by Dave Buschi
Marks had a clean shot. Needed to make it count. He looked along the three-dot sights. Had a head kill, but it wasn’t his weapon and the barrel was cold. First shot, cold barrel, could go errant. He minutely shifted his sights one-eighth-inch lower. Got the torso. Bigger target.
Slow squeeze.
Thump. Heart shot.
UMP stopped.
Man fell.
One down.
Second man. Blue windbreaker. Coming through the door—though the door was no longer there. Just the frame. Whole thing gone. Glass all over the floor.
Marks didn’t have a shot. The teens were still there. Amazingly they hadn’t been hit. They were gripping each other in a hugging embrace. Boy’s arms around the girl. Her arms around him.
Man in the blue windbreaker was in. He dove behind the counter.
Marks quickly surveyed the room. Whimpers, crying. Everyone was down on the floor.
There was the smell of burnt gunpowder from the discharged rounds, mixing with the smell of fear and Columbian Roast.
Visibility was poor. Drywall dust hung thick in the air. Pieces of ceiling tiles hanging down.
Couldn’t see anyone that was hit, though it was impossible to tell for sure. With all the shots fired it’d be a miracle if no one was hit. Most people were fully pressed to the floor. He saw some movement. Two customers crawling further from the blown out windows. Some people were coughing.
Out in the street there was also movement, but faster. Marks caught it. A car going past, screeching to a stop at the curb. Both back doors flew open. One man each side jumped out. Not police, but men dressed similar to the first three. Civilian clothes, big jackets, dark hair, armed.
Fuck. This kept getting better and better.
Marks looked back at Lip. Lip hadn’t been sleeping. He’d knocked down the table and was behind it with Marion.
Lip could see what Marks was seeing now. The car out front, just like the older Mercedes, definitely was not Government Issue. The car was a silver Lexus SUV.
One thing this wasn’t, was an extraction. Not with these men’s actions. Opening fire on a room full of civvies. Not identifying themselves, but just blasting away. This was something else. Some urban nightmare.
The two men that piled out of the SUV were also carrying UMPs. Serious firepower. That table Lip and Marion were behind could be made into Swiss cheese in one short burst.
Back door, Lip mouthed.
Marks nodded. Best move. They needed to do it now. These men were after them, not the people in here. Best way to get these folks out of harm’s way was to make themselves scarce.
Marks scooted backwards. He saw Marion’s face. She was scared.
“It’s okay.” Marks kept his voice calm. Needed to reassure her. Get her head with them.
“We’re going out the back door. We’re doing it now.”
Marks saw her eyes. She heard him and nodded. Good, they weren’t going to have to carry her.
“Okay,” Marks said. “We’re moving.”
6
THE three of them scooted backwards. Marks’s eyes panned, taking in the full view of the store. With his peripheral vision he kept pace with Lip and Marion.
They were moving behind him, bent over, keeping as low as they could. The three of them made it to the far wall. They slid along it, till they reached the corridor that led to the bathrooms and the rear exit.
The shooting had stopped. No more raking gunfire, no more bursts. The place was a disaster zone. Downed tables, chairs, ceiling dust, and littered debris. It was a mess. Looked like an IED had gone off in the place.
As Marks moved, he was trying to second guess. Two teams in play ahead. Not just one team, but two teams, and both of them front and center.
May not be a third team. Hope to God there wasn’t a third team. If there was, it’d be in the rear and they were heading right to it.
Up ahead… front of store… Marks saw movement. The men that had come out of the SUV were entering through places where once there had been floor-to-ceiling glass, but now was just open air. They were split up, keeping low. Advancing circumspectly, not rashly, but moving carefully into position. Marks didn’t have a clean shot. They were too low. Tables, chairs and civilians in his line of fire.
More movement, brief. A third man coming into view and disappearing behind cover. Marks caught just a glance. Black spiky hair. A grim expression on the man’s face. Brown leather jacket. That was the man he’d fired upon. The one he’d tagged dead center in the chest?
