by Adam Bender
*
Kid Hunter watched the entrance to Smoky Joe’s from a small alley across the street. He had to say Central Avenue looked off the chain tonight. It was all dressed up in Christmas lights, leftovers from last December before the Gang arrived. Maybe the red-and-white motif of the holiday suited them, or maybe they were just plain lazy, but the Red Stripers had never bothered to take down the solar-powered decorations from the trees.
It was late, and drunk gangsters had begun to trickle out of the bar to their motorcycles. Some were so wasted that they abandoned their motorcycles altogether, opting instead to walk back to their stolen homes. The ones who were even more sloshed got on their bikes anyway and sped away like maniacs.
The door to the saloon swung open, dropping Mr. Mask out onto the curb. A big man with an eye patch followed him out, shouting for attention. Charlie recognized him as the guy he’d seen taking everybody’s money at poker. Owing to the Gang’s lack of creativity, he was called Patch. Well, Patch had invited Charlie to join the game, but the Kid had been too smart for that.
Mr. Mask turned to face Patch. There was a slight lean in his stance and one of his hands hung low toward the holster on his waist.
“I ain’t no cheater!” cried Patch. “I won that hand fair and square, and now you better pay up!”
Mr. Mask pulled a Breck 17 and aimed it at the other man, who withered like a poisoned weed and stuck up his arms to show he didn’t want a duel. Mr. Mask didn’t seem to want one, either, and shot him straight through the eye patch. The poker player collapsed onto the dirt like a rag doll.
“Anyone else want trouble?” Mr. Mask yelled at the door to Smoky Joe’s.
No one did, so Mr. Mask put the gun away and stumbled down Central Avenue toward the center of town. That was Kid Hunter’s cue.
*
The Christmas lights blinked. Mr. Mask stopped short and looked around curiously. Shaking his head, he continued on, but then the lights went out completely.
“ … the hell?” he asked in a low growl.
The lights snapped back on, but only the ones in front of him. He followed them toward downtown. The Christmas decorations cut power again at the next intersection, but to the right, on the perpendicular street, the lights in several abandoned shops came alive. He grabbed hold of his Breck 17 and shouted, “Who’s there?”
No one answered, so he took the turn and tiptoed down the street, holding his gun with two hands in front of him. All the shop lights then went out, but somewhere a car radio began to play. Now he knew someone was messing with him. He took off at a trot with his pistol outstretched. “I’m gonna kill whoever the fuck is there if you don’t show yourself!”
Mr. Mask stopped at a parked car buzzing from all the bass thumping out of it. When he peered inside, the automatic window rolled down and he nearly fell backward holding his ears. He ended up on the porch of a bookstore.
The car radio stopped, and a gruff voice from inside the shop greeted, “Good to see you again. Why don’t you come on in? For old time’s sake.”
“Wanderer!” exclaimed the gangster. His skin tingled with the memory of fire and burning. Trembling slightly, Mr. Mask drew his Breck 17 and entered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Rise and Shine.
The trucker lifted a mega-size coffee from an extra-large cup holder and brought it to his lips. The name Rusty was scrawled in black Sharpie on the Styrofoam side. The drink was only lukewarm, and he cursed himself for not ordering that self-heating mug from SkyMall. Maybe he could finally afford one after this job for Breck Ammo. He was nearly to Union — maybe another quarter of an hour to go, but he’d been driving since it was dark. He could hear the assault rifles in the big-box trailer rattling at every bump of the road.
Rusty had never done a job like this when Al Breck was still alive. He’d been driving thirty years for Breck Ammo, but this time his supervisor had asked him to bring a sixteen-wheeler full of Yossarian automatics into a Red Stripe town. Normally Rusty didn’t ask questions, but he had to say, this job didn’t make a lick of sense. Must be that stupid new CEO, Gerard Breck. They said he was Al’s son, but guys who’d been around as long as Rusty knew that Gerard was a stepson and carried none of the old man’s genes or his business smarts neither.
A loud thumping sound made him look up. In the sky, a black helicopter flew at full tilt past the truck and out toward the horizon. Speak of the devil — that was the executive chopper. But what the hell was Gerard Breck doing out this far? Shit, that moron could have brought the truck himself!
