No Need For Heroes: Third Blow

by Harper Cole

  “I’m scared,” she said, and her voice trembled, the traitorous thing. “Nathan is … insane. Properly insane. He won’t listen to reason. He likes control and violence. Even Rafe won’t go as far as Nathan will.”

  Will was rolling back and forth, an unconscious action as he nodded in agreement. “True psychos are rare. But they are dangerous.”

  Nigel ran his hand through his limp, lank hair. He didn’t glance at Will. He was concentrating on Rochelle and he seemed to be needing to get something off his chest. “It’s power, isn’t it? You would rather push Trent away and finish with him at your own control, than let … than lose him to someone else’s actions.”

  “No, that makes no sense!”

  “Doesn’t have to. You just won’t trust, will you? How many months did I have to work here before you let me have a set of keys?”

  “I’ve learned not to trust anyone.”

  “It’s a risk, sure. It’s what makes us human.”

  She was sure she had read bullshit like that before, written in a curly font over an inspirational photo of a sunset on Facebook. “Fuck you.”

  Something seemed to snap inside Nigel. He straightened up, and she saw how tall he actually was. He thrust his chin up and out, and said, in a harder voice than she’d ever heard, “You are too controlling. You need to learn to trust and give way a little, or you’re going to push him away, and everyone away, and die alone.”

  If he had stripped all his clothes off, painted himself blue and streaked off down the street, she would not have been more surprised. Nigel had never spoken to her like that. He’d never spoken to anyone like that. She gaped at him. How dare he?

  He met her gaze steadily, with a sad cast to his mouth, waiting for her response.

  Rochelle deflated and looked away first. She couldn’t say anything. Will puffed out his cheeks but remained silent.

  She walked away from them both, through the bar, to the frosted windows, and pushed one open, looking out over the lot.

  Trent was still out there, sitting hunched on the low wall between the parking lot and the sidewalk. Cars zipped past, their hasty noisy movement a contrast with his solid, immobile bulk.

  She moved away, going to the doors to open them, flicking the bar lights on as she went. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Nigel move to the cash register and pop the draw to check its contents for the start of the shift.

  Rochelle stepped out into the parking lot. She walked slowly. She felt heavy, almost reluctant to cross the gray concrete and reach Trent.

  But she could not stop walking, either. She was drawn to him, ponderously, steadily, but relentlessly.

  She got to the chain link fence and looked at the back of his head for a moment. He must have heard her footsteps but he didn’t turn around. She stared through the diagonals of wire. It was a barrier that seemed to symbolize everything she was screwing up right now.

  Because all she had to do was walk around it.

  Chapter Eight

  Trent rolled his eyes, trying to see who was approaching him from the side. He was tense and ready to react, but the figure was wearing bright purple.

  It was Rochelle.

  He kept his head facing across the street.

  She put a hand on his shoulder, and sat down next to him.

  “I will support you in whatever you decide to do,” she said, very softly.

  He blew out his breath in a low, long whistle. What was he supposed to say to that?

  There was nothing to say.

  Trent stood up and turned, and folded her into his arms.

  * * * *

  “Chinese? Thai?” asked Rochelle.

  “Thai. No, wait. Japanese,” Trent said.

  “You can’t go fight a battle on a tray of sushi,” Will interjected.

  Trent scrunched up his face. “So, what did the samurai eat, then?”

  “Thai, I think,” Rochelle said. “Nigel?”

  “Fine by me.” He picked up his phone. “I’ll just order something of everything, okay?”

  Night was falling and Rochelle had insisted they call out for food. Trent had decided he was going to go after Nathan and Rafe that night.

  He was tired of waiting and worrying. He was going to take the fight to them, and see it ended.

  A few customers came and went, served by Nigel and Rochelle while Will and Trent sat at a table, chatting about nothing in particular. It seemed important to keep the conversation light. Trent wondered how soldiers faced the thought of an oncoming firefight. His mind would skitter sideways away from any serious contemplation. Instead, he was seized by the juvenile compunction to make stupid jokes about childish things.

