by Jason Dean
EIGHTY
The limo turned into the recessed entrance and came to a stop next to a shiny black Mercedes. Also with tinted windows. Bishop shuffled along the seat, looked out and saw the one called Eddie at the entrance gate. He’d placed the open padlock on the hasp and was pushing the gate all the way back. He gestured with an open hand and the Mercedes eased forward and drove through the gap. The limo slowly followed it.
Bishop looked back at the street they were leaving and saw no other traffic. It was completely deserted. Not even any vehicles parked against the kerb. This clearly wasn’t a popular area after dark. Through the rear window, he saw Eddie close the gate and latch it from this side. As the limo came to a stop right behind the parked Merc, Eddie unlocked the side door to the small front office and disappeared inside.
‘Well, here we are,’ Arquette said, and opened the limo door. ‘You can get out yourself or I’ll get Wescott to help you.’
‘I’ll manage.’
Bishop rolled his shoulders to get rid of the stiffness, then got out. As soon as his feet touched dirt, he straightened up and looked around the yard. There were tall lampposts positioned at intervals, but none of them was switched on. Only the headlights from the cars provided illumination. It was very quiet. He could just about make out traffic noise in the distance. A dog barked incessantly a few blocks away. That was all.
The engine died and he heard Arquette shut the limo door. The other two, Wescott and Nowlan, also got out and stood there, looking the area over. Lars and Klyce exited the Merc. Doors slammed shut.
The yard lamps suddenly came on one at a time, gradually bathing the whole area with muted light.
‘I don’t know if that’s better or worse,’ Arquette said and Wescott chuckled.
‘Hey, I think I recognize my first car,’ Nowlan said, pointing. ‘That old Plymouth convertible over there. See it?’
Bishop tuned them out, glad he’d taken time to give the place an extensive once-over before. He knew they were currently in the main aisle that ran like a major artery through the centre of the scrapyard. Lined up on either side of them were stacks and stacks of vehicle husks, some rising as high as twenty feet. Further down, there were two vehicle-sized gaps on the left and one on the right. Each one led to another aisle of scrapped cars. Bishop had checked them already. The aisles on the left were just smaller versions of this one. The one on the right was filled with bundles of already flattened vehicles, all ready to be taken to the shredder mill.
Right at the end of this one, about a hundred yards away, was the unmistakable shape of the compactor. He’d already seen it up close. And it wasn’t one of the newer, portable crushers that come on wheels either. It was one of the old-style static jobs. Old and rusty. A real monster. Bishop shivered involuntarily at the sight of it.
Klyce made his way back to them. He was smiling. ‘How d’you like my little piece of heaven, Arquette? Isn’t this place great?’
‘That’s probably not the word I’d use,’ Arquette said. ‘But I can see how it would come in useful.’
‘That it does.’ Klyce turned to Bishop. ‘And how about you? I’m always interested in my special guests’ first impressions. Be honest.’
‘Decaying,’ Bishop said, looking around. ‘Colourless. Past its prime. I’d say you and this place were made for each other, Klyce.’
‘Ah, you’re just a poor loser,’ Klyce said, waving a dismissive hand. He grabbed hold of Bishop’s arm. ‘Come on, we’ll walk from here. I’ll introduce you to my favourite piece of equipment. Only thirty-five years old and already an antique, but it’s in full working order. They built things to last in those days. Cost me a small fortune, I don’t mind telling you. But it was worth it.’
‘Supplied you with hours of fun, I bet,’ Bishop said.
‘Klyce,’ Arquette said, ‘do I really need to be present for any of this? Your idea of a good time isn’t exactly mine.’
Klyce let go of Bishop’s arm and turned to him. ‘You’re here for a very good reason, Arquette. You’ve no doubt noticed that while you’ve got a strong hold over me, I don’t have a thing on you. That’s not exactly a good start for an equal partnership, is it? So your presence here tonight will even things out some. I’ll press the switch, but you’ll be an accomplice just by your presence. Then after tonight, we’ll each have something on the other. A full partner in everything, Arquette. That’s the way you wanted it, right?’
