Baker's Dozen

by Amey Zeigler

  Christiaan grabbed the leather. “Not the jacket.”

  “I’m sacrificing the bag. The jacket or your life.”

  “Are you sure this will work?”

  The wind howled around them echoing with gunfire. They were getting closer. Andy met Christiaan’s gaze, his face inches from hers. For the first time, fear shone in his eyes.

  “No. I’m never sure anything will work.” Her heart raced so hard, it was difficult to speak. But her hope urged her onward, and she clung to it for she had nothing else. “But I hope it will.”

  Christiaan leaned forward and pecked her on the cheek as he removed his jacket from her. “If we live through this, you owe me another jacket.”

  “If we live through this,” she said, throwing the jacket around the umbrella and wig concoction, a bent scarecrow. “I’ll buy you a hundred jackets.”

  She unraveled the floss behind her as they crouch-ran down the hill toward the empty building, with the cover of darkness and tall prairie grass hiding their escape. Andy unwound the floss until nearly the end, then lobbed it up into a broken window before finding the entrance.

  Andy arrived at the doorway first and stepped inside, smelling rotted wood and mold. Low hanging wooden rafters grew splinters and cobwebs. Light from a streetlamp seeped through the broken windows. Still outside the brick building, Christiaan scooped up a rock and knocked out the flickering streetlight. The building plunged into darkness.

  Only Christiaan’s broad shoulders were visible as he led her up some creaking stairs. They bumped their way to the window, and Andy found her floss. Below them, the scene unfolded.

  The Mexicans from the prairie fired first from the southwest, their MAC-10s and sawed-off shotguns sprayed bullets, the sound echoing off the building. They were anxious to fire at the anything moving. Andy tugged on the floss, and the bag acted as a counterweight. The wig and jackets swayed like people crouched in prairie grass.

  Granger’s men, across from them, reacted with the precise aims of their nickel-plated 1911s with suppressors to systematically and silently deliver death with each shot, the sleek whisper of metal the only sound from their hands.

  Tyrone’s men, defending themselves from the north, held their automatic pistols close to their chests, letting loose a rapid-fire spread of bullets from their MAC-10s crackling in the night, but the kick of the guns prevented accuracy. Some aimed at the leather jacket and wig, undulating with the waves of grass and hits. Others just retaliated blow for blow.

  At first, the Mexicans appeared to be winning by the long range of their guns, open chokes of their shotguns, wiping out or wounding men, silencing their opponents. But as they burned through their ammo, the more precise gunners of Granger’s men crept closer for more accurate shots. Men dropped, blood splattered, and shots echoed in the night.

  Andy’s plan played out beautifully. She was both horrified at the bloodbath as bodies fell, each killing the other without thought, yet relieved it was neither her nor Christiaan. If the sounds hadn’t assaulted her ears, the smell of powder so sharp, it would’ve been like a movie. Surreal.

  Soon, the sprays of bullets became fewer and fewer until silence reigned. Only three suited men remained, one hulking man with a bald head and dark eyebrows, a scowl across his face as he stalked among the fallen. A shorter man accompanied him. Then a tall agile man with angular features crept from his cover, a patch of red blooming from his arm. Granger’s men. Their marksmanship and cover allowed them to survive. The biggest and the strongest, yes, but also the smartest.

  They threaded through the fallen, collecting inherited guns. Standing at the jacket and the poor umbrella and wig, now crumpled to the ground, riddled with holes, the bald one kicked it. He followed the floss with menacing eyes to the building.

  Christiaan drew breath. “They’re coming here,” he said.

  The men cut across the hill leaving trails of broken grass.

  “We can take them,” Andy said, her heart leaping in her throat. “There’s only three; we have the cover of darkness.”

  Andy squared her shoulders. Granger’s men had guns, but they had the darkness and surprise.

  Andy leaned to tell Christiaan a plan, but he was nowhere in sight. Her heart lunged, her eyes widened at the sound of approaching footfalls.

