by Matt Hilton
‘It’s OK, little Emilia, I’m here to help, me.’
In her panic, the dark, the roiling wash of despair that had filled her mind in those few frantic seconds, she had never gotten a look at the man she’d run into. It was difficult seeing him clearly now, and her only impression was of skin darker than the night, and the white flash of sclera and teeth as he smiled to reassure her of his good intentions. He was a stranger. He hadn’t hurt her, hadn’t even tried to fend off her blows as she’d tried to battle free, but how could she trust him? For all she knew he was another one of her abusers, and was trying to win her trust, so it would add to her torment when his true nature was revealed when he slung her down at the feet of the Menons.
‘Get the hell off me!’
‘Ain’t gonna happen. I let you go you’ll run again, an’ I ain’t built for speed, me. Now hush, you, or them peckerheads is goin’ hear you.’ The big black man transferred his arm from behind her back to under her knees, so he could carry her better.
‘Put me down.’
‘Told you. I ain’t lettin’ go, me.’ He began to walk with her into the lee of one of the huge excavators.
‘I can walk. I don’t need carrying like a baby.’
‘So stop squalling like one. An’ keep still, or we’ll both end up rollin’ in the mud like a coupla hogs again.’
‘Who are you?’
‘You can call me Pinky, little Emilia. I’m a friend of your brother.’
Emilia suddenly looked at him with more interest, but also a little doubt. Perhaps he wouldn’t be surprised to find her kin weren’t usually friendly to folks of his persuasion. She wasn’t exactly thinking about his skin colour either. The big man’s tone was effete enough to tell her he wasn’t the type of drinkin’ buddy any of her siblings usually hung with. ‘Which brother?’
The big man neglected to answer, and it was because she thought she’d caught him in a lie, but there was more to his avoidance than that.
‘Are my brothers here?’
‘Francis is here,’ said Pinky. ‘Your father Darius too. Plus …’ he pondered for the correct words ‘… a couple more of your kin.’
Emilia was struck by how close she’d come to safety. The newcomers she’d spotted approaching from the forest had been members of her family on a rescue mission: misconstruing their intention, she’d run from them. Now it sounded as if they were in a gun battle with those who’d held her prisoner.
‘Goin’ to put you down now, so’s I can take out my gun, me. You needn’t fear, it’s not for you.’
‘Who are you?’ she asked again.
‘I told you. Call me Pinky.’
‘No … I mean who exactly are you? Why are you here?’
‘To get you safely to your momma’s bedside.’ He set her down on her feet. She slumped against the sidewall of a tire that dwarfed her, rubbing at the ankle she’d hurt earlier. As she caught her breath she studied her supposed saviour.
‘I’ve never heard any of my brothers mention you before,’ she said, still mistrustful. She was surprised by the fact that she had no intention of trying to escape him, though.
‘I’m not from roun’ these parts, me,’ he answered enigmatically.
She had to admit she’d never seen his like. He was an oddly shaped person, his face almost jovial, and looked totally at odds with the gun he held: he was reminiscent of a child’s favorite cuddly toy rather than a rescuer. But somehow she felt safer in his presence than at any time since before that night of Jason’s fatal weed run.
‘I won’t run away, I promise,’ she said.
‘You can run, just not away from me. Come on, and stay close, you. I’ve another friend out there looking for us.’
Emilia followed his gesture, and saw a Dodge Ram pickup churning through the loose dirt a couple of hundred yards away. It had no lights, but stood out against the grey earth and grey sky. Even as she spotted it, the driver yanked down on the steering and wheeled off in a tight arch towards the other end of the site. It disappeared beyond the fleet of excavators, heading towards the panel van she’d arrived in.
‘OK, so our lift has been diverted. Doesn’t matter,’ said Pinky and held out a palm for her. ‘Let’s go, little Emilia. Stay close.’
