by AJ Elmore
Who am I kidding? What kind of bartender bachelor packs a .40 to a sleepover?
Neither of us speaks as we climb into Eva's car and I catch a glimpse of myself in the side mirror: hair everywhere, a hard line across my brow, and a hickey on my throat.
Chapter 29 Jumping the Gun
Frederick
I roll the Caddy to a quiet stop in the dark lot behind the garage. Two dirty bay doors stare at me like crazy, filthy eyes. I slip the stick into first and the Caddy just purrs. Outwardly, I'm a rock, steady and precise, always thinking three steps ahead. My insides, though, are a pent up, painful mass of nerves and determination.
In the trunk of the car are enough explosive materials to sink the Titanic. Strapped across my lower back is my Desert Eagle. The silencer is in the pocket of my cargo pants, along with a few tools that I could need. There's a buck knife holstered against my left calf.
I slip the phone from my pocket and send a text to the man inside. Impatience claws at my nerves. It's risky bringing the Caddy here, even if it's still covered in dirt. I could only secure one car and I'll be damned before I send Maria into the heart of Gram's empire in this car. The black economy Taurus will suit her much better.
Finally the garage door on the right starts to slowly rise. I shove thoughts of her away. I can't afford to get distracted by the ways she'll be in danger. She's as street savvy as I am, almost as hard. If she'll do anything, she'll survive. I'd bet my Dragon on it.
I roll forward into the garage. I'm scanning the room as soon as it's in view, checking for a set-up, for men with guns just waiting for me to fall into the trap. All I see are tools and dirt and grease in a fluorescent glare and a skinny white kid waving awkwardly as he punches the button to bring the door down.
He's about nineteen, gangly, and wears a permanent expression of confusion. He doesn't seem to have a lot going on upstairs, and his clothes are the color of an engine. I bet he can tear apart a motor like a demon. He seems like that kind of savant. Doesn't matter. I just need him to get lost.
He eyes me for a moment, looks like he wants to say something, but then his gaze averts to the Caddy. He scans her lines and I know he wants to pop the hood. He heard her run enough to understand her pristine condition. If he touches her, I'll kill him.
“Can you kindly fuck off?”
He startles when I speak and his wide-set eyes come back to me. He nods then stumbles in his haste to turn away. He's a creepy fucker. I don't like him, but I've come too far to back out now. I'm contemplating leaving his brain on the floor as I pop the trunk.
The doomed truck sits silently to my left. It's a ten-footer, probably once belonged to a moving company. I don't even have to look underneath to know this banger is on its last legs – or would have been anyway, if it weren't for me.
This place is eerily silent, undertoned by the creaks and groans of a big building below sea level. Anxiety buzzes in my limbs like a blunt to the face, but I just pull on a long breath as I start hoisting my materials into the light. No time to waste.
Crawling under the ass end of the truck is like some kind of muscle memory, pure mechanical instinct. I've gone through this process a million times in my head since yesterday. It's like watching myself work from an outside view, my hands moving and creating a little piece of hell against a backdrop of learning the ways of the mechanic and a chemist at a young age.
Making the explosives was the easy part in all this. Tannerite, the generic chemical compound used for making exploding targets for gun enthusiasts. It's completely legal to obtain, and relatively stable compared to most means of blowing shit up. Ammonium nitrate and aluminum powder, shaken together to create an explosive that is triggered by any shot bigger than a .22. The hard part of this mission is holding the damn tank to the trunk to secure it.
Adrenaline lends me some grace. I won't rush the job, but I definitely don't want to waste any time. Twenty minutes, tops, and that gives me time to get the fuck out of here before anyone else shows up for the major deal that's about to go down.
The setup isn't heavy, it's just awkwardly sized in the cramped space beneath the vehicle. Still, a couple screws and a lot of sweat later, the package has been delivered. My clothes are sticking to me. The stagnant air and smell of grease are just a little too much when stuck beneath a couple tons of machine.
