Centralia

by Mike Dellosso

  Before Peter reached the room, one of the gunmen emerged, eyes wild and mouth in a snarl, clutching Amy in his arm, the barrel of his handgun pressed against her temple.

  But there was only one. Did that mean Amy had shot and killed the other? What had Peter gotten her into? What had he done to her? She’d be the one needing counseling if they got out of this.

  Sweat poured from the man’s brow and wet his face. He gritted his teeth and said, “Put it down, Ryan! Now. Or she’s a goner.”

  Before Peter had time to weigh the potential consequences of his action, before he had time to argue with himself that Amy’s safety came first, before anyone had time to react, he pointed and squeezed. A single shot struck the man directly in the nose. He collapsed as quickly as if someone had cut off his legs at the knees, and the gun rattled to the concrete. Amy screamed and jumped back into the room.

  There were two left, plus those in the SUV by the entrance, idling quietly, hiding behind the vehicle’s tinted windows, waiting.

  From inside the room, another muffled gunshot pierced the evening air, and a bullet ricocheted off the exterior of the SUV. Amy had fired it.

  The two men behind the Tahoe shifted away from the room’s opening and returned fire. Amy shot again.

  Seeing his opportunity, Peter dropped the dead man from his arms and rushed the SUV, advancing on the men from behind. As he rounded the rear bumper, he met one of the gunmen head-on. They were close enough to shake hands. The man lifted his weapon to fire, but Peter was quicker, and before his opponent had a chance to squeeze the trigger and lodge a round deep in Peter’s skull, he shoved the guy’s arm to the side and simultaneously drove the palm of his hand into the man’s face, jamming upward on the nose. The gunman’s head snapped back as if a coiled spring had been released. Blood immediately oozed from his nose, and he stumbled back into his comrade. Peter lifted his own gun and squeezed off one, two shots, and that was all it took.

  Not waiting to see if the third Tahoe would awaken from its slumber, Peter made a dash for the motel room and shut the door.

  Inside the room, one of the gunmen lay on his back, his eyes blank and staring at the ceiling, jaw slack. A single hole just above his right eye oozed blood.

  Peter looked at Amy, who was crouched behind the bed and shaking. She clutched the handgun with both hands at chest level. “Did you do that?” Peter asked.

  She glanced at the body, then back to Peter. “He didn’t shoot himself.”

  Peter positioned himself so he could see out the front window but remain concealed by the curtain and wall. “We have one more vehicle. I don’t know how many are in it. It’s just sitting there.”

  “What are they waiting for?”

  “Us. Waiting to see what our next move is.”

  “What is it?”

  Keeping one finger hooked on the curtain so he could maintain a visual with the lone Tahoe, Peter scanned the parking lot, the road, the carnage outside the room’s door. The sky was almost black now; only a subtle glow of light remained above the treetops. More stars had appeared too, glistening in the evening sky, watching from above but totally oblivious to the violence that this parking lot had just seen. Peter’s heart still pounded, adrenaline-infused blood still surged through his arteries, but his stomach had twisted itself into a tight knot. He didn’t like killing. If he had at one time, it was a different Peter Ryan because this Peter Ryan, this man who was a foreigner to his own past, handled killing as well as he handled eating chicken gizzards. In the heat of battle, it seemed like some base instinct took over, and his combat skills went into full self-preservation mode. But in the aftermath, looking at the collection of casualties in the parking lot, he wondered who these men were when they weren’t being used as killing machines. Did they have wives who would grow ashen at the news? Children who would never again hear their father’s voice reading a bedtime story? The thought made Peter sick.

  God in heaven, forgive me. Deliver me from this evil.

  He immediately wondered where this impulse to pray had come from and, at the same time, marveled that he honestly felt the pressure lift. He still felt remorseful, yes, but somehow absolved as well.

  He took another look out the window. The Tahoe hadn’t moved, but its headlights seemed to glow brighter in the darkening night. “We need to get out of here.”

  Amy said, “I was hoping for something a little more specific than that.”