When he looked back down, Rusty saw something in the road. No … some damn fool, standing right smack in the middle of the highway! He pulled his horn, but the figure in the street just aped him with that infernal gesture the kids in the school buses always made. He was dressed in a burgundy track jacket, and there was some kind of bracelet gleaming on his wrist. Rusty honked again but the other guy’s big grin remained. The truck slowed. Personally, Rusty would’ve liked to run the guy down, but his truck mostly drove itself and he couldn’t override its safety behaviors. As much as he might’ve liked to.
“Obstruction in the road,” reported the truck’s rather sultry dashboard voice. Rusty liked the way she sounded, and the way she only gave pertinent information. Unlike his wife.
“Yeah, yeah, I see him, baby.” With a deep groan, Rusty leaned out the window to give the asshole a good ripping. “Get out of the road, you damn fool!”
“Hey, now!” the weirdo called back. “The name’s Kid Hunter! Can a brother get a ride?”
“What? No, a brother can’t get no damn ride! What do you take me for, some kind of —!”
The fool pulled out a pistol. Rusty reached for his Breck 17 and opened the door, but the young fella moved quick and had his gun aimed at Rusty’s chest before he could even lift his butt from the seat. The truck driver felt something hit his chest. It weren’t no bullet, but it stung all the same. His eyes drooped and he felt himself drifting. On second thought, it felt kind of nice.
*
A metal groan drew Rosa’s attention to the door of the vault, where a crescent of light expanded into a great round sun. For a few seconds, she couldn’t see a thing through the glare, but as her eyes adjusted, she saw the shadowy outline of a tall man, and then the sharp face of Gerard Breck. He was wearing a tan summer suit with an obnoxious red bow tie. The shape of his waxed mustache matched the upward curve of his grin.
“Rise and shine,” sneered the CEO of Breck Ammunition.
She nearly lunged, but stopped herself when three figures appeared behind him. She recognized his assistant, Elza, and the Red Striper whom Charlie had nicknamed Mr. Mask. The third was a man she hadn’t met before, but he wore shades and an earpiece like a bodyguard.
Elza, who wore a tight blue dress and matching pumps, seemed pleased to see her. Rosa gave a vicious look in return.
Rosa checked her plastic watch, the only device she’d been allowed to keep inside the vault. Breck had arrived at 8:00 a.m. on the dot. Her stomach rumbled on cue with the realization that it was morning. She hadn’t had a thing to eat since before the funeral. She didn’t recall sleeping, either, though the time showed she must have, at least a little. She had aches in her neck and all the way down her side.
Gerard noticed her checking the time and said, “That’s right, it’s breakfast time.” In a low growl to his flunkies, he added, “Bring her to the table.”
The bodyguard took her by the arm and pulled her hard out of the vault.
Rosa couldn’t help but ask Elza, “So this is your definition of public relations?”
The assistant laughed. “I would say we are well past good PR practices.”
Mr. Mask held a Lassiter menacingly across his chest, daring Rosa to even try to escape, but she felt too tired to resist. Instead, heeding her reporter instincts, she made a move as though she was scratching an itch on her wrist while secretly clicking the RECORD button on her “smart” watch. Th
e way she figured it, if she got free, she could use the tape for an article in The New West. And if they killed her, at least someone might find it and tell her story.
They brought Rosa into an office barely bigger than a cubicle and directed her into a metal chair with stained fabric cushions. The brother of Errol Breck sat across from her in a black-webbed throne behind a nameplate for Pete Johnson, Branch Manager. In a wide arcing sweep of the hand, Gerard knocked the triangular object off the table, along with a stapler and a stack of paper. A photo of a smiling woman and two kids making faces was next to go.
Dryly, he said, “I’ve never been much for family.”
Rosa pushed back hard in her seat as he procured a jagged Army knife from the inside of his jacket. Elza held the reporter’s chair in place.
