by Nick Petrie
Now, walking past the trim middle-aged man in the tan suit, she felt better knowing she still had them, and tucked her hand into her pack and found the comforting shape of the pepper spray.
Instead of heading out to the rental car shuttles, she turned toward the baggage claim. Not the first carousel, with her flight number on the monitor, but the third, where luggage from Phoenix was just starting to emerge.
She found a place to stand and watch.
When the man in the tan suit came around the corner and walked toward her, she felt herself tense up.
She was safe at the airport, she told herself. Cameras, police. He would do nothing here. And she had her lipstick pepper spray ready in her hand.
Without even a sideways glance in her direction, the man in the tan suit stepped toward the Phoenix carousel, plucked a basic black rolling suitcase from the moving track, and walked away.
June let out the breath she hadn’t quite known she was holding.
This was almost always what happened, she told herself.
She noticed something, changed her behavior a little, and it turned out to be nothing.
Which was good. It meant that she was paying attention, and that the world wasn’t as dangerous as she sometimes feared.
She walked to the other end of baggage claim and back, killing a little time just in case, then went outside across the series of medians toward the shuttle buses, feeling smart and safe as she tucked the lipstick tube back in its place.
She hadn’t reserved a car when she’d booked her flight because she hoped Peter would offer to pick her up at the airport. Then she decided she didn’t want to be a distraction, given that he’d asked her not to come anyway. And maybe he was more involved than he’d let on with that woman lawyer, or the woman who owned the protection company. Anyway, June was her own goddamned woman who wanted her own goddamned wheels, so she texted him that she was renting a car and would meet him at her hotel, which would let him know that he shouldn’t count on getting laid.
Then she realized she was being a little crazy, and she should just fucking relax already and see how things went. Right?
She climbed on the first shuttle she found, put her crap on the shelf, and found a seat. There were two other people on the bus already, a large white woman in a floral blouse and a beanpole college-age kid wearing a Bob Marley T-shirt, grinning like an idiot. She figured the kid was here for the Colorado cannabis experience. Then wondered if she was making a judgment because of his T-shirt. Maybe he was a naturally cheerful person, and the woman in the floral blouse was the total stoner.
Then the man in the tan suit came up the steps.
He had his backpack slung from his rolling bag and his phone in his hand. He took a seat far from the rest of the passengers and devoted his attention to his phone, holding it sideways and typing with both thumbs like a teenager.
Before she could decide what to do, the shuttle driver climbed into his seat and closed the doors and hit the gas.
—
The shuttle served two different rental car companies. June figured she’d wait to see where the man in the suit was going, and pick the other company. Better safe than sorry. Worst case, she’d stay on the bus, ride back to the terminal, and pick yet another company. They were all on the same road.
She put her hand in her pack again, found the fake lipstick.
She was being paranoid, now, she was sure.
But it was also kinda fun. Like a game.
His suit was a little old-fashioned, she decided at the first stop, watching as he collected his things with practiced efficiency and moved smoothly down the shuttle steps. Kept his eyes on his phone the whole time. The kid in the Bob Marley T-shirt got off with him.
June got off at the next stop with the woman in the floral shirt.
One of the benefits of her second job, keeping an administrative eye on the tech incubator her dad had started, was a considerably larger paycheck than a freelance journalist was used to. So she splurged on the car and got a sky-blue Mustang convertible, which she’d always wanted to drive.
Plus it was parked right outside the building, so she wouldn’t have to wander around in that huge back parking lot all by herself. Safety first, that was June’s motto.
She texted Peter a picture of the car to yank his chain. See you soon, sucka!
There were two people ahead of her and the rental paperwork took forever, like always, but climbing into the Mustang was her reward. Man, that engine sounded nice.
She put on her sunglasses, then punched the gas leaving the parking lot, just to see what the car would do. She left some rubber behind, so she knew she was going to have to behave herself. The car really wanted to go fast. It didn’t even seem to see the yellow light at the end of the long access road.
But there was another car waiting ahead of her, a white sedan, so she hit the brake and slowed to a stop.
Then an old brown Dodge pickup, coated with dust, rolled up behind her and bumped the Mustang good and hard.
—
The impact rolled her forward a few feet, so she was jammed right up against the car in front of her. She felt her heart pounding in her chest. The truck bumped her again, more lightly this time, closing the gap. Both cars were tight against her. She took a deep breath and touched the gas, felt the engine rev, but the car didn’t move.
The pickup driver had hopped out and was striding up to her car. She half expected him to be the man in the tan suit, but he was someone else. A man of maybe forty with a big round head, small ears, and a nub of a nose, wearing an orange Western plaid shirt and tight Wranglers with a big belt buckle. He looked like a rodeo rider, or at least her idea of a rodeo rider. All balls, no brain.
Man, she was pissed.
“Dang it, lady, where’d you learn how to drive?”
She pushed her door open hard and whacked him in the knee. She heard him bark with pain. She slammed her door shut and punched the gas with her front wheels turned, hoping to push the Kia out of the way.
