Get Your Murder Running

by Liliana Hart

  “Sully told us you’re a rat.”

  “No he didn’t,” Hank countered.

  “You calling me a liar?” the man asked.

  “Enough with playing games. You want the bike take it, but get this pee-shooter out of my face.”

  Hank felt a slight gap between the press of the metal and his tattered flesh. He breathed a slight breath of relief.

  Unexpectedly, the outlaw rammed the barrel back into Hank’s face harder than the first time. He went black for a second and struggled to reach out to steady himself against his bike’s frame. Sound echoed inside his skull. It caused him to stumble without balance.

  “Take this, punk,” said another voice. Immediately, a solid crack against the back of Hanks’s head and shoulders sent him back to his knees. If there was anything good in that situation, it allowed him to gain space from the shotgun’s double barrels shoved inside his helmet’s open face mask.

  A quick peek through a loud fake grunt showed him the outlaw sporting the sawed off shotgun was Ratchet. Fighting him would be pointless because he was outnumbered. He used the shiny chrome on his HOG’s engine to catch a reflection of whoever sucker punched him from behind. It was Butcher, and he too seemed formidable.

  “Get up. Tell us about Shondra,” Butcher demanded.

  Hank groaned out loud to buy a few seconds. He felt the heat from his motorcycle’s engine radiating through his clothing, but he leaned into it for the balance he’d need soon. Ratchet smacked the steel of his shotgun into the top of Hank’s motorcycle helmet. The resonating sound hurt more than the blow.

  “Last chance, and then you’ll get two in the face like old Sully did.”

  Hank ignored the threat. He would’ve heard two blasts from a short-barrel shotgun. He tugged off the glove of his right hand and set it on the floorboard. He snaked his exposed hand between the hot Vance and Hines brand chromed exhaust pipe until he felt the familiar butt of his .9mm pistol.

  “Alright, I’m getting up. I can’t even see straight,” Hank cried out while waving his left arm as a distraction.

  “We want to know how you know about Axel’s old lady?” Ratchet demanded.

  “Old lady?” Confused, Hank asked.

  “Don’t play stupid, stupid. She ain’t your woman’s cousin.”

  “I thought Shondra was dead,” Hank replied.

  “She is, so why you coming around asking about her? You the cops?” Butcher asked.

  “Step aside brother, I’m going to plant a round in him and see if it shakes his memory loose,” snarled Ratchet.

  Hank sprang up and sidestepped away from the motorcycle. He pivoted on the ball of his left boot’s thick rubber sole, and then jerked Butcher with his left arm. He allowed centrifugal force to keep spinning him until Hank had ended up behind Butcher with Hank’s .9mm smashed into the side of Butcher’s skull.

  “Okay, game over. I’ll put a bullet through your head first if Ratchet doesn’t drop that shotgun. And trust me, this ain’t going to end pretty.”

  Hank was getting dizzy from the crunch he took from Ratchet’s shotgun. Blood covered most of his face, and he knew he was growing weaker. He fought off the urge to pass out.

  “You’re crazy, man. We just want to know why you asking about Shondra. Be cool, dude,” Butcher said.

  “Be cool? Are you nuts?” Hank panted as he spoke, but he knew he needed to level off his adrenaline to remain alert.

  “Just answer the question and we’ll let you walk,” Butcher said.

  Ratchet still held the shotgun leveled off at Hank. Of course, it meant Butcher was in the line of fire but Hank didn’t think Ratchet was too concerned.

  Hank heard a groan in the distance. He quickly peeked back at a pile of packing crates and saw what he knew were Sully’s boots attached to what had to be the skinniest twig legs in America. Maybe they did shoot him.

  Hank nodded toward Sully, “What happened to him?”

  “He’s okay,” Ratchet said.

  “What happened?” Hank growled.

  “He refused to help set you up. He said you were a stand up dude.”

  “And?” Hank demanded.

  “So I knocked his dumb self out with one punch.” Ratchet snorted.

