The Incident (Chase Barnes Series Book 1)

by John Montesano

  The rear doors of the van in front of me didn’t have any windows so even if I wanted to get close enough to catch a glimpse inside, I wouldn’t be able to see anything.

  Merging onto the highway, traffic was starting to thicken, which was good. Thick traffic meant slow cars, which would cause Klein to slow and I was able to keep the Santa Fe within a close distance while blending into the rest of the traffic. We cruised along and my thoughts were distracted by the Beatles song that played through my iPod. We were heading east on Route 80, which would only take us so far because the interstate highway eventually turned into Route 95 just a mile or so outside of the George Washington Bridge. At that point, no matter the time of day, there was no place for Klein to go other than get sucked into Route 95 construction traffic.

  It was and has always been a mystery to me as to why traffic was so slow through the series of exits towards Paterson off of Route 80. Some would chalk it up to the high volume of people that live in the city. Some might even consider the poorly designed exit- only ramps lined up for each exit off the highway for the city. My consideration was everyone’s consistent hesitation and indecision about whether to risk their lives and head into town or continue on to safer pastures.

  I looked down as the traffic began to open up after the series of Paterson exits. I recognized the AC/DC song that played but didn’t remember the title. It’s the one thing that irks me about having such an extensive music library. So much to choose from but so much to remember. Impeccable timing for important information. I looked up just in time because as soon as I brought my eyes back up to the road, the back doors of the van swung open and two guns opened fire on my car.

  NINETY ONE

  Swerving into the adjacent lane to my right of me was the best option to not get killed. Same goes for the people that fortunately weren’t next to me that I could have side swiped and driven off the road. I dropped my speed back down to fifty, hoping to lengthen the distance between me and the van. Also, praying that the increased range would reduce my chances of catching one between the nostrils. It was effective enough. That was until I saw the van’s brake lights flash and the space in between us tightened faster than the knot in my stomach as Klein switched to my lane. I swerved the SUV into another lane to my right. Again, dodging the possibility of side swiping a Toyota Corolla. Bullets pinged and panged off the entire front end of my car. Two had blasted through the passenger side of the windshield, which could have very well ended up buried somewhere inside my flesh if I hadn’t kept the car on a constant pendulum.

  Gunning the engine, I had no issue getting parallel with the van. The gunfire continued and through my side-view mirror I could see one of Klein’s goons hanging onto the rear door with one hand while his other wielded a large type of handgun. A few bullets ricocheted off somewhere in the rear of the car. My knuckles were gripping the wheel with so much grit and force they looked transparent.

  I was finally able to gain a glance at Klein behind the wheel. He would periodically turn his head over his right shoulder waiting for commands from the rear of the van. He was trying his best to focus on the road and dodge cars in front of him. I was trying to do the same. No sense in injuring the innocent. I’d normally like to insert the phrase, “great minds think alike,” here but I felt it didn’t apply. I didn’t deem Klein to be one with a “great mind.” Evil, maybe, but not great. And mine’s been on the fritz as of late. Klein and I both reached for and raised our handguns at each other while simultaneously gripping the wheel.

  “This fucking guy is out of his mind,” I said to myself. I tapped my brakes just in time to see a wild shot whiz by me. Klein hadn’t bothered to lower his passenger window and shot it to pieces. We were still travelling at intermediate speeds on the open highway of Route 80 in the middle of the day where traffic normally is much heavier. Bystanders were dropping their speeds to avoid getting caught in the middle of our action- film like car chase. The shots from the rear of the van finally subsided. Reloading, perhaps? I tapped the automatic window button once and watched my driver’s side window drop down. Was this a smart idea or was I opening myself a new window of opportunity to die? I had no idea and now was no time to care.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. Impeccable timing. I was kinda busy. And now was no time to wonder why I never set up the Bluetooth phone system in my car. I saw we were zipping past the exits for Hackensack on Route 80 and estimated we had about seven or eight miles left on the highway before we ran into the George Washington Bridge. Was that Klein’s destination? New York? Somewhere beyond? If it was, he wasn’t going to make it this time. We were fortunate to have extremely light traffic to deal with now but the closer we got to the bridge traffic was inevitably going to get thicker at the toll booths.

