Midnight Taxi Tango

by Daniel José Older

  Reza.

  I look up just in time to see her bring the butt of her sawed-off across another roach man’s face, spin the gun around, and then blast his head off. The image of Sasha and our babies flashes through my mind. The whole world goes dark red, and it’s their blood that I won’t stop spilling now that I’ve started; it’s a red that’s the promise I’ll destroy every single one of these living parasites until there’s none left to hurt the people I love.

  I’m on my feet; my blade crashes down on another one as he launches out the door toward me. I free it from his flesh and stab directly into his chest, then kick him back into the tunnel. There’s another waiting in the shadows and another behind that one. I flush forward, slicing, catching bits of flesh as roaches flutter and dance in the darkness around me.

  “Carlos!” Reza’s yelling, her voice hoarse. “We gotta . . . We gotta get the fuck outta here.”

  I don’t want to leave.

  I want to kill.

  I slash again, take off an arm. A gathering crowd of roach men whistle and chirp as they rush forward, then stumble back from my blade. Reza’s arm wraps around my shoulder from behind. “We can’t, Carlos. We can’t do this alone. You can’t do this alone. We gotta get out of here, man.”

  She reaches past me, Glock in hand, and fires four times, crumbling a roach man with each shot. In the shadows beyond them, more skitter toward us.

  She’s right.

  “Carlos, come on. I got something for ’em anyway.”

  I pull back, step over the fallen roach men and the rug-rolled Ferns. “Get ready to run,” Reza says. Halfway up the stairs she tosses something into the basement below. Three, now four of the roach men burst out of the tunnel and lurch toward us. The object Reza threw lands with a clink and then explodes with a sharp bang. Thick gray smoke fills the basement as the roach men scatter to either direction.

  “Tear gas?” I ask, covering my nose.

  Reza shakes her head. “Insecticide. Made ’em myself.” She pulls out a silver lighter when we reach the ground floor. “Also, highly flammable.” She lights it and tosses it down the stairs, slamming the door after it.

  “Rule number three,” Reza says as we run the fuck outta there. “Burn the whole shit down.”

  • • •

  We don’t walk away slowly while the Ferns’ house bursts into flames behind us. We fucking beeline the fuck outta there and then fly forward when the blast sends burning chunks of wood and metal out over our heads.

  I’m standing, the blast still ringing in my ears, as a figure emerges from the smoldering ruins and runs toward us.

  Reza hasn’t moved. I draw my blade. Flames dance off the man’s charred skin. I sidestep as he closes, send a long, deep cut bristling across his gut and then another down his chest. He crumples.

  Reza’s up. Behind us, the fire rages. We run up the tree-covered hill behind the Ferns’ house, crash through a neighbor’s yard, and don’t stop till we reach Reza’s Crown Vic and, breathless, speed off into the night.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Kia

  Rigo seem like the kinda dude wanna whisper sweet nothings to ya pussy before he dive on into it.”

  “Karina.”

  “Bonjour, beautiful kitten of the night; mon Dieu, what lovely leeps you have, mon pussevou.”

  “Why he got a French accent all the sudden though?”

  “Dudes automatically become French before they eat the box. That’s the rule.”

  “I’m hanging up the phone.”

  “Kia!”

  “What?”

  “Be careful, okay?”

  I’m standing outside the address Rigo gave me, a quiet block on Underhill Avenue in gentrified-ass Prospect Heights. At the end of the street, the Brooklyn Public Library emits a gentle glow like some magical palace. The second-floor apartment has its lights on and plants in the windows. How could I possibly be in danger if the man puts plants in his windows?

  I know if I overthink this shit, I’ll walk away. And look, I’m not stupid—I know Rigo ain’t no love-of-my-life-type dude, but this, even if it’s ridiculous and impossible and probably stupid too, this isn’t some shit you just walk away from.

  So instead of plotting out all the maybes and maybe nots, I just press the buzzer.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Kia.”

  “Ah, good!”

