When One Man Dies

by Dave White

  “Najera and Burgess are going to get there early. They want to beat us. So the trick is to get there even earlier. Watch where they set up, look at all the angles.”

  “I just want to get Jesus back.”

  She hadn’t realized I was using her as bait. I wasn’t going to tell her. Sending a woman I’d made love to into the line of fire was wrong. It hurt me to do it, and made me feel like an asshole. She could be dead by the end of the night. Then again, so could I. We pressed on. It was time to end this.

  “We will,” I said, putting my hand on her knee.

  I turned on the radio. Tracy was nervous; she wanted to talk. Maybe she’d sing along. I had to focus. I’d never planned something like this. And definitely not while attempting to hide from someone on my own side. I stepped on the gas.

  About twenty minutes into the drive we started seeing orange signs for JOCKEY HOLLOW. New Jersey tried its best to pump up the good things about the state. Unfortunately, most people didn’t get the message. Over two hundred years ago, soldiers stayed there on their way to destroy an army. Now there would be more bloodshed.

  “Why are you wearing all black?” she asked.

  “Because I’m not going to be standing anywhere near you. And I don’t want anyone to see me.”

  “You’re . . .” She paused, looked at the roof of the car. “You’re not coming with me?”

  “If I’m there, they will kill you, me, and Jesus.” And if I’m not, the odds are they’ll still kill the both of you.

  “What are you going to do?”

  I took Exit 30B off 287 and got onto Route 202. Traffic was light around the windy road, and I was able to take the curves at forty miles per hour. A sign for Jockey Hollow told me to look out on my left.

  “Have you ever seen Lethal Weapon?” I asked. “No.”

  “Here’s the plan. I’m going to be as close to you as possible without being seen. There’s no light in the park, and not a lot of open spaces. But where Burgess and Najera want to meet with you, that’s kind of open. A wooden picket fence surrounds it, if I remember right.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m going to hide there with my hunting rifle.”

  I hung a right and pulled into the Jockey Hollow site. I ignored the small parking lot. Across from it was a paved trail just wide enough for my Prelude. I took it slow, ten miles an hour.

  “If things go wrong, I’ll take out Najera and Burgess.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Tracy said. “I’m just going to talk to them. That’s what Pablo said.”

  “And that’s what’s going to happen,” I said. “Think of me as insurance.”

  The clock on my dashboard said eleven-eighteen. Less than forty-five minutes until the meet. I turned my car up on a grass trail and hit the headlights. I eased about five hundred feet in.

  “If I start shooting, if anyone starts shooting, just grab Jesus if you can, and get the hell down. And try to crawl out of the way.”

  “Oh my God.”

  Her hand went to her mouth, and I could tell she was shaking. I put my hand on her shoulder and gently squeezed.

  “Relax,” I said. “It’s going to be okay.”

  Tracy Boland, eyes wide open, sucked in air through her mouth like she was about to hyperventilate. I squeezed the shoulder a little tighter.

  “I promise you’ll be fine.”

  “What should I do now?”

  I pointed out my back window up a hill to a small wooden house encased in a rotten wooden fence. Surrounding it were trees with leaves that were just beginning to blossom.

  “Wick’s farm,” I said. “That’s where your meeting is. Walk toward it slowly. Try to get to the house in about ten minutes.”

  “It’s only about half a mile away.”

  “I know. Walk slow.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Find the best vantage point.”

  She said Jesus Christ again and opened the car door. She kissed me on the cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Good luck.”

  “You, too.”

  I counted to a hundred as she walked away, reached into my backseat, and took both of the guns.

  The trail led me to the right of the house, up a steep incline. I tried to run and stay low, but in the darkness I couldn’t see the rocks that scattered the ground and I kept stumbling. I found pavement—the trail we drove up—and followed it close to the wooden gate. The Wick farmhouse was about five hundred feet away.

  The air was clear, cool, and smelled like must, a sign of oncoming rain. Against the sky hung heavy clouds. A thin moon peeked beneath the clouds, giving the pale grass a stream of light. It didn’t help my vision much, but any light at all was nice.

