by Paul Heatley
“You fuckin’ piece of shit,” Anthony hears. Then he feels spit spatter upon his face.
The voice is familiar. He hears a few other voices. They’re all familiar.
He can’t shake the dizziness. It passed, briefly, when he heard Alejandra cry out, but it has returned. His vision flickers in and out of clarity. Just enough time to see who is here, gathered around them.
The Right Arm Of The Republic. All the elders. Here to deal with him personally.
Michael Wright, Harry Turnbull, Ronald Smith, and Peter ‘Terminator’ Reid. Peter’s brother is not here. Anthony is glad.
Harry kicks him across the face.
“Anthony, Anthony, Anthony.” It’s Michael’s voice. Michael is in charge. Leader and founder of the Right Arm Of The Republic. “You thought we’d never find out, huh?”
Alejandra is struggling. On the road, grit in his mouth, Anthony looks toward her. Peter has her. He holds her by the hair, bats away her hands, bloodied from the crash, while she struggles.
Michael crouches in front of Anthony, obscuring his sight. “Gotta admit, she’s real pretty for a beaner. I can see what made you so weak.”
Anthony takes a lunge, but he falls short. Realizes his arm is bent at a bad angle, that it dangles uselessly, that as it makes contact with the ground, it screams with pain.
Michael laughs at him. “And she’s pregnant, huh? Well, congratulations to you, Mr. Rollins. And here you’ve been hiding her away from us all this time. What’s it been, six months? That sound about right to you, Harry?”
“Far too fuckin’ long, whatever it’s been.”
“That’s true,” Michael says, nodding. “But here’s what really gets in my craw, more than your pregnant spic girlfriend.” He spits. “It’s that you’re a goddamn narc, you piece of shit.”
“We oughtta wrap this up,” Ronald says, out of sight. “This ain’t exactly out of the way. We ain’t been quiet, either.”
Michael waves him off. “Don’t you worry none, my man. We’re coming to the end. Ain’t much more I wanna say to this scumbag. Plenty I wanna show him, though.”
He stands back up, steps aside, so Anthony can see Alejandra and Peter again.
Peter catches his eye, makes sure he’s looking. Makes sure he sees the gun in his hand.
He’s not holding on to Alejandra anymore. Doesn’t have a handful of her hair. She’s lying flat on the road, her face bloodied, like she’s been struck. She lies, prone. Anthony sees her. Sees Peter. Sees the gun.
Peter raises the gun. It’s pointed at her belly. He pulls the trigger.
Anthony screams.
Peter raises the gun higher. He shoots Alejandra through the face.
Anthony screams harder. Screams until his throat burns, until his voice is gone.
Michael gets back in front of him. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “You’re gonna be joining them both real soon. First, we gotta take a little trip.”
“We got the blowtorches ready for you, motherfucker,” Harry says.
Anthony doesn’t look at them. He stares at Alejandra’s motionless body. Sees how the blood runs out of her, into the cracks in the asphalt.
“Pick him up,” Michael says, standing.
Peter and Harry come either side of him. They take an arm, hoist him. As soon as he leaves the road, the throbbing in his skull gets stronger, his stomach lurches. He throws up.
“Get him in the van,” Michael says. “Let’s go crisp our old friend up.”
“Ain’t no friend of mine,” Ronald says, hands balled on hips, spitting.
Anthony is dragged away from Alejandra, across the road, his feet dragging. Then they stop. They freeze. They haven’t reached the van yet, the vehicle that ran him and Alejandra off the road. He can see the van off to the side. They’re nowhere near it yet.
“Shit,” Peter says.
“What we gonna do?” Harry says, addressing Michael.
Anthony doesn’t understand.
Then he hears it. The sirens. Police.
And in the distance, off to his right, back the way they came, through his blurred vision he can see the lights, flashing red and blue, coming this way.
Peter drops him. Pulls out the gun he used to kill Alejandra, tucked back into his waistband. “Let’s waste him right here.”
Michael is looking back down the road. “Ain’t got time – let’s go.”
