by Rob Aspinall
Neither did the town have any CCTV.
It just wasn't that kind of place.
Marco turned and pointed to the noisy floorboard on the walkway. The others stepped over or around it.
They made their way to room number six and gathered either side of the door, protected from the deluge by an overhanging ceiling. Mini waterfalls ran off overflowing drains and slapped against the tarmac. A strobe of lightning lit up the scene. Marco waited for it to pass, for the night to fall into darkness once again.
Joe, in charge of the breach, readied himself—the portable battering ram ready to swing.
As the lightning faded, Marco gave the signal.
In three, two, one . . .
18
I snap back into full alertness. Almost fell asleep there. I sit up and shake the tiredness out of my head. Push a button on the side of my watch. It lights up a pale blue. I think I hear engines, but I could be wrong.
Was that a creak of a board?
There's a loose floorboard on the walkway. Creaks every time I step on it. Could be my imagination, though. My habit of imagining things that aren't real.
I lift my head and stare at the linen drapes over the window. They flash blue. Nothing there. I rest my head on the pillow.
Thunder rumbles.
Lightning strikes.
There. I see shadows. Figures passing by the window. Slow-stepping as a group. I rub my eyes. The lightning fades, then returns. No more shadows.
I definitely could be seeing things.
I haven't had a hallucination in a while.
But they're never far away.
I prop myself up on one elbow, listening for a sound. Something other than the air conditioning unit and the rain.
There, that's it.
Heavy like thunder, only not from overhead.
I hear a bang, the splintering of wood.
I fling the sheet off me and fly out of bed, fully-clothed right down to my boots. I pick up an empty beer bottle off the bedside table and run across the room. The door is unlocked, ready to pull wide open.
I'm out of the room. There's a guy with his back to me, standing watch outside, weapon in hands, pointed to the floor.
I run fast across the boards. See the flash of barrels through the curtains inside the room, but don't hear any shots.
Silencers.
A stealth kill.
The guy on watch hears me coming, but too late. I smash the bottle over his head before he can turn. Snatch his weapon from a loose hand, hold him upright in a headlock with my free arm. I turn into the doorway, using my semi-conscious friend as a human shield.
Lighting flashes in the sky and illuminates the room. There are four other guys stood around the bed. Bullet holes in the pillow and bedsheets and stuffing hanging in the air.
I take aim with the gun and beat the nearest guy to the punch.
They're all wearing vests. But the guy's neck is exposed. I shoot him in the throat. He reels away to the left.
A black guy to the right takes a shot. His bullet hits my human shield in the chest. I return fire and catch him in the side of the head. Blood sprays black against the wall behind the bed. That leaves two. One of 'em stands on the far side of the bed. He reacts first as the other guy dives into the bathroom, picking up something on his way.
I can't see shit as the light fades, so I duck low behind my human shield. I fire blind over his shoulder. Human shield's head snaps back. A bullet to the skull. I let the body drop and shoot.
But I miss in the dark and click empty.
So I spin out of the room and take cover against the outer wall. The lightning strikes again. I see a mirror on the wall inside the open door. The shooter's reflection in the glass. He creeps towards the door. Takes a shot. Splinters fly off the door frame over my right shoulder. I watch his reflection as he moves to the door.
His long, black silencer barrel emerges through the doorway. I let him get halfway out, then charge him. I tackle him to the walkway and slam his head against the wood.
I push his own gun to his temple and pull the trigger.
Blood, skull and brain spill onto the wood.
I take his weapon and check the clip—a few rounds left. I re-enter the room and approach the bathroom door.
Thunder claps loud. Makes me jump. I compose myself and step slow and quiet to the door. The door is open, but only by an inch. I put my left hand on the door. My right hand grips the pistol tight. I give myself a one count and burst into the tiny bathroom.
It's empty.
The guy comes out from behind the door. The same guy who was asking the motel manager about me.
