by Rio Youers
“Nobody. No-fucking-body.”
Jimmy stopped walking. There was a row of forklift trucks behind him, open walkway to his left and right. Brody didn’t think he could cross that space without being seen. Molly, however, provided a distraction. She pushed against Jimmy, rolling her head from side to side, flicking her hair into his face. While Jimmy dealt with her—a third sickening pistol whip—Brody crossed the walkway and snuck in behind the forklifts. He paused to let a wagon train of hurt pass through his upper body, then limped into position, rifle raised, eight feet from Jimmy’s back.
A dark thought struck him, though, and he lifted his finger from the trigger. What if he shot Molly, too? With this caliber, at this range, it was entirely possible the bullet would tear through Jimmy and hit Molly’s spine, or her lung, or her heart. Even a headshot, point-blank, could deflect badly. He had to get Molly away from him before pulling the trigger.
“Nobody . . . fucking dogs.”
Brody flipped the rifle around, buttstock forward. One good strike to the back of Jimmy’s sick, bleeding skull would do it. He gasped and blinked through the pain, tightened his grip on the gun.
“Dogs fucking run.”
Brody edged closer.
* * *
Lola still had the rock in her hand. She threw it without thinking, without aiming, a hopeful pitch from the ground. It had little power, but devilish accuracy, hitting Blair beneath the jaw. Blair’s head snapped backward. She reeled—almost tripped over one of the rails. Lola swept with her stronger left leg. Her boot met Blair’s right ankle with a vicious thud.
She swept again . . . and again.
This third strike did it. Blair gave at the knee, then hit the ground. She fired both pistols and sent two bullets to the stars. Lola scrambled to her feet and pounced. She kicked one of the guns from Blair’s grasp—it spun away into the darkness—then dropped a knee onto the damaged side of her rib cage. Blair screamed. It was the first time Lola had heard that sound, and it was wonderful.
Blood trickled from the knife wounds in Lola’s left forearm, her right thigh and hip. There was nothing wrong with her right fist, though. She rained two full-blooded blows into Blair’s face, smashing her cheekbone, breaking her nose. Blair’s mouth gaped for air. She swung the other pistol toward Lola, but Lola batted it away. It toppled from Blair’s hand and rang off the rail.
“Who’s worn out now?” Lola sneered. “Who’s slow?”
Blair twisted and struggled, trying to regain her feet. Lola scooped up a handful of gravel from between the crossties, rammed it into Blair’s open mouth, and looped a punch to the underside of her jaw. Small stones and broken teeth flew.
“Who’s fucking old?”
Lola reached for the gun. Blair—desperately, impossibly—saw an opening. She threw a punch of her own, connecting with Lola’s left forearm. It jarred the wound there, causing Lola to sprawl. Her hand came down several inches from the gun. Blair spat a cloud of grit and got to one knee. She launched a volley of blows born out of pain and the unthinkable notion of defeat. Some connected. Others glanced off Lola’s arms and face. The two women fought their way to their feet, lifted on an upsurge of adrenaline and defiance.
They rose together. They fell together.
Exhausted, hurting . . . Lola dropped to her knees and Blair fell against her. She rolled away, still coughing stones—snatched the last knife from her bandolier and threw it. Lola felt the blade bite through her jacket, into her upper arm, but it didn’t have the velocity to stick. It fell to the ground, small and shiny against the black crosstie.
Lola picked it up.
There wasn’t much on Blair’s face besides blood and pain, but Lola thought, for just a second, she saw something that might be respect. It floated out of Blair’s eyes, a haunted, somewhat childlike expression. Her mouth opened soundlessly. Blood and grayish saliva drizzled down her chin.
Lola threw the knife.
She threw it from her broken childhood, from a box of muted emotions, from twenty-six years of running. She threw it for all of Jimmy’s victims, who were her victims, too. She threw it for her children, and for the uncompromising strip of fire that best defined her soul.
The knife hit Blair in the center of her forehead and plunged to the midpoint of the handle. It went through her skull and into her frontal lobe. Blair first squinted, then opened her eyes as wide as they would go. A rill of blood trickled down the middle of her nose.
