Meeting at the Main Street dock, Danny heard him out. Looking at his ex-partner now, Danny felt a long way from blaming himself for his rookie mistake, the one that nearly got Beck killed. The gym bag with the Hi-Point made them even. Nine mil, black and clean, the bag at Beck’s feet. Danny saying he didn’t want to know. Glancing at Liz Crocker, his own rookie partner, the two of them acting like they didn’t have a thing out of uniform. He reminded Beck, “This woman’s nearly killed you twice.”
Beck said yeah, the blast of the sub saving him, her bullet whizzing past his ear. Guessing these two were jumping in the sack, he said to Liz, “Should’ve seen this guy in his rookie day.”
“I bet,” Liz said, forcing a grin at Danny, liking his old partner, but not liking what Danny was getting mixed up in, glancing at the gym bag.
“You get Betty Crocker when you were a kid?” Beck asked her, trying to keep it light.
“Not a day went by,” Liz said. “Kids calling me Easy-Bake. Perfect cake after cake after cake.”
“Amazing you still fit the uniform,” Danny said. “All that cake.”
Putting a hand on her hip, Liz playing. “Got something to say, partner?”
“How the hell you two get any police work done?” Beck said.
She smiled at him, saying, “Caught your pic on the net.”
“One with me naked?”
“Thing’s going viral. Caption calling you an ex-cop with nothing to hide.”
“Yeah, I feel cheap.”
“Good parts blacked out, but nothing to be ashamed of from what I could tell,” she said, glancing again at the bag. “Any thoughts of making a comeback? On the force, I mean?”
“After the Net thing, likely they’d put me on the Odd Squad.”
“You kidding?” Danny said. “You just took a serious bite out of a cartel. Sank their sub and did it with a flare gun.”
“And a Sea-Doo and flip-flops,” she threw in.
“Just wish I got the bitch,” Beck said.
“She’s slipped past everybody,” Danny said. “CSIS, FBI, ATF, everybody hunting her. Nothing to feel bad about.”
“Yeah, but I was this close . . .”
“Shame about the reward though,” Danny said.
“Reward?” Beck gave him a dumb look.
“Hundred grand. Just a tip leading to an arrest gets it done.”
Picking up the gym bag, Beck was guessing Ashika made it to shore, thinking where could she run.
. . . EASY’S GETTING HARD
Head felt like it was going to explode, Jimmy turned, seeing tubes running from his arm, worst he ever felt. His chest tight under the bandages, a burning in his shoulder, machines beeping with lights blinking.
The nurse told Vicki to keep it short, calling her Mrs. Mosley, telling her Jimmy needed his rest. Vicki pulled the chair next to the bed, taking his hand, her eyes wet when he woke.
“Tell her we’re married?” It hurt to talk.
“Only way they were letting me in.”
Jimmy tried to smile.
The nurse went past the station; Beck stood reading the board by the elevator, gym bag over his shoulder. Going down the hall, he stepped in, Jimmy in the hospital bed, still getting the girl.
“How’s he doing?”
Jimmy looking old, his skin all grey.
“How you think?” she said, looking pissed, telling him he was a true idiot.
Jimmy telling her to lay off.
Beck stood there a moment longer, wanting to say more. He asked if Eddie was still on the anti-whaler, then he turned and went back down the hall, punching the elevator panel, the nurses behind the desk looking his way.
. . . A HYMN AND A HAMMER
Finding Griff asleep in the deck chair, Beck stepped aboard First Light, nudged him awake, Hattie sleeping below. Griff looking around at the early light. “Time is it?”
“Payback time.” Beck led the way down the dock, telling him Hattie would be fine on her own, the cops promising to send a unit past every hour.
He drove the Jeep to the anti-whaler, the new lettering painted down the sides. Boarding the gangway, clanging on metal steps to the lower level, they found their way to Jimmy’s cabin, none of the crew asking what they wanted.
Eddie lay curled on the bunk, his hand properly wrapped, painkillers working wonders, magazine flipped open on the floor.