He drives a small battering ram into my midriff. I fall back into the shower cubicle, dragging the curtain off its rail, unable to breathe.
I pull the trigger on my weapon but I miss as he sprints from the bathroom. I drag myself up by the sink. Ditch the pistol—it's empty. I stagger out of the bathroom, fighting for breath.
Ever had the wind knocked out of you? Well times that by a hundred.
Still, I gasp out a few breaths and break into a run, out of the room and onto the walkway.
Two SUVs are parked up a short distance from the motel. The same Chevy Tahoes from earlier in the night—each with the front and rear doors open. Left that way on purpose—closing car doors is too noisy when you're making a hit. I'd have done the same myself.
It offers a faster getaway, too, though only if the rest of your team are alive and kicking. The remaining guy slams the doors shut on the first one he comes to. Gives me time to lean against a wall and breathe out the shock of the blow to my midsection.
As he climbs behind the wheel, I push off the wall and keep running. The headlights of the first SUV burst into life, leaving spots in my eyes. The remaining guy steps on the gas and skids away from the kerb. He spins the SUV out onto the road and turns one-eighty, the backend fishtailing in the wet.
He tears off along the street, beating a path out of town. I make it to the second SUV, slam the doors shut and jump behind the wheel. The leather seats are wet from the rain but the engine still running. I pull the driver door closed and put the Chevy in drive.
I step on the accelerator, boots slippy against the pedal. I yank the wheel to the right and spin the SUV around. It's powerful and fast, but I can't see shit. So I flick on the headlights and set the wipers to warp speed. They beat the torrents of rain off the windscreen. I see the red taillights of the other Tahoe in the distance.
I give it all I've got, trying to catch up. I put a hand to my midsection, breathing deep, releasing the shock and impact of the battering ram.
But I can't get close enough. The guy I'm chasing is in the same car. He has the same speed, same horsepower and the same four-wheel-drive handling.
The weather doesn't help. The highway flooded. We boom through standing water. The Tahoe snakes and slides at seventy miles an hour.
As we race beyond the boundaries of the town and hit the open highway, the guy in the lead SUV almost loses it. He swerves one way and the other.
It gives me chance to make up some ground. I'm right up the guy's arse now. Only a few feet from his rear bumper. I give it some extra juice and ram my grill into his bumper. It's a solid shunt, but he bounces off and clear. I go again, but we're both slowed by an enormous puddle.
Spray booms left and right and over the windscreen. The guy in front veers into the centre of the highway to avoid the standing water. I follow his lead, keeping the pressure on and checking the fuel dial.
Plenty in the tank. We're either in for a long chase, or a very short and fatal one if the weather has anything to do with it.
I apply some more pressure, aiming for his rear bumper again. I strike a bracing hit. He veers to the right. His brake lights flash as he struggles for control. I keep my foot down and pull along his left-hand side. Before I can think of running him off the road, he's making the first move, coming back at me across the highway.
He tu
rns in hard and hits me on the passenger side.
The wheel jerks left and I plough through half a foot of water. I pull out of it fast and maintain most of my speed. I turn the wheel to the right and plough into his driver-side door. But he telegraphs the move and swerves away, reducing the impact. We trade blows for a good mile. Bumping into each other down the centre of the highway approaching a hundred miles an hour.
We stare each other down as we drive, until a piercing light invades my eye. Small, but growing fast. It's a blinding beam coming right at us. A deep horn wailing.
Shit!
I pull to the left. The other guy to the right. We split in the nick of time.
An eighteen wheeler lit up like a Christmas tree blasts by between us down the middle of the road. I end up on the side of the highway, the standing water replaced by a slippery hard shoulder.
Dust and dirt have turned to a mess of mud. The Chevy does its best to turn into a spin. I see the headlines: a slide, a three-sixty merry-go ride until it flips over and tumbles roof over wheels.