  And now he was hungry. When the door to the lot opened he assumed it was the delivery guy, but it wasn’t.

  “Hey there. Officer Dellacroce.”

  Dellacroce stalked over to their table, looking around. “How’s it going?”

  “We’ve made plans,” Trent announced.

  “Right?”

  “For food.” The door had opened again and this time it was a young man burdened with boxes. “Care to join us?”

  Dellacroce pulled up a chair but waved away the offer of a meal. “So, about these plans…”

  “What would you advise?” Trent asked, opening the cartons. He had made his mind up, but he was curious about the police officer’s opinion.

  “Listen to Hooley. Do as he says.”

  Trent nodded.

  Will poked at some Pad Thai. “I need a fork.”

  Rochelle was there with cutlery. “You’re all heathens. C’mon, wait, let’s dish this out. You have to take them both out, you know. Nathan and Rafe.”

  Will agreed. “Nathan is on a mission. He’ll come after you and destroy everything you know and everyone you know.”

  Trent knew this. “Sure. I intend to.” He shot a look at Dellacroce, daring him to disagree, but the officer shook his head imperceptibly.

  “Can we talk privately?” he said.

  Trent looked at his food. “Right now?”

  “We won’t eat it all,” Will promised, and Rochelle nodded to the store room.

  Trent pulled the door shut behind them as soon as they were away from the main bar. “What’s up, officer?”

  “Here.” Dellacroce reached into his jacket inner pocket, and pulled out a bundle wrapped in brown paper, pushing it quickly into Trent’s hands. It was small, and heavy for its size.

  Trent pulled back the paper at one corner. “A gun?”

  “I couldn’t imagine you hiding that shotgun of Rochelle’s anywhere inconspicuous,” he said. “It’s a clean gun. No prints and no history. Keep it that way, all right?”

  “Oh. Thanks. Seriously. This has to be one of the most thoughtful gifts I’ve received in a while.”

  “Huh. Happy fucking valentine’s day.” Dellacroce slapped his upper arm. “Hide it. Dispose of it. I deny all knowledge of it.”

  “Of what?”

  “Ha fucking ha. Come on. Your food will be getting cold.”

  “It’ll be getting eaten.”

  “Hey, wait one minute.” Dellacroce pulled Trent back as he put his hand to the door. “How is Rochelle taking all this?”

  “She’s come around to it. She knows what I need to do.”

  “Right. Good. I look out for her, you know? Her father…”

  “I know. There’s history.”

  “Right. Yeah. So what is your plan?”

  “It’s very simple,” Trent said. “Tonight, I’m going over to Rafe’s garage and I’m shooting him dead. Then I’m finding Nathan and killing him, too. If it looks like they’ve done each other over, then that’s great. But one thing I’ve learned is not to make plans. The more I plan, the more can go wrong.”

  “We will make it look like it was gang on gang, Rafe on Nathan,” Dellacroce assured him. “But you gotta do both, all right?”

  “All right.”

  Chapter Nine

  As darkness fell, Tr
ent oscillated wildly between states of high excitement and a strange, deathly calm. Nigel was staying in the bar and Will had elected to stay with him. Rochelle, however, would not be told to remain behind. She flatly refused.

  Trent and Rochelle went out the back to Rochelle’s house so that Trent could prepare, and the argument could continue.

  He soon realized it was an argument that he was never going to win.

  She pulled on a black hooded top and a dark hat, and loaded her shotgun. “Two shots,” she said. “You better make them count.”

  It was the most impractical weapon but it was, at least, some kind of weapon. He pulled the handgun from his jacket. “It’s okay. I’m going to even the odds a little.”

  Her eyes widened. “Where …”

  “Dellacroce. So you see, I am fine on my own.”

  “Yeah, you probably are.”

  “You’ll stay?”

  “Fuck that!” She tossed her head back. “I’ve got business with these low life fucks too, don’t forget. He took me hostage. I’m not coming with you on your behalf.”

  “Ouch.”

  “And there is nothing you can stay to make me stay behind.”

