White Lines

by Tom Fowler

  “I know the cartel stuff is keeping me occupied,” Tyler said. “They’ve been ramping things up recently. I got a visit from six armed men last night.”

  Smitty sighed, sank onto his chair, and rubbed his forehead. “Let me guess . . . they’re all dead.”

  “Four are. The other two drove the Jeeps away. Saved me the cleanup and questions.”

  “And here you are today.” Smitty jerked his thumb toward the service area. “Jake’s here, for Christ’s sake. What if they come to the shop?”

  “They’re down four men,” Tyler said. “They’re regrouping right now . . . maybe getting some reinforcements. I think we’re all right. Besides, I have a friend who’s going to be keeping an eye on things.”

  “This friend as good as you?” Smitty asked.

  Tyler smiled. “Almost.”

  “I sure hope so.” The boss checked a paper on his cluttered desktop. “Why don’t you hoist the old Chevy pickup in the lot onto number two rack for a peek at its tranny?”

  “Sure.” Tyler walked through the door into the work bays. He and Jake shook hands. It was good to see him here, though he seemed to be coming less and less every week. While fixing old cars was in Smitty’s blood, the trait didn’t pass down to his son. Current events made Jake a good coworker. He’d spent years in the army and only recently left the reserves. He could handle himself and protect his father if the cartel’s goons came calling.

  Tyler found the mid-‘eighties S10 and pulled it in. Even on such a short jaunt, the hesitation at takeoff and jerky ride told Tyler the transmission needed work. Most people didn’t check or change the fluid, so Tyler started there. It was old and gunky, and he replaced it with a new synthetic blend. Tyler backed the truck out and did a circuit of the lot. It drove better but still didn’t feel right.

  As he steered it back toward the bay, he noticed an older pale green Cadillac with blacked-out windows pull to a stop on the side street running alongside the shop. The engine revved and then cut off. The driver’s side glass went down, and a Hispanic man stared at Tyler. He put the tinted window up a few seconds later, but the short time was enough to send a message.

  Tyler guided the truck back in. Jake helped him do some maintenance work while he kept an eye on the car. It didn’t move, and no one got out. When he and Jake took a break, Tyler walked inside and told Smitty. “I saw them on the camera,” the owner said. “Looks like your friends are back.”

  “I’ll deal with them if they start anything.”

  Jake and Tyler finished the pickup about an hour later. Smitty ordered a pizza delivery for lunch, and each man sat at his desk and ate quietly. If Jake noticed the Caddy, he didn’t say anything. Tyler wondered if his dad told him about the Boxster and the cartel problems it started. Despite wanting the mess resolved, he might have kept it close to protect Jake. Maybe the son’s appearance at the shop today had been a happy coincidence of scheduling.

  Toward the end of the work day, the sun set behind the houses across Belair Road. The Cadillac rolled to the end of the side street. “I’m going after them,” Tyler said.

  “You sure it’s not a trap?” Jake asked.

  “No. If anything, it probably is. Guess I’ll find out.”

  “Be careful,” Smitty called as Tyler jogged from the shop to the 442. He fired it up and pulled onto Belair Road three cars behind the Caddy.

  At the Taylor Avenue light, Tyler grabbed his phone and tweaked the settings. Then, he called Rollins. “A car showed up at the shop today,” he said after Rollins, as usual, picked up on the first ring. “One of the cartel guys stared me down. He just left, and I’m following.”

  “You know it smells like a trap, right?”

  “Check your phone. I shared my location data with you.” Tyler learned how to do this out of necessity when Lexi came to live with him. He wanted to know where she was in case she ever found herself in a bad spot. Being her father’s daughter, she insisted he share his data with her, so he did. Now, Rollins could track him, too.

  “I see you,” Rollins said after a few seconds. “I’m probably about five minutes behind you. Try not to get yourself killed before I show up.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Tyler said, and he hung up as the light flipped to green. Tyler followed the Cadillac deeper into the county. They passed the McDonald’s where he’d shared lunch with Alice. It seemed like months ago rather than a few days. The Caddy sped by the Baltimore Beltway exits and dueling shopping centers on each side of the street. They went up a long hill. A derelict car dealership sat at the top. Tyler remembered his dad buying a Dodge there some thirty years ago.

