by Haris Orkin
Even with the top down, the ride was fairly quiet, and the four hundred and fifty horsepower, twelve-cylinder engine propelled the Volante effortlessly. Eventually, they were five thousand feet above sea level, zooming past huge outcroppings of granite and shale and squealing around hairpin turns. Sancho, riding shotgun, felt his stomach drop when he peered past the edge of road to see that the closest ground was hundreds of feet down.
Sancho was startled by the crack of a rifle shot and he turned to see they were cruising past a shooting range. He could hear pistols and shotguns and rifles being fired with great enthusiasm by semi-toasted, middle-aged white guys. Soon the sound of the gun fire was gone, muffled by the mountains. Sancho saw a sign for Indian Springs. It was peppered with shotgun pellets. He looked at Flynn. “Where exactly are you taking us?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” Dulcie said. She sat in the back seat, looking peeved.
“Palmdale,” said Flynn.
“Palmdale?” Sancho raised a curious eyebrow. “What the hell’s in Palmdale?”
Flynn pointed to the little black book open in his lap. “Someone we need to pay a visit to.”
“Is that Mike’s phone book?” Dulcie sounded freaked.
“I found it when I found his ill-gotten gains.” Flynn motioned to the duffel bag on the floor between Sancho’s feet. Dulcie glanced at the open bag and saw the last of the cash, stacks of hundred-dollar bills bound with rubber bands.
“So, who do we need to pay a visit to?” Sancho asked.
“Pete Kursky. 775 Arbor Drive, Palmdale.” The tiny bit of color in Dulcie’s face drained away at the mere mention of Kursky’s name.
Holding the wheel with one hand, Flynn pushed on a pop-up dashboard panel, revealing the hidden satellite navigation system. He keyed in the address, eyes half on the road, half on the computer screen as they squealed around another tight turn.
“Dude, what are you doing?” Sancho said nervously.
“Entering in the address. The satellite navigation system will direct us straight to Mr. Kursky’s front door.”
“You can’t do that,” Dulcie said.
“Of course I can. See.” Flynn pointed to the map that now appeared on the small monitor.
“Jesus Christ.” Dulcie shook Sancho’s shoulder. “Do something!”
“What?”
“This motherfucker’s gonna get us killed.”
The Aston Martin hit a tight turn too fast and the car slipped into a skid. Sancho gaped silently at the approaching abyss as the car drifted sideways. Dulcie’s scream created an irritating off-key harmony with the squealing rubber. Unperturbed, Flynn regained control of the car inches from the edge. The brush with mortality left Sancho and Dulcie deathly quiet. The only sound was the wind rushing past the car.
A soft, sexy female voice broke the silence. It came from a speaker built into the navigation system. “Please turn right on Sand Canyon Road.”
Flynn squinted and peered into the distance. “Does anyone see a road ahead?”
“Maybe you better slow down,” Sancho said.
“Time is of the essence, my friend. Lives are at stake. Q could be near death as we speak. He’s a brave soul, but anyone can be broken and when he is—”
“Look out!” Terror filled Sancho’s face as he pointed up ahead. The road split to the left and the right and in the center stood a solid wall of granite. The speedometer on the Aston Martin hovered at seventy. Flynn hit the brake and cut right.
The car slid into another skid. The sharp tang of melted rubber filled Sancho’s nostrils as he watched the granite wall speed closer. It smelled like fear. Like the fire and brimstone of Hell. Dulcie closed her eyes and grabbed the oh-shit strap. Flynn, however, kept his cool and the rear tires finally caught. The rear end fishtailed as Flynn regained control. Sancho saw him smirking. The son of a bitch was enjoying this.
Sancho started to say something, but his attention was diverted by the glare of two approaching headlights. Flynn was in the left lane driving towards oncoming traffic. Sancho and Dulcie were too exhausted to scream any more. They had no more adrenaline left in their adrenal glands. They couldn’t flee. They couldn’t fight. All they could do was wait for the end.
