by Taylor Kole
Scanning the faces, he suspected everyone present harbored an argument for capitulation. Each also possessed stances for the opposite.
“I have a suggestion for you folks,” Justin said cautiously while tapping a thick finger on the pebble-glass table. “But I don’t want to overstep any boundaries. I only want to offer something, and pray you don’t take offense.”
Marci’s lips tightened, her eyes narrowed, but she nodded solemnly.
Justin retrieved a folded Las Vegas Sun newspaper from his lap.
Setting it down as gently as possible didn’t reduce the density of the object hidden between the pages.
Before Justin could unfold the paper, wind rippled the pages open, revealing a pistol.
The black, semi-automatic was smaller than Corey would have imagined, but stout. Its barrel pointed down the center of the table, opposite the pool, a key-lock guarded the trigger.
“It’s not loaded.” Justin assured everyone as he adjusted his body weight. “The trigger guard is locked.” He fished a key from his pocket and placed it on the table. Another set of motions and he returned with two magazines filled with brass-cased bullets.
Corey shook his head in bewilderment.
“It’s a Taurus 9mm. The clips hold eight Hornady critical defense bullets. If you find a man standing in your backyard, point, and pull the trigger. Those rounds will drop him, but flatten against a hard surface, like your back wall, to ensure that you don’t hit your neighbor with a stray bullet.”
Needing to say something, Corey said, “We’re not going home today.” He then inspected Marci.
Her eyes were fixated on the weapon. It rested closest to him, but he wasn’t going to reach for it.
“Like I said,” Justin said. “It’s not loaded, the safety’s on, there’s a trigger guard. I only want to give you the option. The gun laws in this country are growing more complicated, and if you feel the need for greater protection, starting now, I want to help.”
Marci kept her eyes locked on the offering as she extended her arm. She gripped the edge of the paper and tugged the weapon closer. She rotated the corner to where the handle faced her. After a deep breath, she lifted it awkwardly. “It’s heavy.”
“It’ll weigh almost twice as much when loaded, but that’s a good gun. Those are low recoil rounds. The 9mm has some kick, but I can show you a proper grip and stance and give you a crash course in safety in less than an hour.”
“Is this the key for the trigger?”
Justin nodded.
Marci set the gun down and reached for the key with one hand, while digging out her necklace out with the other.
“What’s that say?” Lisa asked.
Marci guided the emblem with her hand until it rested on her palm: two inches across the top, funneling down to a point like an inverted pyramid.
“The top line reads Abracadabra.” Marci leaned closer, giving them a better view.
“Like what magicians say?” Justin asked.
Marci nodded. “This was a gift from one of my first satisfied customers on Oneiromancy.com. She believes dreams carry the potential to harm. This talisman is for protection.”
“Abracadabra, for protection?” Lisa asked.
“Yes. The word derives from the Hebrew, ‘abreg ad habra,’ meaning, ‘strike dead with thy lightning.’ By tiling the letters down, removing the farthest letter from the right with each step, celestial energies are carried toward the heart, or unstuck chakra, to provide protection for the user. The commonplace of magicians calling out ‘abracadabra’ before an incantation is to keep evil from entering our world through the portal opened by the use of magic.”
“I didn’t know that,” Justin said.
Marci unlocked the trigger.
Instead of clasping the necklace and adding the key to her chain, she addressed Lisa.
“Have you ever fired a gun?”
“No.” Lisa leaned closer, and when Marci passed her the weapon, she accepted it. Moving it to a two-handed grip, she pointed the barrel at the ground and said, “This is my first time holding one. My father had guns and my brothers hunted with him, but I always declined. Since moving into a house with two other girls, however, I wished I would have learned the basics.”
“The thing is,” Marci said. “We came here hoping to ask each of you for a favor. I have one for you, and Corey has one for you.” She nodded to each of them in turn.
Glancing at the gun in Lisa’s hand, Justin said, “I’d be honored to help any way I can.”
Addressing Lisa, Marci said, “Can you look after Janey for a couple of days while we go to Chicago?”
