I really have to pee. I don’t know how long I’ve been holding it, but it feels like days. Hitting those gates isn’t going to help. Then again, all of this jostling isn’t doing wonders either. Adrenaline and fear are keeping all of my important muscles clenched, which is good. My body hasn’t given up yet. It will relax when it knows the moment is about to come.
We’re about ten yards from the gate, when we rumble up and to the right, avoiding the gates by bouncing over some large cement grave markers. If I had legs, they’d be getting cracked pretty good right now. Instead, I’m flapping against the front of my van like a cheap air freshener on a rearview mirror.
I hear Trevor screaming. Not an angry scream. More of a yee-haw kind of thing. The van slams hard down into a rain ditch, blasting my back hard as we jerk onto the sidewalk. When we make the final jump from curb to road, I hit the van so hard I feel the grille plate crack and fall away. The hot breath from the radiator intensifies.
Trevor shouts at me, “We’re not out of this yet!”
I’m fascinated by the city as it speeds by me. I feel like I’m flying. The lights blur through the tears in my eyes. My face has gone completely numb, and my wrists feel like they’re being dipped in acid. My arms are pulled so tight that my chest is constricting and I’m having trouble breathing. I have no way to shift my weight, no legs to take pressure off. I’m going out like Jesus. Closer to thee, my Lord.
Behind us, a faint roar of motorcycles grows louder. The more the feeling drains from my body, the more my brain begins to pulse. Images flash by me with each streetlight. Every turn we make sends memories pouring through my body. I close my eyes as we round another corner and I see the freeway underpass looming, then darken as we pass beneath it and on into the city.
The wind is gone. The pain is gone. Feeling is gone. The city disappears. I’m lost in my quasi-past.
Delia’s story would be so nice if it was true. My husband trying so hard to keep me away from everything wrong. A cop who taught me to fight because he wanted me to be able to protect myself and my family. Taught me to shoot. But it doesn’t taste quite right. Pieces of it fit. He was a cop. I know that. And our daughter…she got into something bad, she got tangled with the Doctor…And I know they killed him.
The spark is enough to make my eyes snap open, and now the tears are real, flowing wild in the wind as Trevor whips the van side to side across the street. I hear gunshots pop from the driver’s-side window. I hope he’s winning this car chase.
There’s a sickening screech and a hollow scraping noise. Trevor slams on the brakes. A motorcycle skids past us, the rider following a split second later. Trevor cranks the wheel hard to the left and we gun down a side street, racing out of Red Light and into the city proper.
Another motorcycle screams behind us, the headlight pushing its way forward next to the van. There’s a series of muffled pops, my poor van cracking and breaking as bullets riddle the chassis. Trevor yanks us hard left and we’re up on the sidewalk. The motorcycle tires screech as the rider tries to brake, but it’s too late. Trevor scrapes him off against an abandoned storefront. We rumble down the sidewalk, taking out a newspaper machine which I narrowly dodge. He hops the curb again and we’re back out in the street.
The spires of tall buildings surrounding the library grow closer. I wonder if Frances is in there doing more research for me. I want to go back to the library. I want to read again, and plan, and make lists and diagrams. This all looked so much better on paper. It’s all out of control now. I just want to be able to place my hands on something and make it work the way it’s supposed to.
Trevor takes the back roads and side streets, carefully avoiding heavily patrolled routes. It sounds like there might be one or two more bikes behind us. The echo in this canyon of buildings is making it hard to tell.
Another bike rips by, centering in front of us and weaving side to side. There are two riders. My ears ring as Trevor fires shots over my head, never taking his foot off the gas.
The biker eludes Trevor’s fire while his passenger tries desperately to light a rag that’s been stuffed into a bottle. It catches, big time. A huge flame jets from his hand and he turns back to look at us.
The buildings coast by. The streetlights flicker and grow dark. I can smell the rancid waters off the wharf. A drop of water hits my face and for a second I mistake it for sea spray. But it’s just rain. The passenger is waiting for a moment when the bike is steady, waiting for his chance to throw. The flame dances and streaks across the road, bobbing with the bike, looking almost like a living thing.
