Suicide Lounge (Selena Book 3)

by Greg Barth

  “Could be I’m put here to help keep you focused on the menial shit, so you get a break from the burden of cosmic absurdity.”

  “Sometimes I want to just die, D. Other times I think, if this is all there is, then I might as well just rule the whole fucking world, you know?”

  “On that note, got a piece of intel I want to talk to you about.”

  Mozingo looked over at him.

  “This Johnson City crew is making a move. My guy on the inside has the details. Going to happen real soon. It’s our opportunity to deliver the death blow.”

  “What do you have in mind?

  “We get the bikers to hit them.”

  Mozingo thought about it. “How much is that going to cost us?”

  “They’re getting a shipment. We split the take. It costs us nothing. They do the work; we get a finder’s fee.”

  “I like it.”

  “Figured you’d approve. I’ll give them the green light.”

  “Just one stipulation.”

  Deke sighed. “Yeah?”

  “Bring me the girl alive.”

  “And which girl would that be, Boss?”

  “You know goddamned well which girl. Don’t fucking play games with me.”

  “You mean that little Amanda.”

  “Yes. Nobody kills that bitch but me. And I’m going to do it in a very special way. She raised her hand to me, D. You get it? She won’t die all at once. Oh no. I’ll feed her every piece of herself until I’m done with her.”

  “A gunfight breaks out, I can’t make any promises.”

  “Yeah? Well you tell those bikers that if anybody puts so much as a scratch on her, they’ll take her punishment in her place. I fucking mean it. I don’t care if she kills fifty of them; they bring her to me alive. They do that, they can keep the whole shipment. I don’t care.”

  “You’ll think different about it when you feel better, man.”

  “I’m only going to say it one more time. Anybody, and I mean anybody, puts so much as a scratch on her, they’ve denied me something very special—the only thing that gives me any reason to live and pulls me through the darkness. And I’ll fucking kill them for it.”

  “I hear you, Boss. I’ll set this thing up. You get well.”

  “Why? Just to be fried by cosmic rays any second now?”

  “You’ll come through this. You always do.”

  “Every time I do, though, it costs me something. There’s just no joy anymore.”

  “Come on, Boss, you know there’s still fun to be had out there.”

  “Yeah. I do look forward to cutting that bitch up. I’ve still got that.”

  “I’ll debrief you once the bikers have made their move.” Deke got up. He let himself out. Heather was in the same spot on the porch, looking out at the lake.

  “You talk to him?” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, it’s a good sign if he’s talking.”

  “Shouldn’t be long now,” Deke said.

  “I’d offer you a cup of coffee, but—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know, Heather. But you don’t like me and never have.”

  “You’ve heard that before.”

  “You need to get some new material.”

  Deke stepped down from the porch and crossed the walkway to his car. He looked off to the east where the sun was burning the mist off the water. Buzzards circled over a field in the distance.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Selena

  WE WERE ON our way back from the municipal airport with our shipment. Ray Gun rode shotgun with me. We had the load in the back of a rented Tahoe.

  Ragus drove his Audi up in front of us. Morgan Johnson was in the passenger seat next to him. A couple of Morgan’s guys were in the back seat.

  We were on a twisting, two-lane road winding back toward the welding shop.

  “Sure is green out here,” Ray said.

  “It is. I’ve got to admit, though, the desert grew on me while I was out that way.”

  “It can do that.”

  I steered us around a tight bend behind Ragus. “No co-pilot with you this trip?”

  He put his hand on my thigh. “Nobody compares to you, babe.”

  I pushed his hand away. “Easy now. This is a business trip.”

  “So was the last one.”

  “A lot of money is going to change hands, so let’s keep it professional.”

  “I could stay the night,” he said.

  “Lyman will want to be counting his cash tonight, flyboy.”

  “He trusts me.”

  “You’re a good pilot, I guess.”

  “Shit. I just wish I could get you up in an F-18 Hornet sometime. Fly you over some shithole country and drop a real payload on a bunch of camel jockeys. You haven’t lived, girl, until you’ve bombed Ahmed and his cousins on their own turf.”

