Back AT You

by John W. Mefford

  I could feel my nerves jangling. My mouth became parched, and perspiration gathered at my hairline. I was anxious about how this might play out, but the most prominent feeling was almost a desperate longing to embrace Erin, to look into her eyes, to know that she was safe.

  Oh, I wished that were so. But I couldn’t fool myself. I’d never been one to swim in a sea of denial. And everything about this situation made it the most real, gut-wrenching experience of my life.

  The car slowed down as it got closer. It was a black SUV. This had to be Carter and Nixon. It made a wide U-turn in front of my car—I’d decided to leave the hood up but not mess with any cables or hoses. The last thing I needed was to do something stupid that might injure me and negate my ability to rescue the girls.

  It was a late-model Cadillac Escalade. The windows were almost as dark as the paint color. I hadn’t seen this vehicle at the compound when I’d left yesterday. Maybe they had it hidden somewhere else on the property…a getaway car.

  The SUV pulled to a stop just a few feet in front of the Chrysler. It had an imposing if not intimidating presence. Had they jacked it up an extra foot or so? Because of the bright lights shining in my face, I could only see the outline of the driver. He looked tall. The front passenger seat was empty.

  Were Erin and Becca in the back seat?

  I reached between my legs and felt the lump under the floorboard rug. The gun was out of sight, but easily retrievable if I needed to use it.

  The door to the SUV opened, and the driver stepped out. For some reason, I felt compelled to do the same.

  The man said, “Stop where you are.”

  It was Nixon.

  I felt my heart thump my chest. I wasn’t sure why I was having that reaction. I’d been almost certain he would be in the car. Maybe it was the setting—his cartoonish face illuminated by the glow of the headlights and brightening sky.

  I didn’t move as I watched him go to the back of the SUV and pull something out. He walked to the front. I saw jumper cables in his hands. He opened the hood to the Escalade, placed the red and black clamps onto his battery, and then took the opposite end and did the same on the Chrysler’s battery.

  “Try to start the car now,” he said.

  As I slipped into the front seat, I was thankful he hadn’t first tried to start the Chrysler to diagnose the problem. Point for me, I suppose. I turned the ignition, and of course, it started right up. He pulled off the cables, closed both hoods, and tossed the cables into the back of the Escalade.

  I was standing outside the Chrysler again when he marched in his cowboy boots back to the SUV.

  “Follow me,” he said.

  “Are Erin and Becca in there?”

  He stopped just before the door shut. “Follow me.” Then he closed the door and began backing up the Escalade.

  I ran back to the Chrysler, threw the gear into drive, made a quick U-turn, and gunned it. Nixon hadn’t waited on me. He was already a good hundred yards in front of me. In fact, the whole car-fixing process seemed rehearsed, as if he’d done this type of thing before. It seemed more like a timed pit-stop—as if he wanted to ensure no one saw him on the side of the road.

  The Chrysler caught up, and we cruised along at about seventy miles per hour for almost ten minutes. Then the SUV pulled into the parking lot of an abandoned gas station. I followed Nixon as he pulled around back, where there were two bays with doors pulled shut.

  Did he need to take a leak? I had no idea what was going on. I leaned over, lifted the rug, and touched the grip of the pistol. I needed to be ready for anything.

  Without warning, one of the bay doors started opening just like my automatic garage door at home. Nixon or someone must have punched a button. He pulled the Escalade into the garage and killed the engine. He began to get out of the SUV, and I clicked the button to roll down my window. But the bay door started shutting.

  What the hell was going on? I almost yelled out, but I held back. For a few seconds, I sat in my idling car, wondering if this was another part of their scheme. I jerked my head around to see if someone might be sneaking up on me. It was all clear. Just a lot of rocks, a few shredded tires lying in the weeds, and the gas station that I’d thought was abandoned.

  “Fuck!” I banged an open palm off the steering wheel. My pulse was doing double time. What to do, what to do, what to do.

  I grabbed the pistol, swung open my door.

