Cadillac Payback

by AJ Elmore

  The middle of the box, Frederick had said. I adjust the sight a couple clicks. I can see a glimpse of white tank from my angle. He succeeded. And all I have to do, inhale, is pull the trigger. Exhale. Just squeeze.

  For a moment, I don't believe I did it. This is a dream. I'm about to wake up in a night sweat, hounded by my brother's ghost. The gun barely makes a noise, but that noise is like thunder on this quiet morning. There's hardly any kick at all. Seconds later, the world explodes.

  I don't know what I was expecting, but the blinding flash makes me flinch away from the sight, and the sound – like the earth splitting apart – makes me stumble backwards. The gun hangs in my arms and my insides feel hollow, echoing that magnificent sound of Gram's empire being consumed by Frederick's genius.

  My mouth hangs open for a time suspended in destruction to the beauty of the hues of orange, white, and blue. If any of those damned souls had time to scream, I can't hear them. I watch for a long time, too long, until the sounds of sirens knock me out of my trance. I've gotta get the fuck out of here. Now.

  “He's all yours, Charlie,” I whisper to the nothing around me.

  I drop to my knees, adrenaline spiking in my veins. I feel like I just did a big line of cocaine as I meticulously remove the scope and put the Dragon in her case. I click the clasps closed and take toward the stairs at a run.

  Downstairs, I ease into the suffocating night, toss the gun in the back and slide into the driver's seat. I insert the key and then turn the engine. The engine doesn't turn. It makes a few choked noises and stalls out. No. No no no! Not now. My Caddy would never leave me hanging at a time like this.

  “Fuck,” I scream, smashing my hand against the dashboard. I try again. No dice.

  The sirens are getting closer.

  Chapter 33 Rookie

  Joshua

  The truck left several minutes ago, but there are still guys posted up out front. They're shooting the shit about strippers, one in particular they think they both know. Fine, that's good. Let them be distracted by Star, or Jasmine, or Candy – whichever naked slut wants to be my cover. They're too immersed in the special talents of said slut to hear me sneaking along the back of the garage. There's a dirt-colored door back here that wants to know if I can pop its lock.

  As I ease my picks into the lock, I hear a muffled cry from inside, reverberating through the metal walls. The sound sends chills across my skin, it's so miserable. My hands start to shake, so that I have to pull the picks out and take a long breath. My Glock is loaded, one in the chamber, at my hip. It doesn't make me feel much better about what's going on.

  Get your shit together, Joshua. Pick the lock like Charlie taught you.

  My hair itches against the back of my neck. I fight the urge to scratch at it. Sweat tickles me, creeping from under my thick curls downward. I push the picks back into the lock and close my eyes.

  It takes me a few long minutes to finally get the thing to give, not at all the grace I've seen Maria use to coax a lock open. But it'll do. There's a click and the picks move. Yes. Not so hard.

  Now for the hard part. I draw my .40 and slowly push the door open. The hinges creak, but thankfully only a little. The room is small, cramped, and dark. It stinks of gasoline and motor oil and stale beer. Hulking bits of automobiles sit around, stacked haphazardly, left to disuse. My foot hits an oil pan, which skitters across the floor.

  I freeze. Shit. I listen hard for any sign of what's going on in the next room. I can't hear anything, except then there's another half-strangled cry that turns my blood cold. I think it's Freddy's voice, if I could imagine him making that kind of noise.

  I turn the doorknob slowly. The door makes the slightest creak when I push it open the tiniest bit so that I can see into the garage. I push again, inch by inch, until I can fit through the opening. Then I step out into the light.

  Movement to my left catches my eye, a blur of arms moving toward me. I duck away, spin around with gun drawn, and pin a degenerate-looking fucker to the wall with my barrel pressed between his eyes. He stares at me, dumbfounded, and I wonder if he even realizes what the fuck just happened. I'm actually surprised he's not drooling by the empty look in his eyes. He raises his open hands at his sides, and I deliver him a sharp, downward pistol whip that crumples him against the wall.

