by Dan Taylor
I make a slitting-throat gesture to the driver, but he doesn’t let up this time. All around us drivers are leaning out of windows, flipping us the bird.
Over the cacophony, I say to Scuba Joe, “I’ll be there. I’m the guy wearing the smart suit and with the squinty eyes.”
I think he says, “We already know that, Jake,” then hangs up, but I can’t be sure.
I put the phone away, then glower at the driver in the rearview mirror. “That was an important phone call, you dick. You know about this situation, right? With the terrorists or whatever they are?”
He ignores me, just looks around, as though he’s in a parking lot, looking for a space.
I shake my head. Playing it cool, I say, “I need to make a food-stop before we get to the bunker. Who knows what they try and pass off as food there.”
“You must think I was born yesterday, Mr. Hancock.”
It was worth a shot. As I look around the backseats, I keep him distracted, “Last week, maybe. You’re not going to stop, are you?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Even if I said Scuba Joe, the terrorist or whatever he is, has your wife too?”
“Especially then.”
“That’s what I thought.”
I keep looking, all the while thinking I’m in a tight spot. If I end up in that underground bunker, there’s no way the Agency will prioritize the finding of Mary and Randy. They’ll be way down the list, surely after getting back Cole Baxter and gaining intelligence on these guys. And it’s sure as hell clear they’re not going to let me tackle this problem on my own. The only advantage I can see to my being in the bunker is avoiding the phone calls from my wife, soon-to-be ex-wife, who has been hounding me of late. We’ve been separated awhile, but lately she’s been trying to get me back. She’s tried to make me jealous by dating a self-proclaimed Nigerian prince, who cheated on her. To make it up to her, he’s made her heir to a wealthy estate, that of a white ancestor. She used this fishy inheritance thing to try and tempt me back.
Anyway, back to this bunker situation. This guy’s driving me there, which spells disaster for Mary and Randy, so I need to intervene. And with force.
Wait, why didn’t that occur to me?
I go to open the door, do one of those roll-with-momentum moves out of it, but find it locked.
I’m quiet about it, but the driver notices, anyway. “The moment you sat that scrawny little butt of yours down, Mr. Hancock, I centrally locked all the doors.”
A thought occurs to me. “That doesn’t make a whole deal of sense.”
“How so?”
“How were you to know that I’d receive that phone call? Want to escape? As far as you knew, I was coming along willingly.”
“Wasn’t my decision, Mr. Hancock. That decision was made above my paygrade.”
I sit back, resigned, blowing my cheeks out. “Shit.”
But then I see something I can use. It isn’t ideal, the longest of shots, but it’s my only hope. In the handhold on the right-hand door is a Snickers bar.
I put it into my jacket pocket, point it at the driver, and say, “Stop the car, asshole. Unless you want to have more lead in you than a Taiwanese jeweler.”
He looks at me in the rearview mirror. “That was intended as a snack, Mr. Hancock. It’s not exactly healthy, but not deadly, either.”
I take it out and throw it at him. “Damn ape.”
I sit resignedly while he drives.
At first I think it’s a coincidence, or maybe that he’s fucking with me, or maybe that I’m mistaken, but I’m sure the landmarks are the ones I’ve seen when driving from my part of town to Denny’s. And I should know. I had brought enough cheap dates there before I started making the big bucks.
As we draw closer, I’m positive.
Then I receive a text message that blows my mind.
2.
IT’S FROM GERRY SMOULDERWELL. It reads, Where the hell are you? The drivers charge by the hour.
I’m confused a second, then think that we went through an area with bad reception, and that I just received the message now. But that doesn’t make sense. I’ve just been speaking on my phone.
I check the details. It was sent this minute.
While I stare at my phone confusedly, the driver says, “I’ve been playing nice with you, so far, Mr. Hancock. But if you keep on playing with your phone, I’ll stop this car and come back there and beat your skull in.”
The penny drops. “You’re not the guy they sent for me, are you?”
He’s quiet a second, a dramatic pause. “I thought you’d worked that out when you reached for the door and found it locked. Hell, I definitely thought you’d worked it out when you asked about the logic of my locking the doors the minute you sat down. You surprised me, Jake. I thought you were quicker than this.”
I sigh. “Give me a break. I had a couple beers this afternoon.”
“But still…”
“So you are taking me to Denny’s?”
“Do you always ask questions this perfunctory?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I kind of did.”
I think a second.
“So here I was trying to force you to drive me to Denny’s, and you were taking me the whole time. And Scuba Joe knew I was coming, anyway, so why ask me to?”
“We didn’t expect you to go of your own volition. Call me insurance. Plus, the boss was just being courteous, and he figured it wouldn’t hurt to have a bit of insurance.”
“You could’ve just said, before I pointed a Snickers bar at you.”
“That wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun.”
I sit quietly, staring out the window, shaking my head.
He says, “You’re going to have to be on you’re A-game if you’re to manage what the boss has in store for you, Jake. At least based on my assessment of you during this drive.”
As I shuffle closer to the window, I say, “What has your boss got in store for me?”