  Hank’s blood was boiling at the thought of Sully trying to stand up for him, the same way he probably tried to defend his wife before they also took her away. He also knew the Rattlers only respected violence, and now that he had the upper hand, it couldn’t end friendly.

  “Last chance to drop that shotgun,” Hank demanded.

  “Kiss off, punk, or I’m going to blast you.” Ratchet proclaimed with arrogant pride.

  “Like this?” Hank asked.

  Hank swept his 9mm semi-automatic pistol away from Butcher’s ear hole, and pointed it right at Ratchet.

  “Drop the shotgun.” Hank demanded.

  “Not on your life, scumbag.”

  A single blast rang out. Butcher flinched, but Hank held a death grip around his fat, tattooed neck.

  Ratchet on the other hand, screamed a blood-curdling wail. He grabbed at his left kneecap, which exploded with cartilage, bone and blood. The giant collapsed onto the asphalt with a solid thud.

  “Hank,” screamed Agatha.

  “Stay back, Aggie.”

  “Oh man, you’re going to pay for this,” Butcher said.

  Hank’s movements caused the gash across his nose to open up with fresh crimson flowing over his face again. He blinked his left eye, although it was almost blinded by the swelling. The sting of his own blood burned his pupil.

  “You threatening me?” Hank asked. “This is for the cheap shot and for messing with Sully.”

  “You ain’t seen a cheap shot yet.”

  Butcher bucked against him, and raised his hands like he was going to attack Hank.

  “Well, if that’s the case.”

  Hank fired a second bullet through the top of Butcher’s right boot.

  Butcher screamed so loud that Hank wasn’t able to hear the threats and curses coming from Ratchet. Hank stood over them, but his glare scanned the rest of the area for reinforcements. He’d only seen those two, so Axle and Ox must’ve remained inside with the beer and women.

  “I want to know what happened to Shondra?” Hank demanded.

  “Drop dead,” groaned Ratchet.

  “Axle would kill us.” Butcher rolled around on the asphalt like a puppy scratching his own back.

  “Axle, huh?” Hank muttered to himself.

  Hank kicked the shotgun away from Ratchet, who was still crawling to grab it. Agatha snatched it up off the asphalt. She cracked it open, and ejected two twelve gauge shotgun slugs loaded and ready to fire. Hank’s heart sunk a bit at the reality that one slip of the bandit’s finger and even the high-quality, impact resistant motorcycle helmet wouldn’t have contained the carnage to his skull.

  “I’ll be back to finish you two off in a second. Don’t go anywhere,” Hank said.

  “Yeah, stay put or I’ll use this thing on you.” Agatha waved the unloaded shotgun.

  Hank jogged over to find Sully face down in an oil spill collection basin.

  “Is it Sully? Is he dead?” Agatha joined him at the pile of wooden crates.

  Sully’s leathered face was smashed in pretty good. What teeth he had were like yesterday’s news and the blood pooled with the black oil to create an unholy looking concoction of human suffering.

  One bullet to the knee was way too good for what they did to Sully. Hank rolled Sully out of the ink-black syrup. His palm smeared away debris from Sully’s eyes.

  “I’m going to kill him,” Hank swore.

  “Please don’t.” Sully’s feeble fingers scratched at Hank’s shirtsleeve, “Them’s the only family I got.”

  “Family?”

  “The Brotherhood, Hank.”

  “But they kicked you out.”

  “I quit them.”

  “Same difference.” Hank said.

  “You don’t real
ly ever get to leave them.”

  “I’m calling you an ambulance, Sully. Just be quiet and lie still.”

  Hank dug into his jacket for his cell phone.

  “No, please don’t. They’ll call the cops and it’ll be questions I can’t answer. It’ll eventually lead to you, Hank. You don’t deserve that.”

  “But Sully.”

  “I’ve been worse.” He blinked back unconsciousness. “Now go on.”

  “Sully, I gotta make sure you’ll be okay.”

  “Honey,” Sully said, glancing at Agatha. “Take him away from here.”

  Hank shook his head no, and he leaned down closer to Sully.