Lisa set the gun on the table. “I’d love to have her, and it’s perfect timing. My roommates are spending their summers at home, leaving me alone, so I welcome the company.
Marci smiled. “How about Smokey, too?”
“Sure. Hopefully none of my roomies have cat allergies.”
“Since you will be in charge of protecting Janey while we dig around and potentially anger Walt further.” She slid the gun to Lisa. “Would you mind taking this?”
Lisa swallowed, and then nodded ever so slightly. “It will be another welcome addition to being alone in a big house.”
Facing Justin, Marci added, “With your permission.”
“Whatever helps.”
“Maybe you could show her how to shoot and be safe?”
“Yeah.” To Lisa, Justin added, “We could go to the desert this evening if you want. Fire some rounds. One lesson should get you the hang of it. And if you need help with Janey, we’re here for that too.”
“That’s great,” Marci said. “Corey, you have something to ask Justin?”
Corey leaned forward. “My request is more intrusive.”
Marci crossed her arms.
“You ask,” Justin said, “and we’ll make it happen. We’re soldiers in a war against evil.”
“I like the sound of that,” Lisa said.
“We need to borrow money.” Corey felt hot oil mix with his blood. Justin lived on dimes and quarters so his children could have options and pleasures, but Corey and Marci had nowhere else to turn.
“Money we can do,” Justin said with a slap of his thighs. “Madelin’s tuned-in to our credit score. Always tweaking it. We have some credit cards ain’t ever been used.”
“We need enough for two or three days worth of hotels. After that, we may need to fly to Chicago, pay for lodging. Maybe for an entire week.” Corey licked his lips. “Plus money to consult lawyers.”
Marci jumped in. “We want to do what we can to get Walt off our back. This escalation of his is frightening. We don’t want anyone hurt.”
“It’s no problem,” Justin said. “We have a spare Visa with a ten-thousand dollar limit. One phone call would increase our credit line, if needed. I’ll help a few extra parishioners each month to cover the bills until you’re square.”
“Thank you both,” Marci said.
“Is there anything else?” Justin asked.
“Just keep us in your prayers,” Corey said. “The police can’t help. We can’t give Walt what he wants, and he’s unstable.”
Standing, Lisa grabbed the gun. She pushed the weapon out from her body in a two-handed grip, pointed it at the desert ground.
Corey winced as she closed one eye, and pantomimed firing a round.
THIRTY-THREE
“Be careful ‘bout poppin a tire,” the homeless man said from the back seat.
Walt didn’t respond or turn around. Their passenger smelled like shit. Brown residue stained everything he touched. Walt could tell which way his head faced by the plume of acid breath rolling left and right like dragon’s fire.
Peering at the driver’s seat, where Cooper focused on navigating the off-road terrain, Walt appreciated the man. Cooper had insisted they purchase three, half-inch thick blankets before embarking on the current mission. With the car being a rental, Walt hadn’t seen the point in protecting the upholstery by li
ning the entire back section.
Once the bum stood six feet from the vehicle, where the stench had reached Walt, he understood without Cooper’s precautionary step, they would have been liable for the sedan.
Convincing a street person to accompany them into the desert had been easy.
Murder wasn’t on deck, but having asked zero questions after receiving cash and a promise of more, the high-moron in the back hadn’t known that. He simply climbed in with an affable air like the trio were decade-old friends.
“A lot of stars out tonight, huh?” the homeless man said. His voice had a permanent slur, evidence of his inferiority: his brain failed even the most basic commands.
Glancing in the passenger mirror, Walt’s gut turned at the smears left by the man pressing his head against the glass as he inspected the cosmos.
Their passenger lacked the common sense to roll down his window. Even though every other window and the moon roof gaped open to allow an air flow.
A jounce caused the idiot to grip the edge of Walt’s seat and lean closer. “Careful, guys. You don’t want a flat tire.”
“We have anti-puncture tread,” Cooper replied with disinterest.
