The Bridge Chronicles Trilogy

by Gary Ballard

  “What the fuck happened?”

  Stonewall surveyed the destruction nonchalantly. “You tell me, brother. Just who the fuck are... were these guys?”

  Bridge began to study the scene carefully, reconstructing the interrogation in his head. The victim had been tied to a chair surrounded by three other chairs. Likely the questioner had sat directly across from the victim, the two flanking chairs holding the bruisers who would whale on the victim until he talked. One of the hanging lamps was low enough to be grabbed by the questioner but now swung in a faint elliptical pattern.

  Various implements such as vice grips, pliers, knives and a blowtorch had been on a table to the right of the victim, a table that now held a bloody corpse. Bridge recognized the corpse as one of Twiggs’ enforcers, Ernesto or Nester or something like that. The dead man’s eyes were frozen open, a surprised expression framing the third eye blooming out of his forehead.

  One of the metal shelves directly opposite the table was overturned. A pair of feet was visible, the landing point of another of Twiggs’ employees. The chair to the left of the questioner’s was also spilled, its occupant having flipped over onto his stomach from the force of the blast that had killed him. The final body was the most surprising. In the center of the circle of chairs lay Twiggs, flat on his stomach with his head turned to stare blankly at the light above him. The former striker had taken two large caliber bullets in the back, and a third to the base of his skull, likely both the killing blow and a message. Bridge let out a whispered curse and shot a glance at Stonewall. The enforcer just nodded, a grim nod suffused with a blinding finality. A queer look of melancholy crossed Stoney’s face.

  “Shit, Stoney, I’m sorry. I didn’t…”

  “Save it,” the Mexican cut him off with a wave of his hand. “If it wasn’t you, it was going to be somebody else got us all killed. Twiggs knew the type of bastards he was doing business with. He didn’t promise me a long life, he promised me a job.”

  “You think this was a business hit?”

  Stoney shook his head. “Not his business. His enemies would have left the two bodies.” He pointed over his shoulder at an area of the warehouse floor where two separate blood stains sat drying in the dust. A piece of plastic film with bloody stains had been left nearby, probably having covered the two missing bodies. “That’s where we put the ones didn’t make it.” Stoney pulled back the questioner’s chair and sat with a sigh. He pulled out a pack of gum, offering a piece to Bridge who declined. Stonewall insisted silently, and Bridge took a piece with reluctance. “It’ll settle your stomach,” he said with a wry smile. Stonewall indicated that Bridge should sit.

  Bridge sank into the chair with a vacant stare. His eyes caught sight of something by the victim’s chair and he stared at it until he could comprehend it. Two fingers lay bleeding on the floor beside the chair. Bridge burped and barely covered his mouth Kreddid with his hand, forcing the vomit back down with willpower alone. “Whose fingers are those?”

  Stonewall blinked, said “Huh?” then found the digits Bridge was babbling about. “Oh, those. Probably Paulie’s. We’d just started really working him over when Twiggs sent me out. Guess they figured he was harder than the other two.”

  “You notice something else?” Bridge shook his head. “No bullet casings.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Professional team, maybe even corporate. Thorough, but they knew how to make it look like a mob hit. Cops, maybe?” He shrugged. “We never could get a name out of them. Tough fuckers.”

  Stonewall leaned over to rest his elbows on his knees, the strangest expression of sadness on his face. Bridge could see something behind his eyes, a storm front of emotion building behind the rocky façade the enforcer put on. He stared down at Twiggs with that look in his eyes, squeezing his hands together until his knuckles turned white. “Did I ever tell you how I lost my knee?” Bridge shook his head. “It wasn’t even in a goddamn game, just some training ground scrimmage shit. Twiggs was making a run right up the midfield, and I tackled him. Clean tackle, no funny business and I got possession. I’m heading back upfield, counterattacking right, gonna pass it off to… fuck, what was that guy’s name?” He clapped his hands together as he remembered. “Ricketts, that was him. Pretty good winger. So I pass it off to him and here comes Twiggs from the side, studs up.”

