The Last Savage

by Sam Jones

  Hector processed the info. “Who are you after?”

  Billy thought about it. “Bad guys?” he said like a third-grader who didn’t know the correct answer.

  WHACK!

  Hector moved closer. Billy could smell the musky stink of booze on the guy’s breath.

  “Who are you after?” Hector spat.

  Billy winced as a welt began to form on his repeatedly beaten cheek. “You know,” he said, “when I was a kid I always thought all the bad guys looked like Lee Van Cleef—dark, mysterious, intimidating. But I gotta tell you, it sucks to find out that they actually bear a closer resemblance to short-stacked, greasy Oompa-Loompas like you.”

  WHACK!

  Billy fell onto his side. Hector then grabbed him by his collar and pulled him in close, the switchblade in his right hand wavering a little too close to Billy’s right eyeball. “That’s it, maricón,” Hector said with a slight hiss, “Now I take your eyes.”

  “That sucks,” Billy said through a slight haze. “But I think you’re lying.”

  Hector moved the blade closer. “You think so?”

  “I know so. You’re not the first dipshit to make false death threats with me today. Your boss, whoever he is, wants me alive. I think it’s safe to say that your fat ass isn’t going to touch me.”

  Hector pressed the blade against Billy’s cheek. “Fuck you.”

  “No,” Billy said, pressing himself closer to the blade. “Fuck you.”

  Hector tightened his grip on the knife. “Any last requests?”

  “Actually, yeah,” Billy said. “Can you count down from three?”

  Maria was tensing up. She knew what was coming next.

  Hector squinted. Said nothing.

  Billy puttered air through his lips.

  “Fine, I’ll do it: Three…”

  Hector looked to his men with an entertained and perplexed expression, as if the two meatheads would somehow hold the answer for the gringo’s malfunctioning.

  “Two,” Billy counted.

  Hector moved the blade closer, millimeters from Billy’s eyeball as he and his boys shared a laugh.

  “I’m going to cut you up good, gringo.”

  Billy winked.

  “And one starts the shit show…”

  Maria sighed—Billy had said the cue word.

  “God damn it,” she exhaled as she reached into her waistband and produced her Beretta.

  12

  BILLY’S RIGHT HAND slipped free of the cuffs in less than a second. He then grabbed the wrist of Hector’s knife hand with his left hand, and then uppercut Hector under his chin with his right, leaving the pudgy bastard flat on his ass in less than two seconds.

  Hector’s guards were quick, drawing their weapons as soon as Billy’s fist made contact with Hector’s face.

  But it was a fruitless move at the end of the day.

  Maria, right as Billy had said the cue word “shit show,” had cocked her right elbow back, jabbed it in Chico’s throat, and crushed his windpipe with a solid and sickening blow. Chico stumbled backward and away from the action, clutching onto his neck as Maria turned left to face Tito. He raised his weapon in her direction the second Chico took a hit to the neck. Maria, the quicker and better shot, drew down and popped one off in Tito’s chest, followed quickly by both of Hector’s guards before they had a chance to pull out their guns.

  Two shots apiece.

  Milliseconds apart.

  All of the men, save for a choked-up Chico, were completely laid out on the floor.

  Control.

  Billy, still on one knee, looked around with an expression like he just walked into a surprise party. “Good Lord!” he remarked as he looked at each of the bodies, thoroughly impressed with Maria’s speed and reflexes. “You played sports in high school, didn’t you?”

  Maria, not acknowledging Billy’s inquiry, produced his Colt from the back of her pants and rested it on his shoulder. “I believe this is yours.”

  Billy took his Colt, checked the rounds, held a hand to his now-tender face, stood up, and grabbed a disoriented and bewildered Hector by his shirt.

  “Hey, bud. Let’s have a little chat.”

  As he pulled Hector to his feet, Maria moved over to Chico, cowering in a corner near the checkout, his fingers clawing at his throat as he flopped around like a fish out of water, desperately attempting to draw a breath.

  He locked gazes with Maria as he fought to pull in some air, five seconds passing as each heave of his chest became a little shallower.

