Proportionate Response

by Dave Buschi

  2

  MARKS indicated with a glance. No head nod, just eyes. Lip looked out the storefront glass and spotted them, as well. Three men, walking purposely across the street.

  The one in front with the red hat, which was a pull down knit cap, had on a blue hoodie and jeans. The jeans were riding low. Big shit kickers on his feet. Top parts of the boots were open with the laces dangling.

  The other two men were either side of him. They were dressed casual too. One of them had a billowy blue windbreaker and jeans. No hat. Medium-length brown hair. The second one had on a loose-fit brown leather jacket. Tan cargo pants. Stripes on his feet—looked to be Adidas. His black hair was shorn short; spiky on top.

  All three were Caucasian. In their late twenties. Each good size.

  “Ours?” Lip said.

  “Not sure.”

  Marks assembled the papers and the note and put them back in the manila envelope. He didn’t bother with the clasp, but inserted the manila envelope back into the Fed Ex envelope. He stuffed the Fed Ex envelope behind him—small of the back—under his belt. He let his cotton poplin jacket dangle over it.

  “What’s happening?” said Marion.

  “Nothing to worry about,” said Marks.

  Marion’s eyes opened in alarm; she didn’t panic. Not yet, at least.

  “How do you want to play this?” said Lip.

  “Stay put.”

  “What about the back door?” Lip said.

  Marks shook his head. It was probably blocked. Second team, if there was one, already in play. Good chance there was a second team. Those three wouldn’t have moved until that team was set. Probably accounted for the delay. Why it took them this long to make their move.

  If they left through the back door they’d be exposed. It was an alley back that way. Little cover. Any men waiting would have the drop on them.

  No, better to wait. See how this played out.

  “I’m going to get some cream,” said Marks.

  Lip nodded.

  Marks picked up his coffee and slid out of the booth. His peripheral vision kept the three in check through the glass. The two on either side of the leader were holding back. The man in the red knit cap pushed open the door.

  Marks reached the rounded bar counter with the sugar and cream. Man in the hat was keeping it causal; not even looking Marks’s way. Could be nothing. Could just be coincidence. Man wanting some coffee. His compadres hanging outside, not interested.

  But that wasn’t it. Not this. Coincidences had their place. Marks gave them weight, but not when his senses were telling him things were off. This wasn’t what it seemed. Not a java stop; a quick caffeine fix. No, this was something else.

  The men had parked across the street. Passed two good spots before pulling in. Didn’t want to be directly across from the Starbucks. Too visible. Instead they picked a spot up a few. Oblique angle from the front of the place. Marks could barely see their car. It was only because he’d been up against the wall, sitting where he was that he had a view at all. Any other spot in this joint and their car was out of view.

  That didn’t fit the spontaneous visit scenario. Guy in the backseat telling the driver to stop; needed coffee. Which would explain why they passed the two spots; the driver being slow to react. No, the driver was this guy. He pulled over. He came inside. Not one of the others.

  Then there was their walk. All three of them. That purposeful walk across the street. They’d left that car with a mission. Not, hey, let’s get some coffee. Nah, go on. We’ll wait.

  That wasn’t what happened. That’s why this was something else. Marks observed out of the corner of his eye.

  Man was assessing the situation now. Seeing that the three of them were not together. Wondering right now if Lip and he were armed.

  They weren’t, but the guy didn’t know that. The man lingered in the entry area, like he was wondering what to order; not ready to head to the register.

  Upon closer inspection, Marks realized the man didn’t look to be one of theirs. Theirs. Marks still thought of himself in that way, even though Lip and he were essentially mercs. No longer on Uncle Sam’s payroll.

  This guy didn’t fit type, and there was definitely a type. No, he was different. High cheekbones; some Slavic to him. Estonian perhaps? Heavy eyebrows, smooth face, red hued, almost boyish cheeks.

  Around them, there were fifteen people spread out at different tables. Three were new since Lip and he had arrived. Marks had inventoried them. None of the three were with this man’s crew. If they were, Marks would have seen some sort of eye contact. Recognition flashing on their face (or faces) as this guy walked through the door.