Flynn tried to go right, but the panicked driver of the oncoming car turned the same direction. Flynn veered left and so did the other driver. They were in a dangerous and stupid dance, heading towards the inevitable conclusion of a collision. Flynn could have gone right again, but he made a split-second decision. The kind of decision that separates men of action from road kill. He continued to veer left, right off the road and onto the narrow gravel shoulder. The Aston Martin kicked up rock and dust as they rocketed between the oncoming car and the granite rock face, barely missing both. The sound was deafening and Sancho and Dulcie stopped breathing as everything moved in slow motion. Soon the danger was past and Flynn was back on the right side of the road, unruffled and serene.
The soft, sexy female voice with the English accent said, “Go North on the Antelope Valley Freeway.”
Flynn glanced at Sancho who was holding his breath. His forehead was slick with perspiration and he felt close to blowing chunks. Flynn grinned. “Nothing like a relaxing drive in the country, eh, Sancho?”
Mike Croker stood in the middle of the street, pulling the trigger on his .44 magnum. He’d hoped to hit someone or something, but was pretty sure he didn’t hit anything. He wasn’t exactly a marksman. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was his lazy left eye or the fact that he never practiced, but unless he was right on top of something he rarely ever hit it. The report of the pistol echoed in his head along with an annoying ringing. At first, he thought it was coming from his own head as the rhythm of the ringing matched the throbbing pain at the back of his skull. Slowly he realized the ringing came from somewhere else. A satellite phone. Kursky was calling him.
“Son of a bitch.”
He staggered into the house. Shattered glass and cracked plaster covered the floor. He saw broken lamps and overturned furniture and finally his pride and joy, his sixty-two-inch Sony HDTV. It was the only thing in the room still standing. He limped angrily over to the satellite phone’s recharging station and picked up.
“Yeah?”
“Mike?” It was Kursky.
“Uh huh.”
“What the fuck, man? I’ve been calling for fifteen minutes. You said you were going to be there.”
“Sorry, man…I’ve been…dealing with something.
“Dulcie?”
“She’s part of it.”
“Fuck, dude. I’m not denying she’s hot. But Jesus Christ, it ain’t worth it. You know what I’m saying.”
“Ya...”
“I would hit that in a second, I’m not saying I wouldn’t, but I’d never let a bitch that crazy move in with me. That cunt doesn’t give you the proper respect; you know what I’m saying?”
“I hear ya…”
“I’m not trying to bust your balls, I’m being honest with ya.” Mike heard someone saying something to Kursky and Kursky said, “Hang on a second.” Mike, still dizzy from his ass-kicking, sat himself down on the couch. He clutched the satellite phone to his ear and listened as Kursky cussed someone out. Soon Kursky was back on the line. “Fucking Dave. I don’t know, man. You still there?”
“Uh huh.”
“Okay, listen, the buy’s going down at noon tomorrow. We’re meeting them at the downtown warehouse. I’ll meet you in the parking lot. And don’t forget the fucking cash.” Mike didn’t respond immediately. In fact, he didn’t respond at all. “Mike? You there?”
“Uh huh.”
“So acknowledge me, man. Let me know that you understand what I’m fucking telling you.”
“Pete, there’s…um…something going on that…um…I need to talk to you about.”
“What?”
“We have a little problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
Mike sighed. “Remember that crazy f
ucker who came to Tiny’s today? The English dude?”
“The guy whose ass we kicked?”
“Yeah, he…uh…broke into my place and stole the cash.”
“You fucking kidding me?”
“I think Dulcie was in on it.”
“Fuck.”
“I know, man. I’m sorry.”
“How the fuck did that happen!”
“I don’t know.”
“Who the fuck is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“What the fuck do you know?”
“Pete, I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
“It’s not me you gotta make it up to.”
“You’re not telling him are ya?”
“I have to. If I don’t, he’ll think I’m in on it.”
“I’ll get it back.”
“How much we talkin’ about?” asked Pete.
“All of it.”
“You fucking asshole.”
“Just give me a little time.”
“No can do, dude.”
“Come on, man.”
“Can’t help you, Mikey. You’re on your own.”
