Jury of Peers

by Troy L Brodsky

  Jonquez sat up front now. He’d adjusted his seat so that he could see up over the dash, but was riveted with the car’s night vision display. Ghostly black and white images swung back and forth on the center console as they wove their way closer to Widmore’s territory.

  Seth had been worried that he’d taken too long, that the two would be inside and out of the weather, but Jonquez assured him that it wasn’t so. He explained with the lucidity of a kid working through an SAT problem that this was the kind of day that brought people out. That the weather would work for buyers just like it would work for anyone else, as cover. Plus, the Widmore Crew was hurting, and it wouldn’t be long until they had to push back hard. Little Jonquez seemed ready for a fight.

  They swung around a corner and met another car, high beams slicing through the falling snow like beacons. It was the first vehicle Seth had seen down here that was functioning under its own power and for a fleeting moment, it felt reassuring. He’d let himself descend into believing that this was a land before time where there were no familiar social, even physical, laws. It all seemed so foreign, so apocalyptic, and he hadn’t been able to decide if this was just his fear rooting about within his well–oiled plans, or if it was simply so. For the last twenty minutes he’d been unable to see the Capitol building, concealed now in the dusk and snow. It had been his anchor to reality. And now, as this one and only car passed and the taillights faded, he felt even more alone.

  “’Bout six blocks, man,” Jonquez said. “Just six blocks then turn ‘round to this side,” he held up his right hand. “Theys gonna be right there, two of ‘em. Theys corner has a big flowerpot on it, real big.”

  Seth slowed the car and it creaked to a stop in the quarter inch of snow that was beginning to stick to the cooling streets. “Alright then,” Seth said. “Time for you to go.”

  “I’ll stay, I’ll help.”

  Ignoring him, Seth brought out another thousand dollars. He’d rolled the bills up individually so that he wouldn’t have to produce a tempting wallet full of cash. “Like I said, you keep this quiet for a day, and there will be more.”

  “I knows you ain’t comin’ back man,” Quez said.

  They looked at one another in the glow of the car’s console.

  “It’s cool though. Hope you do ‘em good.”

  The awe and respect in the kid’s face slashed at Seth’s calm, and for a dizzying moment, he felt another sort of fear, not the one that comes from feeling invincible, but the one that lusted for a confidant. Just someone to talk to in the dark of night… even if it was the mere illusion of support. He reached out his hand, an impulse that last week would have seemed ludicrous, and the two shook as if they’d just closed a deal worth millions. Seth handed him another grand, "Thanks for the directions, I need to go.”

  “’Aight,” Jonquez said. "Two of ‘em, little dude ‘bout like this tall,” he held up his hand level with his own head. "And a big cracka. Theys both strapped. The big one is a bad dude.” And with this, Jonquez slipped away into the snow.

  It was very, very quiet inside the car.

  Chapter Thirty

  Indigo

  Tonic swatted Finn across the chest with the back of his hand, “What kinda car was that?”

  "A big black one," Ray answered for him as he craned around to get a second look. “Had those weird headlights too, the blue ones.”

  Finn hadn’t turned–he was staring straight out into the snow, thinking. Tonic let their car roll about half of a block and then killed the lights and spun a U–turn. They crept back to the corner. The other car was stopped about a block away. Someone got out, silhouetted against the snow, and disappeared into the night. The brake lights stayed lit.

  “Son of a bitch,” Finn whispered. He leaned forward, squinting, but Tonic answered.

  “No tags. Looks like a big Beamer to me.”

  “Bimmer,” Ray corrected. "A Beamer's a motorcycle."

  “You would know that. Whatever.”

  Ray leaned up between the seats.

  “You sound like a 900 call, Ray,” Finn said. “Relax.”

  “Sorry,” Ray didn’t move, but he tried to hold his breathing in check. “Is that him?”

  The dark was almost complete now, but the outline of the car was there, backlit by its own super bright headlights. Big. No tags. It had looked black when they passed.

  “Seems to be.”

  “Do we go get him?” Ray asked.