“The fuck you mean we ain’t got time?” Peter sounds pissed.
“What I said, we ain’t got time.”
“Damn it, I can do it, right here right now.”
“’Cause I wanna see him burn!” Michael says, stepping forward.
Ronald is already back at the van, climbing in behind the wheel. Harry grabs Peter by the arm. “We’ll get him at the hospital. Then we’ll barbecue him like we planned. Now let’s go.”
The sirens are getting louder; the lights are getting brighter.
Peter does as he’s told. He goes to the van with the rest. They turn, leave, speed off down the road, away from the chaos.
Anthony lies down, everything spinning. He feels like he’s going to be sick again. He tries to turn, to find Alejandra. He can’t move. He reaches out for her as the police cars come to a stop, as they get out and run over. Anthony can’t reach her. His arms aren’t long enough. He can’t see her anymore, either, not through the tears.
2
Tom Rollins is a wanted man.
He left his division two months ago. After that mission in Afghanistan, he went AWOL. He’s living off-grid now. This is nothing new to him. He’s had practice with it. He’s good at it.
Currently, he’s in Arizona. Been here a week. Doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be sticking around. He’s in a bar, though he didn’t come in to drink. He’s eating. Sits in a booth at the back, with a sandwich. It’s a Friday night, but this is a quiet place. That’s why he patronizes it. There are four other men inside, the same four in every night he’s been here. None of these regulars sit together. They all sit alone, minding their own business, staring either into their beers or up at the television behind the bar. The bartender absently wipes the counter or a glass, leans against the back and looks up at the television, too.
It plays the news. All it ever plays is the news. The volume is turned up loud so that everyone can hear it. At least one of the old men has a hearing aid.
Tom doesn’t pay it much attention. Glances at it every so often while he chews. It’s reporting on a Texas senator, Seth Goldberg. The report is from earlier in the day, and Tom wonders how many times the regulars have seen it replayed already.
Senator Seth Goldberg is probably in his forties but looks much younger, handsome like a movie star. He’s standing on some steps outside an official-looking building in downtown Dallas. He talks with the reporters about the anti-oil bill he has brought forward, his hope that it will lead to more widespread use of greener, more renewable sources of energy. Tom thinks that if they’re reporting on this Texan in Arizona, then the news about his bill likely has a good chance of going national.
The news cuts elsewhere, to a closed room. To a group of men who strongly oppose his bill. Oil men. Barons and tycoons. Lobbyists. They talk about the economy. They talk about the legacy and the heritage of Texas oil. They accuse Senator Seth Goldberg of trying to put many thousands of hardworking Americans out of their jobs.
The screen cuts back to Goldberg. They have his rebuttal fired up, ready to go, this hypothesis already posited to him by one of the many reporters gathered around him on the steps. He says it’s not about losing jobs, but creating new ones and, more importantly, ensuring the future of our very planet.
It cuts back to the oil lobbyists, but by now, Tom isn’t paying much attention. He’s finishing his sandwich, draining his glass of water. He’ll finish up here; then he’ll go back to his hotel room. He’ll take a look at his map, decide where he’ll go next. He has no destination in mind. It could come down to as much as covering his e
yes and randomly jabbing a finger. Then he’ll get a good night’s sleep and set off in the morning.
Tom has nowhere to be, nowhere to go. For now, he’s just keeping his head low. Moving around. He’s sure that eventually a place will present itself to him where he can settle, if not forever, then at least for a long while.
Of course, things being what they are, he’ll always be wary. Will always be keeping one eye on the entrance and another on the exit. Checking back over his shoulder. Securing every room, every route. Examining every face that passes him for familiarity, whether it be from his past, or a face that just keeps showing up in his present. He has no doubt that the CIA will be looking for him. Monitoring his accounts. Alerts set up on facial-recognition cameras all across the country. The US government will not be willing to let him go so easily. He’s done too much for them. He knows too much. Too many dirty secrets.
