A Long Ride

by Henry Roi

  “I'll go over the roof and drop down on the first targets I find. Phong will send the cannon fodder first, not his best.” I pointed at Big Guns. “Go out the front of Emotion Art. There's a concrete pillar by the entrance. I'll meet you there.”

  Got it, he grunted.

  Big Guns stood to go. Shocker grabbed him. “Give me one.” He handed her a gun. She eyed it like a veteran marksman, then looked at me and said, “I'll cover you.”

  Blondie made sure everyone had their helmets turned on, Anh Long and Crystal the only ones without. She told me, “You're going for the Bronco, aren't you.”

  I grinned in answer, then turned to the geek. “Ace, they'll chase us around back. When they do make a break for your car. Meet us at the end of the building. Get Anh Long and Crystal out of the Dumpster. Hide them.”

  “I can do that,” he said. He licked his lips nervously and closed his face shield.

  Anh Long sighed heavily. Crystal's eyes widened. She moaned, “Dumpster? You're putting me in garbage???” She began to sob. Bobby rubbed her back in a soothing gesture.

  Shoes crunched glass in the front room. Big Guns was on point, already moving through the hall. He ducked through the door to Emotion Art, then swung back out a moment later and dropped a tall, slim Asian thug creeping over the front desk, coming in the busted window with an SKS aimed at the hall. Big Guns' .45 roared once, incredibly loud in the small space. The target tumbled to the floor in serious pain. The sound wave hadn't fully dissipated before I yelled “Go!” and began shoving everyone into the tiny room behind the bar, lining them up between two tables holding eight Draganflies. We heard Big Guns' arrival out front, gun blazing, giving our enemies second thoughts about sending anyone else in from that direction.

  How many are out there? I wondered. Out back?

  EXIT was stenciled on the black steel service door. I hit the push bar, opening it, ducking. Bullets immediately pelted it from both sides, ricocheting wildly before the door slammed shut.

  “Ooh, good plan Mister President,” Shocker said, crouched like a leather encased spring of muscle next to me. She smacked my shoulder. “You do realize this is going to sting like a biatch, right? I've seen better planning form my twelve year old son.”

  I looked at her. “I didn't say it was a plan.” I steeled myself, preparing to sprint out into the hail of bullets. “I said it was a challenge.”

  I swung the door, flung myself out and to the right, cringing furiously as my sack flared ungodly pain. “Not a running suit,” I breathed. A slug hit me in the left shoulder pad as four gangsters stood from behind wooden pallets and tried to murder me. I stumbled at the numbing blow, started zigzagging. Shocker screamed behind me, door crashing open, and let loose, the Smith & Wesson booming potential death at the ducking, cursing enemy. She dipped back inside, their shots thudding into the door she just barely closed in time.

  Fifty yards away I leapt into an open Dumpster, crushing office trash, happy it wasn't refuse from the deli. I wallowed around in the sluggish mess, wincing as someone emptied their clip into my hiding place, thick steel sides buzzing my helmet with concussions that blurred my vision intensely. The assault stopped, and I sensed my attackers were attempting to get in better position to shoot inside the Dumpster.

  “Lovely,” I growled. Pain began to throb in my shoulder as the numbness wore off. Luckily the round hadn't penetrated. The motorcycle racing suit had layers of leather and carbon fiber to protect skin from asphalt at high speeds. Blondie's addition of a Kevlar layer made the suits resistant to small arms fire, with thick pads that could stop rifle rounds, though they were by no means bruise resistant.

  Four years ago we needed these suits for a job we knew would get us shot. It did. Her suits protected us, excepting a fractured metacarpal I sustained as slugs rearranged 'Zuki's face and crushed my left hand. Kevlar pads were inserted in the forearms, elbows, shoulders, chest and back as extra protection. Ditto the legs. Still no gloves, my hand ached.

  “Dummy,” Robot Blondie said in my helmet. Then, “You there… you okay….”

  I pressed the transmit button under the chin and thought-sent, Okay… going to push the… front of the door… hook… to the truck… I drive around…

  “Okay.”

