by Rob Aspinall
A white Ford Taurus.
It wasn't there before.
I wander over there. I see it's a hire car—a small yellow and black sticker at the bottom of the front windscreen. It says HQ Rentals.
I loiter close to the windows of the bar. Only a couple of people in there. A guy at the bar wearing a dark suit and a few hard drinkers. Al stands behind the bar. I turn and walk across the street, to the motel.
The motel manager, Kurt, is heading out too. He glances at me, locks up and scurries around the rear of the building.
I continue to my room, open the door, drop the holdall on the bed and crank up the air con. I realise I'm already sweating under this shirt. My armpits clammy and my forehead damp. I remove a water bottle from the fridge and take a drink.
Gotta cool down.
I return the bottle to the fridge and stand arms-out and eyes closed in the breeze of the air con a minute, drying my skin and cooling my bones.
Need to stay frosty.
I pick up the remote and turn the air con down a couple of notches. I grab a small hand towel off the bathroom rail and leave the motel room. I walk over to the Ford Taurus, reach inside my pocket and pull out my lighter.
When I’m done with the car, I walk down the street. I cross the road, round a corner and wait.
45
The barman dropped a wedge of lime in the glass and pushed the club soda across the counter. The name on his shirt said Al. Mr Box watched tiny carbonated bubbles wriggle their way upwards and pop on the surface. He picked up the drink, ice cubes clinking against the inside of the glass. He put the glass down, refreshed.
"It's as hot as they come today, huh?" Al said.
Mr Box nodded and smiled. He took out his phone and scrolled through to a picture of his target. A tall, broad man with dark hair, dark eyes and stubble. The photograph was taken on the street by De Luca's P.I.—a zoom lens shot from a distance.
Mr Box rested the phone screen up on the bar and slid it towards Al. "You seen this man around town?"
Al stood drying a glass with a white cloth. He leaned over to get a closer look. Mr Box watched carefully. He detected a flicker of recognition in his eyes.
Al concealed it well, but Mr Box was skilled in reading micro-expressions.
The barman shrugged. "I dunno. A lot of people pass through here," he said, eyes lingering on the image. He looked up at Mr Box. "Who wants to know?"
Mr Box withdrew the phone and slipped it inside his jacket pocket. "I'm a debt collector. The man owes my employers a small sum of money."
"Fuckin' debt collectors," a redheaded man said, sliding onto the stool next to Mr Box. He reminded Mr Box of the rock singer, Axl Rose, in dress and appearance. Only the man was taller and stockier. "Give me a beer," the man said to Al.
"Go easy, Wallace," Al said, putting down cloth and glass. He opened a fridge behind him, took out a beer and popped the top off into a bin with a bottle opener clipped to his waist. He slid the beer over the bar top. Wallace caught it and gulped a few mouthfuls. He sighed loud and slammed the bottle down. He belched in the direction of Mr Box.
Mr Box turned to face the man.
"Yeah, I’ve got a problem with you," Wallace said, pre-empting Mr Box's question.
Wallace took another swig.
Mr Box turned away and sipped his club soda.
"What's that you're drinking?" Wallace said, face caught in a permanent snarl. "Vagina juice?"
Mr Box smiled and sipped on his club soda.
"Hey dick-wad, I asked you a fucking question," Wallace said, half-drunk.
"Leave the guy, Wallace," Al said. "Or I'll call the sheriff again."
"It's quite alright," Mr Box said, putting down his glass. He reached for his phone again as Wallace stared at him. He scrolled through to the image of his target and held it out for Wallace to see. "Do you know this man?"
Wallace's nostrils flared, his jaw clenching.
Mr Box sensed a mix of emotions in Wallace. Anger. Shame. Fear. Perhaps Ronsen, his target, had given the man the fading bruise around his eye. Or the scabbing cut across his nose.
"Yeah, I know him," Wallace said.
"You know where I can find him?"
"In the motel, across the street,"
"Room number?" Mr Box said.
"What am I, your fucking bitch?"