  “No,” both cops answered as one.

  “Why? Isn’t he, I mean, shouldn’t we.…?”

  Finn drummed his fingers on the dash. “I’m curious.”

  “Ray, no matter how easy it seems in Grand Theft Auto, it ain’t all that easy to just yank a guy out of a car. Besides, don’t you wanna see what this ballsy SOB is up to? We can grab him if we need to.”

  “Maybe he just wants to kill as many as he can?” Ray asked.

  Finn kept a faint beat on the dash with his fingers. “I don’t think so…we got the cart before the horse.”

  Spencer ran with the thought, "Recon. He was scouting for the right guys."

  The brake lights flicked off. The big black car rolled forward.

  Chapter Thirty–One

  Idealist

  Saul could feel the cash in his pocket. Warm to the touch. Even way the fuck back here off of the main streets he’d made more than six hundred dollars since noon. He’d only heard from one other corner, but they were rollin’ deep too–like too large. In a few hours he’d be able to meet with everyone, collect, and then show Vesper the results. It had been an incredible gamble on Vesper’s part, and despite what Saul still believed was just bad luck in having hit some high roller and been all over the news, SMG was really taking it up the ass. All of their business was turning off before SMG’s territory, and coming right to the Widmore Crew. This one night would be almost ten grand, half of it from his corners alone. He felt giddy. Vesper would see his worth. He’d move up.

  Saul fingered the cash in his pocket. It felt hot now.

  A pair of bright headlights rounded the corner, carried on the snow. Saul stepped out to the edge of the beam, just far enough to be seen. He was in his element, ready for another sale.

  The car slowed and stopped mid–street. He waited until the window cracked, a signal, and then stomped his feet as if shaking off the cold… a signal of his own. Bolo stepped forward. These ten steps were the most dangerous for any dealer–leaving the safety of the sidelines and getting out onto the field.

  The two eased forward, feet squeaking in the snow. They took their time to make certain that the buyer realized who was in control of the deal. The window came down a bit more, but it was tough to see inside.

  A voice came from within, and at once Saul knew he’d have another sale.

  “I need some cocaine.”

  It was a little voice for such a big ride, which fit. Only some candy–assed rich white boy would call blow cocaine.

  He stepped up. “I got your dust, troop too, but a big balla like you don’t want rocks. How much you need’n?” Saul was good at understanding people, he generally knew by feel what kind of person he was dealing with, and Vesper’s injection of confidence had bolstered his enthusiasm just beyond his experience.

  Bolo interrupted, “Ain't right man.” It was a whisper, but might as well have been a shout.

  Saul turned, scowling at Bolo, desperately hoping that his mark hadn’t heard his guard dog barking. It was a mistake. Bolo’s instincts were primitive, therefore, right on the money. The instant that they spent looking at one another and not at the car was a fatal one.

  “I got sugar cubes too…” Saul said, turning back.

  His nervous system functioned in fractions of seconds which meant that he felt the cold gush of slime on his face just before all of his senses went mute–it was as if his body were forced into silence as it drew in a long breath, the breath that would allow it to unravel into a shriek of pure, childlike terror. Bright light
s flashed in his eyes and he heard himself gasping, trying to cry out, trying to maintain his balance. He was on fire, he knew it, and he beat at his face and neck with a savagery that transfixed his mind. There was no air, the fire was sucking it all up, and he realized that he was about to die.

  The world tipped on its end, and he understood that he was falling, but it didn’t matter. There was screaming all around him now. He imagined people’s horrified expressions as they watched his face drip from his skull.

  He hit the street chin first, and that didn’t hurt at all.

  Chapter Thirty–Two

  Intervention

  All three of them knew that they should intervene, but each also wanted to pretend that the next minute of their life was nothing more than a Hollywood screening.

  The BMW turned to the side, stopped, and just as they expected, two kids came out of the shadows to make a sale. The pair were partially obscured as they got close to the car, but it was obvious what was going down.