“Every play five-finger fillet?” asked Gerard, splaying the fingers of his other hand on the table. He brought the blade of the knife slowly down into the table between his thumb and index finger, up again, and down between the index and middle fingers. Rosa stared, transfixed, as he continued the game methodically all the way to the end of his hand and then back to where he started. Gerard smiled. “Not bad, eh?”
He did it faster, still managing to miss his digits with the knife. When he finished the cycle, she asked, “What do you want?”
He stared. “You know what I want. I want you to stop writing malicious things about me and Breck Ammunition.”
“Okay,” she replied flatly. “I’ll stop.”
Laughing, Gerard played another round of five fingers, completing it even faster than before. This time she noticed a scar near the bend of his middle finger. “You know this game isn’t as easy as it looks. And as my assistant indicated earlier, I’m afraid we’re past the point of negotiation.”
“Wh-what does that mean?”
“It m-m-m-means,” he said, making fun of her stammer, “give me your hand.”
When she didn’t make a move, the bodyguard grabbed her wrist and pushed her palm down on the table. Gerard lifted the blade over the reporter’s hand.
“Wait, please …” managed Rosa, trying desperately to push her fingers as far apart as they would go—and convince herself that would make any difference.
“Hey, I got a joke!” announced Gerard. “What do you call a writer who can’t tell the truth?”
He brought the knife down between Rosa’s thumb and index finger, and then up and down slowly between the rest of her fingers.
When she didn’t reply, Elza asked, “What?”
“A journalist,” he answered, completing the knife-play chain in reverse. When only Elza smirked, Gerard said, “Well, maybe that one needs a little work. Whatever. So anyway, how about a little faster this time?”
“That’s enough!” shouted Mr. Mask, suddenly aiming his silver six-shooter at Gerard’s head. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”
Peripherally, Rosa saw the bodyguard reaching for his gun. Mr. Mask swiveled slightly. She shut her eyes as the Lassiter went off. When she looked up, Mr. Mask had his gun trained on Gerard again.
All of Gerard froze except for his eyes, which slid up sideways to get a look at the Lassiter in the Red Striper’s left hand. “Errol?” he groaned.
Rosa gaped at Mr. Mask, seeing for the first time the sorrowful eyes of the Wanderer. Elza ran away from him, passing Rosa, but the reporter stretched out her leg and tripped the PR flack. Elza cried out again as her head hit the triangular nameplate for Pete Johnson. The blow immediately knocked her unconscious.
The Wanderer pounded a fist on the table and leaned into his brother with the Lassiter. “Damn it, Gerard, what is all this? Kidnapping journalists? Gun trades with the Red Stripe Gang? Are you trying to run the company into the ground, or are you really this incompetent?”
The CEO stood his ground. “Is there a third option?”
“Gerard!”
“I’ll have you know the Gang are paying customers, and they’re helping to keep this company afloat —”
“What, by wiping out the competition? You asked them to knock off a gun maker in Freetown!”
“Gun maker? Errol, I would think you’d know better than to call a 3-D printing garage operation like that gun making.”
“You hired gangsters to hang a man!”
“That’s just business,” said Gerard, waving it off like it was nothing.
“Business? Dad never did business that way.”
Gerard licked his mustache. “Dad’s dead.”
The Wanderer gave a look of exasperation. “Remember that man you nearly hanged? Did you know he had a daughter?”
Gerard shrugged his shoulders. “From what I hear, little girls are made of pretty tough stuff these days. Maybe she’ll be another Li’l Wanderer, if you see what I’m saying.”
The Wanderer snapped forward like a snake. His right hand snatched Gerard by the collar, while his left pressed the Lassiter against Gerard’s forehead.
“Sorry, sorry!” gasped Gerard. “I admit that was a low blow.”
The Wanderer tightened his grip into a chokehold. “Don’t you ever bring up Lindsay again!”
Rosa touched Errol’s arm and he seemed to relax. He’d looked close to pulling the trigger, but the reporter didn’t want to see anyone else shot, even after everything Gerard had done to her.
Errol let go of his stepbrother’s collar, but kept the gun close by his head.
“Better leave quick,” advised the sociopathic CEO, curling his lips upward. “The Red Stripes just received a nice little delivery, from what I hear.”
