Left in the Cold (The Left Series)

by Christian Fletcher

  “Okay, Ducky put your hands down,” I instructed. “This goes without a hitch and you’ll never have to see me again.”

  Ducky nodded and slowly let his arms drop to his sides.

  “How many guys are normally inside that lockup apart from Sweaty Pete?” I asked.

  Ducky thought for a moment. “It’s normally just him inside there. He don’t like other people too much. He does like whiskey though. Oh, and he does have a thing for one of the young girls in the town. I don’t think she likes him much but he always…”

  “Ducky,” I hastily interrupted. “Are there likely to be any more guys in there?”

  “He does have one or two grease monkeys that work in there on the engines. I couldn’t say if they’re in there now or not,” he said.

  “So, in other words, you ‘aint got no clue?” I sighed.

  Ducky shook his head.

  “Okay, let’s go see Sweaty Pete,” I groaned. “You go in there first and I’ll follow you but remember I’ll still be pointing this shooter right at you so don’t try giving out any warning signs. Got it?”

  Ducky gulped then nodded. He shuffled forward and I took up my position behind him, keeping my handgun low but pointed at his lower back. I briefly wondered how the guys were holding up back at the motel and silently prayed all this messing around and time wasting wouldn’t cost them their lives.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Ducky led the way around the corner of the lockup and I stayed close behind him, hoping I wasn’t so near to his back that I looked a little weird. I didn’t know what to expect inside Sweaty Pete’s lair and wished for the best but anticipated the worst. Whatever the outcome, I knew I had to resolve the situation quickly.

  My heart raced and my stomach somersaulted as we drew near to the open doorway. Ducky stepped across the threshold and then stopped moving forward. I came to a halt directly behind him, tightening my grip on the handgun. A combination of stale air, grease, oil, body odor and old piss wafted out from the interior of the dim lockup. Ducky rapped his knuckles against the open metal door. I noticed the normal door was only a part of a larger door, which covered most of the rear wall.

  “Hey, Pete...Pete, are you in there?” Ducky called out.

  I craned my neck to look over Ducky’s shoulder. Two elevator ramps on each side of the oil stained, concrete floor space had beaten up cars raised at head height sitting on top of them. Shelving racks piled with oily engine parts lined the walls and various tools lay scattered between the ramps. A half empty whiskey bottle stood on the floor beside a wooden rocking chair with heavily stained cushions piled on top. The sunlight streamed through the window and shone across the chair positioned a few feet in front of the grimy glass panes.

  “Look, Ducky,” I barked. “There’s nobody here. Just get a set of keys for one of those damn trucks and let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Ducky turned his head with an expression of apprehension on his face. “I don’t know where he keeps the keys. Sorry, man.”

  “Look around you, buddy,” I growled. “There ‘aint too many places he can stash a whole bunch of truck keys, is there?”

  “I guess not,” Ducky muttered, turning back to face the lockup interior.

  “Come on then, Ducky,” I said, hustling the guy forward and further inside the gloomy building. “Let’s get to work.” I closely followed Ducky through the doorway.

  I glanced around but it was difficult to see anything clearly in the gloom except for the stained rocking chair in front of the window.

  “Where the hell would he keep those damn keys?” I groaned.

  I knew every second wasted on searching around could mean another life lost back at the motel. We had to hurry.

  “Hey, man,” Ducky murmured. “Take a look.” He pointed to the lime green colored wall opposite the rocking chair and to the right of the doorway.

  I couldn’t see what he was looking at first then through the gloom I noticed a grimy wooden board hanging halfway up the wall. Several bunches of keys hung on uneven rows of hooks, which were screwed into the board.

  “That’s got to be them,” I said, moving closer to the far wall with a slight spark of enthusiasm firing within me. I ensured I kept the handgun trained on Ducky as I approached the wooden board.

  I reached out and grabbed a key bunch with a blue fob attached. Right at that moment, I heard a toilet flushing from somewhere nearby and slightly to my left. A door creaked open within a shadowy recess I hadn’t noticed before and a heavy set man with a bulging stomach stepped out from the gloom. I swiveled around slightly and the man strode across the room into the sunlight that showed his features more clearly.