  After driving most of the way back down the other side of the hill, the Cadillac turned into another abandoned business. This one featured a much smaller building in pretty serious disrepair. They drove to the rear, and Tyler followed. Here, traffic on Belair Road wouldn’t see them, and fencing around the lot would keep any nearby prying eyes off them, as well. It was certainly a good place to spring a trap.

  The sedan pulled near the chain link at the far end of the lot. Tyler stopped the 442 about two hundred feet away. If the guy in the other car—and any friends he may have brought—carried pistols, they’d be less effective at this range. Tyler felt confident in his ability to make it across the blacktop and take out a couple guys with handguns. If they brought the heavy artillery, he left his car close enough to the exit to get away.

  No one moved for a moment. Tyler held his M11 in his lap. He kept an eye on the rearview in case another cartel vehicle rolled up behind him. Rollins should be here soon. Even if these assholes brought reinforcements, Tyler liked the odds of him and Rollins taking out a bunch of them. The driver’s door on the Cadillac opened, and a wiry Mexican man stepped out. Another guy, a little heavier, emerged from the backseat.

  Then, Orlan got out of the passenger’s side.

  Tyler stepped out of the 442. The giant promised they would meet again, and here they were. Everyone stayed near their respective vehicles. “Told you we’d get another chance,” Orlan called down the lot. “How about it, old man? You and me. Mano a mano. My two friends here will make sure you don’t go for your gun.”

  “How do I know they won’t just shoot me?”

  The large man raised his hand. “My word.”

  “You really expect me to take your word for it?” Tyler said.

  Orlan said something to the other two in Spanish. They scowled at Tyler and their massive comrade, but both got back in the car. “Better?” He doffed his enormous jacket. “I’m unarmed. Toss your gun back in your car, and we can settle this like men.”

  Tyler was a good shot, but sixty-odd yards with a pistol on a breezy, dusky evening was asking a lot. Orlan presented a large target—a point in favor of shooting him. The other two could pull out automatic weapons, though, and Tyler would quickly be outgunned. A point against. Orlan got the better of him last time. Tyler fought larger foes before. The thought of pummeling the giant to death held a certain primal appeal. He set the Sig on the driver’s seat and took a few steps forward. “You can come to me,” Tyler said. “I don’t trust your friends.”

  Orlan spread his hands, nodded, and walked forward like he had all the time in the world. His long legs quickened their pace as he drew closer. A hundred feet. Tyler planned out his opening salvo. Orlan held many physical advantages, and his time in the army meant he knew how to exploit them. Tyler’s edges lay in intelligence, experience, and specialized training.

  Seventy-five feet.

  He couldn’t get into a slugfest with a colossus like Orlan. He needed to be cerebral about it. The large man knew how to derive power from his legs. If Tyler could take them out, Orlan’s advantages would shrink.

  Fifty feet.

  Targeting the lower body alone wasn’t enough. Tyler needed to get Orlan off his feet. On the ground, he could use his experience and knowledge of holds. Tyler’s hands clenched at the thought of choking out his huge foe.

  Twenty feet
.

  A few long strides closed the distance. Tyler dropped low as Orlan threw a punch right away. As he felt the breeze, Tyler stuck his leg in front of the giant’s feet, used the other to kick him in the back of the knee, and pulled on his waistband to help topple him forward. Tyler untangled himself and hammered the big man in the hamstrings. Orlan grunted in pain and rolled to his side. Tyler got in one more kick before a quick backhand made him step away.

  Orlan got back to vertical sooner than Tyler thought he could, but his huge opponent’s grimace said the blows to his legs were at least somewhat effective. Tyler plotted how to get the giant off his feet again. Orlan’s advantage in reach meant he could keep Tyler at bay while his hamstrings recovered. A few punches told Tyler this was the plan. Orlan never overcommitted, however, and Tyler couldn’t slip inside his defenses.