  Just then, the second bay door began to open. With one foot still in the car, I lowered my gun hand to my side. A smaller white SUV, a Chevy of some sort, pulled out. It had a dented fender and mud streaks down the side. The driver’s side window rolled down. It was Nixon again. “Follow me,” he said.

  “Where are Erin and Becca?”

  “Follow me.”

  “Fuck that. Tell me where the girls are.”

  He looked straight ahead for a second. I had no idea what he was thinking. I couldn’t see anyone else in the car—the vehicle didn’t have tinted windows.

  Then it hit me. Had he left the girls tied up in the back of the Escalade? And now he was trying to lure me away to another location where he and possibly Carter or others would take the drugs from me?

  But what would that gain them—leaving the girls here?

  I wasn’t thinking clearly.

  Nixon turned and stabbed a finger at the Chrysler. “Just follow me, and everything will work out. If you don’t, bad things will happen to the girls.”

  He rolled up the window as I opened my mouth. He started to pull away.

  Decision time. Follow Nixon and hope that he’s telling the truth, or figure out a way inside this gas station to look for the girls, either in the car or maybe another part of the building. For a moment, I considered trying to do both—make a quick run into the building, if I could easily determine how to get inside, and hope like hell I’d find the girls but no one else.

  The Chevy disappeared around the corner. I marched four steps toward the building.

  A zap of doubt pinged my brain—I stopped in my tracks. Would Nixon actually leave the girls here, knowing I could walk in and find them before I handed over the drugs?

  “Crap!” I raced back, jumped into the driver’s seat, and threw the gearshift into drive. The Chrysler sprayed dust as I tore around the corner. The white Chevy was already on the highway headed west, the same direction we had been moving earlier.

  In making the turn onto the highway, I didn’t bother tapping the brakes. The Chrysler bobbed up and down like a small boat plowing through choppy waters, but it eventually gripped the concrete and started to catch up to the Chevy.

  I saw a couple of cars moving in my direction. One of the two didn’t bother with headlights. The skies were beginning to brighten. The lonely road would soon fill with more cars. I better understood Nixon’s urgency—he didn’t want to be seen jump-starting my car. And even after that, I now believed he’d changed vehicles simply to ensure no one would be able to trace him to the Escalade when he’d jump-started the car on the side of the road.

  It was apparent this whole operation hadn’t been devised just in the last week. Carter, Nixon…they might be scum-sucking slime, but they’d utilized some systematic processes to respond to every scenario thus far.

  Another five minutes on the highway, just as we began climbing a small hill on a bend in the road, Nixon hit the brakes so hard I saw the Chevy’s back end lurch forward. I wasn’t close enough to hit him, but I dropped my speed in half in about a hundred feet. He swerved off the road and hooked a right. I followed him as the road turned to dirt and small rocks, although every few seconds, the Chrysler would lift up, thanks to a larger boulder embedded in the surface. I questioned how far off the highway Nixon was taking me. Was it to their backup compound? Maybe their sex-prison operation was at a totally different location, being run by other presidential bottom-feeders.

  For a quick second, my mind could hear my dear friend, Ozzie Novak, cracking jokes about presidents—politicians, i
n general—and various forms of parasites. Damn, I could have used his help on this one.

  As I trailed Nixon over two ridges, I felt more alone than ever. The only advantage I had right now was the gun on the floorboard. But I knew if I ended up using it, the drugs-for-the-girls swap wouldn’t have gone well.

  We traveled through a dry creek bed and then down a hill. A blue trailer sat on the floor of the canyon. My eyes didn’t blink as we drove up to it. I parked about ten feet to the side of the Chevy. Nixon got out—he was still wearing his mask—and he waved me on as he walked toward the trailer’s door. I clenched my jaw, which still hurt like hell, as I debated whether to trust Nixon.

  I chose not to trust him.

  I grabbed the gun and tucked it into the back of my khakis, pulling my shirt over it. “Are the girls in the trailer?” I asked.

  He did another circle-wave. This guy wasn’t big on talking.

  “Nixon,” I yelled.