“You’ll see. Let’s just say it’s going to be a long night…”
I shuffle farther still, take out my phone like a highschool student would under a desk. To keep him distracted, I say, “Who am I, Jack Bauer?”
He snaps. “You’re a dumb bastard with a smart mouth, is what you are.”
I start replying to the text Gerry sent me, and for a second or two, I think I’m going to manage writing the SOS message and send it before he notices.
But the car screeches to a halt.
I start thumbing at the keys hastily, silently cursing when auto-correct messes up my spelling of the Denny’s address, but stop when I feel cold metal on my cheek.
He says, “You ever tried to clean brain matter off the backseat of a car upholstered with leather?”
I look up and see what I expected, that the driver is leaning round the front seat, holding a pistol to my cheek. It’s a long pistol, a silencer attached.
“No, but I imagine it’s a bit easier than with any other fabric.”
He laughs, not amused. “There’s that smart mouth of yours again. Your mother ever warned you about using it when you were a kid?”
“Every time I won an argument, yeah.”
He laughs again. “Pass me over the cell, Jake.”
“You know, silencers are no way near as effective as movies would have you believe. And you think you could get away with splattering someone’s brains all over the rear windshield in broad daylight and on a busy public highway and get away with it?”
“The point is, Jake, it’s not just anyone’s brains. It’s yours, and to you, that makes all the difference.”
I hand over the phone.
He goes to crush it in one hand, like Jaws from that lesser James Bond movie, but fails, settles for putting it in his breast pocket instead.
He sits back down, goes to put the car in drive, but I interrupt him. “I thought you were going to beat my skull in.”
He shakes his head, mutte
rs, “That smart mouth of yours,” then turns around, leans around the seat, and pistol whips me.
Everything goes black.
3.
I COME TO WITH A START and look around, feeling groggy. For a moment I don’t know where I am, and then I remember the situation I was in before I was knocked unconscious.
I’m still in the backseat of the car. To the driver, I say, “How long was I out?”
I think he isn’t going to answer, then he looks at his watch, waits. “Two and a half minutes…now.”
“Two and a half minutes?”
“Is there an echo in here?”
I sit up, having slumped down, dab the throbbing section of my forehead with my knuckles to check if I’m bleeding. I’m not, but there’s a lump there, not unlike the ones cartoon characters get. “Did you check to see if I was breathing, you damn ape?”
“There was no need.”
“No need?”
“Seriously, you’re going to have to cut that shit out. No, there was no need. You were snoring.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m not lying.”
We make a right turn, and I notice we’re at Denny’s. The driver finds a spot in the parking lot, and then sits and waits. I look around, not sure what to do.
Then he turns to me. “What, you need someone to hold your hand?”
“Aren’t you coming inside? I mean, you expect me to go in there by myself, without you forcing me in there?”
“I’ve been given strict instructions to shoot you in the back if you make a run for it. And quite frankly, Jake, I was hoping that’s what you were going to do.”
“Shoot! Does this mean we’re not going to grab a beer after all this is done?”
“Don’t tempt me, you fucker. I only have to make it look like you ran.”
I hold up my hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, I’m going inside.”
I get out of the car, take a second to look round the parking lot. I could make a run for it, probably dip down behind cars, and make it out of the parking lot. But once out, the terrain offers little protection. And I believe the goon. He would shoot me, and take pleasure in it too.
So I go inside.
I scan the dining area and see nothing at first. Then a guy wearing a sharp suit waves me over. “Over here, Jake, buddy. Come take a pew.”
The way he’s acting, it’s like we’re best friends. He smiles jovially, tells jokes to the guy next to him in the booth, in between glancing at me.
The other guy’s wearing a tracksuit, and is young-looking for a man that’s as bald as he is.
I make my way over, stand next to the booth, unsure of what to do or say.
The guy in the sharp suit speaks. “Glad you could make it, Jake. Take a seat.”
He indicates the seat opposite him with an open palm. I remain standing, and there’s a psychotic flicker of frustration in his eyes. Like George Clooney in From Dusk till Dawn. “Take a seat, Jake. We need to talk, buddy.”
I look to the guy in the tracksuit. He doesn’t look pissed, but there’s calm danger about him, and he nods to the seat, insisting.
As I sit down, I say, “What’s this all about? Why have you taken Mary and Randy?”
“I’ll do the talking, Jake. When the waitress comes over, order a slice of pie and coffee.”
“I don’t feel like eating.”
There’s a sharp stab in my shin, and I realize that the guy in the tracksuit kicked me. I bend down and rub it, look up to see that the guy in the suit is shaking his head. “Sit up straight, buddy. You really don’t want to make a scene. You ever see that movie Heat?”
Tracksuit guy speaks, his voice gravelly. “Great fucking movie.”
“Great movie. I could slam your head off this tabletop and no one would bat an eyelid. Well, they might. But they sure as shit won’t help you. You’re on your own on this one. And you try and ring Gerry or the police, or even your great aunty Nora, then a ton of shit is going to come crashing down on you. Is that understood?”
“I got it.”
“Good. Now here comes the waitress. Remember, pie and coffee.”
“What type of pie?”
He turns to his goon, gives him a look that says, Can you believe this shit? then turns back to me. “Any pie.”