She offered no argument. She didn’t take the proffered hand, but fell into step behind him, obscured from her hunters by his bulky figure. Pinky surprised her: he was spritely for a big man, exhibiting the natural grace that some heftier guys occasionally displayed on the dance floor. He led her through an aisle formed between two rows of the massive diggers, listening constantly for a hint that any of her pursuers was closing in. The gunfire was sporadic, and not close by. But he advanced with his finger poised alongside the trigger guard, ready for instant action. Emilia pressed her left palm flat against his lower back, comforted by the contact. He glanced back and gave her an encouraging wink.
FORTY-ONE
Everything had gone into meltdown in the space of less than two minutes since Zeke instructed his lackeys to deliver their prisoner to a vacant office in the administration block of the sub-station. Zeke had promised Cleary his prize, and he’d earmarked the office as the place where Cleary could have his fun, rather than have them all rolling around in the dirt. Earlier he’d made preparations, sending Tyson off to cover the floor with tarpaulins to catch the blood. He’d learned his lesson from leaving forensic evidence where they’d slain Hal and Jamie Thibodaux, and wasn’t going to make the same mistake again. It would be weeks until the pumping station went live, so any trace evidence on the walls could be scrubbed clean before the decorators got to work with their paint and brushes. From the office to the dumpsite was only a few hundred yards, so their workload of disposing of Emilia’s remains afterwards would have been simple. It should have been simple, he corrected himself. Four guys he had on Emilia and they couldn’t hang onto one damn girl!
Though uneven and potholed in places the service trail was thoroughly compacted by the passage of far heavier machines than his pickup, so the going was safe enough to put his foot down. The sporadic flashes of gunfire lighting up the pumping station spurred his urgency. If any of those limp-dicked idiots shot Emilia dead, they’d be sorry. Cleary could have them instead, but he wouldn’t be appeased. A quick glance over at his brother showed he was having similar thoughts. He sat, hunched forward, fingertips digging into the dashboard as he glared through the windshield, eyelids flinching with each corresponding muzzle flash. His lips had flared wide, and his tusky incisors stood proud amid his hirsute features.
The muzzle flashes came from different points.
It wasn’t his guys shooting at Emilia; they were trading rounds with somebody else.
There was a distinct lack of emergency lights, so Zeke was confident the interlopers on the site weren’t of the official variety. But if not the cops, then who?
As he screeched the pickup to a halt ten yards short of Tyson’s panel van, he got his answer.
‘Son of a bitch,’ he snarled. ‘What’s Darius Chatard doing here?’
As he watched for the briefest of moments, the old man pounded Jim Croft’s face against the side of the van. When the young thug collapsed in semi-consciousness to the dirt, Darius braced his left palm against the van, supporting his weight while he drove a kick into Croft’s liver. The kick gave Darius some satisfaction, but as he turned to observe the arrival of the Menons, his features also appeared pained. He limped round on an obviously injured foot, and brought up a revolver. Darius barked angrily and pulled the trigger.
Zeke felt the impact of the bullet striking the truck, and steam billowed from the punctured radiator. A bullet caromed off the cab, and another struck the windshield. The glass starred but held, the bullet only glancing off. But Zeke was certain the integrity of the glass was threatened. ‘Get out, Cleary. Out now!’
There was no view of Darius because of the pluming steam, which was turned almost opaque by the reflection of the truck’s headlights. But anoth
er bullet striking the engine confirmed he was still shooting. Cleary pushed his door wide and went out at a loping run, heading for the concealment of the nearby forest. Zeke threw open his door, and immediately it was punctured by a bullet. Good job he’d anticipated Darius’s intent, and gone the other direction. He clambered over the passenger seat and out the same way as his brother then backed alongside the pickup, using the steam to shield him from Darius’s view. As he retreated he drew his knife from its sheath. It wasn’t much of a weapon against a loaded gun, but Darius was spitting bullets like pistachio shells. Unless he had a handy speed-loader, the revolver would take time reloading. Some took more or less, but most revolvers that Zeke had come across held six shells, and Darius had already expended four. Two bullets were still enough to kill him twice over, but he wasn’t sticking around like a sitting duck. Darius fired again. There was an explosion of glass as a bullet cut through the cab. Zeke went round the back of the truck. Once he was clear, he abandoned his barricade and sprinted for the oil plant.
