by Kitchin, Rob
There’s a loud rattling noise as a spray of bullets clatters into the ground at my feet sending up a shower of dirt and brick dust.
FFFUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCKKKKKKK!
HOLY SHIT!
I think I might have more than lubricated my cheeks. I think that might be a full nappy load.
My heart is pumping blood like there’s no tomorrow. If he aims that gun at me, and not the ground, there won’t be.
‘You were saying?’ Cowboy says laconically.
‘Okay, okay, I’ll drive the freaking jeep.’
I shuffle over to the black hunk of death on wheels. The keys are in the ignition.
‘Just follow us, okay,’ Cowboy says. ‘And don’t try anything stupid, like you did with that other fucker. I saw that shit you did with the emergency stop. Caused fucking mayhem.’
Shit. Cowboy must have been following Barry White, following us. That’s how he found us. He probably lost us, then decided to check out the smoke signals in the middle of nowhere. We might as well have put up a two thousand feet high arrow with ‘amateur idiots are here’ painted on it.
‘You try anything stupid and Fat Boy here is going to be losing a lot of weight. Fast.’
I climb in and turn the ignition. I’m that tense that if you hit me with a hammer I’d probably twang a middle C.
I really, really don’t want to do this. I’d sooner cut the sheets off of Junior and search his pockets. Fuck it, I’d be prepared to twirl him round a dance floor in a foxtrot.
I still have nightmares about the accident. The day had started well. We’d headed out of Denver climbing up into the Rockies. We were going to visit the continental divide, the line across America where water on one side drains to the Atlantic and on the other to the Pacific. We were snaking up a pass when a large pick-up truck came careening round a corner on the wrong side of the road. Instinctively, I swerved to avoid a collision and we smashed through a barrier and flew off down the Pacific side of the divide into a ravine.
The passenger side of the car wrapped itself around a thick trunked pine, then plunged thirty feet to the ground. Both of my parents were crushed to death with the impact. There one minute, gone the next.
I was pulled from the car with barely a scratch or bruise.
The police concluded that the crash had been caused by the other driver. That I’d acted instinctively, but with fatal consequences.
Faced with a split-second decision, I’d taken the wrong one – launching off into the great abyss.
I never want to have to make such a decision again. Get it wrong and people end up dead.
Of course, people could end up dead right now. Cowboy, Redneck and Barry White all seem quite happy to kill anyone who gets in their way in their quest to recover a million dollars.
That doesn’t change the fact that I don’t want to drive the damn jeep.
The van starts to head back towards the main road. I put the jeep in drive and set off after it, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tight I feel they might meld with it. Heaven knows what’s in store for us when we arrive. I just hope Kate’s got the good sense to tell them where the money is.
* * *
Every pore of my body has been open for the last ten minutes and I’m a sweaty mess, my shirt sopping. The journey has been in full IMAX mode, everything amplified and overwhelming. It’s been all too real, but I can’t really remember any of it. It’s as if the journey is producing so much sensory overload that my brain is refusing to take most of it in.
I recognize, however, that we’re taking a different route back into Carrick Springs, avoiding the possible traffic chaos we caused earlier. Running back into Barry White and his sister would not be good right now. It wouldn’t be good at any time; the man makes Cowboy look like a pussycat.
I stop at a set of traffic lights and rest my head on the steering wheel. The van is on the far side of the crossing, its back doors dancing into the distance. There’s no way I’m going to jump a red light to stay in contact. That’s how accidents happen; how people end up dying. Jason was just going to have to slow down or pull over to let me catch up. I don’t care. There’s a moral responsibility at play. Paavo might be willing to risk innocent peoples’ lives by causing traffic chaos, but I’m not. Well, not unless you count Jason’s and Paavo’s lives, but I reckon they’ll be okay.
As long as I catch them up.
A couple of horns blare behind me. I glance up and see that the lights have changed to green. I set off again, aware that I’m driving like a cautious old lady, but I don’t care. Cautious is good. Cautious is safe. Vehicles are streaming round me like frustrated racing cars.
