The Hard Core

by Allen Manning

  He looked at the screen for a second, the number vaguely familiar. A heartbeat later, recognition filled in the blanks. Andre Lawrence, a Detroit outlaw. A man with promise that took a path which set him at odds with the law. Andre and Chance were childhood friends. But that was a different life.

  “Andre, if you’re not calling to turn yourself in, I’m just going to hang up.”

  “Same old Chance. I’m just calling to see how you’ve been doing since I saved your life last year?” Andre said.

  “We’re even. You know that.” Chance stepped out of the precinct. “How’s the trap house? Where should I pick you up to bring you back to the station?”

  Andre laughed on the other end. “Hey, I’m calling as a concerned citizen.”

  “You ratting out your neighbors, so Detroit’s finest can take down your competition?” Chance asked.

  “Just listen. Word on the street is that there’s a bounty on some dude named Roland Forrester.”

  Hearing about the bounty brought memories of the last time he crossed paths with Andre Lawrence. When Lawrence put a hit on Chance almost a year ago.

  “Who is that?” Chance asked. “And why would you be going out of your way to let me know?”

  “Look, I kind of know the cat, alright,” Andre said. “He was inside Silver Creek with Donnell.”

  “So was he a friend of your brother’s?” Chance took out a notepad and scribbled the name on the next available page.

  “I don’t know. I think so.”

  “Why would someone want him dead?” Chance asked.

  “Can’t tell you that either. I feel like I owe it to my brother. It’s something he would want,” Andre said. “Maybe you can pick him up and find out why he’s got a hundred thousand dollar bounty on his head.”

  Chance wiped a knuckle across his eye. “Alright. I’ll find this Roland guy. For Donnell. But we aren’t done. Once I get this latest case off my plate, you and I are going to talk.”

  “Yeah, man, I know. Peace.”

  Chance walked over to his car and settled into the cold seat, waking the ’92 Camaro from its morning nap. He wasn’t sure when word of the bounty would have hit the streets, but Andre Lawrence had enough pull to get that kind of news before most.

  The best place to start would be Roland’s home.

  * * *

  Fatigue dragged Roland’s body down, shortening his steps. He hoped a short walk to the store would help get his energy up. This was different from the physical exhaustion he felt after pushing his body to the limit. It was a deeper, emotional drain.

  His memories haunted him. The guilt consumed his days. He did nothing while watching other INSEC soldiers execute a village. But his upcoming meeting was an opportunity to set things right.

  Roland would finally be able to offer some help in shining a light on the crimes committed by both Silver Creek prison and INSEC. The new line of thought wasn’t much, but it gave him a new direction. A chance to redeem himself.

  He looked down at the screen of his phone, buzzing an alert. A message popped up on the screen, from a number he vaguely recognized. Roland spent a moment staring at the screen. Is this from my mystery contact?

  The message was as short as it was cryptic.

  RUN!

  CHAPTER

  6

  Chance turned the corner and drove toward the address he had scribbled on his notepad. He wasn’t far from Roland’s Forrester’s place. Still, time was critical, with every hitter in the city possibly already on the hunt.

  With no other information to go on, the simplest option would be to head straight for Roland’s house and check for him first. Then, he would ask around and expand the radius from there.

  * * *

  Who is this? Roland thought. The message sent a shiver up his spine. He looked down at the text, eyes focusing on each individual character, looking for a clue between the letters.

  His heart raced, and he felt a line of sweat run down his spine. He reached a hand out to the side, blindly groping for the wall as he looked to toward the street. Nothing.

  Roland ran ahead, his steps almost an afterthought, as if he were falling forward. At the next corner, a car grabbed his attention. He paused looking at the older model vehicle, with a brand new paint job and wheels that set off an alert in his mind.

  The occupants pointed in his direction, and the car rumbled forward, speeding his way. Roland’s eye locked in on the passenger, leaning out the window. The shotgun in the man’s hand was all he could see now. The bore growing large enough to swallow him as the man took aim.