“Pete?” But Pete was no longer on the line. The line was dead and Mike was afraid he’d be dead soon too. He looked up to see Conan staring at him from the kitchen doorway. The big dog tilted his head quizzically and Mike whipped the phone at him. Conan yelped and ran and Mike put his face in his hands. “Fuck me...”
Chapter Thirteen
In 1887 a wagon train of Lutherans traveled to California from the snowy Midwest to start a new life. They were told they would know they were close to the ocean when they saw palm trees. They mistook the local Joshua trees for palms and put down roots one hundred miles east of the Pacific Ocean in the western Mojave Desert. Unable to grow anything in this desolate unforgiving landscape, all but one family abandoned the settlement by 1899. Over one hundred years later, Palmdale is still home to many lost souls hoping to find the American Dream in the driest desert in North America.
Pete Kursky stood in the backyard of his palatial Palmdale McMansion and watched the light fade from the sky. A huge two-level pool with a waterfall and a massive Jacuzzi was filled with four naked, slightly overweight biker chicks. The low hills of chaparral surrounding his property were purple in the setting sun. Pete heard the mournful wail of a coyote as he stared at the satellite phone in his beefy hand. That stupid asshole. Someone has to take the fall and it isn’t going to be me, he thought. No fucking way.
Kursky had a shaved walnut-shaped head. He sported a long, braided goatee tied off at the end with a tiny red bead. He stood six foot four and weighed three hundred and twenty-two pounds; exactly twenty-seven pounds lighter than on his last birthday. He was on the Jenny Craig diet, so he weighed himself every morning.
He’d struggled with his weight since he was eight years old. The kids at Fillmore Elementary school in Mesa, Arizona had teased him mercilessly. By junior high he was not just fat but tall and started fighting back. By the time he was in eighth grade, he was the biggest, most vicious bully Barry Goldwater Middle School had ever seen. At fifteen he was arrested for beating a football player into a coma and spent the next three years in juvenile hall. Upon his release at age eighteen, he found a group of friends who understood where he was coming from. These friends were members of Satan’s Slaves; the most feared motorcycle gang in Phoenix.
The Slaves dealt drugs, stole cars, operated massage parlors, and sold protection. Pete quickly rose through the ranks. At age twenty-nine, he was charged with the task of starting a Slaves chapter in Los Angeles. He avoided San Bernardino, since the Hell’s Angels were so well entrenched there, and settled on Tujunga in the foothills just north of Los Angeles.
The Los Angeles Chapter of Satan’s Slaves now had nearly two hundred members and controlled the crystal meth trade in the L.A. area. Pete was ambitious. In fact, he was so ambitious that six months previously he made contact with one of Mexico’s largest drug cartels. He was angling to be their Los Angeles distributor and the money that Mike lost was money he owed to them for the product they were bringing into L.A. The cartel’s contact man was a mean son of a bitch by the name of Mendoza—and that was why Pete hesitated to call.
He liked Mike. They’d been friends a long time. He first met Mike’s older brother in juvenile hall and took Mike under his wing when Mike’s brother was killed in a motorcycle accident. But business was business and Mike had made a fatal mistake. Kursky punched a number into the satellite phone as the last few reddish rays of sunlight disappeared from the wispy clouds that streaked across the desert sky.
A weeping man slumped tied to a chair. He sat in a pool of light surrounded by darkness. A black hood covered his head. He shook as he sobbed, whimpering in Spanish, begging for mercy. Mendoza watched him without emotion. At six one and two hundred and eighty pounds, he was shorter and lighter than Kursky, but somehow looked bigger. His thick musculature strained the seams of his black Hugo Boss suit. He sucked on a skinned knuckle as he regarded the whimpering prisoner. Mendoza spoke Spanish with a Mexico City accent. His voice was soft and matter of fact. “Give me the name of your contact and this will all be over.” Mendoza’s entire presence threatened violence, but his eyes made him terrifying. They were flat, black and bottomless. “I just need the name. I’ll get it out of you eventually. You know I will.”