  I climbed over the side quickly, but not quicker than the round that found my helmet as the killers opened up. The SKS projectile rammed into my helmet, head darting to the side unexpectedly, tearing something in my neck that burned alarmingly. I couldn't stop myself from collapsing, body following head to the ground. Gritting my teeth, I tried to make my eyes focus. That shit hurt. “Uh. Ow.” I felt the side of the helmet. It wasn't a glancing blow. It was a direct hit, a small section flaked away, though it wasn't cracked. The street and building in sharp focus again, I got my feet under me, muttering, “Now I know what a punch from George Foreman feels like.”

  Shots rang from over the roof. People were still screaming and racing out of the plaza. I grinned. Big Guns was giving them fits. He was a master of urban warfare, having been in gang battles - having trained for gang battles - all his life. So I wasn't worried about him.

  Clock was ticking to the ring of his emptying clips. I had to get into position before he ran out.

  “I have three…left…” Robot Blondie informed the team.

  That's Shocker, I realized. Weird. I sent, Okay…going over now… and wondered how strange it was for her to hear Blondie's voice coming from me.

  The four Viet gangsters had turned into six. As I studied their bold walks with no cover I was sure they were 211 and OBG, not Diep's elite boys. But that didn't mean they lacked for hardware and ammunition. The pavement on both sides of the Dumpster spat rocks as a renewed assault pockmarked the surface, 7.62mm slugs rebounding off the building, into the lot of the lawn and garden store on the other side of the chain-link fence. They were trying to pin me down, keep me in this spot so they could get close enough for clear shots.

  A child's frightened, excited squeal made me look left, at the nail salon. Someone had cracked open the service exit. Huddled by the gap were two girls younger than ten, and a boy of about fifteen stood behind them. Kids of the owners, a Mexican couple that did great nails and were teaching the trade to their progeny. They must have gone to lunch, leaving the eldest to sit the girls.

  I looked at the boy, opened my face shield and shouted, “What's wrong with you, kid?! Get back inside!” I pointed harshly and he slowly closed the door. “Goddamn kids.” I slammed the face shield.

  Beside each of the eight doors were large pipes that drained water from the roof gutters. Next to the pipes were sections of concrete ribs that stuck out to support the building's structure. I darted behind the nearest one, spray of bullets following, pinging away chunks of the pavement and rib, wall. I looked up. The roof was only twelve feet, though it looked like Mount Everest at this point in my fun filled day.

  I grabbed the pipe, stuck a boot on the rib, the other on the wall, and pushed hard, pulling with my arms. My shoulder protested, but I went up easily enough, hand over hand, baby walking quickly. My helmet broached the summit, sighting the flat roof topped with bright white paint. Put one arm over to pull myself up-

  And half a dozen slugs tore into the Kevlar pads in my back, knocking me around spasmodically, dislodging my grip. “Mother-fuck,” I gasped as that tramp Gravity snatched me back to the pavement.

  My boots, butt, back and helmet hit in split-second succession, ankles, knees and injured calf tingle-burning with trauma. I managed not to waste time yelling, rolled in time to gain cover behind my big blue pal once more. Their rifle fire peppered the Dumpster. A ricochet came off the building wall and hit me in the side. It knocked dust from my ass and wind from my lungs.

  Diaphragm locked up, lungs refusing to work, black swirls invaded my helmet, and my hearing dulled severely. Distantly I heard Shocker's crazed battle cry and her remaining bullets boom before the boutique's door crashed shut, return fire thundering into it. />
  “Razor,” Robot Blondie said amidst black swirls. “You okay…you take too long.”

  “Stop nagging,” I hiccupped painfully. I pressed the send button. “Okay…hang on…” Groaned and got up. ** “Nag, nag, nag. Always when I take too long. I like the exclamation point better,” I mimicked my girl. “The sunflowers took too long.” I winced out a breath. “I'll nag her blonde pubbies for that.”

  I looked left, moved and took a quick glance around. Two Asian dudes that didn't look old enough to drink yet crept along the fence, one behind the other, SKSs held in wary hands. The thug in the lead reached back and pulled up his sagging pants, then waved for his associate to go around the other side of my hiding place so they could encircle me.

  I looked up and cursed the Odds. “Bitch.” Then took off my helmet, the only thing I had to use as a weapon. Another glance. Right as they began to part I jumped out and slung the helmet at them as hard as I could, a roaring big alpha wolf, running in to rip and shred my prey.