Man must be wearing Kevlar. This was bad. Real bad. These men were armed to the teeth… and wearing body armor.
That ratcheted things up. Meant head shots from here on out. Nothing was ever easy.
Marks scooted backwards and made it to where Marion and Lip were waiting. They were pressed against the wall. Hadn’t gone down the corridor, yet. It was a decent spot. They had some cover here. The counter, which came outwards in a U-shape, was fully screening them from the front.
“Clear?” Marks said.
Lip shook his head. “Saw something.”
Shit.
“Employee?”
“Couldn’t tell. Might be.”
Lip gave him some space. Marks quickly peeked down the corridor, and just as quickly jerked his head back.
Fuck.
Lip was on it. Just like he knew he would be. There was someone down there and it wasn’t an employee. Marks got just a glimpse. Looked like a man and he wasn’t wearing the black Starbucks’ uniform. Lighter clothes, boots. Man was tucked from sight. Marks saw just a partial. Bit of his leg and torso. Must be a vestibule down there, past the bathrooms.
Could be a customer hiding out. But if it wasn’t… if it was one of the men from the third team, then that corridor was not an option. They couldn’t just go down it.
Corridor was about twenty-five feet till you got to the door. They’d never make it. Man would just need to angle his UMP out and do a burst.
“What do you want to do?” Lip said.
Marks considered their piss-poor options. Time was not their friend here. These men would want to end this quickly. Authorities would be here any minute now. Those men up front would know that. They were not going to sit tight. They were going to try and flush Marks and Lip out. Force them to react. Take them from three sides. Hit them hard and fast.
Or second option: what they could hope for. Was that the men were just getting their downed man. The man Marks had taken down first. If that was the case, they’d get him and go.
These men’s movements were starting to look textbook. Golden rule. Never leave a man down. Didn’t matter which side of the lake you operated on; military was military, and these guys stunk to high heaven. They were grunts, off the reservation, had relinquished their good guy badges, if they ever had ‘em.
Marks had to make the call. The way they were moving told him option numero uno was the more likely scenario. They didn’t seem to be moving into position to retrieve; they were moving to flush him out.
“Marks?”
“Stay low,” Marks said. “Stay put.”
“What are you going to do?” Lip said.
Marks pointed ahead and bent his fingers towards the left.
Lip understood. “We’ll wait for you here. Make it quick.”
“Intend to.”
Marks looked at Marion. Her face was frightened, but she was holding it together remarkably well. “Just stay next to Lip. This is going to be okay.”
She nodded. Brave woman. Johnny Two-cakes had picked a keeper.
Across from them was an opening in the counter, about three feet wide, that fed into the employee area. That would lead to the prep area where they frothed the cappuccinos, and also to the back of the kitchen. No doubt, where employees were now crouched, hiding from sight.
Marks gripped his weapon in one hand. Had to be careful here. Person down the exit corridor may just be a customer. If that was the case, he didn’t want to risk tagging
him.
He edged the barrel out into the corridor and discharged towards the ceiling. Loud, sharp, and sudden. Man had to hear that.
Then Marks was moving. Moving as fast as he could across the breadth of the corridor.
7
HIS soft-soled shoes covered the short distance soundlessly. He didn’t fully go through the counter opening, but held back. Not for the first time, Marks was glad he had on go-fasters. They were black sneakers—casual business gear. They weren’t trendy, but they sure as hell beat wing tips right now.
He’d made it across the corridor without drawing fire. His two shots had done their job, smoking the man backwards. There was no follow-up burst from the man. The man was sitting tight.
He could only hope those shots had made the other four pause, as well. Marks had to make this quick and then some. In a flash, Marks took in what was in front of him. The U-shaped counter tracked to his right. Through the opening he could see milk on the floor, running in rivulets in the grout. Off to the side was a diminishing puddle with something lying in it that looked like an oversized roasting thermometer. Milk was dripping from the top of a stainless steel work table that was along the wall.
