Ice Chest

by J. D. Rhoades

Ricky resisted the urge to bow. “The same,” he said.

  “I never thought you were funny,” the blond man said.

  Ricky frowned. It was time to get back in control of the situation. “Right,” he said. He smacked his left hand against the gun to emphasize the word. As he did, he struck the magazine release. The gun’s magazine fell out and clattered on the ground.

  Everyone froze. Ricky looked down, then up, a stricken expression on his face.

  “Oh, shit,” he said.

  NO ONE moved for a moment. Then people started diving for their weapons on the ground. Moose Cantone was the first one to come up, blasting away with the SAW. The recoil caused the barrel to ride up uncontrollably and most of the shots went over Ricky’s head.

  “JESUS CHRIST!” Ricky shouted. He turned to flee, yanking the trigger of the AR-15 as he did so. The one round in the chamber went off, the shot passing between L.B. and Rafe and shattering the headlight of the sedan. Ricky screamed again and dropped the rifle as L.B. and Rafe dove for cover in different directions. By the time Moose had the gun back under control, Ricky had disappeared into the night.

  “I’m on him,” Mario yelled, grabbing his gun up off the ground and giving chase. “You take care of these…” The last words were lost as he headed out the door after Ricky.

  Moose turned back toward the others—and directly into the path of a right cross thrown by Zoe Piper, who’d charged him as soon as she saw him reach for the gun. The blow staggered him, but he didn’t go down. There was a snarl on his face as he regained his balance and brought the gun to bear.

  Suddenly, a blinding light filled his eyes and he heard the sound of a car engine, rising to a roar and a scream of tires. He instinctively threw one hand up to cover his eyes and pulled the trigger on the gun again without thinking. Zoe leaped out of the way and Moose’s shots slammed into the front of the brown sedan that was coming straight at him, driven by a grim-looking L.B. Gordon. Sparks flew as some of the bullets ricocheted off the metal grille, but the car kept coming. The last thing Moose saw was the silver Halliburton case spinning and falling from the vehicle’s hood, scattering jewels like a multicolored snowfall. Moose went up and over the hood as the car slammed into him. His head struck the windshield and everything went black.

  HERMIONE STARR was moving as soon as she saw Mario going after Ricky Vandella. She saw Chunk charging at Paul Chirelli, slamming into him with an audible crunch as the man came up from the floor with his gun. “I’ve got Mario,” she called out. She followed him out into the night, stopping to pick up her own weapon.

  Mario was crouched down, gun held out in front of him, on the other side of the limousines. He was scanning in a circle, obviously looking for Ricky. The comedian was nowhere to be seen. She drew a bead on him and prepared to call out. But then she heard the car engine behind her at the same time as she saw the headlights throwing her long shadow before her. She dodged out of the way as the brown sedan she’d seen earlier flashed by. The pudgy man she’d figured was Branson’s Uncle Rafe was clinging desperately to the trunk. The driver punched the gas hard and the car sped up as it got to open ground.

  Mario raised his gun as if to fire through the windshield, but he too had to dodge out of the way of the speeding vehicle. As it headed for the gate, the pudgy man fell from the trunk with a squeal like a stuck pig. The car, as if glad to be rid of the weight, sped up even more. The man struggled to his feet and limped after it, wheezing so loudly Hermione could hear him from where she was. Mario crouched down again and took aim at the fleeing man’s back.

  She drew a bead on him and called out, “Mario. Drop the gun.”

  He didn’t comply, but turned slowly, straightening up to face her, his own pistol steady.

  She held the gun on Mario, both hands on the weapon, knees slightly bent. At this range, she couldn’t miss. Allegretti, however, seemed unfazed. “Come on, honey,” he said with a cocky grin. “Give it up. You never shot nobody in your whole life. You ain’t got what it takes to put a bullet in a man’s face while he’s looking you in the eyes.” He held out his left hand. “Gimme the gun.”

  They stood, eyes locked for a moment, before Hermione sighed. “You’re right.” Mario’s grin widened and he started toward her, hand still outstretched.

  “Doesn’t mean I can’t do this, though, honey,” she said. She changed her aim slightly and shot him in the right shoulder.

