by Todd Ohl
“It’s gotten me this far,” she replied. She stuck out her bottom lip and, with a mocking pout, said, “I would ask you for your service revolver, but we both know you don’t have that any more, don’t we?”
His face went blank. She was rubbing it in, and he hated it. In addition, she just made a mistake. For that, he would make the cocky little bitch pay.
“Asif, get his gun,” Mezzalura barked.
Since Mezzalura was too busy gloating to pick up the gun, Asif had to walk past him to get the Beretta. Amy and the priest were only about thirty feet away and closing. All the while, Mezzalura’s arrogant smile broadcasted that she was looking forward to capping him in his apartment.
Based on the situation, John knew a few things. First, after Asif walked by, he would be behind the little cabbie’s back. Second, Amy was a lot closer to him than the crowd of laughing worshipers. Third, Mezzalura might hesitate to shoot him out here, rather than in his apartment, for just one second.
Most importantly, from her snide little comment, he knew she was clueless to the fact that Peluno’s revolver was in his leg holster. That meant she felt he was less dangerous than he was. That was an underestimation. That was his chance—his only chance.
With Asif between them, he knew neither Mezzalura nor he would have a good shot at the other. When Asif reached for the Beretta, John dropped to one knee behind the cabbie and brought out Peluno’s revolver.
Mezzalura snapped a shot that brushed past Asif’s jacket and buzzed past John’s ear.
When Asif turned toward him with wide eyes and began to raise the magnum, John had the license he needed. He squeezed off three rounds, and the cabbie’s chest erupted in a shower of blood.
Asif fell to the ground, giving John a glimpse of Mezzalura’s cloak as she fled into the woods. John heard her scrambling away through the underbrush. He squinted to see where she was, so he could provide her with a well-deserved bullet, but her black cloak intermingled with the shadows beneath the trees. John lost her in the darkness.
He turned back to the field. There, he saw Amy and the priest trying to pull each other in opposite directions. She was pulling the man to the right, while he tried to pull her to the left. It was like a game of tug-of-war with their arms becoming a taught rope suspended between them.
The priest brought out a gun from his belt and pointed it in John’s direction. Just as he fired, a panicked tug from Amy caused the shot to go wide.
John took aim at the priest as the man continued his tug-of-war with Amy. Even though Amy was losing, the taught rope of arms meant their bodies were five or more feet apart, and that was all the separation John needed. He and squeezed off the last three rounds in Peluno’s revolver.
The priest grabbed his chest and dropped to the ground. Amy squealed through the gag as she felt herself coated by the spraying blood. In the distance, most of the men were scrambling into the woods, but two, Otorru and one of the worshipers, were running in John’s direction with guns drawn.
John tossed the empty revolver aside, scrambled for his Beretta, and raised it to dispatch Otorru with two shots to the torso. The accompanying worshiper stopped at the sight of Otorru’s crumpling form, and John fired again. The man grabbed his throat and fell to the ground. With three dead bodies at her feet, Amy began to teeter weakly, and dropped to her knees.
Even though the others had fled into the woods, John knew there was no time to waste. The other men would soon regroup and come after him. He ran out into the field, put his left arm around Amy’s waist, and lifted the sobbing girl off the ground. As soon as he had her securely over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, he started running up the slope.
She cried hysterically through her linen gag. Even if John had time to stop and remove it, he would have left it on; it kept her somewhat quiet. Unfortunately, the gag did not keep her quiet enough; he was sure that they could hear her.
As they neared the crest of the ridge, John found Amy’s most redeeming quality, at this time, was her weight. She weighed only ninety to ninety-five pounds, and if she kept crying like this, he thought she might shed a bit more water weight by the time they reached the cab.
John then felt his left foot slip sideways and his ankle roll. By twisting his body on the way to the ground, he avoided landing on Amy.
She hit the ground with a thud and lay there crying uncontrollably.
John could hear Mezzalura and her men yelling to each other, closing in behind him. He got back on his feet and shuffled over to Amy. After holstering the Beretta, he hoisted her up again and threw her naked body back over his shoulder.
John’s ankle repeatedly sent wisps of fire up his leg and Amy’s muffled bawl was like a homing beacon in the crisp night air. John resisted the urge to stop by realizing that he had a choice between pain and death. With those two options in front of him, he decided to suck it up for now.
Chapter 22:
The Ride
Even with Amy draped over his shoulder and the ankle slowing him down, John knew he would make it to the cab before Mezzalura and her goons could catch him. When he reached the bottom of the slope, he opened the passenger door and tossed Amy onto the seat. He then rolled across the hood of the car toward the driver’s side, grabbing Amy’s purse along the way.
He brought out his Beretta and pumped a slug into the left rear tire of Otorru’s cab. By the time Mezzalura’s group went back to get their cars, or changed Otorru’s tire, John figured he would be long gone.
John slumped into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and heard the engine roar to life.
The cab tore onto the moonlit road. There were several tense minutes, in which his eyes darted between the rear-view mirror and the road. Searching for any familiar name, he finally saw a sign for Jenkins Road and realized that he could be back on the Schuylkill Expressway in a matter of minutes.