  Finding the clearest view, I lay on my stomach and aimed the rifle. Best I could do at this distance was lay down some cover fire and scare the hell out of Najera and Burgess. Hopefully Martin would be there, and I wouldn’t have to worry about it too much. Just a few rounds to get them running. Then the cops could take over and I would get the hell out of here.

  It seemed like a good plan. But something tugged at me, gently twisting my nerves, making my hands shake. I’d never fired a rifle from long range. Accidentally hitting someone I didn’t want to was a definite risk. Hell, missing everyone, not even coming close, was a risk. I didn’t know much about this rifle.

  Sighting the gun, I could see Tracy making her way toward the farmhouse. She slipped to one knee. Her arms were wrapped around herself as if she were cold. Occasionally she looked over her shoulder.

  My wristwatch glowed eleven thirty-five. Twenty-five minutes. I could hear the clicking of the second hand. A lone drop of sweat curled its way down my forehead. I blinked to keep it out of my eye. Still I listened to the second hand click.

  Finally, at eleven forty-eight, headlights curved around behind the one-story glass visitors’ center. It found the same path I’d rolled up. My fingers and biceps tensed. I hoped Martin was already here. I hoped he saw our car pull up and watched Tracy make her way down the trail. Because the car that parked next to that same trail definitely wasn’t an unmarked.

  The interior light of the car went on as the driver’s-side door opened. A burly outline of a man got out. Pablo Najera. He went to the back door and pulled it open. His thick arms dragged Jesus out. Jesus’s hands were bound behind his back, and his feet dragged in the dirt. From the passenger side, another man exited. Probably Burgess. They looked toward the Wick farmhouse, then back at Jesus. They seemed to be talking to him.

  Finally they spun on their heels and moved toward Tracy. I tightened my grip on the rifle and watched.

  Showtime.

  Chapter 52

  The butt of the rifle pressed into my shoulder, its weight causing my arms to ache. My finger was on the trigger guard, my right eye closed as I sighted with my left. The barrel of the gun rested on the wooden fence. The ground was soft and wet and my body sank into the mud a bit. A few drops of rain began to fall, just another distraction if I had to shoot. Between the wind, the rain, the darkness, and the rifle’s questionable range, I’d be lucky to hit the side of the farmhouse.

  Tracy stood facing the trail Burgess and Najera dragged Jesus along. She was still hugging herself, rocking back on her heels. It seemed she wasn’t sure whether or not to go toward Jesus. She would take a step, then stop, hesitate. Stay there, I willed, where I have a sight line.

  I could make out pitches of noise from the trail. It appeared that Jesus was yelling, but I couldn’t tell what. Trying to judge what I knew about Jesus, he was more a coward than anything else, probably screaming in fear. He twisted and struggled in Najera’s grip, arms knotted behind his back, but Najera wouldn’t let go. Jesus went down to one knee; Najera pulled him back up.

  Every muscle in my shoulder, my arms, my back, and my legs was tense. I concentrated on watching everyone’s movement, trying not to think about the rifle in my hand. But the gun’s weight couldn’t be ignored, and it got heavier by the
minute. I could also feel the spare pistol sticking out of my waistband at the small of my back. I licked my lips, trying to keep them moist, but knowing somehow that they’d be chapped in the morning.

  If I made it that far.

  I did another scan of the park, and still no sign of Martin. Christ, he’d have to be here already; it was almost midnight. No good cop would come exactly at the meet time. Wick’s farmhouse was just at the entrance to the park, too; he couldn’t miss it. But there was no sign of the cops, no sign of extra cars, no sign of any life except for the meet and my own tense body.

  Tracy went down to one knee, and it looked like she retched. She stayed on the ground. I wanted to tell her to get up, to not show fear or weakness, but then what was that lead ball in the pit of my stomach?

  Najera tossed Jesus over the fence, and then climbed it himself. Jesus rolled around on the ground, and Tracy ran to him, cradling his head with her arms. Burgess was the last one over the fence, taking his time, as if enjoying the moment. He glided along the grass. He probably loved this, probably wanted to draw it out. I also wanted it to take as long as possible. I wanted to give Martin every chance to get here.

