by Harper Lin
“Him? No, he’s a little tough guy. I’ll make him beg for mercy and drink five gallons of water, though.”
I laughed. “Say, um, Octavian?”
Pause. “Yeah?”
“I was wondering if, um. You know, my friend Liz is getting married in a few days. Liz says I can bring two guests. And Martin wanted… well, I wanted you to… come too.”
Longer pause. “When is it?”
Oh dear, he sounds less than enthusiastic.
Well, why wouldn’t he have doubts? He lost a spouse too!
I told him the date and time then added, “There have been a few hitches, so the date isn’t set in stone.”
It felt almost like a relief to say that, as if I was giving him a back door to escape through.
“I’d be happy to come.” Again that half-hearted tone. I heard him clear his throat. “Yes, I’d be happy to come.” More decisive this time. “I’ll take care of Martin and get him to the venue. I’m sure you’ll be busy with Liz. Will you be busy until then?”
“Tomorrow looks to be quite eventful. I’m not sure of my schedule after that.”
To put it mildly.
“I can imagine. I know how weddings sweep up everybody’s time. I’ll see you there if I don’t see you sooner.”
“Great. I’ll text you the details. If anything changes at the last minute, I’ll call you.”
“All right.” Pause. “And Barbara?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you for the invitation. We’ll have a great time.”
I smiled. “Yes, Octavian. We will.”
I hung up, put the phone on the bedside table, and lay there as the Magic Fingers performed a stand-in operation for Bubba Chong. It turned out I didn’t need them. I felt far more relaxed now, having made more than an invitation, but a decision, perhaps a major life change.
I decided to go to sleep. I needed the rest. If I was going to enjoy that decision, I would have to fight for it.
FOURTEEN
Woody Nook was “what it says on the tin,” as the British say. Set in the far corner of North Cheerville Park, it was a small cul-de-sac enclosed on three sides by trees. The open area measured about fifty yards by thirty, with trees and fairly thick underbrush all around that stopped us from seeing very far inside the woods. A gentle slope led down to the rest of the park, a couple hundred acres of woods, grassy expanses, and hills given over to dog walkers, joggers, and picnicking families.
On a weekday morning, we had the place to ourselves.
Good. We didn’t want anyone getting caught in the crossfire.
While it felt bucolic and peaceful, Woody Nook was actually quite close to the northern parking lot, which led by a winding two-lane road to the highway and its access road. It actually would have made a good wedding venue.
It made an even better ambush point.
For them.
My trusty 9mm weighed down my purse. Those two hitmen never saw my gun, and so wouldn’t suspect this nice little old lady was packing.
The problem was, those two hitmen knew Liz was armed and dangerous, so she had to look as unarmed and harmless as possible.
Which was why she wore only gym shorts and a halter top.
There was nowhere for her to hide a gun, and in fact she didn’t have one at all.
That made my heart age several more years.
Of course, coming unprepared to a gunfight was all part of Liz’s insane plan. Because if you obviously didn’t have a gun, a gunfight might never start.
Liz was banking on them seeing a good chance to capture her and execute her in style, plus maybe find out about that mysterious thumb drive she had mentioned.
Or they might decide to go with the original plan they had at Lakeview Park and gun us down from a distance.
If they went for that option, our special backup plan would do us no good at all.
We walked up the gentle rise leading to Woody Nook. The only sound we heard was the wind blowing through the trees and the soft swish swish of our feet moving through the tall grass.
“This is a really bad idea,” I said.
“You’ve said that before,” Liz replied, fingering a silver chain she had around her neck, the end of which disappeared into the neckline of her halter top.
“Let me say it again. This is a really bad idea.”
Liz scanned the tree line on the three sides of Woody Nook. We were entering the cul-de-sac now, willingly letting an unseen enemy flank us. That went against every rule of strategy in the books.
Not that I ever played by the book. Liz apparently didn’t either.
Maybe we should.
We walked deeper into the cul-de-sac. Liz started talking about how she would set up her imaginary wedding.
