Powder Trade (Black Magic Outlaw Book 4)

by Domino Finn

  I stepped toward them. "Put the bag down."

  The Columbian kid heaved his bag at Veselovsky. The Russian sensed the same trouble I did. He did his best to bat it down and raise his rifle. Good instinct, but too slow. The kid's shotgun came up and blasted him in the stomach.

  My Uzi was firing before Veselovsky buckled to the ground. The kid jerked as if being electrocuted as I riddled him with holes.

  Meanwhile, the old man wrapped an arm around the Honduran with the bag and raised a pistol at our driver, stuck in the kill zone between cars. The poor guy didn't even realize anything was going down when his head ruptured like an egg.

  The Columbian driver was making his move too. He raised a machine pistol and rolled around the front of the car, simultaneously spraying the other Russian while breaking line of sight with me. The Russian took some lead. There was no opportunity to move around the far side of the van so he dove toward the Camino for quick-and-dirty cover.

  Manolo had his gun on the old man, but hesitated. He didn't want to hit our guy who was a body shield. But that hesitation was gonna cost him. The old man raised his large pistol.

  "Watch out!" I shouted.

  I called on the shadow, feeling the Intrinsics coursing through my arm around the spiked dog collar on my wrist. The spellcraft fetish wasn't necessary, but every bit helped. A slither of shadow materialized from under the van and yanked the old man's feet. He fired the bullet with Manolo's name on it. It went wide and exploded into the concrete ceiling. Both the man and his hostage fell to the floor, but the Honduran rolled away.

  Manolo emptied half his magazine into the Columbian boss.

  You'd think things were turning our way, but the popped trunk of the Camino swung up. Another Columbian jumped out. Mean-looking guy. Really big. But I was more concerned with the shotgun he pointed at me.

  My left hand was up before he could fire. The Norse snowflake tattoo on my palm tingled. Not really a snowflake but a partial glyph of power. With my will, a two-foot semi-sphere of turquoise energy coalesced. I held my shield as the man pulled the trigger. The Columbian's buckshot practically disintegrated on impact.

  I spun my Uzi at the new threat but the driver came around to back him up. They both unleashed their weapons on me. I caught the lead against my shield, but the big guy got another shot off. His spread of buckshot hit my pistol and clipped my hand. I dropped the gun and drew my hand back behind my shield, but they weren't done with me yet.

  Rather than play hot potato with the oncoming gunfire, I let the shield drop and slid down into the floor. Into the shadow. I became one with the darkness, something not entirely physical. The ensuing hail of bullets and buckshot missed their mark completely. To them, I simply vanished.

  "Brujo!" they yelled in a mix of fear and disgust.

  Still a part of the shadow, I slid along the ground, just a few yards, toward my van and my crew. The Hondurans were already backing me up. They unloaded automatic fire into the Camino. Both Columbians ducked behind.

  I materialized and checked my back. No one else around. We'd been ambushed and hurt pretty bad. Veselovsky was down. Our driver. The other Russian was clutching his stomach. But there were three more of us, and only two of them. The element of surprise was gone. This was a gunfight now, and we had the upper hand.

  I scanned the ground for a new weapon while the passenger of the van suppressed the Columbians with gunfire. Windows shattered. Both men ducked. Manolo was skirting the back of the van, moving to the front. Probably had missed the magic show completely. The wounded Russian rolled to his knees and perched his AK on the hood of the Camino. My best move was clear. I'd forfeit cover by running around the backside of the Camino, flanking our Columbian friends while they cowered behind it.

  "It's you," yelled Veselovsky through gritted teeth. He leaned against the wheel of the Camino on our side. The lucky bastard had actually lived. Except he'd seen my magic. My straw mask was still on and I still looked like Chucho, but he knew exactly who I was. They'd been sent specifically to look out for me. "You piece of shit."

  "Said the drug dealer to the thief." Instead of taking care of the Columbians, I backed around the van.

  He raised his Kalashnikov and fired, but I was behind cover. The Honduran passenger reacted to defend me. The other Russian spun around and they sprayed each other.