  “What in the hell is going on here?” the man yelled. “And just who the flying shit are you, pecker head?” He glared at the keys in my hand and then at the gun. His glower continued on to my face, staring at me with dark, piggy eyes.

  By the look of this man, I guessed he was the fore mentioned Sweaty Pete. He was definitely sweaty, that was an accurate description. Perspiration rolled down his puffy, red face and beads of sweat were visible on the top of his head, standing out in globules between thin strands of dark brown hair. A heavily oil and sweat stained white vest clung to his bulky torso and an ill fitting pair of denims barely stayed up around his waist.

  “You better have a damn good reason for bringing a firearm in here and you better have an even better damn good reason to have a bunch of my truck keys in your filthy, thieving paw,” Sweaty Pete growled.

  His voice sounded gravelly and deeply hoarse, as though he’d been gargling whiskey for a long period of time. His eyes never left mine and I swore the guy didn’t even blink while he stared me down.

  “The Marshall needs some more gas out there in the field, Pete,” Ducky interjected and sounding like he was attempting to back me up.

  Sweaty Pete raised his hand in Ducky’s direction but his glare remained firmly on me.

  “Shut up, Ducky,” Pete snapped. “I didn’t ask you a god damn thing. And if I ‘aint mistaken, this goon here had his pop gun pointed right at you.”

  As far as I could see, Sweaty Pete wasn’t armed in any way but him and Ducky were too far apart to cover both of them with my own handgun. I had to take charge of the situation. But Sweaty Pete was no fool. He read our body language and came to his own conclusion.

  “Well, since the cat got this pecker head’s tongue, I think I can guess what’s going on here,” Pete said, still staring at me. “Did this guy threaten you at gun point, Ducky? Did he force you to bring him here with the intention of stealing one of my trucks?”

  Ducky gulped but didn’t answer. He rocked from side to side with an anxious expression on his face. I knew he wanted to run. He looked as though he didn’t want any part in the situation any longer. I’d have to force the issue before he tried to flee.

  “I need to take this truck,” I said, attempting to sound like I was bossing the whole affair.

  Pete’s eyes narrowed even more. “That ‘aint going to happen, shit head,” he growled.

  Obviously, the trucks were like his children. He was going to protect them no matter what. Sweaty Pete was a stubborn bastard, I’d give him that but he was holding me up. I could almost feel the time ticking away.

  I was stuck in a bad situation. If I pointed my handgun at Sweaty Pete then Ducky was likely to run through the door and out into the open. Sweaty Pete wasn’t going to back down either.

  “Move next to Pete, Ducky,” I instructed, waving the handgun barrel slightly.

  “Don’t do it, Ducky,” Pete barked. “He’ll shoot us both and then get away with all that gas in the truck.”

  Ducky looked even more nervous, caught in two places at once. I felt like I was losing control and had to resolve my dilemma.

  “Shut up, you fat, sweaty bastard,” I spat. “You don’t know shit, asshole.”

  “Fuck you,” Pete retorted.

  Less than a second later, another problem thre
w itself onto my overloaded plate. A skinny man dressed in oil stained, gray coveralls and a red baseball cap appeared in the doorway.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  “Hey, Pete, I saw Betsy in the store and got us some soda, a bottle of whiskey and a couple of…”

  The guy in the gray coveralls stopped talking when he observed the scene in front of him inside the lockup. He dropped the brown paper bag he carried and his mouth hung open in an expression of surprise and shock. The bag hit the floor. Glass shattered and carbonated liquid sprayed in all directions.

  The scenario was completely unexpected and I was stupid enough to momentarily let my guard down. Sweaty Pete took advantage of the chaos and made his move. He lunged forward and grabbed my right wrist. The grip was strong and I felt a crushing pain, causing me to drop the truck keys onto the ground. With his other hand, Sweaty Pete tried to seize the firearm and rip it from my grasp. I couldn’t allow him to take the handgun off me or I was dead.