I drag myself to freedom like it's the last thing I'll ever do, sit up, and realize someone is standing in front of me. I see the long, thin grin of the devil just before something heavy connects with my temple, and everything fades to black.
Chapter 30 Dearest Dragon
Maria
I kill the headlights when I turn the car into the alley. At least this piece of shit runs quiet. The windows are down and I'm sweating against the night. The air is so heavy tonight. I'm wearing black pants and a black tank, my hair braided down one shoulder. My shirt is already soaked and I'm nervous as hell.
That night I drove like a hell bird to Biloxi, when I lit the fuse on that Molotov cocktail, I couldn't feel anything. I didn't give a good goddamn about anything other than being heard. I didn't think twice and I wouldn't change it. I also wasn't alone with a huge window of time before I played my part.
As much as all that was fueled by rage, this plan is so much more delicate and deliberate. I drove the exact route Frederick told me to, and haven't seen another car for some time. I stop the car by a set of metal double doors, shut it off, and slip the key into my pocket. Across the backseat, the Dragunov rests in its case.
I slip out of the car, quietly close the door, and check both ways down the alley. It's deserted. My fingers close around the set of lock picks in my pocket and, for a moment, I just stare at the darkened metal. Charlie gave me these, said he paid the extra for the good ones. They haven't let me down yet. Soon, Charlie. I'm gonna make those fuckers pay.
According to Frederick, this place is so empty there's not even an alarm. I hope he's right. I shake myself. Standing out here is stupid. I need to get to cover now.
The lock doesn't put up much of a fight. The metallic pop makes me smile. I grab the gun case and enter the warehouse without a sound. I stand still inside to let my eyes adjust to the weak light that makes it through the grime on the windows.
There's a set of stairs leading up to a second level. The downstairs is just empty, dusty floor. I make for the stairs quickly. It's so quiet that my breath sounds loud. The gun feels heavy, though in the way of sniper-grade rifles, it's not heavy at all. There are more banks of windows upstairs, rows of small square panes. I scan them with faith in delinquency until – there, a broken one.
Gram's warehouse is catty-corner to this one on the other side of the street. I peer out the window. I have a perfect line-of-sight to the front gate and big bay door of his warehouse. Perfect. I couldn't have dreamed of better positioning. The hardest part of this will be the waiting.
I pull my phone from my pocket to check the time. The truck should have left fifteen minutes ago. There's still an hour before drop time. Still no word from Frederick. Not good.
The nerves flutter around in my stomach, and Izzy's words come back to haunt the silence around me. You know this is some bad juju. I swallow thickly and sit down on the dirty floor. I run a reverent hand along the hard case. Dearest Dragon, don't do me wrong. I click open the clasps.
She's waiting there for me, silently, elegantly. I don't pick her up, not yet, I just stare. This is one of Frederick's favorite guns. I can feel his admiration for it in every detail. The smell of gun oil is a comforting one, one that reminds me of him. I wish he could be here to watch the fireworks. Doesn't seem right for him to miss it. And why the fuck hasn't he texted me?
Anxiety rises, makes me feel like puking. I didn't eat, so there's nothing to throw up. Here in the darkness and hugeness of this place, all the ways this could go wrong begin to assault me – all the thoughts I've ignored until this point. Tears want to come, but I choke them back. I will
not break down now. I will see this through.
I take a long breath, it's shaky, but there's no one around to witness my moment of weakness. Charlie, if you're still looking out for me, lend me your courage. I will end this, I will avenge you. I love you.
Chapter 31 Bloody Mary
Frederick
I startle awake. When I try to open my eyes, the light makes a searing web of pain spider through my skull. I growl in response, and that's when I realize there's tape covering my mouth. The agony seems concentrated on the left side of my face. I can feel the sticky, wet blood from the impact of whatever hit me. There's something solid wrapped around my chest, pinning my arms to my sides and making it hard to breathe. I'm so fucked. This is going to be a slow ride to an everlasting hell.