Al shook his head and walked off to the far end of the bar, seemingly to get away from Wallace. Mr Box locked his phone and slipped it inside his pocket. He sipped the last remnants of his club soda and checked his watch. Five minutes to twelve. It was time to knock on some motel doors.
Wallace leaned in close. "You still haven't answered my question, fuck-face," he said.
"What was the question again?" Mr Box said.
"I said, what is that you're drinking, vagina juice?"
"Fresh from your momma,” Mr Box said, setting the glass down.
Wallace grabbed his bottle off the bar by the neck. "You motherfucker, I'm gonna fuck you up." He jumped off his stool and raised the bottle.
Mr Box slid off his own stool. He caught Wallace's wrist and smashed the base of the bottle against the edge of the bar. He pushed a thumb into a pressure point on Wallace's wrist and reversed the jagged end into the man's throat.
Mr Box turned to see the barman, Al, frozen in his tracks.
Mr Box looked left and right. If there were witnesses, they would have to be next. Fortunately, the bar had already emptied out. He felt relieved. It would have been an inconvenience.
With blood gushing from his throat, Wallace breathed his last breath. He fell forward on his stool. His head hit the bar-top and stayed there.
Mr Box turned his attention back to Al.
Al swallowed hard. Breathed fast and shallow.
Mr Box remained calm. He weighed up his options. He wanted to keep things quiet. And the counter top folded open only a few feet away. He could be through the gap in the bar in a second. Al would be dead in two. A knife through his heart.
Yes, the knife.
Mr Box reached inside his jacket. He put a hand on the ribbed rubber handle of the blade. He prepared to move and draw.
But a loud boom shook the windows of the bar. Al jumped. Mr Box didn't, but his head snapped to the left towards the street. He saw black smoke drifting across the windows. He heard a door slam closed behind the bar. He turned to see Al gone and heard the door to the back office locking. Mr Box withdrew his hand from inside his jacket. He straightened his attire and walked past Wallace, the man's blood dripping and splatting on the worn floorboards.
Mr Box pulled the door open and stepped out of the bar. He looked both ways. The street was empty. No people. No traffic. Just a cloud of acrid smoke billowing out from a burning car. The fire raged, the white paint turning black. It was Mr Box's Taurus. The rental, parked thirty yards down to the right.
The smoke filled the street. Mr Box couldn't see further than the car. He walked forward, holding his breath as he entered a thick black swirl.
He passed by the car. Felt the raging heat from the flames. The fire coming from the fuel tank. The classic cloth and lighter trick.
The smoke stung Mr Box’s eyes. He squinted and lowered his head as he moved through the worst of it.
He walked deliberately slow, pulling his jacket away from his right hip. His hand lingered close to the butt of his pistol. As he walked beyond the car, visibility improved. The day was hot, but the wind had picked up off the mountains, thinning the smoke.
Mr Box breathed again as he moved beyond the blaze. A figure waited for him ahead, to his left. Tall, dark and broad. Leaning against the wall of a storefront. Was it the target? Mr Box needed a closer look. So he kept on walking—slow, steady, down the right-hand lane of the street.
The stranger pushed his weight off the wall. He walked sideways across the street, matching Mr Box's pace.
Mr Box was close enough now. He could see the man was Charlie Ronsen.
He looked bigger in p
erson.
Ronsen was armed. That was clear by the bulge under his shirt. As if to confirm it, he lifted his right shirt tail off his hip and revealed a holstered pistol.
Ronsen stopped.
So did Mr Box, assessing the situation.
It was too far for an easy headshot. And head-shots added an unnecessary difficulty on a fast-draw. Besides, the primary objective was incapacitation. Execution could come later, when the target was down and Mr Box had his information.
The two of them waited. Each one watching the other's movements, eyes dancing up and down, from face, to draw-hand.
Mr Box's fingers crept closer to his weapon. Almost touching it. He hadn't felt excitement like this in years. He knew he was likely faster, but he still had to perform. And there was always that uncertainty until it was done and Ronsen was on the ground.
