Nobody Move

by Philip Elliott

  Eddie limped past him toward the pickup.

  “Think you’re tough with that big gun, don’t you boy?” the old man said. “In Nam I killed gooks with my bare hands.”

  “Congratulations.”

  Floyd pulled back the tarp, tossed the bag and rifle onto the cargo bed, and slid them inside.

  “Hurry,” he said.

  Sawyer reached the pickup before Eddie and got into the driver’s seat.

  “Your gun,” Eddie said to him.

  Sawyer shook his head. “I’m keeping it.” He shut the door.

  Floyd grabbed the bag off Eddie’s shoulder and threw it onto the cargo bed. Eddie handed Floyd his rifle and went around to the passenger side and got into the middle seat. Floyd came in after him and shut the door. The helicopter was somewhere on their right, sounding closer than before, probably descending.

  “Nicely done, boys,” Sawyer said. He handed the rifle to Floyd and got the wheels of the pickup turning.

  The old man had clambered to his feet. He watched them with defiant fury as they rolled by. “Sons of bitches,” he yelled, raising a fist.

  “Man, that’s one angry cracker,” Floyd said.

  “There any other kind?” Eddie said.

  They drove out of the underpass slowly. The sun hit them like a searchlight, hot and dazzling. Eddie shielded his eyes while they adjusted. The dark blur of the helicopter came into view high above on the right. By now a few more vehicles had driven out of the overpass before them. There was no way the helicopter could know which to pursue, but Eddie held his breath anyway. He was sure it would spot them packed tightly into the front seat, but as they picked up speed and cruised away, the helicopter did not follow; instead it shrank in the wing mirror’s reflection until it was just a buzzing insect.

  “Holy crap, we did it,” he said, breathing at last. “We fucking did it.”

  “It ain’t done till it’s done,” Sawyer said. He switched the radio on.

  A news reporter started speaking: “… but when pressed about the possibility of migrant children suffering lifelong trauma from being separated from their families and, quote, ‘kept in cages,’ the president rejected accusations of systemic racism at the border, claiming that the government is acting in the best interests of the children. In Los Angeles, the search continues for the killers of William Kane and Kaya White. L.A.P.D. discovered the victims buried in Angeles National Forest Wednesday morning after a group of teenagers spotted suspicious activity the night before—”

  Sawyer slapped the radio off and Eddie felt his mood sour, black thoughts of murder returning like a haunting. Dakota’s sister. Jesus Christ.

  “How many people you think we killed today?” he said.

  “Just cops. No real people,” Floyd said.

  “How do you know?”

  “I was just shooting at cops. I assume you was just shooting at cops, too.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Sawyer, what ’bout you? You just shoot at cops today?”

  “Yup.”

  “See? Just cops. No real people. Don’t ask questions like that; what’s done is done.”

  Eddie kept his mouth shut, dreading the news report that would tell him exactly how many more lives he’d taken through his bad decisions—through his own hands.

  Sawyer took them to a secluded parking lot beside the river in East Compton. He killed the engine and the three of them sat in silence.

  “Well, we’re officially bank robbers,” he said.

  Floyd slapped the dash. “We badass motherfuckers is what we are. Shit, I want that stamped on my wallet.”

  Eddie smirked, feeling high as a kite from the rush of it all. “Like De Niro. You were right.”

  “Hell yeah I was right. But I’m Bobby. You the blond with the ponytail.”

  “You mean Val Kilmer,” Eddie said. “Nah, that’s Sawyer.”

  They all laughed.

  Eddie looked around the parking lot. It was empty except for two dumpsters graffitied with gang signs and a black S.U.V. A fence at the back of the lot separated it from the river.

  “You left that here?” he said. “I’m surprised it wasn’t stolen.”

  “This my hood, niggas know better. Besides, it’s not so bad round here no more. Not like when I was a kid.”

  “So we torch the pickup, take the money to Saul in the S.U.V., and Dakota goes free. Right?”

  Their hesitation told him everything.

  “It ain’t that simple,” Floyd said.

  “You’re keeping the money,” Eddie said.

  Floyd and Sawyer glanced at each other.

  “How’d you know?” Floyd said.

