Wrecked

by Joe Ide

  A buzzer sounded. Someone was at the front door. Alarm flashed on everyone’s faces. “Think it’s Walczak?” Owens said.

  “No, he’s got a key card,” Jimenez said. “Stay here. If they make a sound, beat the shit out of ’em.”

  Jimenez and Hawkins hurried down the hall, guns held at their sides. Behind the front desk in reception, there was a row of security monitors. Standing under the bug light at the front door was a cop in uniform. He looked legit, his squad car parked behind him.

  “The fuck?” Hawkins said. “What’s a cop doing out here?”

  “I got this,” Jimenez said. He stuck his gun into the back of his pants. He opened the door, Hawkins standing off to one side. “Hello, Officer. Anything wrong?” Jimenez said.

  “Sorry to bother you, sir,” the cop said in that flat, I-ain’t-sorry-about-shit tone of voice. “Someone heard screaming coming from this location. Do you mind if I look around?”

  “Someone heard screaming? From here? Not possible.”

  “But I’d still like to look around.”

  “Sorry. You need a warrant.”

  “No, sir, I don’t. Exigent circumstances. Will you please move aside?”

  “What exigent circumstances? That’s bullshit.”

  “I told you, sir,” the cop said, a warning in his voice. “Someone heard screaming at this location.”

  Jimenez looked past the officer into the darkness. “Someone like who?” he said, going falsetto. “There was no scream, the walls are made out of cinder blocks. This is bullshit. Who are you?”

  “Officer Carter Samuels. Long Beach Police Department.”

  “Who’s your commanding officer?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” the cop said. “The fact is, I’m your commanding officer and I’m commanding you to step aside or go to jail.”

  When the buzzer sounded, the Latino guy and the black guy came out of the break room and headed toward reception. Isaiah and the others moved to the open door. Isaiah got out the Snooper. It was a child’s periscope. He carefully extended one end so he could see into the break room. The tall woman was standing at a table, smiling as she divided the money into three neat piles, a gun resting next to them. Sarah and Arthur were on the floor.

  “What’s a third of a million?” she said. “Three hundred and thirty thousand and change? That’s a helluva lot of money.”

  “So is a million,” Arthur said in a croaky whisper.

  “What?”

  “Blackmailing your boss might work, but it might not. That’s cash in hand.” He paused, his face twisted in pain. “You saw how they cut the other guy out. Why wouldn’t they do the same to you?” The woman looked at him.

  “Shut up,” she said, and went back to dividing the money.

  The first person through the door was the likeliest to get shot and Dodson had a family. Isaiah gave him the collapsible baton and took the slingshot. “Come in behind me. Fast.” Dodson made a face like this was the stupidest thing ever. Grace was eager to get into it, holding both triggers of the flamethrower. She looked silly, like a kid playing Star Wars.

  Isaiah would only get one shot. He got a firm grip on the slingshot’s handle, put a ball bearing in the leather pocket, and stretched the bands back as far as they would go. He took a breath and stepped quickly into the doorway. He locked eyes with the woman. She reached for her gun. Isaiah fired. The ball bearing hit her in the chest. She cried out, grabbed her breast but still managed to pick up the gun. Before she could raise it, Dodson slipped past Isaiah and cracked her over the head with the collapsible baton. “Down for the count,” he said. “Shit, I shouldn’t have hit her so hard.”

  Grace dropped the flamethrower on the floor and rushed over to Sarah. She got down on her knees and hugged her. “Mom,” she said.

  “Oh my sweet girl,” Sarah said.

  “Hurry,” Isaiah said. Grace used the wire cutter to cut the zip ties. She and Sarah helped Arthur to his feet, his arms around their shoulders. They went into the hall and hurried back the way they came. They turned a corner just as Porkpie hobbled out of a doorway.

  “Hey!” he said. He went for the gun in his shoulder holster, the group scattering in different directions. He fired. BLAM BLAM BLAM!