Like Gavin when they lit him up. He didn’t make it far. He didn’t do that Hollywood stuntman firedance thing where they stagger around with their arms up. It was panicky. He lost control. His body was trying to run, trying to roll, trying to slap out the flames all at the same time. He was screaming, and all I could do was watch. I wanted to burn with him. To embrace him and end it all, but it ended so fast. The rain broke so quickly, put him out in seconds. He was dead long before that.
I hope Trevor is just pausing to reload. We’ll never get enough speed to ram the bike, and he hasn’t fired a shot off in a while. What’s he waiting for?
I see it before they do.
A roadblock at the head of the dock warehouses. Two beat-up old trucks, homemade gray-and-blue camo paintjobs. Through the netting on the back, I can see that there’s some heavy artillery poking right at us. Even with the wind screaming at my face, my eyes are open wide. The firing squad or the fire. And it looks like it’ll be both.
I see the muzzle flare from the truck ahead before I hear the shot. The biker takes evasive action, swerving hard to the right. His passenger lets the Molotov cocktail go with a hook shot, and it’s arcing at me. I dip closer to the ground as Trevor slams on the brakes, but the bottle is still coming.
I see the back of both bikers ripple and explode as bullets punch through them. They fall and flip, sliding away from us. The men who were lined up near the trucks are running towards us, only a few yards away.
The bottle is getting lower, and for a second I think I’m safe. It’s going to be too low.
I’m wrong.
It shatters on the bumper below me, sending the contents splattering over the entire face of the van. The flaming rag does its job, and soon enough, all I feel is heat. My skin peeling away. My brain is fighting two impulses, one to scream, and one to breathe, and I find I can do neither. All I am is pain, one raw wound, trying to open my eyes against the flames. Because I know if I do I’ll see Gavin waiting for me. Why was Delia so hung up on his name?
The van jerks to a stop and the men are closer to us now, one of them drawing a knife. Trevor slaps his jacket over me, trying to put out the flames. I think he’s just fanning them.
Then, I’m surrounded by men, all of them beating at me with their jackets and shirts. I feel the tension on my wrists release, and I’m tossed to the ground. Rain pelts my back. My arms have no feeling. My legs feel like they’re still on fire. For once, I don’t want my phantom pains.
Everyone’s talking at once.
“She’s out! She’s out!”
“She okay?”
“Just singed her legs…uh…well, you know.”
“Let’s get her back to the docks.”
Now I know what he felt. I came out on the other side. Not reforged, just melted. Not ready to finish my job. But I’ll be damned if I don’t. If I can find a way to move again, they’re all dead. I don’t know if it’s exhaustion or shock or hyperventilation from taking my first breaths in a few minutes, but I’m well on the verge of a blackout when I hear one of them say that Jack is waiting for me.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Hooded Jack. What I’ve learned so far is this: Hooded Jack seems to be the name of the group, and not the name of one man. I was excited at first, thinking I was being taken to the Hooded Jack. They took me back to a makeshift gurney set up inside of an empty semi trailer. There was a man sitting in a ric
kety chair smiling up at me, bidding me welcome. He introduced himself as Jack. Then he told the two men who brought me in, Jack and Jack, that they could leave and bring Jack back to the trailer.
I asked to see Hooded Jack three times, and after the man in the chair stopped laughing, he explained the whole situation. I suppose it’s a crafty little way to make sure that the head of the snake is less likely to be blown off.
I wonder what they’re calling me out there. Jill?
The only one not being called Jack is Trevor, and at the very least he owes me an explanation. After calling for him three or four times, Jack in the chair tells me Trevor’s being debriefed, and won’t be with us anytime soon. And once he’s in uniform, he’ll be Jack, too. Apparently Hooded Jack likes to put people in deep cover to get information. Jack tells me they have eyes everywhere, that their organization has people working code-word secret missions, that any knowledge of these spies, if caught, would be fully denied by Hooded Jack. It’s a regular Area 51 out here.
