by Weston Ochse
“Well, then. Ready or not, here I come.”
Starling held the phone against his ear, listening to the dial tone. After a moment, he slowly lowered the phone, then put it away.
“What’d he say?” Joon asked.
Freddie stared at him as well, waiting for the answer.
“He said he’s coming.”
She let out a lungful of air and nodded, her complexion now pale.
“Then we better be ready.” She got up, went into the kitchen, rifled around for a moment, then returned with a low-ball glass filled halfway with a dark liquid. “Here,” she said, holding out the glass.
Starling stared at it. He glanced into her eyes and saw that she had her own steel ready. He took the glass, hesitated a second, then slung back the warm bourbon. He closed his eyes as it burned all the way down. He needed this. He could handle this. Just a little to keep that steel in his spine.
When he opened his eyes, she was no longer there. He sipped the last few drops from the glass, then placed it on the table.
Chapter Four
STARLING FOUND JOON standing at the front window looking out.
“How much time do we have?” she asked.
“Depends if they anticipated my response. They could have a team ready to go or they might have to get across town. Either way we have to be ready.”
His phone buzzed. He pulled it out and saw a text from McQueen.
WILL BE THERE BY NINE. HANG ON. GOT A REPLACEMENT.
That was good news. Now they only had to hold out for a few more hours. He texted McQueen back, telling him where they were. When he finished, something suddenly occurred to him.
“Where’s your phone?” he asked.
She nodded to her purse. “In there. Why?”
“Who gave it to you?”
“Larrson. Said my husband wanted me to have one in case he needed to talk to Freddie.”
“Has he ever called?”
“Not once.”
“Let me see the phone.”
She hesitated, then went to her purse, rifled through it, and then came out with a smartphone. She handed it to him.
He noted that it was unlocked and began to sort through the apps until he found what he was looking for. TRACKMYPHONE. He pointed at it. “This way he knows wherever you are.”
Her eyes widened. “Shit.”
“What about the kid’s iPad?”
“I bought that.”
“Larrson or his dad never touched it?”
“Never.”
“Good. Then I’ll just deal with this.”
“What’s your plan?”
“Not sure. But you and Freddie stay put. Whatever you do, don’t show yourselves. I’m going to put something together that’s better than waiting for the storm to come.”
She stared at him and nodded, her eyes now filled with worry. He shoved her phone into his back pocket, then opened a map app on his phone and took a close look at his position. They could be coming from any direction, but there were some more obvious routes that they’d probably take. What he needed was a location that would benefit him in the event that he had to fight a group. Then he saw it. Two blocks down was a church that had a narrow corridor between the main building and an out building, running to a central courtyard.
Starling left by the back door, locking it behind him. Then he strode to the back gate and turned right. To anyone who might be watching, it looked like he wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings, but he actually was. He’d taken a course on surveillance detection from a contracting agency back when he was with Ranger Regiment and had put it in practice all through his time on a TST. The idea was to determine his surveillance status without those watching knowing what he was doing. The alley was empty except for the occasional trashcan or piece of broken furniture. He strolled one block, then another. Once he thought he saw a car filled with Korean men turn onto Harvard, but he kept going. They’d find out soon enough that the house was empty, call Larsson, and he would tell them about the tracking app. By then, Starling wanted to be in place and ready. Then again, this was Koreatown, so there were probably lots of cars filled with Korean men.
The church was a two-story brick Episcopal structure. The narrow corridor between it and what looked like a fellowship hall was blocked, but it was nothing to move aside the board that covered the space, then go through and do the same at the other end. He had to turn sideways to get through. The corridor ended in a courtyard filled with an assortment of playground equipment. A high fence topped with razor wire promised that no one was going to get in that way. Visibility through the fence was blocked by fabric woven between the metal pieces, much like the sniper fencing he was used to seeing in the Middle East to deter enemy observation. He checked the back door of the church and saw that it was locked. Pulling out his wallet, he grabbed two picks, worked the mechanism for a moment, then got it unlocked.
The door opened into a kitchen. He pulled open the drawers until he found a set of knives. He kept one and placed the others around the back yard, jamming them into the earth, grips upward. Then he returned to the kitchen and began opening cabinets. Nothing else seemed usable.
Next, he tried the fellowship hall. It was locked as well, but it took him only half as long to open the old locks on this door. Inside he found a long hall with tables and chairs. He rifled through several wall lockers and found a bag of aluminum baseball bats. These he took with him, laying some in places he was sure he would remember.
When he was done preparing, he took Joon’s phone and placed it on one of the seats of the swing set. Then he sat to the right of the corridor, baseball bat in hand, and waited. Ten minutes in, using his own phone, he texted McQueen the address just in case McQueen needed to recover a body.
Time moved slowly. He listened to the night sounds of Los Angeles—car horns, plane landings, helicopters, shouts in a dozen different languages both friendly and hostile. Twice he heard a car pass the entrance, but it didn’t slow. He kept checking the time and as it crept inexorably towards twenty hundred hours, he wondered if he had been wrong after all. What if the app was just automatically installed? What if Larrson hadn’t placed it there? What if a gang of thugs had found the pair and were gang-raping Joon? Those and a dozen other doubts crept through his mind on little cat feet, but he ignored them, just as he’d ignored such doubts while on the TST or on one of the hundreds of sentry duties he’d performed during his career. He had to trust his instincts. He had to trust the mission.