He’s not going back. He’d had enough a long time ago. The complaints he levied at Dale and his buddies fell on deaf ears. They were brushed aside, ignored, instantly forgotten. Tom couldn’t forget. All that he’d seen, that he’d heard. All that he’d been powerless to stop. His only regret now is that he didn’t get out sooner.
The door opens to the bar. Tom’s eyes go to it instantly, though he’s subtle about it. Just a quick glance that takes it all in, assesses the three men who come stumbling in.
They get the attention of the regulars, too. They’re young, loud, brash. Drunk. Out on the town, enjoying their Saturday, figuring they’ll come in here, a place they’ve never been before. They’ll check it out, take in the atmosphere, the locale, the ambience. And the prices. They’ll get a good look at the prices.
“Hey, guys, we just stepped into a fuckin’ mausoleum or somethin’?” one of them says, striding through, looking around. He leads the way, strutting like a peacock, his head bobbing back and forth. His buddies laugh at what he says. The three of them all look alike. One of them wears a baseball cap. The only difference between the leader and the other guy not in a cap is that his hair’s brown and the other’s is blond.
They go to the bar, order drinks. The leader keeps looking around the room, at the people present. He double-takes when he sees Tom, zeroes in on him, singling him out as the youngest man present. Tom watches them without looking directly at them, keeps an eye on them. They’re troublemakers. They’ve come in here to be loud and brash, knowing no one will tell them to shut up, knowing they can do as they please.
They get their drinks, but the leader leaves his on the counter, nudges his buddies to follow him, to check him out. He crosses the room, walks toward Tom. Tom is unsurprised.
“You look outta place, man,” the leader says. “You look a little young to be in here.”
Tom runs his tongue around the inside of his mouth, checking the gaps in his teeth for bits of food. Takes his time responding. “Could say the same about you,” he says when he’s done probing.
“We’re just passing through.” The leader tilts his chin at Tom’s empty plate. “Looks like you got yourself comfortable.”
Tom shrugs. “I like it in here. It’s quiet. Usually.”
“Uh-huh. Maybe you like the smell, huh? That it? It stinks of old man in this place.” He twitches his nose, flares his nostrils. Turns to his friend in the cap. “You smell that, don’t you?”
“I sure smell somethin’,” the cap-wearer says. He takes a drink of his beer.
“Smells like body odor and shit,” the blond says.
The leader laughs. “That’s right,” he says. “That’s exactly what it is, man. That’s exactly what that smell is. It’s like they’re all dead inside.” He turns his attention back to Tom. “And that’s a stink you like, huh? You just come on in here, take a seat, and wallow in it, really soak it up. That’s your kind of thing, right?”
He’s trying to goad Tom, to get some kind of reaction out of him. Amusing himself. Tom isn’t interested. Doesn’t want to be drawn into it. “Sure,” he says. “It’s exactly that. Can’t get enough of it.”
The cap-wearer chuckles. “You hear that? He admits it.”
It’s not enough for the leader, though. “I don’t need you to confirm it,” he says. “I already know it, man. I already know you’re the kinda sick fuck gets off on shit like that. I can see it all over your face.”
“Sure,” Tom says. “That must be it.”
The bartender, who has been watching it all, calls over, “Listen, boys, we don’t want any trouble in here.”
The blond turns, jabs a finger toward him. “Man, shut the fuck up.”
“I’m serious, now,” the bartender says. “Just leave him be. He ain’t doing you any harm.”
The cap-wearer turns now. “You didn’t hear him the first time? Shut up, damn it.”
The leader takes a step closer to Tom. “Well?” he says.
Tom sits back, shrugs. “Well what?”
“You ain’t got nothin’ to say?”
“No.”
“No?” The leader is confused, less sure of himself now. This isn’t how he expected things to go. He was expecting belligerence, something he could bounce off, seize upon. Something he can cause trouble with.
“Sounds like you got all the answers.”
“You getting smart with me, man?”
Tom shrugs again.
“What the hell’s this?” The leader imitates him, looking and sounding like a petulant child. This isn’t going how he anticipated. It’s getting out of his control, and now he’s getting riled up.