  The gun fell from his hand and he staggered backward, screaming with pain and outrage and clawing at the wound with his left hand. “You fucking BITCH!” he yelled. He started toward her again and she shot him in the left leg. He collapsed to the pavement, howling.

  She walked over, bending to scoop Mario’s weapon up off the pavement, and stood over his writhing body. “No, I can’t shoot a man in the face. But I can find a lot of non-lethal body parts to keep putting bullets in until you tell me where Clarissa Cartwright is.” She pointed the gun at his other leg. “So where is she, honey?”

  “Car,” he groaned in agony. “In. Trunk…”

  Hermione looked up at the two limousines parked by the building. She shook her head in disgust. “You locked that beautiful, sweet girl, a woman you said you loved, who once loved you, in a car trunk,” she said. “I really ought to shoot you in the head. But I’ll settle for you telling me which of the two of those cars she’s…” She was interrupted by the roar of an engine. As she watched in horror, one of the limos took off in reverse, tires screaming on the pavement. The tires screamed again as the vehicle turned, straightened out, then peeled out for the exit gate.

  Mario was either laughing or sobbing, she couldn’t tell which. “That one.”

  AGE MIGHT have cost Chunk McNeill a little of his foot speed, but he was glad to see that he could hit as hard as he ever had. When Paul Chirelli stood up after picking up his gun, Chunk hit him as hard as he’d ever hit a quarterback or receiver. The air left the man’s lungs in a mighty whuff and the gun flew from his hand. He fell backwards to the ground, letting out another grunt of pain as Chunk landed on top of him. Chunk got to his knees and grabbed Chirelli by the tie to yank him partially upright.

  “You know the best part of being a ‘rent-a-cop,’ Chirelli?” The gray-haired man looked at him, groggy and uncomprehending. “You don’t get fired for doing this.” He emphasized the last word with a sock to Chirelli’s jaw that knocked him back flat. He grabbed the tie and yanked him back up again. “Or this.” He pulled back for another punch. “Where’s the girl, Chirelli?” he grated. “Tell me if you don’t want to get hit again.”

  “Chunk!” Someone’s voice rang out sharply. He turned slightly to look. It was Zoe Piper.

  “Come on, man, don’t do that,” she said.

  Chunk took a deep breath as he felt some of the rage subside. She was right. Cop or not, he couldn’t just beat a confession out of someone.

  “You’ll hurt your hand,” she said. She held out the Hello Kitty Taser which she’d picked back up. “Use this.”

  He took the device from her and turned back to Chirelli, switching the device to “drive stun” or “contact” mode and placing it against the man’s side. “Where’s the girl?” he repeated in a low, deadly voice. “Tell me or get ready to ride the lightning.” He hoped Chirelli didn’t see the bluff.

  “Mario’s car,” the man mumbled. “In the trunk. We was gonna…gonna leave with her.”

  “Sounds like a confession to me, partner,” Zoe said.

  “And to me. Partner.” He handed the Taser back to her. As he turned away, Chirelli reached into his suit pocket. His hand came out holding a short, wicked-looking knife.

  WHEN THE shooting started, Branson’s first thought was for Stephanie. He pulled her backward, the both of them nearly going down as her bound ankles caused her to overbalance. He half-dragged the girl to the back of the van, guiding her to a sitting position between the back bumper and the wall. He pulled at the duct tape around her mouth, but it stubbornly resisted him. He heard the
motor of the sedan start.

  “Wait,” a voice called out and he saw his uncle Rafe pop up on the other side of the car. The driver gunned the engine and the tires squealed as the driver popped the clutch. “Wait,” Uncle Rafe said again, his voice high and terrified. As the sedan began moving, Branson saw Uncle Rafe throw himself onto the trunk, holding on for dear life as the back part of the car disappeared from his view. There was a shout and a sickening crunch as the vehicle struck someone. He stole a glance around the corner of the van to see.