  Jimenez was still arguing with the cop when they heard the gunshots. The cop went for his weapon, but Jimenez hit him with a roundhouse punch, all his weight behind it, knocking him back onto his squad car. He slumped to the ground, out cold. Jimenez and Hawkins ran back down the hall and into the break room. Sarah and Arthur were gone. Owens was lying on the floor, a huge lump on her head, blood running into her eyes. At least the money was still there.

  “What a fucking idiot,” Jimenez said.

  The two men went back into the hall. Jimenez found the light switch and turned it on. It looked like a high school in a horror movie. A long empty corridor of speckled gray linoleum that looked vaguely green in the harsh fluorescents.

  From somewhere they heard Richter shout, “They got loose. I’ll cover the back door!” Without a word, Jimenez went left, Hawkins went right.

  When Porkpie started shooting, Isaiah darted into a short hallway. He turned through a door into a rec room, then through a lounge and into a locker room. It was humid, smelling of wet towels and B.O. He hesitated. What was he trying to do here? Escape or take the guy out? Take him out and he was one less threat to Grace and the others. But he had to do it soon, before he ran into another member of the crew. He heard his pursuer coming. The damp air made him sweat. He looked for an ambush point that wasn’t obvious. Nothing here. He cut down an aisle just as the lights came on. He had to get far enough ahead of the guy so he could set something up. He banged a locker closed and pushed over a bench to make the guy think he was taking a position and slow him down.

  He went into the weight room. He couldn’t run forever, and this was as good a place as any to try something. He got out the multitool Marcus had always carried with him, like a Swiss Army knife but more industrial. He quickly removed the light switch wall plate and snipped a few wires.

  The room was L-shaped. There was nothing in the short end but chairs, a coffee table, and a sofa. He reached the corner and looked down the long end of the L. He could barely make things out in the dark. On the left was a loose herd of weight-training machines and benches for free weights. On the right, a long mirror for the weight lifters to preen themselves in and racks of dumbbells. Just past the mirror were rows of stationary bikes lined up like a cavalry charge. Beyond them, at the very end of the room, a red exit sign. In between, there were lots of hiding places, but his pursuer was a pro. He was a trained marksman with better-than-average reflexes and he’d know how to clear a room. Isaiah picked up a fifteen-pound dumbbell, went to the bikes, and hung his Harvard cap on a handlebar. He ran out the far exit, circled around through another room, and got back to the hallway. He wouldn’t be able to see the pursuer and the slightest peek might give him away. He had to visualize the man’s moves and figure out how much time they would take.

  He heard his pursuer’s boots treading lightly on the linoleum and then going silent. The man had entered the weight room. Isaiah waited for the pursuer’s eyes to adjust. Five seconds. Thousand one, thousand two, thousand three, thousand four, thousand five. Another ten seconds for him to reach the corner of the L…thousand eight, nine, ten. Isaiah crept to the weight room entrance and took his first peek. The Latino man was just turning the corner into the long end of the L and out of view. Isaiah moved to the corner. He was behind his pursuer now but couldn’t attack because he might be seen in the mirror. If he’d calculated correctly, the pursuer was creeping through the herd of machines. Fifteen seconds until he reached the bikes…thousand ten, eleven, twelve. Was he doing what he was supposed to do or had he stopped to watch for motion? Isaiah peeked but couldn’t see him because of the dark…thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. The Latino man was seeing the Harvard cap now and realizing it was a decoy. He was crouching, knees bent, swiveling the g
un, back and forth.

  Go now, Isaiah!

  Isaiah took off, running. The Latino man heard him and started to turn around, hard to do hunched over like that. Isaiah saw the man’s snarling eyes and the gun rising as he raised the dumbbell over his head.

  Grace and Sarah helped Arthur down a hallway. He was suffering from the beating and was bleeding profusely from his ear. His arms were draped around the women like iron yokes. “You should go on without me,” he said. “I’ll be okay. I’m a tough son of a bitch. I’ll be fine.”

  “Sweetheart,” Sarah said. “You have to shut up now.”

  They entered the mess hall. Rows of long tables and metal chairs. No place to hide here. Arthur was near collapse.

  “We’ve got to make a stand,” Grace said. The women helped him across the room, through the swinging door, and into the industrial kitchen. “It’s here or nothing.”

