by William Oday
“Get out of here!” Holly yelled.
She held the knife pointed at the stranger. Her stance awkward, yet tense and determined.
“Don’t be stupid, blanca. Put the knife down.”
She waved it at him.
“I’m warning you!”
Theresa could barely think, much less move. And there Holly was, ready to attack. Amazing.
The man snarled at Holly and pointed his mirrored gun at her chest.
“Drop it or die.”
Holly didn’t budge.
He wasn’t bluffing. Theresa could see it.
“Holly! Do what he says!”
“Listen to your friend. I’m not here to hurt you. But I’d be fine with that, too.”
He thumbed the hammer back and it clicked into place.
“Drop the knife, Holly!”
She frowned and narrowed her gaze at the dangerous man.
“Fine,” she said as she laid the knife on the counter. “What do you want?”
“This your house?”
“It’s my house,” Theresa said. “My family’s house.”
The man took a picture from the bay window above the sink. The one with her mom and dad on the beach in Hawaii three years ago. He studied it and turned to her.
“Where’s your dad?”
“He went to the store. He’ll be back any minute.”
“Good.”
That wasn’t the reaction she was hoping for. That was supposed to scare him into leaving.
“You should leave. My dad will hurt you.”
“You think I’m afraid?”
“You should be.”
The man glowered and took a step toward Theresa.
Even in pain and unable to rise, Max lifted his head and growled. His teeth snapped at the intruder.
BOOM.
Where a second before Max’s head had been, now a pulped mess of tissue and gore remained. Her protector’s body convulsed under her hand.
The stink of gunpowder burned her throat, like metal and acid. Her ears rang and the world seemed to sink away. Or maybe she floated back a few steps behind her eyes. Like the world existed at the other end of a tunnel where her senses still worked.
“You still think I should be afraid?”
Theresa wanted to cry. To scream. To run away and never come back to this horrible scene. Maybe if she ran fast enough, it wouldn’t be real. Maybe it would turn back time like Superman flying backwards around the planet. Maybe something would change.
Because the slick blood coating her fingers couldn’t be all that was left of the best dog she’d ever known. The best friend that snuggled her every night. The best friend that made any nightmare dissolve and vanish.
How could life change so quickly? It was like the last six years of his life were a dream. All of her memories of their time together some cheap trick and now the blanket had been yanked back to reveal the emptiness of the illusion. He couldn’t be gone. That didn’t make sense.
The murderer dropped the family picture and the glass shattered when it hit the tile floor. He yanked Theresa up, practically pulling her arm out of its socket. A blinding pain shot through her shoulder and neck.
“We’ll wait for him together. If either of you make trouble, you’ll end up like that pinche perro.”
“Jefe!” a voice sounded from the backyard.
Another man stepped through the shattered door. He was short and square with a face like the surface of the moon. Neck wider than his head. He had a phone in his hand and held it out for the much taller man.
The killer put it to his ear.
“Hola Mama, que pasa?”
His face turned dark. Angry. More than it already was. He tossed the phone back to the shorter man.
“Vamos. They’re coming with us.”
Before Theresa could react, she and Holly were being dragged out into the backyard. She fought like mad, dug her nails into the brute’s arms. His hold on her didn’t waver. She went for his face, trying to claw at his eyes.
A huge palm connected with her cheek and snapped her head to the side. Her spine popped with the torsion. Her face burned like she’d sat too close to a fire.
Fighting him wasn’t helping. She went limp, trying to slow them down. That didn’t do much either. The giant dragged her as easily as a sack of dirty laundry. Holly fared no better with the smaller man.
They went through the side gate and toward a red lowrider waiting in the street.
43
MASON pounded the steering wheel in frustration. Heading west on the ten freeway was a huge mistake. Everyone always talked about how it could be a parking lot during commute hours. That was the typical hyperbole that Los Angelenos used to joke about and to deal with the frustration of ever-worsening traffic conditions.
He tuned the police scanner mounted under the dash to LAPD Metro Dispatch. Maybe there would be some useful news about what was holding up traffic. A chatter of dispatch officers had responding units scrambling all over the metropolitan area.
A scanner was a useful tool in his line of work. Access to that information had literally saved a client’s life two years ago. Tonight the stream was a nearly constant hum of voices. He’d never heard so much activity. The city had law enforcement on the ropes.
Nothing obvious surfaced about the predicament they faced.
Looking out at an endless stream of red brake lights, Mason shook his head. This wasn’t the joking version of a parking lot. This was an actual one. He shot an irritated look at Iridia, as if she were the reason for all these people clogging up the pavement.
She wasn’t. But she was the reason he had to deal with it.
He checked his watch. He should’ve never gone along with the meeting at the bar. It was a waste of time for both of them. Close protection was a delicate balancing act of being an employee while also being the boss when it mattered. Dealing with people like Iridia who thought the world was populated with personal servants made it a painful exercise.
Miro should’ve been here. He’d be ecstatic to rot in traffic with a supermodel.