  Tracy rocked Jesus in her arms. Wind blew across my face and sound wasn’t carrying as well anymore. I wondered if she was whispering to him. She stroked his hair and rocked back and forth. Burgess’s hands were moving; he was talking as if he was explaining something slowly to schoolchildren. He must have said something important, because Tracy’s head snapped up from Jesus and she glared his way.

  Wait to see a gun, I told myself. Maybe they would let Tracy talk Jesus out of drug dealing and promise to move to a different city, a different state, a different planet.

  Hell, even Cleveland.

  Najera was pacing. He wasn’t speaking, and he didn’t look concerned, but he did look like he was scanning his surroundings. I hoped Tracy wasn’t giving away my presence with her body language, with her eyes. Or maybe she was a great poker player and Najera was just doing his job and being paranoid.

  Army Special Forces would put the blade of a knife under their throats when they were in this position to keep themselves from falling asleep. I could see why. My entire body was tired, the adrenaline rush was gone, and I felt like dropping the gun. I was losing focus; my vision was blurred. The smell of rain and mud clogged my nose. I kept blinking. A knife against my throat would have done a world of good.

  Burgess stopped talking. He turned toward Najera, whose attention snapped back. The burly Mexican nodded slowly and reached under his thin jacket. Tracy tossed her head back and screamed.

  Here we go.

  The gun came out from under Najera’s jacket, and he hesitated just an instant. His mouth opened and he spoke. I didn’t have time to fuck around. I squeezed the trigger. The gun bucked against my shoulder, lifting me off the ground.

  The bullet whizzed through the air and died somewhere around the three-hundred-feet mark, kicking up a cloud of dirt and mud. It came nowhere near the group of people I aimed toward. But the sound echoed around the park, the unmistakable sound of a gunshot, and that did the job. Najera and Burgess scattered, taking cover behind the Wick House. Tracy pulled Jesus close and hit the ground flat.

  I fired two more rounds, the bullets whizzing into the air. The sound echoed off the mountains. Najera and Burgess spread out so I couldn’t shoot at either of them. Tracy and Jesus hopped to their feet after the third bullet and made a beeline for the fence at the far end from the house. Jesus was hobbled by his bound hands, but he was making good time. Tracy did her best to help him.

  I fired one more round, aiming high, giving the bullet a bit of an arc to help it carry. I was going to have to stop shooting and move in an instant, and I didn’t want Najera or Burgess realizing they were really in little danger. The bullet rocketed through the air and probably gained another hundred fifty feet or so. The bullet cracked the ground just in front of Najera. He flinched and tried to find the direction of the gunfire, leveling his gun at the horizon.

  Feeling the wind at my face, the cool drizzle on the back of my neck, I was moving instinctually. Bent over, staying out of sight, I ran hard to get closer to the farmhouse. At least I was on paved road, so there weren’t many rocks or other obstacles to avoid. Breathing in through my nose, out through my mouth, I tried to keep my heart rate down, to stay calm and not let the new rush of adrenaline take over. Easier said than done.

  Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

  Maybe it was the blood pumping in my ears. Maybe it had to do with the speed of sound. Maybe it was the sequence of events. Whatever it was, the sound of gunfire snapped me back to attention before the sound of the car squealing into the park. Looking up, I saw a Honda Accord bounce over a strip of grass and up through the wooden fence toward Tracy and Jesus. I didn’t see either of them fall, didn’t know how it happened, but they were both on the ground staring at the car. A red bubble flashed light on its roof.

  Martin.

  Not once that I knew of had Martin called for backup. I don’t know if he saw too many cowboy movies as a kid or if he was stubborn and wanted all the credit, but he broke procedure all the time and never caught hell for it. Mostly because he was successful. Corrupt, but successful.

  Today was no different. Out of his jurisdiction, riding in like the fucking cavalry. Najera had his gun trained on the Accord now and fired another two rounds. Since there was no gunfire coming from the car, I assumed he’d also fired the first four.