  Christiaan hoisted himself up onto a wooden rafter beam while Andy’s back was turned, waiting for the first suit to come up the stairs. He hoped Andy had taken sufficient cover. Even self-defense martial arts were no match for automatic weapons. He couldn’t see her, but hoped she was smart enough to hide.

  The men spread out, searching the building. Perfect. Easier to pick them off one-by-one. A small but stacked man marched up the stairs. Christiaan only had once chance. The man roamed slowly, carefully, overly attentive, searching the shadows for movement, anticipating trouble. He just didn’t anticipate it to come raining down on him.

  As soon as the man stood directly under Christiaan, he leaped onto him, landing on his shoulders, kicking the gun from his hands before they both tumbled to the ground. The gun sounded a few shots before it flew from the man’s hands, scuttling across the floor. They both stood, Christiaan grappling the man’s collar behind his neck with his right hand, bending him forward, his left hand controlling the man’s left arm.

  Using a Russian Sambo take-down, Christiaan kicked both legs around the torso of the smaller man, letting his weight collapse the man on top of him, then rolling him through until he was on his back, Christiaan’s legs pinning him across his chest, still in control of his arm. Christiaan forced his leg down on top of his ribs, knocking the air out of them. Then hopped to his feet to kick him again in the head. He wouldn’t be getting up for a while. Christiaan disarmed him further.

  The tall lanky man ran at Christiaan. A shot fired. Christiaan kicked the gun out of his hand. Then grabbing his right hand in a joint lock, he used the man’s thigh as a step, mounted him, legs straddling his neck, still holding his arm. Christiaan leaned. The man lost his balance and crashed to the floor to his right. Both rolled then stood upright, searching for an in. The lanky man attacked first, Christiaan blocked him, joint-locking his arm, rolled him backward to the floor, then stepped on his crotch, twisting his leg away from his body. Once he was immobilized, he collected the guns and tossed them out the window.

  He halted when a shot rang out below, and a body fell. He rushed down the flight of stairs.

  ****

  Andy freaked a little when she found she was alone. But she had no problem using a gun and wanted the first one she could get. Andy hastened down the stairs to the entrance, hiding behind a leaning board, waiting to take out the last guy. She let the first two pass and spread out. The third, Baldie, was huge. Andy gulped before deciding to take him out. He passed by her. He had a gun. Andy wanted it.

  Sneaking behind him, she made a noise. He faced her. She attacked the right arm.

  The gun wasn’t there. He was a lefty. Why didn’t she catch it before?

  Andy kicked the left hand as he swung to point his Kimber at her. The gun clattered away. Andy headed for it, but the man caught her by the leg, hitting her down with his fist on the back of her thigh. Andy collapsed a few feet from the nickel-plated gun. Baldie, by her leg, grabbed her calf, pulling her toward him.

  With her free leg, she whacked his face, then using the heel of her foot, stomped him in the chest. His eyes glowed with anger.

  Taking courage, again, she kicked him in the head, he yanked her foot out from under her, causing her to fall on her rear and elbow. He stepped down on her leg, crushing Andy’s ankle. Andy sat up, using her arms as supports and threw her leg back into him, causing him to stumble off balance. He fell back, jumping up quickly. He found a two-by-four with a jagged end.

  Andy stepped into his swing, blocking his arm, joint-locking it behind his back in one swift motion, smashing his hand across her knee. The board fell to the ground with a clatter. Andy shoved him forward, until he fell to his f
ace. With his free hand, he found the gun, twisting it backward, pointing at her. Still in control of his arm, she lifted it up shielding her as his shot pierced right through his own body, blood spurting on Andy. Pausing to make sure she wasn’t shot herself, Andy let his lifeless body drop, her ears nearly deaf from the proximity of the shot.

  Christiaan rushed down the stairs where Andy stood over the man, the gun in his hand, blood across her, but the man dead.

  “Well done, Andy Baker,” he said surveying the mess, shaking his head.

  Andy kicked the lifeless body, retrieving the gun. From upstairs, a shot rang out, just missing Christiaan. The glow of a red laser pointer focused on his chest. Andy estimated the distance from the gun and shot in the dark. The sound of a body collapsing, reassured her she hit her mark.