  The first thing he saw was Uncle Rafe’s headlamp. It had fallen to the floor, the light still on, illuminating what looked like a rain of gems falling and bouncing on the concrete. It was a strange and beautiful sight, but what caught his attention was L.B. Gordon’s straight razor lying where he’d dropped it. Bran scuttled out from behind the van, grabbed the razor, and scuttled back. He saw Stephanie’s eyes widen as he opened up the blade.

  “Hold still,” he whispered as he gently cut the duct tape away from her wrists. “This may hurt a little,” he said when he began cutting the tape away from her mouth. “A lot of it’s stuck to your hair, and I can’t…” He was interrupted when the tape fell from her mouth and she quickly grabbed him and kissed him, hard. She broke the kiss and looked into his startled eyes.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Um….” he said. “I’m sorry I got you into this…” Before he could say more, she kissed him again. This time when she broke the kiss, all he said was “You’re welcome.”

  “I know you did wrong,” she said, “and I know that’s why all this happened. But the first thing you did when the shooting started was put yourself between me and the guns. That was brave.”

  “Um…” he said again. She interrupted him. “Now hand me the razor so I can get this crap off my legs.”

  In a moment, she was free. They looked around, then walked over to where the light lay on the floor. Branson picked it up and put it on his head. He looked around.

  “Wow,” Stephanie said.

  Branson’s light played across the silver case. He walked over and picked it up.

  “What are you going to do?” Stephanie said.

  Branson thought for a moment. “I guess I’m going to give them back,” he said.

  “Really?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I keep these, I’ll be running for the rest of my life. And I don’t want to do that.” He picked her out of the darkness with the headlamp. “I want to spend that time with you.” He sighed. “When I get out of jail, that is.”

  She smiled. “I think I’d like that.” She came to him and hugged him. “I’ll even come to visit you. Maybe even bake you a cake with a file in it.” Then she looked thoughtful. “You know,” she said, “I have an idea.”

  “CHUNK!” ZOE cried out in alarm. Chunk turned back, using the momentum of the turn to add power to the punch that connected solidly with Chirelli’s jaw and laid him out on the pavement, unconscious.

  “Then again,” Zoe said, “sometimes the old ways are the best.”

  “True,” Chunk said.

  “But really, Chunk…‘ride the lightning’?”

  “What? Too much?”

  She shook her head. “We are really going to need to work on your improv.”

  “Buy me lessons for Christmas,” he suggested.

  “Deal.”

  A pair of headlights swept across them, throwing shadows across the warehouse floor. Chunk turned to see the white van moving toward the door. He jumped up and began running toward it, gun out. “HOLD IT!” he shouted. The van didn’t stop, but continued on its way. Chunk caught a glimpse of Branson’s face, grim and determined behind the wheel, before the van exited the door and was gone.

  “Damn it,” he muttered.

  “Chunk,” Zoe said. “Look.” She had picked up one of the fallen flashlights and was playing it across the floor. The jewels from the Fantasy Bra threw the light in a hundred directions.

  “They left the loot,” Chunk said.

  Zoe reached into her pocket and pulled out a stick of gum, which she unwrapped and popped into her mouth. “They?”

  Chunk looked around. “It’s a pretty good bet he took Stephanie with him.”

  “So do we go after them?”

  He considered for a moment, then shook his head. “No. Leave it. We’ve got the jewels.”

  She blew a bubble and popped it. “All of them, you think?”

  “Gane sold some, remember. So…”

  Zoe smiled. “I guess we’ll never know where all of them went, will we?”

  RICKY VANDELLA was a panicked animal as he exited the building, looking only for a place to run or a place to hide. He spotted the two limousines and decided that they would do nicely for either purpose. He yanked the driver’s door open on the first one and slid into the driver’s seat. When he saw the dark-haired younger mobster come out of the building, gun drawn, he squeaked with alarm and ducked down as far as he could. He heard another engine roaring past and popped his head up to see was happening. He saw Hermione Starr and the dark-haired young man facing off and decided to seize what might be his one chance. As he sat up and prepared to turn the key, he heard the sharp report of a gun. The sound caused him to duck back down again, like a prairie dog spooked by a circling hawk. When he sat back up again, the dark-haired man was on the ground, the woman standing over him.

