Blackout (Book 1)

by Adam Drake

  The thought made him feel a little better, soothing him.

  With a sigh, he looked around. Okay, now what?

  The couple across the street went back inside their house. The children kept playing, oblivious to the craziness of the day.

  Feeling warm he opened the door wide and propped his booted feet up on the concrete curb. He tried his dumbphone again to no avail.

  Maybe he could steal a different car? This one wasn't even his, so why not grab another? But what if its battery was dead, too? How many cars would he go through until he found one that worked?

  Could this get any worse?

  The back of his neck prickled, and he scratched at it.

  A shadow passed over him.

  “Everything okay?” a female voice said.

  Nate looked up, squinting.

  Blue uniform, badge, and a holstered pistol.

  Ah, crap, Nate thought.

  A cop.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Wyatt

  “Did I stutter or something?” the Feral Kid asked. “When I ask a question, you answer.”

  Wyatt and Ethan gaped at the three thugs. Their sudden appearance in the alley caught the older men off guard. They'd never run into the Feral Kids on their rounds before. Usually this particular kind of scum avoided residential back alleys.

  Ethan froze up, his mouth working, but without any words spilling out.

  Recovering from his surprise, Wyatt tried to look unimpressed. He knew the Kid who spoke. Went by the name Casket, of all things. He wasn't the big boss of the Feral Kids, more like a Captain. But assigning ranks to these kind of wild animals was giving them too much credit.

  “Your name is Casket, right?” Wyatt asked.

  Casket looked at Wyatt and sneered. “Yeah, that's my name, old man. What's yours? Dopey?”

  His two friends chuckled. One had a scar across his chin and the other was missing all his upper teeth.

  Casket grinned. “I mean, really, look at you two. You're like oversized dwarves or something with those beards and pushing your carts to go do some mining.”

  More chuckling from his friends. Wyatt noticed a large knife handle sticking out of Casket's waistband. Probably a Bowie-Knife judging from its size.

  Wyatt very much wanted to get up in this punk's face. Take him down a peg or two. But he didn't think Ethan was up to the task of a fight. So he kept any insults to himself.

  “Look,” Ethan said, holding up his hands. “We don't want any trouble. We're just doing our rounds. We'll get out of your way.”

  Ethan started to push his cart, but Scarface blocked him.

  Casket said, “What was this shit you were talking about? Bodies? Huh?”

  Maybe these guys did it, Wyatt thought. Made sense. Here they were a block away from where one of their own was stuffed in a dumpster. Or maybe they were out looking for him?

  Either way, it spelled bad news for him and Ethan. These guys were looking for a fight, now that they had prey in their sights.

  “We were talking about the plane crash,” Wyatt said. He hitched a thumb southward. “The one that hit downtown. Lots of bodies. Understand, now?”

  Casket blinked at Wyatt's explanation and shook his head. “What plane crash? There's no crash. You're just babbling shit so we don't stomp your ass.”

  Okay, Wyatt thought. So this is on. The icy fear faded away, replaced by anger. These guys expected an easy target. Well, with him, at least, they were in for a surprise. He tensed up.

  Ethan's mouth sputtered to life. “Hey, we were just talking shit, you know. Heard about a crash. Maybe there is, maybe there ain't. Bodies, no bodies. We don't give a shit, we just want to go on our way.”

  Casket glared at Ethan and pursed his lips, acting like he was considering what Ethan said. “You know what, Sneezy, you're right. But if you want to pass, you got to pay a toll.”

  “Yeah,” Ethan said, sceptical but relieved. “No problem. We got, uh, bottles and cans. Take what you want.”

  Casket nodded. “An interesting offer. But I'm not interested in your crappy shit, or your carts.” He took a step closer to Ethan. “How much money you got?”

  Oh, damn, Wyatt thought. Here we go.

  “Money?” Ethan said glancing at Wyatt.

  “Yeah,” Casket said, glaring. “Cold hard cash.”

  Wyatt's temper grew red hot. “We work hard for what little we make. Besides, if you're going to extort us for pennies, do it after we've cashed in at the recycler, genius.”

  Casket's eyes widened and flexed his hands into fists.

  “Not a problem,” Ethan said, desperate to diffuse the situation. “Lemme just see what I got-.” He didn't get to finish.

  Casket's arm shot out and struck Ethan in the face.

  Toothless was closest to Wyatt and made a move toward him, but Wyatt was already in motion.

  From his pocket Wyatt produced a pair of brass knuckles, having slipped them on while he was talking. He connected with Toothless' forehead as the young man tried to dodge away.

  With an audible thunk the Feral Kid then dropped to the ground, out cold.

  Ethan, for his part, was doing a valiant job of stopping Casket's fist with his face. Casket was raining blows on him over and over, driving Ethan backwards.

  Scarface charged at Wyatt and tried to tackle him. Wyatt pushed a cart in his way and Scarface rammed into it, losing his balance.