  No matter what they did now, the men in the Tahoe would see them and be ready to react. And the longer they waited, the greater the chance that more men with guns would arrive, this time coming in larger numbers and toting heavier weaponry. Only one option remained.

  “We need to make a run for it,” Peter said.

  They’d have to take one of the other Tahoes because the Accord was boxed in. And besides, if it came to a game of bumper cars, a Tahoe would hold up much better against another SUV than the smaller, lighter Honda. He hoped the keys were still in the ignition, waiting for a fast getaway.

  Amy stood and moved toward the door on rigid legs.

  “I’m sorry it came to this,” Peter said, nodding toward the dead gunman on the floor.

  Amy closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath.

  “Amy, we need to do this now.”

  She opened her eyes and nodded.

  “Give me your gun. I’m going to go first and cover you while you make a run for the nearest SUV. Get in the passenger side and start it. I’ll be right behind you.”

  The only time she’d be exposed was from the door to the front of the Accord. From there she would find cover from the Accord and then the Tahoe. If the men inside the distant Tahoe decided to show themselves and start throwing bullets, they wouldn’t have a clean shot at her. Peter hoped they wouldn’t have any shot.

  He put a hand on her shoulder. “Ready?”

  She swallowed hard. “Do I look like I’m ready?”

  “You can do this. Just stay low, behind the car. It’ll give you the cover you need. On the count of three.”

  Amy wrung her hands like she was trying to squeeze water out of an invisible dishrag and took another deep breath.

  “One. Two.”

  He slid in next to the door so as soon as she opened it, he could slip out and lay down fire on the Tahoe. It was a good thirty yards away.

  “Three.”

  Amy turned the knob and swung open the door.

  Peter stepped out, aiming both handguns at the black SUV and squeezing off rounds as he ran for the Accord, Amy right on his heels. He squatted behind the hood of the car and continued shooting.

  The Tahoe’s doors opened, but Peter couldn’t see how many men emerged. He thought it was two. Short bursts of gunfire echoed through the air, and rounds popped against the Tahoe at the rear of the Accord. Some of the rounds hit the motel’s facade, busted room five’s window, tore the wood molding to shreds.

  Peter ducked, trying to stay as low as possible, and made his way around the Accord to the other Tahoe’s driver’s side door. Amy was already in, the engine running. Another burst of gunfire came, as quick and sudden as thunder on a summer’s night. One round hit the top edge of the SUV’s rear window, shattering the glass.

  “Get down,” Peter yelled.

  Amy put her head between her knees and screamed.

  Peter threw the Tahoe into gear and stomped on the gas. Adrenaline surged through his veins like nitromethane. His heart sledgehammered against his sternum. Yanking the steering wheel to the right and laying down rubber on the asphalt, he just missed the beams supporting the motel’s second-story deck and made a tight U-turn in the parking lot. He wasn’t about to head directly at the other vehicle, not with the men sending so many rounds their way. The chances were too great that one would find its way into the cabin and ricochet around until it found a soft target. Instead he headed for the far end of the parking lot, intent on running over the ten yards of lawn and overgrown gardens and getting to the road that way.

/>   But the other Tahoe predicted his move and, with the gunmen already inside, was heading toward them, positioning to intercept Peter’s path.

  With no other course of action, Peter pressed the accelerator to the floor and, right before impacting the opposing SUV, spun the wheel to the right. His vehicle smashed into the rear quarter panel of the oncoming Tahoe and spun it around so the two slammed together in an odd metal-on-metal waltz, facing opposite directions, driver’s side against driver’s side.

  Not waiting for his opponent’s next move, Peter kept his foot on the gas while the Tahoe’s wheels clawed at the dirt. Finally the tires found traction, and the SUV jerked forward, bounced through the garden, and landed on the solid asphalt of the road.

  In the rearview mirror, no more than twenty yards behind them, the pursuing vehicle stuttered onto the road and spun its rear wheels, stirring up a cloud of smoke.

  Again the concussion of rapid gunfire cut through the air; rounds banged against the back of the Tahoe like leaden popcorn. One entered the cab and destroyed the rearview mirror.

  “Stay down,” Peter said to Amy. “We’ll get out of this.”