  After those five seconds had passed, so did Chico.

  Maria exhaled, torn between feeling remorse over taking a life and gratified at the fact that the world now held one less bad guy.

  Billy tucked away his Colt as he straightened the collar on Hector’s suit and brushed the invisible dust off his shoulders, Hector wincing and shaking as he held his hands up in a pathetic defensive posture.

  “Easy,” Billy cooed. “Just calm down. I’m not gonna kill you.”

  Hector held his hands up in surrender. “Look,” he said with a trembling tone. “I’ve got money. I’ve got whatever you want.”

  “Come on, you know that’s not what I’m after. You know that’s not what I need. I need to know who your boss is. I need you to tell me who’s running this whole shebang. I know Castillo is dead. And I want to know who replaced him.”

  Hector alternated his gaze between Billy and Maria.

  “I…I don’t know—”

  Trying to prove that he was just as fast as Maria, Billy grabbed Hector by the back of the neck, pivoted, and smashed the crown of the guy’s head into the Red Dawn poster to his left, glass shattering and the pink neon lights tracing the frame going out with a flicker as Hector fell to the floor.

  “Please!” Hector pleaded as he curled up into the fetal position, blood slowly trickling in a ribbon from the top of his head and onto his white suit. “You said you wouldn’t kill me!”

  “And I won’t,” Billy said as he walked toward Hector. “But I never said I wouldn’t smack the shit out of you.”

  Hector screamed out like a child, “Please! I swear I don’t know who he is! I’ve never seen him before! Never!”

  Maria, fuming, pushed Billy aside, knelt down, and pulled Hector up by his lapels. “That’s bullshit,” she said in Spanish. “You’ve met him. You know him.”

  “I swear to God, I haven’t!”

  “Who is he?”

  “I don’t know!”

  Maria, attention still glued to Hector, gave a sideways glance to Billy. “Billy?”

  “Yo.”

  “Do me a favor?”

  “What’s up?”

  “Kneecap this guy.”

  “Totally.”

  Hector began squirming as Billy pulled out his Colt and disengaged the safety.

  “Please!” Hector pleaded.

  “Talk!” Maria shouted.

  “I’ve never met him! Never! We only speak on the phone!”

  “What’s his name?” Billy chimed in.

  Hector, perspiration from his forehead now mixing with his blood, somehow became even more frightened than he already was. “Please,” he begged. “He’ll kill me.”

  “Do it,” Maria said to Billy.

  Billy aimed the Colt at Hector’s legs.

  “Kruger!” Hector shouted. “He calls himself Simon Kruger! Please, that’s all I know. I swear!”

  As Hector did everything shy of weeping, Maria released him and stood back as Billy lowered his gun.

  “Oh, God,” Hector pleaded softly. “Don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me…”

  As Billy and Maria stared on at the pathetic and portly little man, they could tell by the glazed-over look in his eye that his petitions were no longer meant for them.

  He was terrified ten times over at the fate that now awaited him by a man named Simon Kruger.

  Billy relaxed, moved over to Hector, and got down on one knee.

  “How do we fin
d him?”

  Hector, eyes welled and red and crown coated with blood, turned his head and looked at Billy and said, “He’s already coming after you…”

  The sincerity of the statement and the grave undertones completely unnerved Billy Reese.

  13

  TEN THIRTY P.M. Pacific standard time.

  Inside a tastefully decorated Santa Monica condominium residence, the soothing sounds of Phil Collins’s “Against All Odds” flowed out of the speakers of the strategically set up and finely tuned sound system that had been installed about three weeks prior.

  To his neighbors and his colleagues, Michael Dodgeson was a low-key film producer of several straight-to-video hits that earned him a steady income and a good reputation. He was an easygoing guy in his late thirties who was rarely ever home, so rarely that none of his neighbors ever laid eyes on the guy.

  And that was the point.

  The reality was that Michael Dodgeson was not a real man. The reality was that Michael Dodgson just the name on the lease that the stone-cold murderer who had rented the apartment put down for the rare occasions when he was on the west coast. He was a bad motherfucker who took life just as easily as he accepted the payments for it.

