Past the second door. Going at least thirty now, though I didn’t glance at the instrument panel to check. The third door was my destination, coming up fast on my right, too fast.
Door only ten meters away. Reflex almost made me hit the brakes, but I resisted, going up on the curb, over the sidewalk, making a last second steering adjustment before—
IMPACT!
I was crushed in the fist of an angry god and shaken back and forth, a sound not unlike screaming ripped through my head as the car hit the door and an instantaneous BANG! as the airbag deployed, suddenly appearing out of nothingness, smacking me in the face, pushing me back as momentum took me forward, my internal organs bouncing around in a brutal tug of war.
A millisecond later, glass showered me, biting into scalp like hungry bugs.
I smelled smoke, my ears singing soprano. Motes danced on the surface of my eyeballs.
I’m alive.
On fire? No, the smoke was chemicals from the airbag deploying.
I flexed my hands and they worked. So did my feet. My side door had been shorn off, and there was blackness to my left.
I looked to the other side and saw the street through the hole I made in the side of the building where the door used to be. Then I patted around underneath me, finding a knife, flicking it open and cutting the airbag away.
My neck felt like I’d been jabbed with an icepick, and I almost yelped at the pain. Whiplash from hell. I spit something onto the deflated bag. Broken tooth or a shard of glass, hard to tell because it was bloody.
I fumbled for the seatbelt, clicked it free, then pulled myself out of the Caddy, the movement sending electric waves of agony up my spinal cord to my neck.
I pocketed the knife, trying to hear something above the ringing, my head feeling like I’d used it to pound nails into a board.
Footsteps. Coming from ahead. Two men or more, moving at a jog.
It was a CSS situation; Couldn’t See Shit. There was no electricity inside the factory, and I’d trashed Kenny’s headlights.
I dropped to a knee, brought up the shotgun, quickly deciding to keep the pistol grip away from my face so I didn’t break my own nose. Instead, I extended it forward, stretching out my left arm until it was straight, keeping the weapon away from my body. Awkward, but manageable. Without seeing anyone, I fired into the darkness, absorbing the recoil like I was lifting barbells. It wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. Then I yelled, “Gǔn dàn!”
It was a Chinese saying, one that wasn’t very polite, and I hoped it confused them enough to think they were being attacked by a rival gang.
I counted to three in my head, then ejected the round and racked another. If there’s a more persuasive sound than a pump shotgun, I’ve never heard it. The footsteps began to retreat, picking up speed, and a door opened on the other side of the building. They were probably running out into the parking lot with the razor wire fence.
I wondered how I was going to navigate in the dark, remembered my cell phone, and turned it on, navigating by the screen light. I couldn’t see more than a meter in any direction, but the place was a mess. Not just the dust and debris of a factory long abandoned, but also food wrappers and beer cans and cigarette butts. There were swastikas and SS lightning bolts painted on walls, along with a runic-styled CN that was the symbol of the Caucasian Nation. I walked around until I saw a doorway labeled STAIRS. During my original drive-by I’d seen a man smoking a cigarette on the third floor. So up the stairs I went, my various aches and pains all conspiring to knock me off my feet. On the third flight I came to another door. I stopped, listened, heard nothing, and then went in low and fast.
After ten steps I held my breath and craned an ear, hearing a faint noise far to my left. Moving slowly, hugging the walls, I crept up on a closed door and paused, listening intently.
Talking. Only one man. He was on the phone.
I burst in, seeing his cell phone light, rushing at him with the shotgun and swinging it like a tennis racket just as I cried out “Gǔn dàn!”once again. There was a satisfying thud of metal hitting skull, and then his cell dropped it to the floor. I quickly followed up, shoving the business end of the shotgun into his side as he doubled over, then reaching for his phone and hitting the end key.
“Don’t kill me. Please.”
The voice was almost feminine, cracking with fear.
“How many?” I whispered.
“Me and two other guys. Where are they? Did you…”
I reached down in the shadows, found his neck, gave his collar a firm tug and dropped him to the floor. Putting a knee on the small of his back, I patted him down, finding a wallet, a knife, brass knuckles, cigarettes and a lighter and a bottle of lighter fluid, and a penlight. I switched it on and took a quick look around the room. An old office, empty except for a chair, some binoculars on the seat. Floor littered with cigarette butts.
“Did you call for help?”
He began to sob. “I just called in.”
“Who’d you call? What did you say?”
“That we were being attacked.”
“By who?”
He didn’t answer fast enough for me, so I pressed the shotgun to the back of his head.
“I don’t like repeating myself.”
“The Clan. I said it was the Clan.”
A rival gang from Chinatown.
“Where’s the girl?”
“Not here yet. Coming later.”
“Where is she now?”
“I don’t know. You… you’re not the Clan. You’re Truppenführer Troutt’s brother.”
“Is that who you were talking to? Hugo?”
“Don’t kill me. Please. I’ve got a baby.”
I tapped his head with the shotgun to keep him focused. “Who did you call?”
“The Truppenführer. Hugo. It was Hugo.”
I mulled it over, then handed him his phone. “Call him back. Say you got the guys who attacked you. Tell him the front door is busted, but you’re on top of things.”