Every kitchen, bistro, coffee house was some version of the same. This place would be no different. There’d be a service route to the back. A delivery door. Probably opened to the same vestibule where the man was hiding.
Marks did a quick look to the left and right. No one to the left. Just some stainless steel shelving and a tub sink.
To his right were the employees. Three of them. A young guy squatting with his hands on his head. He’d made Lip’s mocha cappuccino. He saw Marks and his eyes widened in fear. Past him a girl was mumbling soundlessly; she appeared to be praying. A third was past her. That girl was lying prostrate on the floor. She wasn’t moving. Not good. Marks didn’t see any rise that would indicate she was breathing.
Marks went left, keeping low. He could only hope the young guy wouldn’t betray his presence. This was bad. He needed eyes in the back of his head. One of those four out front just had to peek over the counter and they’d see him hustling down this aisle.
Marks moved quickly. He was a big guy, but when he needed to move he could do so pretty well. He made it past the sink. There was an elbow ahead that went left.
Crunch time. This was it. Marks didn’t think. He just did.
He was around the corner before he could blink. Just like he envisioned. In front of him was a delivery door. It was solid wood. Had a metal push-plate; no handle. About three quarters towards the top was a small rectangular view window with a criss-crossing diagonal grid.
Marks could see the backside of a head through the window. He rose, gathering momentum; saw the rest of the man. Confirmation. Strap around the neck from an UMP.
Third team. Marks steamrolled through the door. Door swung out. It hit the man hard and slammed him face first against the wall. The man slumped and crumpled to the floor.
Marks stepped out into the corridor.
“Lip!”
Just as he shouted he saw two of the men peeling into sight over the U-shaped counter. They were moving, UMPs raised, leveling to fire.
Blam! Marks shifted the sights; squeezed again almost simultaneously. Blam!
Holes to their foreheads, brains to the rear. Both men dropped like dominoes.
“Lip!”
Lip and Marion peeled into view. Marks covered them. They ran down the corridor, keeping low.
Marion had her bag. She wasn’t breathing heavy, hadn’t panicked. Man, she was doing well.
Huffing, Lip pulled up behind her.
“Took your sweet time, didn’t you?” Lip said.
Marks grinned. Lip was one cool cucumber when it counted. Guy went to pieces if you told him Snickers was going out of business, but if the shit was real, Lip got serious fast.
“You ready? We’re going out.” Marks pushed open the exit door.
8
THEY stormed out like rats from a sinking ship. Marks first, Marion and Lip behind him. The glass door emptied them into an elevated patio area.
Before they’d jacked out, Marks had surveyed what he could through the glass. He scanned again. Off to the side were some chained-up metal chairs and tables all crammed together. Place wasn’t being used. Not much of a view, just an alley. Wall of brick of a three-story building across the way. Dumpster in the drive. Broken down cardboard boxes leaning against it.
As he moved forward, he could see there was a short ramp for loading purposes. At its base was a car that was backed in. It’d been left running. A shiny black Chrysler sedan. One of those 300 models that resembled a mobster’s car. The driver’s door was open and a leg was sticking out. Big black boot.
Marks homed in like a heat-seeking missile. He advanced quickly, down the ramp. Whole time he had the driver dead to rights through the open door, back of the man’s head clean in his sights.
“Out!”
The driver was caught flat footed. Marks got a full view. Man was a mug shot. Shaved head, long scar on his face in the shape of a fishhook, primordial brows bent into a frowning V.
Marks repeated for the man to exit the car. The man stepped out. He was medium-sized, but looked solid, like one of those cage fighters you see on TV. Veins on his trapezoidal neck. Man was wearing a tight black tee. Tattoo of thorns encircled one of his well-defined biceps.
“What is dis?” the man said in a heavy accent.
Gotta be kidding me. Gunfire and this guy was copping some lame-ass innocence act. Fine, if that was how the man wanted to play it. “Against the car, hands on the hood and spread ‘em!”
