by Rob Aspinall
Mr Box watched Ronsen carefully as he gave him the instructions. He was telling the truth. He slipped his knife inside his jacket and reached for his pistol.
"Who the bloody hell are you, anyway?" Ronsen asked, appearing exhausted and resigned to his fate. His stubble caked in dust and blood.
Mr Box drew the pistol. He aimed square between Ronsen’s eyes and smiled. "I'm the moment you didn't see coming."
47
Jeremy Welch stood in his usual spot on the roof of the Mainline Oil headquarters. Once again, Levi De Luca was late. Welch smoked his third cigarette in a row.
And he hardly ever smoked.
Once again, De Luca showed up with his right-hand man, Marco. They breezed through the access door to the roof as if it was a Sunday stroll.
"It's the weekend and you're still here?" De Luca said, as he walked over, shoulder to shoulder with Marco. "You really should learn to relax."
"Don't push me," Welch said. "I'm on the edge as it is."
The two men reached the corner of the roof.
Marco looked down to the streets below. "Don't worry, we only push people if they deserve it."
There was malice in Marco's tone. In his eyes.
"Remember who you're talking to," Welch said, viewing Marco with disdain.
De Luca held out his hands, covered in gold rings. "Just a joke, Jeremy. Come on, there’s not a cloud in the sky. Life’s not so bad, huh?"
"Not so bad?" Welch said, tossing the cigarette butt. "Your bank manager called me two hours ago to tell me the servers are down. My onsite project manager calls me one hour ago and tells me half the crew have been done for D.U.I,"
"So send in those exorbitantly paid lawyers of yours," De Luca said.
"Trespassing we could fix," Welch said. "But not a bunch of D.U.I's and unsafe practice suits. Not when Collins called the local fucking TV station. If the networks get hold of it . . ."
De Luca's mood darkened. "It'll affect the deal?"
"Yeah it'll affect the fucking deal," Welch said. "The project. My career. Your cut."
"We can help you with the drunk drivers," Marco said.
De Luca checked his watch. "And we stopped by the bank. The servers’ll be up by three at the latest. Marco re-stressed the urgency of the deal to Mr Withers."
"He's very motivated to complete the paperwork," Marco said.
"He'd better be," Welch said, "Or the shit is gonna fly in your direction, understand?"
Marco stepped in closer to Welch and folded his arms.
"I don't think Marco here likes your tone," De Luca said.
"Remember who you're talking to," said Marco.
"You threatening me?" Welch said. "May I remind you I'm the keys to your future kingdom—"
"I would never be so crass," De Luca said. "But maybe you should calm down, Jeremy."
"Stress can be very bad for your health," Marco said. "It's highly acidic. Toxic to the body."
"Is that true?" De Luca said, looking up at Marco.
"I read it on the internet," Marco said.
"Oh then it must be fucking true," Welch said, puffing on his cigarette.
"The point is," De Luca said, "It's all under control. This time tonight you'll be sitting in your hot tub with that young mistress of yours, king of the fucking universe. And more importantly I'll have my reputation back."
"You heard from your contractor on that one?" Welch said.
"No," De Luca said, checking his diamond encrusted watch. "But he should be taking care of it right about—"
A ringtone came from Marco's trouser pocket.
"Speak of the devil," Marco said, taking out his phone. He put it on speaker and huddled around the call with Welch and De Luca.
"It's done," Mr Box said.
"You got proof?" Marco asked.
"On the way," Mr Box said.
Marco pulled a silent fist-pump. "What about the money?" he said.
"I know where it is," said Mr Box.
"You mean he told you, or you've actually seen it?"
"Meet me on highway ninety-nine in one hour," Mr Box said. "I'll send you directions."
Marco checked his watch. "One hour? We're not gonna make it—"
The call went dead.
"The piece of shit hung up," Marco said.
"Don't curse his name," De Luca said. "The fucker'll hear it on the wind."