  His body slides down and slumps forward. Isaiah said Freddy paid someone off to get in here. I wonder if that was the kid. I hesitate, long enough to listen, to see if anyone might have heard the impact of my gun butt with his skull. So far, I can't hear anyone else close by.

  I creep along the wall to the corner, where I presume the space opens to the main garage. As I peer around the corner, I hear a voice say, “I really cherish these last moments togethah, Freddy. I'm just so glad you decided to join me.”

  A crack resounds, metal against metal, and Freddy grunts. From my point of view, I can't see anyone else. No more guards or workers. So this Derrik guy sent his goons outside, smug that he was alone with the doofus wonder.

  I level my gun at ready as I turn the corner into the garage. To my right, I can see the office, door open, the slender form with a massive, bloody wrench raised high into the air. His other hand is missing. I don't even think, just take aim at the hand holding the wrench and squeeze the trigger.

  The kick knocks me back half a step, and my ears explode into a constant, nerve-wracking tone, but my aim is true. The bullet tears his hand to shreds, pings off the wrench and sends it flying onto the floor. Derrik makes a twisted howl that turns into a roar. He whirls around to see his aggressor. I don't give him time to recognize me before I bury another bullet in his forehead.

  His head snaps back. His body drops to the floor. I just stand there for a long stretch, unprepared for the anger that sleaze stirred in me. I never knew him, never knew he existed until he strolled into the wrong situation on Magazine Street. My eyes drop to my Glock.

  I've never killed anyone before.

  A voice from the office snaps me out of my moment. It's almost a moan, mostly a sob, and it shakes me into action.

  I keep the gun at ready, just to be safe, and rush to the door of the office. Whatever I thought I could handle, I can't quite prepare myself for the sight of Freddy, a chain wrapped around his upper body, covered in blood. His head is tilted back. One eye is barely open.

  “Fuck,” I spit thoughtlessly, holstering my pistol and stepping over the lifeless form on the floor. “What the fuck happened here, Freddy?”

  I don't expect him to answer. I don't even know why I said it, other than to get a grip on myself. That tremor is returning to my hands at all the red and dirty brown of blood drying on his skin. “Jesus,” I mutter, circling him.

  The chain is locked with a Masterlock. Child's play, a joke to anyone who really wants to break it. I can't break it, though, not without hurting him. I kneel and again retrieve my picks. By now, the goons outside are pounding on one of the garage doors. I have to hope they won't get it open. A wrenching sound tells me different.

  Just as the lock clicks, the wrenching sound happens again and I hear footsteps. I drop the chain and lock, and lift my gun in time to bury two .40 caliber slugs in the throat of one goon and then three more in his friend. They both drop, twitching, not far from the body of their boss.

  Time to go. That many gunshots, even in this neighborhood, are sure to draw attention. I start to uncoil the chain from Freddy's upper body. As soon as the restraint is gone, he collapses forward. I catch him, barely, by the shoulder.

  “Come on, man, stay with me. We've gotta go,” I tell him, using my pocketknife to cut the tape around his legs.

  He doesn't answer, just bleeds onto the floor. I hoist his arm over my shoulder and pull him to a stand. The movement makes him cry out softly, but he doesn't resist. He doesn't quite help me hold his weight either, and I don't even want to imagine all the shit that just happened to him.

  His Desert Eagle sits abandoned on a nearby
table within arm's reach, so I snag it as we hobble past. I know it's his favorite.

  It feels like forever, too long for sure, to get him to the Caddy and into the passenger seat. I pull the seatbelt around him and close the door. I stare at the button for the bay doors for a long stretch before I punch it. It's incredibly stupid to go speeding out of here with license plate exposed, when witnesses may have taken interest in the ruckus, namely gunfire within city limits.

  Not to mention the Mustang parked several blocks away on a residential street. It's not in danger, not really suspicious if it doesn't stay too long. What other choice do I have?

  I ease into the driver's seat and turn the key. I've driven this car once. We didn't really get along. The gears grind when I shove the stick into first and gun the gas. I shift her up a bit more smoothly as I peel out of the lot and off into the night.