During that time, Amy had pried her gag away and stopped sobbing. Now, she was staring blankly at the dashboard of the car. She looked distant, and John wondered if she had snapped.
“Are you OK?” he asked.
She looked down at her body. Her gaze wandered over the red cross painted on her, and the blood that had sprayed onto her from her now-dead captors. She tried to wipe off the gore, but it simply smeared across her flesh. The girl looked back at him, and her lip began to quiver.
With a shaky voice, she answered, “Do I look OK?”
John knew the answer was no.
He reached across the cab and opened the glove compartment. There, he found a fist-full of napkins labeled “Dunkin’ Donuts,” and he handed them to Amy. She took them and slowly began wiping off the mess.
He saw a sign for the Schuylkill Expressway and turned onto the ramp. While he allowed the car to coast up the slope to the highway, he slipped off his jacket and handed it to her.
After she pulled the sport coat tightly around her body, her face began to tighten, and a tear rolled down her cheek. She leaned forward, put her head in her hands, and started to cry again. Her sobbing was only interrupted by an occasional gasp for air.
When John reached out to put a hand on her shoulder, she jerked away. The reaction was a lot like rape victims he had seen, and he knew she needed space. He waited a while before he spoke, and kept his voice low.
“I’m sorry Amy.”
Amy lifted one of the napkins to her nose and blew. She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. Her voice crackled out, “Two hours ago I was happy just to hear an exciting story. Now I’m in one that’s so bizarre… This is just too much for me.”
“I understand what you are saying, but we have some things to do.”
“I don’t want to do anything. Can you just take me home?”
Taking her home was out; they knew where she lived. John thought about Mezzalura’s comment regarding Sanford, and knew that going in to the Roundhouse was out of the question as well. He remained quiet, unsure of what to do next.
“John?” she prodded.
“What do you mean?”
“Someone is working for them—one of the cops. If we go in, it’s like going back to the people we just ran from.”
Amy stared through the windshield.
John squinted from the glare of headlights in his rear-view mirror. Some idiot in a big red pickup truck was tailgating him. It was just what he did not need right now.
“We’ll have to get you some clothes. We can’t go to either of our apartments; they know enough to look for us there.”
John again squinted from the reflection of the headlights in his rear-view mirror and looked back at the idiot tailgating him. Just then, the orange glow of the street-lamps caught the silhouette of the truck’s passenger, and John knew it was Mezzalura. He swallowed hard, realizing that he had screwed up. Taking the Schuylkill was, as he jibed earlier, the obvious choice. Though they left the wooded hills behind them, it was clear they were not out of the woods yet.
“Fuck.”
Amy frowned at him, and asked, “What?”
“Hold on.”
John jammed the accelerator to the floor. The cab’s engine roared, and the vehicle lurched forward beneath him. The burst of speed snapped Amy’s head back.
The pickup truck responded and began to match their speed. After a few seconds, it was keeping up with them and perhaps slowly gaining. Amy looked back and forth between the pickup and John.
With the pedal to the floor, he could ask little more of the cab before the engine simply blew up. John weaved through the slower cars and wondered if the big pickup behind them had the same strain on its engine. He figured the answer was probably no; the truck had an engine built for towing, and he guessed that it could probably drag a boat along the highway and still match his speed. The cab could accelerate and corner better, but on a limited-access highway, the truck had the advantage.
He tried to think as he dodged the other cars. The Manayunk exit was coming up; he remembered that the ramps at that exit tilted away from the highway at a gentle angle, and sloped downward to eventually end at the cross street below. It was a classic diamond interchange. Since there was no sharp corner there to make him roll the cab at this speed, it would be a good place to slip off the expressway and leverage the advantages of the cab.
The fault in that plan was that the pickup would simply follow him.
As he debated whether he wanted to exit the highway just yet, John saw an eighteen-wheel semi ahead in the right lane. He flew up alongside of it and hit his breaks, keeping the nose of the cab slightly ahead of the tractor-trailer. The pickup flew up behind them and slowed, trapped between the semi’s trailer and the dividing wall. It was exactly what John wanted.
John saw the signs for the Manayunk exit coming up, and began to slowly edge further ahead of the semi. After a few seconds, his back bumper was just in front of the nose of the huge metal beast. The exit came into view as they rounded a corner.
The pickup closed on them, its engine growling as it headed for their bumper.
When they were almost on top of the exit, John stomped on the accelerator and cranked the wheel to the right, heading for the exit ramp. While the semi’s air-horn blared behind them, they cut the big rig off and careened onto the ramp. John watched the collision barrier that separated the ramp from the highway pass by—only inches away from the cab’s left side.
He shifted his foot from the accelerator to the brake and held the wheel steady as the cab slid to a stop at the bottom of the ramp. Looking up to the overpass above, he saw the pickup had stopped there. Mezzalura wanted to back up, but the shoulder of the expressway was so narrow that the driver had to fight oncoming highway traffic to do so.
John only had a few seconds to spare. He turned and raced across the bridge into Manayunk. After a few twists and turns onto side streets, he decided on a new path into the city.