Tom doesn’t want trouble. Doesn’t want to cause a scene, doesn’t want to draw any unwanted attention toward himself. As much as he’d like to piss the leader off, he doesn’t shrug again. “Just forget about it,” he says. “Just walk away. Forget about it.”
“You trynna tell me what to do?”
“Just giving you a piece of advice.”
“Advice, huh? Now it sounds like you’re trying to threaten me. That what you trying to do?”
Tom looks up at him, looks into his eyes for the first time. “If I was, you’d know about it.”
The leader can’t hold Tom’s gaze. He isn’t so sure of himself anymore. He clears his throat, knowing he can’t look bad in front of his buddies. He shakes it off. Is about to say something else.
Tom can already guess the kind of banalities about to pour out of his mouth. He cuts him off, bored with it now. “I ain’t interested,” he says, his voice low, but loud enough to be heard by the leader, if no one else. “No one else in here is interested, either. So here’s what you’re gonna do – you’re gonna shut your mouth, finish your drink, and get out. If you don’t do that, you’re gonna get hurt.”
The leader hesitates.
“I will break your bones. Do you understand me?” Tom says. “You and your buddies. I could kill you with my bare hands, but I won’t. I’ll just use them to hurt you. Am I clear? Do you understand what I’m saying to you? This is your last warning. Get out of my face.”
“Man, what’s he saying?” the blond says, behind the leader. “I can’t hear a fuckin’ word.”
The cap-wearer drains his beer. “Man, just give the old dude a smack, will ya? This ain’t no fun, I’m getting bored of it.”
Old? Tom is thirty. He’s affronted by this more than anything else.
The leader looks far less sure of himself than he did when he first came into the bar. He can’t back down, though. Not now. He takes strength from the encouragement of his friends, knows that they have his back, that they have the strength in numbers. There are three of them, and only one of Tom.
Fired back up, his former alarm forgotten, he steps closer to Tom. Leans down on the table, gets up in his face. Puts a hand upon his shoulder.
Tom reacts without thinking. Before the leader can say whatever idiotic sentiments he has in his head, Tom grabs the hand upon him, wraps his fingers around the thumb, wrenches it back. It cracks, the thumb snapping. Before the leader can register this pain, be
fore he can cry out, with his other hand Tom grabs him by the back of the head, slams his face down into the table. His nose bursts. He crumples to the floor.
The other two take a step back, caught off guard by the sudden taking out of their fearless leader. They don’t hesitate long, though. The cap-wearer attacks first, swinging his bottle.
Tom is already out of the booth. He ducks it, comes up in front of the blond at the same time he’s raised a leg to kick him away, create some separation. His boot catches the blond in the solar plexus, staggers him, knocks the air from his lungs. While the blond tries to keep his footing, Tom turns, blocks another swing of the cap-wearer’s bottle, then kicks him in the side of the knee, blows it out of joint. The cap-wearer goes down on that leg. As his dislocated knee hits the ground, he screams. Tom twists his arm still clutching at the bottle; his wrist crunches; he drops it. It hits the ground with a thud, rolls away. Before that has happened, Tom has punched him in the jaw, knocked him out.
The blond is behind him, coming up fast. Tom can hear his footsteps, his still ragged breathing. He spins, elbow raised and out, the point of it making contact with the bridge of the blond’s nose. Blood bursts from it. He falls to his knees, then flat on his face.
The three are down.
Tom is instantly filled with regret.
He’s supposed to be keeping a low profile. He shouldn’t be engaging in anything like this. It doesn’t matter that he tried to ignore them. That he gave them every opportunity to just walk away. They didn’t take it, and it came to this. He should have done better. He should have got up and walked away. Walked right out of the bar and back to his hotel.
It’s his father’s fault, really. The advice he ingrained in both Tom and his brother when they were young. Never back down. Never walk away from a fight. Even if you know you’re gonna get your ass kicked, never walk away. Make sure they know they’ve been in a fight. Make sure they know they’re never gonna mess with you again.
It’s so deep in him it’s hard to shake.
