by Chris Lowry
Ron stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around her torso. She picked up her grimy shorts and filthy shirt and examined them, wrinkling her nose. She washed them in the sink and carried them out to the back porch to hang on the rail.
Brill opened one eye to examine her in the towel.
“I don’t have anything else to wear.”
“Back bedroom closet. Top shelf.”
She watched him for a second, then moved inside. Moments later she reappeared dressed in baggy shorts and a faded tee shirt. She carried a bowl of warm water and two rags over to him.
“Sure you don’t want a shower?”
He shook his head.
“I’m going to clean you up.”
She knelt in front of him, wet the rag and gently dabbed the dirt and caked blood on his shoulder. He flinched.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Don’t worry about it.”
He watched her as she wiped his chest, his stomach, his face.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome.”
The front door opened and he tensed. She could feel him coil under her fingers.
“It’s Dana,” she said and pushed him back into the chair.
She watched Dana move into the kitchen and kept wiping his shoulder and arms. Dana walked out with two beers in one hand, swigged an open one with the other.
“Ice cold,” she said as she held a bottle out to him.
It exploded. She screamed.
Brill erupted from the chair. He shoved Ron down, flipped the chair over her for protection and pushed Dana behind the thin porch rail. He rushed into the house.
Bullets tracked him as he ran, spitting through the wall in puffs of splintered wood. The windows shattered, covering the floor with broken glass.
Brill grabbed a pistol and nestled in next to the fireplace. He checked the clip. The front and back doors were open, swinging in the wind.
He dropped to the floor and crawled to a back window. He left a smear of blood across the hardwood from his shoulder and freshly shredded feet and arms.
“Ron?” he whispered.
She whimpered.
“Are you hit?”
She peeked over the edge of the window sill.
“Get down,” he warned.
Her head moved toward the middle of the window frame. A feminine hand pressed a silenced .22 pistol against the side of her head. Maddie peeked around the edge and hid.
“Sweetheart.”
“Madeline,” said Brill.
“Darling, you look like shit.”
“It hurts worse than it looks.”
“Are you going to shoot me?” she teased.
“The thought has crossed my mind.”
“We’re coming in,” said Maddie.
She used Ron as a shield and led her through the open back door. She was good. She kept her torso and legs hidden behind Ron’s body and used her bunched up tee shirt to steer.
“If we’re in Mexico, do they just call this a stand off?” asked Maddie.
Brill kept the pistol aimed in her direction, but his eyes roamed toward the front door.
“You’re not alone.”
Maddie smiled.
The front door creaked. Brill uncoiled and launched across the room, twisted and spinning.
Maddie tracked him with her gun, fired off a shot.
Ron slammed an elbow into her captor’s gut, bashed the back of her head into Maddie’s nose. She jerked the pistol away and skittered after it. She scooped up the pistol and fired three rounds through the front door. There’s on one in the doorway.
Brill leaned against the wall, blood leaking on the floor. Ron started to crawl across the floor to him.
“Stay,” he said.
Maddie snuffled blood and spat.
“Almost like you had that planned, Darling.”
Ron aimed a pistol at her.
“Do you know how many jobs I did by myself?” Maddie ignored the threat. “But not for you love. I learned that lesson.”
“Shadowboxer, we have your friend.”
Brill reacted to the voice like he’d been sliced with a knife. He stared at the empty doorway.
Maddie laughed.
“Dana’s dead,” said Ron. “They can’t have her.”
“He means you, idiot,” Maddie giggled. “They have you in their sights.”
Ron looked over at Brill. He nodded. She dropped the pistol and raised her hands.
“Want to trade,” said Brill. “She walks, I stay.”
Maddie stumbled over and picked up her gun. She kicked Ron in the stomach.
“But Darling, we have you both.”
Wallace leaned in the front door, Foster stepped in the back. All three pistols aimed at Brill.
“You have to be wondering to yourself. Can I hit all three? That’s what I would be thinking,” Wallace grinned.
“Shut up,” warned Foster.
“I mean, you could get me, maybe her. But all three?”
“Quiet,” Foster said again. “Do it with dignity.”
Brill locked eyes with him. Foster had been his mentor once. Now his teacher was standing in front of him ready to shoot. Brill felt a pang in his stomach.
“I’ve seen those eyes before,” Maddie laughed.
Bam.
Wallace shot Foster. He flipped his aim toward Brill only to find a gun aimed at him. His eyes grew wide as he realized he shot the wrong one first. Brill popped a hole in his forehead. Wallace flopped out of the doorway.
Maddie jumped on Brill, riding him down, her knee jammed into his injured shoulder. She punched away his gun, jammed her pistol into his forehead.
“I did love you,” she clucked. “But I’m better.”
A hole exploded in her chest and sprayed gore all over his head. Maddie slumped across him. He shoved the body aside and sat up.
Ron stood in the kitchen next to Foster, his pistol in her trembling hands. She stumbled toward Brill.
