122 Rules

by Deek Rhew

  Monica landed on top of Angel but underneath Tyron, along with what seemed like half a dozen busted-up chairs. Though she struggled to get free, the dead weight of the heavy assassin kept her pinned. Had the thug planned for this particular contingency?

  Chairs lifted off her, and the killer’s weight vanished. The man in black picked up Tyron and threw him aside. Monica tensed, ready to fight, as she saw Peter reach down for her. Instead of grabbing her by the throat, he grasped her hands and pulled her to her feet. He did the same with Angel.

  “Peter, what the hell?” Monica asked.

  “Get out of here,” he commanded.

  “I don’t understa—”

  “Now!”

  Angel, as unsteady on her feet as a newborn fawn, grabbed their purses and the laptop, and the two women started to leave.

  “Wait. Not this.” He grabbed the computer from Angel, withdrew a gun from his coat pocket, threw the PC into the air, and shot it. Turning back to Monica, he said, “Don’t ever log on to that email again. Understand? It’s been compromised.”

  “No, I don’t understand any of this.” She started to say something else, but she didn’t have a chance before a chair broke over Peter’s back. The simple piece of furniture dissolved into splinters of wood and bits of plastic. Tyron grabbed Peter, spun him around, and hit him in the face. Peter responded by grabbing the man in a bear hug and piling on top of him.

  Monica didn’t see how things ended because Angel grabbed her handcuffed hand and tugged. “You heard the man, let’s go, sister!” Angel yanked her through the now-empty window frame of the front of the pizza joint and into the cool night air.

  They got in their car and drove off, making their second escape from the deranged killer.

  43

  Sam hoped the girls did as he instructed, but he didn’t have time to look. His full attention remained on the bald man as they rolled around on the floor, each trying to gain the advantage. Tyron had lost at least two of his guns. Sam heard them skitter across the floor in the melee.

  Tyron wrapped his hand around Sam’s throat. The man’s vise grip squeezed until black roses encroached on the periphery of Sam’s vision, and his heart pounded in a desperate attempt to force blood past the blockage. He tried to pry the man’s fingers from his esophagus, but Sam didn’t have the leverage. The mobster bore down with all his weight. Sam reached down and tried to push the vicious killer’s torso from his but again found himself at a disadvantage.

  Rule #37:

  The unexpected will always gain you the advantage.

  —122 Rules of Psychology

  Instead of pushing, Sam wrapped his arms around the other man and pulled, lifting himself up into Tyron. Snaking his hand into the mobster’s back pocket, Sam fumbled for a weapon, any weapon, and discovered a hidden treasure when his fingers found a knife sheath on the other man’s belt. He pulled the blade out and raised it up so he could drive it into his assailant’s ribs. But he didn’t have the right angle for it, so he brought the blade down, burying it up to the hilt in the man’s left butt cheek.

  Tyron let out a wail of pain and relaxed his grip enough for Sam to thrust his forehead up. The other man’s nose cracked, the sound both gruesome and satisfying. Sam threw the mobster off and rolled out from under him. They stood facing one another. Tyron wiped his nose, glanced down at the blood on his fingers, and shook it off. “You damned bastard, you stabbed me in the ass. You will pay for that, and when I’m done with you, I’m gonna go slice me a piece of bitch pie.” He reached back and pulled the knife out. Blood covered the blade, but it looked wicked sharp as glints of silver shone through.

  “Like you did with that waitress? You’re a one-trick pony, sadistic and predictable. But as payments go, it’s your turn to pony up.”

  “You’ll find me full of surprises.” Tyron snarled as he charged. Sam grabbed the arm holding the knife to keep from being lacerated. This action left him open, and the mobster collided with him. The two flew up through the glass partitioning the kitchen and dining area, over the counter, and onto the greasy floor. Sam held the wrist with the knife with one hand while pummeling the man in his stomach with the other. Tyron bucked him, flipping over and landing on top of him again. Sam lost tension in the arm holding the knife and struggled to catch it before Tyron shoved it into Sam’s eye. Locked in a stalemate, each waited to see who tired first.

  Sam had been riding hard for three days, sleeping or eating when he could, though not often enough. In spite of the huge surge of adrenaline pounding through his veins from the moment he shot out the front window, his strength waned as he fought the exhaustion that threatened. Their faces pressed close together, Sam could smell the hitman’s vile breath and see the deep red of his left eye where it should have been white.

  One of the guns had slid under the counter and lay next to Sam’s face, just out of reach. With the last of strength, he strained his neck forward and bit down with every ounce of energy in him on Tyron’s broken nose. When the mobster tried to pull back, Sam’s jaws slipped off the boney nub of the bridge and caught on the bulbous tip. He clamped down tighter and felt cartilage and skin succumb to the force of his incisors. He twisted his head and ripped it off, the flesh coming away in Sam’s mouth in a large bloody chunk of pulp.