All of the guys running around, the ones in short sleeves anyway, have black bands covering their left forearms. On these bands are simple white stripes denoting rank. For instance, Jack in the chair is carrying two bars and a Red Cross. My legs sting enough that I might actually let him work on me. What I really want right now is a change of clothes. I smell like a combination of burnt socks and rotten barbeque.
Jack gave me a thorough medical examination and found me to be “pretty banged up” but otherwise okay. The official word? Road rash. Bruises. Cuts, scrapes. Nothing broken.
The burns on my leg were superficial. I still can’t curl the fingers on my right hand tightly, but the feeling is pretty much back. Jack gave me a blanket, and I’m starting to feel a little better. He has a pretty good bedside manner, but I wouldn’t trust him to work on a hangnail. I know how these operations work. They get someone in to win you over before the heavies come in.
My wrists are raw and my arms are shaky. My van is trashed. My list is gone. I’m completely cut off. I’m not sure if I’ll get to kill another soul. I should cut my losses. I got a majority of the list. And I might get a shot at Hooded Jack, whichever one of them it is I’m looking for. I’m sure Dr. Robert will get his someday. And Veronica. Delia was about to reveal something about her, but it’s gone now. I feel sick. My stomach is a roiling pool of acid. I want to lash out and kill every single person on the wharfs right now. The curtain to the tent parts, and a man, presumably Jack, walks in.
“Tie her up.”
Two more Jacks push past him and roll me onto my stomach, binding my arms tight behind my back, taking little mind that my wrists have already taken a beating tonight. They lift me unceremoniously into a shopping cart. And we’re off.
I lean back and watch the sky dance over the gaps in between the dock houses and storage buildings. It’s purple up there, like a reflection of the oil-stained water below. It’ll be a hell of a show in a little bit when the sun comes up.
One of the bigger warehouse doors is sliding back. The entrance is black, just a large void waiting to swallow us whole. As the front of the shopping cart crosses the threshold, a single floodlight comes on in the center of the cavernous space. I see some shapes beyond the light, partially obscured by the dancing dust motes. I feel eyes on me. Just a single pair. The two Jacks stop my cart in the center of the spotlight and back away.
A voice speaks in the gloom and shadows, “Hoods,” followed by the soft rustling sound of cotton sliding over skin. Now it feels like there’s more eyes on me. A lot more.
“Lights.”
The warehouse grows brighter, and I’m surrounded. There are men sitting on crates, men standing in the corner cleaning guns, men crouched and watching me, snipers on the crossbeams, hooded men everywhere. Some are in ski masks, others in pillowcases, Mexican wrestling masks, some in what look like mummy wraps. They’re just chatting each other up, having a good ol’ time at the club, totally ignorant of the half-woman in the shopping cart. Those who do regard me seem to only have a passing interest.
“Turn her,” says the voice from behind me.
There’s a little judder as hands grab the shopping-cart handle and wheel me around to reveal three men, all of them hooded. One stands in the center, swaying a little, and I think he’s the one. I don’t know why. I think it’s because he looks the least conspicuous of anyone in the room. He’s not as big. His balaclava isn’t clean. His clothes are non-descript. The black band on his forearm has no designation of rank.
I can’t see his eyes. He’s wearing amber shooter’s glasses under his mask. He regards me for a moment and asks me if I killed Delia Sugar. Something is weird about his voice. It changes every time he speaks. Sometimes it’s deeper, sometimes rougher, but never constant.
I shake my head and shrug my shoulders, figuring that’s about the best answer I can give regarding Ms. Sugar. He’s not having it.
“Is she dead?”
Before I can answer, the hooded guy on the left steps forwards and from his voice, I know it’s Trevor. “Everything happened too fast. I wasn’t able to take vitals. But she looked dead enough.”
“You made an assumption. Why didn’t you finish the job?”
