Chaser

by J. A. Konrath

  “I’m the one they send to kill those people.”

  The Cowboy feels a flush of arousal. “I have the revolver and wax bullets in the bedroom. Tag along.”

  Hammett nods, then stands with the grace of a ballerina. She follows the Cowboy to her suitcase, and stares as she unpacks a second Ruger Bisley Vaquero, along with a clear plastic box of ammo.

  “Wax bullets. Loaded them myself. Centerfire, hand-primed, no gunpowder. About 13 grains each, four hundred feet per second. It’ll leave a mark.”

  The Cowboy opens the box, selects two bullets. Since the wax doesn’t protrude, they appear to be empty brass until one looks inside and sees the orange paraffin crammed into the casings.

  Hammett takes the offered bullet and squints at it. “How loud?”

  “Quieter than a .22lr. Grab a pair of shooting glasses. They’ll take an eye out.”

  Hammett reaches for a pair of yellow-tinted specs. “Do we need ears?”

  “Not unless you’re overly sensitive.”

  Hammett neglects to take a pair of foam plugs. The Cowboy refrains as well.

  “We’ll do hip draw, single shot. If it’s too close to call on speed, closest to heart wins.”

  Hammett appears genuinely interested. “How fast are you?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Shoot from the hip?”

  The Cowboy nods.

  “I haven’t been beaten in a long time. I would have flown here just to do this.”

  The Cowboy allows herself a rare smile. “Maybe later we can braid each-other’s hair and talk about boys.”

  Hammett smiles back. “Or girls.”

  If only you saw what I looked like naked, you wouldn’t be flirting.

  “What does the winner get?” Hammett asks.

  “Bragging rights.”

  “I’m thinking more personal stakes.”

  “Name it.”

  “I win, I want you to tell me about the scars,” Hammett says. “I see them under your collar, up your sleeves.”

  She’s attentive.

  The Cowboy doesn’t like discussing that subject, but her chances of losing are slim to none.

  “Fine. But when I win, you tell me the declassified story of how you became Jason Bourne.”

  “Sure.”

  They shake. The Cowboy feels a tingle.

  Like recognizing like.

  Hammett spends a few seconds ogling and fondling the Vaquero, then straps on the Cowboy’s spare hip holster, a lefty. The Cowboy opens up the port gate, slips a bullet into the cylinder, and clicks it into position, cocking the weapon before holstering it.

  The longest line of sight in the suite is the straight hallway starting next to the king-sized bed, continuing past the kitchenette and sofa, and ending near the front door. Rough estimate, nine meters from end to end.

  Hammett walks to the door. Her form is tough to make out under the sweat clothes, but nothing bounces or jiggles.

  Most of what bounces and jiggles on me has been sliced off.

  The Cowboy punches in one minute on the microwave, then backs up, always facing her opponent. Soon enough the backs of her legs hit the bed.

  Forty seconds.

  “We go on the beep?” Hammett asks. She hasn’t even assumed a drawing stance yet.

  The Cowboy nods, getting into position. Feet apart, knees bent, slight crouch, hand a few millimeters above the holster leather.

  “I’ve seen this on the Internet. You’re under half a second, aren’t you?”

  “As I said; you’ll find out.”

  Hammett’s eyes widen. “Under a third of a second? That’s fast. I’ll be honest, that may even be faster than me. It’s impressive if you can do it. But can you speak twelve languages?”

  Twenty seconds.

  The Cowboy focuses on Hammett’s chest, until it is so large it fills the room.

  “I heard about someone like you. Involved in trafficking. Drugs. Snuff. Calls herself the Cowboy. Is that who I have the pleasure of dueling right now?”

  The Cowboy doesn’t nod; doesn’t want to divert her eyes from her target. But she whispers, “Yes.”

  Ten seconds.

  “I hoped it was you. You missed the thermite in your pocket. Rookie mistake. Why would you suspect? But did you see me load your bullet? Maybe I replaced it with a real one.”

  Mind games. Stay focused.

  “Maybe I’m about to fire lead. Maybe I’ll take the head shot, not the chest shot.”

  She’s not here to kill me. She’s here to get paid.