  Tyler spread his feet as he parried a jab. Orlan fired off a hook. Tyler blocked it while dropping to a crouch. Before he could pummel his adversary in the leg, however, Orlan kneed him in the face. Tyler saw stars as his head snapped back, and he crashed to the asphalt. He rolled out of the way when Orlan tried to stomp on his head. Out of the corner of his eye, Tyler saw the two cartel guys standing near their car. They seemed content to watch, probably confident in Orlan killing the meddlesome American.

  Orlan went for another knee, but Tyler blocked it while in a crouch. He grabbed at the big man’s other leg, which made him step back. Tyler regained his feet just in time to get clobbered in the face. This time, he felt his nose snap, and blackness crept into his vision as he fought to stay on his feet. Orlan showed a sinister smile. Tyler turned away a couple jabs, but a strong right cross to the gut folded him in half and drove the breath from his lungs. Orlan hammered him across the back and sent him onto the asphalt again, this time face-first. Tyler’s limbs felt leaden, and he struggled to get air.

  An engine roared from his left. Rollins’ full-sized pickup surged onto the lot. Orlan scampered out of the way, spared a glare for Tyler, and took off toward the Cadillac, seemingly unhampered by the blows to his legs earlier. The two other guys tried to get in the car. The driver made it. Rollins’ grill slammed into the passenger, who rolled onto the windshield and roof before crashing back to the blacktop like a broken doll, his arms and legs splayed at odd angles.

  Orlan dodged the pickup again as Rollins circled back for him. The giant made it into the Cadillac, which took off with screeching tires. Right toward Tyler. He rolled to the side and felt the breeze again as the car zoomed by. Its tires squealed as it made a left out of the lot, then a right onto Belair Road.

  Rollins drove closer to Tyler. He got out and approached at a quick jog. “You all right?”

  “Sure.” Tyler’s voice sounded odd in his own ears. His nose was broken. “I always try to lie down in a parking lot at least once a day.”

  Rollins crouched beside him. “You look like hell.”

  “It matches how I feel,” Tyler said.

  21

  “I had things well in hand,” Tyler said as he struggled to a seated position.

  “If I’d gotten here thirty seconds later,” Rollins said, “your funeral director would’ve had things well in hand.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Rollins extended an open palm. Tyler gripped it and accepted the boost back to his feet.

  “We should go somewhere else.” Rollins glanced around. “There’s a corpse here, and those guys might be smart enough to call the cops and try to jam you up.”

  “Good call,” Tyler said. He wobbled en route to the 442.

  “You all right to drive?” Rollins asked as he followed.

  “Sure. Let’s try to stay close, though.”

  Tyler got in his car and waited for Rollins to pull up in his truck. The windshield sported a nice crack in the center. Closer inspection could reveal blood or other evidence someone recently spent a few seconds on the hood. The pickup left the lot, and Tyler followed. They drove north up Belair Road, which was smart to get away from here and away from Smitty and Son. About three-quarters of a mile up the street, Rollins made a left into a church lot. They parked behind the building.

  “Let me see your nose,” Rollins said when they were both out of their vehicles.

  Tyler tilted his face up so the slightly taller man could get a better look. “Why a church?”

  “Figured we could get you last rites while we’re here.”

  “Very funny,” Tyler grumbled.

  “Churches tend to help people, not the police,” Rollins said.

  “I knew I called you for a reason.” He winced as his rescuer touched his face. “Pretty sure it’s broken.”

  “You didn’t need much help getting uglier.” Rollins put his left hand across Tyler’s upper jaw. “I’m going to put it back in place. It’s gonna hurt.”

  Tyler took a deep breath and said, “Go ahead.” Rollins used his right hand to pull Tyler’s nose up and push it back into place. Even though it took less than a second, it hurt like hell. “Shit!” Tyler bit off a string of even worse curses which left Rollins shaking his head.

  “I bet your father’s never said some of those things.”

  “You’d be surprised.” Tyler sat on the hood of his Olds.

  “I’m a little surprised you’re still alive,” Rollins said. He retrieved a water bottle from his truck and tossed it to Tyler, who caught it. “Andre the Giant there could have picked you up and snapped you over his knee. He probably enjoys hurting people. Likes to drag it out and maximize the pain.”