As Mr Box readied himself to draw, a deep brass chime took him by surprise. It came from a clock tower on top of an old stone building—the town hall. The clock had a white face, with brass hands and numerals. The chime announced it was noon. There would be twelve strikes in total.
Mr Box made up his mind he would draw on the twelfth strike.
If Ronsen drew first, he would respond.
But otherwise, it was on twelve.
The clock chimed four more times.
Only seven left.
Mr Box kept his eyes locked on his target.
Three more chimes.
Down to four.
Ronsen stared back, not flinching for a second.
Two more chimes rang out.
That left two to go.
There was a second's pause after eleven. Then came twelve.
46
The clock rang out for a twelfth time, Mr Box drew fast and smooth and pulled the trigger.
Ronsen dropped to the ground, a puff of blood from his chest.
Ronsen had drawn his weapon, but he hadn't let off a shot.
Mr Box paused as the sound of his Smith & Wesson echoed off the buildings. He checked over both shoulders for witnesses.
No, the street was quiet. As if everyone knew a stand-off was coming. Even the traffic through town was non-existent.
Ronsen had taken a bullet in his right pectoral. Not a kill shot. Mr Box wanted him alive.
For now.
He holstered his pistol and walked forward.
But Ronsen's feet kicked out. His body twitched. He sat upright.
Mr Box stopped, hesitated, taken by surprise. Ronsen pulled himself up off the floor. He ran low to the right. Mr Box drew his weapon. He took a shot, but the man fired back on the run. Mr Box ran to his left to avoid a bullet, missing the target with his own shot.
Ronsen disappeared between buildings, so Mr Box gave chase along the street, weapon in both hands. He hit the nearest wall and took cover. He edged close to the corner of the building and whirled out into a narrow alleyway, pistol ready to fire.
But Ronsen was gone around the next corner.
Mr Box cursed himself for losing control of the situation. He reassured himself with the fact the man was hurt bad. He still had the upper hand. So he advanced slow and silent. tracking spots of his target's blood on the ground.
He rounded the next corner and saw Ronsen hobbling between buildings. He dived into a parallel alley down the far side of the town hall.
Mr Box let off a round. Only a ping of white dust off the corner of the stone building.
Mr Box doubled back, aiming to beat Ronsen out onto the main street.
If he could outpace him, Mr Box would have the drop. So he sprinted fast to the end of the alleyway. He broke out onto the street. But there was no sign of the target. Mr Box moved along the front of the town hall, staying tight to the wall. He stopped at the corner and followed the barrel of his gun around the wall. He found only blood on the ground. As he moved back out onto the main street, he caught a glimpse of Ronsen coming out of the alley he'd just come down.
Ronsen got off a shot of his own. Mr Box took cover instinctively, the bullet missing by an inch. He spun out of the alley and returned fire. Ronsen moved again along the street, making another left turn.
Mr Box shot three times—two out of frustration. He didn't give chase this time. Instead, he turned and headed down his own alley to the back of the buildings lining the main street. There was the town hall, an old post office, then the butcher's a little further down. Ronsen didn't appear. He was playing a poker game. Calling Mr Box's bluff. Staying alive long enough to get a clean shot.
Mr Box edged along the back street. To his right, the rear of the town hall, then the post office and the butchers. To his left, a high, rust-coloured wall lining the yards of other properties.
As he stalked his prey, Mr Box considered playing the waiting game. Letting Ronsen tire out, bleed out.
But time was an issue.
A burning car. Shots fired. A dead man in a bar—and Al no doubt on the phone to the local sheriff.
Mr Box had the upper hand in terms of mobility. Ronsen had the advantage when it came to knowing the layout of the streets.
So Mr Box decided he needed to stack the odds in his favour. As he reached the next alley along, he jumped out and aimed his weapon on the space in front.
No sign of Ronsen.
He looked to the right of the alley. Halfway along, a rusting spiral fire escape up to the roof. Mr Box side-footed down the alley, covering his angles from both sides. He grabbed the railing on the fire escape and climbed upwards.
He took slow, gentle steps to the roof.
