by Pink, Deep
As she dragged herself towards the unconscious Blackjack she could see a pair of headlights off in the distance. Help was close by she thought to herself with relief. A sound of a boot crunching on broken glass caused her to turn and any sense of momentary relief was snuffed out. Standing a few feet away and casting a long and twisted shadow from the light of the over turned bike stood a man watching her. Her years on the police force told her right away that there was something off about him. Maybe it was the way his head hung to the side as he looked at her, an interested look on his face as if he was observing a beetle on its back. His features were bathed in shadows, which made him look like he was smiling widely at her. She couldn’t tell, all she knew was that Blackjack had weapons on him and she would feel a lot safer with one in her hand.
She increased her speed and with each elbow drag forward she could feel the strength start to return to her legs. She was getting closer to Blackjack and could see the holster on his belt and the butt of the gun he carried seemed tantalisingly close. She could hear the man behind her crunching on broken glass as he approached at a steady pace. She dared to look back once to see how close he was. He was closing the distance rapidly and appeared to be limping slightly.
Linda got to Blackjack on her hands and knees and reached for the weapon. As her fingers grazed the butt of the gun Darian slammed his boot down onto her wrist wrenching her hand away. Linda let out a low groan as he ground his boot into her wrist. She could hear the bones creak under the cruel force he was asserting, pinning her wrist to the ground.
“Nice try,” he said grinning at her.
Pain shot up her arm as he twisted his heel, causing her to collapse prone onto the ground. She was pinned like a bug under his boot, her whole body twisted at an unnatural angle. If he applied any more pressure her wrist would snap like a piece of dry kindling. Light illuminated Darian from the approaching car and he looked up briefly shielding his eyes. Linda swung her leg hard against his knee, aiming for the side the limp was most pronounced on. He let out a guttural growl of pain and confusion as his weakened leg collapsed under him and he fell backwards with a thud onto the road.
Linda sprang forward and landed on top of him restraining his arms with her knees. Her body was flooded with adrenalin as she pressed down on him with all her might. He wriggled beneath her but was not strong enough to throw her off. His face was pulled tight in a contorted horror show of rage. Linda swung hard at his face and felt the sickening crunch of his nose breaking under her fist. Her knuckles popped and crackled at the blow and she could feel her fingers begin to swell almost immediately.
Darian let out a dull moan at the blow to his face and almost immediately stopped his thrashing. “If you move again, I’ll hurt you some more,” Linda said, surprised at how loud she was shouting into his face. The approaching car stopped a few feet away from Linda and Darian and as the door swung open Linda allowed herself a split second to glance back. A small thin woman in a white wispy dress was getting out with a shocked look on her face.
“Call the cops now,” Linda ordered the onlooker.
Linda looked down at Darian and he was smiling at her as blood ran down the side of his face. Her instincts told her she was in trouble. Quickly and soundlessly the woman from the car closed the distance and Linda felt the cold steel of a blade pressed against her throat.
“Get off him now you black bitch,” the woman said as she pressed the knife harder into Linda’s throat.
Linda slowly eased off him and Darian wriggled out from under her. Emily dug her hands into Linda’s shoulders as she manoeuvred her onto her knees. The blade pressed tight into her neck and Linda could feel a small trickle of blood running down her chest.
“You ok baby?” Emily asked, “What do we do with her?”
Darian stood up and brushed himself off and Linda could see from the way he was standing that she had damaged his leg with her savage kick to his knee.
“I’m fine baby now that you’re here,” he said testing his weight on his damaged leg. He winced in pain and could feel a horrible grinding sensation in his knee when he flexed it. “This bitch comes with us.”
The pressure of the blade lessened against her throat and then an arm like a bound steel cable wrapped around her neck and began choking her. Emily’s manic laughter buzzed in Linda’s ears as she weakly tried to pry herself free. Dark spots bloomed in her vision and the last thing she saw as the darkness engulfed her was Darian standing over her smiling.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Pops Shaw tried Blackjacks cell again and the call went to voicemail. “Fuck,” he said out loud while rubbing his temples. He could feel a raging storm brewing in his head that no amount of energy drinks were going to quell. “You, you and you check the back roads between here and the highway,” he said pointing at three of the younger prospects for the gang, “Blackjack might not of made it to the safe house last night. Comb those roads for any signs. Make sure you are all armed. Contact me ASAP if you find anything.” The three men nodded in unison happy to be given a task with a little more responsibility. They complied immediately and retrieved side arms from atop the bar. Within minutes the sound of their bikes receded into the distance.
The silence in the ranch only made Pops headache pound harder and more painfully. He needed to get moving, to feel like he was doing something, anything. He could feel the weight of inevitable destruction weighing down on him. He had seen so many good men die during his years and he wasn’t sure he could handle it if something happened to Blackjack. The gang had operated under the radar for so long it seemed. Pops knew it was foolish for any of them to think for one second that they were somehow untouchable and that they wouldn’t draw unwanted attention to themselves eventually. No matter how many layers of secrecy and protection they wrapped their dealings in the cobra could still surprise you and whip around and dig its fangs into your soft flesh. Pops felt weary thinking about what lay ahead. Retaliation, revenge, bloodshed and slaughter and all for what? A slightly larger cut of the pie? Or some sort of whispered awe on the street anytime your name was mentioned. There was a time when making a name for yourself was all that mattered to Pops. Now he knew your street reputation had as much chance of stopping a bullet to the head as crepe paper. We will all fall eventually he thought grimly to himself.