  Finn thought about slamming on the horn, spooking the game and stopping this before it began. A couple of bangers would be spared, this he knew. But what didn’t he know? How had this kid stayed a step ahead this long, what was he planning? The detective in him hesitated, as did the man. Finn understood. Identified. Hoped? He was briefly faced with a sort of shame as well, but it was fleeting. He realized that he desperately wanted Meek to fuck these guys up as much as they had his family. Besides, Tonic was right. Spook him now and all they’d have was a car chase–one which, by the looks of Meek's new car, would be decidedly one-sided. Better to let him get out of the big beast first.

  “What if he gets killed?” Ray asked, low between the seats.

  “He’s earned it,” Tonic said without looking away. Ray noticed that Tonic was gripping the wheel, and realized belatedly that something was just about to happen.

  Words were exchanged.

  Then it happened. The black kid lurched back, clearly shot in the head, but Ray couldn’t hear the gunshot. He clutched his face, reeling about on wooden legs. He clawed at his eyes, spinning once, and ricocheted off of his friend on the way to the ground. The tall kid was just standing there, frozen in place with his face turned up to the sky. Suddenly his hands came up to his face and he dropped into a heap where he stood. He went out of sight.

  They could all hear the screaming.

  “Wow,” Tonic said. Ray looked away from the scene for an instant to find him smiling.

  “What?” Ray looked from one to the other, searching for a clue as to what was happening. "What’d he do?”

  “Pepper spray maybe,” Finn said. He too was leaning forward, riding the edge of his seat. The two cops needed a big tub of popcorn between them. “Jesus, that has to hurt,” he almost chuckled.

  The black kid writhed on the ground about ten feet from the car, the snow falling on him with a serenity and callousness that seemed… right. Unbidden, the trunk popped open; the driver’s door followed. A slight figure immerged, nose and mouth covered with a piece of cloth.

  He moved swiftly, about two steps away from the car and raised a bat.

  “We should stop this,” Ray whispered.

  “Prolly.”

  “Finn, we should…” Ray began.

  Finn raised a hand. Spellbound. "He isn't going to kill them, Ray."

  The bat fell, once, twice. Then the figure came upright, and moved with sure footing over to the black kid. Again the club, once to the ribs, once to the head. The kid at his feet had gone very still. The bat was tossed back into the trunk and something else came out.

  “What’s that?” Finn asked. “Tape?” his hand was on the door handle.

  “Yeah, duct tape,” Tonic confirmed. “Want me to light him up?”

  “Not yet, get us turned so that he’ll freeze in the lights.” Tonic idled the car around the corner, lining it up with the unfolding scene. By now, Tonic knew, Meek would have tunnel vision, his fine motor skills would be impaired, he'd be zoned.

  They watched as Meek fumbled with the tape, and as the two kids were dragged into the glow of the taillights like bags of laundry. The guy, it had to be Meek, wiped at his eyes and then took a few deep breaths, face turned into the wind, away from the forms at his feet. He held the cloth close to his face and the detectives could see him exhale.

  He bent and lifted one by the armpits to a sitting position. From there he struggled to push the limp bulk over the threshold and into the trunk. The smaller black kid wasn’t so much of a problem. When he raised his arm to throw the trunk shut, the detective opened his door and stood behind it.

  “Seth Meek!” Finn yelled into the wind.

  The guy’s head jerked up.

  The lights came on and Tonic flipped them to bright. It was a bizarre scene; the figure was in a nice suit, shirttail untucked from one side, a ragged bandit’s mask over his face. It had been cut from his shirt. His eyes were wide with the shock of being caught in the light.

  Finn heard himself say, “Stop now, leave ‘em be, and you can just go.”

  Meek pulled the mask down and stared into the light, he relaxed, exhaled in a long stream that was stolen away by the wind, "Can’t.”

  Finn stepped forward into the headlights until he cast a long shadow on Meek. It somehow personalized their exchange–suddenly it was just the two of them fifty feet apart. Meek didn’t move.

  “It has to end here,” Finn said.

  “You know that I’ve come too far to stop.”