Mason didn’t have time for this. A mysterious sickness had the city teetering toward chaos. A dangerous gang leader was looking to harm him and his family. Yet, here he was babysitting this brat.
Sitting at a standstill on this six-lane freeway for the past five minutes had him about ready to shoot someone. Theoretically, at least. He knew better than anyone that you couldn’t take back a bullet. Once it was out there in the world, it would continue on its path of destruction, changing lives and ending others without regard for second thoughts.
More and more people exited their vehicles, walking alongside when a few feet of space would open up in front. Horns honked and tempers flared. Motorcycles split lanes, weaving in and out of cars and people. At least Beth would be able to get home.
A few car lengths ahead, a knot of people formed. In the center of the group, two men stood face to face yelling and pointing wildly around.
Mason couldn’t hear what they were saying over the near continuous variable pitch siren of numerous car horns, but he didn’t require words to see that the tension was escalating.
The man in a dark suit shoved the other guy backwards. He fell back into the crowd behind him and was immediately bounced back into the conflict. He threw a right cross and caught the business guy on the chin.
It was like a flare landed on a bucket of gasoline. Angry words turned to raging fists. The two in the center brawled and disappeared into the growing chaos of flying fists and crumpled bodies. The havoc grew as others joined, drawn to the fight like dogs ready for a brawl.
A sleek red sportbike zipped by Mason’s side mirror and stopped a few feet short of the seething crowd. The rider honked several times, which did nothing to stop the fighting ahead. He cranked the throttle and the bike emitted an ear-splitting shriek.
Bad move.
The nearest edge of the mob stopped stomping on each other and turned as one to
the new target. Several large men rushed the rider.
The rider was either insane or he panicked because the bike shot forward like an arrow. The lifted front tire knocked aside several people and plowed into the crowd, crushing those unlucky enough to be in the way.
The rider fell off the back and landed hard on the pavement. The enraged mob surrounded him like ants ganging up on a meal. He raised his arms, trying to fend off the avalanche of blows crashing down.
Mason had to get them out of there.
There would be no reasoning with the growing mayhem. The problem was Mason had no room to maneuver. He was less than a foot from the bumper of the Audi sedan in front.
He had to make room.
Mason threw it into Park and hopped out. He locked the hubs on the front wheels and jumped back in. He slammed the door shut and engaged the four-wheel drive.
He eased the Bronco’s bumper up to the Audi’s. It was more like bumper to trunk, but it would do. He pushed down the pedal and the throaty V8 growled. The Audi’s sheetmetal trunk crumpled and then the car lurched forward as the Bronco broke the lighter car’s traction. He shoved it forward until it smashed into the car ahead of it and they both ground to a halt.
The nearest edge of the crowd noticed and turned to Mason.
He backed up and immediately crashed into the car behind, which apparently thought the whole line had moved forward. He slammed it back a good ten feet.
A splinter of fighting people broke from the main group and ran at the Bronco. A big guy arrived at Mason’s door and pounded on the window with his fist. He jiggled the handle, trying to open the locked door to get at Mason.
Ten or so people surrounded the Bronco. Fists pounding on the hood, the windshield, the doors.
Mason revved the engine and inched forward, threatening to flatten those blocking his way out.
The attackers refused to move.
Mason looked over as a baseball bat appeared in the hand of a man at Iridia’s window. The glass exploded inward and Iridia screamed.
The man outside reached in and grabbed Iridia’s hair, yanking her head to the side.
Mason whipped the Bonowi baton to full length and jabbed her attacker’s face. The man released his grip and fell back howling.
“Hold on,” Mason said as he revved the engine again. One last warning to the guys kicking out his headlights.
Iridia grabbed the dash. “What are you doing?”
“Getting us out of here.”
Mason cut the wheel to the right and smashed down the pedal. One of the guys beating on the hood went down and disappeared. The Bronco lurched into the few feet of open space between the four-foot high concrete barrier and his lane.
Mason bumped the front right tire into the barrier. It was tall, but his baby could do it. The people beating on his truck backed off, apparently not wanting to be the next in line to get up close with the undercarriage of the metal beast.
He pushed down the accelerator and the V8 engine growled. The Bronco bucked forward as the giant tires bit into the barrier. The forward momentum halted and the car fell back.
Mason let it roll back a little and then gunned it.
The engine roared and they slammed into the barrier. The right tire chewed up the side and the cab lifted, throwing Iridia to the left. She would’ve ended up in Mason’s lap if not for the seatbelt.
The surrounding crowd dropped back and watched in awe. This wasn’t in their playbook and they didn’t know how to react.
He eased the wheel to the left a little and kept a steady foot on the gas. Too much and he’d drop the front right tire on the far side and land the axle right on top of the barrier. They’d be good and screwed if that happened.
The right rear tire hit and chewed up the side. The whole vehicle tilted to the left with two tires on the pavement and two up on top of the barrier.
Iridia clung to the bar above the passenger door. “Are you insane?”
He straightened out the wheel and eased forward. He looked down to the left as his side mirror just missed the car that had been in front a moment ago. The old guy inside tugged his wife’s shoulder, pointing at the Bronco, like it was hard to miss.