Beck let the door fly shut. Snatching Eddie by the collar, he pulled him off the bunk, Griff standing by the door.
“Tell me again,” Beck said, shaking him. “You at this lodge.”
“Okay . . . fuck . . . what . . .” No way to break the hold, Eddie cringed, coming awake in a hurry. “We unloaded the powder like I —”
“Skip to after your hand getting smashed.” Beck letting go.
“Like I told you, found my uncle stabbed —”
“Yeah, yeah, in his shit car, then you hid. Stole some blow. After that.”
“Right, went out the —”
“Said you saw a woman.”
“What? Yeah. In a window. The cabin. Saw her for like a second, but don’t think she —”
“Who was she?” Beck shook him.
“Fucked if I know . . . just a face in a window.”
“Take it easy, Beck,” Griff said, putting a hand on his shoulder. Beck turned to Griff, then eased his grip.
Eddie saying, “Heard the bikers say something about terrorist pussy.”
“Yeah.”
“One of them wondering if it was any good.” Eddie rubbing at his neck. “Was one thing . . .” Eddie said, sitting up.
“Yeah?”
“When Ramon and me came back, the bikers were joking about putting her on the sub, about her having to shit in a bucket. Making fun of Rudi’s kid about it, like maybe he’d get a thing going with her.”
“How you mean?”
“On account of him having to drive out and fetch her back from Osoyoos, spend all that time with her.”
Beck went to the door, looked at Eddie, saying, “You point the way, you can come get your shit.”
They were behind Beck going through the door, Eddie clarifying, “I just point to the spot, get my stuff and I walk?”
“You point, then do whatever the fuck you want.”
Not much talk on the drive, Beck stopping in Chilliwack, fueling up, going to the liquor store, then the outlet mall, finding a hardware and a drug store. Getting back in the Jeep, not saying what was in the other bags, he broke the seal on a bottle of scotch, took a pull, offered it around, saying they were going to need it.
Griff took a long drink, passing it back to Eddie, Eddie drinking on top of the codeine sulphate Jimmy took from the ship’s med supplies, Jimmy knowing where Captain Angus kept the key. He had grabbed some gauze, too, wrapping Eddie’s hand.
Johnnie Red between his thighs, Beck followed the Number One out to the Crowsnest Highway, rolling past Hope, Eddie telling him where to slow, pointing to the spot, the highway marker with the graffiti on the back.
Easing to the gravel shoulder, Beck waited till Eddie climbed out, saying, “You got maybe ten minutes, tops.”
Ramon’s pistol heavy in his pocket, Eddie shut the door, crossing the westbound lanes.
Griff got back in, Beck pulling onto the asphalt, catching Eddie in the rearview, saying, “Sure, you’re up for this?”
“Fuckers tried to kill me, too.”
Beck twisted the cap, looking at him, drinking, passing the bottle, the left turn coming up. Took the county road about a half mile in, Beck making another left, the way Eddie told him. Pulling up in the middle of the road, fifty yards to the lodge, Beck took the bottle from Griff, throwing his door open, asking, “You ready?”
Griff nodded yeah.
Beck poured the rest of the scotch out on the road. Re
aching the bags on the passenger floor, he took a length of neoprene hose, unscrewed the Jeep’s filler cap, stuck in the end of the tube, bent and sucked.
Climbing back in with the scotch bottle full of high octane, Beck looked at Griff, Griff taking the Hi-Point from Beck’s gym bag, looking it over.
Reaching an oily rag from under the seat, Beck said, “Know you got to flip the safety off, right?”
“Anytime you want to stop talking like I’m an asshole . . .”
“Guess you’re right.” Beck stuffed the end of the rag in the bottle.
Griff flipped off the safety. “Think I fucking earned that much.”
“Know how this’ll go?” Beck said, taking a plastic lighter from the bag.
“Hard.” Griff trying to sound like him.
Beck nodded. “We drive up. Anybody comes out —”
“Yeah, I got it, I go pow pow.”
“No, I do the pow powing.” Taking the Hi-Point from him, handing over the bottle and lighter, saying, “You’re burning the fucker down.”