“My mission was to see that she escaped safely. Nothing compromises the mission.” Trevor pauses, then adds, “Sir.”
“Were you not driving the van?” the leader growls.
“Yeah, but—”
The man on the leader’s other side slaps the back of Trevor’s head. “Protocol!”
“My name is Sir, not ‘yeah, but.’ We’re not in the field. We’re at home, and at home rank is respected. You could have hit Delia with the van on your way out. You could have fired a shot. You could have—”
“I was protecting the package! Sir.”
“Later,” the leader says, and that’s enough for TrevorJack to know he’s been dismissed. A lot of the guys in the group shake their heads.
“I suppose you’re wondering why you’re here,” the leader asks me.
I shrug and look around as if to say the thought had occurred to me.
“Do you know Hooded Jack? Do you know Veronica Madden?”
There’s obviously no right answer here, so I stay silent.
“Who else are you after? You after me?”
I give him my best stare, which doesn’t seem to do much. He holds his hand out and a captain draws a gun from his belt and chambers a round. He hands it to the leader.
“You want to kill me? Was I next?” the leader asks.
He walks toward me. Slowly. I think he’s a bit older because he swaggers a little, like most older guys do when their knees go bad. He presses the gun to my temple.
“Was I next?”
I’m not giving him anything.
“Do you want to kill Hooded Jack?”
He jams the gun a little harder against my temple. I am a statue. He lowers the gun and spins it in his palm, extending it to me. He takes a step back.
The leader offers me a smile and cocks his head. “Go ahead. Shoot.”
I’ve never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. I bring the pistol up quickly in a standard police grip. Hooded Jack’s hands go up and he rests them on his head. None of the other men in the room make a move.
“Good,” he says. “How brave are you? Brave enough to kill me? You won’t leave this warehouse alive. Would it be worth it? If I told you I knew who you were, would you still want me dead?”
I draw in a deep breath. Hold it. Exhale slowly. My brain is telling me that I can find a way out of this, but my body is telling me it’s tired. Tired of the drugs, the painkillers, the murders. Tired of continuing. Tired of violence, tired of drawing breath. Maybe the knowledge isn’t worth it. I’m ready. My finger is moving on its own, squeezing.
What about the others? I hesitate. I need to get out of here. I just need to find a way out, get some rest, maybe just one more shot to get me through, but this is about justice, it’s…
“COME ON!” Hooded Jack barks.
My finger declares independence from my body. It has decided to seal my fate. The trigger slides nicely, the pressure grows. I reach the crucial point, the trigger resisting as much as it will before delivering the goods. Nobody on the floor draws a gun to stop me. They don’t need to. I’m sure I’m sitting dead red for snipers in the rafters.
Now or never. My work on the list will stop here. Six out of ten ain’t bad for someone who’s never done this kind of thing.
And it goes. My finger finishes it all.
Click.
There’s a dead silence. I hear my heart beating and I think everyone else can too. The fucker set me up. The gun wasn’t loaded.
“Good,” he laughs. “Good, good. I was afraid after all of this, you’d be ready to give it up.”
His hands, still resting on his head, grasp the top of his hood and pull. He lowers his face, and pulls off his glasses, then stands up nice and straight to look me in the eye.
It defies logic. It’s impossible. My brain can’t register any of it, and my finger is trying to will a magic bullet into the gun.
Click.
Click click click.
I feel tears on my face. Feel the gun in my hand. Feel it without feeling anything at all.
“That’s good, sweetheart, that’s the fire we need. We’ve got a big week coming. You need to detox, and then we’ll talk.”
And with that, Hooded Jack turns his back and limps away. The old guy swagger. A walk that I’ve seen a million times before. A walk that you can only get with artificial legs.
Click click click click.
My finger won’t stop, and I hear my voice ringing off of the warehouse walls as I bawl his name like a child, and the sound comes out of my mouth perfectly.
Joe…
Joe…
Joe…
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Miss Massacre's Guide to Murder and Vengeance Page 18