  I held my gun in my right hand with my left on top of the wheel holding it as steady as I could. The crisscrossed entanglement of my arms wasn’t comfortable and certainly unorthodox for firing accurate shots but accuracy wasn’t my concern at the moment. Efficiency and blowing out a tire was my ultimate goal. I fired three shots at the van. All three peppered the side paneling. I wanted Klein to know that I, too, came to play. I managed to switch the gun to my left hand, placing my right on the wheel. The car swerved a bit but I quickly regained control. My left arm loosely hung out the window like a truck driver getting a tan. I dropped my arm so my armpit rested on the open window frame and extended the gun as far as I could. I blasted another two shots into the passenger window.

  There was an explosion upon impact and I kept the wheel of my car as steady as I could watching the van shimmy and shake, drifting into my lane. I had no idea what, or who, I hit, hoping a shot caught some part of Klein’s body. My intention wasn’t to kill him. Just to slow him down. And, oh yeah, prevent him from killing me in this wild goose chase.

  Klein’s van was now in the far left lane. The center divider on his left and my SUV on his right. I brought the car up against Klein’s window again and saw that both of my shots must’ve missed him. No signs of blood on him or the windows around him. There was only one thing left that would put an end to this hellish excursion. I had to wait for the right moment to minimize peripheral damage to innocent commuters. Suddenly, I heard more shots coming from the van. But this time they were coming at me from the front passenger seat of the van. One of the shooters from the rear climbed up front and took aim from the security and stability of the front seat. I dropped my car back and swung into the left lane behind the van. In line with the rickety pile of junk, with the doors still flailing about like a newborn baby’s neck on a roller coaster, I took aim once again.

  NINETY TWO

  This time I was hoping to blow out one of the rear tires.

  I emptied my clip and missed all of the shots. How the hell was I supposed to reload a gun while travelling at sixty- five miles per hour in the midst of a gun battle in which I was horribly outnumbered? Where the hell were my extra clips anyway? I knew I had a few in my closet at home, which clearly wouldn’t help my cause at the moment. I kept driving at a safe distance while thinking of what else I could do to take out the van. I didn’t exactly keep spiked strips in my glove compartment.

  Wait!

  There was another clip in the pocket directly behind my seat. I remembered putting it there after the one time I attempted to return to the shooting range with Fitzgerald but couldn’t get myself to do it. Dropping the clip in the rear pocket, I hoped I would muster up enough courage to load it again. I think my original intentions were to come back to it in the controlled environment of the shooting range. Not a high- speed car chase with my life on the line.

  Trying to steady the car with my left hand, I unsuccessfully made a few attempts at reaching around with my right into the pocket. The clip had sank to the bottom of the pocket and I was sure there was nothing else in there that might’ve caught it or I could use to pry it out. My knees gripped the wheel and kept it as steady as knees controlling the wheel could do. I lifted my torso up off the
seat to hopefully give me enough leverage to reach deep into the pocket. Keeping my eyes on Klein and the van as much as I could. I knew I was setting myself up for target practice as I openly exposed my chest to the shooters on my left but I had to do what needed to be done. I fingered the clip a few times before turning it upright inside the pocket, which allowed me to grab it. My shoulder screamed in pain as I forcefully put more torque on the joints than should be allowed. The empty clip blindly dropped to the floor of the foot well on the passenger side when I released it. Then, I loaded the clip into my gun and brought it out of the car window again, taking aim at the rear of the van still in front of me. I fired a few rounds into the exposed flatbed of the van and saw that at least one bullet caught one of the goons somewhere in his lower extremities. I heard the scream.