She didn’t get far.
“Hold it right there!”
Two masked men emerged from the woods, one in front of us and one to the left. They were dressed in the same black outfits and balaclavas as when they broke into my house. The man in front held a hunting rifle. The man to the left had a double-barreled shotgun.
They’d rearmed themselves. Easy enough to do at the local gun shop. They could only get long arms, though. Handguns have a seven-day waiting period in our state.
It didn’t matter. In this terrain, they could kill us just as effectively with what they had.
“Raise your hands above your head!” the man with the rifle barked.
We did as we were told. I did not drop my purse. They hadn’t asked me to, after all.
As they approached, I could see they were high again. Their movements were twitchy, exaggerated. They’d taken some sort of stimulant. Cocaine, perhaps, or speed.
That made them unpredictable, especially since they both had their fingers inside the trigger guard. Basic firearm safety is beyond your typical drug addict.
“Just keep calm,” I said in as even a voice as I could muster. “We’re no danger to you.”
“You pepper sprayed me, you stupid old woman,” the guy with the rifle said.
Actually he didn’t say “woman.” He said something more objectionable. Even more objectionable than being called stupid.
They stopped several paces away, well out of pepper spraying range.
The one with the shotgun gestured at Liz.
“You. Turn around.”
Liz made a slow turn to show she wasn’t armed. Next, Mr. Shotgun gestured at me, a jerky movement that made me cringe.
“Careful you don’t set that thing off,” I said.
“Shut up and empty your purse.”
I’d planned for this. Slowly, with exaggerated and deliberate movements so as not to startle our fidgety captors, I unclasped my purse, unzipped it, and turned it upside down.
Pepper spray, Kleenex, makeup, my phone, my wallet, and a nail file all cascaded to the ground.
But not my gun. That was attached with Velcro to the inside lining of my purse.
“Back away,” Mr. Shotgun ordered. He gestured toward Mr. Rifle, his movement so jerky I was surprised he didn’t accidentally blow his head off.
We took three steps back. Mr. Rifle slung his weapon and moved forward to pick up my things.
Yes, he actually slung his rifle, putting the strap across his chest and the rifle across his back where he couldn’t quickly get to it. He was that high.
Oh, and he didn’t even put the safety on. There’s a reason they call it “dope.”
Mr. Dope (formerly Mr. Rifle) bent over to gather up my things, grabbing the pepper spray first. This was the moment. If I kicked him in the face, I could yank out my pistol, shoot Mr. Shotgun, and then level it at Mr. Dope.
But Mr. Shotgun had a bead on me. I looked in his eyes. Bloodshot, but focused. He wasn’t as high as his friend. And at only five yards away, there was no way he’d miss with a shotgun. Sure, he’d get Mr. Rifle too. No great loss. I was a bit more worried about the shotgun’s effect on me and Liz.
Mr. Rifle stood up, gripping the pepper spray. “
I should blast this in your face, you old bag!”
“None of that,” a voice behind us said. “We got more important things to do.”
We turned. From the edge of the forest sauntered a young man in his late twenties, his eyes so red they practically glowed, his movements even jerkier than the other two. He wore jeans and a T-shirt for some band I’d never heard of. He had a shock of blond hair in desperate need of a comb and scissors.
I glanced at Liz. Judging by how pale she had grown, it looked like her plan had been a success.
At least so far.
“Elizabeth Danfrith, so nice to see you in something other than camo! And who’s your pepper-spraying friend? Before you tell me your name, drop that purse before I have my men put a bullet in your brain.”
“She emptied it, boss.”
“Drop it!” he bellowed, his face turning beet red and spit flying from his mouth.
I dropped it. His two men staggered back as if he had slapped them.
Crazy Andy stalked forward, scooped up my purse, and looked inside.
He yanked the pistol out of the Velcro holder and waved it under the nose of his goons.
“Oldest trick in the book!” He turned to us and gave a theatrical shrug. “Idiots. I’m stuck working with idiots.”