The tires screamed and the Mustang lurched, the back end skating sideways a little but not enough to do anything. Was it possible the sedan was pushing back in reverse? She tried to reverse herself but got nowhere against the mass of the truck. She couldn’t get enough momentum to push her way free. She was boxed in.
“Come on, lady, I’m tryna help you out, here. Don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”
He spoke loud over the sound of her car. He had heavy shoulders and a narrow waist, close-cropped black hair, and an impatient frown on his face. She hit the door locks and reached for the pepper spray in her pack but the top was still down so he just reached in and grabbed one of her upper arms in each hand and pulled.
June was strong and fit, but the beefed-up rodeo rider wasn’t going to have any trouble lifting her weight. Plus she was confined in the cockpit of the car, and with his superior position above and behind her, she wasn’t going to make any progress by staying in the seat. So she let go of the steering wheel and straightened her legs and let him lift her up.
Wishing all the while that she’d just asked Peter to pick her up at the goddamned airport.
The rodeo rider rested her weight briefly on top of the door, moved one hand around her waist to improve his leverage, then plucked her out of the car with a surprising amount of grace.
To anyone passing by, he might look like a good Samaritan.
June knew better.
If the first part of self-defense was keeping yourself out of dangerous situations, the second part was defending yourself when you had no choice. Self-defense techniques only got you so far, so she’d added some judo and kickboxing over the years. It made her feel capable and independent. She knew the right places to hit somebody, and she wasn’t afraid to do it. The training had also given her some practice getting hit herself, which was important, so the pain and fear didn’t make her freeze or submit without a fight.
She waited until the rodeo clown relaxed his
grip, then turned in close and raised her right knee into his crotch as fast and hard as she could, pivoting from the hip and raising herself up on her toes for maximum force. She felt the soft contact in those tight jeans and knew it was a good shot when she heard his breath woof out and he began to curl into himself.
“Ohhh,” he said. She could hear the pain in his voice.
She twisted away and turned to run, thinking she had the shoes for it and could outrun this tight-pantsed broken-balled muscled-up sack of meat any day of the week. The rental place was less than a mile down the road. She’d be there before he could stand up straight.
But he still held her T-shirt bunched up in one big hand.
Her legs were the strongest part of her, so she planted her left foot and rotated her hip socket to knee him in the stomach with her right leg. She didn’t want to be that close to him, and she didn’t have the leverage or momentum to hit him as hard as she’d like, but she wanted him hurting, distracted, so she could tear herself free or slip out of the T-shirt altogether.
His stomach felt too solid, all those muscles already contracted with the curl. She didn’t think she’d made a dent. But he let go of her shirt. She felt that freedom and dropped her right foot back to the asphalt, pivoting to run.
Then felt a silvery explosion in her head as a heavy fist hit the back of her skull.
She stumbled through pale fireworks, her legs not quite obeying orders.
He hit her again, this time with the back of his hand across her face, red pain spinning her like a wobbling top. This was bad, very bad. No sparring helmet, no gloves.
Ahead of her, the white Kia’s door opened and the man in the tan suit got out, moving fast, full of purpose. His thick black shoes gripping the gritty road.
“That’s enough,” he said, his voice commanding.
Maybe he would help, she thought. Although she couldn’t count on him, he was older, slimmer, she didn’t know if he could stop the rodeo rider.
But the bigger man turned to look. June leaned into her wobbling spin and bent her arm and used the momentum to slam the back of her raised elbow into the side of the rodeo rider’s head as hard as she possibly could.
“Agh,” he said. “Fuck.” Stumbling back from her, his face bright red, his body still crimped around his sore testicles.
She’d hurt him twice, she thought, the pain in her face and head bringing a kind of clarity of purpose. She had a chance.
Maybe the man in the tan suit would do something.
“Call the police,” she called to him, and tried to ready herself.
The man in the tan suit reached into his jacket pocket.
“Don’t hurt her,” he said, still striding forward.
“Too late for that.” The rodeo rider turned back and stepped toward her in a fighting shuffle, hands open and ready, his face a mask of rage. “I’m gonna fuck you up.”
He feinted in. June danced back, her own hands up, legs imperfect but getting better.
“How are those balls?” She showed him her teeth. “Nice and sore?” Her kickboxing instructor had been a big fan of trash talk. He’d taught her some dirty moves, encouraged her to use them. June had rung his bell a few times, too, and not because he’d let her.
“We need her intact, Leonard,” the man in the tan suit said. “Just hold her for a minute.”
And brought out a thin cylinder, red on one end.
A syringe. The red was the cap.
He took off the cap and slipped it into his pocket.
He was not here to help.
Taking advantage of her distraction, the rodeo rider came in fast and hooked her ankle with his foot as she shuffled back. She fell in a hard tangle, banging her hip and elbow, and before she knew what’d happened, he’d pinned her to the asphalt.
Then the man in the tan suit stepped in, stuck the needle through her shorts into her butt cheek, and pushed the plunger.
Color drained from the world. Her limbs were made of concrete, too heavy to move.