  At the same time, a shotgun fired under the El Camino blasted the Russian's knee apart. The poor guy was braced on the car and all twisted around. No chance to return fire from his position. He fell to the floor and took a second burst in the head. His body wiggled to a stop.

  Veselovsky was safely against the wheel, so he continued firing until he gunned down his Honduran target.

  "Son of a bitch!" yelled Manolo. He reached the Uzi around the hood of the Econoline and ended Veselovsky. Bullet holes opened across his chest, neck, and face, and he slumped over.

  The El Camino's driver peeked out and fired. Manolo ducked behind the van again. The Columbian was a real piece of work, with a glint in his eye every time he let a barrage fly. If he loved this so much, I'd give it to him.

  "I could use an assist right about now," I intoned. A skeletal figure wearing conquistador armor materialized beside me.

  "As you wish."

  The driver of the Camino cackled with crazed laughter and popped up from behind cover. Then my ghostly companion's red eyes flared. The gunman lifted his pistol to his own head and fired.

  "It really scares me when you do that," I said. "We got one more."

  A buckshot grouping punched a hole in the van, inches from my head. I flinched. The last Columbian standing, the big guy, rolled out from behind the car. I still didn't have a weapon. Suddenly, the man froze, as if the shotgun disagreed with him.

  I waited, but the big guy fought against the impulse. He pumped the action on his weapon and pushed it toward me again. I had to duck before it fired.

  "Do something," I yelled.

  The wraith did not look pleased. "He is... resisting."

  I sighed loudly. "You had one job." Then I pulled out my ceremonial bronze knife and flung it at the Columbian.

  I'm not a circus performer or anything, but the man was an immobile target struggling against the wraith's will. I figured it was a fifty-fifty chance the blade of the knife would catch him instead of the handle. Maybe my math was good, but my luck wasn't. The knife hit him sideways and bounced to the floor, clattering loudly.

  The man's eyes were wild. He didn't know what was happening, and he'd nearly died. But damn was he a strong-willed fucker. He pivoted the shotgun and fired again. I rolled to the side, under the blast. Scooped up Veselovsky's AK and gunned him down.

  It wasn't pretty but it was over.

  I hooked the weapon over my shoulder and recovered my blade. I wiped it down, and then did the same with my hand and checked the damage. At least two buckshot pellets had broken through my skin around the knuckles. Others had bounced off my hardened skin. It was an enhanced option leftover from my zombification package.

  I flexed my fingers open and closed. Painful, but everything worked.

  Manolo came around the backside of the van, Uzi up. It was only me now. The wraith had vanished, and nobody else was alive. He dropped his gun.

  "Holy shit, bro! You okay?"

  "A scratch."

  I stood in the center of the kill zone. Two of my crew leaked on the cement next to the Columbian kid. The two Russians were slumped beside the Camino, with two more Columbians on the far side. Eight dead, including the old man wearing a jumbo briefcase.

  My cohort turned to the money. He found car keys on the body but none for the cuffs. I started for their car but Manolo told me not to bother. He went in the back of the van and jumped out with bolt cutters. They cleanly snapped the chain. We threw the case and the bolt cutters in the back. Before I could close the door, Manolo went to Veselovsky.

  "What are you doing?"

  "The merchandise." He hefted an errant duffle bag a
nd carried it to the van. I helped with the other two. "The boss will be happy. We get to keep the money and the drugs."

  Four bags of white gold piled beside a small fortune in a box. What did I tell you? The easiest robbery ever. I slammed the back shut and Manolo moved to the driver's door.

  "We did pretty good," I said, following him.

  "No shit. You saved my life, I think."

  I shrugged. "Eh. You probably saved mine too. I'm sorry, by the way."

  He turned to me. "Sorry for what?"

  "This." I slammed his head into the side of the van, leaving a large dent as he fell to the floor. Manolo moaned on the concrete. He wasn't completely out, but that was good. It would give him plenty of time to book it before the police showed up.

  "Pleasure working with you," I said, kicking his gun away. I jumped in the van, threw it in reverse, and tore across the parking garage. I slowed at the entrance and used the keycard on the dash to buzz out. Then dropped it and my straw mask out the open window. My disguise flickered away. I wasn't Chucho anymore. Cisco Suarez reappeared in full force, bloody white tank top and all.