  They jerked their guns up and fired, aim way off because their eyes were distracted by the large black projectile coming at them. The helmet thunked into the face of the one in the rear, a single bullet nicking my arm before I closed the distance. “GET SOME!” I bellowed, propelling all my speed and weight behind a straight-right that hit the lead guy so hard his ancestors overseas felt it. Skin smacked open, eye orbit crumbling under my knuckles. He spun sideways into his buddy and collapsed, unperceiving head hitting the ground with a wet, hollow, dropped-melon thud.

  Without stopping to pose I kept the momentum flowing and lunged at the second target, slapping aside the barrel of his rifle as he fired point blank at my stomach. The round took a plug of leather out of the suit, scoring a white hot trench across my abs. A right-hand, left-hook flashed and ended any thoughts he had of stopping me.

  I had an urge to drop down on all fours and feast on my prey, teeth bared, slavering. I resisted it, dropping down instead to grab a rifle, having just enough time to throw myself behind a rib on the building. The remaining four gangsters emptied fresh clips at my back as soon as I moved away from their wounded comrades.

  A round that hit inches from my leg sprayed me with fine particles of concrete, deflecting and sinking into the gut of the first guy I had punched. A portion of his consciousness had awakened, instinct making him moan a high-pitched wounded animal noise that conjured terrible feelings in my stomach, spreading to wobble my legs. I didn't mind hurting idiots like him, but the depth of suffering he just voiced was on a level I had no intention of inflicting.

  Someone shouted, “Ngung!” stop, and the fusillade ceased, cracking echoes fading toward the distant police sirens.

  I still have time, I hoped. I had a rifle. These ignoramuses won't approach me so boldly now. I glanced at the nail salon. The door was open again. Perfect. The same curious faces peered out with their too big eyes. I shook my head, slid along the wall, and glared at the boy. “¡Estupido muchacho!” stupid kid. “You trying to get your hermanas hurt?”

  He shook his head, slowly closed the door.

  I waved frantically. “Wait! Esperas y veras.”

  He eased the door back open.

  I said, “Will you help me?”

  He shook his head.

  I smiled a little. “I'll give you a hundred dollars.”

  He matched my smirk of greed. He nodded.

  I patted my pockets, realizing my cash was in my jeans, no time to dig it out. I said, “I can pay you later. I'm good for it.”

  His black hair shook. His large eyes darkened as the door slowly closed.

  “¡Espera! Hold on, muchacho.” I looked around, saw the enemy were still behind the stack of pallets, looked at the unconscious thugs, at the gun lying next to them. I told the boy, “You see that SKS?”

  Yes, he nodded with keen interest.

  “You can have it, and any cash they have on them. Grab it when they chase me.”

  He gave me an exasperated look, That was going to be mine, anyway. Then he shrugged and nodded.

  “I'd make a good dad,” I muttered. “My ass.”

  The rifle had a shoulder strap. I slung it over my head and arm, then had the boy give me a boost, boot pushing off his interlaced hands, climbing on top of the door. As soon as I was up the goons fired at me again. “Inside muchachos!” I yelled, stretching and pulling myself onto the roof, rolling away from the edge.

  Without the helmet I couldn't know the status of my crew. The shout in Vietnamese to shoot the boutique door's lock and the sudden increase in iron hail out front told me all I needed, however. “I'm taking too long,” I nagged myself.

  Standing, I sprinted to the front, ducked down next to a huge heat pump, the square of metal covering me while allowing a view of the parking lot. Men crouched between rows of cars, guns over fenders and roofs. I sensed they weren't very enthusiastic about going through the notorious Big Guns to get inside. His reputation was holding them at bay as much as his chrome .45.

  I pulled the SKS over my head, dark wooden stock warm and oily, shouldered it and sighted through the small scope while propping the weapon on its 30-round clip. The crosshairs centered on a target about to break cover of the parked cars and rush the pillar my friend hid behind. The thug was magnified 10X, black hair sweating with anxiety in the cool air. He had protruding cheekbones and a clearly defined grim, cruel mouth. I sighted on his arm that held a large pistol. Squeezed the trigger gently…

  The rifle bucked with a sharp explosion, the bullet flew true, striking the target as if an 800lb. Himalayan mountain goat had kicked him into the Nissan he crumpled against, pistol clattering, sliding under the car. He shouted like it really hurt, holding a busted arm tightly to his chest.