  He saw from her eyes that it was true. There were so many reasons he didn’t want her to come. And none of them were good enough. She was an independent woman. He wanted to protect her, and it was going to be harder if she came along …

  … but if she came along armed, she’d be an asset.

  It was settled.

  “I’ll drive,” she said as they left the house. She darted across the parking lot and put the shotgun between the front seats of her car. Trent followed, and didn’t even argue back. He slid into the passenger seat.

  “I thought Dellacroce was staying with Nigel and Will,” he said as she pulled out onto the street.

  “He is.”

  Trent glanced up at the rear view mirror. He could have sworn he saw the cop leave the bar and head for his own car. But there was no time to worry about that, now.

  There was no space in his head for anything else but the coming showdown.

  Rochelle drove carefully. Now was not the time to attract undue police attention, for sure. Some time on google maps earlier had fixed the potential routes in her mind and she made steady progress through the light traffic.

  When they were a few blocks away, she said, “What if he’s not there? I mean, that’s kinda likely, isn’t it?”

  “It’s no problem. I’ll call him up and get him to come down. I’ll burn his fucking business to the ground. He’ll come running.” Trent sounded grimly confident.

  “He’ll know it’s a trap.”

  “But he’ll over think it. All I’m gonna do is shoot him as soon as I see him. It isn’t the movies where people talk and make great denouncements and revelations. I see him, I shoot him. The end. Real life is much more brutal, simple and sordid.” Just shoot the fucker. Dead. Gone. Over.

  “Fair point,” Rochelle said.

  “Okay – we’re coming up to it, now. Drive on past, at a normal speed. Let’s see what’s happening there.”

  Rochelle cruised past. He saw her knuckles were white and her jaw was tense. He looked past her, staring into the garage. The front double doors were open, showing the interior bay was lit up and a few men were there, apparently working on a motorcycle.

  “Did they see us? Who was there? I think I saw Nathan.”

  “They didn’t notice us. Keep going – turn around up there. I saw Rafe and I think there was Keenan, too. Maybe Nathan.”

  “Definitely Nathan,” she said.

  They turned around and cruised back along the street.

  “Stop here.”

  Rochelle pulled up to the sidewalk. They were about forty yards from the garage. The streets were quiet, but not deserted. Trent’s stomach felt tight and he was sure he was about to hurl.

  “What now?” Her voice had a tremor in it.

  “You don’t have to come,” he said. “I’d rather keep you safe.”

  She glared at him and he shut up. He got out the car and walked around to be there when she stepped out, so they could shelter the ungainly shotgun between their bodies. The few people around were intent on driving someplace, or hurrying home, or walking their dogs. No one passed them on this side of the road, and no one paid them any attention.

  Adrenalin took over. His heart was hammering fit to burst through his chest, but his vision seemed to darken at the edges, like tunnel vision. He couldn’t see anything but what was right in front of him, and there was a roaring in his ears. He literally couldn’t hear if Rochelle was talking to him or not. His body throbbed.

  He walked, his pace increasing as he neared the garage. Nothing else mattered now. Maybe Rochelle was behind him. Maybe she’d have the sense to run back to the car. His fingers were wrapped tight around the handgun, the metal warming in his hand, and as he rounded the concrete pillar that marked the edge of the forecourt in front of the garage, he pulled the gun clear of his jacket, and shot the first man that he saw; it was only as the figure crumpled to the ground that he recognized it as Keenan, one of Rafe’s gang members.

  He blinked, trying to clear his narrow focus and take in the whole scene. There was a clatter as Rafe ducked behind a large diagnostic machine, like a computer on a box on wheels. Nathan was in a corner, leaning against a wall and staring at his phone which dropped from his hands as Keenan fell to the floor.

  Trent had his gun trained in Rafe’s direction. He could only see the man’s shoulder so he figured he was the more dangerous. He was aware, now, of Rochelle beside him, with the shotgun aimed at Nathan, who was holding his empty hands aloft.

  And Nathan was laughing.

  “You can’t kill me, you silly bitch! I don’t see no cold hearted killer in your eyes! Go on, pull the trigger, get me in the head or the chest … go on!”