  “Yeah? I’m thinking we could use you in one of those Hornet planes, or whatever you called it, right here. Something like that would come in handy with what we’re up against.”

  “Well, never fear, honey. You’ve got me. The jet I happen to have strapped to me, or not strapped to me as the case may be, is nothing more than a fashion statement.”

  “I’ve never met anyone as full of shit as you are.”

  As we rounded the bend in the road, I saw brake lights ahead. The Audi was at a dead stop in the road. I slammed on the brakes. The rear end of the Tahoe slid around until the tires hit the gravel on the shoulder.

  “What the fuck?” Ray said. He gripped the dash with his hand.

  “Damn,” I said. I put the truck in park. I couldn’t see why they were stopped. The bend in the road blocked my view. To the left of us was a steep, wooded hillside. On the right, a tree-lined slope fell away to a creek at the bottom.

  The passenger door of the car in front of us opened. Morgan got out. Sunlight beat down on his slick, bald head. He wore a pair of sunglasses, stood behind the door. He spoke to someone, but I couldn’t make out what he said.

  “This doesn’t feel right,” Ray Gun said. “You armed?” He took an automatic pistol out of a shoulder holster rig. He racked the slide.

  “Shotgun in the back,” I said.

  “You might need it.”

  Morgan pulled a pistol from his waistband.

  The other three doors of the Audi burst open. Ragus stepped out and his long hair brushed his shoulders as he turned back to look at me. Ragus was a tall, heavy man. Morgan’s men looked like dwarves standing behind him. Ragus had an automatic shotgun in one hand, a length of lead pipe in the other. “Get the fuck out of here,” Ragus shouted to me.

  “Fuck,” I said. I put the Tahoe in reverse, aligned the steering, and pressed on the gas pedal. The truck was picking up speed when a car approached us from behind. I hit the brakes to avoid a collision. The rear gate window of the Tahoe shattered.

  Ray Gun spun in his seat. He pointed the pistol toward the car behind us and squeezed off three quick shots through the busted window.

  I floored the gas pedal. The Tahoe’s tires spun on the pavement. Once it gained traction, we shot backward until we collided with the other car.

  I popped my seatbelt, reached around behind me and grabbed my shotgun. It was a Harrington Richardson single-shot 16 gauge. It wouldn’t be much help in a gunfight, but it was better than nothing. I grabbed a handful of shells from a box and slipped them into my pocket.

  Ray Gun was already out of the truck. He fired his pistol at the car behind us. The gunshots were deafening. I admired his professionalism with the handgun. He ducked, sidestepped, picked his targets, and squeezed off his shots with precision. When his magazine was low, he ejected the clip, slapped another in place while still having a hot round in the pipe. The split second he saved by not having to rack the slide again provided the kind of edge that enabled trained professionals to survive.

  I raised the shotgun to my shoulder and pointed it at the car behind us. The sunlight glinted on the windshield. I couldn�
��t see inside. I didn’t wait for them to fire at me, aimed at the driver’s side and squeezed the trigger. A basketball-sized hole erupted in the windshield. I saw a splash of crimson. The lightweight shotgun jerked back, the stock slamming into my shoulder like a freight train. I was used to the kick, but I wasn’t expecting the ripping feeling in my side. The injured muscle flared up as if in anger. It was almost crippling. I ignored it as best I could and ejected the spent shell. My fingers shook as I reloaded.

  I limped forward toward the car, didn’t see anyone moving inside. I was aware of gunshots coming from behind me.

  I looked over to check Ray. He was on the other side of the car. His face was pale. “You hit?” I said.

  “I caught that first shot,” he said.

  “Fuck.”

  “We’re clear back here. Let’s help out up there.” He nodded at the battle taking place around the bend.

  Ray and I both moved too slowly—me because of the pulled muscle, him because of the bullet he had taken. I held the shotgun up to my shoulder as I rounded the curve.