“I thought you said this place was safe.”
“It was.”
“Safe house,” she said. “It’s in the name.”
Brill looked around at the carnage. Four bodies, if you counted Dana on the back porch. One of them half out of the open front door. There were no police local, not really, but a militia operated just outside of town. They would be coming, and they might not ask questions. Frontier justice still worked out here.
“It used to be.”
“Why did he shoot him? I thought they were partners.”
“CIA. Mole. Half a million for Foster, half a million for me.”
“How could you know that?”
Brill nodded toward Wallace.
“I met him once. Long time ago.”
She helped him up off the floor.
“We need to go,” she said.
“Get our gear. Pull the bodies inside,” he instructed as he limped down the hall.
“What are you going to do?”
“Shower,” he indicated the gunk splattered across his chest and disappeared inside the bathroom.
Ten minutes later, the Jeep puttered down the road as two SUV’s full of militia raced in the direction of the surf shack.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
The battered Jeep sat in rush hour traffic on the Interstate. A sign up ahead read San Diego. Brill sat in the passenger seat, alert, eyes scanning the snarl of cars. The bandages on his chest are fresh, but his clothes are still dirty from the run through the jungle.
Ron gripped the wheel in both hands.
“You know, you never told me your name,” she said.
“Brill,” he held out a hand and they shook. “Brill Wingfield.”
Ron spied an exit up ahead and pulled on to the shoulder. She passed up the cars and took the ramp, heading toward the desert East of the city.
“Where are we going?” Brill asked.
“I know a shortcut.”
They drove in silence for twenty minutes, a
nd Ron turned left onto a dusty empty road.
“Do you know what I did in college for a little while?” she asked.
“Revolutionary archaeologist, so I’m guessing political science.”
“Acting,” she smiled. “I’ve always been fascinated by actors.”
“Does that come in handy during a revolution?”
“All of the time,” she said. “But revolution is not my main game.”
Brill sat up in his seat and watched her.
“Archeology,” he said.
She pulled the Jeep over.
“I studied out here once, in this general vicinity. Did you know there are entire villages still hidden under the sand?”
She turned to face him.
“You are the most amazing creature I’ve seen in action.”
“Thank you,” he said.
She leaned over and kissed him with a light peck.
“Shelby told me to expect it. And I’d get two million if you die in the US.”
Brill shoved her back. Ron lifted a pistol and shot him twice. He tumbled backwards out of the Jeep and plopped in the sifting desert sand. He didn’t move.
“I told him to get his money ready,” she said. “I’m a great actress.”
Ron dropped the Jeep in gear and peeled out in a spray of sand. She pulled a U-turn and raced back toward the direction of the freeway.
THE END
● Thank you for taking the time to read SHADOWBOXER. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend and much appreciated. Thank you. Chris.
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DECREED
He couldn't remember how he got there. He woke up in a hospital, tubes connected to every part of him. He could hear the steady beep beep beep his heart made on the monitor. He kept his eyes closed and listened for sound.
The EKG told him he was in a hospital so he sought out voices. English. People were speaking English in the hall outside of his door. America.
His chest hurt and he remembered being shot.
A nurse bustled in and grabbed his chart.
“We've been waiting for you to wake up,” she said as she scribbled on the clipboard.
He cracked open an eye and winced at the light through the window. He was in a double room, but the other bed was empty. He was right, tubes were everywhere, even his throat.
He fought back a gag reflex.
“Let me get that,” she said and helped remove it.
He coughed and she held up a small glass of water with a straw.
“Your throat is going to hurt for awhile,” she said. “You've been intubated for about two weeks.”
He tried to move his legs and arms, test the muscles. His left wrist was handcuffed to the bed.
The nurse heard it jingle.
“Yeah, the police want to talk to you. They have to with every gunshot victim we get. Do you remember what happened to you?”
He shook his head.
But he did.
Veronika. Ron. Pulled a con to get him back to America and pulled a trigger in the desert outside of San Diego.
He liked her too, which made the con even easier. Now he would have to find her and repay the favor.
“I have to call San Diego PD. You just rest. They should be here in a couple of hours.”
She pushed the call button into his right hand.
“Call if you need anything. The doctor will stop by on his rounds and when he clears you, we can get you some food.”
His stomach rumbled as if it heard her. She smiled and patted his arm. He pointed at the water and motioned to his mouth.
She leaned in so he could sip down a whole cup again.
While she was distracted, he lifted a pen from her pocket and nodded as she left.
He couldn't hang around for cops. He wasn't wanted in the U.S., but they would ask a lot of questions.
He didn't want to answer them.
He began a series of tensing and releasing muscles, starting with his toes. It was something he had learned a long time ago, a meditative practice. He hadn't been in the States in over a decade, so he wouldn't have any contacts here.
Getting around was going to be difficult.