  “Two million bucks … a fuckin’ bank … all for that fat fuck? Come on, Floyd, I might be an idiot but I’m not stupid.”

  Floyd nodded slowly. “So you okay with it?”

  “Of course I’m not okay with it. He’s gonna kill her, man! Don’t you care about that?”

  “No, I don’t. That’s the difference between you and me, Eddie. That’s why I will always win.”

  Eddie looked at Sawyer.

  Floyd said, “He don’t care neither. The way it is, Eddie—accept it. You never should have got that girl mixed up in your shit. We giving you a way out.”

  Eddie clenched his jaw, concentrating hard. If he could snatch the rifle out of Floyd’s hands …

  Floyd read his mind: “Before you do something stupid, there’s something you should know. Saul wanted you dead. He hired a guy to do you after the bank and wanted me to make sure it happened and bring him the money. Me and Sawyer made sure that didn’t happen. You should be dead, Eddie. We saved your life.”

  “That slimy piece of shit. I figured he’d want me dead, but I thought he’d do it at the meet.”

  “You’re welcome,” Floyd said.

  “Fuck you!”

  Floyd pressed the rifle against Eddie’s forehead.

  “Don’t make me have to take the life I just saved,” he said. “This what gonna happen: We all gonna step out this truck together. Sawyer sets it on fire, and me and him get in that S.U.V. with these bags so we can give them to my nigga who gonna deposit them into an offshore account while we get the fuck outta this country of racists and rich assholes. I don’t care what you do or where you go, but my advice, from one friend to another—leave California soon as you get out this truck and never return, ’cause sure as the pope shits in the woods Saul will kill you soon as he lay eyes on you. Forget the girl; she was dead the second you dragged her into this.”

  Floyd opened the door and stepped out of the pickup, the rifle pointed at Eddie’s chest. “C’mon.”

  Fuck, there was no way out of this. Eddie opened the door and stepped out of the truck. He stared into Floyd’s eyes. That money was his only chance at saving Dakota and there was no way these two were going to walk away with it while he was breathing. Behind him he heard Sawyer exit the vehicle and shut the door. If he moved fast enough, maybe he could knock Floyd’s gun out of the way in time, hit Floyd hard, and get ready for Sawyer coming at him. It was the only option.

  Floyd narrowed his eyes, the rifle pressed against his shoulder.

  “I don’t like that look you giving me,” he said. “Don’t make me put you down, Eddie. In my mind we still friends and I want it to stay that way.”

  Eddie squeezed his fists. On three he’d lunge. One … two …

  A loud crack boomed across the parking lot and Floyd’s face went blank. Eddie had just enough time to register the dark hole on Floyd’s forehead before Floyd slumped to the ground, the rifle clattering against the pavement.

  Eddie spun to see Sawyer staring open-mouthed. Sawyer met Eddie’s gaze.

  Eddie ducked behind the pickup as Sawyer dived over the hood. The window next to Eddie’s head shattered as another gunshot rang out.

  “Where the fuck’s it coming from?” Eddie said.

  Sawyer crawled toward Floyd and shook the dead man’s shoulders. “Get up! Flo
yd! Get up!”

  Eddie grabbed Sawyer and shoved him against the truck as another shot ricocheted off the pavement.

  “Sawyer! What’s going on?”

  Sawyer searched Eddie’s face like an amnesiac. His vacant expression scared Eddie as much as the shooter.

  “Snap out of it,” Eddie said, shoving him against the vehicle again. “Listen to me: Somebody is shooting at us. Floyd is dead. If we don’t so something quick, we’re gonna be dead too.”

  Sawyer stared at him blankly for a moment until his eyes focused and Eddie felt the presence of the man return.

  A burst of rapid gunfire rattled across the truck, blowing out all the windows. The shooter had switched to what sounded like an uzi. Eddie peeked out behind the pickup. A short man in a white shirt was approaching them from the dumpsters, a submachine gun in his hands.

  Eddie pulled his head out of sight right as the man pulled the trigger and a spray of bullets blew holes in the pavement at Eddie’s feet.

  “We need that gun,” he said, looking at the rifle beside Floyd’s corpse. He stretched out a foot in an attempt to drag it back with his heel. Another spray of bullets and he jerked his foot back.