Griff smiled, looking from bottle to lighter. Beck planted his foot on the accelerator, the Jeep slinging gravel.
. . . EYE FOR AN EYE
The bale had to be in that burned-out trunk. Life owed him that, Eddie telling himself he was doing this for Ramon.
The ex-cop and his deckhand were taking it to Rudi. Eddie trying not to think what happened if they didn’t make it back, knowing Burt Stone wasn’t going to roll up in his big RV, save his ass twice, Puddin’ behind the curtain.
Crunching on dead leaves, wet ferns slapping against him, he ducked under pine boughs. He stopped, everything looking different in daylight. No baying hounds, the pain killers Jimmy got him wearing off, Eddie taking the pill bottle, popping a couple more.
Swiping at foliage, he pushed through to a clearing, a dry creek bed, a crest beyond it. Moss, ferns and rock. Nothing looking familiar. He dug his fingers in the wet earth, pulling with his good hand, getting some purchase and making his way upslope, knocking stones loose. At the narrow crest, Eddie checked around, nothing looking right.
He slid down the bank, careful he didn’t tumble. Muck caking his shoes, wet leaves smelled of mold. He pushed himself up. Moving, then there it was, the burned-out trunk. Going to it, he looked in.
The bale was gone.
Then came the first gunshot. Coming from the lodge.
And Eddie was moving through the trees. Never fired a gun in his life. Ramon’s .357 AMT Backup in his pocket.
Past the spot where he slept Saturday night, he stumbled from the woods, coming out at the gravel road. Doing this for Ramon. Eddie going to get what was his.
Passing the mailbox, crossing the lawn, guessing Beck’s Jeep was out back, he forgot about the fear, remembering Rudi bringing that pipe down, the old man enjoying himself, his uncle killed by the crazy Mexican, the bikers chopping up the body, Eddie chased by hounds.
Taking out the pistol at the open door, he hardly noticed the place was on fire. Holding it out in front like he’d seen on cop shows, he stepped in, eyes adjusting, flames crackling everywhere, going through the big room, the moose head on fire, the pool table, the bar. The place thick with smoke.
Another shot sounded from out back, above the crackling. Hooking his arm over his nose and mouth, he ducked low through the dining room, coughing past the pool table and trophy heads, everything waiting to burn. Another shot from out back. Elbowing the Authorized Personnel Only door, he stepped through and into the galley kitchen.
Crouched by the rear door, Rudi had his back to him, aiming a pistol at the cabin on the end.
“Where’s my shit?” Eddie said, lifting his arm.
Rudi Busch turned his head, the little gun in Eddie’s left hand, the hand shaking. Turning, he put his pistol on Eddie, betting the kid didn’t have the stones.
. . . LITTLE ON THE SIDE
Let her clothes drop to the bathroom floor. Her shoulder burned, starting to feel stiff. The kid got the bleeding to stop, tweezed out the shot, asked her if it hurt. Axel poured on the hydrogen peroxide, put on the Teflon. Did it with an easy touch, like he cared, telling her it was going to be alright, this kid that liked the country music.
When he was done, Ashika let him get on top and they made love again, both lying awake after, Ashika needing a next move. Needing it quick.
Crossing back across the border was her only play. Should have left already, but the kid insisted on driving back here, digging out the shot, dressing the wound. Climbing into the clothes he had given her: a denim shirt, a pair of men’s jeans, wide at the waist. Pressing the snaps on the shirt, she rolled the cuffs. She had the Bersa, only a few rounds left.
Axel watched her get dressed, sitting at the desk by the door, his shotgun leaning against the frame, Beemer out in front of the steps.
“We’re all set,” he said, watching her do up the snaps.
“There’s no we,” Ashika said, thinking she could make a call, tell the man on the line what happened, see where it went. Guessing she had become a liability, bad luck had a way of following her. The New Freedom Army would abandon her or come after her. If the kid was with her, they’d kill him, too.
“You ask me,” he said, “I’m all you got.”
“This will end bad.”