Still it was what he was trained to do, just like the recovery meditation. He couldn't worry about it, just solve the problems as they happen.
That was the simplest way to approach any obstacle, especially if the odds seemed overwhelming. Break it down into steps, solve the first step, move on. Once you solve enough steps, the obstacle is gone.
He needed to get out of the hospital, figure out where he was, and find food and shelter.
First problem, get out of bed.
He dropped the call button and screwed the top off the pen. He picked the handcuff lock and slid his wrist free.
Then he started pulling tubes, taking his time to make sure nothing was too vital or leaked too much as he slid them free. A few drops of blood from the vein, and painful drips of urine from the catheter.
He pulled himself up in bed, fought the dizziness and reached out to turn off the alarm on the heart monitor.
Brill rolled his legs out of bed and struggled to stand.
It took a minute to remember how to balance as the pins and needles attacked. He stood rock still as his muscles cramped and screamed, and ignored the pain.
He took a tentative step, then another, holding on to the edge of the bed with his hand. His chest ached from the bullet wound, and nausea washed over him. He breathed through his nose, out through his mouth and willed the pain away.
He dragged the cart with him as he checked the small closet. There was a bag with his fake id and no cash in it, but his clothes were gone. All he had was the hospital gown.
Brill limped over to the door and peeked through. The hospital corridor wasn't very busy, and he couldn't discern a pattern with the nurses as they moved from the station to check in rooms.
There were three of them, plus the nurse who had checked on him. He waited until the station was empty and they were occupied with a patient and started out into the hall.
The EKG cart hauled him short. It was plugged into the wall.
He held a breath and yanked the leads off his chest. If the alarm went off, the nurses could force him back into the bed, and restrain him until the cops showed up.
The alarm didn't go off on his monitor, though a beeping began at the nurses station. He rolled the machine back into his room with a shove.
He didn't have time to waste.
He ambled down the hall, one hand trailing along the wall until he hit a corner and turned into another corridor. He spied the stairway exit and hit the door.
He went down one floor and glanced out into the hallway.
He didn't know the layout, but he needed to find clothes and a way out before the nurses raised too much of an alarm. He needed a distraction.
A fire alarm would do nicely, but he couldn't see one on the wall. No doubt he wasn't the first patient with a penchant for mayhem.
He moved up the hallway, getting a little bit faster with each step. He was still weak, and his stomach cramped reminding him he had lived on glucose for a few weeks. He needed food.
He glanced into the first room he found. There was a man sleeping in the bed, hooked up to an EKG machine, just as he had been. Brill padded over to his bed. There was an emergency button on the wall for codes. Brill slammed his hand into them all, grabbed the leads off the man and hurried back into the hall.
Alarms were beeping in the room and at the nurses station. He watched a group of nurses and a doctor run down the hall and into the room.
He limped down the corridor as fast as he could. There was a Doctor's lounge sign down one hall. He bumped the door open slowly. It was empty.
He grabbed a pair of scrub pants off the shelf and shimmied into them, and a scrub top. There were still no shoes and bare feet would attract attention but he would deal with that
later.
He pawed through the lockers, stopping to yank on a couple of padlocks. One was partially closed and popped open. He tore through the locker and found a wallet. He lifted the cash and a credit card, and held the shoes up to the bottom of his feet. No luck.
He put the lock back on the locker and clicked it closed.
Brill still had to get out of the hospital and the nurses would have noticed him gone by now. He wasn't sure of the lockdown protocol but the place was sure to have security and he didn't want to kill anyone in his escape if he could avoid it.
He moved into the hallway and marched down to the stairwell on the opposite end of the building. Moving still hurt, but he was used to pain.
He took the stairs slowly, gripping the rail for balance. He made it to the bottom and shoved open the fire door.
The alarm let everyone know someone left by that door.
By the time security investigated all they found was an empty alleyway.
CHAPTER
First things first. That was the philosophy he was taught so many years ago. He was wounded. He needed a place to hide, a place to rest, and heal. And he needed to stay off radar to do it.
In Africa, he could find a fixer, and in Europe the ghettos were full of refugees that had been medically trained in their home country, but couldn't get licensed in the Western world.
He tried to remember if it was the same in America.
He trudged down the street, holding his side with one arm across his stomach. Trying to look like a man nursing a hangover instead of bullet wounds.
Brill figured the doctors at the hospital had done the heavy lifting. Removed the slugs. Stiched veins and tucked in whatever else was inside of him that needed tucking.
What he needed was an EMT or someone who could monitor the healing, at least long enough for him to reach ninety percent.
He'd settle for eighty.
First things first. Find a doctor.
Hospitals were out. Clinics were out. Law required them to report gunshot wounds and he was sure they would get an APB out on him sometime.
That meant changing the way he looked too.
Not an easy task, but he took what money he had and trudged into a thrift shop.
A pair of pants, a couple of bulky shirts, and a hat later, he limped out looking like a whole new man.