Machine's Work: A Hyper-Violent Crime Thriller (Assassination City Book 1)

by Jack Cuatt

  Machine clenches his teeth and aims the Lincoln head-on at the cruiser, but the creep car doesn’t alter its course; it accelerates. The mini-gun atop its roof flashes and .50-caliber rounds chew up the pavement to the left of the Lincoln, despite the pedestrians that clutter the street. A half-dozen people go down like bowling pins before the creep stops shooting and adjusts his aim. Another prolonged flash and steel-jacketed bullets rip through the Lincoln's windshield and tear the dashboard and passenger seat to shreds. The car's interior fills with swirling bits of yellow foam. Machine jerks the wheel left, out of the stream of lead, and the left front rim slaps the curb. The Lincoln jumps right, almost spinning out of control. Machine fights it straight again, redirecting the car at the battle cruiser’s grill. Only forty yards separate them. He presses the gas pedal flat to the floor. The engine screams, metal parts gnashing and the speedometer reads fifty miles an hour.

  Thirty yards. Twenty. The low-slung assault vehicle seems to fill the windshield. Fifteen. The siren shrieks above the Lincoln's engine’s death screams. Machine braces for impact.

  With a squall of rubber and grinding brakes the battle cruiser veers sharply to the right, fishtailing at sixty miles an hour. Halfway through the spin the cruiser's back tires hit the curb and it bounces three feet off the pavement, pirouettes across the sidewalk on its front wheels and crashes through a liquor store's plate glass window, wiping out the store's entire stock of gins and whiskeys.

  Machine flashes past the wreck. He doesn't look back. He skids the Lincoln around the corner at Lexington on melting rubber, the whole car shuddering. He barely maintains control. The Lincoln is used up, its engine failing; he has to dump the car. He's about to slam on the brakes and leap out when another battle cruiser burns around the corner behind him. Its mini-gun immediately starts churning out bullets. Steel-jacketed .50-caliber rounds rip though the Lincoln's trunk and roof. The car bucks and shivers and the shot-up windshield collapses, showering Machine with glass fragments. He stomps the brake and wrenches the car through a hard right-turn down the alley at the middle of the block.

  The Lincoln bashes the alley's left wall in a shower of sparks then ricochets into the right before finally straightening out. The engine shrieks, stammers, backfires twice and dies. The Lincoln starts to slow.

  Slipping the gearshift into neutral, Machine slides to the middle of the seat, grabs the dash and levers himself through the empty windshield. He hits the bullet-pocked hood on his knees, jumps to his feet, takes two running strides down the hood, and leaps to the asphalt. He hits the ground running and sprints toward the end of the alley. Behind him, the driverless Lincoln grinds to a stop, blocking the passage.

  The creep battle cruiser turns down the alley and brakes hard when the driver spots the Lincoln. It squeals to a stop, its doors open, and two creeps in riot-gear jump out, Jackhammer twelve-gauges in their hands.

  “Halt, Christian Police!” one screams, but they’re not taking prisoners. The words are instantly followed by bullets.

  The roar of two Jackhammers echoes down the alley and a pair of slugs burn past Machine's head. The next load will be double-ought buckshot, a Jesus creep’s standard loading procedure, precision followed by mass destruction. Machine throws himself to the pavement. He hits the concrete on his shoulder and pain rockets up his wounded arm like a nail driven into an abscessed tooth. The dive saves his life. The shotguns boom and a hundred tiny steel pellets scream over Machine's head. Before the shots' echoes fade, he rips a fragmentation grenade free from the chest pack and rolls to his knees. He pitches the steel cylinder through the Lincoln's glassless windshield and hits the asphalt again, wrapping his arms around his head.

  The cops, their shotguns at hip level, are cutting around the Lincoln when the grenade and the half-full gas tank explode. The Lincoln buckles in the middle and leaps ten feet into the air on a column of fire. Twisted metal and engine parts rocket up and out. The creeps disappear like lit firecrackers as red-hot metal whizzes and clatters off the walls and pavement around Machine. A searing wave of heat follows the blast then crackling flames and thick smoke. Machine looks up to see that the Lincoln's twisted, burnt-black frame has landed atop the battle cruiser. It and its occupants are out of the fight for good.