“You can save it,” Axel said, heard enough of it from the old man when they got back, father and son yelling at each other. Rudi was pissed Axel was risking his neck for this terrorist, bringing her back here. Six hundred pounds of coke still out in the bunker.
“We get in my car and head east, Lethbridge, Moose Jaw. Drive right off the fucking map.”
She was thinking south. Cross into Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, New Mexico. Doing it solo. Someone she knew in Las Cruces not connected with the New Freedom Army, drug tunnels she heard about going to Ciudad Juárez. Take it from there.
The sound of crunching gravel got them jumping, Ashika reaching the Bersa off the dresser.
The squeal of brakes.
“Shit.” Hoisting the twelve gauge, Axel got next to the window, peeking out, racking the slide, told her to get behind the bed.
Waiting.
Creaking on the planks outside. Axel reached to pull back the door, Beck’s kick from the other side, sending it flying in, Axel firing, chunks of door frame flying.
Diving through, under the blast, Beck landed and rolled, firing up, Axel knocked back and across the bed, Ashika firing at him, then running into the can, slamming and locking the door.
Beck crept around the bed, the kid sliding off, looking at Beck in disbelief, leaving a blood smear on the sheets. Beck kicked the shotgun under the bed.
She fired another round, a jagged hole through the door.
Beck got next to the door, keeping low, hearing movement inside, putting it together. He shouldered the door, looked inside, then he was running out the front.
First gunshot had Griff running around back, having thrown the flaming bottle through the lodge’s front door. The Beemer in front of the cabin on the end. Beck’s Jeep in the middle of the drive, door hanging open. Jumping in, Griff jammed the stick, twisting the key, cranking the engine, intending to swing it around past the line of cabins.
The passenger window burst, and he dropped low, stomping the pedal, grinding the clutch. Not sure he was alive or dead, the thud of bullets puncturing the door, next one ripping into the dash, the windshield blown out.
Rudi stepped from the lodge, pistol held out like it was a turkey shoot, smoke curling behind him, the lodge on fire. He fired into the Jeep, thinking he had the asshole pinned. Reloading, seeing the cabin door open.
It was Beck stepping from the cabin, had him stopping up short.
Beck saying, “Guess you’d be Rudi Busch.”
“The ex-cop from the boat,” Rudi said, turning to face him. Like some scene
from a western.
“Mind if we speed this up?” Beck said. “My reward’s getting away.”
“You shoot my boy?”
“That him on the floor?” Beck said, holding the pistol down at his side, watching Rudi. “Can’t say how bad. You want, I can call it in?”
“I got it.”
Working clutch and gas, Griff jerked the Jeep out of the crossfire, rolled to the end of the line of cabins, turning around.
Eyes locked on Beck, Rudi heard the Authorized Personnel Only door creaking behind him, above the crackle of fire.
“Where’s my shit?” Eddie said and stepped out, one hand bandaged, the other pointing his uncle’s gun. Rudi was flanked with Beck on the cabin steps, the kid behind him. Turning as he dove, bringing his pistol up.
Eddie fired.
Rudi felt like he’d been kicked, the kid standing over him, asking again.
Blood staining his shirt, Rudi said, “You’re a little fuck —”
And Eddie fired again, then emptied the clip, as Beck was moving past the Beemer, around the back of the cabin, eyes sharp, finding the trail.
Staring up like he couldn’t believe it — hit five times in the chest — Rudi tried to speak.
Bending, Eddie held up the wrapped hand, fingers poking out the end, bruised and swollen. He tried flipping the old man the bird, his busted fingers not moving right, asking again where his shit was, but the old man was gone.
Griff rolled up in the Jeep, saying, “Should’ve waited for the answer, then shot him.”
“Yeah, hindsight’s a bitch.” Eddie was moving, telling Griff to keep her running, hurrying around the cabin, same way Beck had gone.
At the back corner of the cabin, Beck looked out, then moved, staying low, picking up the trail to the clearing. Down in a crouch. Listening. Looking around. Telling himself not to hesitate. If he got his chance, he’d put a bullet in her. Didn’t matter she was a woman.
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