by Frank Zafiro
Emergency shut off.
I hoped he made it. I knew that shit didn’t exactly blow up like in the movies but standing near a growing lake of gasoline firing a gun didn’t seem like a high percentage play to me.
I turned back to the Russians just in time to see one of them pop up with an AK-47. Before he could get off a shot, I fired twice. I hit him somewhere because he dropped heavily with a cry.
When the slide of my gun locked to the rear a second time, I didn’t hesitate. I jumped into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine.
“Stay down!” I yelled at the girls, who were wisely already huddled on the floor of the backseat again.
I slammed the car into gear and punched the accelerator. A hail of gunfire chased me out of that parking lot. Bullets cracked into the frame of the car. One came through the rear window, leaving a gaping hole. The glass fractured but remained in place. Another round bit into the passenger seat headrest, sending up a puff of foam.
I gritted my teeth as I swung the car onto the road and pointed it toward 395. The high pitched pops from their gunshots dimmed and faded by the time I was a block away. I focused on getting us onto the highway.
Squinting down at the fuel gauge, I wondered how long that quarter tank would last. At least the orange low fuel light wasn’t blinking up at me anymore.
I exhaled hard, and glanced over my shoulder at the girls. “Everyone good?”
Two sets of frightened eyes stared back at me wordlessly.
“Is anyone hit?”
Two head shakes.
I turned back to the road, glancing in my rearview mirror as I took the turn onto the beginnings of Highway 395. No green car behind us. I guess driving on the rim wasn’t an option for those guys. Or my radiator shot had been true.
“You are,” Taylor whispered.
I adjusted the mirror to meet her gaze. “I’m what?”
“Hit.” She pointed. “Your face.”
I reached up to my face. The burning crease ran along my cheek. My ear felt torn up. When I took my hand away, I could see that it was bleeding lightly. I didn’t dare look into the mirror to see the damage. It wasn’t going to be pretty, but I wasn’t going to die, either.
I had to find another gas station eventually. I needed fuel, and I could grab some paper towels there for my injury. I knew there were some stations on the early stretch of the highway. I’d just have to make it quick, and use my credit card. So much for covering my tracks.
Lucky.
I got lucky.
I wondered how long was that luck going to last.
I looked up into the rearview mirror again, but both girls were still on the floor. I could hear the unmistakable sound of quiet sobs.
TWENTY-THREE
Bull
I rolled up on the remains of what could only be described as a gunfight – like one you’d see in a movie like Lethal Weapon with Danny Glover and Mel Gibson.
The gas station wasn’t blown up, but with the bullet holes peppering the side of the building and glass bits sprinkled beside the gas tanks, it wasn’t a hard guess to see it could’ve happened.
Skittish men, Middle-eastern in both dress and coloring, paced in front of the double glass doors. Young and old, both looked a little bit worn from the excitement.
If I wasn’t so low on gas and sitting in a truck that inhaled fuel like I did air, I would continue on. But I wouldn’t make it far.
I hadn’t stopped looking in my rearview mirror. The appearance of a fight only increased my paranoia. A twisting spasm in my stomach tightened. Just get gas. I’d have to do without the medical supplies and food.
I parked in front of a gas pump that ran parallel to the ones set up where the mess was. I’d tied a dark blue rag I’d found in my glove box around my injured forearm, stemming the blood flow, so hopefully the clerks wouldn’t notice… oh shit. The pumps were old-school and I’d have to go inside and pay. No credit cards taken outside at this one. Damn it.
Hopefully, my arm would have the sense to not bleed everywhere. I had to get in and get out. I watched the digital read out roam toward twenty, thirty, forty, fifty. Each digit a dragged out moment longer than a damn clock. It took everything in me not to watch the men by the building or to stare at the road. The last thing I needed to do was raise a flag about me. My truck had to be doing a pretty good job of that already. Gun shots all over the older body style. Hell, I looked like I’d already been there.
Another car, blue four-door, drifted into the parking lot, pulling up behind me. I didn’t look at the driver or even acknowledge their appearance. I needed to pay and get the hell out of there.
Finally the ticker rounded to sixty. I had twenties in my pocket. I needed more gas to get to full, but the entire area felt like something about to explode – more with tension than with actual fire. I reached into my back pocket with my good arm and peeled three bills off.
The two men huddled together at the entrance, watching me and the other customer. I hurried across the oil stained pavement and offered the money to the oldest man. “It looks like you guys are having a bit of trouble. Anything I can do?”
He bowed his head in a short bob, taking my money and ignoring the younger man’s pshh sound. “No, but thank you. We are waiting for police right now.” He nodded again, not asking me inside but making sure I heard the police part.
I wasn’t surprised. If I was them, I’d make sure it was known cops were coming, too.
“Well, thank you. It was exactly sixty, so I’ll be on my way. Have a great day.” I waved over my shoulder as I turned and made my way to the truck.
Through the hole where my window had been, sirens screamed in the distance. And that would be my cue to get going.