  Machine stands, takes the silenced Smith from its holster and heads for the street at a fast walk.

  People are approaching the sound of the explosions. The first two arrive as Machine reaches the end of the alley. A pair of crack-heads in baggy T-shirts and stretch pants. Female. Probably. They're skinny and flat-chested. Cheap makeup and rotten teeth. They look from the burning wreckage to the brutal looking teenager striding toward them with a gun in his hand then hurriedly back to the fire. They keep their eyes averted as he brushes past them. More curious street people are right behind the hookers but none of them look him directly in the face. He cuts across the street, steps through the glassless window of a burned out clothing store, then breaks into a run, passing through the building and out the rear doors into the alley. He turns right, trots to the street, crosses it at a walk and hits another alley. He turns down Glasgow Avenue and jogs through the old farmers’ market, breathing hard. Whores call out to him from the open doors of abandoned coolers. Crack dealers chant from the shadows. Machine doesn’t slow to a walk until he reaches the deserted streets and abandoned neighborhoods of the Bottoms.

  Fifteen minutes after the incident at the North Gate, he reaches Fourth Street, twenty blocks from the burning Lincoln. He stops and rests inside an old diner, leaning against the counter, breathing hard and bleeding under the fresh bandages. He knows that organized sweeps will be starting soon. All off-duty officers will be called in and video-captured images of Machine crashing through the gate will be circulated. The only safe place he can think of is Wino and Tic-Tac's flop. Desperate to make time in that direction, he turns right at the sidewalk and walks fast down the street, staying far from the curb, the Smith still in his hand, held tight to his side, prepared to shoot and run if necessary.

  At the middle of the block he turns right, cuts across the street and enters Grambling Park, a square of open ground dotted with dead flower beds and stagnant, mosquito breeding ponds. He drops his head again and runs. A kaleidoscope of fetid smells - damp, rot, feces. Things move in the dark. A single thought carousels through his mind: four dead Jesus creeps. Their comrades will kill him on sight.

  Get to the river.

  To the warehouse.

  The streets darken as he nears the river. Dank, empty avenues choked with trash. Fifteen blocks pass in a blur. Three blocks from Shoreline, jogging past a fire-gutted clothing store, he hears a faint noise, stops and listens. A low rumble of a car approaching. He ducks through one of the store’s huge, glassless display windows and out of sight. Precious moments are lost. Safety first. The rumble grows louder. He peers around the windowsill. At the end of the block a rust-red Chevy is rolling slowly his way. The car has a white swastika sloppily painted on the hood. A Hammerskin crew out looking for a victim. Machine cocks the Smith as the Chevy nears. It rolls past the store at fifteen miles an hour; two shadows up front and two more in the rear. They're passing a bottle of hooch. The Chevy turns at the next corner. Its taillights wink goodbye.

  Machine hops down from the widow and trots across the street and down the alley. He reaches the end of the passage and makes a quick check of the street.

  Nothing. No cars, no Hammerskins.

  He trots across the sidewalk and into the street.

  A car engine roars to life and headlights silhouette Machine against the dark buildings. It's the red Chevy from five minutes ago, parked at the head of the street, a half block away. The Chevy's tires squeal, the engine roars, and it charges straight at him.

  Machine pulls the Smith and ducks back into the alley, back the way he came. He's thirty feet down it when the Chevy's headlights flare behind him, flooding the alley with light. The driver hits the gas.

  The Hammerskins thin
k they have Machine trapped, nowhere to turn, nowhere to hide, but that works both ways. And Machine is done running.

  Machine skids to a stop, spins around and swings the Smith up, his teeth clenched, rage climbing his spine and flooding his brain with blood, turning his vision to black and white. He shields his eyes from the headlight's glare with his left hand and aims at the driver's side of the windshield. He squeezes the trigger three times fast, spacing the shots a half-inch apart, spider-webbing the Chevy's windshield. The old wreck swerves right and the fender skims the wall with an explosion of sparks then straightens back out. It’s only twenty-five feet away. Machine keeps shooting. He puts another three rounds five inches above the headlights, then blasts off the final nine in one long burst, the silenced shots fired so quickly that it sounds like a single long moan, filling the car with a swarm of lead. The Chevy weaves, bangs the wall again and starts to slow.