“No, you gotta be careful,” Schmitty said. “I’ve seen a tire go pop out here. It’s really loud.”
Cooper made it clear they wouldn’t kill the man, but he wondered if Schmitty’s stupid mouth could talk him into a quick, or drawn out, change of plans.
The Malibu had been bumping along the desert for ten minutes—seven longer than Walt thought necessary. Deferring to Cooper’s expertise, he stayed quiet.
Cooper pointed to a patch of desert identical with the rest and said, “We’ll set up right there.”
Shifting the transmission into park, Cooper addressed the filth. “Go stand in front of the headlights, about twenty feet out.”
“Twenty steps with my feet?”
Walt wished they were planning on murder. Well, part of him did.
“Just walk in front of the car until the headlights are shining on your chest. We’ll be out in a minute.”
“Okay.” The man climbed from the vehicle and obeyed.
What sort of person entered a car with two strangers for one-hundred dollars and a promise of another hundred when done with… whatever.
As Cooper gathered a breath to presumably cover the instructions for tonight one final time, Walt interrupted. “I’m sorry about bailing at the Padesky home.”
His face grew warm at the memory. Prior to the motion lights kicking on, Walt had been ready to wreak havoc. He yearned to see the arrogant couple trembling and huddled together. Regardless of how quickly they cowered, Walt intended to crack the husband across his face with half-strength. Fracture the bone; give him a reminder of who’s in charge. He had fantasized about it for days.
The unexpected glare of floodlights at the Padesky home left him feeling exposed. The dominant thought at that moment had been some neighboring redneck seeing Walt dressed in black, straddling the wall. Seeing a clear criminal, the hick would leap at his chance to legally kill.
Walt believed he heard that probable man jamming shells into a rifle.
Simultaneously, he feared the sudden light signified an elaborate sting, set-up by the police, maybe planned by Cooper. With those jittery thoughts occupying his mind, he soon felt foolish straddling a wall and clutching a metal pipe. Running had been cowardly, but perhaps it saved his life and kept him from jail.
For nearly an hour, he was determined to abandon the entire venture and let the Padesky’s grow their business however they wanted. He’d return to donating to charities and make amends to his family for his recent behavior.
Cooper’s pep talk as they drove back to the motel helped him refocus, a little. A good night’s sleep fully exposed how irresponsible, for humanity, it would be to allow hacks like the Padesky’s to jeopardize a global opportunity. Charities were scams; and his family were baby birds chirping to be fed from his mouth.
“Are you ready for this?” Cooper asked.
Walt belched with his mouth closed, and tasted Mahi Mahi.
“It’s normal to be wound up. That’s what training is all about. Conditioning you to handle the exceptional.”
Walt covered his eyes with one hand and massaged the orbs. Realizing the gesture exposed his nerves, he dropped his arm.
“It’s healthy to be scared, Mr. Zimbardo. When I was training for the Army Rangers, they had an obstacle course where the final impediment killed men. By the time I reached that challenge, I was dog-tired, and exhausted. They allowed me a fright-filled minute before I dropped into a dark pit about ten feet square, ten feet deep, with a wall on one side extending six feet past the rim,
“Three cloaked Rangers stepped to different sides of the pit. It was night, I could only make out their silhouettes, but I knew each held a live grenade. They asked if I was ready. I wasn’t, but I said yeah. All three acted like they were pulling the pin and tossing a grenade in the dark pit with me. Only, one of them actually did.
“Now, I’m eighteen years old. Reaching this point, I had to wait for two others to go. The first time I heard a grenade detonate over that wall, I almost shit myself.”
Walt chuckled once.
“I’m serious, I had to clench my asshole tight. I held it that way for so long, my sphincter ached the next day.
“So I’m in the pit and I hear the grenades thump down behind me. I turn, and the ground is black. I have maybe twelve seconds before I’m dead. I drop down, scramble about, and find the correct nade. When I stand, my whole body is shaking. If I don’t get it over the high wall on the first try, it will drop back in the pit and tear me to shreds.