I crack open my right eye. My glasses are sitting askew on my face. The left lens is cracked, the other is dirty. The thing that's wrapped around me is a tow chain, rusty and unforgiving against my skin. I'm slumped over in a plain wooden chair, in what looks like an office. As I expected, when I lift my head, it sends streaks of that hot pain from my brain to the rest of me.
I can tell by the chain that wraps all the way to my waist that my Desert Eagle is gone. Goddammit. I love that gun.
“Wellllll hellllo there, sunshine.”
The voice is so familiar it hurts. It's the last voice I ever wanted to hear again. I woozily scan the space, see him – rather several of him – as my head spins. The man I hate more than anyone left alive, the man who taught me everything. The one who fed me, clothed me, beat me.
He's wearing a black suit and a horrid grin. In one hand is a cigarette. Beyond his other suit sleeve, there's a mysterious nothing, my repayment to him for the nights of tossing and turning on broken ribs and swollen joints.
I glare at him despite the pain and, yes, fear. Perhaps I've earned this, a torturous end, and the worst thing of all, failure. That motherfucking kid, he's not in my pocket. He took my money, but somehow Derrik figured out my plan. He turned me over to the Reaps. The shipment will never make it to the warehouse. Gram won't die, Derrik won't die, and I will. I'm so sorry, Maria.
The Jester draws closer to me in all his lanky, lazy glory. He leans down so that his face is just a few inches from mine, close enough for me to smell the cloves on his breath. I want to rip his throat out, but I can't move. My legs are lashed to the chair legs and the chain restricts my lungs. I can't even speak to curse him. I'm completely helpless and it burns like the truck would have, if I had succeeded.
He says, “Now, don'tchu worry 'bout your handy work, I didn't touch a thang.”
He pats the top of my head, so patronizing I nearly head butt him, except the impact of his hand feels like a hammer to my swelling brain. All I can do is whimper against the tape. The sound makes him chuckle.
“Just a few more minutes and that shipment will roll on outta here, your little signature still intact.”
What the fuck is he talking about? I suck in a sharp breath through my nose and my one open eye flicks to him. That crooked grin makes me feel sick, or maybe it's the massive amount of pain ripping through my nervous network.
His fingers close around a handful of my hair and he pulls my head up straight to look him in the eye. The cigarette hangs in his lips, the acrid smoke drifting between us, making it harder to breathe. My vision spins, a full tilt that makes me think I'm about to pass out again.
“You've been most helpful, downright convenient, in sending Gram a nice thank you gift for leavin' me in the guttah, after your failure to keep your men alive. I couldn't have planned it bettah, Freddy. I taught you well. Too bad you decided to turn coat. And now, I get ta kill you, just after I'm sure your efforts are realized, a'course.”
I jerk my face away from his, the only pathetic rebellion I can manage. He laughs again. That laugh will haunt me into the afterlife. I'll be born into another lifetime with that evil sound dogging my every step. And, mother fucker, I can't do a damn thing to save myself. The only glimmer in this darkness is that I haven't let Maria down after all.
She can still pull that trigger, still exact her revenge, and maybe she'll never know what became of me. If she's lucky, she'll never have a clue.
In a rash of desperation, with the certainty of death pressing on me, I consider pleading to the Jester. Please, just drop me in a swamp somewhere. Don't make her see this. But I can't even speak. My head hangs, my pride in shreds, my resolve shattered.
Out in the garage I can hear the truck start, muffled male voices. He's not bullshitting me. He's going to let that truck roll out of here strapped with Gram's death note. I shouldn't be surprised, but it's not really surprise that churns my insides. No, it's shame. In the end, I wasn't able to outsmart my teacher. And he's using me, one last time.
“Oh, just sit right there, Freddy, don't go anywhere,” Derrik says with a leer, and he slips out the door.
I'm left to drift on my physical pain and mental anguish. The truck chugs laboriously, idling with an ugly sound. If I could shoot it to put it out of its misery, I just might do it. More voices, then the garage door lifting. I hear Gram tell his boys to wait outside, that he'll be along. And the noise dies. The truck leaves. The garage door goes down.