I ease off the accelerator and turn into the slide. The Tahoe corrects and I swerve back onto the road, giving chase. We pass by a junction onto another stretch of highway branching left. He dummies to take it and almost sells me, but I stay on highway ninety-nine, close behind.
We speed through the storm for another mile, until he slows down.
Why? A problem with his engine?
Suddenly, he brakes sharp and cuts off down a dirt road to the right.
Bollocks, in all the excitement I forgot . . . the hole I blew in the road lies dead ahead. And already full of water.
The armoured truck is gone, but the highway is closed off with cones and reflective barriers. I slam on the brakes and apply the handbrake. It's not enough. The Chevy slides in the wet. The nose ploughs through the wooden barriers.
I brace for impact.
19
The tyres catch and bite at the last second. The Chevy skids to a hard stop.
I peer out over the front end.
Not an inch to spare.
I put the Chevy in reverse and back up fast. I stop and look to my right. See my would-be killer speeding into the distance, the road snaking away into the desert.
There's no way I'll catch him in a straight race. So I step on the gas and pull to the right. I spin straight off the highway into the rugged country.
It's a bouncy, slippery, suicide ride. I swerve around trees and boulders, plough through cactus plants and giant puddles.
I fly over the terrain, bumping up and down in my seat. The dash rattles and the suspension feels ready to collapse. But the Tahoe is American-made and tough as the Arizona wilderness. I cut a couple of miles off the pursuit, making a diagonal line to the right and gaining ground on the other SUV.
Electricity lights the sky behind low-rolling clouds. I put the headlights on full beam and charge right at the bastard. I catch some air time off a rise in the terrain and bounce onto the road, missing the back end of the other SUV by a whisker. I end up in the rough stuff again, but steer left and stick fast to the guy's tail, only a few car lengths behind.
Yet there's another problem up ahead.
A rail crossing.
The barrier falling and the bell dinging.
A freight train beats a path along the track to our far right. The guy in front doesn't look minded to stop. And I'm not gonna be the first to blink.
The train doesn't need to blink. So it's a straight race between us and the locomotive.
The guy in front accelerates.
I do the same.
The train is almost on us, the driver pulling on the horn, the barrier down and the ground shaking under the weight.
The guy in front ought to make it. And so he does, blasting through the barrier like it's a toothpick. But it's gonna be tighter than a pair of budgie smugglers for me as I race against the train.
I lock both hands on the wheel and grit my teeth. The light from the freight train fills the cabin of the SUV. A different kind of thunder ready to smash me to smithereens.
But it speeds past in my rear view, horn blasting and barrier bell dinging. A fifty-carriage rush of solid steel racing away into the night.
I let myself breathe and glance at the speed dial. Christ, we're flying. No wonder the wheel is fighting me so hard.
And at last, some good news.
The guy in front loses it. He fishtails off the road. Panics and brakes. Sends the SUV into a skid. I brake slower and head off-road. He slides to a stop. His right front gets caught on a sawn-off tree stump. He tries to reverse out of it, the only way to get clear. But I'm skidding to a stop behind. Nowhere for him to go.
He bails out of the driver-side door. Slips in the mud. He's armed with a rifle. A Heckler & Koch. But he has to load it.
I scramble into the backseats and out through a rear door. High-powered rounds cut up the bodywork of the Chevy and chase me around back. I open the boot, expecting to find some weapons of my own.
I find a spare, a shovel and a tyre iron.
And let's not forget the handheld vacuum cleaner.
Bollocks.
I peep around the side of the boot. Duck behind as he unloads a round. The guy is careful. Doesn't know whether I'm armed.
In the meantime, I go over my options.
There aren't any.
Still, I grab the spare wheel and the tyre iron. A temporary fix, I slip around the right of the SUV, staying low.
The guy is behind his rifle, scanning left to right.
I toss the tyre iron over the roof of the SUV. It takes him by surprise and draws his eye. I hurl the spare tyre. It spins through the air and strikes him on the shoulder.