The waitress saunters up, chewing gum. She takes all of us in, then glances at my forehead, almost shrugs her shoulders. “What can I get you fellas?”
The guy in the suit speaks first, “I would like a coffee and the sirloin…” He looks at her name badge then continues, “…June. If it’s still grazing, then that would be great.”
She raises her eyebrow, stops chewing, looks at him funny, and then writes it down.
Goon says, “Nothing for me except a coffee. I’m watching my weight.”
Suit Guy reiterates, “He’s watching his weight, June.”
She looks at them as though they’re circus clowns. Then she turns to me. “And you, what do you want?”
It’s only slight, but the two guys opposite me lean in.
I say, “I’ll take the pie and coffee.”
She mutters it as she writes it down, then struts off, hips moving to and fro.
Suit Guy says, “Good boy. I can see we’re going to get along smoothly.”
Goon reiterates, “Good boy.”
As though just noticing it, the guy in the suit says, “Geez, Jake. That’s quite the lump you have on your forehead. Did you talk cute on the drive here?”
I don’t answer, just stare at him.
“You did, didn’t you? Still, there’s no need to go hitting a man over his smart mouth. I can send my friend here out to bust him up real good for you, if you want? Is that something you’d want?”
“It’s ok.”
“Because he can. He’s like that British guy…who’s the one, Terry?”
My brow furrows, and the guy in the suit does a double take.
Terry hasn’t noticed, so answers, “Hugh Laurie?”
“Hugh Laurie? No…” Suit slaps the back of his head, not entirely playfully, either. “That guy walks with a cane and couldn’t beat an orange to a pulp. Am I right, Jake?”
I don’t answer. I’m trying to work out if these guys are serious or not—whether this is a practical joke being played on me. I suppose it could be my soon-to-be ex-wife…but no, not even that sour bitch would go this far. But then again, I have been pissing her off recently. Last time we spoke, I accused her of being pregnant, and, in her words, accused her of using our unborn child as leverage to get me back.
Suit clicks his fingers in front of me. “You with us, Jake?”
“Yeah.”
“Lost you for a second there. No, the guy I was thinking of looks like any blue-collar guy. Bald head. Does all his own stunts.”
To hurry them along, I answer, “Jason Statham.”
Suit smiles. Looks friendly, too. “That’s the guy.” He goes to give me a high-five.
I leave him hanging. “Seriously?”
“Okay, you be that way, Jake. We could’ve played nice through this whole thing. You shouldn’t take it personal. It’s just business. And business between people goes much smoother if they can act cordial. But you just fucked that up.”
“And here I was thinking we were friends.”
He fixes me with a cold stare, eyes minutely twitching at the corners. From out of nowhere, he leans forward and slaps my right cheek.
A couple of the patrons stop what they’re doing, look over for a second, until Suit turns round and makes eye contact with a few of them. They all turn back to what they were doing, and Suit turns back to me, but looks put out—as though he’s just had to slap his nephew’s backside for pissing on his new Armani suit.
It hurts like hell, and part of me wants to bring my hand up to rub my cheek, but I don’t give him the satisfaction. Just carry on staring at him.
He continues, “That was the left; you don’t want to feel the right. That right, Terry?”
“Right.”
They both laugh.
“Anyway, I was genuine about having Terry go out there and teaching that steroidal driver a lesson. But now I’m going to renege on that. Jake, you can call me Leo and this walking bag of samurai swords here is Terry. But I already told you that. Under different circumstances I’m sure you’d be pleased to meet us.”
“It’s a pleasure.”
“Watch that cute mouth, Jake.” He straightens his suit and adjusts his position on the seat, as an act of restraining himself from slapping me again.
I won’t lie. I’m pretty intimidated. I can’t work out which one looks the most unstable, Terry or Leo, the former of which is making constant disturbing eye contact with me. But what I can be sure of is these two are more unpredictable and dangerous than a manic-depressive clown high on LSD.
Leo continues, “You’re probably wondering why you’re here.”
“I take it isn’t to eat pie and rehearse for the third part of a Three Stooges tribute act.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I have a number of tasks I want you to complete tonight. Listen to me…it’s three tasks. If you want to see your sister or her snot-nosed kid ever again, you’ll be successful in the completion of each.”
I’ve just figured out who he reminds me of. He looks like one of those dimwits from The Apprentice. One of those metrosexuals who has a monthly appointment for a back, crack, and sack, wears a suit a size too small for him, and who could “sell snow to the Eskimos.”
Just a sociopathic version…well, more sociopathic.
Leo continues, “If you phone the cops, they die. If you fail any of the tasks, they die. If you attempt to even say hi to any member of the public who isn’t directly related to the task—”
“They die?”
“No…what? Do I look like an animal?” Leo turns to Terry, who laughs on cue. “Just fucking with you. Yeah, of course they die.” He takes out a cell phone from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, slides it over to me. “This is a pre-paid cell. It hasn’t got a dime on it, and one of our nerds messed with it, made sure that it can’t make any outgoing calls. So you can’t even phone Mommy and tell her the terrible mess you’ve gotten yourself into.”
I take it. It’s antiquated.