The attackers melted back through the surrounding vehicles, perhaps coming to their senses or perhaps looking for easier prey.
With inches of clearance on the left side and two tires riding the top of the barrier, the Bronco rolled forward.
They approached an off ramp that was nearly as clogged, but looked like he could edge through. Mason turned on his blinker.
He might as well be a courteous driver.
“You are insane!” Iridia said in a voice soaked with shock.
“Maybe.”
44
Just as they arrived at the exit ramp, a shiny black Ferrari pulled right and cut them off. It didn’t make it out of its own lane. It stopped diagonally in front, with its right front bumper inches from the barrier. Its engine growled like a trapped tiger. Round tail lights washed them in a red glow.
What was this idiot doing? He had no hope of squeezing through.
Mason honked the horn.
The Ferrari sounded right back, though the horn was weaker and almost musical.
Mason laid on the horn, about to blow his top. He shouted out the window, “Get out of the way!”
A hand emerged from the driver’s window and communicated a single-fingered, distinctly rude gesture.
“Move it!” Mason shouted out the window.
The Ferrari responded with an ear-splitting howl of perfectly-tuned pistons.
Mason mashed the brake with his left foot and mashed the accelerator with his right. The beefy V8 roared as the Bronco inched forward.
Iridia grabbed his shoulder. “Don’t do it!”
The Bronco’s front bumper continued forward, until it hung above the side of the supercar.
The Ferrari driver jumped out of his car.
“What are you doing? Get back!”
“You cut me off! Get outta my way or I’ll run over your Italian piece of crap!”
Iridia grabbed his arm.
“Don’t do it, Mason! That’s a three million dollar super car!”
Mason turned and detached her hand from his arm.
“Never touch the driver, and I don’t care if it’s a hundred million dollar sculpture of carbon fiber. He better move it. Now.”
He turned back to the window just as the other driver ducked into his car. He came back out with an enormous forty-five pointed in the air. The gun bucked and nearly tore free in the man’s weak grip as he fired a round.
“I said get away from my Enzo!”
Mason reached across Iridia’s lap and yanked the recline lever. She fell back flat, out of harm’s way. Better safe than sorry.
“Stay down,” he said as he considered dropping this joker. He was certainly in the gray area of using justified lethal force. But this guy didn’t have it in him to kill someone. Mason knew the type. Waving a gun around only worked if nobody called your bluff.
This guy was all bluff.
Besides, Mason had already been in one gunfight that day, and that was one too many already. He’d resolve this another way. A far more satisfactory way.
Mason gunned it and let off the brake. The Bronco’s left front tire barely paused before climbing up over the quarter panel and onto the hood of the super car. The Bronco tilted up, like they were in a rocket about to blast into space.
The sound of crunching metal and shattering glass reminded them they were still on the ground. The front tire dropped to the street just as the back tire clawed up to continue the demolition. The Ferrari’s engine choked, coughed, and sputtered to silence.
The Bronco pulled forward and the rear tire dropped to the ground with a thump. Mason held his hand out the window, returning the crude gesture he’d received.
The driver’s impotent screams faded as they continued on, still canted up with two wheels on the barrier. They made the exit and pu
lled down the ramp. They passed wide-eyed people as they went.
“You just demolished a Ferrari Enzo, one of the most expensive cars in the world.”
Mason grinned. “Not worth a zinc penny now.”
They made it down the ramp and hit an intersection that wasn’t completely clogged. Mason eased the wheel to the left and the Bronco bucked as the tires dropped to the street.
He patted the dash. “I wouldn’t trade this baby for that Italian hunk of junk.”
“It wasn’t a hunk of junk.”
“It is now.”
Iridia didn’t respond.
Mason mashed the accelerator to the floor and, tires squealing, headed north a couple of streets to get some distance from the insane freeway. He whipped a left on Pico Boulevard and headed west toward Santa Monica. To the local airport there. The surface street traffic was thick, but at least it was moving.
He had no idea how she was going to get out of LA with the airspace shut down. For all he knew, that rule didn’t apply to the richest and most connected. Maybe she had a personal exemption waiting. The wealthiest often played by a different set of rules.
Even if she didn’t have a flight waiting, he frankly didn’t care. His job was to get her to the airport. One second after that, Iridia and all of her supermodel problems would be in the rear view mirror.
Mason almost smiled.
He didn’t though because as the thought of dumping her crossed his mind, another part of his brain caught something coming through on the police scanner.
Iridia levered her seat back upright.
“Hello? Earth to bodyguard. Are you even listening to me?”
“Quiet!”
Mason turned up the volume.
All units, code ten. Adam three-six, code three.
Three-six, code three, go ahead.
Adam three-six, vehicle is a two-door, early model, tan Ford Bronco. Westbound on Pico at Normandie. Suspect is a white male, early forties, one-hundred-eighty pounds. Wanted for LAPD Officer’s one-eight-seven. Presumed armed and dangerous. Break-
Go ahead.
Adam three-six, be advised ASD SWAT unit en route.