  I drove to the end of the block and was readying a turn to the major street when I saw it. Another maroon El Camino parked up the road. A couple of mean-looking Columbians at the helm sneering. We locked eyes.

  I didn't wait to see what they'd do. I stomped the gas and pushed that van as hard as it could go, which meant I was up to the lofty speed of fifty-five in no time. That wasn't gonna be enough to shake them.

  Chapter 4

  I veered across two lanes of traffic to the highway on-ramp. The good thing about blocky vans is everybody sees them coming. No one wants to be flattened against the things. At the same time, Econolines aren't fabled for their maneuverability. I might have done better in a stagecoach with actual horses galloping ahead of me. Needless to say, any swerve, turn, or hard brake I made, the Columbians could match.

  The Columbians. They were their own problem, weren't they? I'd thought this was my robbery, but it was theirs. They were turning on Connor Hatch. Maybe my hits against the Agua Fuego cartel were taking their toll. Bringing down Rudi Alvarez, the Passport to Latin America—Connor's power structure was threatening to splinter. And the Columbians wanted their piece of the pie back.

  Maybe I could kick my feet up and watch TV while they took out Connor for me. Of course, that didn't keep them from taking me out too.

  The Columbians had set their own perimeter control on the deal. Eyeballs watching from a distance, making sure nothing went wrong. And if it did, they were ready to take control of the situation.

  I floored the van to max speed, rushing down the Palmetto Expressway like a bat out of hell. Or that was the plan, anyway. A soccer mom in a minivan honked and gave me the finger as she passed. Jeez, I was in a car chase and I wasn't going fast enough for Miami traffic. I'd made a bonehead choice for a getaway vehicle. And now that the sun was coming up I'd stick out like a sore thumb.

  Light automatic rounds punched into the back of the van. I jerked my head down and changed lanes, but the Camino in the driver's side mirror stayed with me. Another volley of bullets spiderwebbed the back windows and peppered the interior. The dashboard was mortally wounded. A little too close for comfort.

  "Shit," I muttered, nearly curling up in a ball. "You need to take the wheel."

  Two orbs of red light appeared behind me. "You wish me to drive?"

  "It's the only way. Unless you can get in the driver's head from here."

  "That isn't possible under these conditions."

  "Great," I agreed. "So I'll deal with it." I hefted Veselovsky's AK.

  "You do realize I'm a necromancer from the fourteenth century who—"

  I bailed from the driver's seat and moved into the back, pointing to the pedals and wheel one by one. "Stop. Go. Turn. Horses are more complicated."

  A lemon-sized hole popped through the back door. I kissed the floor of the van as another one punched through. "Are they firing cannonballs at us now?"

  The wraith took over and swerved the van sideways. I wasn't sure if it was an evasive maneuver or learning on the job, but I slipped as I tried to get up. Screw it. I crawled over the duffel bags to the back doors and threw them open.

  The Columbian passenger was leaning out the window with some kind of hand cannon. He'd definitely seen too many action movies. Initially aiming at the wheel, he adjusted to target me when I showed myself. I raised the Kalashnikov and the El Camino swerved, sending his own guy's shot wide.

  I fired a burst. I started low and hit the blacktop but pulled my aim up to sweep across the car. Unfortunately, the van clipped another vehicle and jerked to the side, sending one of the back doors swinging into my rifle and causing me to miss.

  I glanced behind. "What's going on up there?"

  "I think this is what you call traffic."

  "Well, keep it steady."

  As I issued the command, the duffel bag beside me burst from a heavy round. A cloud of smoke exploded outward, sending me into a fit of coughing. I fired wildly at our pursuers to fend them off. A few bullets sprayed the hood and windshield, forcing them to disengage. They slowed down and I was too far ahead to take another shot. We had a small lead but it wouldn't hold forever.

  "Brujo," the wraith warned. "I think we have a problem."

  I came up behind him and squinted past a crack in the glass. A lane closure. The Palmetto would be at a standstill in less than a mile.