  Eddie heard the shooter reach the other side of the pickup. He’d have to dive for the gun or die here in a parking lot in East Compton—the worthless-loser end he’d always feared. He swallowed hard and tensed, about to lunge, and heard the shooter lift the tarp on the back of the pickup. The sound of a bag scraping against the cargo bed, then another.

  The money.

  Eddie lunged for the rifle, scraping his palms on the concrete. He spun, bringing up the gun. The shooter was ready for him: he had one bag over his shoulder and the other at his feet, the submachine gun waiting patiently for a target. Eddie felt the bullets before he heard them—like powerful fists pounding on his ribs. He fell onto his back, hot pain roaring through his chest, the wind knocked out of it. His wounded leg burned with fresh agony.

  He squinted through the red haze of pain and saw the shooter—a Latino with a ponytail and blank face—reloading the submachine gun. Eddie rolled out of sight as a blast of bullets riddled the truck. Sawyer ducked his head, almost toppling onto the ground. Through the underside of the truck, Eddie saw the Latino’s ankles and feet approaching, the man about to come around the back and finish them off.

  Eddie aimed at the Latino’s left leg and held his breath. He squeezed the trigger. A bullet tore through the man’s calf muscle, exposing glinting bone. The leg buckled and the Latino let out a high-pitched wail. He hopped behind the bag of cash, which he began to drag backwards, his legs shielded by it.

  Eddie scrambled to his feet and raised the rifle over the truck’s roof. The Latino was ready for him: a hail of bullets slammed into the truck. Eddie ducked. When the shooting ceased, he peered through the glassless windows. The Latino was heading for the fence that led to the river. He fired again and Eddie ducked again, squeezing his eyes shut. When he opened them the Latino had hopped the fence and disappeared down the slope to the water, both bags of cash over his shoulders, the man stronger than he looked.

  Eddie raced after him despite the pain and wheezing breaths, hoping the bulletproof vest had lived up to its name. But his leg slowed him down; the Latino, despite a bullet to the ankle, was gaining distance.

  Eddie tossed the rifle over the fence and jumped, his cut palms stinging as he gripped the metal. He yelled as he swung his wounded leg over the top, and again when he landed on the grass below. The Latino had jumped onto a small, flat motorboat on the river. Eddie scrambled for the rifle as the boat’s engine came to life.

  The boat was skipping down the river by the time Eddie fired. At first, the front of the boat lifted up out of the water as it propelled forward, like a motorcycle doing a wheelie, but gradually it settled down as it got further away, skimming the water like a stone. Eddie emptied the magazine as the boat got smaller, but hit nothing. With one hand on the motor, the Latino had turned his head to watch Eddie as he raced away. Eddie couldn’t make out his face but he’d bet his last lottery ticket the fucker was smiling.

  Sawyer pulled up in the S.U.V. as Eddie hopped back over the fence. The driver-side window came down. Sawyer looked even more pissed than usual.

  “Get in. We’re going after him.”

  Eddie climbed into the S.U.V., the rifle in his hand.

  Sawyer chucked a fresh magazine to him. “Reload it.” He reversed at speed and pulled the handbrake while spinning the steering wheel with his palm. The S.U.V. swung around to face the exit of the parking lot and Sawyer accelerated toward it.

  Eddie switched the magazines. “Who the fuck was that?”

  “Name’s Diego. He’s the hitman supposed to kill you.” Sawyer shook his head, forehead in a crease. “We should have killed him. Then Floyd wouldn’t be …”

  “You met him before?”

  Sawyer raced out of the parking lot onto a street flanked either side by white bungalows with iron bars over the windows.

  “I pretended to be you,” he said. “I wasn’t supposed to be on this job; Saul didn’t want me on it, and he don’t know I’m on it now. So I pretended to be you at the meet with Diego, but he knew right away I ain’t you and took off.”

  “So, what, this guy is fucking Saul over too? Is Saul really that out of touch?”

  “Maybe he ain’t fucking Saul over,” Sawyer said, skidding onto Alondra Boulevard. “I got some questions for Diego when we catch him.”

  Eddie gripped the handle above the door as Sawyer overtook a Toyota. “And how are we gonna do that? He sailed away on a fucking boat.”