  “Then it’s nothing,” Arthur said. “You’ll get shot before you get within twenty feet of him. Stop being foolish! If you stay there’ll be three dead people instead of one.”

  “I’m not leaving without you,” Sarah said, adamant.

  “And I’m not leaving without you,” Grace said.

  Arthur said to Sarah, “If you stay, you’re condemning your daughter to death. Is that what you want?”

  “I won’t leave you, Arthur.” She looked at her daughter, tears flowing down her cheeks. “But you have to go, my darling. For me.”

  This is too easy, Hawkins thought, following the blood trail like Hansel and Gretel followed those cookie crumbs or gumdrops or whatever the fuck they were. He entered the mess hall and turned on the lights. He never understood why the cops in the movies didn’t do that when they were clearing a room. It looked cool with the gun-mounted flashlights shining around in the dark but it was still stupid.

  There was no place to hide here so they had to be in the kitchen. A good place for an ambush if it wasn’t for the Glock and the seventeen-round clip he was packing and his eleven years of soldiering. He had a knack for picking off snipers. Thought they were slick, aiming their guns between the curtains or popping out of a doorway or aiming down from a rooftop or hiding behind a burned-out car. The trick was anticipation. Knowing in advance where they’d come from and how. Sometimes he aimed at a spot before the motherfucker even showed himself, the asshole surprised as hell when the bullet exploded in his head before he could pull the trigger.

  Hawkins kicked open the kitchen door just in case somebody was hiding behind it like a moron. He stepped inside and turned on the lights. A long stainless steel counter ran down the middle of the room, pots and pans hanging over it. There was no need to worry about Arthur, he was too banged up to do anything. The women would have to be shot in the foot or better yet punched in the face. He couldn’t believe Grace let a goddamn pit bull maul Walczak. The bitch had a mean streak.

  Hawkins jumped on top of the counter so he could see the whole space. Weren’t expecting that, were you, rookies? At least they weren’t crouched behind a box of broccoli or curled up on top of the fridge. On his left were the kitchen pass-through, the steam table, and an aisle where the food servers stood. Nowhere to take cover unless it was under the counter he was standing on. He hopped down on the right side. Now the counter was to his left, the stoves, fridge, and prep stations on his right. There was a big splotch of blood on the floor where they’d stood around making their battle plan, and there was the blood trail again leading directly to the walk-in cooler. The likeliest scenario? They’d set up some bullshit kind of trap. The blood was supposed to lure him into the cooler and somewhere along the way, Sarah would jump out of a microwave and hit him with a cast iron frying pan. The odds of that working were exactly zero. Or they’d try the same thing in the cooler. Throw turnips at him or drown him in chili sauce. He heaved a condescending sigh. Okay, kiddies, here we go.

  He went down the aisle, ducking to look under the counter, then up again, opening oven doors with his foot, the gun following his eyes, aiming sharply at ambush points. He almost wanted to be attacked. He reached the end of the aisle. So they were hiding in the cooler. Given the amount of blood, they couldn’t drag Arthur any farther. The door was closed but these things had inside latches. He opened the door, staying behind it as he did. He waited and then swung around fast, crouched and aiming into the darkness. He reached around with his free hand and turned on the light. He saw what he expected to see, rows of tall shelves and boxes piled on top of boxes, an aisle down the middle. He moved a worktable to hold the door open. Then he got a tray full of silverware and dumped it on the floor. If anybody tried to close the door behind him he’d hear them and they’d be dead.

  He went inside, the gun going up, down, and side to side. No turnips or chili sauce. He kept going until there was only one more stand of shelves they could be hiding behind. He tossed a can of peas into the space, see if he could get a reaction. Then he heard Sarah say, “Please don’t hurt us.” And there they were, Sarah and Arthur huddled in a corner. “Please,” she said again. “We’ll do anything you say.”

  “You’re goddamn right you will,” Hawkins said. “Where’s Grace?”

  “She’s gone. Escaped.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I made her go. Why should she die too?”

  “Good point, but I still don’t believe you.”