  Chapter 34 Our Sisters of Mercy

  Isaiah

  I'm about five blocks away when the warehouse blows. Windows down, I'm rolling along in a red S-10 I managed to talk one of Abeula's higher-ups into letting me use. I heard the gunfire, just before the area was rocked by the massive explosion. It was a whisper compared to what followed. Even though I expected it, the blaze against the sky and the deafening noise make me stomp on the brake.

  I'll be damned. They pulled it off. I think of the guys across town, and the details that don't make any sense. Freddy's almost dead and Gram is reduced to a puddle of slime, but why did the delivery still go down? I don't know if I care enough anymore to ask.

  I glance down at the address, then squint at the fronts of the buildings, searching for numbers. The neighborhood that had been quiet just moments ago, almost eerily so, is now lit up like a war zone. How many people, I wonder, did Maria just incinerate? Maybe she really has gone batshit crazy, and maybe she didn't consider that this place will be crawling with Feds and cops for days.

  I step on the gas. It's not a good time for a Sunday drive. Sirens are already wailing, approaching quickly. Any vehicle traveling toward that mess is sure to be suspicious.

  Finally the abandoned warehouse comes into view, as well as the roaring inferno beyond. I cut the wheel. There's supposed to be an alley. Yeah, I see it.

  I roll to a stop in front of it, blocking it. I stare into the darkness, hardly able to make out any details. Moments later, she steps into the dirty light cast by the street-lamps. She's holding Freddy's gun and her eyes are wide. She's scared.

  For a hot and long moment, she just stares at me. Why, she's wondering surely. Anger laces through my gut. The look in her eyes is guilt. It's the same look she gave me the morning after she fucked Josh, the one that says she's been caught.

  “Get in,” I order, the words gruff and forced.

  She doesn't say a word, just climbs in the passenger seat. The emergency vehicles will arrive on scene any moment, and their wailing follows us for what seems like forever as I drive us away from the conflagration – all that's left of Gram Margalis.

  She's quiet and still beside me, that big gun case resting across her lap. I wonder if she's gone into shock. I'm not gonna be the one to break the silence. I don't really want to hear anything she has to say. I know she's not thinking the same thing as me, that their success signifies the end of the thing we all had together. She's about to blow up, take rank beneath her grandmother and the brutal cartel on the other side of the border. Why would she stop now when the whole world is within her fingers?

  I knew it when she trapped me in the Caddy and told me she wanted to bring the operation back to NOLA that if she succeeded in obliterating the Reaps, everything would get bigger. It would be like it was in those first days, when Charlie was on top. Before the Feds and the feud. Before it all collapsed.

  That's what she doesn't get. The bigger it gets, the brighter it burns when it all explodes. The truth sits like a block of ice in my chest. I don't want it. I don't want to go bigger. I miss the easy flow of our exile.

  Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe she's still mourning, still pissed off that Charlie's gone, no matter the reason. Maybe she never even looked past this moment or thought about what moves to make after it's done. I'd believe it. Getting her to sit through a strategy game has always been damn near impossible. That's the itch I can never reach. What thoughts steamroll through that pretty head of hers? That goddamned poker face makes me crazy.

  My tension eases the farther away we get from the scene of the crime. Finally she so quietly says, “Where are we going?”

  I check my mirrors, push the gas pedal down a little more and say, “Our Sisters of Mercy.”

  Her head snaps to the side as she looks to me, her eyes wide. Her voice shakes when she says, “Why?”

  Our Sisters of Mercy, a Catholic hospital in Mid-City. It's always been our go-to place in this town because Abuela makes healthy contributions to their operations and because the staff there never asks questions.

  “Freddy's hurt pretty bad.”

  Her mouth closes and she looks away like I slapped her. A few beats of silence drift by, and I hear the tell-tale sniffles. I knew it would make her cry to hear this part. I don’t want to be the messenger for this one. I've never been exactly sure what she feels for Frederick, but I've always known it was something special. He's unique in a world full of men falling over themselves to please her. There's a sour taste in the back of my throat.