Pulling onto the highway, I picked up speed, passing a green sedan with what looked like a flat tire. The other car, which had been at the pump along with me, pulled out of the lot and slowed beside the stranded vehicle.
Even something as simple as getting gas had increased my endorphins. I allowed myself to breathe deep, rolled my shoulders back and bent my neck to either side for a deep stretch. Purposely slowing down, I gave more than enough time and opportunity for the other car to pass me. But they didn’t take it.
“Okay, you shitheads. I’m not in the mood.” I pressed the rag tighter to my arm and watched for the next gas sign. Thankfully, it wasn’t too much farther.
My blinker indicated my direction for almost two-hundred yards before I finally turned in.
Water. If they weren’t going to kill me, I’d get some water. But the station was closed. And the car passed by my position.
Wow. Pain, hunger, thirst, and fatigue made for a paranoid Bull. I rolled my eyes at myself and shifted back into gear. I needed a better bandage. And dinner. Something worth eating. My body needed substantial food. Ritzville wasn’t too much farther and since no one was really out to kill me – at least where I was at – I could afford a drivethru hamburger or something.
Not for the first time, my thoughts wandered back to the woman who had my niece. Were my hazy memories with her in the motel clouding my judgment? Or should I be much more worried than I was?
TWENTY-FOUR
Gus
The highway in front of me looked like an interminable dark ribbon. The overcast clouds hung low on the horizon, and every now and then, a few spits of rain struck the windshield. A threat that never quite came to fruition.
Both Faina and Taylor sat in silence, each staring out the side window closest to them. I turned on the radio for a while but all I could find was ridiculously upbeat pop music and even more ridiculously opinionated talk shows. Oh, and country music. I hated country music.
I glanced up into the rearview mirror when the dial landed on each station, trying to gauge interest. As much as nothing grabbed me, if it put either of the girls at ease, I’d put up with it. But neither girl reacted to any of the selections.
I let it sit on a country channel for a half a chorus. Then I c
leared my throat. “You know what you get when you play a country song backwards?”
Faina didn’t respond, but Taylor’s eyes flicked to mine in the mirror.
I forged ahead. “You get your truck back, you get your dog back, and you get your boyfriend back.”
I smiled a little.
Taylor didn’t.
“Country music is America’s music,” she said icily, turning away.
Somehow I didn’t think she believed that. It sounded more to me like something she cribbed from a parent during an argument over the virtues of her music versus theirs. But I could have been wrong about that. Maybe she was an urban cowgirl.
Either way, I turned off the radio and we rode in silence.
The good thing about silence was that it gave me a chance to think. Aside from keeping an eye in the mirrors for any vehicles racing up from behind, I didn’t have to worry much about external danger. Instead, I thought about my next move.
I was pretty sure I could still get these girls to Spokane and turn them over anonymously. Between my actions at Anton’s place, and then the two Tri-City shootouts, I’d definitely gone off the reservation. Way off. Shepard was a protective boss, but he couldn’t shield me from this kind of heat. My best option was to find a way to get these girls into the system without anyone knowing it was me that got them there.
Of course, the events in Pasco were going to be noticed. I wondered if Shepard would connect the dots. He was a savvy guy who had been a detective before he took promotions.
Then I thought about Ryan Michaud. He was always keeping an eye on significant events in the region that might relate to our project. Somehow I didn’t think these two gunfights were going to escape his attention, even though they didn’t happen in Spokane.
How was I going to claim no involvement? Especially with this bullet crease across my cheek and a chewed up ear? Coupled with going dark for how long?
That thought reminded me of my cell phone. I reached into my purse and removed it. As soon as I gave it a flip and turned on the power, it started buzzing like crazy. Six voice messages. Nine texts.
Damn.
I went straight to the texts. The first one was from Shepard.
Check in.
Okay, not bad. Then I checked the time stamp and did a little calculating. It was shortly after I left Anton’s house. So either the big tough bad guy called the cops, or Michaud got a case of the nerves and told Shepard about our work together. Or hell, maybe it was a coincidence.
That theory was blown to hell when I read the next message.
You’re not at your apartment. Worried you’re Code 6.
I swallowed. Code Six was an officer distress code. Shepard was jumpy. I’d told him about the cancellation of my meeting with Anton. There was no reason he should be worried about me this quickly, unless Michaud told him something.
The texts that followed were increasingly concerned and direct.
Where are you?
Call me ASAP.
Picking up Anton for questioning.
Patrol notified to watch for you.
Putting out a locate on you.
The last one stopped me cold. Asking patrol officers to keep their eyes open within the city was one thing. I could always claim I drove somewhere to clear my head or something. Hell, I could even tell him I got laid, which would be true for once. But if he put out a locate on me, that was an official request that went into the state-wide computer. It was something less than a missing persons report or an arrest warrant, but it would include my description.
And my car.
“Shit,” I breathed quietly.
“You’re not supposed to text and drive,” Taylor said. “It’s dangerous.”
I glanced up at her in the rear-view. “You’re right. Good thing the road is straight for the next six hundred miles or so.”
She pressed her lips together in frustration. “Doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t do it.”