Arquette just looked at him and said nothing.
‘Or we can call it quits right now. You go your way. I’ll go mine. Your choice.’
Arquette snorted. ‘You’re bluffing. We call it quits and you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison. I guarantee it.’
‘I don’t bluff, Arquette. If you know anything about me, you know that. Besides, you’ll have to catch me first. And the world’s a big place. Now, you can stick around and everything’s rosy. Or you can go now, and that hundred thousand’s as much of my money as you’ll ever see. You’d better make up your mind now before we go any further.’
Arquette stared into the night sky for a few beats, then sighed and took a step forward. ‘Okay, Klyce,’ he said. ‘Let’s just get this thing done. The sooner we get started, the sooner we finish.’
EIGHTY-ONE
Klyce led the way with Bishop a few feet behind, flanked by Lars and Wescott. Arquette and the other two were bringing up the rear. There was no conversation. The only sounds were their footsteps on the hard, uneven earth, and the same dog barking in the distance. At least it sounded like the same one.
The dim lamps on either side made Bishop feel like a death row prisoner being led to the chair. What did they call it? The Last Mile? Good name for it. That’s what it felt like.
And that massive crusher just sat there at the end, thirty yards away. And getting closer with each step. Which was probably how Klyce planned it. No fun if the victim didn’t get to anticipate his final fate in full. But Bishop was too buy taking in his surroundings for the second time. Everything was still the same. A little to the right of the crusher was a four-wheel-drive loader with a forklift at the front end. It was beaten up and weather-worn, but Bishop didn’t doubt it was in full working order. To his left, he could see the top part of a large hydraulic crane peeking over from the next aisle along.
The compactor itself was a large, rusted, hardened steel box about fifteen feet high and thirty feet across. Bishop had seen one in action before, although it had been about half the size. The crushing area was the open mouth at the front, with one thick steel plate for a roof and another serving as the bed. On each side of the compactor were large hydraulic pumps that controlled the top plate. There was also a control panel on the right-hand side, just in front of the diesel engine that powered the whole thing. Once a button was pressed, the upper plate descended, flattening everything underneath until it was almost two-dimensional.
‘Isn’t she a beaut?’ Klyce said when they were still about ten yards away.
‘Are we looking at the same thing?’ Bishop said.
Klyce turned and smiled at him. ‘It’ll grow on you.’
Bishop stared at the ground ahead. To the left of the crusher, about ten feet away, was the heavily dented and rusted remains of an old aluminium bumper. And something else under it, almost hidden from view. Bishop knew if he was going to make a move, it had to be now. He altered his direction, picked up his pace and aimed for the bumper.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Wescott said from his left. He placed a hand against Bishop’s arm to push him back on course. But Bishop moved out of reach and quickly turned side on to the large man. With lightning speed, he dropped his left shoulder and with his right leg delivered a sliding side-kick towards the man’s groin area.
Fast, but not fast enough. His foot hit air. Wescott had already moved his body back out of range. As though he’d been expecting it. The bastard was even smiling. He straightened up and darted forward with both fists clenched. Bishop duck
ed as he feinted to the left before changing direction, coming at Bishop’s right side. He was fast. Bishop never saw the fist that hit him, just felt a sharp blow at his right temple. His head rocked back with the impact. Losing his balance, he staggered back like a drunk, tripping on the bumper and falling on his back. Something sharp dug into his waist and he groaned in pain. Meanwhile he moved his bound hands up and down his back, his fingers frantically searching the ground under the bumper for what he wanted. There.
The large black man looked down at him and slowly shook his head. ‘What are you trying to achieve?’
Bishop didn’t answer. He could hear the others laughing, but he didn’t care. He had other things on his mind. His hands were also working overtime back there, out of sight.
Wescott grabbed Bishop by his jacket lapels and yanked him to his feet. He spun Bishop round, said, ‘Hello,’ and then punched Bishop hard in the base of his spine. Bishop arched his back in pain and immediately lost his grip on the item he’d been holding. He fell to his knees and watched Wescott reach down for it.