  Three seconds.

  Hammett finally crouches and places her hand over her holster.

  Time slooooooooooooooooooooows…

  The Cowboy feels the microwave beep in her teeth, feels it like she can taste and chew the sound.

  Human beings blink in 4/10ths of a second.

  The Cowboy is faster than that, pulling the trigger the moment the barrel clears leather, her shot true.

  She sees Hammett’s muzzle flash, but it is a tenth of a second slower.

  Time remains molasses as Hammett’s expression of intensity becomes surprise at the Cowboy’s speed, then shock at getting pegged in the chest with wax, then delight.

  As the Cowboy takes that in, she gets a shock of her own and her chest is slapped, hearing the CRACK!… CRACK! of gunfire a fraction of a second before feeling the sting of wax, a little bit too high, on her clavicle.

  As fast as it happens, it’s over, and then the dopamine dumps and the Cowboy goes from tensed spring to flushed with joy.

  Few things bring as much pleasure.

  Hammett is good enough to go pro.

  But she isn’t the best one in the room.

  Hammett does some complicated gunspinning before holstering the Vaquero. She’s smiling wide.

  “You beat me. Faster and better aim.”

  The Cowboy doesn’t spin her gun on her finger. She tosses it in the air, and it rotates three times before she thrusts out her hip and the weapon drops neatly into her holster.

  “Ten percent of the bitcoin now. The remainder when we finish the job.”

  “That’s fine. You delivered the cow. My dogs love it, by the way.”

  “Good to hear.”

  “This is going to be fun,” Hammett says.

  Yes. I have a feeling it will be.

  “Go get your M577,” the Cowboy says. “We’re a go for tomorrow morning.”

  HARRY

  Back in the home studio, being the best me that I can be.

  Not as many commenters as I’d hoped, but I kept an eye on the screen scroll and beefed up my answers to fill the time slot.

  “An orange,” I read. “Sure. Done that. One of my favorite citrus fruits.”

  —A MORBIDLY OBESE PERSON.

  I nodded. “Of course. All people have beauty. Being sexy isn’t measured by the pound.”

  —Nazis.

  “Of course. Who wouldn’t want to nail some Nazi asshole? But first I’d wrap it in sandpaper.”

  —an elephant.

  Head shake. “No. I’m not into animals in that way. Plus I wouldn’t want to hurt the elephant with my size.”

  I switched to Camera 2, cutting to the close-up.

  “For those just tuning in to this webcast, we’re playing Would I Tap That. I do not have sex with animals, peeps. I do, however, have sex with people who identify as animals. I’m talking to you, furries and otherkins and everyone who cosplays Pokémon. Pikachu? I’d pika-do. Charizard? I’d hit that hard. Keep ’em coming, people.”

  —U R looking old, McGlade.

  Ah, hell. This chick again. FakeTitties1970. She joined the chats just to criticize my appearance.

  “I’m only as old as I feel, FakeTitties1970.”

  —You must feel about 65. Your wrinkles look like a dry riverbed.

  Ouch. Maybe it’s time for a touch-up. This is Hollywood. Appearance outweighs talent every day of the week. I had a doctor who did great work, at a huge discount
, because he was hoping for my endorsement.

  “Thank you all for your feedback, let’s get back to the game, please.”

  —AN EZ CHAIR.

  “Depends on how soft the leather is. And if it has that automatic footrest. Don’t want to get Mr. Winky caught in there.”

  —would you do a carrot?

  “Yes. I can take as well as I give.”

  —a shoe.

  “Gesundheit. Get it? A shoe? Heh heh. I’m funny. But, for reals, I don’t have a foot fetish, but I’d make like a cobbler and nail a shoe. Would have to be a size nine and a half or larger, though.”

  —Plastic.

  “Gotta be more specific, folks. A plastic bag? Plastic bottle? Plastic doll? A plastic cactus? Word to the wise; don’t do a cactus unless you’ve had practice. You might feel a big prick.”

  —I’m talking about the one in the news. The one who is making all of the beautiful people into uggos.

  Oh… shit. That was hitting too close.

  I squinted at the commenter’s handle.