  “I heard you stood up for me, Sully. I won’t forget that,” Hank said.

  He tried resting Sully’s head on a short stack of boxes, but nothing seemed to comfort him.

  “Now go. Cops avoid this area, but them gun pops might’ve gotten nosy folks on the phone,” Sully muttered. “Please.”

  “I’ll check on you tomorrow,” Hank said.

  “I tried to tell them not to do it. I tried to be legit.”

  “My friend, you are more legitimate than anyone I know.”

  Hank motioned for Agatha to head for the HOG. They needed to vacate before the local cops, or Axle and Ox arrived.

  “You were very convincing back there, Aggie.”

  “It must be the leather. I’m feeling like Wonder Woman.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Saturday

  It was the day before St. Patrick’s and the crew at the Kettle Café was already donned in green to celebrate the occasion. Agatha sat in her usual booth and wondered where Heather had been the last few days. Usually, her best friend kept in constant contact. Agatha figured she’d met a guy. That always acted like a magic vanishing potion for Heather. Until the allure faded and she returned bigger than life and armed with new wisdom about men and dating.

  Agatha debated whether to tell Heather about her and Hank. Although wild rumors had swirled the moment he’d first squirted her with a garden hose, they’d only just begun pursuing an actual relationship.

  She pressed the cold glass of iced tea to her forehead, hoping it would help with her headache. In reality, she was trying to put last night’s memories behind her.

  The sun peeked through the big plate glass windows and she lifted her face toward it, getting lost in the outside world of downtown Rusty Gun.

  She’d not seen violence that up close and personal since…well, since it had happened to her almost eighteen years before. Hank had been justified to use his weapon. Matter of fact, she thought he’d used remarkable restraint in shooting the guy who held the sawed-off right at his face.

  There was a serious situation at play, and if she let it, she could become consumed by the darkness of what had happened the night before. Which was why she was intentionally thinking about the kiss she and Hank had shared outside of the sheriff’s office. It had been…electric.

  She'd gotten to see Hank’s controlled, brute strength first hand, but he’d been gentle in touch when he’d kissed. The man was brilliant and always so attentive. Most of all, Hank had proven himself a gentleman.

  Agatha saw the shadow befall her table and, she turned to see Penny perched over her. Her hair, nails and face were painted green; she looked like she’d escaped a Lucky Charms box. It gave her a little bit of a start.

  “Hi, Penny,” Agatha said. “Wow. That’s a lot of green.”

  “It took me forever,” she said. “I was almost late to shift. Can I ask you a question?”

  There was something about Penny that had always rubbed her the wrong way. She was a fan of her books, but she was always just a little too watchful, and she seemed to know details about Agatha’s personal life that made her uncomfortable.

  “Sure,” she said.

  “I was just wondering if you were going to be moving in with Mr. Hank anytime soon. And are you going to be renting or selling your home?”

  Agatha felt a flash of anger at the intrusiveness of the question. Penny claimed everyone in town knew who she was, but they all protected her secret and her identity. Agatha had discovered since then, that contrary to Penny’s claim, no one really knew what she did for a living. To be honest, no one but Penny really cared.

  “Why would you even ask me that?” Agatha asked.

  “We all know y’all hooked up. It’s just a matter of time till you carry your nighties across the street. That’s just the way of things.”

  The metal tea pitcher dripped with moisture as it dangled from Penny’s right index finger. Agatha watched the balls of moisture strike the linoleum tabletop and splatter like Hank’s blood the night before. Her stomach knotted at the thought. It was why her mind had blocked it out. Penny’s untimely inquisition opened Agatha up to the real horror of what it was to witness Hank being attacked and fighting back.

  “Penny, I don’t know where you get your information, but I find it’s best to ignore gossip or not start it at all. I love my home and I’d burn it to the ground before renting it out to strangers.”

  “Well, I never…” she said. “My question was completely innocent. I’ve no idea why you’ve decided to take out your anger on me, but it’s obvious something is wrong. No wonder you’re here eating alone. I wouldn’t want to spend time in your company either if that’s how you treat him.”

