
I spun around and looked down through the skylight.
The three big drug thugs on the perimeter of the floor went down in heaps, possibly dead.
Booted men dressed in black tactical gear from head to toe and aiming assault rifles flooded the floor of the warehouse with military precision. All wore bulky black combat rigs that held spare ammo. The red dots of their laser sights locked onto the two male supervisors, who raised their hands in the air, both of them holding pistols.
One of the booted men growled, “Weapons on the floor!”
The two drug supervisors carefully set their pistols on the ground.
Without being told, the women workers raised their hands in the air.
The black-clad invaders waved their suppressed automatic rifles in the women’s faces and herded them in a circle away from the two supervisors.
A trio of the invaders in black broke away from the main cluster and pulled someone violently out of a small office in the corner of the building and dragged him over to stand between the two supervisors. He looked like the bossman. He also looked scared shitless and completely surprised.
Arnold whispered, “Is that SWAT?”
SPACK! SPACK! SPACK!
The invaders fired at point blank range.
The two drug supervisors and the bossman dropped to the floor, bullets in their foreheads. That made a total of six men dead in cold blood.
“SWAT doesn’t execute people,” I grumbled as I stood up. “And they announce themselves. These guys came in silent. This is something else.”
<
br /> Red laser dots danced across the chests of the frightened women.
“They’re gonna shoot them,” Arnold moaned, scared out of his mind. He didn’t have his Glock out. Not that it would’ve made a damn bit of difference against a trained rifle platoon.
“Stay here,” I hissed.
I stepped onto the skylight with my full weight. The glass shattered and I plummeted toward the floor. I landed on top of one of the drug tables with a bang, snapping it in half and sending a cloud of white powder billowing into the air.
The element of surprise was now in my favor. I needed to act fast before it ran out. The group of women stood between me and the booted invaders. I couldn’t protect the women from behind. I jumped over them and came barreling down on the invaders.
The invaders scattered backward.
I dove to the side and rolled, drawing fire away from the women.
Assault rifle barrels and laser dots followed.
I came up in a crouch, hands out, ready to unleash the heat.
“I WOULDN’T DO THAT IF I WERE YOU!” Someone shouted in a commanding voice from the shadows.
I recognized that voice.
“Boys!” Gray Eyes boomed as he emerged from behind a row of tall shelves. He glared at me. “If this orange popsicle prick makes a move… shoot everybody else.”
All rifles swiveled back to the women.
Gray Eyes smirked at me with profound satisfaction, “Don’t you just love hostages?”
I didn’t know what to say.
Gray Eyes did. “We just keep running into each other, don’t we?”
I didn’t answer.
He smiled, “I had assumed you killing Javier and his brother would be the last time I had to clean up a mess because of you. And yet here we are.”
Because of me? Was he insane? I wouldn’t even be here if his men hadn’t killed the six drug thugs lying on the floor.
Gray Eyes said, “It was very thoughtful of you to barge in on this little transaction of mine, but I do believe it is now time for you to depart. If you would be so kind as to walk out of here like a well behaved little boy, my men won’t kill these innocent women.”
I looked at the frightened faces of the ladies.
Arnold was right.
They weren’t hardened thugs. They were everyday people, middle-aged or older Hispanic women worn down by the stresses of life. They probably all had children and grandchildren waiting for them at home.
Coming here had been the right decision all along. Had I not been here, Gray Eyes might have executed every last one of these women. But I was here.
“I don’t have all day,” Gray Eyes insisted. “Leave now, or the shooting starts.”
I grumbled, “How do I know you won’t kill everyone once I’m gone?”
He smiled indulgently, “I give you my word.”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“Ask anyone. Men? Am I good for my word?”
Mutters of amused agreement from the black-clad invaders.
“See?” Gray Eyes smiled at me. “I am always good for my word. One cannot maintain a position of leadership as long as I have if one does not stay true to one’s word.”
He was clearly in charge of these men. Honor among thieves. Wasn’t that the old saying?
“Tick tock, son,” Gray Eyes said, checking his chunky aviator’s wristwatch. “I am on a very tight schedule. If you do not make a decision in the next ten seconds, I will make it for you.”
“Fine,” I grunted, “I’m not going anywhere. Not until you and your crew leave.”
“And if we don’t?” Gray Eyes smiled wickedly.
“Then I’ll…” I didn’t want to show my hand, but I had enough stored heat to torch the heads of the invaders. Not all at once, but I could get two at a time. Hopefully I could torch all of them before any of the women were shot or killed.
Gray Eyes grinned, “Then you’ll what? Burn everybody?” He nodded confidently, “Oh, I know what you did at the quarry. Lonnie told me. He said he drenched you with ten gallons of gasoline and lit you on fire, but it didn’t work.”
I realized he was referring to Bowling Ball, who was apparently named Lonnie.
“Then you lit Lonnie on fire by… what… shooting flames out of your hands?” Gray Eyes said it like he didn’t quite believe it. “Do you realize you gave Lonnie third degree burns over 60% of his body? He might not make it. Same thing with the other three.”
“Other three?” The horrid details of that night at the rock quarry — the awful images I had tried to forget — came rushing back at me in an overwhelming wave of guilt. Torch Head most of all.