Then he heard it.
Rough whispers in the dark.
Starling tensed, readied himself.
He vectored in on the whispers, which were coming from the back alley. Two voices seemed to be at odds with each other, then someone rattled the fence in frustration. The razor wire. Starling recognized the language—Korean. They’d tried the back, now they’d try the front. Two minutes later, the whispering returned. He heard them curse, then their feet dragged on the dry grass as they tried to creep stealthily down the corridor. He didn’t know how many there were, but he presumed more than five. He ran through several different scenarios with enough moves to make a dance instructor dizzy, then firmed up his grip on the bat.
The first head popped free of the corridor, turned and looked towards the back door of the church, then back towards the swing. He was about to look in Starling’s direction, when the man behind him prodded him forward.
Starling took this as a sign, and as the first guy cleared the opening, Starling brought the Louisville Slugger Model 516 aluminum bat around in a wicked swing, intersecting the second man’s knees in a sickening crack.
The man’s screams made the first man turn and Starling launched himself up, bringing the bat with him, catching the first man square under his chin and shattering his jaw. He fell unconscious to the ground as teeth rained like confetti.
The other man was still screaming, grabbing at his legs as more men behind him tried to get through.
Starling swung the bat down int
o the second man’s crotch, feeling the impact of his balls on the metal. His screams turned to breathless shrieks.
Starling hurled the bat at the third man’s head, catching him in the nose. He fell unconscious atop the second man, muffling the sounds of agony.
Starling cursed as he noted that the law of unintended consequences was now in effect. Where the second man had been blocking the way, the third fell on him, creating a bridge. Soon the remaining four were running over the body and spreading themselves out in the back yard, surrounding him. They were dressed like male models: silk shirts tucked into sleek pants and high-end shoes.
Starling was already breathing heavily, the result of six months of no physical training and several hundred empty pizza boxes. He could pull out his pistol at any moment and potentially end the fight, but with LAPD’s ShotSpotter spread throughout the city, the last thing he needed was attention from them.
It seemed as if the four arrayed against him felt the same because none of them were armed except the guy who’d been smart enough to pick up the bat.
Starling stepped carefully as they surrounded him. The scene reminded him of Bruce Lee in Fists of Fury—the movie where old Bruce got his ass beat the first two thirds of the movie because of a vow he’d made to his sister, then finally kicked the shit out of the entire planet the last third. If only he had Bruce Lee’s skill. But Starling wasn’t without moves of his own. He’d gone through Level Three Army Combatives Training and had used his skills against hajis while clearing buildings and on operations, as well as brawled with marines and SEALs. Now, faced with four young Korean thugs who probably knew Tae Kwon Do, he felt he could do okay, even if he was the fat version of a US Army Ranger.
Then he felt his back scream with pain as something sharp sliced into it. His reminiscence had allowed him to let his guard down for the time it took for one of his assailants to step forward and stab him.
He cursed at his over-confidence, took a step forward, then fell backwards in a controlled fall, using his momentum to get to his target, where he swept the man’s feet out from under him. Starling recovered, reached over and pulled a kitchen knife from the dirt and shoved it into the man’s throat, pinning him to the ground.
The man’s hands came up to it as his eyes bulged and his airway stopped working, but he hadn’t the strength or coordination to remove the blade.
Starling then rolled to his left and got to his feet just as one of his assailants slammed a foot down where he’d been.
The same man spun around and barely missed Starling’s chin with a reverse hook kick. But the man recovered too slowly. He failed to control his momentum and let his foot fall farther forward than it should.
Starling pulled another knife from the ground and slammed it into the top of the man’s knee. The guy opened his mouth to scream and Starling kicked him in the face.
Now the odds were better.
Two on one.
“You boys want to double team me, or take me on one at a time?” he asked.
“Fuck you, gringo,” the one on the left said.
“That’s Mexican. Can’t you say white boy in your own language?”
The other said “baeg-in namja,” which Starling had heard enough times from Korean soldiers he was training to know that it was exactly the right words.
“That’s better.” He grinned, stepping around so he could be closer to one of his planted weapons. Gringo Korean must have anticipated that, because he, too, pulled one of Starling’s weapons out of the ground. “Look what you found,” Starling said.
“Dak cho!” Gringo Korean said, glancing fearfully around at his fallen friends.
“You want me to shut up? I can’t, especially when fighting. You see, I’m a talker.” He felt the wound on his back and came away with a red wet hand. It didn’t seem life threatening, but it would need stitches.
The other Korean ran at him and launched a vicious set of punches and kicks.
All Starling could do was to back away until he was at the fence. He took two kicks to the ribs and one to the gut before he was able to grab one of his attacker’s legs. Then the guy began to punch him in the face, and damn but those hurt. He let go of the leg and managed to get a fistful of the man’s shirt in each hand. They grappled for a moment, then Starling stepped aside and threw him to the ground. Just as he was about to kick him, Gringo Korean ran at him with the knife.