  This time, he didn’t hesitate. He fired up the engine, slammed the car into gear, and took off. As he screeched out of the gate, he saw the pudgy man who’d been in the line of people inside the warehouse. The man was limping along the road, holding his thumb out. “Sod off,” Ricky muttered as he accelerated away. He was looking back in his rearview mirror at the hitchhiker, just before reaching the intersection with the main road, which is why he nearly collided with the patrol car headed in the opposite direction, its lights flashing.

  “Bloody hell!” Ricky yelled, swerving at the last minute and fishtailing back and forth. The police car slammed on brakes, reversed, and did a fast three-point turn to pursue him. The siren blared. Ricky had never been so glad to see a copper in his life. He pulled the limo over. Hands shaking, he rolled down the window. “Jesus, Officer,” he said, “Am I ever…”

  “OUT OF THE CAR!” a harsh voice shouted. A uniformed policeman was approaching, gun drawn. “OUT OF THE CAR!” he yelled again. “HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!”

  Ricky leaned out of the window. “No, wait,” he said, “I just got away from…” His words were interrupted as a large beefy hand grabbed the back of his collar and dragged him bodily out of the window. The air left his body as he crashed to the ground. “Hey,” he said weakly, then cried out in pain as his hands were wrenched behind his back and his wrists fastened together. When his hands were secured behind him, he was yanked to his feet.

  “You’re going to regret that, mate,” Ricky said, trying to summon up his bravado. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Shut up,” the officer said. He was a big man, over six feet, and broad. Good god, Ricky thought, what the hell do they feed people over here?

  “Look,” he said, “I’m fleeing for my life here…”

  “I said shut up, asshole,” the officer said. He patted Ricky down quickly. When he was done, he turned Ricky around to face him. “We had a report of shots fired. You know anything about that?”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to explain to you, you twat!” Ricky said. “I’ve been the victim of a…”

  Again he was interrupted, this time by a thumping sound coming from the trunk. It sounded like someone trying to get out. The officer shoved Ricky over, then reached in and took the keys out of the car. He grabbed Ricky by the collar and marched him to the back. In a moment the trunk was open. Ricky goggled in amazement at the sight of Clarissa Cartwright, bound, her mouth duct-taped shut, glaring furiously up at them from the confines of the trunk.

  “Can you explain that?” the officer said.

  Ricky recovered
himself. “Indeed I can,” he said.

  “COMING UP on Entertainment Tonight,” the perky blond anchor said, “our exclusive interview with comedian Ricky Vandella, who went overnight from zero to hero when he was wounded during the courageous rescue of kidnapped supermodel Clarissa Cartwright.”

  The picture cut to a clip of Vandella, his arm still in a sling, looking sincere. “I never really thought what I was doing was ‘heroic.’” He tried to make air quotes with one hand, and failed. “I was just doin’ what any other bloke might’ve done, if, you know, he had the nerve, which most blokes don’t.”

  “God damn it,” Chunk muttered at the iPad screen in his hand.

  “Charles,” Hermione Starr said from the seat next to him, “put that silly thing away. We’re on vacation.”

  “After all that,” Chunk said, “that little shit is the one they’re calling a ‘hero.’ And when the hell did he get ‘wounded’?”

  She put her own tablet down. “I think he sprained his arm when the police yanked him out of the limo. But there’s no sense in letting it make you crazy. Now just relax, will you? We’ve got a solid week ahead of us of sunlight, beautiful water, and strong drinks with little umbrellas in them. Or, in your case, beer. Umbrella optional.”

  He sighed and shut the device off, then slid it into a pocket in his carry-on luggage. He looked out the window of the airport gate’s departure area. “Looks like our plane’s in.”

  As if to confirm, a voice came over the intercom. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, in a few minutes we’ll be boarding United Flight 337 nonstop to L.F. Wade International Airport, Bermuda. We’ll be pre-boarding customers with disabilities, uniformed military personnel…” Chunk tuned the voice out.

  “So,” Hermione said. “Have you considered my proposition?” He raised an eyebrow at her. She punched him lightly on the arm in mock exasperation. “The business proposition, smart-ass. I know your answer to the other one.”