I made him practice a few times, then call back on speakerphone.
Hugo’s reply was, “I’ll be there in forty minutes.”
A few seconds later, my cell phone rang.
“Yeah?”
“Where are you?” Hugo asked.
I nudged the shotgun barrel into the gangbanger’s open mouth. Hugo probably assumed I called Pasha as soon as I saw Kenny in my motel room, but recalling that phone call, neither of us mentioned Kenny, or where I was. And I hadn’t told Pasha where I was going. As far as Hugo knew, I could be anywhere. Which meant he might really believe the Clan had attacked, not me.
“I just left Naperville. I’m about forty minutes away.”
“Naperville? You didn’t tell me you were out of town.”
“You didn’t ask. I’ll make the meeting on time. Can I speak to Pasha?”
“You want to hear her voice?”
I knew what was coming, and I tried not to cringe when I heard Pasha scream in pain.
“Don’t be late,” Hugo ordered, then hung up.
A moment later, my phone buzzed. I’d gotten a text.
It was a picture. Pasha, mouth wide, eye-bulging agony etched all over her beautiful face.
PASHA
Dr. Pasha Kapoor clenched her teeth and fought to keep the tears in, fearing that tears would excite Hugo. The pain in her hand was agonizing, made even worse by the fact that it was tied behind her back and she couldn’t see what the animal had done to her. Her finger seemed broken in several places, but she wasn’t sure if the slickness she felt on her hand was sweat or blood.
Was it wrong to hope it was blood? That maybe she was bleeding to death, and this would all be over?
Death was a frightening concept. But what scared her more was the maniac who held her captive. Pasha knew there was no chance of being released. She knew Phin wouldn’t be able save her. She knew that all she had to look forward to was agony until the madman finally allowed her to die.
&nb
sp; Unless she could cheat him of that joy by dying first.
You’re not thinking clearly, she told herself. You’re just scared.
Cowardice was a new feeling for Pasha. The realization of it appalled her.
She’d only been the captive of this maniac for a few hours, and during that time she’d lost all hope.
Had one broken finger changed her that much? Was the only thing needed to change a person’s viewpoint a focused application of pain?
She saw immediately how ineffective torture was as a way to get information. She would say or do anything to prevent Hugo from touching her again. Make up any lie he wanted to hear, to make the pain stop.
“It was just one, little finger,” Hugo said, staring at her. “You’re acting like I broke both of your knees.”
“What happens after you kill Phin?” Pasha said. Desperate or not, she didn’t want to expire just yet. And as long as the giant was talking, he wasn’t hurting her.
“You mean, will I let you go? We both know that isn’t going to happen.”
“I mean, you get your eighth tear, and what do you think happens next? You think the Supreme Caucasian is going to suddenly turn over all of his wealth and power to you? That some billionaire, who no doubt earned all of his money from Daddy, is going to share his empire with an ex-con covered in hate tattoos? You’re being used, Hugo. This organization is dangling carrots in front of you. You’ll never rise to a position of power. That would be like promoting a guard dog to the board of directors.”
Pasha knew that last bit was harsh, and she waited for the repercussion.
But it didn’t come. Hugo didn’t look angry. He looked bored.
“You think the CN is using me. You’re mistaken, Doctor. I’m using them. I get all of my needs met. I get protected. I get free reign to do the things I want to do. And I have no ties. No responsibilities. Now look at you. Look at all you’re tied to. How many hours do you work per week, deluding yourself that you’re living the American dream? You convince yourself that you’re happy. That you’re helping others. Making a difference. But when you die, nothing will change. You won’t be missed. Maybe someone will take your place here. Maybe they won’t. But the world will go on, and you’ll be forgotten.”
“So will you.”
Hugo smiled. “In twenty years, the last whore you gave an abortion to won’t remember your name. But the world will remember me, when I kill forty thousand people. This is the land of opportunity. A dot head bitch can grow up to practice medicine. And a white trash loser can grow up to start a second civil war.”
“Why?”
Hugo squinted at her. “Everyone is so big on why. Do you question a hurricane? It just comes in and destroys. If your house is blown away, you can’t make sense of it. Don’t try to make sense of me. Deal with your own shit. You’re scared of more pain. Scared you’re going to die. What is this fear doing for you? Is it making you happy? You’ve built up this life, where you have needs and hopes and dreams and love, and now it’s all going to be taken away from you, and you’re helpless. Maybe you’re asking yourself what the point was. That’s the thing; there is no point.”
“Life is precious.”
“Life has two guarantees. You will be hurt. And you will die. Explain how that’s precious.”
“There’s wonder. There’s joy. There’s love.”
“Do you love my brother?”
“Yes.”
“And what good has that done you?”
Hugo was correct. Her relationship with Phin had brought a lot of pain. But there was happiness, too. Phin had taught her that life was precious, and worth fighting for. The fact that it was brief made it valuable, not worthless.
“You think you’re a nihilist. That everything sucks, and nothing affects you. I call bullshit. Why do you go to those white power rallies if they’re pointless?”
“We all need something to do.”
“Exactly. You’re just as needy as I am. And I know why.”