“What?” the man’s lip snarled, but he shrugged and started to comply.
Marks gave him the hammer. Butt of the Five SeveN on the back of the head. Man dropped like a rock.
“You didn’t read him his rights,” Lip said with a smirk.
Marks reached into the car and popped the trunk.
“Grab his legs,” said Marks.
Lip lost the smirk. “You are not thinking?”
“I am. Do it.”
Marks tossed the Fed Ex envelope into the car and put the weapon in its place, small of the back, under the belt. He bent at the knees and grabbed the man under the armpits. Lip bent and got the legs.
They heaved.
“Motherfucker!” Lip said.
Guy was heavy. The entire time Marks kept his eyes on the back door they’d just exited; he was ready to drop the guy and pull at the first sign of someone coming through the door.
They huffed to the rear of the car. Trunk was spacious and empty. Good. They tossed the trash inside.
Marks pulled out the Five SeveN to cover the back door. Lip checked the man for weapons in ten seconds flat.
“Nothing,” said Lip.
“Shut it,” said Marks.
It slammed down and the three of them piled into the car. Lip took the wheel. Marion the backseat. Marks up front.
Lip looked over. “Where to?”
“Drive.”
Lip tapped the gas and they rumbled down the alley.
9
LIP stopped at the end, nose of the car encroaching into the beginning of the sidewalk ramp, three feet from the cross street.
“What are you doing?” said Marks.
Lip pulled out his Blackberry. “Give me a sec.” He thumbed a few keys.
Marks heard the faint wail of sirens. “I’ll give you ten.”
Lip and his toys. Friggin’ drove Marks crazy. His partner ate up forty percent of their budget buying every new gadget that came out. Marks always said his piece when the bills came due, stressing the importance of them actually making a buck someday. Of course Lip promptly ignored him and ordered the next generation of something they already had.
Like this Blackberry. Looked identical to the one he bought six months ago. Same black color, same LCD screen not much bigger than a postage stamp. The keys might have been a micro-inch smaller, b
ut that was the only discernable difference. Marks seemed to recall that Lip had tried to educate him on some of the custom “add ons” this one came with. Marks, per the usual, had promptly tuned out that little speech. No sense filling his head with worthless tech shit.
“You done?”
“Got it,” said Lip. He put the phone away and began to adjust his rearview mirror. Next he adjusted his side mirrors.
Marks shook his head. “Want to adjust your seat too?”
“No, it’s fine.” Lip put on his blinker and took a right.
The wail of sirens grew louder. They were coming from behind them. By taking a right they were going away from the Starbucks, not towards the street where it fronted on. Half a block down Lip coasted to a stop at the traffic light. Light was red.
“We got our car back there,” Marks said, stating the obvious.
They were leaving Lip’s car. A champagne-colored Cadillac. They’d parked it on the curb, near the Starbucks. Not much they could do about that. At some point that was going to cause problems.
Just like several other things that immediately sprang to mind. The store’s video capture. Any DOT cameras working in the area. Witnesses. The shit was going to get deep. They were fully in it, like it or not. He thought about the trash in the trunk. Impulse thing. And then he thought about Marion. Johnny Two-cakes’s letter. They’ll know what to do.
For once, Marks wasn’t seeing the right line they should take. Coming forward now would endanger Marion. If he was to take anything from those unsavory characters—dead and alive they’d ditched back there—this thing was complicated. Those guys were killers. Johnny Two-cakes had gotten into something bad. Bag of dough didn’t sit pretty. But he doubted this was just about the money. If it was even about that.
That wasn’t Johnny Two-cakes’s style. He was careful. Meticulous. Stealing cash from somebody was not his thing.
Whatever this was, legal or not, Johnny Two-cakes had entrusted them with his wife. They weren’t going to be able to protect her, if they were dealing with the boys in blue. Not that Montgomery County PD would have this for long—this would be snapped up faster than chow in the mess hall on steak night. Bureau would be all over this.