Welch shook his head and lit another cigarette. "Well at least that's one less problem."
Marco's phone pinged. He checked the screen and smiled. He showed the screen to De Luca and Welch.
It was Ronsen, slumped against a wall, dead and soaked in blood.
"We're never gonna make highway ninety-nine in one hour," Marco said.
"Then he'll just have to wait, won't he?" De Luca said, turning on his heels.
"Stay on your phone in case I need you," Welch shouted after them.
"Relax," De Luca yelled over a shoulder as he and Marco headed for the access door. "It's the weekend!"
Welch watched them go. He smoked the end of his latest cigarette. He dropped it to the floor and ground it into the roof with the sole of a thousand-dollar shoe. He walked away, leaving the butt behind with all the others.
48
Marco broke a litany of traffic laws on the way to the meeting point. It was off a long stretch of deserted highway linking Phoenix to Mitchum to Rattlesnake and beyond. De Luca looked out of the window from behind a pair of dark sunglasses. He loaded his pistol and holstered it inside his jacket. He thought of how many bodies he'd buried out there in the desert. All as a younger man, of course. A hard charger rising up through the ranks. Taking any dirty job that came his way. Carving out a name for himself in the flesh of his boss's enemies.
It seemed like a lifetime ago.
So did the meteoric early days, when the boss had his throat cut over a cartel deal and he assumed command.
Yet De Luca's organisation had hit a plateau over recent years. The alliance with Welch and Mainline Oil would give him the capital he needed for a wide-scale expansion. Multiple states. Coast to coast. Cross-border trafficking. Real estate. Casinos. A seat at one of the main tables. Hell, with the figures Welch was talking about, his operation would end up dwarfing them all.
But key to that was the 'i' factor, as De Luca called it.
Intimidation. Better known as fear. He had the uneasy sense his employees, suppliers, clientele—they'd all got a little too complacent. He'd lost his touch. His name didn't mean what it used to. And if he didn't get his money back, all the shale gas riches in the world wouldn't mean shit.
"How close are we?" De Luca asked.
"Up here on the left," Marco said.
"Remember, I'll do the talking, you check the money," De Luca said.
"What do you wanna talk to him about?" Marco asked.
"Gonna make the guy an offer. See if he wants to come on-board."
"What? Part of the crew? This is Mr Box we're talking about."
"Everyone's got a price," De Luca said.
"Yeah, and his is fucking high," Marco said, slowing and pulling across the highway.
"So we'll get Welch to foot the bill. It'll be an easy sell after today."
"What do we need Mr Box for?" Marco said.
"Ronsen put our best four guys in the ground bare-handed. Mr Box took the prick out like that," De Luca said, clicking his fingers. "He'll put the fear of God into any motherfucker who doesn’t play ball. Including Welch.”
Marco steered the Chevrolet Impala off the road and into the desert. "There it is," he said, pointing to the rock formation.
"Where's the meet?" De Luca asked.
"Says it's a straight mile in from here," Marco said, driving past a cactus plant with an arm snapped off.
A mile further on, Marco brought the Chevy to a stop.
"You sure you got the right place?" De Luca asked.
"Yeah, I'm sure," Marco said, peering through the windscreen. "I don't get it. Where's th
e guy's wheels?"
"Where's the guy?" De Luca said, scanning the desert.
There was no sign of the money or Mr Box.
"What's that?" Marco said, pointing to a dark object in the near distance.
"Let's find out," De Luca said, as they rolled forward another hundred yards.
The closer they got, the more it looked like a bag to De Luca.
In fact, it was a large holdall, left on the ground next to a shovel stood up in the ground.
Marco stopped the car in front of the bag and shovel.
Behind the shovel were two holes in the shape of open graves. One to the left. One to the right. Six feet long, three wide and four deep.
De Luca threw out his hands. "What the fuck is this? This prick fucking with us?"
"Relax," Marco said. "Probably for Ronsen."
"There's two," De Luca said.