  His real name: Simon Kruger.

  The new head of the Rico Castillo drug empire.

  Despite a collection of scars that covered most of his torso, Kruger was a fairly good-looking and fit man with a close resemblance to the (fairly) unknown actor James Spader. He even spoke in the same kind of cadence Spader himself tended to adhere to. He also had that same intense stare, the same slight cock of his head, and the same foreboding smile masked by a charming and dapper essence. He was slightly more aged and weathered than the young actor, give or take an inch, but it was a pretty close match.

  He was currently in front of the mirror in his bathroom, alternating between smiling and frowning, holding the expressions for several seconds at a time before switching. It was ritual he indulged in every night to stimulate and stretch the muscles and nerves in his face. He’d been doing it for about a year, recommended to him by a doctor when the pain in his face kicked in after his last “checkup.”

  Kruger was a weathered man. A worn man.

  A bad man.

  And he was smart, perhaps smarter than most men should be. At a certain point, Kruger had come to embrace life—more so matters of life and death—as nothing more than mere sport. Existence was a game, and all of life was point scoring, nothing more than tallies on a board. His violent life and violent means to an end had not only assisted in his accrual of notable and lethal skills, but in the development of a primal and vicious view of life itself.

  A knock came on the bathroom door behind him.

  “Kruger,” a serpentine voice called out.

  Kruger turned and opened the door—standing there was a tall blond guy with a crew cut, his pale skin and hair color taking on a kind of ghostly phosphorescence under the track lighting above his head and emphasized even more so by his raven-colored suit. He wasn’t a big guy, but the energy he gave off made him seem like a walking warning sign. Physically, he looked and was built kind of like the singer Sting.

  And, for whatever reason, he was wearing sunglasses at night.

  His name was Mr. Thompson (the only name he was ever called by), and he was well known for his kill count and his lack of sympathy or empathy when he carried out a hit. With each successive person that Mr. Thompson had killed, more of his emotions became depleted—fear, anxiety, guilt. Something happened to the man that caused him to become…void. Despite his unquenchable homicidal tendencies—and a penchant for torturing high-priced call girls for kicks—Mr. Thompson still possessed a sizeable amount of shrewdness and caution that the everyday thug lacked.

  The only aspect to Mr. Thompson’s personality that could be considered remotely human was his obsession with playing music when he went about torturing what he called his “meals.”

  Mr. Thompson valued nothing other than indulgence of the physical senses and pursuing his objective of being the last predator standing, maintaining his living and satisfying the urge to kill by renting out his skill set to the highest bidder. The man who currently retained his services: Simon Kruger.

  For about one hundred K a week.

  “What it is?” Kruger asked after Mr. Thompson knocked on the door.

  “There was a problem in Miami,” Mr. Thompson replied. “And Louis Tuttle is here.”

  Kruger was genuinely upset, but it wasn’t the time to let it show.

  He inhaled, held it, and exhaled, heart rate lowered and game face on. “We’ll deal with it after,” he said.

  Kruger adjusted the rolled-up sleeves on his black blazer and double-checked that the gold chain around his neck wasn’t cockeyed before motioning for Mr. Thompson to lead the way.

  They turned right out of the hallway and went into the living room, Mr. Thompson moving toward the door as Kruger moved toward the kitchen. Mr. Thompson straightened his collar and then opened the door to reveal a shorter-statured but nonetheless bulky guy with slicked-back hair and a beard. He was dressed simply—leather jacket, jeans, and a polo shirt.

  His name was Lou Tuttle.

  Former soldier.

  Current criminal.

  “Hey,” he said to Kruger with a tired timbre as he moved inside the condo. “Flight was delayed. Sorry.”

  Kruger entered from the kitchen with a couple of glasses of single malt in his hands. “Lou,” he said, his voice now a half-octave higher. “How’s the world treating you?”

  “Dishing me a good amount of jet lag.” Lou squinted and pointed to the speakers. “Is that Phil Collins?”

  Kruger grinned. “The one and only.”

  Lou rolled his eyes. “Man, fuck Phil Collins…”

  Kruger’s gaze fell to the floor.