“Mizzy Bear,” she said, and almost smiled.
Lola wiped her face and breathed painfully. It took several efforts, but she eventually got to her feet. She looked toward the warehouse—it was eerily still over there—then back at Blair. Such an impressive woman, but too young, too dangerous.
“You gave me one hell of a fight,” Lola said.
“Mizzy Bear.”
A cold breeze howled between the boxcars. The nearby factory clashed and clanged. Blair’s left eye spasmed to one side and she held out her hand. Lola didn’t know what to do with this gesture, and it didn’t matter anyway. Blair dropped her hand a second later and fell down dead.
Lola stepped around her and picked up the .45. She knew what dead was. She’d also known the dead to come back.
“You were the best I ever beat,” she said.
Lola aimed the gun, pulled the trigger once, and blew Blair’s skull wide open.
* * *
Jimmy gesticulated as he made his deranged announcements about dogs running away, waving the pistol between Molly’s skull and anywhere else. A sudden knock to the back of the head could cause him to yank the trigger. Brody had to strike at the right time.
He wasn’t quiet—he wheezed with pain and nervous energy, dragging his body like a heavy sack—but it didn’t matter; Jimmy was lost in his own world, waiting for his nemesis to appear so that he could exact his long-awaited revenge. His white shirt was mapped with blood—continents separated by small bodies of water. He was canted to the right, his weight almost entirely on his good leg.
“Nobody fucks. Dogs run.”
Brody got to within a foot of him. Close enough to smell the blood, the heat, the madness. Tendrils of steam danced from the gap in Jimmy’s scalp.
“They fucking run.”
Not this dog, Brody thought. He waited for Jimmy to lift the pistol from Molly’s head, then he struck. It was a crisp, direct hit. The buttstock met the rear of Jimmy’s skull with a force that sent a recoil-like vibration through Brody’s arms. The sound was appalling—a damp, toe-curling crack. Jimmy wobbled. He fired two shots. Bullets pinged off the warehouse roof.
He was a tough old cat, though, and he didn’t go down. He half turned and Brody hit him again, not as hard, but it was enough. Jimmy fell but took Molly with him.
They landed in a tangle. Molly tried to separate herself, but Jimmy held tight. His eyes were mad fog lights. They flicked every which way, then found Brody and swelled. He aimed the gun and pulled the trigger.
Too close; the bullet scuffed the shoulder of Brody’s jacket. He flinched, then winced—the hole in his side protested at the sudden movement. There was no chance of returning fire, not until Molly was in the clear. She shimmied and fought. Jimmy struggled to hold on to her, still waving the gun in Brody’s direction. Brody took a chance. He lurched forward and smashed the rifle’s buttstock against Jimmy’s injured knee.
Jimmy wailed. His arms flew out to the sides and his body jumped. Another bullet sizzled from his pistol. It skimmed harmlessly away, across the concrete floor. Molly scrambled out of his orbit.
Brody flipped the rifle back around, pulling the buttstock into his shoulder and peering down sights that doubled and swam. Jimmy—the solid old bastard—rose unsteadily to one knee. He leered through his red mask and took two more shots at Brody. The first flashed past Brody’s right ear, hot and loud. The second did nothing. Just a gutless click. The gun was empty.
Brody made a sound deep in his chest—a relieved sob. He limped closer to compens
ate for his uncertain aim. He didn’t want to miss.
“You killed my dad,” he whispered.
“Dogs run away,” Jimmy replied with the matter-of-factness of a four-year-old. His wide, mad eyes flashed.
Brody hooked his finger around the trigger, exerted the slightest pressure, then eased off. Did he really want to kill this man? Jimmy had nothing left, after all. No gun. No mind. Furthermore, did Brody want Molly to witness it—to see him take a life? Something like that would leave a constant shadow. It would scar and harm, and undoubtedly cause a rift in their relationship.
He looked at her. His beautiful, strong sister, always the voice of reason and wisdom. Always his hero.
“Do it,” she said.
Brody did it.