  “You never use guns, eh?” she asked. “I think you should rethink your policy.”

  Christiaan grunted a thank you, far too manly for too much gratitude. “Did you say you had a friend in the police?”

  “Fred?”

  “Let’s get this mess cleaned up.”

  Andy called Fred who sent out a couple of cars and an ambulance. The police taped off the scene and listened to testimony; forensic guys scoured the place gathering evidence, guns, blood samples, and empty brass for hours.

  Andy had to tell Fred she wasn’t Bethany, but Andrew Baker so he’d believe her story. He listened, eyes bugged out. Andy wasn’t sure if it was from the story or from her confession Bethany was fake.

  Fred shook his head. “Senator Granger will just deny he was here. His word against yours.”

  “Oh, Fred,” she said. “If you check the trough over there. It will be covered with Granger’s blood.

  Fred smiled and sent some forensic guys over to investigate.

  “DNA all the way, eh?” Christiaan asked.

  “He didn’t want my blood left at the scene, so I made sure he left some of his.”

  Christiaan smiled his approval on her. Warmth bloomed inside Andy. “You are a clever girl, Andy Baker.”

  ****

  Early in the next morning when all the bodies were safely tucked into brown body bags and hauled to the morgue, Andy finally retrieved her red bag, which was no longer functional except as a sieve. There wasn’t much left of the flight jacket, either. When Christiaan picked it up, a sleeve fell off. He tossed the rest of it back into the pile of debris.

  “I owe you a jacket,” Andy said.

  “I think you said a hundred jackets.”

  “I will deliver.”

  Andy crossed to him, just as the sun broke over the horizon. “I thought you were taking Tyrone back to Germany.”

  “When Tyrone spilled Granger was the head of Imperium, I knew you were in danger. So, we turned around. I broke into your hotel room, only to find a bunch of latex. You really should clean up after yourself.”

  Andy rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”

  “I called Carla to find you, and she told me about the party. I dodged you in the fat suit all throughout the party until the end when I lost you. Then followed Granger out here.”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For letting me finish off Baldie.”

  “He was a nasty one, huh?” He paused, his hands in his cargo pants. “Are you going to print the story?”

  “The people have a right to know. It’s the only way Imperium is really going down. It’s hard to believe in government anymore.”

  Now the case was solved, they would be parting ways. No more competing with him, no more outsmarting him. A weird sort of hot pain shot through her chest when she imagined next week, and he wouldn’t be there to tease her. She ached at the thought.

  Nor did she want to dwell on the way his shirt tugged at his chest and arms. She couldn’t figure him out. Sometimes he was intense, feeling. Other times it was like he didn’t care. Which was the lie?

  “What are you planning on doing now this is over?” Andy asked.

  “You know, I thought it was time for a change, but I think—”

  An officer called him away.

  “Well, I guess this is goodbye,” he said.

  He flicked his head in a nod and left.

  ****

  Andy typed her story from her hotel room still in St. Louis, under an assumed name until she could decide if she wanted to be relocated in a Witness Protection Program. As she typed, sometimes the words flew from her fingers. Others had to be squeezed from a stone. Hours ticked by on her digital clock.

  When she glanced up from the screen, she was surprised at the darkness and the lateness of the hour. Her laptop was the only light in the room.

  A sound in the hall startled her. Outside her door. Andy’s heart beat fast as her ears prickled at every sound.

  She almost laughed at herself. In a hotel, she wasn’t the only person on her floor. Her neighbors had every right to go thumping and bumping around. There was no reason to be afraid of small sounds.

  No reason, except she was a few minutes away from exposing the most corrupt political scandal of the decade. The hair on her neck prickled.

  Andy’s laptop screen darkened. The total darkness made her blink her eyes. It was just her screen saver, of course. A pair of feet stayed outside her door. Slowly, slowly, she shut the laptop lid.

  She swallowed hard. Her ears straining for more sound. Andy slid the laptop from her lap, her muscles tense.

  A knock shattered the silence. Andy tried to calm down, but adrenaline coursed through her body enough to make her shiver in cold sweat as she kicked her pile of papers under the couch. She made her way to the door.