  Plastic33314.

  The numbers were a Hollywood zip code.

  Could it really be him?

  I’d had crazies tune in to the live webstream before, but never one I was actually chasing.

  This guy for real, or fake?

  “Are you the Plastic in the news?”

  —I am.

  “I’ve talked about the Plastic case on this show. Plus it’s well-known that I’ve been hired by a group of his victims to find him. How do I know it is really you?”

  —I just unleashed my latest creation earlier today. You’ll see her in the news.

  “What did you do to her?”

  —A surprise. If Ringling Bros is hiring, she’ll ace the audition.

  I switched to the wider camera, then leaned back in my seat and clasped my fingers behind my head to so how unafraid I was.

  “For my fans who are wondering what’s going on right now, Plastic33314 is claiming to be the whackjob who has been terrorizing LaLaLand for over a year. He abducts attractive people and disfigures them. If any of my hacker friends are watching, see if you can trace him.”

  —You think I’d go on a public forum without a VPN? You try to trace me, it’ll tell you I’m in Germany. But I’m right here in LA. Closer than you think, Harry.

  So many thoughts flashed through my brain pan.

  I thought of Jack, asleep in the other room, dreaming Vicodin dreams.

  I thought of Samantha, sleeping in an inflatable bed next to her.

  I thought of Consuela, who didn’t sleep because she was like a Puerto Rican Terminator, always on guard, but if anything happened to her I’d feel terrible, because it was a nightmare to get good help.

  I thought of Harry Jr., his whore of a mother coming tomorrow to drop him off.

  I thought of Harry’s whore of a mother, and tried to remember the last time she gave me sloppy head, because I really like sloppy head.

  I thought of Martin, a kid I knew in high school that I loaned ten bucks to, and he never paid me back, and that always bugged me because, c’mon man, you gotta pay back your loans you piece of shit.

  I thought of The Goonies. Good movie. Overrated, though. Nostalgia isn’t a good substitute for solid storytelling.

  —Are you reading this, Harry? You look like you spaced out.

  “I’m not the spaced-out one, weirdopants. If you know so much about me, why don’t you come over right now? I got something big and hard for you to munch on.”

  I picked up my Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum and cocked it in a dramatic fashion.

  “And after you’re done blowing me, I’ll shoot you with this. Does that answer your question, pinhead? I’d tap that ass, and my Magnum gets sloppy seconds.”

  —I have something special planned for you, Harry. Soon.

  Then Plastic33314 left the chat room.

  “Well… that was cryptic and dramatic. And we’re also out of time. Feel free to chat among yourselves, and be sure to tell all of your friends on social media that the most action on the Interwebs is at my webcast, Private Dick Live and Streaming In Your Face. Until next time, I’m your BFF, Harry McGlade.”

  I killed the cameras and then tried to shake off the dread I was feeling.

  But the dread didn’t shake off.

  So I fished out my cell phone and called a buddy in Wichita.

  “This is Jamal.”

  “Jamal! It’s Harry McGlade. How’s things?”

  “Slow. Fear-mongering is at an all-time low, so no one wants custom stuff. My talents are going to waste.”

  “Well, your luck has changed. I’ve got an order for you.”

  “Got an aramid preference? Kevlar? Dyeenma?”

  “I’m not looking for a vest. I need an exosuit. Female friend of mine, spinal cord injury. Her T11 vertebra.”

  “Compression girdle with motor assist?”

  “Yeah. And extra batteries.”

  “Be expensive.”

  “I’m rich.”

  “What size?”

  I thought of Jack. “I dunno. She’s maybe five foot seven, one forty. What is that, a size sixteen?”

  Jamal chuckled. “When do you need it?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Have to work all night to put it together. Be even more expensive.”

  “As I said. Rich.”

  We discussed a price, and I came out of the deal considerably less rich.

  “I’ll get started on it now, Harry. You need anything for your personal protection? I saw your podcast the other day. Does the vest I made you still fit?”

  “I’m against fat-shaming, Jamal. Unless I’m the one doing it.”

  “I’m just saying, maybe you need a few extra Velcro panels, to cover the overhang.”