"So he offed someone else in the process. That's gotta be the money." Marco said, pointing to the bag.
The pair opened their doors. After the air conditioned climes of the car, De Luca felt the full force of the desert heat. "Only mad dogs and fucking Englishmen," he said, as they shut their doors.
They walked forward. De Luca dropped to one knee. Not as easy as it used to be. These days he had to go down in stages. He put a hand on the zip of the holdall and paused.
"What is it?" Marco asked.
"What if it's a fucking head or something?" De Luca said.
"Then it's nothin' you ain't seen before," Marco said.
De Luca shrugged to himself and opened the holdall. To his relief, the bag was full with bundles of money. His money. De Luca rose to his feet, clicking at the knees. He stood and looked down at the bag.
"Guess he doesn't wanna be seen," Marco said.
"Why not? The prick's working for us, isn't he?" De Luca said.
"Anonymity, I guess," Marco said. "You know what these contractors are like. Probably gonna wait for us to leave with the money, then bury the bodies in the holes."
"Then let's oblige the man," De Luca said. "Pick up the bag. We'll count the money in the car. I'm cooking out here."
As Marco reached down to pick up the holdall, a bullet zipped to the right of him. It pinged into the metal end of the shovel, rocking it back in the sand.
Marco looked at the shovel.
At De Luca.
He rose and drew a Beretta from the waist of his trousers.
A second bullet zipped out of the blue and ploughed into his sternum.
De Luca watched in shock as Marco spun and fell flat on his back in the right-hand grave. He landed in the hole with a whump, dead before he hit the dirt.
The sound of the second bullet was still fading when De Luca pulled his weapon from inside his jacket. He looked for the source of the gunfire. He saw nothing but dazzling white sand, gnarly desert plants and a heat haze on the horizon.
Taking it slow, De Luca bent down and picked up the holdall. Marco had left the key in the ignition, the engine running. If only he could make it to the Chevy . . . He stood up straight with the holdall and took a step forward.
Another.
And another.
He was so close to the car. Only a few feet from the driver-side door. The shooter still hadn't fired, perhaps reloading.
De Luca decided he could make it. He could definitely make it.
He bolted forwards. The right-hand headlight shattered. The Impala sunk to one side as the front passenger tyre blew out.
De Luca stopped dead in his tracks. He dropped his weapon and put down the holdall. Surrender his only hope.
He raised his hands in the air. "Okay!" he yelled. "You win!"
The desert didn't reply.
"You can keep the money!" De Luca shouted, staring into the distance.
Out of the haze, a lone figure walked towards him. Too far away to make out. Yet he held a rifle in his hands. And he was coming for him, one slow stride at a time.
49
The clock on the town hall strikes the first of twelve chimes. We wait. Me for him and him for me. But I'm not gonna draw until he does. His hand lingers close to the butt of his weapon. I look in his eyes, trying to read his intent.
He's a plain guy. Hard to describe. If most people passed him on the street, they wouldn't look twice. And you'd never put him down for a killer. But that's what makes 'em so damn effective—and yet easy for the likes of me to spot.
The clock chimes nine. The sun fierce and the sound of flames lapping in the breeze.
The clock chimes ten.
I inch my hand a little closer to my gun.
We hit eleven. He's waiting for twelve, I'm sure of it.
Okay pal, twelve it is. Let's see what you've got.
The clock strikes twelve.
He draws. I draw. It's over in a flash and a pop. I'm hit in the chest, the world whirling away. My feet off the ground.
I hit the hot, cracked asphalt. For a moment I can't breathe. I see only blue sky. Smoke drifting overhead.
I wheeze. I cough. I breathe again.
He got me in the chest on the right side. Not enough to kill a man, but enough to keep him down. He'll want me lucid, so I can tell him where the money is.
Then he'll put a bullet between my eyes.
At least that's how he'll see it.
Me? I've got other plans.