  No, guy in the red knit cap was solo, for now. His two buddies were still lingering outside. Not making a move.

  Interesting. Definitely not standard M.O. Another sign this was something else.

  Marks picked up the cream. Hated to ruin good coffee. The cream was in a metal thermos. Had a little heft to it.

  The guy in the red hat was checking out the dining area, real sly. Barely moving his head at all. Just using his peripheral vision.

  Marks could see Lip and the back of Marion. Lip was keeping it cool, chatting. No glances at all towards the guy in the red hat. Didn’t want to let it out of the bag the man had been made.

  Red hat guy stole a glance Marks’s way as Marks poured his cream. Real subtle. No doubt about it now.

  That other thing. Marks tried to place it. The red hat didn’t sit well. It stood out. First thing he noticed.

  Knit cap. Banger. Made the guy look younger. Marks realized he was older than he first thought. Man was in his early thirties. Not late twenties.

  But that red knit cap—high school fare—made him look much younger. So did the shit kickers on his feet with the laces undone. Brief glance, guy looked to be a teen.

  Too late, Marks realized something.

  This was a hit.

  3

  THAT’S why he had on the red knit cap. Bright red, primary color. Witnesses would notice that first. Distort the rest of the details.

  APB would be young Caucasian. Late teens. Wearing red knit cap and a blue hooded sweatshirt. They might remember the shit kickers; the black Doc Martens. But, they’d just be described as boots. As for the face—it’d just be a blur. Young; no facial hair, except for the brows. Hair color on the head, who knows? Brown? Black? Couldn’t see any peeking out, could be bald for all anyone could tell.

  Man stepped forward to the counter, playing it cool. Other two were still hanging back, still outside. They would be armed, as well. But they were strictly backup, if something went wrong.

  They didn’t want to enter the joint for fear of being associated with the shooter. Those two definitely would not be mistaken as teens. They didn’t want the shooter compromised. Less, more erroneous details provided by witnesses the better. Only one man described in police reports.

  One man. One shooter.

  And that man was confident. This wasn’t his first time.

  That was obvious.

  No fear on his face. None. He was facing two men who could be armed. If he knew anything about them, he would assume they were armed. But that didn’t concern him.

  Small tell. Chew on that later. See this through his eyes.

  Men who were split up. Not a single target, but two separate targets. More difficult to take down that way. Would require quick deliberate action. Pull and take down the one pouring cream in his coffee first. Then in a fluid arc, orient on the other who was sitting talking to the woman. With the man sitting, he made for less of a target. Only upper torso and head shot available. Eighteen feet, give or take, separating the two targets.

  Not a simple job. Would take some rudimentary skill. But this man didn’t look worried.

  His face was deadly calm. Subtle eye movement. That eye movement told Marks that the woman was likely the principal target. He would take her down last.

  As for the weapon? Obvious. Front. Not back.<
br />
  The hooded sweatshirt was baggy. Marks could see the slight bulge in front. Weapon was tucked in the man’s waistband, under the belt. Pants were riding low, but not too low. Hoodie still covered the belt and the weapon. Man was muscular under that sweatshirt. Rounded shoulders, biceps showing. Sweatshirt an extra-large. Took some good-sized muscles to show that sort of definition.

  Big guy. Man worked out. Fifteen feet. The distance from Marks to him.

  Fifteen feet. An isosceles triangle. Marks. Shooter. Lip.

  Shooter’s hands were hanging loose at his sides. Relaxed, no tension visible in the fingers or the backs of his hands. Definitely a pro.

  Ice cold. No anxiousness, no stress. This was just business for him.

  Not worried at all. Even with the particulars. Man would need to pull his weapon. With that sweatshirt there was plenty of fabric to trip him up. Weapon might hang on the fabric. If he was seasoned, like Marks suspected, the man would know that. He’d done this before. Knew he would need to pull up the sweatshirt to prevent that from happening. Then pull the weapon.