  “How?” She still had her head between her knees and now her hands covered her ears.

  Peter didn’t answer because he didn’t know. But they would get out of it. They had to. Karen and Lilly were waiting for him, and they were all that mattered now. Getting to them. Finding them. Hugging them again.

  A flash memory assaulted Peter’s mind.

  He’s in the passenger seat of a Humvee, bouncing over a desert road, stirring up a storm of dust.

  Shots pop off the vehicle’s armor, enter the cab, and ricochet around. Men holler, scream, curse, return fire. Someone’s been hit. Droplets of blood cover the inside of the windshield.

  It’s chaos. Utter chaos.

  Heading north, the road was lined with oaks and maples and pines; a mantle of darkness had descended on the forest. The Tahoe’s headlights cut a swath of light across the road and about twenty feet on either side. A gully ran along both shoulders, two feet deep and at least five feet wide. There was no hopping off the pavement this time like he’d done back in Indiana. Doing so would get them no farther than ten feet before the thick trunk of an ancient oak stopped them dead in their tracks.

  Ahead the road turned slightly to the left. Peter took it without slowing; the Tahoe handled well for an SUV and managed the curve with only minimal drift.

  Behind them the other Tahoe’s headlights grew larger in the side mirror. More gunshots erupted, and Peter could see the muzzle flash from the automatic weapon on the driver’s side. He instinctively ducked and swerved into the oncoming lane. The speedometer read sixty-five. He’d have to go faster, but the road was unfamiliar and the darkness now almost suffocating.

  He pressed the accelerator closer to the floor, but still the headlights behind them grew closer until the vehicle tapped their bumper—a monster with blazing eyes, nudging them, sniffing its prey, calculating its next attack.

  Seventy-five miles per hour. Undergrowth whizzed by in darkling blurs. Peter didn’t want to go much faster. To lose control and spin into the trees would mangle not only the Tahoe but its occupants as well.

  More shots cracked through the air. Peter’s Tahoe found a will of its own and lurched to the right and almost ran into the gully, but Peter was quick on the wheel and corrected course. One of the rounds had struck a tire. He couldn’t tell which one at first, but the vehicle kept wanting to pull. Then came the awful grinding sound of the rim on asphalt. The right rear tire had been shredded.

  Peter needed to make a decision. The Tahoe couldn’t last long on three tires, and it was only a matter of time before they shot out the other ones.

  He hit the gas hard; the SUV’s large engine whined and moaned and pulled the vehicle forward, putting some distance—at least four car lengths—between them and their pursuers.

  He said to Amy, “Sit back and put on your shoulder belt. And hang on.”

  They were approaching a slight bend in the road to the right. Midway through the curve, Peter cut the Tahoe’s headlights and took his foot off the gas. The lights behind him rounded the bend and approached rapidly. When they were merely two car lengths away, Peter mashed the brake. The antilock braking system kicked in, vibrating the pedal beneath his foot.

  Peter braced himself. This is crazy.

  Less than a second later, the oncoming vehicle met the Tahoe’s bumper. The impact was sudden and violent.

  Peter slammed against the seat as if it had broken loose from its anchor. Air squeezed from his lungs, and his head jerked violently. If he had been clubbed in the back of the head and tossed down a flight of stairs, he couldn’t have felt worse.

  For a second, maybe two, he forgot where he was and thought his Humvee had been struck by an improvised explosive device. He tried to speak, tried to produce sound from his vocal cords, but his lungs didn’t want to cooperate and take in air. Finally, though, the awareness of reality returned, and it didn’t take him long to get his bearings and regain his composure. Ignoring the throbbing in his neck and the relentless swirling sensation in his head, he checked Amy to make sure she was okay.

  “I’m fine,” she said, her voice shaky and weak. “Fine.”

  Peter unhooked his seat belt, opened the vehicle’s door, and nearly fell out of the cab. The odor of gasoline and burnt rubber was everywhere. Beneath the Tahoe, something ticked, ticked, ticked. His legs trembled, not willing to support his weight, but he pressed on. He had to. He had to finish this. As he moved, his head settled and cleared. One of the pursuing Tahoe’s headlamps was busted and the front end was crumpled like tissue paper, but the other headlamp was somehow still intact and emitted cloudy light around the scene of the accident.