Hugo leaned closer. His breath was rank, like a carnivore with rotting meat stuck in his teeth.
“Tell me why.”
“Why should I?”
“Tell me or I’ll break another finger.”
Pasha knew this was a do or die moment. She had him interested. As long as he was interested, he wouldn’t kill her.
“You’re going to do that anyway. What I say or do won’t change anything.”
“I can make you tell me.” Hugo reached around, for Pasha’s hands.
Then the girl, the one who Pasha had let in at closing time, came into the room. “We need to get going,” she said.
Hugo looked at her, then turned to Pasha and reached down—
—hoisting her onto his shoulder, chair and all.
A moment later, the girl was slapping duct tape over Pasha’s mouth and eyes. She was carried through her office, out the back door, and thrown into a vehicle, on her side. It was a van or a truck, something with cold metal panel floors.
Then it was in motion, and Pasha realized her bad situation had just gotten a whole magnitude worse.
PHIN
Waiting.
Life is made of moments. There are the everyday high points, eating and spending time with people and engaging in some form of entertainment, and there are the mundane duties that had to get done, working and shopping and going to the toilet, and then there are bad parts, being hurt and sick and sad and afraid.
But all of that isn’t what we spend most of our time on. It’s what happens between those moments; that’s the majority of life.
When something isn’t happening, we’re waiting for something to happen.
We sleep. We travel. We sit around, doing nothing.
There’s a whole lot of nothing between the all-too-few somethings.
That’s why hope is bad. Not only are you putting life on hold, waiting for something to happen, but that thing you’re waiting for might never, ever arrive.
Pasha once asked me how I seem to cope so well with my illness. She asked when I was in remission, feeling healthy, my mind unburdened by pain and worry. I told her I lived in the moment. That life wasn’t about getting from point A to point B. Life was the journey from A to B.
It was bullshit. A hopeful, optimistic lie that maybe I believed when things were going well, but meant shit when I was in pain and depressed and afraid and only wanted to dull my senses to oblivion.
Life was hard. And all the waiting around made it even worse.
I’d managed to con myself into thinking that I had a future. Maybe marriage and children. Maybe something to focus on other than fighting to live when life was nothing but agony.
That was meaningless delusion on my part. I could have been in a hotel somewhere, drunk and stoned and unable to feel or hear Earl, not worried about anyone, including myself.
Instead, I was waiting for my Nazi brother to arrive and kill me and the woman I was stupid enough to love.
What did you expect? That it would all work out?
Maybe I did.
We can still get out of here. We have some money. Round up a few whores, score some coke, have a penthouse party.
I pressed my hand against Earl, trying to shut him up.
Pasha’s as good as dead. There’s nothing you can do to stop that. You remember Hugo. How big he is. How mean. You think your little shotgun is going to stop him?
I didn’t think anything. I was hurt, exhausted, insane with worry, and had no delusions that anything I could do would make any sort of difference.
But that was the point. The measure of a man isn’t what makes him succeed. The measure of a man is how much he can take before he finally gives up.
And I wasn’t ready to give up yet.
“What are you going to do with me?”
I stared at the kid on the floor. I’d had the barrel of the gun to his head for a few minutes. Maybe longer.
“Where could they have taken the girl?” I asked.
“I dun
no.”
“Think real hard. Think like someone is going to kill you if you don’t give a good answer.”
His face scrunched up, making him look like a confused child. How old could he have been? Probably no more than eighteen. “There’s… there’s a place we meet. In southern Illinois. We have rallies there. Do training. An old football stadium. We call it The Bunker.”
I asked where it was, and he told me.
“Please don’t kill me.” He began to sob. “I don’t want to die,”
“Nobody does,” I said. “But everybody dies.”
“I don’t want to die today.”
Join the club.
“You ever hear the expression that you’re only as good as the company you keep?”
He sniffled. “What does that mean?”
“It means if you hang out with scumbags, it makes you a scumbag.”
“Wanting to… wanting to preserve the purity of your race doesn’t make you a scumbag.”
“That’s pretty much the textbook definition of scumbag. You’re just reciting shit you memorized. You don’t even know what that means.”
“It means whites are superior.”
“Whites aren’t superior. No one is superior. Being different doesn’t make you better, or worse. It makes you different.”
“Whites are smarter.”
“You’re proof that ain’t the case.”
“Whites are stronger.”
“Have you ever seen the Olympics? Or any sport at all?”
“I once saw Truppenführer—”
I gave the gun a nudge. “Enough with the Nazi bullshit.”
“Hugo. I once saw Hugo… he skinned a man. Alive. He has a razor, he calls it Göth. He sliced off the man’s chest and… and fed it to him.”
“Fun little club you guys have.”
“It was only a schlammensch—”
“I warned you about the Nazi talk.”
“A mongrel. A mud person.”
If this kid wanted to live through the next forty minutes, he wasn’t helping his cause much.
“Do you know anyone other than whites?” I asked.
“Sure. We fight with the Clan all the time.”
“I didn’t say fight. I said know. Do you know any?”
Phineas Troutt Series - Three Thriller Novels (Dead On My Feet #1, Dying Breath #2, Everybody Dies #3) Page 66