  The door lets out a mechanical burp and then clicks, and I pull it open, take a deep breath, and walk in.

  There’s this boy Tall Adam that I let come over last summer and eat me out. I mean, he was my friend since we were little and whenever I was near him I thought about what it would be like. Could see from the way he looked at me he was hungry for it, but he was too shy to ever say anything. It was an energy thing—his eyes’d dance over my body real quick whenever they got the chance and a tiny earthquake’d erupt inside me and rumble straight up from my pussy into my brain and I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on shit for like five minutes.

  It was weird to have that power over someone—like, I knew I could have him, take him home, do what I pleased with him—I knew it without either of us saying a single word, so when I called him one hot-ass Thursday afternoon and said, “Come over,” he knew better than to ask any questions. I don’t think he was that bright, so it’s better that we didn’t talk much first. As Karina says, one dumbass comment turn that pussy from the Niagara Falls to the Kalahari. When it was over I think he thought I was gonna reciprocate, so I just rolled over and pretended I was asleep until I really did pass out, and when I woke up he was gone and we never talked about it and barely stayed friends after that, just a “hey, you” in the hallways every now and then.

  And I mean—it was something else. That orgasm ripped through me like nothing I’d ever felt when it was just me and my hand. I think I went blind for a few seconds and I didn’t even care, and I wanted all of him inside me so badly at that moment it scared me. He was ready too. His eyes flashed with it; his whole body tensed to pounce and devour me whole again and again. But I closed up shop. I didn’t wanna lose my mind, and I was already spinning dangerously close to the edge.

  Now I stand before Rigo’s door and I know this is another thing entirely. And I wonder if I’m ready. If he’ll answer the door in just a towel and then sweep me off my feet. If that bulge will tear me in half and if I’ll die smiling. I wonder all these things, and then the door opens before I can knock and it’s not Rigo standing there at all. It’s someone else.

  And then all my breath leaves my body and I fall forward. Arms wrap around me, real flesh arms, not translucent ones, and he still smells like he used to somehow, but that old scent is mixed in with some cologne and, beneath that, something tangy and citrusy. And I can’t speak ’cause I’m crying so hard. His arms squeeze me closer, and the only word I can get out comes from somewhere deep, deep in the pit of my gut.

  “Gio.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Reza

  Smoke?” Rohan says.

  And why the fuck not? We’re flying along the Long Island Expressway in the Partymobile. It’s almost midnight. I roll down the window and turn up the radio, some soca station Rohan insisted on, where the DJ keeps interrupting the music to shout out all his cousins. Rohan puts two unfiltered Conejos in his mouth, lights them both, and hands me one.

  “Nervous?” he says.

  “No, man. Why?” I can’t remember the last time I felt nervous before a hit. Yes, this one’s different in a way—the beginning of Charo’s new war on a few strategically selected targets he’s deemed worthy of utter destruction—but if anything, a new lightness has taken over me since we made it out of that suburban Queens hell house a few hours ago. Carlos didn’t look so good when we parted, worry for his family etched across his face. But me? I felt that old ease begin to seep back into my bones.

 
Angie is still all over me. Her smile still haunts every few thoughts, but I feel lighter now. We take revenge in the name of those that have fallen, but really, I think it’s just for us. Angie’s gone. I’m the one left carrying the charge of her memories.

  Rohan lets out a smoke ring. “You’re smiling. And you reek of smoke and insecticide.”

  “It’s been a weird night,” I say. I showered twice, dressed and spritzed on plenty of my favorite cologne before running out the door, and I was only seven minutes late to meet the others and looking sharp. But some smells don’t scrub off easy.

  A tap comes from the other side of the partition. “Ay, we close?”

  I push the button, and the thick glass doorway slides open behind us. “’Bout fifteen minutes,” I say.

  Bri pokes her head up. “Can we stop for coffee?” She’s all made-up, pretty brown flesh spilling out of a tight blouse. A cloud of flowery girl fragrance fills the front seat.