  "Take the exit!" I shouted, which would've been a perfectly reasonable request had we not already passed it. I leaned through the apparition and jerked the wheel. The van careened across two lanes, hopped the small curb, and clipped one of those plastic yellow barrels they set up right before concrete walls. Sand peppered the windshield. The Econoline bounced out of control. Somehow we held on and veered sharply down the exit ramp.

  I checked our six. Since I'd pushed the El Camino well behind us, they had plenty of space to make the maneuver.

  "Keep on the gas," I said.

  The van burst onto the street and caught air on the uneven road. We landed hard and something bumped against my red alligator boot. The metal briefcase slid across the bottom of the van. It would've slid right out the back if it hadn't smacked into a duffel bag.

  I slid to grab it just as the El Camino screeched behind us. The passenger held a reasonably sized pistol now, staying inside the car while his arm reached out the window. He fired quickly this time. Pop, pop, pop.

  I threw up my energy shield and dove to the side as the van opened up like a tin can. A bullet found its way through the back of the driver's seat, but the wraith was ethereal. Had I been driving, it would've been a different story.

  The van swerved quickly to the side and scraped a parked car. Its alarm blared, lights blinking. More horns came to life as we crossed a busy intersection. As we sped up, the Columbians slammed on their brakes. The distance between us widened in a instant. In that newfound space, two cars in perpendicular traffic fishtailed into each other.

  "Jesus!" I screamed. "What are you doing?"

  The wraith turned around with a blank expression. "I'm not sure. The green lights went red and everybody used their emergency horns."

  My eyes widened in horror. "That means you're supposed to stop!"

  He seemed to ponder that. "You wish me to stop?"

  I shrugged in defeat. "Good point. Carry on."

  We'd caused a few minor accidents already. Unfortunately, the Columbians had avoided them. The maroon car swerved around the obstacles and gained on us again.

  I braced my rifle over the punctured duffle bag, still as a sniper (except for the van mimicking a rollercoaster and the cloud of cocaine in my face). I waited as the drug dealers closed in. The pistol came out the window again. I steadied my aim. A bullet clanged against the metal briefcase, inches away. I kept calm and squeezed the trigger. Gunfire ripped across their windshield. A spray of blood obscured the passenger as the pistol fell to the st
reet. I swept my fire over the driver too but the rifle clicked empty.

  Damn. I had a spare Uzi mag in my pocket but hadn't thought to pick up Veselovsky's ammo.

  The driver reached over to his associate. Rage overtook him. And then bricks of hundred-dollar bills starting raining out of the van. They bounced off the Camino's hood and hit the street like a plague of frogs.

  I rolled over. The briefcase latch had taken a bullet and popped open. Half the neat stacks had spilled to the floor of the van. Many slid toward the open doors. I frantically shoveled the bricks back in.

  Meanwhile, the El Camino accelerated. It came at us fast. I braced against the ceiling rack as he rammed the back of the van. I jerked backward but held tight. The metal briefcase wasn't so lucky. It bounced out into the open air.

  "No!"

  I lunged and caught the handle. The loose lid threatened to fly open, but I caught it with my other hand. I slammed the case shut and managed to keep most of the cash inside.

  It was a great save, but it came at a price. Namely, I wasn't in the van anymore. I crashed down hard on the hood of the Camino. My empty AK hurtled to the highway. Still clocking fifty miles per hour, my face was a foot away from the driver's.

  He punched the butt of a shotgun through the windshield to clear the broken glass. I grabbed the trigger and pulled, but it clicked empty. He jammed the pipe forward and knocked me in the face. I fell and clawed at the hood to keep from becoming street hamburger. The briefcase slipped from my hands. I scratched for it.

  The wraith slammed his brakes. The van nearly stopped, sending the El Camino into it again. The sudden impact plunged me backward. I lost the briefcase and flew into the van, pounding against the back of the wraith's seat. I gasped as my breath left my body. Shook my head to recover my senses.

  Both vehicles scraped to a stop. We'd hit something and the car had hit us. I strained to focus on the Camino. It slowly rolled backward to settle several yards behind us. The car no longer had a windshield at all. I turned and saw the Columbian passenger lying next to me in the van. He had a frame of glass attached to him. He wasn't moving.