‘Cowardly sumbitch,’ Darius hollered after him. ‘Think you can run after tryin’ to fuck me over for a dollar?’
Darius’s revolver cracked a final time.
The bullet came so close to his head, Zeke was certain he felt the sonic wave following its flight. He wondered if once again his lucky ball cap had saved his life, and if it held another scorch mark where the bullet had missed by a hair. But there was no time for whimsy. He immediately pivoted, his boots digging in the dirt for traction, and charged directly at Darius.
If he’d miscalculated the load capacity of Darius’s revolver he was supremely fucked, because he charged directly at the older man, his right arm raised to stab, offering his chest as a wide-open target.
Darius fired.
But the hammer clacked down on an empty chamber.
The old man had advanced from his original position adjacent to the van. He stood in open space, wreathed by gun smoke as he flipped open the cylinder and emptied tinkling brass around his feet. He dug for his pocket, seeking spare ammo, but wasn’t going to be quick enough to reload and shoot. Zeke sprang at him, spearing towards the old man’s throat with his blade. Darius’s mouth split wide, but it wasn’t in a shout of terror. He bellowed a challenge, even as he swept his gun across his body, and slammed Zeke’s wrist. The knife stabbed empty air to the side of Darius’s head.
Yet the moment was fleeting.
Zeke crashed into Darius, and the old Cajun’s injured foot couldn’t support both their weight. He went down on his back, and Zeke stumbled over him before falling to his knees. Zeke had more alacrity than his opponent. He used the momentum to scramble up again, and immediately slashed in a backhand swipe at Darius to keep him down. Foolishly, because it was never going to find his face, Darius tried to cover his head with his arms and took the blade in the meat of his left forearm. He cursed vilely, and Zeke’s retort was equally colourful.
Zeke ran forward, stabbing down.
Miraculously, Darius again fended off the blade with the barrel of his gun, then clubbed at Zeke with it. Zeke dodged back, danced a few steps in place as he sought an opening to finish off his enemy. Darius rolled over, ungainly and in pain, and got his knees under him. When he tried to stand his injured foot rebelled, and he ended up turning sideways, hoping to find support to help him rise. Zeke grinned maliciously at the pathetic creature before him. He briefly put off serving the coup de grâce: he was enjoying Darius’s discomfort too much.
‘You had d’ gall to offer your services to me, when all along you was holdin’ my daughter prisoner,’ Darius snarled up at Zeke. ‘You’re a piece of work, you sumbitch.’
‘I didn’t have her then,’ Zeke responded, ‘but as luck would have it I overheard where she was goin’ when she called you. Damned if I was gonna pass up the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.’
‘What d’you want with her?’
‘Don’t be stupid, you know fine well. Would you let a witness to a murder run free?’
‘I’d kill who needs killing,’ Darius admitted. ‘Dat’s why you’re gonna die, Zeke. You and dat crazy brother a yours.’
Zeke ran in, kicked Darius in the midriff, and spilled the old man on his side. Darius’s only weapon flew from his outstretched fingers. He gasped for breath, his face contorting with the effort.
Zeke danced around him, and his face was rigid, eyes almost extending from their sockets. ‘Cleary isn’t the crazy one. I’m the fuckin’ crazy man. And I’m not going to die, you stupid old fool. You are!’
To punctuate his point, Zeke lunged in, crowing in victory.
The roar of an approaching vehicle drowned out his shout. A split-second from burying his knife in Darius’s body, his attention was snatched away by the sound, and it was fortunate for him that it was. A huge Dodge Ram pickup slammed the back corner of Tyson’s van with such force that it was shunted around, its tires scoring deep ruts in the earth before the combined forces of impact and velocity threw it on its side. The Dodge didn’t stop, and the van roof lifted Zeke off his feet and threw him in a tumble over Darius. The old man wasn’t spared the impact, he was knocked back a few feet too, but not with maiming force.