  Roland turned and headed back around the corner, running along the sidewalk. The car’s tires squealed as the driver pulled around. Roland hunched over as he moved, covering his head with his hands instinctively.

  When no shot came, he risked a glance back. The car oversteered, pulling the passenger out of position to take a shot. As the driver wheeled the front end around, Roland pushed off to the side, heading down an alleyway.

  His feet slapped along the wet asphalt and concrete, legs pumping hard. The car’s engine reverberated off the walls as the driver pulled into the alley.

  The motor’s angry growl grew closer. Roland reached a dead end, but he never broke stride, hopping up on a stack of milk crates and using the momentum to climb a dumpster. His pursuers slammed on the brakes, knowing they wouldn’t be able to follow.

  Roland looked their way as he hauled his body over the wall. The driver shifted to reverse, doubling back. Even forced to head around the half block to reach him, Roland didn’t have a chance to escape on foot. His only chance was to find a place to hide and call for help.

  Heart hammering, lungs burning, and legs aching, Roland pressed ahead. The car with the hitters screamed around the corner as he launched himself up climbing the chainlink fence around a nearby construction area. He turned his body over at the top and dropped to the hard-packed earth, the jolt rattling his joints.

  The car continued by as Roland locked eyes with the driver. Neither man recognized the other, but the anger and hate in the man’s eyes chilled him. With no time to waste, he ran through the slowly growing steel and concrete skeletons around him.

  A series of buildings sat in different stages of construction, some just a concrete foundation, while others had their frames erected. A few had the drywall flesh and muscle wrapping around the structures.

  The chase car’s engine growled, followed by a metallic rattle and ping. Roland glanced out from behind cover, watching as the driver blasted through the front gate and pulled into the site. The passenger stepped out as the car shuddered to a standstill. The driver followed, retrieving a machine pistol from the center console.

  The job site wasn’t large. Jumping back over the fence would only alert the hitmen, and they still had speed on their side with the car parked at the entrance.

  Roland would have to fight. He needed to separate them, take them out one at a time, or hold them back until reinforcements arrived. He cursed to himself for falling into his INSEC mindset.

  There would be no backup. And if for some reason Roland's old company did show up, they were most likely the ones that wanted him dead. Think, stupid. How can I get out of this?

  The two split up, the shotgunner with the crazy eyes heading in his direction. Roland looked around for someplace to stay hidden. He slipped into the partially constructed building providing cover.

  Inside, Roland looked around the cavernous interior. Large columns divided the space into a grid, meant to separate the building into six separate office spaces. A shadow filled the area where the door would be. Roland slipped behind the nearest column.

  The man’s breaths hissed through his nose, his boots clomping on the concrete foundation. Risking a peek, he could see the man inside now, weapon held tight, head and muzzle sweeping in different directions. Amateur.

  Roland’s hand slid into his pocket, retrieving the Spyderco Para 3, and thumbed the three-inch blade open. The hitman
passed by the column, moving further into the empty building. He searched for his target in a twitchy, haphazard way. Roland circled behind him, but his foot kicked a loose nail, sending it skittering across the ground.

  The wild man spun, unleashing his shotgun at the small metallic ringing behind him. Roland had to act fast. He switched directions, coming from the other side of the column, charging forward.

  With his free hand, Roland caught the other man’s wrist before the weapon could track him. The shotgun exploded again, shaking dust loose from the floor and walls. Roland fired a quick thrust of his blade, aiming for a kidney. The hitman thrashed to pull his weapon free, and the Spyderco bit into his thigh.

  He let out a sharp cry and twisted his body violently, regaining control of the shotgun. Roland swiped with the edge of the knife at his attacker’s neck. He twitched backward, avoiding the blade with more luck than skill.

  Roland’s hand met the butt of the shotgun, and the Spyderco twirled away. He reacted quickly, stomping a foot toward his foe’s knee.