  “Seth,” Finn began. "Think it through. Nobody blames you. Fuck man, I think people will understand.”

  Then Meek said something genuinely puzzling, “I’ll let them decide.”

  Tonic had exited the car and, still hidden by the door and the glare, held his pistol on target. Ray just watched, entirely captivated by all that was unfolding before him. He soaked it in, memorizing the exchange.

  Finn let the riddle go, they could unravel it all later. “Seth, stop….”

  “You know how you'll have to stop me if you want this to end,” Meek said and closed the trunk. Finn didn’t flinch, but Tonic tensed.

  “Seth...”

  There was a flash. A staccato strobe that lit up the entire street, each snowflake suddenly stood out in blinding relief. A long thudding report came through the snow, echoing up and down the alleys and streets, bouncing a thousand directions at once.

  Finn dropped to a knee, pistol out as he watched a half dozen punctures open on the BMW, walking up the side of the car and popping one of the windows in a spray of cubed glass. Meek fell back, dropping out of sight behind his car.

  “Contact rear,” Tonic was shouting. "Rear! Rear!” he repeated as Finn scrambled toward his open door. Another half dozen rounds cracked past and screamed down range. They impacted into distant bricks with the doppler whine caused by hundreds of fragments filling the air. Tonic realized that the shooters were using the headlights to target Meek's vehicle, but he didn’t see where the rounds landed because he was focused on the source.

  In the flashing light he could see a dozen figures sprinting up the street behind them. One would stop, fire, and then sprint to catch his friends. Stupid, but at least they weren't firing this way….

  Tonic felt the car vibrate and dropped to the ground just as a burst ground its way up the pavement and thunked into their car's trunk.

  There was a roar from in front of them, but there were too many things happening at once for him to do much more than catalogue it. He dropped into a shooting stance automatically, using the bulk of the engine as cover, got a sight picture of the shooters, and gently squeezed off a round. The first one was true, snapping a head back, but even before the body crumpled he'd swapped targets. The second shot was wide, but the next pair connected sending someone with a rifle sprawling as if skating on an icy lake. He glanced into the front seat, noted Ray crawling into a ball on the floorboard, and looked across for Finn.

  “Finny, let’s go!”

  There was no answe
r. He called again, and two more rounds smacked into the car. A third skimmed along the roof, shrieking like a wounded rabbit. At least Ray was in the car–even if he were wounded, he was inside. That left Finn, and escape. He fired into the mass of approaching gunmen without a thought, dropping his magazine when the pistol locked open and feeding in a fresh clip. It was clear that the only thing that mattered at this point was putting distance between them and the shooters. They were completely outgunned and there was no such thing as a fair fight now…. Run away, run away, live to fight another day.

  Tonic leaped across the front seat, dropped out into the street and felt the slick grit slash at his palms. The roar from up the street grew, and the BMW’s headlights swung around illuminating Finn about ten feet away. He was crawling toward the car, but hit, clutching his side.

  “Finny, let’s go, man!” Spencer scampered to his friend, took hold of his jacket and hair, and drug him out of the road just as the BMW roared past up on the opposite sidewalk just feet away. Sparks showered out from the undercarriage as it bumped back down into the street.

  The fire shifted, again impacting Meek's car as Tonic watched, captivated by the scene. The remaining gunmen stood their ground mid–street, banging away as the car accelerated. Whether brave or foolhardy, Tonic would never know, but all four stood hypnotized by the brilliant lights. One shook the clip from his pistol after looking at it as if it had betrayed him, and was still trying to reload when the car struck them down. Some disappeared entirely from view, one spun off so rapidly that he seemed to blur and then stopped instantly against a pole, his arm separated and rebounded off of a storefront, skipping back into the street. The last kid in sight went up and over the car, rotated once, an exceedingly slow arc, and came to a stop in the whirling snow.

  The firing had stopped.

  “You hit?” Tonic asked. His voice was quiet, close to Finn’s ear. Far too calm to sound natural.

  “Think so,” Finn said, he was pulling at his vest.