‘What was he going for, Wescott?’ Arquette asked. He had a Glock in his right hand. The others were also crowding around, some of them similarly armed.
‘Just this.’ Wescott showed them all the long, jagged shard of mirror glass. Then he checked Bishop’s flex cuffs. Bishop knew he’d find no tears in the thick nylon. He hadn’t had time.
Klyce came over and took the shard from Wescott. ‘Have to give you points for trying, Bishop. I like to see perseverance in an opponent.’
Bishop sighed. ‘Makes things more interesting for you, I suppose.’
‘Oh, yeah. Some beg. Some try to make pathetic deals for their lives. But you just look for an opening and act. I like that.’
‘And what about Hernandez last year? How did he go?’
Klyce frowned for a beat, then smiled. ‘Of course, you would have known about him. Well, he wasn’t very different from you, believe it or not. Mostly silent. He screamed at the end, though. As you will.’ He turned and said, ‘Let’s get started, Eddie. The loader.’
‘Right, Mr K,’ Eddie said, and retreated from view.
‘Any particular preference in regards to your final resting place, Bishop? We’ve got almost every make here, from a Yugo to a top-of-the-range Lexus. Go on, take your pick.’
Bishop looked at the stack of three vehicles to the immediate right of the crusher, partly hidden by the loader. At the bottom was an old, brown Ford Thunderbird with both its front doors missing. Then a Chevy something in even worse shape. Then a Caddy shell. ‘That Seville at the top there,’ Bishop said. ‘I always had a thing for Cadillacs.’
‘Good choice,’ Klyce said, and went to talk to Eddie at the loader.
Wescott pulled Bishop to his feet, placed him in front of the crusher and moved out of kicking range. Klyce came back, inserted a key in the compactor’s control panel and pressed a button. The diesel engine coughed a couple of times, then roared into life and began chugging away. He pressed another button and the hydraulic pumps began to activate. The top plate began to slowly descend. Klyce rotated a switch anticlockwise and it slowed down to a snail’s pace. Anything to prolong the suffering. Klyce really was a sick bastard.
Arquette appeared beside Bishop. ‘Not exactly my scene,’ he said, ‘but I guess Klyce has his reasons.’
Bishop turned to him and leaned in a little, as though he didn’t want anybody else to hear. ‘We all have reasons,’ he said quietly. ‘You know, Arquette, my gut tells me Klyce is already thinking up ways to get rid of you. Probably right this very second. In case you haven’t noticed, he’s not the kind of man who works well with partners.’
‘Gee, you don’t say. Well, maybe I’ve got a few ideas of my own on that score.’
Bishop smiled. ‘Excellent. Maybe you’ll wipe each other out. Do the world a favour.’
‘Maybe, maybe not. Whatever happens, you won’t be around to see it.’
‘Possibly. But I think in your case, the end’s coming quicker than you might think.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Arquette said.
Bishop watched Klyce turn from his beloved crusher to see what effect it was having on his latest victim. He frowned when he saw the two of them talking.
‘Just wait and see,’ Bishop said. ‘Because it’s coming.’
‘What is? Is this more of your bullshit? Because if it is . . .’
‘Look out,’ Bishop said, suddenly pulling his head away. ‘Klyce is coming over. Just act normal.’
‘Huh?’ Arquette turned to look at Klyce walking towards them, then back at Bishop. ‘Are you finally losing it, Bishop? Is that what this is about?’
‘And what are you two talking about?’ Klyce said, pulling up to them.
Bishop remained silent and watched the crusher.
‘I think Bishop’s nerves are finally getting to him,’ Arquette said.
Klyce looked at them both for a moment, then said, ‘It happens to the best of us.’ He turned to their right. ‘Here comes your casket now, Bishop.’
They all watched as Eddie steered the loader towards the crusher, the Cadillac shell balanced on the front forks. He placed the wreck in the open mouth, then gently lowered the forks until the tyreless wheels made contact with the steel bed. Eddie backed up, leaving the Caddy where it was, parked the loader in the same spot as before and jumped down.
‘It’s time,’ Klyce said, and motioned to Wescott.