He then scanned the rear-view mirror for any sign of the pickup.
“Are they gone?” Amy asked.
“I think so,” he replied, glancing at his mirror one last time.
“What are we going to do?”
“We’re going over to my friend’s place to get you come clothes.”
“What’s this?” Amy asked, pulling Hallman’s papers out of his coat.
Reaching over, he took the papers, tucked them under his leg, and replied, “That’s what all this is about. It’s what they’re after.” He looked at her. “It’s what will get us out of this mess.”
She sighed again and then chuckled, “I thought I would show up at your apartment and surprise you with a nice quiet night. I guess I was wrong.”
John smiled. For the first time, she sounded like she would recover.
After about twenty minutes, they pulled up in front of Kim’s building. John grabbed Hallman’s papers, looked at Amy, and pointed at the door.
“It’s the white doorway, there. Give me some time to gimp my way around the cab.”
With John limping in pain and Amy half-naked, they made a feeble dash to the front door. Just as he wondered whether he would need to pick the lock, a woman came out of the building with her dog, and he caught the open door. They started up the stairs to the second floor.
On the stairs, John looked up to find Amy was trying to keep her buttocks covered with his sport coat. To his benefit, she was failing. John took the opportunity to enjoy the view; it took his mind off the pain in his ankle.
Finally, the intermingled agony and bliss of the stairs ended, and they moved down the hall to apartment 2B. John knocked on the door and waited a few seconds. When he failed to hear the door locks start to open, he figured that Kim was either getting out of bed slowly, or comatose from a hangover. Impatient, he knocked again.
“Come on, Kim…”
Amy stood and uncomfortably shifted her weight. Her eyes were darting about the hall, as if she were afraid the neighbors would come out and see her in nothing but John’s sport coat. Every twist and turn of her head told John she wanted to get inside as soon as possible.
John pulled out the case of lock picks and retrieved two small metal rods. Shooting Amy a guilty look, he bent over in front of the doorknob.
“You didn’t see this.”
Amy rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to start complaining about it in my situation.”
He inserted the rods and the door popped open.
“Kim?” he beckoned into the hallway.
Drawing his Beretta, he entered slowly and moved down the hall. He scanned the kitchen; unless someone was small enough to hide in the cabinets or fridge, John was guessing it was clear. The living room held only white furniture. The bathroom had the shower curtain neatly tucked aside so that John could see right away that no one was there. The last room was her bedroom. He reached in and tapped the light switch. The bed was made; nothing seemed out of place. A computer desk was flush against the far wall, so John could see that no one was hiding under it. The place was clear.
Behind him, he heard Amy come inside and close the apartment door.
John rubbed his forehead and thought about where Kim might be. She might have stayed out with her friends too long and be sleeping at one of their places. She might have hooked up with some guy and be happily getting herself laid. She might have stopped off with the girls at an all-night diner and be stuffing her yap with pancakes. There was no way to know, but he doubted this was a coincidence.
He sighed and groaned, “Where the fuck is she?”
Chapter 23:
Time for Thought
At the time, Kim was asking herself the same question. The effects of the ether were wearing off more quickly than she had imagined. Now she felt alert and aware. At least, she was aware enough to realize that something bound her arms behind her back, and that some kind of very sticky tape sealed her mouth. Her feet remained free. The faint red glow of taillights see
ped in through the imperfections of the compartment; it looked like she occupied the trunk of her Nissan Sentra, but it was hard to be sure that the trunk was her own.
The small paraphernalia that surrounded her in the compartment soon confirmed her suspicion. It looked like the stuff she had left in the tiny trunk over the years. She thought of the trunk as a place to ditch unneeded items while on the road—a sort of graveyard for her tourist goodies.
Now, it felt more like a coffin, carrying her to her grave.
A coil of rope in the corner of the trunk accentuated that idea. She assumed it was a remnant of the rope that bound her hands. The neat coil was cinched in the middle, and reminded her of a hangman’s noose.
The car seemed to be bouncing along a smaller road and not a freeway. She was basing this on the sway of the car and occasional stops. Every once in a while, the car hit a pothole or bump, which tossed her a few millimeters in the air.
She wondered if she should try to exploit the occasional stops of the car. If she could kick on the side of the vehicle and try to yell, she might attract some attention. It was a desperate move, but it was all she had.
Kim thought about what would happen after she started making noise. Most probably, the car would be in the middle of nowhere. Even if someone heard, Marco would probably just drive away while the people at the stop scratched their heads. If that happened, Marco would wait until they were in a secluded spot, pull over, and give her another dose of ether—or worse.
The fact that her legs were free gave her another option. Maybe, if she could turn herself just right, she might catch Marco with a kick to the jaw when he opened the trunk. A well-placed heel could drop him.
Kim closed her eyes and shook her head. Too many things could go wrong with that plan. Too many events depended on chance, and if her luck failed, she was done.
She would only have one shot. It had to be good. At least, it had to be better than what she was coming up with so far.
Kim thought back to the bathroom, trying to determine if she could leverage anything she had heard. Marco seemed to know everything; he even knew when she would be in the bathroom. She knew nothing about him.