  He was disappointed.

  Lou then caught Mr. Thompson throwing looks at him. “Who’s this Swedish-looking bastard?” he said.

  Kruger said, “Louis Tuttle, this is Mr. Thompson.”

  “Oh,” Lou said. “You’re Thompson.”

  He extended his hand.

  Mr. Thompson walked in the opposite direction toward the kitchen.

  “Okay then,” Lou said as he withdrew the proposed handshake, “to each his own…”

  Kruger motioned to the living room. “Please. Take a seat. Give me the updates. Tell me what’s new in the land of Lou.”

  Lou took one last look at Mr. Thompson. Worried. “Right…anyway. Everything overseas went great. It’s all done.”

  “How was Salazar?”

  “Good. I think the old man likes him. I squared away all the questions he had about the transition. They laughed, drank tea and shit. All that good stuff.”

  “That’s fantastic. And the yacht?”

  “It’s tethered at the docks over in Long Beach. I finalized the sale, and you can pick it up whenever you’re ready. Keys will be at the marina.”

  Kruger pat him on the shoulder. “Good man…”

  “And what about my toy?” Mr. Thompson said, chiming in. “Did you give it to your man for safe keeping?”

  Lou looked at the sunglasses-sporting specter and felt a shudder when he locked eyes with him and heard the word “toy.”

  Lou swallowed and said, “Yeah. I took it over there. My associate Theo is going to keep an eye on it while you and Kruger finish up. When you’re done, give him a call, and he’ll take your toy to the yacht to be loaded up.”

  Lou produced a slip of paper with a phone number scribbled on it in pen and handed it over—Theo’s digits.

  Mr. Thompson folded the note delicately and placed it in his pocket.

  Lou, well out of his comfort zone with the pasty man, turned back to Kruger and asked, “What about your end? How’s the transportation situation looking?”

  They moved to the couch, Lou popping a squat as Kruger meandered toward the sliding glass door that led outside to his twelfth-story balcony. �
�We squared away the details with some pilots we hired in Miami to transport the goods to Colombia,” he said. “They’re just waiting on payment.”

  “Good,” Lowe said. “So am I.”

  “And ever the patient man you have been,” Kruger said, staring at Lou, eyelids unblinking. “You want your money. That’s why you’re here.”

  Lou clapped his hands together. “That’s why I’m here.”

  Silence.

  No one moved.

  Lou was starting to feel antsy. “Anything else?” he asked. “I assume you got the money in a bag or something I can easily carry with me.”

  Silence.

  Lou was getting irritated.

  “Hey,” he nearly barked at Kruger.

  Kruger blinked, coming out of his trance. “Sorry,” he said. “Could you repeat what you just told me? My mind was elsewhere for a minute. I apologize.”

  Lou said, “My end is done. Salazar is squared away with the dinks overseas, and all the cleaners are lined up to deal with the cash once the product has been delivered. Accounts overseas are ready for deposits, the boat is set up in Long Beach, and your place in Montenegro will be furnished by Friday. That’s everything. Everything. All that’s left now is getting me my money. I don’t want to be here any longer than I need to be…”

  Kruger took a sip of his scotch.

  Milking every second for all it was worth.

  “You’ve always had a hard time knowing when to call it five p.m., Lou,” he said.

  “Fuck yourself,” Lou shot back. “I’ve done my part. Far as I’m concerned, our business relationship has come to an end. I’m out. I just want my damn money.”

  Kruger took a long beat. He just stared at Lou the entire time.

  He said, “I appreciate it, everything you’ve done, Louis. You’ve been an invaluable part of this whole operation. I mean it, really.” He leaned forward. “But you and I both know you’re not leaving here tonight…”

  As Lou went wide eyed and prepared to move for the door, Mr. Thompson had taken out a Sig-Sauer P22 and took aim, Lou’s head perfectly lined up between the sights as Kruger said, “Sit down, Lou. Stay awhile.”

  Calm. Easy.

  Lou slowly slid back onto the couch, bracing the sides and clenching his fists from the stress. “What the hell is this, man?” he said huffing.