I spot Paavo’s van parked at the front of a row of motel rooms. It’s been reversed in so its back doors are facing the building. I turn off the road and head to park alongside the van. Cowboy steps out the passenger door and watches me approach.
My mind goes blank. I know I’m travelling forward, but it feels like I’m sitting in a bubble of water. I know I need to do something, but I’ve no idea what. The world has become tunneled and all I can think is FFFFUUUUUUCCCCCCCKKKK.
Cowboy is getting closer.
And closer.
He’s starting to step backwards and to raise the sub-machine gun. I’m almost on top of him before I realize where I am and what I’m doing. The world transforms into slow motion and cognitive overload.
I slam my foot on the brake. I know exactly how the next few moments are going to unfold. I am back on the mountain, crashing through the barrier, my foot on a brake pedal that no longer works; the wheels unable to grip thin air.
I can see the white’s of Cowboy’s eyes, then he folds over the hood of the SUV. The front wheels hit the curb and mount it. The jeep stops two feet from the wall of the motel. Cowboy continues, however, smacking into the grey concrete like a bad guy in a Marvel comic, the gun falling from his grip. His hat follows it down, followed by his limp body.
FUCK!
I told the stubborn gobshite that I shouldn’t be driving. That I couldn’t drive. Why don’t people listen? I knew this would happen. Put me behind a wheel of a vehicle and I will kill someone.
My head drops onto the steering wheel with a thud. I’ve become spineless, my neck rubber. Exhaustion washes over me; all I want to do is to crawl into a bed and sleep.
Fat chance.
I’ve just burnt my Goddamn bed!
The world seems to recede and I feel strangely disembodied.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been in that suspended state – neither unconscious nor fully awake – when there’s a frantic knocking on the side window.
I crack my right eye open and stare at Cowboy’s aggrieved face. His hat is back on his head, but skewed to one side giving him a slightly comic look. To say he looks pissed off would be the understatement of the year. He looks like he wants to rip off one of my legs then beat me to death with it.
He yanks open the door, pulls me out with one hand and swings me round hard into the side of the van. The sub-machine gun is jammed under my chin, pushing my head back so the only thing I can see is the underside of my cap.
‘You’re a dead man, Red. Dead.’
‘I told you I can’t drive,’ I stutter.
‘Everybody can drive.’ He stands back and swipes the gun across the side of my head.
FUCK.
The pain is mild for a nanosecond, then erupts into molten lava.
FUCKITY FUCK.
I cradle my arms round my head. I’ve no great desire to repeat the feeling of gun metal whacking skull bone.
A cowboy booted foot lands at warp speed. I think he must have been trying to kick me over the van. Instead he’s sent my balls rocketing up into me so that they’re spinning in my eye sockets like slot machine reels.
FFFFUUUUUCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK.
They were still sore from Kate’s heel. Now they’re indescribable. Crushed. Exploded. Cracked. Flayed. Fried. Throbbing like a pneumatic drill attacking granite.
I don’
t remember dropping to the floor, but there’s gravel pressing into the side of my face. I’ve one hand on my ear, the other on my crotch. I’m aware that someone is talking, but I’ve no idea what they’re saying.
I open a watery eye and look up. Cowboy is hovering above me, saying something to Jason, who’s standing near the back of the van.
Oh sweet Jesus. I don’t know what hurts worse, my head or my balls.
My balls. By some considerable margin. In half an hour they’re going to be swollen to the size of coconuts. Highly fragile coconuts that are under considerable stress. The only way I’ll be able to walk is as if I’m sitting on an imaginary horse. I need a bag of ice and a morphine drip.
Jason steps down off the curb and helps me to my feet.
‘What the fuck are you doing, you fuckwit?’ he whispers harshly. ‘Are you trying to get us all killed?’
So much for sympathy.
He guides me up onto the pavement that skirts the motel rooms. Both of my hands are cupped around my manhood, hoping that their presence will somehow leach away the pain.
Cowboy has his back to a door, the sub-machine pointed at us. He looks skittish and pissed off. However, despite all the commotion not one person has shown their face. Typical. It’s only a matter of time though and Cowboy knows it.