  But not enough.

  The Smith's slide is locked open on an empty clip, but Machine doesn’t pause to reload; he spins around, drops his head and sprints for the street. His pulse pounds in his temples as he fumbles a fresh clip from the chest-pack, ejects the spent clip, slaps the full one home, and flips the slide release. He bursts from the end of the alley and dives right, hitting the sidewalk on his left shoulder. He rolls across the dirty pavement, through a mound of trash and scrambles to his knees, swinging the Smith up in both hands.

  Nothing happens, though he can still hear the car’s engine.

  Ten seconds pass like an hour before the Chevy rolls sluggishly out of the alley, idling. It drops off the curb and rolls to a slow stop in the middle of the street. Every window is shattered. The windshield sags onto the dash. The car's interior is saturated with blood. Both the Hammerskins in the front seat are dead, their heads and chests shot to splinters. In the back of the Chevy another Hammerskin has his face pressed against the spider-webbed side window, a trickle of blood running down his cheek from a ragged bullet hole in his forehead.

  “Oh God,” a sobbing groan comes from the car's dark interior. The fourth skinhead is still alive. “Help me.”

  Machine stands, walks to the car and looks through the rear window, past the fish-eyed corpse. The last Hammerskin is on the floorboard, his face pressed into the carpet. He's covered in blood, but Machine doesn't see any wounds.

  “Help me,” The skin says, barely a whisper.

  There is no mercy in Machine. If you bought a ticket, you were taking the ride. He aims though the glass and squeezes the trigger twice. The flash of gunpowder lights up the grisly interior of the car as the shredders rip the top half of the Hammerskin's head away. Machine holsters the Smith, turns and jogs down the deserted street. Time to be gone.

  Get to the river.

  He doesn't slow at the next cross street. The river is only a block away, the warehouse another block to the north. There are a thousand places to hide on the docks even if Wino or Tic-Tac are out, and, as a last resort, there is the river itself if the Jesus creeps arrive. No one's going to dive into that sludge unless their life depends on it. Machine will make the jump before being taken by the skins or the creeps.

  He reaches Shoreline, stops, and hunkers down far from the streetlights.

  Across the wide band of asphalt are the docks and safety. The street is shrouded in ashy fog that rises off the river, more chemical than water. He crouches in the shadows and scans Shoreline in both directions, The rotten smell of the river settles thickly in his throat. A light rain begins to fall through the fog. The streetlights’ fuzzy glow reflects off the damp pavement. Beyond the lights are the warehouses, dark and silent shadows, almost invisible through the gray haze. Out on the river, a barge lit up like Christmas glides through the fog, moving upriver.

  Machine stands, pulls his jacket tight and takes a deep breath before stepping out of the shadows and off the curb. He trots across the street, the rain intensifying with every step, slashing at his face and burning his eyes, forcing his head down. He’s halfway across when the first bolt of lightning splits the sky, a ripple of red and black that rips through the cancerous clouds. The roar of thunder is only a second behind. It rattles the waterlogged piers and seems to shake the ground itself. A split second later the night is torn again by white light and the roar of a car engine cuts through the throb of the rain.

  Machine looks up and headlights blind him. The car is almost on top of him, only feet away, it's stealthy approach covered by the thunder and rain. He dodges left, but he is too late. The car's bumper knocks him aside like a road-killed deer on the highway. A string of flashbulbs pop in his brain. He flies fifteen feet down the roadway, turns a lazy flip and lands flat on his back. His eyelids flutter and his vision swims, drained of depth. He tries to rise. Tries to roll over…

  Fades to black.

  44

  “Open your fucking eyes.”

  A stinging slap rings Machine’s ears. His eyes stutter, try to open, but remain closed. The dark warmth beckons him back, soothes him.

  “No sleeping on my time,” the voice cuts through the fog. Another slap. Machine's head rocks. His eyes tremble open, close for a second, but open again before another slap can be delivered.

  “Rise and shine.”

  Machine tries to focus on the voice's owner, but his eyes won't cooperate. His head feels hot and fuzzy, his left arm screams from every torn nerve ending. He leans forward and realizes his hands are locked together behind his back. He tests the bonds with his fingers. The cold feel of steel bracelets. Handcuffs, the chain looped behind the chair back's center slat, a one inch square piece of wood. He pulls against the slat. It doesn't budge.