  “I’m fine on the vest. But I do need a few mercs. Babysitters, but not afraid to get dirty hands. Experience preferred. Tracking and hacking abilities a plus.”

  “Isn’t there a talent pool in LA?”

  “Not as much as you’d think. Most of them are assholes. You know anyone?”

  “I know lots of people. Got anyone in particular?”

  I gave him a name. “He’s really tall, over six and a half feet, ex-military police. Doesn’t live anywhere, just walks around with the clothes on his back and a really grody toothbrush.”

  “I know him. He’s on a sabbatical. Visiting every state with legal marijuana and trying to find the best pot.”

  “Noble cause. How about this guy I used to know in Florida? Beach bum, salvage expert, lives on a boat he won in a card game.”

  “He’s retired.”

  “I thought he took his retirement one piece at a time.”

  “He hasn’t done anything in over twenty years. I think the retirement is permanent.”

  “Is that genius former NYPD forensics cop still a quadriplegic?”

  “Last I checked.”

  “Damn. Really milking that paralysis. You know that dude in Boston? Ex-boxer, hangs around with a real tough black guy. I like their witty banter.”

  “He doesn’t like yours. Thinks you’re juvenile.”

  “Hurtful, but fair. Know any other pros? How about that girl from Sweden I heard about? Hacker? Has some kind of flying lizard tattoo?”

  “Don’t know if she speaks English.”

  “Too bad. She seemed really emotionally stable. How about that woman in Jersey? Named after some kind of fruit, kinda looks like Katherine Heigl?”

  “She’s not a private eye, or a hacker, or a merc. She’s a skip tracer.”

  “Remind me what that means.”

  “A bail enforcement agent. How would she help out?”

  “I like that tough guy she dates.”

  “Which one?”

  “Why do I have to choose? She never chooses.”

  “Good point.”

  “Hey, how about a character that I can use without paying a fortune in intellectual property rights?”

  I w
aved at the fourth wall. All in the name of fun.

  “I do know a few local folks,” Jamal said. “Ex mercs. One of them knows computers. All of them have military experience.”

  “Any good?”

  “Very good. Two men, and a woman. Kind of a weird backstory, though.”

  Ooooooooooo. Cool.

  “I’m all about weird backstories, Jamal.”

  “One of them owns a giant ground sloth.”

  “I love weird and stupid pets. Aren’t those extinct?”

  “Depends on your ability to suspend disbelief.”

  “I’m all in. Got their number?”

  “I’ll call, see if they’re interested.”

  “I appreciate it. Thanks. And thanks for the suit. You take crypto yet?”

  “No. But you can PayPal me using Friends and Family, so I don’t have to pay the fees.”

  “Sounds good. Keep me in the loop.”

  I hung up and switched my monitor bank to my security camera feed, flipping through cameras.

  Jack and Sam, sleeping.

  Phin lying in bed, awake and smoldering with fierce sexuality.

  Consuela, awake and staring at the television.

  The television was off.

  I shuddered. Creepy female Latinx Terminator.

  I checked the grounds. No one around.

  Checked rooms until I found Waddlebutt and Big Dick. They were in the fifth bedroom. Waddlebutt sat on his nest pile of stones. Big Dick stood at attention.

  Heh heh. Doesn’t ever get old.

  I stood up and headed for my bedroom, wondering if there was anything else I could be doing.

  Plastic knew I was after him. He knew my webcast.

  He had to know where I lived. I didn’t try to hide that. I dug it when weird groupies showed up unannounced, bringing gifts and drugs and wanting to have sex with me.

  So maybe I could be doing more than chasing Plastic.

  Maybe I could lure him to me.

  “I could learn to be bait,” I said to no one. “I’m sure I could master bait.”

  Yeah, sometimes I say jokes to myself.

  That’s how awesome I am.

  Jack wouldn’t like the idea of trying to lure Plastic to me, because I knew Jack loved me like a brother, even though she hid that love with a constant stream of insults and threats.

  I’d have to do this without Jack knowing. Use my genius-level intellect and subterfuge abilities to bring the bad guy to me without my crippled partner knowing I was doing it.