  Hawkins made them get up, Sarah lifting Arthur by the arm. He groaned, still bleeding, hardly able to stay upright. Too bad, Hawkins thought. He was taking no chances, staying behind his prisoners as he marched them along to the break room. Owens was still lying on the floor facedown. “That is the most useless bitch ever,” Hawkins said, and in that moment, somebody came up behind and hit him with something made of cast iron. He heard a clonk!, felt his skull splinter. He fell to his knees, heard another clonk! And there was darkness.

  “You okay?” Grace said, putting down the heavy pan. She had left the kitchen through the back door, circled around, and gotten to the break room before they did.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” Sarah said, “but Arthur needs to go to the hospital.” He was half conscious and covered with blood. Sarah looked around for something to staunch the flow and found a napkin container. She took a handful out and held the wad tightly to Arthur’s ear. He groaned.

  “We can’t move him,” Grace said. “Wait here. I have to find Isaiah and Dodson.” She picked up the tall woman’s gun.

  “No, Grace, don’t—” Sarah said, but her daughter was already gone.

  Grace came out into the hallway holding the gun. It felt frightening and familiar at the same time. She wondered if she had the nerve to use it and decided she’d shoot whoever she had to. Anything for Isaiah and Dodson. She went the way she’d seen Isaiah go, into the short hallway. She went through a door and kept going until she reached a locker room, the lights still on. She entered the weight room. The wall plate was on the floor. Isaiah had been here. Was he still here? She hustled through the darkness, whispering, “Isaiah? Isaiah?” She saw a body on the floor. Abject horror gripped her chest, choking her heart and squeezing the blood out of her veins. She rushed over and knelt beside him. “No-no-no-no! Please no!” It was one of Walczak’s crew. She nearly wept with relief. She texted Isaiah and Dodson. Where are you? Are you okay? No answer. What the hell were they doing? Were they captured? Hurt? Dead? She hurried toward the exit sign.

  Owens woke up, groaning. The pain was mortar fire behind her swimming eyes, the bump on her head was the size of a plum. She was dizzy, confused. A concussion. She saw Sarah and Arthur huddled together on the floor, trying to make themselves small. Owens got up, shaky, blinking repeatedly. Her gun was gone. She saw Hawkins on the floor. His gun was gone too.

  “They’re going to cut you out,” Arthur rasped. He looked barely alive. “That’s what they said.”

  “What?”

  “The man there on the floor and the other one, the Latino. They’re going to cut you out just like they did the guy in the ha
t.”

  He was right, Owens thought. Why wouldn’t they? They’d shoot her and bury her under an outhouse. She scooped the money into the medical bags, staggered down the hallway, her shoulder against the wall, the urge to sleep overwhelming. There was no plan except to get the fuck out of there. She couldn’t see for the blood in her eyes. She wiped it off with her sleeve. She would go back home, she thought. See her parents and her brother, Wallace, and smell the cattle and feel the wind coming off the mountains. She reached reception and the front door and there was a goddamn cop lying on the ground. Oh shit, she thought. The police would get involved and if they found out she’d been in the building she was fucked. Her fingerprints, blood, and DNA were all over the place. Make a run for it? No. The FBI would be after her, her face on TV. She’d never get away, from them or from Walczak. What she was going to need was lawyers. Expensive lawyers. Walczak’s lawyers. No other option except to go back and help the troops. She took the cop’s gun, dropped the money bags in reception, and lurched into the hallway again. She could barely see and wanted to vomit but she kept going.

  Dodson had turned off the phone. The vibration was too loud in the echoing halls. He crouched and peeked around a corner. He could see Porkpie at a T-shaped intersection. You had to go through him to get to the back door. He looked like shit, leaning back against the wall, in pain, a gun in his shoulder holster. His pant leg was cut off, his leg bound with a mess of bloody gauze and white tape. Dodson’s plan was to rush him and hit him with the baton before he could get the gun out. Shouldn’t be too hard. The guy was overweight and could barely stay on his feet, and there was what, ten yards between them? Dodson was quick. In high school, he played point guard.