I flipped the phone shut and dropped it onto the passenger seat. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
She didn’t seem to accept my apology. Since I didn’t know if I meant it or not, I guess that was reasonable on her part.
“Where are you taking us?” she asked.
“Home,” I said.
She eyed me suspiciously. “Who are you?”
“I’m a friend.”
Her eyes remained hard. “I don’t think I believe you.”
“That’s understandable. But I got you away from those guys who were definitely not friends, didn’t I?”
She nodded reluctantly.
“So trust me just a little. I’ll get you home.”
“But who are you?” she persisted.
I shook my head. “That part doesn’t matter.”
My answer didn’t make her happy but she didn’t ask any further questions. Instead, she turned back to her window and resumed riding in silence.
As we approached Ritzville, I debated whether to stop or not. I probably had enough gas to make it to Spokane, though I think we’d be coasting in on fumes. But I had to pee. And if I did, I guessed the girls did, too.
At the interchange of 395 and I-90, I took the exit and pulled into a Chevron station. I filled the gas tank, all the while turning a slow three-sixty, watching for anything suspicious.
There was nothing.
My stomach rumbled. I realized how long it had been since I’d eaten some hot food. A chain knock off called Marlene’s Restaurant was across the street.
They’d have bathrooms, I reasoned.
Thirty minutes to eat. Forty-five at most.
I could get some decent coffee in me, too.
I replaced the gas nozzle, and got back into the car.
“Anyone hungry?” I asked.
This time, both girls looked at me. Maybe it was an involuntary response, because they both had to be starving. To back up that thought even more, first Taylor, then Faina gave me small nods.
“Okay. We’ll eat at the restaurant.” I pointed at Marlene’s. “But quickly. And then we head to Spokane, where I will get you both somewhere safe, and back to your families. I promise.”
Their flat stares back to me refused to accept that everything was on the level. At least not yet. I couldn’t blame them, but maybe a hot meal would help a little.
I put the car in gear and drove across the street.
The bubbly waitress welcomed us in, seemingly unaffected by our collective somber mood. She tried to sit us in the middle of the room, but I asked instead for a corner booth in the back of the restaurant.
“Why, sure,” she said, even though I knew I’d probably just messed up her seating system.
At the booth, I slid onto the bench seat that put my back to the wall. I couldn’t see the front doors very well, but no one could approach our table without being seen.
As good as it could get, I supposed.
My stomach rumbled again, and I reached for the menu.
TWENTY-FIVE
Bull
The urge to piss crawled up my back, down the front of my stomach and into my lap where it stopped being friendly and demanded I do something immediately. I shifted in my seat, the cooler air on my neck from the shattered back window making me shiver which only increased my need to pee.
And hunger. Damn, I’d planned on ignoring the hunger but combined with having to use the bathroom, I might as well combine all my miseries and stop for the fastest break ever. Maybe even fill up my gas tank all the way. Sixty bucks didn’t go far in filling trucks. Not with the current presidential administration.
Sticking close to the speed limit had been a challenge. But catching the eye of a cop or state trooper was the first bullet point on my mental list of how to lose Taylor and Gus-Goose.
With Ritzville just up ahead I made a deal with myself. Gas, piss, something to upgrade my bandage with, maybe even a quick burger, and then right back on the trail. I wouldn’t linger over anything and would even get coffee to-go.
> Shit. Coffee. Now I really had to piss. I didn’t see any headlights in my rearview mirror – at least none that were close enough to be a danger. The next exit came up suddenly and I veered to the right, rubbing my eyes. Yep, I needed coffee.
A gas station and a restaurant lined the street, not far off the highway. After feeling like nothing was going my way the last few days, the set-up seemed perfect and like a last boost to my flailing spirits.
Pumping gas, I kept my face down from the surveillance cameras set up around the gas station. Real or not, I couldn’t take the chance that they might capture my mug for some cop to identify me later.
While the tank accepted the expensive deluge of fuel, I reached into my front seat and reloaded my guns. Not that I expected anyone to have followed me, but a hunter knows better than to be unprepared. Hell, a damn Cub Scout knows that. I’d be embarrassed to need my gun and realize I hadn’t had the foresight to refill.
Angling my body so the cameras couldn’t pick up my actions, I glanced up to check the road, taking in the well-lit restaurant across the way as well.
A sit-down style joint, Marlene’s Restaurant wasn’t well-attended. Four men sipped drinks and stared out the window at nothing in particular while talking. A waitress bustled between the first table in front and one set to the side, most of the occupants of the far table were hidden behind the tall barrier.
I tucked the gun in my holster and glanced at the restaurant once more.
The flash of blonde hair as the person in the back table caught my eye.
Could it be?
No way.
I squinted, trying to focus more on the small ribbon of yellow I’d seen, but couldn’t see more from so far away. Maybe she’d moved in her seat or something, maybe I was imagining things. But I needed to get something to eat and going in wouldn’t hurt anything to check it out.
Maybe drop two birds and all that.
I drove my truck across the highway and parked in a side spot, out of the way of the road and the customers inside.