  Two distinct movements. One hand doing one thing. The other hand needing to wait a split second before it could act.

  A split second. That’s what this would come down to.

  4

  THESE situations always reminded Marks of pool. That interlude of time where angles were assessed, distances gauged, sequences visualized. A good pool player was always thinking ahead. Lining up his next move, his next shot. Making sure the cue ball laid up just right so that it set him up for the next one to take down.

  Lots of second acts with this deal. On his part, and theirs. Marks was looking at two out front. Possibly another two in the back. Maybe just one. A driver, and perhaps a lookout, as well. Otherwise the two out front wouldn’t be there, out of position.

  They needed a getaway car, and their Mercedes wasn’t it. Else one of the men out front would have stayed in the car. They needed a driver. A swift means to exit the scene of the crime.

  That little detail was hanging there… incongruous.

  Were the two out front planning on blending in the crowd afterwards? Leaving the Mercedes, which was probably stolen, and rendezvousing a few blocks from here? That’d be slow. They risked getting spotted leaving, after the shots. If not that though, then what? Those two were just hanging outside?

  Questions. Putting some doubt into this. But Marks was seeing what he was seeing.

  Pool. Only the timeline was compressed. Not quite like pool. More like speed pool. Too little time to work out all the details—make sense of every variable—plan for second shots. Time, that was always the beast that bit you in the ass.

  Marks was done with his cream pour. No more time to think. That luxury was over. Here’s hoping he was wrong on this. Or at the very least, hoping he had more than a split second to work with.

  Casual motion. Slow, steady. If this was real, he didn’t want to trigger the shooter to move up his timeline.

  Marks set the stainless-steel thermos down, to the right of his coffee cup. Then…there… his peripheral vision caught it. A narrowing of the man’s eyes. Slight tension in the man’s right hand—a flex of his fingers.

  Crap. This was real.

  Those two slips betrayed the man’s intentions. Broadcasted he was about to pull.

  The man had been good. Marks had started to wonder. No longer. That doubt was gone.

  Marks had placed the cream thermos on the lip of the counter. Not quite on the counter. More than halfway off.

  Balance thing.

  Inevitable.

  It started to fall.

  Shooter couldn’t help himself. Like looking at an accident. Everyone slows down to rubberneck as they go by an accident.

  Same principal. Same result.

  Shooter watched the cream fall. Marks took the opportunity to move. He wouldn’t have another. Man didn’t see him till it was too late. It compressed things for him. That time thing. Nasty little beastie. Always bites you in the ass when you least expect it.

  Less time. More rushed. It tripped him up. Man went to pull, but he forgot all about the sweatshirt thing. Didn’t pull the sweatshirt up with the other hand.

  Mistake.

  He got the weapon halfway out. Weapon was black. Stock was smooth for the most part, but it still got tripped up on the sweatshirt.

  Weapon. One hundred percent confirmation. No letup on Marks’s part.

  Fifteen feet. He’d covered the first ten in two strides. Third stride he stepped through, forearm leading, pivoting with his torso. His forearm powered through the man’s jaw.

  Two hundred and fifteen pounds went behind that punch. Marks was a big guy too. Six three. A very solid six three.

  The man’s jaw crunched, and his head snapped back; his neck muscles unable to take the blunt trauma. The man went backwards.

  Laws of physics. With each action there is an opposite reaction. Marks went with the momentum, as the man fell. Ended up with his legs spread to the left of the man.

  To the right the man bounced. Once. Twice. Lay still.

  Broken jaw, dental work, six months rehabilitation minimum. Not a lethal take down, but damn near close.

  Marks bent at his knees and pried the man’s weapon from the man’s limp fingers. Not an ounce of resistance from the man. Lights were out. No one home.

  Surprise. Weapon was a Five SeveN. Stub, short barrel. Concealed hammer. Tactical firepower used by the military, SWAT, and other elite outfits.