  Lowering my gun and finally having a clear shot, I took aim and fired off four more rounds into both rear tires of the van. At least one must’ve caught rubber because I heard a loud whistling noise blended with wild screeches of the blown- out tire. It was the rear driver’s side tire. I braked my car to avoid a collision with the now out of control van. The injured thug in the back of the van flopped around like a goldfish on a countertop and eventually rolled out of the van. Instincts made me swerve to the right just in time, avoiding running him over, but I hoped I might have at least gotten an arm. The van slammed into the center divider, sending sparks flying everywhere. So many horns were blaring in my ears it sounded like I had a marching band in my back seat. About a dozen or so cars around us were suddenly screeching to a halt, hoping to not become a part of the mayhem in surrounding them.

  I saw we had just past the exit for the New Jersey Turnpike and were continuing our approach to the bridge. There was a left- turning bend just ahead. With the blown tire I knew Klein wouldn’t make it there but something else worried me now. How far exactly was Klein willing to take this useless van before giving in and letting it die out?

  The van crashed two more times into the divider and caromed off another car as it crossed two lanes to its right, ripping off the front fender of the Ford Escort. The bystander’s car spun in a complete circle and stopping just before crashing into me or any other cars. Smoke quickly began to rise from Klein’s van and something under the hood caused the hood to become engulfed in flames.

  Finally, Klein’s van jumped the curb off the shoulder and uncontrollably spun onto a grassy knoll. It came to a rest against a fence about twenty- five feet off the shoulder of the highway. The Santa Fe managed to hold up pretty well throughout the gun- battling car chase, sans a few bullet holes in the windshield and a smashed headlight on the driver’s side. The front fender was slightly hanging off the same side.

  I glided to the shoulder of the highway and parked the Santa Fe near the location where the van drove off the road. Sweat poured out of every part of my upper body. And my anxiety raged out of control. But I also felt I finally had momentum on my side so there was no time to stop now. Toting my gun close to my thigh, I approached the van, which was gradually engulfing itself in flames. The rear doors casually swung in the light breeze that suddenly blew through. Smoke billowed out of the engine and I didn’t see anyone trying to escape. I kept my distance, expecting the van to explode.

  In what seemed like slow motion, the driver’s side door swung open and I watched Klein drop from the driver’s seat onto the grass. From my vantage point, I couldn’t tell if he was breathing. I figured I had a leg up on the situation and approached Klein with confidence. His eyes were fluttering and he was bleeding from several gashes on his forehead. He looked like a wounded ultimate fighting competitor. The thousand- dollar suit he had on was no longer good enough to buff the scratches off the hood of my car. The arms of the suit jacket were littered with burn scars and tears. The left lapel was torn off, dangling by a few threads. And the matching pants were severely stained with blood.

  I couldn’t help but laugh at the once self- proclaimed powerful man. Now simply crumbled into a pile of bleeding flesh. I kicked Klein in the ribs to get him lying on his back and straddled his body at the waist. Laughter caught in my throat again, causing Klein to open his eyes. I couldn’t tell if he was startled to see me standing over him or by the vulnerable position he suddenly discovered himself to be in. My thoughts told me it was the gun barrel staring him between the eyes. Before he could squirm out from underneath me I plopped down and sat on his stomach. Blood began to seep out the corner of his mouth. He reminded me of a deflated water balloon. Klein coughed what seemed like a laugh of his own.

  “Look who’s about to go from the frying pan to the fryer,” I said.

  NINETY THREE

  Esteban rang the buzzer several times without a result. Paranoia couldn’t help but control his mind. During the entire trip to Jamal’s apartment building, Esteban must’ve looked over his shoulder every other step he took. He’d gotten lost twice trying to take detours to throw off those he thought might be following him. Esteban was confident no one was behind him and he wondered how he could’ve escaped so easily. Just as easily as he’d been taken off the streets in the first place, he thought, he was right back on them. During his entire time in captivity, Esteban began to lose track of the days. He had to pop into a local deli and glance at a newspaper to check the date.

  Where the hell was Jamal? Esteban repeatedly asked himself. After what seemed like the hundredth ring of the buzzer, someone answered but it wasn’t Jamal. It was a female voice.