  She takes a while to conquer herself enough to ask, “How did he get there?”

  The bitterness leaks into my expression, which I turn on her for just a flash, and my tone is sharp when I say, “Josh saved his ass.”

  The silence presses back in, and even though the windows are down, the space inside the truck feels too small. She's smart enough that she doesn't need to ask questions. She understands what the fuck just went down. She knows that I'm the only other one who knew the details, the only one who could be responsible for keeping Freddy alive.

  The tears are still streaming down her face, but she doesn't say anything else. If I can give her anything, it's that she takes her success, and her defeat, quietly and steadily. Defeat, because by every means their plan only partially worked, and only because I didn’t turn my back on them when I had every reason to. I'm still not sure why the truck was allowed to leave that garage, not if Freddy got caught.

  I half expected Maria to be mid-panic-attack when I got to her, but there's none of that. Just a silent flow of emotion and an occasional sniff. I can't help her with this one, can't shield her from the reality she has made. If I could, I don't know that I would. We don't speak another word for the rest of the ride.

  Chapter 35 The Blood that was Spilled

  Maria

  This place is too quiet. I guess it should be expected from a hospital, but the hush makes me nervous. My head hurts. I think I'm tired, but I'm too wired to sleep. In my mind's eye, a blazing inferno rages. I'm staring at Frederick as he sleeps beneath a blanket of pain killers and sedatives.

  The left side of his face is a swollen, purple mess, and there are stitches along his right temple and cheekbone. Both his eyes are black. He's shirtless, his pale chest rising and falling slowly, turned the ugly colors of blood beneath his skin's surface. Joshua's words are like a steam-wheeler in my head, how he found Freddy chained to a chair, getting the ever-loving shit beaten out of him with a wrench.

  The mystery of it is why Derrik let the truck leave and how he figured out what we were doing. The mystery doesn't matter much to me just now. Sure, we did it. We killed Gram and the Jester, but the image of Frederick lying there so broken and abused – it doesn't seem like a fair trade. If I had just agreed to run away, he would be fine. But didn't he want it as bad as I did? Didn't he? No. Not quite.

  I have no tears left. I'm empty. I don't think I'll ever have enough of me to appropriately repay my guys. They've given so much to me. And I took it, all of it. I don't deserve them, probably never did.

  I've just been riding my brother's c
oattails.

  The look on Isaiah's face when he picked me up haunts these quiet moments. Betrayal. I did him wrong by leaving him behind. It was the wrong choice and he still showed up to save my ass. It's because of him, and Josh, that Frederick is lying here instead of dead. In a few days, Izzy will be gone, maybe forever. It wasn't a bluff. Maybe that's why he fucked me.

  He saw this coming, told me so, and I still chose it.

  I'll never know.

  He'll never tell me.

  When we arrived at the hospital, Joshua gave me much the same look, his hurt much more apparent in his eyes. I can't say I should have turned him out. I don't believe it. He said it himself, he has nothing else but us, this fucked-up family of ours. Still, I won't tell him to go. If he wants to stay, he'll stay in my operation. I'll give him rank and responsibility. He's more than earned it.

  I don't know what will happen from here, but I know there's nowhere to go but up. My grandmother will see that I'm not a fuck-up, that I can handle the reins just like Charlie did. I learned from the best after all. He always tried to protect me, but I grew up watching his every move. And he learned it all from Dad. May they both rest in peace, may they know I have avenged the wrong that was done to our family.

  Dear Charlie, rest easy now. Blood has been paid for the blood that was spilled. I'll be ok. I'll survive like you taught me to do. And I'll lead like you showed me. Hermano, adios.

  About the Author

  AJ is a beach migrant and part-time muse. She enjoys the exploration of genres vast, and the search for untold worlds. A writer-for-fun since childhood, she has also been known to be a superhero, a gun slinger, and, occasionally, a waitress. She lives on an island, has a bachelor's degree in journalism and some tattoos. She is most easily found at the water's edge.