  As the Feral Kid tried to avoid falling, Wyatt cracked him in the nose with the brass knuckles. Cartilage crunched and Scarface's head snapped back. He dropped to the ground squealing in pain and holding his face.

  Wyatt turned to Casket.

  Casket had Ethan up against a fence, but turned to face Wyatt once he realized his two friends were down.

  As Wyatt closed in on Casket, the Feral Kid whipped out the knife from his waistband. So it was a Bowie-knife.

  Casket held it out daring Wyatt to get closer. “God damned Ninja-Hobo, huh?” he said with sneer.

  Scarface and Toothless had recovered enough to stand, and they hobbled over to hover behind their leader. Neither looked as if they wanted to keep fighting.

  Casket glanced at them and then to the determined look on Wyatt's face. He came to a wise conclusion.

  “This isn't over, shitheads,” Casket said, then slashed at Ethan's side. The razor-sharp blade easily cut through Ethan's shirt and made a deep gash. Blood gushed from the wound.

  Ethan shrieked and peeled away from Casket to fall to the ground.

  Wyatt saw red and took a step closer to Casket, but the knife kept him at bay.

  “We'll finish this later, Dopey.” Casket said, then the three of them turned and fled down the alley and vanished around a corner.

  Wyatt knelt beside Ethan. “Are you all right?”

  Ethan's face was cinched up in pain. “No, I'm not all right! That bastard cut me!”

  Wyatt looked at the wound. “He got you good, it looks deep.”

  “Feels pretty deep to me!” Ethan howled.

  “Just a sec,” Wyatt said and went to his cart. He fished around for a few moments then came up with a small first-aid kit.

  He returned to Ethan and opened the kit. Inside was a roll of gauze and some cue-tips.

  Ethan managed a laugh. “Great. You can clean my ears as I bleed out.”

  “You are not going to bleed out,” Wyatt said. He rolled up the gauze and gently pressed it against the wound. “Hold this here a second.”

  Ethan sputtered some curses as he held the gauze to his side.

  Wyatt grabbed a long thin scarf from his cart. “Sit up, will ya?”

  “Sheesh,” Ethan said as he leaned forward. “All these commands you're giving me. You're gonna have me moving cinder blocks next.”

  Wyatt wrapped the scarf around Ethan's stomach. “Okay, exhale.”

  Ethan blew out an exaggerated breath then grimaced in agony as Wyatt tied the scarf over the gauze, holding it in place.

  “Oh, sweet Jes
us that hurts,” Ethan said, sweating profusely. “Where did you learn to do this? Were you a combat medic in a former life?”

  “Everything I know I learned from tv,” Wyatt said, avoiding the other man's gaze. Everyone had secrets. He leaned back and looked Ethan over. “That should do for now.”

  Ethan wiped at his face, smearing blood over it. “Okay, now what, Ninja-Hobo?”

  “I'll go get you some help,” Wyatt said. “Find a phone and call for an ambulance.” He turned to go.

  “No, don't leave me here!” Ethan said, wincing in pain. “What if those idiots come back?”

  Wyatt considered this for a moment. He'd hurt two of them pretty bad and were probably looking to get some medical help themselves. But Casket was unscathed. He might have only left to get reinforcements, then would come back looking for revenge. Which meant Wyatt couldn't leave Ethan here. Not with the slight chance of Casket returning.

  “Okay,” Wyatt said. “Let's get you up.”

  “Where we going?”

  “Back down to the street,” Wyatt said, putting one of Ethan's arms over his shoulder. “We'll find someone with a cellphone.”

  “No, no, wait!” Ethan said.

  “What?”

  “We're not leaving our carts here.”

  “Can't take them with us. God only gave me two hands.”

  Ethan gave the carts a forlorn look. “Okay, but at least hide them and lock them up. You still got that bike lock?”

  “Yup,” Wyatt said, easing Ethan against the fence.

  He quickly moved the carts behind some nearby bushes and locked them together with the lock. Then he grabbed a small backpack which held his water bottle.

  “Don't forget my bag!” Ethan said through gritted teeth.

  “I wouldn't dare forget your man-purse,” Wyatt said snatching a small brown purse hidden in Ethan's cart and shoved it into the backpack. Whatever the purse contained was of grave importance to him.

  “Happy now, you old goat?” Wyatt said as he hoisted Ethan into a standing position, again.

  “Never been happier, buddy,” Ethan said as they hobbled down the alley. “Least I got myself some new shoes out of this deal.”

  “They are nice shoes,” Wyatt said. His grin hid his concern. The wound was deep and Ethan was losing a lot of blood.

  He needed to get his friend to a doctor, and quick.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Nate

  “What?” Nate asked, trying to get a better view of the cop who stood before him. The morning sun crested the rooftops of the houses behind her, blinding him.

  “I wanted to know if everything was okay, Nate,” the woman said.

  Nate blinked at his name. She knew him? He felt a claw of ice grip his heart.