  “Who is it?” the female voice demanded through the intercom.

  “Uh, um, is Jamal there? Esteban stammered.

  “Depends on who it is.”

  “My name is Esteban. I’m looking for Jamal.” Esteban could hear that someone was holding down the intercom button from inside Jamal’s apartment and voices echoing in the background. The female voice was talking to a male but Esteban couldn’t make out what was being said. Without another word the buzzer sounded and Esteban pulled the front door open to enter the building.

  Esteban climbed the stairs to Jamal’s floor and when he got to the apartment door he saw it was already open about five inches. He knocked anyway but as he did the force of his knock caused the door swung open completely. Jamal instantly appeared in front of the entry way, startling Esteban nearly out of his shoes.

  “Well, well, well,” Jamal began. He was shirtless exposing several shoulder and upper chest tattoos and was sporting a loose fitting pair of gray sweatpants that hung around his thighs. “Fuck you been and the fuck you doin’ here?” he added.

  Esteban had difficulty reading Jamal’s expression and an even harder time meeting Jamal’s eyes to speak. He was still standing out in the hallway. Esteban wasn’t sure if he should feel scared, embarrassed, proud, or none of the above. He never had a good understanding of how to feel the appropriate emotions at the right time. His recent experiences certainly didn’t help his cause.

  “I got nowhere else to go. I just ran away and I’m afraid they’re looking for me,” Esteban said. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually admitted to being afraid. In school, there was always the façade or charade that Esteban would perform to discourage others from thinking he was weak or vulnerable. The streets were starting to prove to be a different story.

  “Well, you look like shit. Get the fuck in here, little man.” Esteban stepped inside the apartment and instantly put his back to the adjacent wall. He couldn’t help but stare at the frayed shoelaces dangling off his feet and the ripped, tattered, and stained clothing Esteban had on. And the dried blood and scrapes in and around his wrists, mouth and face. The bruises around his eyes and upper cheeks were a purplish- yellow color.

  “I’m sorry,” Esteban managed to get out through suppressed sobs.

  “Come sit down. I ain’t gonna kill ya.” Jamal said, pulling Esteban by the arm. “I know what’s been going on.”

  Esteban worked up enough energy and courage to walk into the living room and sit on the couch. The soft cushioning
underneath him felt as if he were lying on a cloud of bunnies. Jamal sat on the coffee table across from him with his arms folded, expecting Esteban to unfold the entire story. Before he got into the kidnapping, the physical, emotional, and psychological torture and his opportunity to escape Esteban worked up enough courage to ask for something to eat.

  Jamal gave him a bottle of soda, a bag of Doritos and two leftover slices of plain pizza. Esteban devoured the entire offering in record time then unraveled the whole ordeal. The green Explorer which Jamal already knew about. The chains and the baseball field. The repeated guns to his head. The physical abuse. The storage units. The heat lamps. And finally, the escape. Esteban hesitated then told Jamal that Klein was looking for information on him.

  While Jamal listened, the female that answered Esteban’s buzzing walked into the room wearing a knee- length t- shirt and Esteban assumed nothing else. She eyed him up but Esteban had a difficult time reading her expression. Jamal didn’t bother to introduce her and she didn’t offer up any cordials. The girl sat on the opposite end of the couch with her legs curled under her. She had shoulder length jet- black hair, brown eyes, pouty lips and mocha- toned skin. The way she was sitting caused the collar of her shirt to drop off her shoulder revealing a small tattoo of a heart with something written in script through the middle on her upper chest. Esteban couldn’t make out what it said.

  “So, what am I supposed to do now?” Esteban asked.

  “Don’t know about this being your best move to come here. That motherfucker is really lookin’ for me. You shoulda told him to come see me,” Jamal replied, more so to himself than to Esteban.

  Esteban looked at the floor, releasing whatever confidence he rediscovered telling Jamal his story. Then he said, “I didn’t know where else to go. I know these guys are looking for me, bro.”