  Not an over-the-counter weapon. Wasn’t made available to the general public till 2004; and when it was, it wasn’t released in this model.

  Shit. Who was this guy?

  Piece had some heft. Felt like a full magazine. If so, Marks had twenty rounds.

  Marks checked, sliding his hand on the left side of the slide. He felt the slight protrusion of the pin, which indicated a round was loaded in the chamber. Marks’s eyes quickly took in the two men outside. They’d caught it all and were already reaching for their weapons.

  This was about to get ugly.

  5

  FIVE SeveN. Belgium product. Pistol had a good grip texture. Its weight was solid, but lighter in weight than most tactical pistols. Reason being it took 5.7x28mm cartridges, which were half the weight of Parabellum cartridges. Would give less recoil. Made for a very controllable weapon.

  It was also lighter in weight because its body was almost all polymer. A synthetic material. Almost like plastic. Even the steel slide was encased in the stuff.

  Marks had worked with these babies before. It was a good weapon. A very good weapon. Had an effective range of about 50 yards and some. Lot less distance in front of him now. Men were outside. About 15 yards give or take.

  Not a gimme, but not a problem, if it came to that. But that doubt thing had sprung up again. The weapon was not a civilian weapon—good guys carried these. Fuck. Had he just royally screwed up?

  Wouldn’t be the first time. But it couldn’t be. Signs were all there. He had to go with his first instincts, until the feedback told him differently.

  He didn’t have a clean shot. There were two people standing directly in his line of fire. He had to move. Now!

  Shit. This was bad. Too many innocents here. Too many people that were going to get hit by stray fire. He needed to end this. And end it fast.

  “Down people!” he yelled. He used his voice. It was an effective weapon when used right. It was also an effective propellant to make people do what he wanted them to do.

  “You two! Down!” he shouted loud and clear.

  The two in front, were directly in his line of fire. Teenagers. A girl and a boy. Looked to be a couple.

  They heard him, and they saw his hand gesture for them to go down. But they froze. Like two deer caught in the headlights.

  Shit! They didn’t move.

  Others though, at the far tables, were starting to react. The man that Marks had taken down had gotten everyone’s attention. They’d eithe
r seen Marks’s maneuver, or had heard the commotion.

  Fear was in their eyes. Self-preservation taking over. All they were seeing now was Marks with a weapon. Some of them had just witnessed Marks assault a man who by all accounts was just a regular customer. None of them would have caught anything that Marks had seen. Not the fact the man was a killer. A killer with a concealed weapon. And they certainly didn’t see the danger outside. The man’s two compatriots. They just saw Marks. A crazy man shouting. A crazy man that was armed with a gun.

  Their adrenaline would be kicking into overdrive. Wondering if they were going to die. Wondering if Marks was going to shoot them.

  Marks shut that out like the white noise it was. He was unconsciously aware of what was going through their minds, but he couldn’t do anything about it. His focus was outside. Ready to fire at the first sign of hostile intent on the men’s parts; the second they came through that door armed. He aimed, tried to get a bead on them. Wrap this. Contain. Don’t even give them the opportunity. But those horses were already out of the stable. Too late.

  They’d each unzipped their jackets. Zip-up blue windbreaker. Zip-up brown leather jacket. They each had their weapons drawn. The weapons were hanging around their necks.

  Baby Jesus. They had UMPs. Submachine guns. About one and a half times bigger than Uzis. Lot more effective. Lot more stopping power.

  What the fuck was this?

  The two didn’t bother with the door, but blasted away. Storefront glass smashed into a million pieces. Glass went everywhere. It was safety glass; tempered. The kind that shatters into tiny granules. Those granules rained like tiny marbles on the floor.

  People screamed. Instant chaos. People crawling, moving, scrambling to get clear.

  Tompfff…tompfff…tompfff…

  Automatic fire.

  Marks dove, rolled, and came up in a shooting crouch. Man outside. One in brown leather jacket. Short black spiky hair. Man was spraying fire. His bullets raked the walls; hit tables, chairs…