  It was like walking into a war zone.

  One of Morgan’s guys was down, his face pressed to the pavement in a pool of blood. Part of the back of his head was missing—chunks of pink and gray splattered in his black hair.

  A black van blocked the road ahead. Morgan was on one knee behind the Audi’s passenger door. He held a pistol in both hands, squeezing off rounds through the busted side window. He aimed at the side of the van.

  I didn’t see a target, but I picked a spot on the side of the van that didn’t contain bullet holes already and squeezed off a blast from the shotgun. I broke open the breech. The spent shell ejected. I fished a fresh load from my pocket, slipped it into the chamber, closed the breech. I thumb-cocked the hammer, took a bead on the van, and squeezed off a shot.

  Ragus stood by the driver’s side of the Audi and fired at two men behind the van. One of them caught a load of buckshot in the face. His jaws peeled back from his cheeks, the blast shearing away flesh and teeth in a crimson smear. The back of his head exploded outward.

  Ragus swung the shotgun at the other man and fired a blast to his midsection. The shotgun clicked empty. Ragus walked up and smashed the side of the guy’s head with his lead pipe. His skull crunched and Ragus dropped the shotgun. He stepped up to the van, reached inside the back, and pulled another man out through the open gate. The man was wounded but still alive. Ragus gripped him by his hair and smashed his skull with the lead pipe until his head broke apart and his body fell to the ground, his hair still clenched in Ragus’ fist.

  I reloaded my shotgun. Revving engines roared in the distance. Motorcycles.

  Ragus turned to me. “Get in the car,” he said. “Now!”

  I turned to find Ray. He was standing by the side of the road, one hand pressed against his lower back.

  “Come on,” I said to him. “Let’s get you in the car.”

  He hobbled over. “The shipment,” he said.

  “We’ll get it.”

  As I got him closer to the car, the roar of motorcycle engines grew louder. They were coming from behind us.

  Morgan helped me get Ray in the back seat.

  Ragus got in the front, Morgan, Ray, and I in the back.

  Morgan’s other man sat in front next to Ragus.

  Ragus whipped the car around in a squealing donut. He pointed the back toward the Tahoe and floored the accelerator. The bikers, all armed, stood around the Tahoe.

  They fired at us. Ragus, unarmed, plowed through the bikers and they slammed against the hood of the car. They fell under the hood or splattered on the windshield, their bikes smashed against the fender.

  Those of us with loaded weapons fired through the windows. I pushed the shotgun out, fired, and watched a biker go down.

  More shots came from behind us. Some in the van had survived and were returning fire.

  Ragus whipped the car around, reached out with his left hand and took a biker’s jaw apart with his lead pipe.

  And then we were free of them.

  I reloaded the shotgun with trembling fingers, turned and looked through the window behind me. No one was giving chase, too preoccupied with the Tahoe.

  “The shipment,” I said.

  “Fuck the shipment,” Morgan said. He was reloading his pistol.

  I turned to Ray in the seat beside me. He’d been hit again. His face was pale, his eyes dim. His chest rattled when he breathed.

  He put his cell phone in my hand. “Four twenty. Sixty-nine,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Think about it. You can remember those. Four twenty. Sixty-nine.”

  I took the cell phone. It was smeared with his blood.

  Ray lost consciousness.

  Ragus made eye contact with me through the rearview mirror. “Just some guy with a knife, huh?”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Selena

  WE MADE IT back to the club in the car. No one followed us. We’d rented the Tahoe under a fake name with a credit card that wasn’t tied to any of us. Nobody worried about the truck. The loss of the shipment, however, and the body of a colleague left behind at the scene were catastrophic.

  “Somebody fucking betrayed us,” Morgan said.

  “We don’t know that,” Ragus said. “They could have been following us, watching us, or something.”

  “You know it’s true,” Morgan said. “That fucking Benny.”

  “We don’t know that,” Ragus repeated.