  Rohan looks at me. I shake my head. “We cuttin’ it close as is.”

  Bri makes her pouty face in the rearview at me. “Memo’s back here putting me to sleep with his frickin’ life story.”

  “Hey!” Memo yells from the darkness.

  “That’s weird,” Rohan says. “Memo never says shit to me.”

  Bri rolls her eyes. “You ain’t cute like me.”

  I take my half-full coffee cup from the holder and pass it back to Bri. “Finish mine. I don’t want it.”

  “Word? Thanks, Rez. You the best!”

  “It’s black though. No sugar.”

  “Ugh! Whatever.” Bri sips at it, scrunches up her face, and then retreats into the back.

  “It’s always something,” I mutter.

  Rohan shakes his head. “Sure you’re not nervous?”

  • • •

  The swell of the ocean grows louder as we roll down a series of dark streets.

  Rohan taps the partition door. “Getting close.”

  It slides open, and Memo’s big head appears. “You want Bri up front?”

  “Yeah,” Rohan says. “I’m coming back.”

  It takes some wrangling, but Rohan manages to squeeze his bulky frame through the small doorway. Bri ducks into the front a few seconds later and slumps into the passenger seat with a groan.

  “Coffee didn’t work?” I ask.

  She rubs her eyes. “There’s no stopping that guy. I just nodded off at some point around the third grade. Nobody even asked for his damn life story. I just said ‘How ya been?’”

  “Damn.”

  “Never. Again.”

  We drive a few more minutes in silence, and then a massive concrete wall looms out of the darkness. “This is it,” I say.

  As usual, Charo’s description is spot-on: There’ll be a guard booth beside the gate. The booth is lit with a dark red light. That glass? Bulletproof. The gate? Reinforced steel. Cannot be broken through. Try to ram it, your crumpled corpse will be returned to me riddled with bullet holes and your dead ass will owe me twenty G’s for the trash heap you turned the Partymobile into.

  I hit play on the CD player and an ecstatic techno beat blasts out, punctuated by shrill inebriated giggles. I have no idea where he got this track, but it really does sound like I’m driving a van full of wasted party girls. I roll up to the guard station.

  If you fuck up and have to waste the front guard, don’t bother going through with it. They got cameras all over him, and by the time you figure out how to get the gate open, you’ll be dead.

  A stern face emerges from the red-tinged darkness.

  I smile. “Brought the entertainment.” Beside me, Bri adjusts, ready to let loose her cleavage and giggles, but the guard just nods and then the gate groans and swings grudgingly open.

  If you fuck up when you’re inside, you’re all gonna die. Once that gate closes behind you, you gotta make it to the building at the far end of the lot without alerting the front guard that you’re making a move. He’s got monitors in his booth and he’s watching everything that happens in the lot.

  I swing the Partymobile in a wide circle and back toward the doorway of the building. My backup lights throw luminous splashes across the open lot, then the plain cement wall, then a single tall figure in a black suit. His hand is raised. He’s . . . helping me park.

  “Should I waste him?” Memo asks from the back.

  “You heard Charo,” I say. “They got eyes on us. You waste him, it’s over.”

  “So what’s the move?”

  “Hang on.” I swing the wheel hard, bringing the van in at a sharp angle, and the guy waves his hands in agitated circles. “Left!” he yells. “Cut left!” Then he runs to the other side of the van so I can see him in the rearview mirror. “Pull up and let’s try it again,” he says from the doorway. Right where I want him. I throw it into drive, swing forward hard and then lurch backward so fast he has to scramble into the entranceway.

  “Jesus, lady! Where’d you learn how to drive?”

  A sliver of red light opens in front of me, back at the gate. “You good, Silo?” the front guard yells across the darkness.

  I wait a beat, holding my breath. Bri smacks her bubble gum beside me.

  “Yeah, just another bitch that doesn’t know how to drive.”

  “Alright.” The light disappears and our back doors fly open. I hear the curt whisper of Memo’s silencer and then a shuffle of motion.