  He sniffled a little, emotion getting the better of him as a solitary tear rolled down from his right eye. “I could feel the kneecap just ripping up, right? It totally shattered, pieces driven up into muscles and ligaments and shit tearing right up. Doctor’s told me they could never reconstruct it as is, they had to use cybershit. Course, we all knew that would end it, what with FIFA being such dildos about warez. Twiggs apologized afterwards and you know what I told him? Same thing you always tell a footballer when he sideswipes you. I said, ‘I’d have done the same thing, amigo.’ I told him that, and every time we talked about it, I told him the same thing. No sense him feeling guilty about it, right? That’s what you’re taught, from a little dude, make the tackle and apologize afterwards. Never begrudge a man a tackle you’d have made yourself.”

  A raging thundercloud of anger erupted on Stonewall’s face. His lips quivered. Something had broken free inside of him. “But that was a lie, dig? Only a fucking striker comes in with a tackle that dangerous. That shit would have got him a red in a game and he fucking knew it. He knew it, man. That’s why he gave me this fucking job, that’s why he always took care of me. You fucking knew it, didn’t you! What was I, just some Catholic guilt you worked off? Did you feel good about yourself making me do all this shit? Did you? You know how many fucking bodies I buried? Yeah, neither do I and that scares the living shit out of me. But he just kept sending me out there. Stoney, crack this guy’s jaw. Stoney, plant that deadbeat. And what’d it get you, eh puta? What’d it get you? It got you DEAD! Fuck you and burn in hell, you preppy shitbag! I’m glad you’re dead!” Spittle flew off his lips as he screamed at the impassive corpse. His shoulders heaved and hi KheaI cs breathing came in ragged gasps. His cathartic outburst over, he stood panting paying Bridge no mind whatsoever. Finally he composed himself, straightening his back and making the sign of the cross over his chest. “I’m glad you’re dead,” he said one more time with almost a whisper.

  Catching Bridge’s look of terrified embarrassment, Stonewall smiled. “That therapist you got me said I should work on releasing my anger in a non-violent manner. He’s good.”

  “Should we be hanging around this slaughterhouse?”

  Stonewall was about to speak, his mouth just opening to form the words when a beeping sound interrupted. He snapped to attention, darting over to an open doorway that led to a security room. Banks of monitors displaying feeds from various cameras all over the warehouse lined the walls. Bridge could see police cars pulling up in at least two of the exterior feeds. Stonewall cursed loudly. “We gotta get out of here,” he said, springing into action. Slamming a button on the monitor console, he pushed Bridge out into the warehouse floor. The vehicle lift of one of the work bays began to rise, revealing the darkened pit of the oil changing bay below. “Somebody’s called the cops on us, and unless you want to get framed for a gangster-style execution, it’s time to beat feet.”

  The ex-footballer pushed Bridge down into the darkened bay, grabbing a shotgun, a pistol and some clips from underneath the vehicle lift as he did so. Bridge heard muffled shouts and the thwump of flash bang grenades behind him as he ducked below the level of the warehouse floor into darkness.

  *****

  Chapter 10

  August 30, 2028

  2:03 p.m.

  The darkness underneath the warehouse floor was stifling, rank with the smells of motor oil, sweat and dust. Bridge tried to get his eyes adjusted to the blackness but before he could, Stonewall turned on emergency lights with the flick of a switch. The enforcer must have been well-practiced at using this escape route, because Bridge would have stumbled in the dar
k for many minutes before locating that switch. The bay was bathed in a dull red light that turned it into a red-tinged nightmare of shadows. Stonewall moved with a practiced grace, his jaw set in determined, barely controlled anger.

  “That way,” he said curtly, pointing a finger behind Bridge. Bridge followed the finger, trying to discern where Stoney intended him to go. The room was a dead end, a blank series of four walls. It took a second to realize that what looked at first like an impenetrable wall was in fact a tiny alcove, the recessed exit built so as to be invisible except from close-up. Bridge started towards the alcove, tripping over the hydraulic apparatus lining the floor. “And take this Nally ">

  <.”