The man continued to weep. Mendoza nodded to the greasy-looking lackey kneeling behind the chair. He grabbed the weeping man’s left hand. The snitch screamed. Three of his fingers were badly broken, bent at odd angles. The lackey grabbed the rat’s pinky and snapped it viciously. The howling grew louder and Mendoza simply watched, giving away nothing. He raised his voice, not out of anger, but to be heard over the man’s screams.
“Continue to waste my time and this will never end. After your fingers, we will break your toes. We will take your eyes. Cut off your nose. Tuco is a master. He will cause you the maximum amount of pain, yet you will not die. You will be legless and armless and yet you will still be alive and we will keep you alive until you tell me what I need to know. Everyone you love will die, regardless of what you tell us...so you see, there’s no reason for you to be silent. Your bravery is pointless.”
A slender young man emerged from the darkness and whispered in Mendoza’s ear. Mendoza nodded and the young man handed him a satellite phone.
“Mendoza,” he said, listening, his face betraying nothing. When he answered, he answered in heavily accented English. “If the money isn’t found then your associate will have to pay. He will die and we will take everything he owns. And, if after everything is sold, we still haven’t been properly compensated, then you will have to make up the difference.”
Kursky’s voice echoed over the line, “I’m sure we can find the fucker. He couldn’t have gotten very far.”
Mendoza’s tone didn’t change, though there was just the slightest adjustment in the set of his jaw. “Then find him and stop bothering me with these trivialities.” Mendoza clicked off the phone and handed it back to the slender man. He looked at the snitch weeping in the chair. The jet-black Glock looked tiny in Mendoza’s massive paw. “Shall we start with your left foot or your right?” Mendoza was back to speaking Spanish. “It doesn’t matter to me. Left foot or right? Left or right?”
“Left!”
Mendoza shot him in the right. The man screamed and then Mendoza shot him in the left. The shriek pitched louder and then became hoarse, ragged and hopeless. Mendoza looked at the slender young man with the satellite phone. “Take over for a little while. I gotta take a leak.”
Chapter Fourteen
Tiburcio Vasquez was one of California’s most famous Mexican bandits. He stood five foot seven and weighed one hundred and thirty pounds. He started his life of crime in 1852. Four years later Vasquez was rustling horses by the hundreds. He was a legendary womanizer and rumored to have impregnated many impressionable and passionate senoritas. Posses in five counties were p
ut together to track him down. Vasquez hid out in a very rugged area just south of Palmdale. Vasquez Rocks—jagged fingers of sandstone ripped up out of the ground by prehistoric earthquakes was named after the scrawny bandit. Vasquez was sentenced to hang in San Francisco. His jail cell was visited by thousands of women who wanted to catch a last glimpse. He signed autographs and posed for photographs, which he sold from the window of his cell. He used the proceeds for his legal defense. Clemency, however, was denied and Vasquez died in 1875 in San Jose, where he was hung by the neck until dead.
Sancho thought about Tiburcio Vasquez as the Aston Martin flew past the geologic park named after the long dead bandito. How the hell did that little vato get all those ladies to give it up like that? He obviously had what Flynn has, whatever mysterious thing that is. Tiburcio met a very sad end and Flynn’s future didn’t look much better. How will this end for them? In a hail of bullets? In a prison cell? At the bottom of a canyon in a flaming Aston Martin?
The sky was almost black and a waxing moon hung low, close to the horizon. It silhouetted Vasquez Rocks against the night sky. They stood like dark sentries, ominous and prehistoric, and they filled Sancho with dread.
The speedometer hovered at ninety. The Aston Martin blew past the other cars as if they were standing still. Since it was Sunday, the Antelope Valley Freeway wasn’t very busy. Monday through Friday, at this time of day, the freeway was choked with suburban commuters heading home from work in L.A.
The wind whipped Dulcie’s hair everywhere as she sat in the back seat. “I’m not a secret agent,” she screamed, her voice almost lost in the wind.
“I know that,” Flynn said.
“You do?” Sancho asked.
“Yes, she’s a brilliant research scientist who works for Q.”
“I’m a waitress and cashier!” Dulcie yelled. She turned to Sancho. “Why are we even talking to this crazy motherfucker?”