  For a moment Trent thought that Nathan was right. Until Rochelle fired, and the round ricocheted off some metalwork and Nathan leaped sideways. Trent didn’t know if he’d been hit or not, but within a split second, Nathan was hiding behind a motorcycle.

  Rafe moved, peeking around the diagnostic computer and Trent fired without thinking, aiming for whatever he could see, and Rafe staggered back, a bloom of blood spreading across his shoulder. He didn’t scream or make any noise.

  Trent surged forward, keeping the gun trained on Rafe. Rafe lost his balance, his eyes wide and confused, and he sprawled to the floor, clutching at his shoulder.

  A car pulled up behind them, driving right over the forecourt and into the opening of the bay, and the engine kept on running though he heard the door open.

  “No,” Rochelle shouted. “Dellacroce! Stay back, stay away, Dellacroce, no–”

  Like a puppet exploding from a box, Nathan rose up from behind the motorcycle and there was a gun in his hands. Trent moved too slowly, caught between Rafe and Nathan. Nathan fired, laughed, and ducked down out of sight again.

  Rochelle screamed.

  Sirens were getting closer, and suddenly Trent saw that Rafe was getting to his feet once more. In panic, Trent let another round fly, and this time it buried itself in Rafe’s chest. He was thrown backwards and lay still.

  Rochelle shouted, “The cops, Trent, the cops…” as if he couldn’t hear the law coming down upon them. Hell, he could hear the prison gates clang shut in his mind already.

  He ran to the motorcycle that sheltered Nathan, and launched a flying kick at it, with enough force to slam it over from its center-stand. He had judged it right. Nathan was pinned to the ground by the heavy motorcycle, his arm flung out and the gun coming loose from his fingers. He yelled in surprise and pain, his hand grasping at nothing, the fairing of the motorcycle holding him firmly to the floor.

  “Lower your weapons! Sir, we will shoot.” It was a strangely polite-sounding request. Trent was snarling as he stood over Nathan, his gun aimed squarely at his head.

  Nathan stared back. He looked scared now, a
t last. Finally, he looked like a real person again. He didn’t speak.

  There was chaos behind him. Shouting and screaming. A woman, sobbing – Rochelle?

  Do the right thing, Trent thought, his finger on the trigger. This is your chance.

  Chapter Ten

  Rochelle pulled forward but the officer had hold of her wrists, pinned tightly behind her. She watched as Trent held his arms out to the sides, letting the gun dangle harmlessly from one finger. He knelt carefully and laid it to the ground and stood up again, moving slowly.

  A switch was thrown and the cops swarmed forward. Someone was screaming, and it was Nathan. Trent was silent. The cops took him down, throwing him to the floor, but he didn’t resist. He offered his body quietly, almost zen-like in his acquiescence.

  He knows how to act when he’s caught by authority, she thought.

  The officer who had hold of her snapped the cuffs on, and jerked her backward. She was grateful they hadn’t flung her to the ground as well, but she’d given up the gun as soon as she’d seen them.

  There was a fight going on the other side of Trent; at first she thought the officers were simply struggling to get Nathan clear of the motorcycle. Then she saw that he was resisting arrest, screaming and hollering and spraying spit until an officer tasered him into compliance.

  “Where’s Dellacroce?” she gasped as the officer began to haul her out of the garage.

  “Shut up and walk.” He dragged her to a van that had just arrived, parking up behind an ambulance. Personnel rushed past her. She turned her head, shouting, “Dellacroce!”

  She couldn’t see clearly. He was on the ground. Was his arm moving by his own volition or was the EMT moving it for him? She strained and pulled, her vision clouded by tears. Not Dellacroce. Not one of the good ones.

  The officer put one meaty arm around her waist and simply lifted her away to the waiting van.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Sit! Now, who’s shy? Who’s shy?”

  Rochelle lay along one of the padded bench seats in the bar, under the frosted windows, and put her book to one side. She shook her head as Trent crouched in front of Brucie, trying to teach him new tricks.