  “He’s a real charmer.” Tyler opened the water and swigged half of it. “This is the second time I’ve tangled with him.”

  “I take it you’re oh-for-two?”

  “Yeah. Third time’s the charm.”

  “Lot of dead people thought the same,” Rollins said.

  “You must be fun at parties,” Tyler told him.

  “I’m happy to do this with you. Getting rid of a cartel helps everyone. You and me might not be enough, though.”

  “You think we need more men?”

  “Can’t hurt. I’m pretty sure we’re badly outnumbered, and the big bastard you fought with should count for three or four guys.”

  He was right. Rollins had been a great help against Braxton, but Tyler knew his former commander and the men he would recruit. The cartel was an unknown, but their brutal history spoke volumes. “I’ll see if I can pull someone else in. Maybe somebody with experience taking on groups like this.”

  Rollins nodded. “Good. It can only help.” He frowned at Tyler’s face. “You good to drive?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How about I follow you home anyway?”

  “I won’t tell you no,” Tyler said. He clapped Rollins on the shoulder and climbed into the 442. From the church, he picked up Route 43. Once there, he could take I-95 into the city. It was far from the most efficient way to his house, but it was less likely to attract attention from Orlan or the cops. Tyler pondered who else he could recruit to the cause as he drove down the highway. Not many names came to mind.

  Héctor checked the shipment at the alternate location. He kept as little product in the house as possible. Some neighborhood people bought from him, and he maintained enough stock to keep them happy. A hidden alcove held it all, and even a police dog wouldn’t find it. Here, they could store as much as they wanted, and no one would come looking for it.

  Mexico held up its end of the bargain. Four cartel soldiers accompanied the drugs. They all looked to be in their thirties save one guy who was clearly on the downside of his career. He worked equally as quickly as his younger and stronger brethren, though, so Héctor couldn’t complain. Once the men unloaded everything and put it away, Héctor gathered them around. “The SUV is stolen?”

  “Yes,” Danilo said. “I boosted it earlier today.”

  “Good. Drive it far away from here and torch it. We’ll meet back at the house when it’s done.” The guys moved toward several vehicles. “Danilo, wait.”

&
nbsp; He stopped, and Héctor smiled when the man shuddered. Watching Videl get beaten to death made Danilo a better soldier. The dead man’s subtraction made the entire organization better, and now Danilo understood the same thing could happen to him. “Yes, Héctor?”

  “Before we came here, Orlan told me what happened with the American. He’s not working alone. Orlan was close to finishing him off, but someone saved him.”

  “You want me to find out who the other guy is?” Danilo asked.

  Héctor rolled his eyes. If he wanted research done, he paid Fernando for his computer skills. “I want to reduce his options. We know where he lives, and we know where he works. He seems to go between the two whenever he wants. Alice took the Boxster to the repair shop. She made a mistake, but something so simple started this whole mess.”

  “What do you want me to do, Héctor?”

  “Wait until after midnight,” Héctor said. “Take someone else with you. Burn the shop to the ground.”

  22

  Smitty drank a mug of warm milk before bed. His father taught him how good it was for sleep many years ago. Now, whenever he felt stressed as the evening wore on, he heated a cup. It was probably hokum, but in case it actually helped, Smitty kept it up. He’d been raiding the fridge for the white stuff to heat more often ever since the Canadian girl dropped her damn Boxster off at his shop.

  The more he thought about it, he realized the added stress began when Jake went on the run. Men soon came calling for him. Smitty didn’t have a way out of the situation until John Tyler wandered into his shop looking for a job. He never knew he was hiring Rambo, but Jake came back safe and sound. Since then, Tyler proved himself to be a good and knowledgeable worker.

  Smitty took a sip and tried to relax with deep breaths. For his many attributes, Tyler couldn’t let things go. When the girl turned up dead, he’d taken offense. He couldn’t have been sweet on her—she was barely older than his daughter. For whatever reason, Tyler couldn’t abide her death, and he made it his job to get revenge for her against the cartel. Which was all well and good. Smitty didn’t like criminals. He also didn’t like getting caught in the crossfire, a place he increasingly imagined himself as the cartel sent men to case the shop.