  “Fucker didn’t want to fight, then all of a sudden he did. Then he wanted to do this fucked up exchange thing,” Morgan said. “Told us not to do the trade at the airport.”

  “It doesn’t look good,” I said.

  Ragus pulled the car around back. Crowbar and Enola came out the back door.

  “Holy shit,” Crowbar said. “They got you too.”

  Ragus opened the door and stepped out of the car. “What do you mean?’“

  “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “They hit Benny’s crew. They got the cash.”

  Ragus looked down at the gravel and shook his head.

  Enola came over and opened my door. She leaned in to me. The smell of her perfume was comforting. I tried to stop them, but tears spilled down my cheeks. “You okay?” she said.

  I pressed the palms of my hands against my face. They smelled like Ray’s blood. The tears kept coming. In a throaty whisper I said, “I need a second.”

  Morgan got out. I felt him pulling Ray out through the other side.

  “Wait,” I said. “What are you going to do with him?”

  “Easy. I’m just going to get him inside and get him covered up. We’ll take care of him later.”

  I let Enola help me out of the car. She handed me the cane. I hadn’t taken it with me to the airport, thinking I wouldn’t even get out of the truck. I gripped the wooden handle and shifted my weight against the cane. She took my other elbow and helped me cross the gravel lot to the rear delivery door of the bar.

  “Was it bad?” she said.

  “We lost a man. And we lost the supply. Now it sounds like we lost the cash too. We’re fucked,” I said.

  ***

  I turned on Ray’s phone. It prompted me to put in a security code. I typed out 4-2-0-6-9. A number of apps appeared as the screen lit up. I was unfamiliar with most of them. I found his address book and tapped it. A list of names came up. Some of the names had pictures beside them. Most were first names of women with pictures of them beside the name. Some weren’t wearing much, and some were nude.

  I scrolled past one that said “Boss” and had a picture of James Gandolfini. I tapped it and pressed the phone to my ear. I heard ringing on the other end, then Lyman saying, “Hey, man. How are you making out with the hillbillies?”

  I cleared my throat. “Lyman,” I said. “Uh, it’s me.”

  “Ah. Amanda. How are things?”

  “Not good,” I said.

>   “Put Reagan on the line,” he said.

  “Afraid I can’t. We were...uh...hit. And...Ray Gun is...not available now.”

  “I see. So you’re telling me I’ve got an aircraft sitting there with no pilot?”

  “Yes. That’s how it is.”

  “Now that’s a damn shame. He’s a good man. And this is real inconvenient for me. You’ll need to make the plane a little heavier when I come for it. It’s going to cost me some to get another pilot out there.”

  “About that...we lost the...uh, product.”

  “Well that’s on you, kid. I mean, it’s cash on delivery. I delivered. I can’t be responsible for what happens after.”

  “We lost the payment too.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Hear me careful. I’m going to arrange to have the jet stored. But I’ll be there in five days. Five days. You understand?” Lyman said.

  “I understand.”

  “I’ll fly in that night, bring an extra pilot. We get the plane in five days. For your sake, it better not be an ounce light. In addition, you’ve got to make up for the extra trip and the loss of my pilot. Please tell me you grasp the seriousness of this situation.”

  I sighed. “Of course.”

  “I don’t care what you have to do to get my shit back. You’d better fucking do it.”

  “Look. Lyman—”

  “You know, you left some fingerprints in that hotel. People here know who you are. More important, I know who you are and where you are. Some people out here would love so much to know where to find you. And honey, I’m not talking cops.”

  “Don’t threaten me, Lyman.”

  “Yeah? Well, on this phone and all, I can’t really put the words behind it I want to, but if that plane isn’t ready to go in five days? You should consider yourself fully and thoroughly threatened.”

  I ended the call.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Mozingo

  MOZINGO SAT AT the bar. He was fresh out of the melancholy funk that had kept him in bed for days.

  It had happened just that morning. He awoke before daylight. Not tired. Didn’t feel the gloom that had hung over him like a leech sucking the essence of life from him.