  I stood up straight, leveled my rifle, and was able to get off another round. The bullet embedded itself in the wood of the Wick House. Burgess leaned against the building. My shot had the desired effect. Najera gave up trying to take out the Accord and ran, keeping his head low. Burgess was already halfway toward his car.

  Martin leaped out of the Honda. Gun drawn, he ran toward Najera screaming, “Freeze! Police.”

  Martin moved toward Tracy and Jesus. He stayed low. I could hear his voice, and it sounded soothing. Finding out if they were okay. I hoped like hell they were.

  Burgess had reached the car, and revved the engine. I was only about one hundred feet from the bumper when he stepped on the gas. I stopped running and aimed my rifle. Squeezed the trigger and felt the report in my shoulder. I noticed a throbbing pain there.

  The back windshield of the car exploded, and the car swerved but didn’t stop. In fact, it looked like it sped up. Before I could get another shot off, Burgess found pavement and was out into the parking lot heading toward the exit. He was out of sight. My only hope was Martin got a good view of the car and radioed it in.

  I looked toward them to see if Najera was around. He wasn’t. Martin got Tracy and Jesus into the Accord. None of them saw me. Tracy and Jesus would be caught up telling stories to the cops for hours. I had to get the hell out of there. Make sure I wasn’t hanging around when the interrogation started.

  Turning on the path, I headed toward my car. I moved quicker than I had before, aware there wasn’t any more gunfire and less to worry about. Just didn’t want Martin to stop me, didn’t want him giving me any more shit than I already had.

  Seeing the moon reflecting off the black metal in the distance, I reached into my pocket and hit the lock alarm. I opened the trunk and dropped the rifle in and reached behind me and dropped my handgun as well. Slamming the trunk closed, I turned toward the driver’s side. Next thing I knew I was on my back.

  “Knew it was you. Laying down that cover fire.” The voice was deep and cold.

  “Najera,” I mumbled.

  “Ah, about time.” Now the voice’s Mexican accent was thick. No reason to try and hide it anymore.

  I rubbed my nose where I’d been hurt. I’d no doubt this hulk of a man had made me bleed again. It was starting to rain.

  He stood over me, looking down. I couldn’t really see his expression because of the shadows, but I could see his mouth move when he spoke.

  “So, what the hell are you doing here? This wasn’t what you w
ere hired to do. You were just hired to find me and bring me back to Jen. But here you are firing a fucking rifle at me. What if you had hit me? How would you have been paid for your work? Too bad.” He shook his head. “Now. Well, now you’re going to die.”

  He aimed his firearm at me.

  Before he could fire, I swung my leg and knocked Najera’s out from under him. As he went down, I heard his gun go off and clatter off a rock somewhere in the darkness. I got up and ran deeper into the forest on wobbly legs.

  The darkness and the rain made it hard to see and even more difficult to get traction on the ground, so I stopped to get my bearings. Stopping didn’t help. I had no idea where I was. I took a step and my sneaker sank into mud. I took another step and nearly fell on my face, tripping on a rock. The goal was to keep moving, get as much distance between Najera and me as possible. He’d kicked my ass twice. I was going to have to use the forest, my dark clothes, and the night sky to my advantage. At least he no longer had a gun. Then again, neither did I.

  “I’ll fucking kill you!” Najera’s voice echoed among the trees.

  By this point, I’d have expected to hear sirens. I’d have expected to hear an ambulance or more cops, something to break the silence. But I didn’t hear anything. Which meant that Martin was taking care of things himself. He would be able to talk his way out of things later.

  The trail was getting narrower and the sound of rushing water carried off to my right. I could feel the landscape more than see it, and I hoped Najera was having even more trouble. He was moving in my direction, not caring about being stealthy. The sounds of snapping twigs and tumbling pebbles reached my ears. To my left the land inclined; toward the water was a cliff with a small drop-off toward the stream.

  “You motherfucker!” he yelled.

  Odds were if I was careful, I’d be able to get the drop on him. I’d intentionally worn black clothes, my footsteps were quiet, and I was a good two minutes ahead of him. Moving slowly, I veered left. There was a thick tree angling off the incline and I leaned against it, shielded from the trail.