The rodeo rider caught her eye and smiled. “Now I own your ass,” he whispered.
He walked back to his truck, came back with a small duffel and dropped it with a clank into the back seat of her car. Guns, she thought.
Then he scooped her up in his arms like a newlywed bride. As he turned back toward the Mustang, she caught a better look at his truck. The broken rear window, pockmarked sheet metal.
He laid her gently down in the Mustang’s passenger side, reclined the back, and climbed behind the wheel. The last thing she heard before the engine revved up high was the rodeo rider’s voice.
“Man, I like this car.”
The Kia pulled forward and the Mustang followed.
The bright afternoon turned to black.
31
Big Dog heard an unfamiliar phone ring somewhere. He looked over at the girl still slumped in the passenger seat. The phone would be in her pocket or backpack.
He remembered the folded square of aluminum foil in his shirt pocket. Traffic was thick on I-70, and he wasn’t about to pull over. So he reached over and patted her down, found the phone in her back pocket, then steered with his knees long enough to wrap the phone in the big sheet of tinfoil, making it invisible.
He sure liked the Mustang, even if it was a little banged up now.
Just like the girl. He was gonna bang her up some more before he was done with her.
He’d wait until she was awake. More fun that way.
But where to put her?
Man, his balls ached something fierce.
He was following Colonel Dixon in his white sedan, the plan being to stash the girl and get what they needed to accomplish the mission, but the Dog was real tempted to just keep driving. Find some little abandoned house out in the middle of nowhere, take his time with the bitch. But there was real money to be had in here somewhere. The Dog had a good nose, he could smell it.
Girls, they were disposable. Dime a dozen.
But money was time.
Money was freedom.
Now that Leonard was dead, Big Dog was ready to roam.
—
The Dog hadn’t minded being Leonard Wallis. He’d learned a lot from Leonard’s time in the Army. Discipline, and hard skills. Plus Leonard knew how to have a good time.
But Leonard was restricted. Leonard had a past. Leonard’s face and fingerprints were on file, and his DNA, too. There were certain things Leonard just couldn’t do until he’d gotten the Colonel to agree to his terms. That was the whole reason the Dog had taken the job.
The promise of becoming his true self.
He’d met guys like the Colonel before. The man was an empty shell, all hollowed out by his own personal ruin. That shell was the only thing holding him together. But the shell was stronger than it looked. Maybe because it was the only thing the man had left.
With the Colonel, the Dog figured a goodly part of that shell was his word. Whatever fractured remnant that remained of his personal integrity. His honor, as a Marine.
When the Big Dog had recognized that, he’d known this was his time.
The Colonel had the connections to erase Leonard from the Army’s records.
The Colonel would keep his word.
Not that the Dog was going to trust the Colonel’s word. He didn’t trust man or beast. But twenty years in the Army had given Leonard a long reach. Contacts of his own. Ways of finding out. He just hadn’t had a way to erase himself before now.
And it had worked. The Dog’s check on his own records had turned up almost nothing. No prints on file, DNA swab gone missing.
Man, he was gone. Practically a ghost.
But he had a few chores left to do.
Kill that interfering Marine, for one thing. He was looking forward to that. It would surely be a challenge, something worthy of the Big Dog’s skills. And not from a distance, either. Close up.
Then bite off a piece of that money, wherever it was.
After that, bite off a piece of t
hat prickly bitch all drugged up in the seat beside him.
He was tempted to start with the girl. But that was like eating dessert first, wasn’t it? Plus his ol’ huevos were too damn sore to do much of anything, so he’d be a good boy and eat his vegetables.
When he was done in Denver, it would be all dessert, all the time.
Ahead of him, the Colonel in that white car turned on his signal and pulled off the highway, coasted left through the light, then pulled onto a frontage road and into the parking lot of a cheap-ass chain motel.
The Dog was right behind him.
—
The Colonel parked at the edge of the lot and stayed in his car, but the Dog drove directly to the office, with the girl clearly visible in the passenger seat.
The motel was long and low, pale stucco two stories tall with exterior stairs and walkways linking the rooms. They would be visible coming and going, but the Dog didn’t think there was much risk of anyone paying attention, either the management or the other guests. It wasn’t that kind of motel.
He checked in using his operational ID and credit card. The clerk was young and scrawny in a wrinkled blue button-down shirt, but he didn’t need much muscle to do this job. His name tag read DAVID. The Dog peeked over the desk divider and saw a stack of old books by the motel’s computer, and another book held open by a weird-looking pen lying across blank pages. One of the pages was partly filled by messy blue handwriting.
“Hey,” said the Dog. He made a point to look through the big plate-glass window at the Mustang outside, then back to the clerk. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”
The clerk blinked at him. Maybe looking at the mark on his temple where the bitch had hit him with her elbow. “Uh, sure, I guess.”
“My girlfriend, she’s in the car?” said the Dog. “We’re from out of town, here on vacation? And I think she ate too many of those cookies, you know, with the pot in them? She’s pretty sleepy. Should I be worried?”