Once up there, he skirted all four corners of the building. First the two at the front, suspecting Ronsen was playing another game of double-back. Finding no sign of his target, he shuttled across the rooftop towards the rear, staying close to the edge.
Again, no sign. But the alleyways were tight. Only four feet across.
Mr Box jumped over onto the post office roof. He walked slow along the rear, but found his view obscured by a slanting roof over a rear porch. He stepped to his right and checked the far edge, peering into the next alley.
Nothing.
So he hopped without sound onto the butchers. The front corners first. Then the far edge of the building.
Had Ronsen fled town? Holed up somewhere? Gone back to his motel room?
Suddenly, Mr Box heard footsteps. Faint but audible. He whirled around and jogged on light feet to the opposite edge of the rooftop. He leaned over and saw Ronsen moving along the alley towards the rear of the buildings. He raised his weapon and got off two shots.
Ronsen took both in the back. The force sent him lurching into a wall, but he bounced off and kept moving.
Mr Box aimed at the man's right thigh. A leg-shot would incapacitate him.
His Smith & Wesson clicked empty. He cursed himself, but saw Ronsen was limping bad.
Mr Box detached the empty clip and snatched another from his left hip. He jammed the magazine in place and ran to the rear left corner of the rooftop. He holstered the pistol and dropped to the seat of his pants, his legs over the edge of the building.
The building was only two stories high. Large windows with thick ledges. He lowered himself over the edge and set the toes of his feet on the ledge below. He held onto the brickwork into a crouch position, before taking a long step down onto the next ledge. He brought the other foot down and hopped off the ground window. He landed with poise and drew his gun from his holster.
Ronsen was dead ahead, lying towards the far end of a boardwalk underneath the rear porch of the post office. Ronsen's weapon lay on the boards, inches out of reach. He bled from the chest, his shirt soaked a dark red.
Mr Box approached with caution. Ronsen raised his head off the boards and watched him approach, peering at him between the big, dusty soles of his boots.
Mr Box stepped onto the porch, the boards groaning under his weight. He took two steps forward and stopped. He realised Ronsen's dying attention wasn't fixed on him, but on something else. Mr Box looked
down at the space in front of his shins. He saw a thin, taut wire across the boardwalk. Almost invisible.
Almost.
Mr Box raised an eyebrow.
How curious.
"Come on," Ronsen said in a deep voice Mr Box placed as English. "Come and get me, you sack of shit."
Ronsen coughed, a hand to his chest.
Mr Box stepped back off the porch. He walked around the porch to the far end, his eyes never leaving his wounded target.
Ronsen's head dropped to the floor, appearing to accept defeat. Whatever his backup plan was, it had failed.
Nice try, but no dice.
Mr Box rounded the far end of the porch and checked for trip wire. No such obstacle. He stepped onto the boards and strolled towards Ronsen.
Ronsen summoned the energy to drag himself up into a seated position. He propped his back against the wall of the post office, under an old fashioned lattice window. His legs splayed out, stretching the width of the porch. His breath was shallow. Alive but sentient, as Mr Box had wanted.
Mr Box stood over the man. "We can go quick," he said, holding up his pistol, before resting it in its holster. "Or we can go slow," he said, bringing out the knife and letting the sunlight wink off the blade. "That's all the money can buy you now," Mr Box continued. "But just so you're aware, I'll know if you're lying."
Ronsen coughed some more. "Go back to whatever shit-hole you crawled out of."
"Slow it is," Mr Box said, grabbing a clump of Ronsen's thick black hair. He snapped the man's head back and brought the tip of the blade close to his right eyeball. "This is going to be very unpleasant," Mr Box said.
As he prepared to dig the knife into the man's eye, Ronsen's resolve broke.
"Alright, alright," he said. "I'm dying anyway. What do I care?"
Mr Box let go of Ronsen and stepped off him.
"It's off highway ninety-nine, outside of town. There's a rock formation. Nothing else around. With your back to the road, take twenty paces from the rocks—" Ronsen looked Mr Box up and down. "Make that twenty-five paces . . . You'll need a shovel."