  I reacted quickly, twisting my body sharply to the left. Sweaty Pete and I lurched sideways and somehow the handgun discharged. The gunshot echoed around the lockup and immediately filled the gloomy room with the stench of cordite. My hand jerked sideways. Somebody yelled, somebody croaked. The expended bullet casing landed on Pete’s forearm and the hot metal seared into his flesh. He emitted a guttural howl and released his grip on my wrist and the firearm, staggering backwards with his face screwed up in pain.

  I took a backward step and flashed a brief glance towards the doorway. The guy in the gray coveralls lay on the floor with his hand clamped to the side of his neck. Blood freely flowed through his fingers, over his clothes and pooled on the concrete beneath him. Ducky stood stock still, wide eyed and open mouthed, with his hands held tightly around each side of his head.

  The guy in the gray coveralls started to shudder and his face turned an ashen gray color. Ducky wailed but Sweaty Pete wasn’t finished yet. He came at me again before I had time to regain any kind of composure. I sidestepped slightly so Pete could only grab hold of my right forearm. We grappled and staggered across the floor space. I caught a whiff of the whiskey on his breath and the stench of his body odor.

  “Go raise the alarm, Ducky,” Sweaty Pete grunted.

  Luckily for me, Ducky was too shocked or too scared to move. He stayed put, rooted to the spot.

  Sweaty Pete tried to spin me round but I countered, shoving him hard and pushing him backwards. He still clung on to me and we both stumbled across the room. Pete stood on a discarded spanner on the floor and the tool skidded away across the concrete. The maneuver was enough for him to lose his footing and he toppled backwards but still held me in his tight grip.

  We both tumbled towards the window in our struggling clinch. Sweaty Pete fell backwards and the back of his head shattered through the glass panes. Thin pieces of the wooden window frame and shards of glass rattled onto the ground outside the lockup. I thrashed my body about, twisting in all directions but Pete still maintained his grip on my arms. His upper body and his head hung out of the smashed window and I noticed blood running from the back of his head. Surely, he couldn’t keep his unyielding hold on me much longer.

  Sweaty Pete was a fighter though and he wasn’t ready to give up the brawl without giving everything he had. He raised his elbow and hooked it around the side of my head, forcing me to bend sideways. I suddenly realized what he was trying to do. A big, spiky piece of glass with a jagged point remained in the frame to the left of my face and level with my left eye. The bastard was attempting to ram my head into the sharp, glass tip and I was only a few inches away from it.

  I tried to move my head back to the right but Sweaty Pete was strong. He gritted his yellow teeth and grunted as he tried to force my face into the glass shard. I couldn’t lift my left hand while Pete held it pinned against his the side of his hip. The pressure mounted and I felt desperation rising within me as my eye edged closer to the gleaming glass point.

  I still held the handgun in my right hand but the barrel was pointing out of the broken window. I couldn’t rearrange my aim as my arm was wedged somewhere between Pete’s armpit and the back of his bicep.

  I was desperate. I had to try some kind of offensive maneuver or I’d be trying to pick a big piece of glass out of my eye. The earlier effect the ejected bullet casing had gave me an idea.

  I fired the handgun, knowing the round wouldn’t hit Sweaty Pete. The expended casing sizzled into his flesh somewhere along his arm. Pete cried out in pain as hot metal seared his skin. His grip loosened only slightly and only momentarily but it was enough.

  I twisted my right hand around and pulled back my wrist. Now the gun barrel was aimed up on the left side of Sweaty Pete’s head. I didn’t waste any time or allow him to recuperate. I fired once. Pete’s head rocked sideways and the right side of his head exploded outwards as the round blasted through his skull. Blood, bone fragments and brain matter showered against the side window frame and broken glass before splattering onto the ground outside the window.

  Sweaty Pete would sweat no more.