  If it was Christiaan playing a joke on her…

  She peeked through the peep hole, half squinting her eyes as if squinting would protect her.

  Carla.

  Andy nearly laughed with relief.

  She swung the door open.

  Carla’s beautiful features were drawn up in pain, her eyes red and puffy and yet, she was still unflawed.

  “Why did you let them kill my dad?”

  “Carla, I couldn’t save him. Granger killed him because your dad cared more about Scott than he did about Imperium.”

  “You could’ve saved him.”

  Andy’s heart shuddered. Those were the very words she thought about so many people in this case. Brad. Conner. Juan. Even Mr. Hershal. She hadn’t saved any of them. And she couldn’t have saved Mr. Vehemia. “It all happened so fast.”

  Biting her lip to keep them from quivering, Carla shook her head.

  “I can’t stem the tide of corruption, Carla. I do my best, but I can’t stop everything.” But it did make her wonder. Could she have done more? Andy had to toss out such self-doubt. She did what she could.

  Carla’s eyes filled with tears. She wanted someone to blame. Andy slipped her arm around her as Carla cried into her shoulder. Andy held Carla’s shaking body.

  “I am so sorry,” Andy said.

  “You’ll always be here for me, won’t you?”

  “I can’t promise you.”

  ****

  The next day, the news showed pictures of the bottom-feeding reporters clinging to the gated estate of the Vehemia family, hoping to catch any morsel of the story Andy broke. Social media shamed the venture. People demanded the converters to be recalled, the business to be examined, and Granger’s affairs investigated. Imperium was going down. Andy danced in front of the TV with delight.

  But when police found Mr. Vehemia’s body, Andy didn’t dance. She called Carla, but to no response.

  Two days later, Carla attended her father’s funeral. Andy, tucked into an alley unseen, stood across the church decorated with lilies and gardenias. A throng of reporters lined the steps of the stone church, catching every moment. Men dotted with red flowers loaded a casket into the back of the hearse. Closed casket, Andy remembered. She wondered what Granger’s men did to him.

  A black limousine led a row of cars. Scott, in a dark suit had f
ewer circles under his eyes, and his color healthier than their last encounter. The story acquitted him. He held the door for two women in black.

  Andy caught a glimpse of Carla, her hair a sheet of black satin, blown by the wind. She glanced up before stepping into the limousine. Her gaze met Andy’s, staring at her across the street. Andy had never seen such grief in her expression. Carla returned to the limo as she ducked inside.

  Andy roamed the street, the wind hollowing out the canyons of the cityscape. No matter if she chose the Witness Protection Program or to hide on her own, she could never meet with Carla again. She stuffed her hands in her pocket, mourning the loss of her friend.

  Epilogue

  There are awkward times in any parting relationship after two people have suffered so much together. Neither were sure if this relationship would continue or how it would continue, unsure if the other even wanted it to continue. And certainly, they didn’t want it to continue under the same amount of stress and difficulty as before. Andy hoped it would continue.

  Andy and Christiaan stood on an empty road, in an undisclosed location, far from St. Louis, dawn creeping from the east. Early morning frost linked arms across the window panes of Andy’s waiting taxi.

  They hadn’t seen each other in the past few weeks. Andy revamped her wardrobe, colored her hair, and relocated. Two days ago, she received a mysterious text to meet Christiaan. She took a taxi to his exact GPS coordinates. Andy’s heart thundered in her chest. She was not disappointed. He leaned against his car, more well-rested and relaxed than when she last saw him. No jacket despite the chilly morning. Same Porsche.

  His eyes lit up. “Hey,” he said, his hair fluttering in the sunrise. His smile alone was worth the taxi fare.

  “Long time, no see,” Andy said, trying to keep it impersonal, though her heart pounded just at the sight of him, her gaze lapping him up.

  “Been busy. Had to fill out numerous forms for Tyrone’s extradition.” When he spoke, his accent was now pronounced.

  “He’s safely away then?”

  “Trial is upcoming. I’m optimistic for a conviction.”