He knocks on the motel door at the same time saying: ‘Open the van door, Fat Boy.’
Jason lets go of me and I stagger off to one side, then teeter back. How’s this balance thing work again? Oh, yeah, legs; keep them under the torso. Maybe it would be better to just drop to the pavement. Get it over with. It’s now or in a few moments.
Jason has the doors open. Paavo is standing in the frame. Marino and Junior are lying near to the cab.
‘Don’t try anything stupid, Rambo,’ Cowboy says. He raps on the door again. ‘Come on, Juan, open the fucking door.’
There’s no response from inside.
‘Fuck,’ Cowboy mumbles. ‘Fucking wetback.’
He fishes a keycard from the back pocket of his jeans. He tries to slot it into the card reader while keeping his attention fixed on us. Eventually he turns slightly to glance at the lock, slotting the card home and whipping it back out again, nudging down the door handle with his elbow. The door cracks open.
In that moment Paavo pounces. It’s a couple of yards between the van and Cowboy. Sensing Paavo’s movement, Cowboy is already starting to turn back, but it’s too late. Paavo lands just as Cowboy squares up, crashing into him, shoving him back into the door. As they tumble through into the room, Cowboy’s arm bashes off the door frame, the gun dropping from his grasp. Thankfully the damn thing doesn’t spark into life.
Paavo and Cowboy are writhing around on the cheap carpet, their heads close to an empty queen sized bed, its covers ruffled. Paavo seems to be trying to grab Cowboy’s arms and pin them down. Cowboy in contrast seems to be trying to punch and kick the Finn. It’s only a matter of time before Cowboy gets the upper hand and beats Paavo half to death.
Jason pushes me out of the way, scoops up the machine gun and enters the room. He holds the gun by the barrel, swings it back and then forward as if it’s a bowling ball. It cracks into the side of Cowboy’s head with a sickening thump.
That had to hurt. Compared to Jason’s version of cranial assault, Cowboy barely tapped me. And I’m still reeling.
Cowboy is out for the count. When he comes round his head is going to feel like a nuclear explosion has occurred in a confined space. He and Redneck will be swapping headache stories until they retire.
Paavo rolls off and rises to his feet.
In general, I’m not a vindictive man. I can forgive and forget with the best of them. Most of the time. This is not most of the time. I’ve been shot at, made to drive a car, and hit and drop kicked. I step forward, swing back my foot and weakly kick Cowboy in the balls, losing my balance so that I topple past him onto the bed.
I’d say that’s a fair swap. Cowboy got more of a whack to the head, less to the balls.
God, I could fall asleep here. No bother. Smother me in ice and I’d be as happy as a pig in mud. I close my eyes and feel myself start to slip away, collapsing to nothing but the dull throb of my balls.
‘Tadhg!’ Jason says, shaking my leg. ‘What the fuck are you doing, man?’
‘Sleeping.’
‘No you’re not. Come on, we’re leaving.’
‘You go. I’ll stay and mind the place.’
‘Can’t you hear them, man?’
‘Hear what?’
‘The fucking sirens. Come on!’ He tugs me upright. ‘Tadhg!’
I can’t hear any sirens. All I can hear is a general ringing in my ears mixed with the sound of waves crashing on a shore.
‘Tadhg!’
I stand and follow him to the door practicing a new entry for Monty Python’s Ministry of Silly Walks. Cowboy is spread-eagled on the floor. The rest of the room appears to be empty.
Paavo already has the van started. We close the motel door behind us and scramble in to the van. Paavo pulls out at a sedate pace, skirting round the motel building and exiting onto a side road.
A police cruiser screeches by on the corner, its lights swirling red and blue, its siren howling. Joe Gerlach to the rescue. Somebody obviously did see our skirmish outside the motel room.
Damn.
Paavo drives calmly away. God knows whether Jason has managed to kill Cowboy. There’s no doubt, however, that we still have two dead bodies in the back of the van.
* * *
‘We need to get ice,’ I say, in my head composing a longer list – plus painkillers, fresh underpants, clean clothes, new identities, a way across the border, a week in a health spa.