* * *
Three shots, to remove all doubt. The same number of bullets his mom had fired into Jimmy. Brody’s were more decisive, though. One to the center of Jimmy’s chest. One to his throat. One to his head.
Jimmy went down, and down Jimmy stayed.
“No more lives for you,” Brody said.
The Italian Cat was dead.
Brody dropped the rifle and went to Molly. She threw her arms around him and they cried together. He didn’t know if the fight was over, if their mom was still alive, or how they’d deal with the aftermath. The only certainty was that he was in his sister’s arms, and in that moment, that was all he wanted.
Chapter Thirty
Lola still burned, and would until she knew this was over.
She moved as stealthily as she was able, through the rail yard, then along the bullet-ridden line of vehicles on the left side of the gravel track. The only sounds came from elsewhere: the whirr of heavy-duty machinery, a loaded semi bouncing over a potholed road, the bangs and clonks from the factory. She had heard gunshots from the warehouse—and thought she’d heard Jimmy’s voice at one point—but now the silence was complete.
The dead were scattered. Some lay in simple puddles of blood. Others were tangled and broken. Lola had readied herself to find Brody dead—an outcome she’d tried so hard to avoid, even to the point of sacrificing herself. When she saw her truck, though, crumpled against the warehouse’s siding, her apprehension took an even darker turn: not one dead child, but two.
She looked at a row of broken bodies, including the one still under the truck. It wasn’t difficult to piece together what had happened. Molly had returned, fast and furious, and taken out four, maybe five of Jimmy’s guys. Lola recalled the rush of light she’d seen when Blair was standing on her throat, accompanied by a shrill engine sound. She’d wondered if it was death, and it was, but not for her.
Lola checked the truck. Empty. She shifted along the front of the warehouse, and here, tucked into the shadows, was her carryall of guns. She discarded Blair’s .45 and grabbed her Baby Eagle. The fire spread inside her. She thought of the last few shots she’d heard from the warehouse and imagined Jimmy standing over the bodies of her dead children.
She ascended the loading dock steps and slipped through the side door. Silence at first, and then, proceeding toward the main throughway, she heard crying. It sounded like a child.
Not Jimmy.
Lola peeked around the side of a cramped storage rack. Overhead lighting illuminated the front third of the center aisle, and there, huddled where the light ran out, were Brody and Molly.
Jimmy lay several feet away, perfectly still and unquestionably dead.
Lola had never been quick to feel emotion, but she felt something then: a thrilling and immediate jolt to her heart. It staggered and invigorated her. It extinguished the flame. She dropped her gun and moaned, took a dazed step, then broke into a weary, shambling run.
Tears flowed from her eyes. They felt good.
She stopped a little short, thinking she should give them space, give them time. They had been through so much together. They had supported one another, warred, and ultimately triumphed. This was about them, and Lola wasn’t sure that she belonged. She hovered close by, shuffling her feet and blinking the tears away.
Then Molly looked at her through broken eyes. She held out her hand, much like Blair had, but Lola understood this gesture.
A different fire kindled inside her.
Lola went to her children.
* * *
Carver City police were no strangers to violent crime. They put their lives at risk every day, but they knew where to draw the line.
The first reports of “multiple gunshots” at Dynasty Warehousing came in at 21:01. Average police response time in Carver City was sixteen minutes (a skewed average; it was only seven in the white neighborhoods). The first unit could have arrived on scene within this time frame, but was advised to wait for backup; Dynasty Warehousing was Latzo territory. This was gang-related, no doubt about it. Let the bullets fly, then go clean up.
At 21:29, six CCPD patrol cars and two special service vehicles rolled toward Jimmy’s warehouse. A police chopper looped overhead. The news teams would undoubtedly follow.
Sergeant Maya Cornell drove the lead car. She stopped midway along the gravel track, tires throwing up dust. The cruiser’s headlights illuminated the carnage.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” her partner said.
Cornell nodded. “Tell the coroner he’s going to need a bigger boat.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes, give or take, since the final gunshot. Quicker than Lola expected.
“This is the Carver City Police Department. We have all exits covered and eyes in the sky. Lay down your weapons and come out with your hands nice and high.”