  “Do I know you?” he asked, a little befuddled. He kept his expression neutral, calm. But inside he roiled with alarm. The situation had gotten much worse. Here he sat in a stolen vehicle, armed with an illegal weapon that could be linked to a trio of nearby bodies, speaking to a police officer who knew him by name.

  Crap.

  The cop stepped closer, blocking the sun and revealing her face. High cheek bones, a dusting of freckles, piercing green eyes.

  The claw of ice tightened even more.

  “Vicky!” Nat said, cavalier. “Long time, no see.” He was still reeling inwardly at this rapid turn of events. He was screwed. Really screwed. He needed her to go away or things would get bad.

  Very bad.

  “Officer Lang to you,” she said with a poisonous tone. She glared down at him.

  Nate nodded. He shouldn't push it but he couldn't help himself. “So, how's life as a flatfoot, again?” he said. He scratched his cheek then dropped his hand to rest against the open door, positioning it closer to his pocket.

  Officer Lang continued to glare at him for several moments, then said, “I'm a flatfoot because of your boss.” She hitched her thumbs into her belt, the left hand next to her holstered pistol.

  Nate knew the gun. A standard police-issue held fast in its holster by a leather snap-strap. He did a rough calculation on her potential speed to unsnap the weapon, draw it, and fire versus him pulling his own pistol with its long silencer from his deep pockets.

  The odds came out about even.

  Nate shook his head. “That's got nothing to do with me, Vicky. You know that. We're both flunkies in our respective organizations. Bottom of the ladder as it were. Well, I make more money, of course.” He smiled at her.

  Officer Lang's face contorted into a scowl and Nate thought she would draw on him right then and there. He tensed.

  Lang made a visible effort to relax and her left hand shifted away from her pistol. “Quite the mouth on you, Nate,” she said, fixing him with her stare. “Word is you've used it to stay out of jail more than once. A regular fount of information when the squeeze is put to you.” The ice claw tightened more. This bitch was trying to get him to make a move on her. She's got nothing on him right now. He's just sitting here, minding is own business, but she wants him to screw up so she could, what? Arrest him? Shoot him? God knows she had reason enough.

  Years earlier Victoria Lang was a homicide detective. One of the best. When her old partner retired she was assigned a new stiff, a guy named Brad Fletcher. Only problem was, Brad Fletcher was in deep with Unger and his crew. Owed him big money, too. Much to Unger's delight.

  I gotta cop in my pocket, Unger used to boast. I say dance and he dances a little jig. I say lose that evidence and evidence disappears.

  But all good things must come to an end as it did for Fletcher, who got caught trying to hide a bloody knife at a murder scene on the southside.

  Fletcher was raked over the coals and broke so quickly as to not even be dignified. Then he shot himself in the head, and Victoria Lang's career got caught by the same bullet.

  Her partner had been on the take and she didn't know it. You can never get that stink off you, especially as a detective. Her hate for Unger and any of his associates were legendary. Associates like Nate.

  Now she was a lowly flatfoot and probably would be one for the rest of her days. Or at least until she made Nate shoot her.

  Nate counted to five, then said in a calm voice. “That ain't true and you know it, Officer.” He emphasized her title. “Anyone with real information, like currently active detectives, knows I don't say nuthin about nuthin.” Someone shouted from the north about half a block away. Officer Lang looked, but Nate kept his eyes locked on her. What the hell game was she playing? All these accidents right nearby and she's taking time to hassle him? Had to be emotion that drove her to confront him. Pulled her away from those in direct need just to piss in his face.

  Was this bitch crazy?

  The pistol weighed heavy in his pocket. His hand itched for it.

  Officer Lang frowned then unhooked the radio mike on her chest. She squeezed at its button but the device didn't make a sound. Not a squawk or hiss of static.

  “Damnit,” she said. “Still dead?” She pressed at it a couple more times. Click-click-click.

  Nate found this very interesting. “Radio not working today, Vicky? Might want to get that checked. Never know when you'll need backup to save your skinny square ass.” Officer Lang's eyes flared, but another shout drew her attention. Again, Nate thought she was about to draw her weapon. Instead, she leaned in close and pointed a finger at him. “Stay right here. I have more questions for you.” Nate shrugged and held up his hands. “No problem, Vicky. I await your return.” She glared at him, then another shout, this one for help, pulled her away. Nate watched her square ass wiggle in her uniform trousers as she hustled down the sidewalk.

  He let out a sigh of relief. But now he was faced with a dilemma.

  Of course he wouldn't just sit here and wait for little miss square ass to interrogate him, maybe even get into a shoot-out with her. Yet she could now place him in the immediate vicinity of a triple murder. Even the drunkest homicide detective would have no problem link
ing Perry to Unger's crew, which Nate was a known member of.

  Or he could simply leave. Walk away and go to ground for a while which was standard procedure after a hit, anyway.

  There were no other direct witnesses here. Too much chaos was going on. Only Victoria Lang and her broken radio could place him near the scene.