Bishop felt a hand shove him hard in the back. He turned and saw Wescott with a revolver in his hand, grinning at him.
‘Do that again,’ Bishop said, ‘and I’ll make you use that gun.’
‘Come on, come on,’ Klyce said. ‘Walk by yourself and he won’t have to.’
Bishop walked slowly over to the crusher, stopping a couple of feet from the Caddy. Klyce wrestled with the front passenger door until it burst open with a metallic screech.
‘Get in,’ he said.
‘Or?’
‘Or I’ll get Lars to kneecap you in both legs and put you in there himself. One way or another you’re going in. It’s up to you as to the method.’
Bishop looked inside. There was no windshield, no side windows, no dashboard, no gearstick. Nothing. Everything of worth had been salvaged long ago. The seats were battered and torn. Chunks of safety glass were scattered everywhere. Bishop turned and glanced meaningfully at Arquette. Then he crouched down and got in the passenger seat.
‘Let’s get you tucked in.’ Klyce reached in, pulled down the seatbelt and ran it across Bishop’s chest, and clicked it into the housing at the side. Bishop was surprised the belt hadn’t been removed for parts. Or maybe there was just no market for second-hand safety equipment.
Klyce tested the belt, then backed out of the car. ‘No residences for a half mile in every direction,’ he said, ‘so feel free to scream when the time comes. Nobody’ll hear you.’
‘Just get on with it, asshole. I’m sick of hearing your voice.’
Klyce smiled and slammed the door shut. The vehicle rocked with the impact. Bishop turned and saw the others gathered around, waiting for the show to begin. Eddie was leaning against the loader, smoking. Wescott and Arquette were standing next to each other. Nowlan and Lars stood a few feet apart. Wescott was the only one with his gun still out.
Bishop faced front and saw Klyce press something on the control panel. The sound of the hydraulic pumps suddenly filled the night and Bishop knew the top plate was starting to descend. If it was on the slowest speed, Bishop estimated he had about a minute. Possibly a little more. More likely a little less.
Aware all eyes were on him, he shifted position and moved his hands down to his back pocket. He reached in and carefully pulled out the other item he’d palmed from under the bumper, along with the mirror shard.
His butterfly knife.
Knowing Klyce’s special interest in this place, and the crusher in particular, Bishop had placed the two items there earlier.
Just in case. Bishop had learned long ago that success or failure often depended on the amount of preparation you were willing to undertake. He also knew people generally see what they want to see and ignore the bigger picture. As expected, once Wescott spotted the shard in Bishop’s hands, he hadn’t bothered checking him for anything else. Good old human nature.
But he could pat himself on the back later, assuming he was still alive. First, he needed to free his hands.
Working by feel alone, Bishop moved his fingers over the steel knife until he found the safety catch. He flicked it with his thumb and carefully opened the handles to reveal the blade. Grabbing both handles with one hand, he rested the sharp end of the blade against the part of the flex cuffs furthest away from his wrist and began moving it up and down.
He cut through the cuffs seventeen seconds later.
Keeping his hands behind his back, Bishop leaned forward as far as the seatbelt would allow and saw the upper plate slowly descending. And only about five feet away from the roof of the Caddy. Which meant it was moving a lot faster than he’d anticipated. Not good. About twenty seconds to go. Maybe.
He gripped the knife by the blade with his left hand. Aware most of his body was hidden by the door panel, he sat back and used more precious seconds to carefully bring his right hand to his front. He grabbed hold of the door handle and grasped it firmly. He didn’t need to lean forward to mark the upper plate’s progress now. He could see it was less than two feet away.
Bishop didn’t waste another second. He turned to the observers twenty feet away and yelled, ‘Arquette, what are you waiting for? Give your back-up team the go signal. NOW.’
And at that precise moment, all the lamps along the main aisle went out.
EIGHTY-TWO
Immediately, Bishop pulled the handle, shouldered the door all the way open and dived out of the car into the darkness. He hit the ground, rolled with the impact and rose to a crouch, left arm pulled back. Knife ready.