“We’ve noticed,” Liz said.
“That’s your fault,” he said, stalking up to her and flicking off the safety. “You arrested my best men, scattered the rest. Now I’m stuck with a pack of losers who can’t even take out a pair of women.”
“You got me,” Liz said. “Let my friend go.”
“Yeah, right. She gets to watch while I skin you alive on camera. Then I’ll skin her alive too. But first, tell me what this thumb drive is and where I can get it.”
“What thumb drive?”
Crazy Andy was not the kind of person you play dumb with. But Liz wanted to play dumb, because it got a particular reaction she was expecting.
He backhanded her so hard, she staggered several feet and fell down. I rushed to her side.
Now Crazy Andy and his thugs all faced us and faced away from a particular part of the tree line.
As I cursed them and tried to help her up, Liz played like she was more injured than she was, curled into a ball, and slipped the dog whistle out from where it was hidden in the neckline of her shirt.
She gave it a silent blast and tucked it back in as I shielded her with my body.
I got her to her feet just in time to see Poofles and Doofles lope out of the forest. They ran silently. No barking, no growling, just a pair of predators on the hunt.
“Okay! Okay!” Liz shouted to cover the sound of their near-silent approach. “You win. It’s government files, entrusted to me by my team. I’ll give it to you if you let my friend go.”
“You crazy?” Crazy Andy screamed. “I get everything I want, and then I kill you. That’s how this is going to work.”
He grabbed her by the neck.
Big mistake because Poofles and Doofles went straight for him.
They rushed up, the sound of their running finally alerting the two druggie gunmen, who turned and gaped, too slow to do anything as the pair of huge hounds knocked them back and leapt on their boss.
Crazy Andy went down under a mass of muscle, fur, and fangs.
Which was the worst thing that could have happened, because they ignored the two armed men standing right next to us.
Those two men shook off their initial shock. Mr. Shotgun leveled his gun. Mr. Dope scrambled to unsling his rifle.
I looked for my pistol, but it was hidden beneath the struggling forms of the drug kingpin and two dogs.
I looked up in terror to see two barrels of a shotgun pointing at me.
FIFTEEN
“Attack!” Liz shouted, pointing at the two gunmen.
I didn’t think the dogs could turn around and get them so fast, but before Mr. Shotgun had a chance to fire, one of the Dobermans slammed into him. The man yelped and let off his gun, the pellets passing harmlessly overhead.
Then he was on the ground, his shotgun flying away as he held back the dog’s slavering fangs.
I have to admit I felt for the guy. I’d been in the same position. Maybe I’d send Bubba Chong to work on him in prison.
Meanwhile, Mr. Dope was showing just how much speed there was in his system by sprinting full out for the trees. One of the dogs tailed him, biting at his rear end and tearing off a hole, first in his sweatpants, followed by his underwear. Not a pretty sight, I can tell you. Poofles or Doofles (I couldn’t tell them apart) then got to work on his legs.
Several times the Doberman tried to leap on him, only to miss as Mr. Dope dodged at the last minute. He could have gotten a football scholarship if he hadn’t wasted his life with narcotics and crime.
I noticed he still had the rifle slung on his back, but he couldn’t stop to get it, not with that beast literally nipping at his heels.
That left Crazy Andy unaccounted for. He lay on the ground, moaning, his clothes torn and covered by several bites and scratches.
My 9mm lay half underneath him.
Liz and I dove for it at the same time.
Liz got there first, which was a good thing for me because just as her fingers touched it, Crazy Andy lashed out at her with a kick that got her right in the knee. She cried out and fell.
The drug dealer fumbled for the gun, his movements still erratic, either from the drugs or the brief but brutal savaging he had just endured from the Dobermans. That gave me the chance to grab the gun at the same time.
The only problem was he was far stronger and also got his finger in the trigger guard before I did.
I jerked my head to the side. The gun barked, a bullet missing me by inches. He hauled on the gun to bring it to bear. The muzzle pointed right at my face, a dark circle of death. He pulled the trigger and got nothing but a click.