  “He’s headed for the ocean, but a small jon boat like that can only go so fast. We can get ahead of him on the seven ten. Runs parallel to the river all the way to the Pacific. We take it the whole way, then turn onto the bridge on Ocean Boulevard toward Long Beach, just before the river opens up. We wait for him on that bridge. We’ll see him coming right for us.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then I’ll shoot him.”

  Eddie wiped his brow, wet as a washboard. The plan might work—if Sawyer drove like the devil.

  Seven breathless minutes later they reached an exit near Ocean Boulevard—a narrow road bordered by concrete barriers. A hatchback ahead slowed them for thirty seconds until they passed beneath the bridge and the barriers on the left side of the road were replaced by a stretch of dirt that led up to the bridge. Sawyer hit the brakes hard, the S.U.V. veering so suddenly onto the dirt that for a moment it seemed it would topple onto its side and send them hurtling into the cages of electrical generators clustered beside it, the river behind them. The S.U.V. was too wide to make it up the dirt track; they’d have to go on foot. They had spotted Diego only once, a few hundred yards ahead of them in Los Cerritos, since he’d taken off in the boat, but Sawyer had seemed certain that they’d passed him at some point after that.

  “How do you know?” Eddie had asked him a couple minutes previous.

  “The speed the boat was movin’ when we saw him—fast for a jon boat, but we’ve been faster.”

  “Why you so sure he’s going to the ocean? He could be keeping the cash for himself and disappearing anywhere.”

  “Nah. Either he’s taking the boat to Venice Beach and it’s a short trip from there to Beverly Hills and Saul, or he’s screwing Saul and taking the money to Mexico. Either way he’s going to the ocean, which means he has to pass under that bridge. Must have planned this from the beginning. The stories I’d heard about him were always extravagant. I figured they were just rumors, until now …”

  Eddie wasn’t so sure, but what was the alternative?

  When the S.U.V. came to a stop in the dirt, Sawyer snatched the rifle from Eddie, threw open the door, and sprinted up the slope toward the bridge, small clouds of dust swirling up behind him. Eddie had never seen anyone move so fast; Sawyer had even left the door of the S.U.V. open. Eddie pushed it shut as he hurried after him as quickly as his pulsating le
g would allow, which was not very quickly at all. Could the boat even make it to the Pacific from the river? Wouldn’t dams block the boat along the way? Ordinarily maybe, but the river was surging from all the recent rain and the boat was flat and narrow. You wouldn’t be able to take a boat very far, however small, from the ocean into the river, but, in these conditions, the other way around wasn’t unthinkable. Diego—Sawyer had told Eddie he was a true pro—had obviously planned this whole thing out in advance; he wasn’t about to get stuck in a dam with two million bucks. Right?

  When Eddie reached the bridge, Sawyer was halfway across it pointing at the river.

  “It’s him!”

  Eddie followed Sawyer’s finger. The black speck of the boat was hopping toward them. But the bridge was close to the water; Diego would surely spot them.

  Eddie reached Sawyer, panting. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Told you we could do it.”

  “Now you have to hit him. And hope the cops don’t show.” Eddie glanced at the rifle in Sawyer’s hands, conscious of the many vehicles passing them in both directions.

  “I was the best shot in my squad in Iraq. I’ll hit him.”

  Sawyer crouched before the knee-height barrier and aimed at the approaching Diego, the rifle pressed securely into his shoulder. Eddie crouched beside him and watched Diego’s face come slowly into view. Even from this distance Eddie saw the guy had a strange look about him—one of a man who doesn’t belong anywhere.

  “You can do it,” Eddie said to Sawyer, not sure he believed it himself. Diego was moving fast, and in less than thirty seconds he’d pass beneath them toward open water, and be gone.

  Sawyer sucked in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “This is for you, Floyd,” he said quietly. For a moment, time seemed to slow almost to a stop and Eddie sensed the beauty of the world that thrummed around him: the river became an opal under the gleam of the sun and the soft breath of the warm wind tickled his ears and the sounds of everything vanished until there was only the surging of the water and the squawk of a bird, and Eddie appreciated his home—his life—in a way he had never allowed himself to. How carelessly he had gambled it all.