  The man let out a grunt as his leg hyperextended. Roland’s fist crashed into the hitter’s jaw, sending his body twirling down. The shotgun slid across the ground as he hit.

  Roland took a moment to nurse his sore hand, then moved to retrieve the weapon. A shadow filled the doorway, snapping his attention up. The menacing BRRAAP of a machine pistol filled the room, spitting rounds into the concrete floor and drywall.

  Roland fell and rolled behind another column, unable to reach the shotgun. A second burst ripped chunks out of the support and shattered a window. He scrambled to his feet and sprinted out into the open. The hit man’s weapon chattered as the bullets struck close behind.

  Diving through the partially broken window, Roland’s body smashed the glass still in the frame. A lancing pain shot up his right arm, as a jagged edge tore through his jacket. He rolled to his feet and pushed hard, feet flinging pebbles and mud behind him with each step.

  Roland slid around a pallet of construction lumber and took cover. He looked down and saw the tear in his sleeve. Blood soaked the material around the hole. The crimson trail traced a path from the window to where he was hiding.

  His heart leaped into his throat. Roland searched for somewhere else to run, but there was too much open space between him and the next available building. He looked for something to use as a weapon, finding a broken bit of wood. He could feel the splinters sinking into his flesh as he gripped the makeshift club.

  The man with the machine pistol stepped into the open, and his footsteps paused. He was spotted for sure. Roland prepared to lunge out, and throw the wood to distract the shooter and close the distance. A sudden burst of fire tore into the stacked lumber, pinning him in place.

  The steps moved closer. Roland gripped his improvised weapon tight. Then a voice called out.

  “Detroit PD, drop the weapon!”

  * * *

  Rapid-fire pops sounded out. Chance drew his pistol, and pulled his Camaro into a construction site, right behind another car with both doors opened. The pair of booms in the distance earlier alerted him to the possibility of gunshots, but that latest burst confirmed his suspicions. Only blocks from Roland Forrester’s apartment, this had to be related.

  Chance stepped out of his car and leaned against a partially constructed wall, peering out but seeing no one. I gotta find Roland before these guys do.

  The detective kept his body hunched low as he moved along the ground. He paused at the sound of breaking glass and hurried footsteps. Chance ran toward the commotion and heard another burst of automatic fire. He raised his pistol and sliced around another corner. He spotted a man in colorful clothes carrying a MAC-11 machine pistol.

  “Detroit PD, drop your weapon!” he shouted.

  The man turned his head, startled. He bolted to one side, swinging his weapon toward the detective while it chattered and kicked out a spray of bullets. Chance pivoted quickly out of the line of fire and brought his Beretta on target. His pistol bucked three times in answer to the fully automatic MAC-11, and the .40 caliber rounds thumped into the chest of his attacker’s jacket.

  Detective Hunter was on the man as his body hit the ground. He swept the machine pistol away with a foot, sending it skittering along the dirt. Chance quickly confirmed the man was out of the fight and turned toward the stack of lumber. He sidestepped carefully until he could see a man crouched and holding a piece of wood.

  “You okay, kid?” he said to the man on the ground. “Are you Roland Forrester?”

  The young man looked up, eyes wide. “If you’re gonna shoot me, just do it already.”

  “Relax, kid, I’m a cop.”

  “How do you know my name?” Roland asked.

  “We need to go,” Chance said. “I’ll explain after we get out of here.”

  Roland climbed to his feet, following as Chance headed toward two parked cars at the entrance, where the crazy assassins smashed through the fence.

  A Cadillac Escalade pulled slowly around a corner, further down the street. The big SUV stopped in the middle of the traffic as frustrated drivers leaned on their horns. The engine roared, and the tires squealed off the asphalt, before the vehicle headed in their direction.

  “Run!” Chance put a hand on Roland’s back, urging him to move faster.