  He stopped at the bottom of the steps and flipped his head around. The mask bobbled like a blow-up doll. Again, no response. If nothing else, those frickin’ masks would give me nightmares until my last days on earth, I was sure.

  I was tempted to pull the gun right there and then. I could run up and put the gun at the base of Nixon’s brain and officially call this a hostile trade. It might work.

  Might.

  I glanced at the two windows. They were covered, but that didn’t mean a gun wasn’t aimed right at my head. I might not even get the chance to run up to Nixon. And then what would happen to Erin and Becca?

  Again, I erred on the side of caution. I caught up with Nixon as he pulled out a set of keys from his pocket.

  “The girls are inside, right?” I’d lowered my volume.

  “Yep,” he said, focusing on finding the right key for the door.

  If he was using a key, did that mean there was no one inside—not Carter or any other associated thug? Maybe Carter was off kidnapping more girls, whom he’d use as bait to force someone to do his dirty work. If so, that could mean that I had the advantage after all.

  Adrenaline pumped my blood a little faster—if that were possible—as I put my foot on the first step. It was made of wood, and it creaked when I put my full weight on it. As he fumbled with the keys, I did a quick three-sixty. Just a lot of rocks and dirt. Maybe this was the place from where all those conspiracy theorists had believed the wheeled robots had collected evidence to show there was water on Mars.

  Lack of food and hydration was clearly getting to me.

  “This one should work,” Nixon finally said.

  He turned the key and pulled the door open, bumping into me, causing me to take a step back. He walked inside the darkened space.

  I suddenly had a déjà vu moment. Crappy trailer with no lights meant people were waiting to jump me once I was inside.

  “You coming inside or not?” he said.

  “I, uh…” I hesitated.

  “Gotta find a light for this place.” He disappeared inside the trailer.

  My gut told me this wasn’t right. But what was the alternative at this point—get in the Chrysler and drive back to the highway? I had no leverage.

  I willed myself up the last two steps and poked my head inside. “Erin, Becca, are you in there?”

  Nothing for a couple of seconds.

  “They’re in the back with me,” Nixon said. “I had to put tape over their mouths because they wouldn’t stop shouting.”

  I stepped all the way inside. I could barely see a hand in front of my face.

  “I’m back here. Walk toward my voice,” Nixon said.

  Sounded like he was behind another door.

  “Why aren’t the lights turning on?”

  “This piece-of-shit trailer has been empty for years.”

  With the door open, my eyes began adjusting to the darkness. My range was all of about five feet. I stumbled over a bump in the carpet but placed my hand against the wall to stay upright.

  “Nixon, where are you?” I could barely make out the kitchen counter on the right-hand side. I kept shuffling forward.

  Then I heard a car start.

  The Chrysler. What the hell…?

  I turned on my heels and backtracked out of the trailer. Just as I reached the door, I saw Carter behind the wheel, reversing the Chrysler. A thin wire jerked my neck backward.

  “You little bitch!”

  I was being strangled by Nixon. Gagging, I struggled to get my fingers under the wire.

  “You thought you could stop us. Now you’re going to die in the middle of nowhere.” Nixon chuckled. “Vultures will get a nice snack. They’re always looking for something a little meatier than a dead snake.”

  I could feel my head go red, and my eyes bulge—and I could still see Carter driving off in the Chrysler. That had been their play all along. Use the carrot to bring me out here, then take off with the drugs while Nixon killed me.

  I could feel the wire cutting into my skin. The smell of blood invaded my nostrils. I tried plucking at the wire, but I couldn’t get a grip. I had to be the most naïve agent the FBI had ever produced. I’d been duped for the second time using the same darkened-trailer method.

  But I quickly realized this time was different. Yes, Nixon’s laughter filled my ear, and the sound of it made me sick to my stomach. This time, though, the door was open. I hooked my foot around the doorframe. At the same time, my right hand finally grabbed the wire. I pulled myself forward just a tad, then rammed my head backward with everything I had, cracking Nixon’s nose. I could feel cartilage crunch like a bag of walnuts. He screamed, loosened his grip.