Disorientated by the last few seconds, Darius lay huddled in a ball, awaiting his doom be it by blade or the crushing force of a ton of mangled wreckage pressing him into the dirt.
It was moments before he recognized the voice coaxing him up, or felt the hands assisting him to sit.
He blinked into the face of Nicolas Villere’s girlfriend as she asked him if he could walk.
‘Between you and dat man of yours I’d swear you was both tryin’ to cripple me for good.’
‘Can you walk, Darius?’ Tess Grey demanded again.
‘Think so. Help me up.’
He struggled to stand, but his stabbed foot had endured enough traumas for one day. He had to lean on the woman as she led him back to the cab of the Dodge. He stared at his pickup in dismay. The front end was crumpled, but the pickup was a workhorse, and a few bumps and scrapes wouldn’t harm its mechanical integrity. Tess helped him slide up into the driver’s position.
‘Can you drive with that sore foot?’
‘Better than I can walk,’ he growled.
‘Where’s your gun?’
‘Back there … uh, where’d dat sumbitch get to?’
There was no sign of Zeke Menon.
‘He must have crawled away,’ Tess said. ‘The gun, Darius?’
‘Dropped it over dere someplace.’
Tess turned to retrieve it.
‘Hey, girl!’
She turned and frowned at his disparaging tone. But he had the grace to look abashed. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘You’re a tough girl. An’ you just saved my life. I owe you.’
‘I might just call you on it,’ Tess said.
Darius nodded in understanding. ‘Here,’ he said, and dug in his pocket for his spare ammunition. He handed over an opened box of .44 S&W Special rounds. ‘You’re gonna need those. Hopefully you won’t use dem on me.’
‘As long as you don’t give me a reason.’ She gave him the briefest of smiles before she rushed off to find his dropped gun.
FORTY-TWO
While Darius and Zeke were engaged in combat, Po lay in the back of the pickup truck he’d travelled to the pumping station on. Neither of the Menon brothers had been the slightest bit suspicious that they’d picked up a stowaway. Back at the compound, they’d been too engrossed in their urgency to rendezvous with their pals they’d sent ahead with Emilia to check their mirrors, so had missed spotting the figure running after them. As Zeke had picked a route across the compound, then stalled briefly at the gate before crossing the road and finding the entrance to the wide service trail used to move the excavation equipment to and fro, Po had slid belly first onto the pickup’s flatbed, and concealed himself in the tight angle where the body met the cab.
During the journey from one work site to the next, he had conte
mplated reaching through Zeke’s open window and jamming his blade to its hilt under the punk’s ear. Zeke’s death would have been instantaneous, and the likelihood that the pickup would have crashed and burned was high too, thus ending the life of Cleary. The downside was Po saw no way of saving his own hide before the truck went out of control. His anger had been piqued the instant he overheard Zeke tell his demented brother what he should do with their prisoner. It didn’t come as a surprise to what depravation the Menons could sink – he had guessed that Emilia’s fate was going to be horrific at their hands – it was when Zeke mentioned catching up with Nicolas Villere’s bitch that he truly contemplated murder. After briefly capturing her earlier, Zeke must have identified Tess as Po’s partner. He’d learned already that Zeke wanted to claim double the bounty Darius Chatard had placed on his head, and fair enough. Zeke had a boner for him, his hatred originating way back to their tussle in Angola. He’d happily give Zeke a shot at revenge if that were what he longed for, but Tess was strictly out of bounds. Simply planning what they’d do to ‘Blondie’ was enough for Po to decide that dying with them was preferable to allowing one of them to live and carry out their plan. The thing that stopped him sheathing his blade in Zeke’s neck was the off-chance Cleary would survive the ensuing crash, and that he’d be unfit to stop the monster.
Instead, he remained calm, and under the radar.