  A pistol cracked. Another pair of pops rang out as one of the bullets chipped a wall too close to where they were. Chance raised his weapon and aimed for the windshield of the Escalade as he ran toward his car.

  The Beretta fired twice, one shot sparking off the hood and another punching a hole in the windshield, near the driver. The SUV jerked, and the gunmen hanging out the windows had to hold on tight so the evasive maneuver wouldn’t hurl them from the vehicle.

  The two reached the waiting Camaro and jumped inside. Chance had the engine running as a bullet cracked the rear windshield.

  The reverse acceleration pushed Roland forward into the dashboard, then into the door, as Chance whipped his car into a high-speed bootleg turn. Chance grumbled something about repair bills and punk kids before he turned to Roland.

  “Better buckle up,” he said as he reached across for his own seatbelt. The Camaro thundered down the street, tires screaming as they took the next corner at high speed. Chance could see the Escalade in his rear view, bouncing along the rough terrain as it took a turn too wide in pursuit.

  Roland fumbled with his seatbelt. “What are supposed to do now?” He clutched his injured arm against his chest.

  Switching between the road ahead and the rearview mirror, Chance smiled and shot a quick glance at the young man. “Now it’s a good old-fashioned car chase.”

  CHAPTER

  7

  “This guy’s pretty persistent,” Chance said. “Hang on.”

  He leaned hard into the turn, pulling his car around the corner and sending the tail whipping out to the side. Chance corrected course and pushed on the gas pedal. The engine fought to keep up with the demand, the slow hum building to the deep throaty rumble.

  Roland glanced back over his shoulder seeing the Escalade take the turn wider, sacrificing some speed for control. It was the opening they needed as the distance between the two vehicles stretched out.

  “Why are they after you, Roland?” Chance kept his eye bouncing from the road to the rearview.

  “I don’t know who those guys are,” Roland said. “I didn’t do anything.”

  Chance flew through an intersection as the traffic light changed. He turned at the next street, and turned again, doubling back on a different route. “I’m sure we lost them by now.”

  Roland kept his death grip on the shoulder strap of the seatbelt. “Why are hitmen looking for me?”

  “Those clowns aren’t real hitters,” Chance said, “just some yahoos looking to collect on the hundred thousand dollar bounty.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Chance leaned over and opened the glove compartment, pulling a first aid kit out, settin
g it in Roland’s lap. “I’m hoping you can shed some light on that, so we can both figure it out. Who are you, and what exactly do you do? Are you a scientist or something? Money guy?”

  “I’m just a contractor,” Roland said. He tore the pouch with the gauze open with his teeth.

  “Like a carpenter?” Chance looked at both mirrors before sticking his head out the window to get a better view behind them.

  “A private defense contractor,” Roland said as he wrapped the bandage around the cut on his arm.

  “And you were serving time at Silver Creek prison before that, right?” Chance asked.

  “I…yes,” Roland said, watching the buildings pass through the window.

  “You were in there with Donnell Lawrence?”

  “How do you know so much about me?” Roland asked.

  “I’m a detective,” Chance said. “Also, Donnell’s brother Andre told me. I just have to wonder if that’s the reason they want you dead.”

  “What, my connection to Lawrence?” Roland looked over at Chance again. “I didn’t know him that well.”

  “Can you think of anything that would put a mark on your head like that?” Chance asked.

  Roland shook his head.

  “I feel like you’re holding out on me, kid. I’m here to save your life, as a favor to a friend,” Chance said, looking at Roland. “If you don’t trust me enough to tell me everything, I can’t help you.”

  He could see the muscles in Roland’s neck and jaw working, mulling over the decision to trust some random police detective that just happened to be at the right place at the right time.

  “Look, I’m going to bring you back to the precinct,” Chance said. “You can give me your story there.”

  Roland closed his eyes and nodded. “I’m not talking to a bunch of cops. Just you. Off the record.”