  Blood went everywhere as I stumbled down the stairs and fell to the ground. I took in a precious breath and reached for my neck—I could feel the burn from where the wire had broken skin.

  “You fucking bitch!” he roared.

  I looked up to see the Chrysler disappearing around the rocky bend. But I also saw my gun. It had fallen out of my pants. I quickly looked over my shoulder. Nixon had ripped off his mask. His face was a bloody mess; his expression was full of rage. He barreled down the stairs, his eyes on the gun. I got to my knees and tried to push up to standing.

  A heavy boot landed on my back. I face-planted in the dirt. Nixon had used me as a launching pad. He was laughing and grunting at the same time. I jumped from the ground and raced for the gun. But he had a head start on me.

  He scooped up the gun. As he twisted around, I reached down, grabbing a handful of dirt. As soon as he faced me, I chucked the dirt at his eyes.

  The gun fired over my shoulder, and I flinched. But he stumbled back, yelling because of the dirt in his eyes. He let the gun drop to his side. I had a chance.

  I ran forward and swung my leg upward between his legs. He turned at the last second—my foot missed its target and bounced off his thigh.

  Dammit!

  Just as he brought the gun up again, I hit him with a roundhouse punch in the nose. This time, he squealed like a piggy. The gun went flying over his shoulder. I ran past him, but he tripped me up. I tasted dirt again. I looked up, couldn’t find the gun. My eyes darted left and right—it was as though the weapon had been camouflaged in burnt orange, the color of the dirt. I frantically crawled around, sifting my hands across the dirt, hoping I’d feel the gun. I could hear myself begin to cry out loud. It was like I was having an out-of-body experience. But I knew if I didn’t get to that gun, Erin and Luke wouldn’t have a mother.

  Was Erin even alive?

  I pushed the thought away as I scrambled farther away from Nixon, searching for the gun.

  Where is the fucking gun?

  The absence of Nixon’s rage snagged my attention. Where was Nixon? I looked over my shoulder—he was running for the Chevy.

  That fucker couldn’t get away, not if he knew where Erin was.

  By some miracle, I finally spotted the gun. I snagged it and took off in the direction of the Chevy. The vehicle was spinning its wheels, moving in reverse. Di
rt and pebbles hit me like I was caught in a Texas tornado. I lifted an arm to block my eyes, but I still brought the gun up and fired a shot. It hit metal.

  I quickly shifted to my right to move out of the way of the sandstorm until I faced the front of the Chevy. Nixon was still going in reverse. I lifted the gun and ran toward the vehicle. I didn’t know where he was going—the rocky road back to the highway was on the other side of me—but he was moving at a faster clip. I stopped, brought up my other hand to steady my aim, and fired three quick rounds.

  The vehicle jerked hard to the right, then crashed into a boulder twice its size. Aside from the spray of dust lingering in the air, everything went still. I looked through the haze. Was that Nixon’s head resting against the steering wheel? With my gun still raised, I walked to the vehicle—I veered to the passenger side so I could see if he was pretending to be knocked out while holding some weapon out of my line of sight.

  I looked through the window. His head was lying against the steering wheel. No sign of a deployed airbag. The car was probably too old to have one. His hands hung to the floorboard like dead limbs from a tree. His hair was matted to his face, with a fair amount of blood. I couldn’t see his eyes.

  I wasn’t even sure he was breathing. Part of me wanted him dead, but that wouldn’t help Erin and Becca. He had to be lucid so I could quiz him on the location of the girls. I opened the door, put a foot into the cabin.

  He roared, swung his arm, and connected with my jaw. I was stunned and dropped to the seat. He growled again, threw the gear into drive, and punched the gas. I flew backward, almost falling out of the speeding car. He flipped the wheel left and right, trying to throw me out. I grabbed the swinging door and pulled myself up. In the process, I’d let go of the gun. His eyes saw it at the same time mine did.

  I thrust myself into the cabin and lunged for the gun. I got to it just after his hand took hold of it. He still had one hand on the steering wheel, but he wasn’t watching where we were going. I didn’t know what else to do, so I bit down on his wrist until I tasted blood.