He felt weary and old past his years as he left the ranch and whistled loudly to summon two of his best men who were out patrolling the perimeter. It all seemed predetermined and plotted out for him already, all roads leading to a place he felt he couldn't avoid. He could feel it in his weary bones that if he got on his bike today that it could very well be for the last time. He knew that what awaited him at the harbour was an unknown destructive force looking to tear the gang apart. As he stood looking over the open field in front of the ranch he felt that he was heading towards his doom.
The sun slowly rose and its warming rays dappled across the open scrub grass fields surrounding the ranch. This was Pops favourite time of day when the world was still and the day ahead had not yet been tainted. In his younger days he had greeted many a new dawn with bleary bloodshot eyes and hands trembling from a mixture of too much whiskey and a whole cocktail of drugs. Back then the rising of the sun was not something to be celebrated, it usually sent him and the other night dwellers scurrying to find a darkened room were they could continue to drink and get high away from the bright and harsh judgmental rays of the morning sun. In his youth he was a creature of the night, known in every dive bar, back room gambling den and junkie flop house. His appetite for booze and stimulants was legendary and his weeklong benders were true tests of stamina. The only thing that ever stopped him was his body ultimately betraying him and shutting down completely usually while he still held a full tumbler of whiskey and lines of coke in front of him begging to be snorted.
Pops Shaw had left that debauched lifestyle behind nearly twenty years ago. He hadn’t touched any drugs or any booze since the dark week that brought him to the po
int were he had to either stop or choose to die a young man. Now his only vice were highly caffeinated energy drinks, which he pounded by the caseload. He liked the slightly jacked and on edge feeling downing a few cans in rapid succession brought. After chugging a few cans colors seemed brighter and would pop in the corner of his vision.
He wasn’t one of those preachy types who after quitting would bend any son of a bitch’s ear about the perils of booze and drugs. Pops believed that every man should bear his own cross and must come to any realization about quitting all by themselves. Although most of the gang looked up to him as a father figure he wasn’t about to lecture any of these young bucks on their substance abuses. They could live hard and party hard as much as they wanted as long as they had the best interest of the gang front and foremost.
Off in the distance and close to the main access road to the ranch were posted two men who Pops had handpicked for the job. He needed two with level heads and who were excellent shots. The men he had chosen fit the bill perfectly. Ed Gans was a doughy middle aged man with an ornate handlebar moustache. Some of the younger guys sometimes gave him a hard time about it but it never seemed to rankle him. He had the demeanour of someone from a different time. Quiet and controlled, he usually sat in the corner of a room and rarely drew attention to himself.
Once, Pops had seen a man twice his size walk up to Gans in a bar and start to give him grief. The caveman got up close to Ed and in a spit flecked bellow said, “Are you some sort of faggot with that thing on your ugly face?” In a blur of motion Ed drew his gun from a hidden holster and pressed it under the oafs bulbous chin. “That is none of your concern. Now back off,” Ed said almost politely. The large man backed away slowly, nearly falling over his own feet and his skin had gone a shade as white as alabaster. Ed kept the gun trained squarely on the neanderthals head the whole time, his hand steady as hell.
With a twirl and a snap Ed returned the gun to his holster and winked at Pops. “I’m the fastest gun in the west,” Ed drawled. Pops believed it, he had never seen someone move so swiftly before. Ed belonged in the wild west shooting varmints and robbing stagecoaches. Pops was glad to be on their side.
Ed was hidden in a patch of tall grass and he had a clear view of any approaching vehicles. Across the road was hidden the second man, a young guy in his twenties called Sam Licer. He looked up to Ed and was almost as quick off the draw as him. Almost.. He couldn’t be any different from Ed, he liked to be the center of attention in a room and was always talking in a rapid fire staccato fashion. He could get on the nerves of some of the other gang members but Pops liked him. He saw a little of himself from that age, full of bravado and the cockiness of youth. Except Sam had some real skills with a firearm, he was not also just quicker than greased lightening he was also a crack shot. If you needed two people to back you up you couldn’t get more solid guys than Ed and Sam.
Pops’ preferred weapon was a claw head hammer. He liked the simplicity of it, there was nothing that could go wrong with it, no parts to clean or maintain. It was the kind of weapon that once he drew it from the leather loop on his belt, the sight of it could sometimes be enough to end a fight. One blow from it propelled by his massive arms was capable of breaking bones. He could destroy someone’s knees sending them flailing to the ground in the blink of an eye. He always felt safe when he could feel the weight of it swinging against his leg as he moved about. He even slept with it under his pillow, the hard shape below his head relaxing and reassuring him as he drifted off to sleep.