  His brothers called out to him in panicked Vietnamese, getting wails of anguish in response. It's been a while since I've shot a rifle. I used to have one just like this. “Hmm,” I said thoughtfully, looking through the scope at my work. “Like shooting the branches off a tree.”

  I swung the barrel to the right, spotting Phong, the 211 leader and Tiger Society underboss. His square jaw was stuck over the trunk of a sedan, angry slitted eyes directed right at me. From his relatively safe position he snapped orders to the men in the very front, near the street. One of them argued with his boss momentarily, but was quickly shamed into following two others that rushed the sidewalk while their brothers provided cover fire.

  Thwack-thwack-thwack-thwack! Bullets thundered into the heat pump inches from my head, thick, supersonic, kinetic death.

  “DamndamndamnFUCK!” I yelled, voice lost in the dissonance, crawling backwards before any slugs penetrated. Slid quickly to get behind another pump, mind racing.

  I knew Big Guns was close to zero on ammo, and wouldn't leave his spot as long as our people were inside. Knowing I had to get on the ground and help him, this instant, I did the only thing I could do.

  I stood and leapt off the roof with a Tarzan yell.

  Boots-butt-back-head. That shit hurt much worse without a helmet. “Uh. Ow.” I scrambled to my feet.

  The ape man jump had stunned our opposition long enough to roll upright and fire wild shots in their direction. Windows and headlights burst, hoods spouted holes loudly. The trio of cannon fodder abruptly had a change of heart, spinning with scared shrieks and lurching back to the parking slots.

  “Du ma! Bout time, you round-eyed bastard,” Big Guns said as I lunged onto the sidewalk, ducked next to him behind the wide pillar. He took the rifle. Detached the magazine and hefted it in his thick, stubby hand, unable to see how many rounds were left. “Sixteen,” he grunted.

  I groaned as awareness came to my injuries. Tapped my feet to make them quit tingling so painfully. Two twelve foot drops back to back… Man. There goes half the cartilage in my legs.

  With an ugly grimace l looked over to the other building in the plaza, to the spot I had to run to in what I knew would be eighty yards of testicle smashing joy. I showed my friend eyes bu
gging with dread.

  “What?” He reattached the clip.

  I sighed. “The good news is Blondie won't be able to make me give her a kid after this.”

  “Huh?”

  “Nevermind.” I pointed. “I'm going for Broncostein.”

  He looked across the parking area, at the front of the machine shop that sat at a right angle with the end of Blondie's building. A green and white '67 Ford Bronco 4x4 loomed over the vehicles around it, the knobbies on the 44” Super Swamper Boggers nearly visible from here. The windshield said “BRONCOSTEIN” in tall green letters, with decaled veins and straining neck muscles connecting to the B and N, gold electrodes sticking out. He grunted. “I thought old man Tiblier said you couldn't drive it.”

  “That is correct.” I cracked my knuckles then said a bit defensively, “But that was when I wanted to drive it over a car. Like Big Foot. And Tiblier's a dick, so fuck him.”

  Grunt, Sure. “I got you. Di di!” go.

  He dropped to one knee, turned around the pillar and fired once, twice, while I tried my damnedest to burn the soles off my Rockports, sprinting down the walk, across the drive and into the parking area. Ducked below the vehicles' rooflines, trying to maintain a good speed, a Silverado and Camry taking shots from Phong and his lieutenants. Shoppers squealed and yelled caution from huddled positions in the stores. Three sets of saucer plate eyes followed me as I passed a family hiding in a Tahoe.

  Broncostein's tires came up to just below my chest. I slid to a stop behind the monster truck. An ABC Auto Salvage sticker on the rear bumper suddenly dented, ricocheting a round that whined off towards Pass Road traffic. Scrambling under the jacked up Ford, I ducked around a tire, under the rear axle, popped up on the driver's side and opened the door. Pulled myself up the seven feet to the pilot's chair. Shut it, and surveyed the scene from my elevated position.

  Broncostein's 460 CID big block was a work of art. Originally built for drag racing by a local junkyard king and master mechanic named K.W. Cook, the high-end engine held a special place in the heart of the machine shop owner; old man Tiblier was serious business when it came to 4-wheeling. I knew of K.W.'s work because my mentor used to race against him at Gulfport Dragway years ago. Few builders could claim to be his equal, and I felt privileged to spin this engine over.