Czechmate

by Seth Harwood

  “No,” Jack says. “I’ll do what you say.” Even a taste, just a little back in his system, means three years gone, three years and he’s back to zero. One push could ruin everything, and yet his nerves cry for the release, the return to junking. He closes his eyes.

  “OK? You say no, and I will listen to you, Jack Palms. For now.”

  “No.”

  The pressure of the needle leaves Jack’s arm. When he looks up, Akakievich stands next to Mills Hopkins. “Shoot him here.” He points toward Mills’s temple, the black burn mark on the side of his face. “This is where we gave him the shocks, Jack. Do you know how it feels to have electroshock therapy?” Akakievich is serious, even his smile doesn’t betray the fact that he’s dead set on what he’s saying, doesn’t mean any of it as a joke. “We think your friend Mills here liked it. My guess is you will too.”

  Hopkins narrows his eyes. “Do what he says, Jack. Kill me now.”

  Jack grips the gun in his hand, tests the tension of the trigger.

  28

  The Right Spot

  Jack’s eyes meet Mills’s and the two of them look at each other for a long moment.

  Jack knows what he has to do, what Hopkins wants him to do, and given the condition of Hopkins’s body, Jack can’t blame him: his lips cut off, given electroshock therapy—who knows what this’s done to his mind—there’s a hole in his shoulder you can see through, and he’ll probably never have the use of that arm again. He has no fucking thumbs. And that’s all just in the area that Jack can see above the blankets and straps holding Mills down to the bed.

  He knows he’s never going to get Hopkins’s eyes out of his mind, that he’ll probably relive the sight in dreams for the rest of his life if he kills him, that there’s a chance Akakievich will frame it up to make Jack in even worse shit with the police, but for his friend, now that Jack knows for sure what he wants, he has to do it.

  He aims with one eye and even as he does he knows there’s no way he can miss. With Hopkins’s face less than three feet from his hand, the metal collar holding his wrist in place, there’s not much chance of him shooting anywhere but Hopkins’s head.

  “Fuck,” Jack says. “You sure?”

  Mills Hopkins closes his eyes.

  “Just fucking kill the fuck,” Freeman tells Jack.

  Then from behind him, Jack hears a rush of feet on the stairs, someone coming up from down below: more than one person and several sets of feet. He hears his name called out in a foreign accent and then—he still can’t move his head or look back—with a few fast steps across the length of the warehouse floor, even if Jack can’t see them, he knows the fast patter of running, he hears his name yelled and feels a hard punch in his lower back, just below his ribs.

  A sound comes out of him like an oh, but if he’s just discovered anything, it’s how truly painful a kidney punch can be. His head is jerked back to reveal his neck, and he hears Andre’s voice close to his ear. “How is my M6, Jack?” He chops Jack across the Adam’s apple, and Jack starts to cough, gags and chokes until Andre releases his head. He slumps forward but the strap across his forehead won’t let his face fall far. A hand touches him along his lower back, rubbing around his kidney where he’s just been punched, the area Jack’s sure will most likely be leaking blood into his bladder for the next few weeks.

  “Yes,” Andre says. “I’d say that is exactly just about the right spot. No, Jack?” He hits Jack again in the same place, and Jack’s vision goes black for a few moments.

  Once Jack can see, Andre stands in front of him, pushing his forehead up with his hand so Jack’s eyes are open. Andre brings his face close to Jack’s: he has two dark bruises under his eyes and his nose is splinted on either side, covered with white tape.

  “You look like shit,” Jack says.

  Andre punches Jack in his left shoulder and it feels like the bullet just went in all over again. Jack grinds his teeth against what might be a scream and then, when Andre hits him in his shoulder a second time, Jack thinks he feels something open and he loses control—screams out loud in a way no man ever should.

  Akakievich pulls Andre back away from Jack. He nods at Sasha and the bigger man puts his arm in front of Andre, holds him away. “That is enough for your car, Andre,” Alexi says. “For now. We have something here that is more interesting. Your Mr. Palms was just about to kill his first police.”