As he falls over in the mud, I slide over the bonnet of the Chevy. He staggers to his feet. I throw myself at the guy, tackling him to the ground.
I wrestle him for the rifle. He's a strong old bastard, but I land a head butt to the nose. He groans and his grip loosens. I yank the rifle away. It slips from my hands and ends up in a muddy bog. I slip and slide after it, pick it up and realise it's useless. The barrel clogged all to shit.
That gives the guy a chance to regroup. He charges at me. Tackles me to the ground. We roll around in the dirt, rain pounding cold.
The guy's eyes are huge and white in a lightning flash. He drives a fist into my face. He hits like a heavyweight, landing another. I lever him off with a boot.
We stand and square off. He swings and misses. I land a left to the inside of his vest where the Kevlar doesn't cover.
I follow it up with a right to the jaw. He stands and sways. Throws a punch and catches me sweet on the cheekbone. I knock a standing leg out and he drops to one knee. I drag him up to his feet and run him at the Chevy. I push him onto his back over the bonnet and squeeze his jaw between finger and thumb. He cries out in agony. I've had it done to me and I can tell you, it's not pleasant.
"Who do you work for?" I shout over the storm.
"Fuck you," he says.
"Fuck You? Never heard of the guy," I say. "How about a real name?"
The guy spits blood at me and misses.
I ram his head against the bonnet. Keep squeezing. "You wanna die out here?" I say. "Start talking."
"Alright," he says. "I work for De Luca."
"Who's that?"
"Don't you know?" he says.
"Do I sound like I'm from around here?" I say, ramming his head again.
"Ah shit, okay . . . He's the boss. An outfit out of Phoenix. We run the whole state."
"The mob?" I say.
"Yeah, the fucking mob."
"Well what's the mob doing after me?"
"You took our fucking money, what do you think?"
"I didn't take any money," I say. "The only money taken around here belonged to Western & Main. A bunch of ex-cons I heard—"
"You can cut the bullshit," the guy says, squirming. "We know it was a four-man crew. Two of 'em burned and two got away. We're on the tail
of the other prick. He had the good sense to skip town."
I stay quiet, wondering what to say. What to do with this piece of shit.
"Why do you think I was involved?" I ask.
"If I wasn't sure before, I am now," the guy says. "You roll into town before the robbery. Take on a kill squad unarmed. The raid on the truck was a pro job. Don't need to be a brain surgeon to know you've got the priors."
Bollocks, the mob.
The guy laughs through the pain. "You didn't know it was mob money, did you?"
I shake my head.
"Shoulda done your due diligence, my friend," he says.
He's right. I should of. But I didn't. And now I'm damned if I do and damned if I don’t. Whether I let the guy go or not is almost irrelevant. Kill him right here and they’ll send more guys. Let him go and he returns with another armed unit. Or worse, they send a lone gun. A real specialist.
I let the guy up. I'm tempted to whack him with the tyre iron.
He looks at me confused. "You letting me go?"
"It's just business," I say, grabbing him by the collar. "But tell your boss from me, I'm not giving up the money."
"We'll see about that," the guy says.
I push him away. "You take this one," I say, pointing to the Chevy I was just driving. "I could do without the bullet holes."
The guy slopes off without a word. He climbs in the SUV, spits blood and slams the driver door. He reverses and skids away, mud spray arcing into the air. I watch him go, back along the road we just came down.
I climb in the remaining Chevy and reverse hard. After a few spins, the right front tyre rides up over the trunk and we're back on four wheels. I take off along the road, the mafia guy long gone and the sky starting to clear.
The clock on the dash says two a.m.
My work for the night is just getting started.
20
The rain has stopped. The storm has passed. Water drips from the roof of the motel, trickles along gutters and runs away down storm drains. I kill the headlights on the way into town. I roll in slow and park the SUV outside the motel. I leave the door open and step out of the Chevy. I step out of my boots and socks, too.