‘We need to swap vans,’ Paavo replies.
‘We need to check on Annabelle,’ Jason says, ‘then go back and get my stuff.’
Oh God, Annabelle.
‘Annabelle first,’ Paavo says.
I find my cell phone and call her. The phone rings out. I try the landline to the house. Again no answer. Paavo has already increased our speed.
I slip the phone into my pocket.
‘Shit,’ Jason mutters.
‘Will you stop playing with that fucking gun,’ I snap, unable to keep the edge out of my voice, venting some of the stress built up over the last couple of hours and my worry for Annabelle.
‘If I want to play with the fucking gun, I will okay?’ Jason snaps back, twisting the sub-machine gun in his hands.
‘Put the gun on the floor,’ Paavo says.
‘Fuck off, Paavo! You’re not in charge.’
Great, we’re turning on each other. We’re strung out, we’re tired and we haven’t got a clue what’s going on. The easiest people to lash out against are those nearest to us.
‘Look, let’s just calm down,’ I say, trying to ease the tension.
‘You’re not in charge either,’ Jason cries, waving the gun around. ‘If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t be in this fucking mess.’
True, but stating it isn’t going to help us.
‘Nobody’s in charge, Jase, okay.’
Paavo swings the van hard to the left taking a corner too fast, the wheels screaming, the bodies in the back slamming into the side. The gun kicks into life, filling the cab with a loud rattle. Instinctively we all duck, the van swerving to one side, glancing off a parked car with a loud bang and firm judder. We careen down the road until Paavo gets the van back under control.
There’s a neat row of bullet holes crossing the roof of the cab.
‘Fuck,’ Jason murmurs.
‘Put the gun down,’ Paavo says.
Jason lowers it gently into the foot well.
We continue on in shook-up silence. Nothing like a bit of friendly fire to dampen a good argument between friends.
Eventually Jason says, ‘Sorry. I was being an idiot.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I say. ‘At least you now know how to fire it. Next time, make sure it’s aimed
at the bad guys.’
‘You owe me a new roof,’ Paavo says, ever the practical Finn.
Jason lets go an enormous fart.
‘I guess there’s no need to open the window given the new air vents,’ I say, pointing up.
Paavo cracks them open anyway. He’s right, the stink would fell an elephant.
* * *
‘So, how do we want to do this?’ I ask.
We’ve already driven slowly past my house and are now parked on the driveway at the front of the Choi’s, the rear of the van facing down the side alley. There’d been no sign of Annabelle, my abode appearing quiet and empty; nothing out of the ordinary except for the missing pane of glass in the front door.
Neither Paavo nor Jason reply.
‘How about we get the Raptor. Myself and Paavo go in through the front door, Jason covers the rear with the machine gun.’
‘How about you cover the rear by yourself,’ Jason says.
‘I’ll take the rear,’ Paavo says.
‘No!’ Jason and I say together, making it clear that we both want Paavo to go in through the front door as point person. He’s the John McClane character amongst us. He’s the one with the army training.
‘I’ll take the rear,’ I volunteer. Plenty of places to hide in the garden if the shit hits the fan.
Paavo nods his head. ‘You take the Uzi. I’ll take the Raptor.’
So that’s what it is. I should have guessed. My ability to name a sub-machine gun extends as far as Uzi. I even know that it was named after the man who invented it – Uziel Gal, a captain in the Israeli army. It fires bullets and it kills people. And there my knowledge ends. I have no desire to know the names of other makes or their specifications. One is enough.
‘What about me?’ Jason whines.
‘What about you?’ Paavo asks.
‘What weapon am I going to have?’
‘Weight,’ I suggest, seeking some levity.
‘Fuck you, Tadhg. I’m serious. What the hell am I meant to do if bullets start flying?’
‘Run,’ Paavo says. He means it.
‘You can take the back if you want,’ I offer. ‘I don’t mind either way.’
‘Shit,’ Jason mutters and lets another fart rip.
That’s our cue to exit the van and head down the side of the Choi’s house to retrieve the Raptor from the garage.