I sit up. Get up. It's not easy. My body wants to lie down in the road. I don't let it, pushing myself up off the ground and getting to my feet. The shooter seems taken aback, his gun back in his holster. He stops mid-stride. Hesitates a second while he tries to compute.
I grab that second and use it to break for the nearest alley, firing loose. The guy draws fast and shoots back. I keep running, my shirt already soaked with blood and leaving a trail.
The man follows me down the alley, but I'm already round the next corner. I turn left along the back of the town hall and open a rear access door I picked earlier. I pull the door closed. Watch the guy pass by through a letterbox window around head height. I open the door slow as he rounds the far corner of the building. I double-back along the alleyway we just came down and run towards the main street. I stop dead and peer round the corner. The guy's followed me as planned. He backs out onto the street. I bring my weapon up. He sees me on the turn. I take a shot. It hits nothing but stone wall.
And now I'm moving again. But only halfway along the alley. I wrap my fingers around the edge of a fire exit door and pull it open.
It's another I prepared earlier. After I broke into the access door, I walked through the town hall building and pushed open the fire exit. I left it wedged open an inch with a stone.
And now I wait a minute, timing it on my watch. I wanna keep him guessing. Take his eye off the ball.
The minute's up.
I break out of the door, shuttle back to the main street. I turn left and pass in front of the post office. I make a hard left again and creep along the narrow side street between post office and butchers.
My grip tightens around my pistol.
Damn it's hot. Every step a chore, the hit I took in the chest sapping my strength. I move close to the wall, nearing the backend of the alleyway.
I'm doing okay, when bam!
A double-tap shot in the back. Like a whack from a steel bar between the shoulder blades.
My head snaps back. I'm sprawling forward, into the nearest wall.
Shit, where the hell did that come from?
I cling to the wall and keep moving. Staggering more like it. I round the corner to my left and onto the boardwalk under the porch around the back of the post office. I stop and step over the tripwire. I shuffle along the floorboards. I get around two thirds down and drop to the floor. I roll onto my back and let my gun spill from my grip. I push it an inch out of reach, I raise my head, watching the guy climb down from the roof of the butchers. He uses the window frames and ledges to lower himself down.
He's a clever bastard, using higher ground. I didn't plan fo
r it and now he's coming for me, pistol in hand.
He steps onto the boards.
That's it, you son of a bitch.
I tell him to come and get some. But he stops short of the trip wire. He looks down. Sees the wire. The crack of a smile in the corner of his mouth. He backtracks off the porch.
The wily bloody coyote.
He strolls around the back of the porch, in no hurry now.
Three bullet wounds and a pint of blood down, he knows the game is up. I force myself up onto my arse. I shove back against the wall. Sit slouched against it, my head resting against a low-lying windowsill and a hand to my chest. It comes away wet and sticky with blood. The man steps onto the boardwalk at the end closest to me. He steps between my legs and looms over me.
"Where's the money?" he says.
"I don't remember," I say.
He tells me I can have a quick death--the gun. Or a slow death--a knife he pulls from inside his jacket.
It's big. It's shiny. The sun makes pretty twinkles on the blade.
The man grabs a handful of my hair. Damn near tears it from my scalp, a hell of a lot stronger than he looks. He holds the knife close to my eye. Tells me he'll know if I'm lying.
And he'll dig out an eyeball if I don't give him something. So I spill. Give him the location of the money.
He reads my facial expressions as I talk. I give him the truth. He believes it.
"Who the bloody hell are you?" I ask, trying to stall him.
He smiles, taking aim between my eyes. "I'm the moment you didn't see coming."
"Oh," I say, raising a boot off the boards. I kick a supporting leg from under the porch railing. The rope holding the weight in place comes loose. There's a creak and a groan from the beams overhead.
The man spins one-eighty and drops the knife. The battering ram swings free from the porch roof and hits him hard in the chest. It knocks him through the window behind me. I duck and cover my face. The heel of his shoe clips me on the head and I'm showered with glass as he crashes through.