  Jack screams again; perhaps he’s losing it or maybe this is his way of keeping a hold on his world, but he screams on purpose now, even with the pain in his throat, and cocks the hammer on the .38, then pulls the trigger all the way until the gun goes bang.

  29

  Shenanigans

  Al takes one last hit of the white powder before they get to the scene and the address Jane Gannon gave them. As they pull up, he offers a last hit to Vlade and gets turned down.

  At least Niki has that to be thankful for. Vlade opens his phone and starts to hit buttons, but before he can dial anyone, the female FBI agent stands at his window, tapping on the glass.

  “Shit!” Al jerks in the back seat, surprised, and starts to hide the coke. He’d been snorting off the web of his right hand, the place between his thumb and pointer, and now he tries to shake what’s left back into the vial. Some of it spills and some goes in. Al screws the cap on, sees the white on his pants and brushes it off.

  Niki wants to laugh as he watches—what will this FBI agent do to Al when she has a killer and drug smuggler inside the building, probably torturing Jack Palms and maybe killing more girls? But he can’t pass up the chance to fuck with Al when he’s coked up; he coughs and touches his upper lip, looking at Al, which gets him nervous. Al wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, leaving a trail of white like a milk mustache from the remaining coke on his hand. Niki shakes his head, prompting Al to wipe his face again, now with both hands.

  As Vlade lowers his window, Jane Gannon sticks her head in and motions for Niki to kill the engine. A Honda Odyssey in the lot outside won’t spook anyone inside the warehouse, Niki knows, but he turns it off to humor her; he knows they don’t want to attract attention.

  “Jack’s inside, up there.” She points at a building a little farther down the block. “Shots fired. Shaw went in.”

  Vlade chuckles. “He is bad man, that one.”

  “Military,” Niki says. “He cannot let go of his Ops.”

  Vlade nods. He opens his door to step out with Jane Gannon, drawing his weapon as he does. It’s just a handgun, his Makarov, and when he sees it’s all cocked and ready, he puts it back into his shoulder harness. It’s a good move, Niki can see, and he hopes that Vlade will still be all right. He’s seen his friend operate under the thrill of the coke before, but still, it makes him wonder.

  He steps out of the car, draws his own Makarov, raises it to his chest. Gripping it with both hands and eyeing the buildings around them, he moves around the front of the car. He hears the sliding door open on the far side and hurries to see Al’s entrance and Jane’s reaction.

  True to plan, Al steps out holding an AK-47 and with a trail of white powder under his nose. Jane studies him for a moment with a quizzical look. “Are you serious about this guy right now?” she asks the others.

  Vlade takes an Uzi out of the car and checks the clip. He pulls back the bar to chamber a round and raises the barrel in the air. He looks at Al to see what she’s talking about, but just shrugs. “What you mean?”

  She shakes her head, then grabs Al’s face by the cheeks like she’s taking hold of a small child. She pulls him toward her and brushes off his lip, shows him some of the powder on her hand. “See this? Inspires real confidence.” She claps it off on her leg and lets Al go.

  Al laughs, brushes his face with his sleeve. His smile is as big as Niki’s seen it, as big as it goes. This is how Al gets when he’s embarrassed: he just makes things look worse.

  “Come on,” Vlade says. “Enough with these shenanigans. Palms ne
eds us.” He looks down at the Odyssey and a wry smile crosses his face, one that Niki knows is not going to be good for the Odyssey. Niki heads back to the driver’s side and opens the door before Vlade can say it, before he points out that a moving piece of crap like this is the best cover they’re going to get for an approach.

  In the front seat, Niki starts the engine and then gets down onto the floor of the van. He positions himself between the two front seats and gives it gas with one hand, holding the steering wheel with the other. His arm’s just long enough that he can see over the dash. He looks out the windshield, chooses his spot at the other end of Akakievich’s building, and drops the car into drive.

  30

  Taste

  Something wet shoots out of Mills Hopkins and splatters across Jack’s face. He smells the gunshot, tastes the metallic flavor of blood on his face, and hears Alexi start to say, “Yes!” and then, “Yes! Yes! Jack. Jack Palms has done something. He has killed a police.”