“If there hadn’t been instructors and fellow soldiers watching, I would have thrown it to the safe zone and quit right then. I promise you, but peer pressure hardens a man. Training builds confidence.” He opened the glove box, twisted off the lid to a pint of whiskey and passed it to Walt. “That’s what this is, Mr. Zimbardo. We’re building your confidence for a real-life mission, that if ordered, will take steel, and when executed properly, will yield the results you deserve.”
Three healthy pulls lent Walt the courage to stare down the idiot in the headlights.
Apparently noticing their faces on him, the idiot smiled half-heartedly, and waved.
Walt appreciated being in the passenger seat. If he was in the driver’s seat, he might shift the car in Drive and run the dipshit down. Yet as he pictured the thud of the body against the hood, the crackling windshield, and a healthy skull caving in as it connected with a speeding vehicle, he swigged twice more.
Cooped patted his knee, accepted the pint, and exited.
Behind the cover of the open trunk, the two men stripped bare. Walt couldn’t help but admire the heavy muscle mass of his counterpart’s chest and thighs, nor the thick, long shaft between his legs. He assumed many dancing girls, or club chicks, hookers, whatever he fucked with that beast loved seeing it unleashed and throbbing hard. Maybe Walt himself would love the feel of it plunged inside of him; thrusting, and pounding, and ramming.
Discovering an urge to reveal his own impressive physique, Walt eyed the interior of the trunk for something to reach for. He would lean and extend, give Cooper a nice shot of his lat, glute, and flexed calf muscle. Unfortunately, Cooper tossed a bundle of gear at his chest, terminating the opportunity.
Nurse scrubs, a doctor’s overcoat, black leather gloves, goggles, and a hospital mask.
Cooper wore the same, but didn’t bother with the mask and kept the eye wear atop his head. “Keep the mask and goggles on. You don’t want his blood to get inside you. He definitely has Hepatitis, probably worse.”
Seeing the men emerging behind the trunk in protective clothing extracted the first hints of concern from the autistic bum.
“Whoa guys. Buds. Where’s my costume?”
Walt stopped at the front quarter panel. His heart raced. His knees trembled. The cowardly section of his
mind started to question the necessity of crossing this line of no return. He ran the show. He could end this.
Cooper’s shadow crossing before the headlight created a distorted warble. He pressed the open pint against Walt’s chest.
Tipping it back, Walt repeated: training equals confidence, training equals confidence, training equals confidence. With the pint almost empty, his blood warmed, his mind cooled, and his eyes narrowed.
“I know it’s not you guys,” Schmitty said loudly as he surveyed the dark sands around him. “But people tell stories about people driving to the desert to kill people.”
Listening to the retard solidified Walt’s commitment to impress his subordinate. A pat on the back spurred Walt to action. He closed the distance while the man babbled.
Schmitty retreated a few paces. “What’s going on, guys?”
The determined rage etched in Walt’s countenance reflected a growing unease in the dim man.
Schmitty raised his hands as Walt neared. “Wait, please. I wanna-”
Walt punched the man with a right-handed haymaker. BOOM, the bitch went down!
“Fuck, yeah!” Walt yelled.
Extending a hand in a halt gesture as the other pushed him up, the idiot said, “I’m sorry. So sorry, man. What did I do?”
Walt struck again, but a defensive hand absorbed much of the force. Walt kicked. Swung. Finally connected a solid foot to the torso as Schmitty attempted to scurry away.
Schmitty rolled to his back and extended his hands, as if navigating a dark room by touch, while mumbling various mercies.
Walt stepped to the side and allowed the car’s bright light to illuminate his work.
Torn between helping him up to knock him back or initiating a kick, Walt embraced his euphoria.
This was the greatest feeling he’d ever had this side of a dream.
Walt bent and extended his hand.
Schmitty examined the offering and Walt’s mask and goggle protected face. Smiling submissively revealed his sad clown mouth was bleeding. Desert sand added a scumbag glitter to his greasy hair. Schmitty rose without wiping his face. “I get it. I get it now.”