As the sun rose birds flew low across the gently swaying grass filling their beaks with the first insects to rise up into the warming air. The pastoral scene relaxed Pops momentarily, pushing away thoughts about what the rest of this day could bring for him and the gang. He already suspected that Red had been killed immediately after the photo was sent and his gut told him that they were going to walk into an ambush. He knew that Blackjack would sometimes become reckless in defence of a trusted member of his gang. The most Pops could do was to persuade him not to go alone and to bring the best gunmen the gang had. Pops knew that Blackjack respected him and apart from Red, Pops was the only other member who could get away with some of the things he would say to his leader. Blackjack wasn’t a foolish man but he could be headstrong in the heat of anger and Pops had found it best to slightly nudge him towards a sane solution in situations like this.
The phone buzzed in Pops pocket and he checked the incoming message. It was a single image of a shipping container and the time of the meet. Pops checked his watch knowing that whatever time they had left before the meet would speed by as he got progressively more amped up on can after can of energy drinks. He forwarded the picture to Blackjacks cell and hoped he would get back to the ranch early so that they could arm up for the confrontation with the masked freaks.
Time ticked by at what seemed like an increasing speed and the moment came for Pops to leave without Blackjack. A quick call to the men he had sent out to look for him earlier turned up nothing. It was if Blackjack had disappeared into thin air on his way to the safe house. “Times up, we have to go now,” he said as he mounted his motorbike, “follow close behind.”
The three riders left the peaceful ranch behind as they headed towards a bleak uncertainty.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Gradually and painfully the world began to come back into focus for Linda. Patches of skin had been stripped from her back as she was flung from Blackjacks motorbike and this was the first aching sensation she felt as she regained consciousness. Next she could feel a tightness and rawness in her throat as if she had swallowed iron filings. She tried to swallow and her mouth felt dry and dusty. The grey veil lifted and she opened her eyes slowly. Linda was tied to a chair with her hands bound behind her. The rope dug into her ankles and chest and as she tested her constraints the rope rubbed and chafed against her skin. Sitting across from her also tied to a chair was Blackjack. His head hung down on his chest. Dried blood was caked along his cheek and trailing down his neck. For a split second Linda thought he was dead and she could feel a mixture of panic and sadness rise up inside her. She tried to not let the panic over take her and pushed it down as images of Jack the snipper, the evil killer she had put down, flashed through her mind. Her breathing increased in sharp intakes until she noticed the slight movements of Blackjacks shoulders as he took shallow breaths. A wave of relief doused her, he was alive! She couldn’t tell how bad his injuries were from here and needed to get to him as quickly as possible.
The two captives were tied up in a large derelict room in an old factory that at one point in time had made ornate clasps for handbags. Ten years ago a factory in Asia started to make similar clasps for half the price and the factory soon closed down. Once it shut down several more in the area quickly followed until the whole once thriving industrial area lay empty and abandoned. The only people ever to venture into this urban wasteland were the homeless and the hopeless. The rising sun shone in through the high set window frames at one end of the vast and empty room. Jagged shards of glass hung in most frames, most having been broken many years ago.
Any thing of worth had been stripped a long time ago from the factory and what remained was a crumbling and dusty concrete shell. At the back of the factory were two offices that in better times had large plate glass windows looking out onto the factory floor. Workers had been under constant attention from the foreman and the manager. Two figures bathed in shadow now observed Linda and Blackjack.
“Blackjack wake up,” Linda croaked, her throat burning at the effort of speaking.
He began to stir at the sound of her voice and at first he raised his head slowly as if waking from a peaceful slumber. As his eyes groggily opened and his situation became apparent it was like he was drenched with a bucket of ice water and he became alert almost instantly. He flexed his arms against his bonds and looked around taking in their situation.
“What the fuck,” he said in his deep baritone. He shook his head to try clear
it. “Are you ok?” he said, wryly realizing the absurdity of that question.
“I could be better,” said Linda giving him the briefest of smiles.
“What the fuck happened? The last thing I remember is trying to avoid something slung over the road,” he said.
“Someone laid a trap for you. We got knocked off your bike and then a pair of freaks jumped us. One guy had a limp and then a crazy woman attacked me and choked me out. Do you know these weirdo’s?” she said.
“I’ve made so many enemies over the years, I have no idea who it is. Did you see any gang colors or symbols?”
“I didn’t get a chance, the freak with the limp nearly broke my wrist before his partner jumped me. What do you think they want with you?” she asked.
“I’ve no idea, and I’m not going to stay tied to this chair long enough to find out. I think I can free one of my hands,” he said.
From the back of the factory came a slow squeak and they both turned to look. Darian Pickard and Emily Makins stood side by side as they pushed a metal trolley that was once used to serve meals towards the captives. The wheel let out another rusty squeak and heralded their approach. They stopped the trolley in front of Blackjack and Linda. A stained piece of material covered the contents.
“Welcome Blackjack and guest. I had built this moment up in my mind so much over the years and to say I am a bit disappointed would be an understatement. Here you are tied to a chair looking like a pathetic broken man, you have no power and more importantly you have no future. I thought it would excite me to see you looking pathetic and broken,” Darian said as he approached Blackjack.