  Agatha stood to her full height and looked down at Penny. “How about you just do your job, and not worry about my business?”

  “You’ve just lost a fan.”

  “I don’t need fans like you,” Agatha said. Agatha had some of the best fans in the world. They send her cards and emails, baked her things and even made her a quilt with all her book covers. She appreciated and loved every one of them. But there was the occasional fan that pushed beyond the boundaries, and after the experience with her stalker, she’d learned never to accept behavior that made her uncomfortable or was too intrusive.

  “Fine,” Penny said, her smile hard. “I’ll get your order right out.”

  “Just cancel it,” Agatha said. She didn’t trust Penny not to harm her food, and she’d just seen Coil outside clearly trying to avoid her notice.

  She watched him slip into his office front door, but noticed his hand was shoved in his pocket. She assumed he was going to head out the back door to hop in his truck.

  Agatha dropped a five on the table to cover her tea and rushed out of the front door. She jogged to her Jeep Wrangler. The doors and top had been removed, so she fixed her favorite road trip scarf around her head and tied a bow beneath her chin. Next, she slid the stems of her oversized, Jackie-O sunglasses below the silk scarf and snug over her ears.

  She waited in her parallel parking spot with the motor running. Either way Coil exited, she’d be able to follow. She gave her cell a quick check and saw Hank had finally gotten around to starting his Saturday. She knew he had to have been drained after the attack. His face had looked bad when she’d left him. It probably looked worse today.

  “Here we go,” Agatha said as Coil’s black Dodge Ram eased out from behind the Bell County Sheriff’s building.

  He was heading west. The small highway would make following him too close impossible without detection. The guy might have looked like he was totally at ease and unaware of what was swirling around him in life, but Agatha knew that next to Hank, there was no one better at the job than Coil. But she was starting to think maybe he’d come to a small county to be sheriff because it was easier to hide unethical behavior than it was at a big agency.

  Agatha lagged back. Every two or three big curves or dips in the highway she’d catch a glimpse of the truck. She didn’t need to see the whole truck to know he was still ahead.

  About five miles into her tail, a muddy, green and yellow tractor pulled onto the road. While not uncommon, it was possibly the worst time to get stuck behind a farmer and his John Deer.

  Agatha was patient. If she tried to duck and dive around the tractor, Coil
would surely notice the activity behind him. No, Agatha knew these roads. She knew there was a cut out about a mile up ahead and like every good farmer; he’d pull off to allow her to pass. She took the slow down time to text Hank.

  Following Coil out of town.

  Too dangerous. Turn back.

  Agatha rolled her eyes. “Just like a man.” And she texted him back.

  Too late. Gone too far.

  Where are you?

  Following Coil.

  She saw his next text and had to put the phone down.

  Aggie, where are you? I’m coming.

  Like clockwork, the farmer swerved over and waved. Agatha waved out of the open top Jeep. She had to make up time, but these roads weren’t made for fast. Livestock and wildlife roamed free across many of these stretches. She’d have to risk it as much as she was comfortable with.

  She ignored the phone’s rattle. It was Hank but she had to focus or not only would Coil disappear, but she’d end up in a gully or worse, a cow embedded in her grill.

  Her gaze narrowed when she finally spotted a glimpse of the big truck’s tailgate making a sweeping right turn a few curves ahead. Either Coil was in no hurry, or he knew she was following him. She’d play it safe and give him extra room. There wasn’t another access road for ten miles from that stretch. There were farms and old structures, but it was mostly agricultural land.

  The sun beat steadily down upon her sleeveless tank top. She knew with that being the first sun of the season, her face and shoulders were going to be a bright pink by the end of this adventure. But it was a welcomed change to the chill from the night before.

  The good thing about a straightaway was there were no places to turn off. The bad thing about a straightaway was that there were no places to hide. She and Coil were it for as long as the eye could see. There were no curves or hills for another mile or so, so she pulled way back. But to her surprise, she saw brake lights. She quickly hit hers too.