  Peter assumed that since no bullets had flown his way, the occupants of the other Tahoe must be too injured to fire, unconscious, or dead. Sticking close to his vehicle, he slipped out the handgun that he’d tucked into the waistline of his pants, and in one fluid motion swung it forward and fired a string of shots at the Tahoe’s windshield.

  When he reached the driver’s side door, he yanked it open. The driver toppled out, his face blood-covered, his head swiveling on his neck like a ball on a string.

  Peter looked across the driver’s side to the passenger seat. Another gunmen was there, his body folded almost in half and wedged into the footwell. He too appeared dead.

  The back driver’s side door opened and a man, about six-two and built like a grizzly bear, eased out. His eyes were glassy, and he wobbled on his feet as if he were honey drunk. A large gash below his left eye oozed bright-red blood down his cheek. When he saw Peter, his eyes widened and he swiped at the blood, smearing it across his face to his ear. He looked from Tahoe to Tahoe, then to the dead driver on the road. His face twisted into an awful scowl as understanding dawned.

  Before Grizzly could go on the offensive, Peter struck him in the face with a fist, connecting just below the gash. The man stumbled back, grunted, and reached for his weapon, which was seated in a shoulder holster. Peter raised his weapon to fire, but nothing happened. He’d used all his rounds. Before Grizzly could aim and fire, Peter was there, delivering a quick kick to the man’s hand and dislodging the gun. It flew into the darkness and rattled across the asphalt.

  Seeing an opportunity that was never really there, the big man lunged for Peter, his eyes blazing, teeth gritted. His hands were like meat hooks.

  Peter sidestepped and delivered a blow to the man’s abdomen, but it didn’t even faze him. He turned and growled at Peter, bared his teeth and clenched his fists, and snorted like the angry bear he was.

  If Peter was going to survive this night, he needed to regain control of the confrontation. He stepped forward and jabbed at the man’s face. But Grizzly was surprisingly quick for his size, and his reaction time was sharpening by the second. He blocked Peter’s advance and threw a punch of his own. Peter deflected it. Another punch was
thrown, a large roundhouse that had lights-out written all over it. Peter deflected it as well. A third punch came at him. This time Peter not only deflected it but simultaneously stepped forward and drove his elbow into the man’s face.

  That one landed solidly, causing Grizzly to stagger backward, arms falling to his sides.

  Peter wasted not even a fraction of a second. He immediately followed that blow with another one, a sharp jab to the throat. That was followed by a battering ram to the abdomen, which succeeded in doubling the man over. From there all that was needed was a double-fisted hammer to the upper back, and Grizzly collapsed onto the road. He didn’t get back up.

  Breathing like he’d just run a hundred-yard sprint through six inches of mud, Peter put his hands on his hips and scanned the darkened perimeter, looking for any other gunmen. There had been four in each of the other vehicles; why would this one carry only three? His neck still ached, but there was no time to let that slow him. They needed to get out of there, get on another road, and find a place to lie low for the night.

  Amy leaned against the vehicle, tears streaming down her cheeks. She was shaking and sniffling, wringing her hands.

  Peter went to her. “Are you hurt?”

  She ran a fist across her cheek, then held up a quivering hand and said, “Look at me. I’m a wreck.”

  “It’s okay,” Peter said. He put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s fine. We’re all right. We’ll be okay.”

  Amy shook her head. “No. It’s not all right.” Her eyes met his, and in hers he found sorrow so deep one could drown in it. And fear. Such fear. “Peter, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was going to come to this. I didn’t know you’d come to me. I had no idea they’d go this far.” She was rambling, jumbling her words together as if she knew she needed to release them in a torrent while she had the chance—and the will.

  “Whoa, slow down. What are you talking about?”

  Amy drew in a long, stuttered breath and exhaled through pursed lips. She wiped at her tears again and shook her head. “Things aren’t what they seem. They’re not what you think. It’s all been an act.”