Snarling with frustration, he smacked me upside the head. I tumbled to the ground, my back twisting and sending a shot of pain all the way down my leg.
Not now!
He stood, looking triumphant. Liz was down, nursing her knee, and I clenched my teeth from the pain of the sciatica.
Crazy Andy’s triumphant expression turned to worry as a distant voice shouted, “I’ve called the police!”
We all looked. A middle-aged lady walking her poodle stood a couple of hundred yards downhill, a phone in her hand.
“Thank you!” I shouted back. “Run!”
She took one look at Crazy Andy, who roared in frustration, and decided that was good advice. She took off like some Olympic athlete, the poodle furiously working its little legs at the end of the leash, unable to keep up the pace and ending up being dragged through the grass.
Next, Crazy Andy spotted the shotgun lying not far off. Liz was crawling for it, favoring her good leg. He went for it.
Liz turned around and gave him a dose of my pepper spray.
“Bravo!” I shouted.
Crazy Andy was less enthusiastic. He howled, gave Liz a kick, and stumbled back.
The pain in my back began to ebb. It felt like one of those temporary tweaks, not a crippling pain.
I hoped.
Glancing at Crazy Andy’s two goons, I saw they were still out of the fight. Mr. Shotgun was barely conscious, and now both dogs had gone after Mr. Dope, who had sought safety up a tree about fifty yards from us. He had lost his rifle, too, which lay at the base of the tree, guarded by the killer Dobermans.
Liz and I crawled for the shotgun.
Crazy Andy must have realized that he had lost, because he pointed at Liz, glared at her through eyes even more bloodshot than before, let out a ragged cough, and said, “This ain’t over!”
“It will be soon enough,” I said, almost to the shotgun.
Crazy Andy ran.
“Sic the dogs on him!” I told her, my hand finally grasping the shotgun. I felt much better now. Nothing like the reassuring weight of a firearm to ease chronic back pain
.
“I can’t. If I do, that guy in the tree will grab his rifle.”
Good point. I hauled myself up to a kneeling position, feeling only a few jabs of pain. Liz tried to rise and fell back down. That kick to the knee had been a nasty one.
“He’s getting away!” Liz cried.
Indeed, Crazy Andy was running like he had Poofles and Doofles on his heels.
“Not for long he isn’t,” I said as I leveled the shotgun and aimed down the barrel.
I fired. The heavy weapon bucked against my shoulder, wrenching it painfully. It had been a long time since I’d fired a 12-gauge.
Yes, I shot a fleeing man in the back. A fleeing ruthless killer who spread drugs around the community. I had no problem with that.
I did have a problem with range. A shotgun is not good at long range, the pellets spreading out more and more the farther they go. Crazy Andy staggered, spots of red appearing in at least three places on his shirt and pants, but he kept running.
Hopped up as he was, I’d have to blast him with an elephant gun to take him down.
The other barrel had already been fired, and by the time I hunted down some spare shells on our prisoner, Crazy Andy would be long gone.
Tossing aside the gun, I got to my feet, ignored the pain that caused, and started running after him.
Well, running is a bit of a generous term.
“I’ll call the police and tell them the situation!” I heard Liz shout after me.
Like that would do any good.
I didn’t bother saying that out loud. I needed to save my breath.
I ran after Crazy Andy as fast as I could, but being a man half my age, with a generous head start, and buzzing on whatever chemicals he had in his system, he soon far outpaced me.
I kept running anyway, my lungs working hard and my back twinging with every step. If he got away, Liz would never be safe.
And neither would I.
Crazy Andy headed toward the parking lot hidden by a screen of trees. His car must have been one of the ones we saw when we pulled up. He had waited in the woods until his men sprang the trap.
I was getting seriously out of breath, and Crazy Andy got farther and farther ahead.
“You can’t catch me, old lady!” he called over his shoulder, cackling as he disappeared into the trees.