  His hands finally went limp and flopped down at his sides. I took a backward step and Sweaty Pete’s lifeless body slid down the wall and he came to rest in a sitting position with his back against the wall beneath the window. The remains of his head lolled in a bloody mess against his right shoulder.

  “Ah! Jesus Christ, man,” Ducky squealed.

  I took a few deep gasps of breath. The enormity of the situation sunk in. I’d just shot dead two guys in their own camp, firing three shots. Somebody someplace around the vicinity must have heard the gunfire. Surely, they’d come to investigate sooner rather than later. I didn’t have any time for rest and recuperation or to hang out around the lockup much longer. I had to get the hell out of there.

  I glanced around the floor and saw the set of truck keys I’d dropped. I moved across the room and scooped up the keys. Ducky remained rooted to the spot staring wide eyed at Sweaty Pete’s corpse. I turned around to take a look out of the broken window. No vehicles or foot patrols of armed guards approached. Not yet anyhow. Perhaps nobody had heard the gunshots and the commotion.

  “Can you drive a truck, Ducky?” I asked.

  Ducky remained silent, his gaze unbroken from the dead bodies below the window and sprawled in the doorway.

  “Ducky?” I barked.

  His head slowly turned to face me. The expression of shock and abject horror was still etched all over his face.

  “Can you drive a fucking truck?”

  He nodded.

  “Okay, well then, let’s get the fuck out of here,” I said, waving him towards the lockup doorway. “You drive.”

  Ducky seemed reluctant to move and I forced him towards the door with a gentle shove. We stepped over the body of the guy in the gray coveralls and out into the sunlight. The hot air of the day smelled sweeter than the stuffy, sweaty rancid stench inside the lockup. We walked to the line of trucks in the parking lot and I handed Ducky the set of keys.

  “Do you know which truck these keys are for?” I asked.

  Ducky nodded and pointed to a six wheeled Mack truck with a big silver cab and a white tanker compartment behind. The vehicle was neatly backed into a space between two bigger trucks. I didn’t have time to change the mode of transport for one of the larger vehicles so the Mack would have to do.

  “Is it full of gas in the tanker?”

  Ducky nodded. “It’s one of the vehicles they moved last night. They normally keep some trucks near the gates and the fence line in case they need to dispatch them in an emergency.”

  “Okay, let’s hurry it up,” I said, hurrying and hustling Ducky towards the cab.

  The truck doors weren’t locked. Ducky clambered into the driver’s seat and I ran around the front of the vehicle and jumped into the passenger seat. The truck smelled surprisingly clean and fresh but the air was extremely hot. I wound down the window but it didn’t help to cool the air.

  I took the
rifle off my back and laid it upright between me and the door. I ensured I kept the handgun not directly pointed at Ducky but ready in case I needed to use it. I couldn’t afford any more close combat situations.

  Ducky turned the ignition key and the engine fired up, rattling noisily through the cab. At least Sweaty Pete had kept his trucks in good working order, even if he was a complete asshole.

  Ducky released the brakes and rolled the truck through the parking lot. The sun glinted through the windshield and we both flipped down the sun visors. We drove along the narrow access road and headed to the main thoroughfare of Lajitas. I was desperate for a smoke and took off my backpack and searched through the contents.

  “Uh, oh!” Ducky muttered. “Now we got trouble.”

  I glanced up and saw a white colored pickup truck heading down the access road towards us. A few guys stood in the back of the open top truck bed, leaning on the top of the cab. All of them carried firearms of various kinds and they were all pointed at our truck.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  “Ah, shit!” Ducky gasped. “What are we gonna do now?”

  It was a reasonable question and one I didn’t have any immediate answer to. I was outnumbered and outgunned but I couldn’t risk stopping the truck.

  “Just keep fucking going,” I growled. “And step on the gas.”

  I figured slowing down would be a bad move. It was time for a little game of ‘chicken.’

  “You serious?” Ducky squawked.

  “Deadly,” I said.

  “Ah, shit in my old boots,” Ducky wailed but did as he was told. Our speed increased and the pickup truck hurtled towards us along the access road.