  Jack wants to tell him about killing his boy outside the cafe, about shooting up the curtain in the Top Notch, the possibility he could’ve killed anyone who was behind it; he wants Freeman to stand up and say that Jack shot him three times, was ready to kill him, even pulled the trigger that would’ve done it. He wants this all to be over and the carnage to stop, but at the same time he knows it’s all ramping up, that he’s crossed over a line that can never be uncrossed. With this realization, the world slows; he sees Akakievich opens his mouth to laugh. Andre narrows his eyes at Jack even as Sasha holds him. Sasha turns his face away from Mills and wipes blood off his temple with one hand. Finally, Jack looks at Mills and sees that what’s left of his friend is no better than what was left of Ralph in the bottom of a jacuzzi not three months ago when all of this started. But that was someone else’s doing. This is his.

  There’s a major chunk of Mills’s head missing, the upper portion of his face including his right eye and the majority of his forehead above that.

  Jack drops the gun and slams his hand against the metal collar; it cuts into his skin but then, by pushing his fingers together and narrowing his hand’s circumference, he manages to pull it out of the restraint. The gun falls off the foot of Hopkins’s bed and hits the floor.

  Jack goes right for the strap on his forehead and pushes it up off his head, then for the top strap around his chest, pulling on its loose end. He doesn’t get far, though, before Sasha and Andre are on him, Sasha holding his arm and Andre punching Jack in the face. Jack fights against Sasha to free his arm but can’t get it out.

  To his side, Freeman throws his arm up at Ivan’s gun and knocks it out of his hand. As Ivan bends to pick it up, Freeman punches him full on across the jaw. Even from a wheelchair and with only one good hand, the punch is strong enough to knock Ivan into a heap on the floor on the other side of Freeman’s chair.

  As Freeman throws his body forward onto Sasha, his chair barely following, Sasha’s forced to let go of Jack’s arm. The big Samoan swings wildly, but Sasha catches his shoulders and holds him back. He spins the chair around and holds Freeman from behind.

  But with his arm momentarily free, Jack has an open shot at Andre. Even with the straps around his chest, Andre’s close enough that Jack can get in a good hard punch, maybe just one and maybe not quite hard enough to make it really count if he goes for Andre’s gut or his side, so Jack pulls the punch and drops it down below the belt, angles it right into Andre’s balls. The Russian goes down right away, falls onto Jack’s lap, and Jack pushes him back toward Hopkins’s wasted body and the bloody bed.

  Before Jack can go after the strap again, hands grab him from behind and hold his arm in place. Akakievich says something in Russian and the hands grip Jack even tighter.

  “No, no, no, Jack,” Akakievich scolds. He picks up one of the syringes and steps forward, bringing it toward Jack’s neck.

  “Fuck you,” Jack yells, trying to shake off the hands holding him, thrashing his head back and forth to keep it away from Alexi’s needle.

  “Oh, no,” Akakievich says. “You are the one here who is fucking you, Jack Palms. You!”

  Jack does his best to break free from the hands while Akakievich and the needle come closer. Then Alexi says something in Russian and one of the arms behind him wraps around his forehead, holds it against the chair. Jack thrashes but can’t get any space to move. The arm wraps around Jack’s eyes and holds his head in place. Jack grabs at the arm but can’t move it. He tries to hit the guy standing behind him without success.

  “This will not hurt you at all, Jack. There is no need to struggle. Just you think of it like you are meeting your old friend.”

  Jack feels Akakievich scratch the tip of the needle against his neck. He punches at the guy’s arm, hitting him as high as he can reach—above the elbow, around his biceps. For a moment, the arm leaves Jack’s head and the hand catches Jack’s wrist and holds it. The other arm wraps around Jack’s head now, but higher, around his forehead so now Jack can see.

  He looks directly at Akakievich and their eyes lock. “Don’t do this.”

  “Oh, yes, Jack. This I am doing.”