  Stoney tossed Bridge the pistol he’d grabbed from the hiding place underneath the bay. Bridge caught it awkwardly, barely grabbing the clip that followed. He spoke hesitantly. “I’m not really comfortable... I mean, I’ve shot one, but I’ve never actually shot anyone.”

  “And I don’t suggest you shoot anyone now. Killing cops is a sure way to get the needle, even in this state. But you know, they got ‘em, so you better have one just in case. Just don’t shoot my ass and remember to take the safety off.” The ex-footballer slipped through the crevice quickly despite his size, while Bridge had to wiggle a little to manage his way through. Behind the alcove was a long hallway with telecom pipes running both ways down the length of the dark corridor. Either end of the hallway was engulfed in shadow, the same red emergency lights providing the barest of illumination. Stonewall took an immediate left, flicking another switch as he passed. A small panel beside the alcove began to beep annoyingly. “We better vamoose.”

  “Where the hell are we?”

  “Old 20th fiber trunks, built to wire this area up back in the ‘90’s. Once Twiggs found out this place was right on top of them, he had this emergency exit built. Don’t nobody use these tunnels much anymore ‘less a cable breaks.” The beeping sound started to fade away as the two adopted a brisk pace.

  “What’s that beeping?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  All Bridge could think of was explosives, and he quickened his step unconsciously. “Shit, you’re gonna blow it up, aren’t you?”

  Stoney just flashed a mischievous grin. “Only a little piece.”

  Bridge could feel the tunnel veer a bit left, though he had long since lost any sense of direction. The tunnel filled with noise then, a cacophonous FOOOMPH followed by a shrill ringing in his ears. A thin coating of dust shook down from the ceiling, followed by a gigantic choking cloud that engulfed the entire tunnel. Bridge cursed loudly, though he couldn’t hear his own voice over the ringing. His eyes watered from the dust and he coughed violently. Stonewall was talking to him, but he couldn’t hear. He tried to focus on the man’s mouth, tried to read his lips but to no avail. The Mexican had a hand on Bridge’s arm and was trying to pull him down the corridor. Bridge started to follow when the ex-footballer raised the shotgun one-handed and pulled the trigger.

  Bridge felt the shotgun blasts more than heard it, two quick vibrations shivering past his right arm. He looked back in the direction the shots had been fired, seeing a dark uniformed officer thrown to his back. The explosion had opened the alcove further, and Bridge thought he saw a few limbs buried under the rubble.

  Another shadowed figure sprang from the hole in the wall, firing short, quick bursts from a submachine gun as he tried to make it across the tunnel, begging for cover that did not exist in the tight space.

  Sv hown

  Bullets whizzed past Bridge and Stoney, one coming close enough for Bridge to feel the wind displaced on his cheek. The brief flashes from the man’s gun revealed a uniform with the letters SWAT emblazoned in white across the chest. Bridge threw himself backwards by reflex, raising the gun and firing wildly. He had squeezed off six shots by the time his back hit the ground, rolling over to face the attacker. None of the shots hit, but they were enough to send the target skittering down the hallway in search of cover.

  Stonewall fired two more shots down the hall before yanking Bridge up violently by the arm. A little of Bridge’s hearing had returned, allowing him to catch the gist of what the Mexican was telling him. It amounted to moving his ass and Bridge obeyed with the blood rushing in his head. Dizziness followed by nausea passed over him, but he maintained his balance and kept going. Stonewall pushed him around a soft bend to the left, which switched back to the right in a serpentine pattern.

  Suddenly the tunnel exploded in light, brighter than the sun. Only the fact that Bridge faced away from the source saved his eyesight, but spots still danced in front of his eyes. The concussive force of the flashbang replaced what little hearing he’d gained back with a new piercing ringing. He cursed out loud, but kept moving.

  Stonewall’s reassuring hand still pressed on his back, pushing him forward, around corners, and through a bewildering maze of tunnels that so thoroughly disoriented Bridge that he could have emerged from the tunnels into the kingdom of the Mole People and not been the least bit surprised.