It will be an hour and fifteen minutes until we know for sure if our plan worked. An hour left on this earth and it will be spent with the person I despise the most. What if I deserve this hell that's coming my way? Maybe you can never really earn redemption once you've been a Reaper. Or maybe it's that you can never really disappear.
Sometimes I guess you just have to face your demons and your past. Sometimes you can't outrun your fate, you just run as long as you can, as far as you can, so that when everything catches up, you don't have anything left to lose.
When the Jester returns, the garage has grown quiet. The door is loud when it opens. I drag my attention up to him. He's wearing a sickening smile and holding a really fucking big wrench.
A groan gurgles in my throat and he makes that infuriating chuckle. He ambles in, like he has nothing going on in the world. He sets the wrench down, props it against my knee, then rips the tape off my mouth. Every cell in my body wants me to scream through the pain, but that's what he wants me to do, so I bite down. I'm seething, but I'm doing it quietly. He wants to hear my cries. It's always been that above everything else that satisfied his sickness.
He picks up the wrench and turns his back to me, a mockery that I can do nothing to him. He tilts his head to the side and says, “I'll admit, I really didn't think ya had it in ya ta pull that triggah. I guess I was a little proud of ya, finally grown some balls an' all. But that's quite a heavy debt to wage. I owe ya a big one, Freddy.”
I lift my chin through the gutting agony, look him in the eye and say, “You had that coming. You deserve to lose at least a hand, for every time you've laid a fucking hand on me.”
He's so fast, I barely see it coming when he backhands me with the wrench, the metal smashing against my right cheek bone. Sound is replaced by a steady, high-pitched tone. My glasses go flying. I can no longer see anything but a display of lights exploding where my vision should be. The blow snaps my head to the side hard enough to cause whiplash and my voice leaks from me in a desolate groan.
Just let me fade away, please, let me sink into darkness without feeling. May death come quickly and may I not fear to face it. Fresh blood slides down my face, the flesh no match for steel. I know it's split wide open, but it's numb. Shock, yeah, even shock would be welcome just now.
So, Charlie, I tried to do right by you. I did at least keep the heat off your sister. Maybe at the other end of this, I'll run into you, and I'll buy you a Bloody Mary from hell's bar. Maybe you'll finally be able to forgive my past. Maybe in eternity, we can even be friends.
Chapter 32 Kiss of the Dragon
Maria
Sweat rolls down my throat from my hairline. It's 2:58 AM. I've got the Dragon loaded and aimed out the window, my eye
in the scope, watching the bustle in the warehouse yard. There are guards everywhere. I've yet to see Gram or Derrik.
Tears are drying on my face, but my gaze is steady. I still haven't heard from Frederick. Something happened. It had to, he would never do this otherwise.
Still, I'm waiting for the truck.
My right shoulder is propped against the warehouse wall to steady me, and the gun stock feels good braced between my arm and ribs. My whole world comes down to this moment. This is the man, the slime who took my brother from me as a cheap shot, Gram's favorite kind of shot. And I'm about to rearrange his definition of – well, everything.
I take a long breath to steady the anxiety that stirs. The sound of a truck. I can hear the delivery approaching just in time for three o'clock. Its engine sounds like shit. I kiss the Dragunov, nuzzle my cheek against her, and dip back into the sight.
The gates are rolling back and the bay door of Gram's warehouse is opening. I lift the gun slightly, to get a better view of the figures standing behind the door. Painfully slowly, the scene reveals a handful of grim-looking men with assault rifles, clustered around the one and only Gram Margalis. Still no Jester. My nerves drop into the bottom of my gut.
My hand twitches. I want to put a bullet between Gram's eyes right now, to watch those glasses go flying off his long, thin face, and see the spray of his brains behind him. I exhale, long, slow, and relax my trigger hand.
The truck is pulling through the fence, rolling so close to the threshold. It moves just like the Caddy did when I sailed her past that house in Biloxi. Just like that night, I know that there will only be one chance, one moment in which to act. If I miss it, if I freeze, I will fail. And just like that night, they don't see it coming.