Starling dove out of the way but landed roughly on the ground. By the time he picked himself up, both the Koreans were on their feet and advancing. Starling turned and ran, limping into the fellowship hall. They followed close behind.
He grabbed one of his bats, but the first man who’d kicked him found and grabbed another.
Starling stumbled backwards, aware that he was losing blood from the knife slash in his back. His blood was dripping on clean white tile floor as he pushed the tables out of the way.
The two Korean bangers advanced on either side of the room, neither in a hurry. But by the narrowness of their eyes and the tension of their lips, Starling had no doubt their intention was to kill him, if for nothing else than to avenge what he’d done to their mates.
Starling considered pulling his pistol and just getting this over with, yet even as he backed up, pushing aside more tables and chairs, a knife wound in his back, he felt better than he had in weeks. He was winded though, breathing more heavily than he should. He also felt the strain in his shoulders and knees. All this hard living and no exercise had left its mark. Still, he only had these two to deal with before he could get back to Joon and her son.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
He ignored it as he leaped out of the way of a bat swung in his direction.
“What if I was to say to you, shi bai kepu seck yi?” he said to the one with the knife.
The man snarled and leaped forward.
Clearly, he didn’t like the idea that Starling would have unconventional sex with his mother.
Starling kicked a chair in the Korean’s direction, making him trip and become entangled with the chair legs. Starling stepped aside as he fell. As the man on the ground tried to get up, Starling kicked him in the chest and knocked him over. The downed man’s face was awash with pain and anger.
And then it began to... change.
The features liquefied and rearranged. Gone was the long face, the grim smile, and the epicanthic folds. In its place were the sharp, exaggerated features of something that should have been in a horror movie. Starling wasn’t sure what it was, but certainly not human. Demon? He glanced at the other Korean and saw that his face had changed as well. What were these things? Their skin was almost white with deep gray mottling. Glowing golden eyes regarded him as both of the beings growled.
Fear shredded Starling’s confidence with Wolverine claws. He spared a look behind him, searching for the front door, ready to flee. He spied it not fifteen feet away and was ready to get the hell out, but when he looked back, the two were back to normal. Not demons, just two Korean men, eager for his destruction.
What the hell had just happened?
Had his eyes played a trick on him?
Was it the adrenalin, or a leftover from the drugs he’d ingested the night before?
His phone vibrated again. It had to be Larrson.
Starling answered with his left hand while swinging the bat with his right to clear a space in front of him. He eyed the two Koreans warily, worried they might change again.
“Yeah,” he said into the phone.
“We’ve been looking for you.”
Both Koreans lunged at him.
“A little busy now,” he said, grunting as he leaped back. He slid across the top of a table, then once on the other side, kicked it at his attackers.
“That’s what I want to talk to you about. It’s all over. We have the kid.”
What the hell?
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. We got him.”
No more screwing around. S
tarling threw the bat at one of the men, then pulled his pistol and shot both in the gut before turning and kicking open the front door. He shoved the pistol back into the holster in the small of his back, then ran limping down the street and into the alley. Realizing he still had the phone in his hand, he managed to say, “If you hurt them, I’ll kill you.”
“You’re in no position to dictate terms. This isn’t even your concern. If I see you again, I’ll kill you.” Larrson hung up.
Starling cursed and kept running. He turned down the alley behind Joon’s house and sprinted. Then halfway down the block, he slowed to a stop. Breathing heavily, hands on his knees, he thought about the call from Larrson. Why would he call? Why then?
He heard sirens from the direction he’d come. Without thinking, he stepped to the side and shoved his pistol deep between the cushions of an old couch. He walked as calmly as he could past the rear of the Park’s home. Larrson stood on the back porch, shouting into a phone. Several Korean men stood beside him, nervously looking at their boss. As Larrson looked toward the alley, Starling turned his face away. Soon he was past. He turned a corner and hiked to Olympic with a smile on his face. He’d almost fallen for the ruse. Larrson didn’t have the boy. He didn’t have anyone. Starling had noted as he passed that the house next door was as silent and empty as a tomb.
Chapter Five
STARLING HAD SPENT the time waiting for McQueen hunched over a bag containing a forty-ounce beer, leaning against the side of a Koreatown plaza off Western Avenue. Part of his reasoning was to blend in with the other human detritus. The other part had to do with hiding the slash on his back. He’d occasionally hold out his hand and ask for some money. Most of the Koreans glared at him— stupid, white, poor addict—but a rare few seemed to feel sorry for him and gave him money. During the time he’d been there, he’d garnered $27.32.
McQueen finally arrived in one of his employer’s vans. If he’d meant to blend in, he was an utter failure. The van was painted Day-Glo pink with two giant men’s faces silhouetted and kissing. The words CLOSETS ARE FOR CLOTHES and COME JOIN US AT HANK’S were painted on the side in rainbow letters. The van pulled into an empty space in the parking lot and waited.