  Finally, Stonewall yanked his shirt, stopping him cold. The Mexican said something to Bridge, but Bridge still couldn’t quite hear it. The enforcer aimed his shotgun at one of the red lights illuminating the tunnel and blasted it, then took similar aim at lights to either side of the now darkened air and repeated his pinpoint shooting. Bridge was now thoroughly blind again, but Stonewall’s hand on his arm pulled him towards where he knew the wall to be. Bridge reached out his hands blindly, his fingers touching cold metal instead of the expected stone. It was a door of some kind, and he fumbled around until he found a handle. The door opened inward, a sliver of yellow light briefly dispelling the darkness. Stoney pushed him through quickly, shutting the door behind him with silent care. He emptied the shotgun of shells and jammed it into the silver bar that opened the door on this side. It would take some major effort to open the door from the other side.

  “Give… pistol…” Stonewall said, barely breaking through the ringing filling Bridge’s head. He handed over the pistol and clips eagerly. Stonewall checked the magazine, slamming it back into place forcefully before hiding the gun in the small of his back.

  “Where the fuck are we?” Bridge asked.

  Stonewall pointed at the ground where a pair of rails ran into the darkness in both directions. “Subway,” he said gruffly. “They won’t want to follow us down here.”

  “How do you kno Sow s arw they won’t?” Bridge asked, his vision starting to clear with only the occasional floater throwing off his balance. He felt the distant rumble of a train somewhere.

  “Cops aren’t coming into the subways anymore. They’ve given it to us.”

  “Us who?”

  “The gangsters, the gangs. The criminals, the hobos, the naco. They’ve been giving this place up more and more since the corps took over.” Stonewall pointed down the tunnel behind Bridge and started walking towards the barely perceptible speck of light. “Nobody takes the subway anymore. The rich got that new dirigible, the middle class got the taxis and the buses. The poor, they take the subway or they beat feet. Ain’t no cops on the trains, hell, most stations don’t even charge anymore. Haven’t you noticed?”

  Bridge shrugged, trudging along beside Stonewall. “I don’t take the subway. My clients expect a certain style. I show up on the subway, they’ll think I’m some kind of lowlife. Ok, some OTHER kind of lowlife. But why aren’t the cops down here?”

  “Have you just really not been paying attention to what these pendejos have been doing to this town?” Bridge shrugged again, and Stonewall scoffed. “I suppose you haven’t noticed what they’re turning the Warehouse District into either.”

  “I don’t do business in the Warehouse District.”

  “That’s right; you don’t deal with the poor people, do you?” Stonewall said with an irritable disdain creeping into his voice. “You just get the bourgeois their dirty pleasures from the lower classes.”

  “You sound lik
e some kind of communist.”

  “Just know how the world is, brother.”

  “Don’t forget you’re one of those bourgeois, brother.”

  “Yeah, I am.” Stonewall’s voice took on a wistful edge. “CLED’s been busy since the LGL got passed. They call it pacification, settling down all the neighborhoods that are still resisting the whole LGL thing. That’s bullshit, of course. Those riots ran out of steam once the food came back. But the CLED’s got to show some progress, bring the crime rate down to prove the grand LGL experiment is a success. How do you think they pull that off? By moving the crime around like the queen in three-card Monty. They’ve been busy evicting folks from houses, pushing the drug trade and hookers and dice games and whatever else they can into the areas with the lowest crime rates. The crime rate in the hot spots goes down. Even if it goes up in other places, it averages out, see? And if you look hard enough, you can see where they are moving the worst of the worst. It’s a series of lines that run the length of the subways. And all of ‘em lead down here. They’re creating their own little version of ethnic cleansing, their little invisible class war.”

  “How the hell did you get so political?” Bridge asked. He had a newfound respect for the footballer She ll it pac. He’d always thought of Stonewall as a typical superstar jock, a hardguy with little need for education. He’d probably underestimated the man by a mile.