  Don’t take out the guard at the front door either, not right away. You need him to get you in the elevator.

  Memo, I’m sure, put a bullet in the guy’s gun arm, and Rohan followed it up with a solid crack across the face. When those two get in the zone, they’re like a pair of impenetrable brick walls with one deadly mind. I kill the engine. The darkness in front of us remains unbroken. Bri and I trade a look and then pop open our doors.

  Inside, the guard is slumped against the wall, glaring defiantly at the pistol Rohan has pointed at his temple. He clutches a bloody spot on his right arm, but the mess isn’t bad, just a few drops, which means Memo took care to miss the artery.

  “Take us up,” I say. The guard growls and then straightens himself and leads us down a narrow, dimly lit corridor. At the far end, an elevator waits beside two doorways. One leads to the front stairs, and the other goes into a lounge area with a back stairwell at the far end.

  The cameras in the elevator gotta go. It’s only a minute and a half ride, so by the time they figure out something is wrong you’ll be in their midst. If you don’t take out the cameras, they’ll see it’s you and not the girls and when the door opens you’ll face a roomful of guns.

  Rohan and Bri disappear into the doorway without a word. Memo reaches up into the elevator and crushes the camera with one hand, then shoves the guard in. I follow. Push the 2 button.

  This is the moment when everything could go wrong. We’re separated. We’re relying on someone else’s inadequacy and the promise that this elevator won’t deliver us to certain death. None of this is to my liking, but there’s always a moment when you have to give up control—those dizzy silent seconds before the storm. I adjust my collar, unholster my handgun, and tap the knife strapped to my ankle, the gas mask on my thigh.

  Everything is in place.

  “You good?” Memo says under his breath.

  “Perfect,” I say.

  With a calm electronic ding, the elevator door slides open to reveal four tall men, their guns pointed directly at us.

  The first shot is mine. It tears through Silo’s head and then shatters the chin of the guy directly across from me. The world explodes as Memo and I fall back against opposite walls of the elevator and Silo’s body is decimated by gunfire before he drops. There were six counting Silo; now there are four. Memo is hit—a hole in his suit trickles blood down his shoulder, but it doesn’t look bad. Memo either hasn’t noti
ced or doesn’t care.

  If they were stupid they’d come one by one and we’d pick them off. It’s easy to get cocky when you have your enemy cornered into a twelve-foot death box. They’re not stupid though. I hear them shuffling backward, overturning tables as they retreat to defensive positions. The automatic doors close on what’s left of Silo, make a squishing noise, open again. I steal a glance and then duck back as a hail of bullets ricochet off the steel elevator walls.

  Memo already has his chemical grenade out. I give him the nod as I’m pulling my mask out. Memo doesn’t wear masks in these situations—some high-intensity military training he did that makes him feel that much cooler than the rest of us. Dude can wade into a cloud of biological hellfire and come right back out with barely a sniffle. His aim sucks though, which is why his big imprecise ass gets to play with the big imprecise-type weapons. He chucks the grenade into the room as another barrage of gunfire bursts out.

  Usually, this is when folks panic. Oh shit, a grenade! And various other unhelpful responses. This one’s already spilling out its foul milky haze, and in less than a minute it’ll fill the room. These guys are good though. They really are. They haven’t yelled once since we arrived, no boastful threats, nothing. And now the silence lets me know they’re not fucking around. When I peek, one of them is bum-rushing the grenade. He’s not gonna jump on it and take one for the team like they do in movies. He’s gonna drop-kick that thing directly back into the elevator, where it’ll fuck our vision to pieces. Gas mask or not, paramilitary training or not, an elevator full of smoke will make us an easy target. It’ll be game over.

  Very, very over.

  I’m raising my gun when a chunk of the guy’s head explodes upward. He slides to the ground, lands twitching. Bri stands in the doorway behind him, gun out, and then ducks back as bullets splatter the wall around her. It’s too late though: the smoke has done its thing. The room becomes an impenetrable, empty fog.