The rogue gunman winked. “From what I hear, your delivery truck got a little lost coming to Union.”
Gerard darkened. “What do you mean?”
Rosa wondered the same.
“Let’s just say the Gang’s not going to be too happy when they finally find you and your assistant in the bank vault.”
The Wanderer swung back his Lassiter and whipped the steel barrel hard into Gerard’s temple.
*
The door of the bank vault shut with a satisfying heavy click, locking the unconscious Gerard and Elza inside.
“Errol,” said Rosie, standing behind him.
As he turned, she caught him between her arms and sprang onto her toes to kiss him. An explosion of warmth coursed through his body. Gradually, he brought his arms down her back. She felt warm and alive.
There was a look of mischief in her eyes as she pulled away. He didn’t know what to say.
“Well, don’t just stare blankly at me,” she said with a laugh. “We have to go, right?”
He led the way to the door and they exited onto the street, where a black sedan with tinted glass was idling. The window came down, revealing Kid Hunter behind the wheel. “What were you guys doing in there? We’ve gotta get the hell out of here!”
They jogged over and got in. Rosa took a seat next to Charlie in the front, while the Wanderer opted for the back. He reckoned it was a better spot to be if they encountered any trouble from the Red Stripe Gang.
“I’m still mad, you know,” said Rosie, turning around in her seat to address the Wanderer.
“I know,” he said gruffly.
Kid Hunter, who apparently failed to detect the romantic undercurrent in her voice, burst, “Me, too!”
“Uh-huh.” He was still thinking about his stepbrother. It felt good sticking him in the bank vault, but it wasn’t a permanent solution. The Gang would check up on him sooner or later, and they’d let him loose. Even if they were steamed about the gun trade, Gerard was still CEO of Breck Ammunition. He could be mighty persuasive to the types of greedy individuals who took to the Red Stripe Gang.
“Oh shit,” murmured the Kid.
The car had just pulled up to a street festival of Red Stripe Gangsters, and most of the them were looking their way.
“Reverse!” the reporter cried.
“Maybe they won’t bother us,” reasoned Charlie. “I mean, they let me go. I’m a free man. And the Wanderer looks like
Mr. Mask.”
“But Rosie looks like the journalist who should be in a bank vault,” Errol responded. “We’d better get out of here and fast.”
A few of the Red Stripers drew semiautomatics and marched toward the car.
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” remarked the Kid.
“Reverse!” Rosie yelled again.
“Okay, so maybe you do.” He started to back up and jammed on the gas. When he had enough speed, he swung the steering wheel sharply to the right and dropped the transmission into drive. The momentum of the car swung it around in a 180-degree turn. A few bullets whizzed by the car, and then another popped into the back bumper. The Kid slammed the gas pedal again.
The Wanderer watched out the back window. As the car picked up speed, he saw some of the Red Stripers retreat to their motorcycles.
“It’s okay,” said the Wanderer. “We can get out of Union this way, too. We’ll just have to head south instead of north.”
Kid Hunter took a deep breath. “So, was that it?”
“How do you mean?”
Rosie laughed. “I think he means — you call that an apology?”
“I —”
“You abandoned us!” she yelled. “You skipped Lindsay’s funeral!”
“I went back to pay my respects —”
“— after you abandoned us and skipped Lindsay’s funeral!”
One motorcycle appeared behind them, and then another. Then three more. Four men and one woman. The Wanderer rolled down his window and leaned out with his Lassiter. His arm shook as he attempted to line up a shot, but a reticule in his eyeglass helped him stay on target. It beeped, and he fired. The gangster on the left slumped over and his bike went sliding off Central Avenue into the sidewalk. Errol fell back into the car as one of the other gangsters aimed a Breck 17.
“Well?” Rosie asked expectantly.
“Can’t this wait?” The Wanderer leaned back out the window and shot another bullet. It missed, but threw the intended target off so bad that he leaned too hard and fell off his bike. That left three more on their tail. Squinting, he recognized one of the three men as Erskine from the bar. The old man knew how to ride!