“Can you walk?” Lola asked.
“Think so,” Brody replied. “Slowly.”
“I’ll need help,” Molly said. “And I can maybe put one hand nice and high.”
“Good enough,” Lola said. She pushed herself to her feet, took several steps toward the bay door, and called out as clearly as she could: “We hear you and we’re coming out. Two females, one male. We are unarmed and in need of medical attention.”
She helped Brody and Molly to their feet, and the three of them made their way toward the exit, each depending on the other. The light outside was hot and fierce. Lola saw the outlines of multiple police vehicles and officers with assault rifles.
“Think we can take ’em,” Brody whispered.
Lola managed a tired smile. She separated herself from Brody and Molly as they emerged through the exit, raising both hands.
Six officers approached. Two held position in the loading area. Four proceeded up the steps. One of them—Cornell on her name tag, three stripes on her arm—looked at Lola and said, “What the hell happened here?”
“I’ll tell you everything,” Lola said, “from the comfort of my hospital bed.”
Molly stumbled. Brody tried to keep her up, but they both fell to their knees. Cornell nodded. Two of the officers lowered their weapons and stepped forward to help.
A news chopper had joined the CCPD air unit. They thundered overhead. More headlights—more news crews—bounced down the gravel track. One of the cops had broken position to head them off.
Sergeant Cornell looked from the choppers, to the bodies strewn in front of the warehouse, then back to Lola.
“Who are you?” she asked.
Lola shook her head. Too many answers to that question, and they reeled through her mind, each bringing its own flame, its own strength. A lover. A mother. A wife. A granddaughter. A student. A cousin. A friend. A killer. A warrior.
She was all of them. She was every woman.
“My name is Lola Bear,” she said.
Epilogue
Maggie’s Farm
(2020)
Poe was eight years old, a coal-black American saddlebred with a white brushstroke down his nose. He could rack at twenty-four miles an hour but preferred to canter, and that was fine with Molly. She guided him out of the arena, around the chicken coop and goat pen, then onto the field. A dry, used path ran toward the woods. Molly clicked her t
ongue, applied a brief squeeze with her legs, and Poe took his signal. He strode smoothly, his hooves tapping off a three-beat rhythm. Molly moved with him, always in control.
Alfalfa grew on both sides, knee-high and deep green. To the east, beyond Butch Morgan’s fields of swaying corn, three new wind turbines reached into the Nebraska sky. They were a source of excitement and controversy among local famers; one of the first things Molly was asked to do on her arrival at Owlfeather—she was still bandaged and sore—was sign a petition against them. Her signature made no difference. The turbines were installed, and Molly didn’t mind at all. She liked them, in fact, admired their quiet power and majesty. She sometimes rode Poe out there and sat listening to the lazy whoosh of their blades turning. It had a certain calm.
Today, though, she rode west, around the three-acre splash of woodland, to Assumption Creek, where Poe drank noisily. Deer watched from the opposite bank with their ears twitching. Molly kicked her heels and got moving again. She followed the creek to the ruins of the Church of the Resurrection, struck by a tornado in 2007 and yet to be resurrected. Old timbers angled toward the sky. Musk thistle grew among the pews. Beyond this the land rose modestly, then dropped away, and here the view was complete. No wind turbines or tumbledown churches. Nothing man-made for miles. Only green, steady earth and a broad strip of river, almost gold in the late sunlight.
* * *
She patted Poe’s crest. “Good boy.” He snorted appreciatively and switched his tail. Crickets hummed in the long grass, and that, for a time, was the only sound. Molly watched the river roll and lost herself to thought. She remembered Rebel Point, the police sirens, the neighbors constantly at odds, the thin curtain that separated her private space from Brody’s.
She was so far from that now, literally and figuratively. Sometimes that distance took her breath away.
Poe’s ears flicked, alerted to a sound from behind them that Molly, in her reverie, heard late. She turned and watched another horse canter around the church ruins. Autumn, a bay Arabian, and frequently feisty. Her rider was broad in the shoulders, wore a short beard and a white cowboy hat—a visual change indicative of the great distance that he, too, had traveled.