Gray Eyes shook his head in disgust, “Don’t get me started about poor Derrick. Derrick is now blind. You burned his eyes out and his eyelids are gone.” He was probably referring to Torch Head.
Torch Head Derrick.
Derrick was a person.
A person whose head I had incinerated.
I cringed at the memory of the sound of crackling skin and the smell of burning human hair.
Gray Eyes said, “Derrick isn’t deaf. Miraculously, the fire didn’t damage his ear drums, or so I’m told. But his ears are gone. Melted clean off. His lips too. And his nose. Big gaping hole in the center of his face.” Gray Eyes motioned at his own nose with a clenched hand. “Like a human skull with a thin layer of skin over it. What’s left of it. Rippled and wrinkled like a Halloween mask. Something from a Hellraiser movie. That is some wicked shit, my friend. Very, very wicked.” Gray Eyes said it with a mixture of amused respect and restrained hatred.
Had I unintentionally become a monster?
Sure sounded like it.
Man, did the truth ever hurt.
I swallowed hard. “What happened to Vince?” Vince was Bloody Tied Up Guy, the intended victim of execution who I had saved that night, or so I hoped.
Gray Eyes smirked, “Oh, you didn’t burn him, I know that much. But you don’t need to worry about Vince. I took care of Vince.” He smiled from ear to ear.
“Did you…” I couldn’t bring myself to say “kill him” because I didn’t want to know.
Gray Eyes ignored the question. “What’s it gonna be, Zippo? Will you walk out of here nicely or do I start killing people? Hmm?”
I needed to think. Arnold was on the roof. He was theoretically safe if he stayed where he was. But these women were in danger. I couldn’t just abandon them. They were staring at me like I was their only hope. Chances were I was.
Gray Eyes suddenly furrowed his brow. “Where’s your friend? Your sidekick. The fat one? Your side-shit, as I like to call him. Was he up on the roof with you?”
I sent a hard thought: ARNOLD! GET OUT OF HERE!
Then I muttered, “Uhhhh, no. He isn’t here. He, uh, he’s sick.”
Gray Eyes smirked at me, “You skipped class the day they taught the other children how to lie, didn’t you?” He turned to one of his booted thugs. “Irons, send two men to the roof. Make sure the sidekick isn’t armed. Last time he had a pistol of some sort. An automatic.”
“You got it, boss,” said the thug named Irons. He wore a black ninja mask like the other booted thugs, but his eyes and ebony brow were visible. He was African-American.
When Irons started to move, Gray Eyes said to him, “Thank you, my good man.” Gray Eyes sure was polite for a killer, wasn’t he?
Irons nodded at one of the other thugs and said, “Pasty. Let’s go.”
The thug named Pasty followed Irons outside. Pasty was very light skinned under his ninja mask.
I thought, GET OFF THE ROOF, ARN! NOW!
I didn’t know if Arnold heard my telepathic send or not. More importantly, although I could jump off a 20 foot roof no problem, Arnold could not. He’d break his legs. He had to use the ladder. The only ladder.
I hoped it wasn’t too late for him to get away.
Moments later, Irons and Pasty shoved Arnold into the building, his ninja mask already gone and his ey
eglasses hanging bent from his face.
The thug named Pasty snorted, “This fat fuck was trying to get away. Move it, fat ass.” He gave Arnold a solid shove that sent him stumbling.
“Okay, okay!” Arnold whined as he regained his balance and pushed his bent glasses back onto his face.
“Move!” Pasty gave him another shove.
Arnold blurted, “Would you relax! I’m going!”
Irons walked up to Gray Eyes, holding out Arnold’s Glock by the barrel. Irons said, “He had this.”
Gray Eyes took the Glock and admired it, then checked the chamber to see if it was loaded. He turned to Arnold, “Do you know how to use this?”
Arnold frowned, “Actually, yeah.”
“I mean for killing. Not shooting paper targets and pop bottles.”
“Oh, uh, no. Not really.”
“I thought not,” Gray Eyes grinned. “Good thing I do. Now, the question is, which one of you do I shoot first?” He held the Glock at the ready while he eyed me and Arnold.
“Shoot me!” I shouted.
“Wrong answer,” Gray Eyes said and leveled the gun at Arnold.
“No, don’t!” Arnold shrieked, holding his hands out defensively.
BLAM!
Gray Eyes shot him low in the stomach before I had a chance to move.
I was about to jump into action when Gray Eyes stopped me with a roar. “WAIT!” That commanding voice of his boomed across the big room. “Wait,” he said calmly, looking right at me. “Your friend isn’t going to die. I didn’t hit anything vital.”
I prayed Arnold’s SAFEMAX vest had stopped the bullet. It could easily stop a 9mm round from Arnold’s Glock. But Gray Eyes had fired rather low. The vest didn’t go down past the belt line.
With Arnold’s expansive waist line, his vest tended to ride high.
Oh no.
To my horror, Arnold’s face went ashen gray. He slumped to the ground. Blood leaked between his fingers as he held the front of his gut.
Gray Eyes continued, “I wanted you to understand that I am not playing around, my good man.” He was talking to me. “If you take your friend to the hospital, I’m sure he’ll be fine.” Gray Eyes smiled at me in a kind way.
Arnold didn’t look fine. He was shivering and mumbling to himself, “He shot me. He fucking shot me…”