  Machine leans back in the chair, barely able to keep his head up, and looks dead ahead at a lumpy shape, a blur of color: pink and blue. It hovers before him, blotting out all else.

  “Time for a little conversation. I expect you to hold up your end of it.” The voice is familiar. Machine gropes for a face to fit it as the shape slowly congeals into a man dressed in blue slacks and a pink shirt. He's thin, with a face textured like cottage cheese. Machine can't make out more. He blinks and his eyes stay closed a long moment.

  The darkness calls him back. He succumbs to the drag of the void.

  Another slap, a flash of white and the darkness bleeds red. Machine's teeth gnash and his eyes snap open, seeing a little clearer. Gray walls surround him. Darkness above instead of a ceiling. The pink shadow steps forward, looms over him.

  “Awake now?”

  He shakes his head and the room spirals and twists. It feels like his head is mounted on a rusty screw. Nausea cramps his stomach. Another slap. More pain. But with it comes clarity of mind and vision. The man’s face comes clear. A maniac’s bug-eyed gaze and lips like raw liver.

  “Hello, Marshall,” Machine croaks, wooden-tongued. He moves his lips to work up some spit. He knows where he is now: the converted theater on Washington. The Children of The Blood Militia’s headquarters. The basement. “I’m glad to see you.”

  “You are?” Marshall is still smiling. “Why is that?”

  “I plan to kill you very soon.”

  “You think so?” Marshall leers in mock dismay, rocking on his heels. “I'm afraid I see it the other way around. But I'm going to give you the opportunity to make things easy on yourself.” He drops into an old wooden office chair placed to face Machine. The two men's knees almost touch.

  With Marshall seated, Machine can see the rest of the room; a gray concrete box, twenty feet by fifteen. A folding table with a jumble of tools, boxes, and wires piled on top of it is directly behind Marshall. A car battery charger sits at the center of the table. The rest of the room is bare, except for three men in pressed fatigues and jungle boots who are seated on wooden chairs near the room’s single door. They stare impassively, as active as statues, legs crossed, lips compressed. All three are wearing belted side-arms and bush hats. Machine recognizes only the one in the center, cool, dignified and graying, as Colonel Jones, head o
f the Children of The Blood Militia.

  “Good evening, Colonel,” Machine says loud enough to be heard. “Nice night for a coup.”

  The Colonel's stony gray eyes stay fixed on Machine’s for only the briefest of moments before he looks away.

  Marshall cranes his neck to look over his shoulder at his father, chuckles, and turns back to Machine. Marshall’s eyes are ruthless, devoid of laughter, as still as a cesspool. “Don't worry about him. He's just here to watch the show.”

  “The show?” Machine asks as he tries to move his legs. Both limbs seem functional, but they are bound to the legs of the chair with what feels like rope.

  “We have quite an evening planned for you.” Marshall says. “From the scars on your back, I’d guess you’ve been through this before, so this should be very interesting.”

  “I hope I don't disappoint,” Machine replies unflinchingly.

  “So do I, but let's get to the point. Where is the money?”

  “What money?”

  “Already we run into difficulty,” Marshall sighs. “But I'll play along. The thirty million your father stole from us. Does that help?”

  “A lot of money.”

  “Yes. A lot of money that belongs to us. We'd like it back.”

  “You set Red Sleeves up?” Machine poses a question of his own.

  Marshall shakes his head slowly, his lips curled into a grin. “I had nothing to do with it. Nor did I shed any tears. Now, back to the point, where is the money?”

  “Only Sculli knew,” Machine lies.

  “Your boss, Kukov, said the same thing. I don't believe it. Sculli wouldn't steal from Red Sleeves. Where’s the money?”

  Machine says nothing.

  Marshall shrugs. “Okay. We tried the easy way.” He stands, walks over to the card table and rummages through the tangled pile.

  “Marshall.” Colonel Jones rises as he speaks. His companions follow suit. The Colonel's voice conveys no warmth, only resigned disgust. “We'll be leaving now for the staging area. You can follow with the equipment. The trucks will arrive in two hours. Make sure everything is loaded.”