  Akakievich holds the needle in front of Jack’s face, squeezes it so a tiny spurt of its contents drips out like premature ejaculation. Jack opens his eyes wide, thinks of the three bad years of digging back, clawing himself out of the hole the drugs dragged him down into. He sees Mills Hopkins dead in front of him, filled with heroin before he died, his face a mess and his head and shoulder missing pieces of what made them. He sees Freeman struggling with Sasha, Ivan still on the floor, and Andre holding his groin, already clawing his way back onto his feet.

  Akakievich comes closer, and now Jack can see his face but the syringe is too close. Then the arm turns his head away. He feels the needle scratch against his neck again and prick his skin as it goes in.

  Jack takes a deep breath; in his mind’s eye, he sees the plunger pull back, the brief rush of red blood into the syringe, so familiar from his old days, and holds his breath. He closes his eyes.

  “No,” he says.

  In his mind, he watches Alexi’s thumb touch the plunger and start to push. He feels the pressure already in his neck, something pushing itself into him, or maybe he’s just imagining it. Maybe he’s imagining the sensation of warmth spreading into his neck. He exhales all the air from his lungs.

  “Yes, Jack. Your old friend.”

  Part of him maybe even wants it. Maybe Alexi’s right. Maybe all of this has been bullshit between now and his last taste: dealing with the fucking Czechs, exercising his ass off every day, going after O’Malley’s killer even though it didn’t have a damn thing to do with his life—maybe all of these things were the bullshit, the struggle and now he’s just finally getting back to the good he deserves. His shoulder where Gannon shot him certainly hurts enough. The burns on his arm hurt. Shit, there’s a guy holding him down and he’s fighting this. He goes limp, stops fighting, opens his eyes.

  And that’s when he sees Akakievich put the empty needle down on the side table and pick up another. “Yes, Jack,” Akakievich says. He holds the new needle vertically in front of Jack’s face. “Yes. Right into you. These drugs will make you feel so much better, change your life back so you are no longer an annoyance in my side.”

  Jack does his best to nod but still can’t move his head. Akakievich takes his cheeks in his hand, and shakes Jack’s head for him.

  Jack thinks of the bikes, the ride across the country through so many states with the Czechs—sometimes he was with them doing things, but mostly alone in his helmet, watching the land—and he knows that wasn’t the bullshit. He knows the real thrills might come slow and have to be earned, that it hurts like fuck when someone shoots you—and it should—and that the good has to be earned in life, that there’s always some kind of struggle. Even in this with the drugs: you fuck yourself up, then you have to fight back just to be normal again, just to have a life that sucks.

&nbs
p; You climb down into a canyon, then you have to climb yourself back up.

  Jack’s not up for that again. He’s three-plus years older now and he’s not getting back on that machine for another ride, no matter what some mind-fucked Russian wants him to do. Chances are he won’t make it off this again with all his arms and legs.

  He jerks his good arm away from the chair. When he stopped fighting, the grip around his wrist loosened, and now it doesn’t hold. His hand free, he punches at the arm restraining his head, punches his own forehead but connects with the arm as well. In the moment it loosens, he jerks his head toward Akakievich, head-butts the second needle straight on and feels a sharp jab into his forehead, hears the needle break. Akakievich drops the rest of the syringe, a look of disbelief on his face.

  Jack faces Akakievich, the Russian frozen for a moment, and with his free hand, he punches at Akakievich’s face with all he has. He hits the Russian square in his eye, and Akakievich pulls back like he’s been scorched by fire.

  31

  Good Measure

  Shaw breaks into a run for the front door of the warehouse. If shooting’s going down, then it’s time to rush in, regardless of what Elvis would say about fools, that lucky white fuck. He hits the front door of the building—one of the big metal sliding jobs you find on old warehouses like these, definitely not the kind to kick in. Shaw’s got no choice but to roll it open, even though he has no idea who or what’s on the other side. The one thing he has going for him are the building’s thick concrete walls, so he positions himself to the side of the door and starts to slide it back.

  As the door creeps along its track, Shaw braces himself for more shooting. But no shots come. When the door’s halfway open, he ducks his head forward once, quickly, to see what’s inside. To his right is a set of stairs that lead up, and to his left is a bigger, open room on the first level. He pulls his head back, retreats to the safety of the concrete to wait for shots. Still nothing comes.