  Tyron scrambled off, jumping to his feet screaming. He backed into the wall, holding his ruined face. “Oh, you son of a bitch!” The mobster should have reevaluated and taken stock of the situation. But he didn’t.

  Rule #45: Frustrated people do not think clearly.

  Rule #46: Angry people do not think rationally.

  Rule #47: Furious people do not think at all.

  —122 Rules of Psychology

  Instead, Tyron re-gripped the knife and charged.

  Sam grabbed the gun next to his head, brought it around, and fired. The shot hit Tyron’s cheekbone, dissolving the side of his face in a spray of blood, skin, and bone. The force of the impact spun the mobster around. He flew back, slamming into a cupboard, then slid down to the floor, his feet tangled with those of the fallen cook.

  In the aftermath, Sam thought he could detect the sound of sirens in the distance. But the sizzle and pop of the dead guy frying on the griddle, mingling with the ringing in his ears from the gunshot concussion, made it impossible to know for certain.

  He did not want to be there when the police arrived, so he took one last look at the hitman on the floor, forced himself to his feet, and stumbled out the front window. His back throbbed. Deep cuts in his face bled, and he knew he’d find more injuries as the frenetic energy of the moment seeped from him. But he’d deal with those problems later. He pushed through the small crowd gawking through the window frame, climbed on to his bike, and gunned the engine.

  In a display of brilliant timing that would have rivaled the best nighttime cop show dramas, he exited the scene before the first of the squad cars arrived. By the time the police secured the premises and realized a suspect required pursuit, Sam had slipped away into the night.

  44

  As Angel navigated the nighttime traffic, Monica kept her eyes fixed on the rear window, trying to ascertain if anyone followed them. The headlights all looked the same. Someone could be trailing them, and she wouldn’t know it. Besides, the bald mobster had already found them once. Distance would be their greatest ally.

  On the edge of St. Louis, Angel guided the car down an off ramp. They had been driving for almost an hour, stunned silent most of the trip.

  Monica broke through the monotonous drone of the car’s engine. “Why are we stopping? Ang, we should just keep going.” Exhaustion and fear nipped at her frayed nerves, and she tried to keep the agitation and irritation out of her voice.

  “We need to get the handcuffs off you. If we run into more trouble, you’ll be helpless. Besides, at some point you’re going to have to use the john. And honey, I’ll die for you, but friendship only goes so far.”

  The
y approached a neon-orange home store sign that jutted so high into the air low-flying aircraft had to be diverted around it.

  Angel parked as close to the entrance as possible, and the women piled out. Only a smattering of patrons occupied the store. To hide her restraints, Monica wrapped her coat around her hands. A chipper employee, wearing an apron the same bright orange of the store’s mile-high sign and carrying a clipboard, asked if she could help them find something.

  “Bulk chains?” Angel asked.

  If the woman thought the request odd, she didn’t let on. “Aisle thirty-three, clear on the back, left-hand side.” She pointed and smiled.

  They followed her directions, passing hammers, drills, and heaters. Just beyond the screen doors, Angel stopped at the section containing various gauges of chain wrapped around large bolts. A long, flat bench, with an embedded yardstick to measure the desired length of chain, sat in front of the huge, thick coils. Angel examined the heavy-duty pair of bolt cutters tethered to the bench and nodded.

  She started to remove the coat from around Monica’s shackles when a voice broke the quiet. “Can I help you?” Another orange-aproned, way-too-chipper employee had slipped up behind her. In haste, Angel rewrapped the handcuffs, but he must have already seen Monica’s bound hands because his smile faltered.

  “Hi, no, thank you. We’re just browsing.” Angel grabbed a length of chain between her hands and tugged it as if to test its strength. “I think this will be strong enough.”

  “Oh, what is your project? Maybe I could help you pick out a gauge?” The robotic words, home-store-employee correct, poured out of his plastered smile, but his eyes never left Monica’s wrists.

  Jesus. Exhaustion pervaded every one of Monica’s pores, and they still had a long night of driving ahead. They had almost been killed twice. She didn’t have the patience to deal with this I’m-applying-for-a-job-at-Disneyland wannabe. She’d been about to tell the little prick to mind his own business when Angel interrupted her.

  “Look, it’s an S&M thing. I’m her dom.” She turned to Monica. “Eyes down!”

  Monica didn’t hesitate, dropping her gaze to her feet.

  Angel sighed.

  Her face toward the floor, Monica dared to raise her eyes to watch the ensuing standoff. If this man called the police, it could destroy everything they’d worked so hard for. She surreptitiously scanned their immediate surroundings, searching for weapons. If she could get her hands on something, she might be able to disable him long enough they could make their getaway. If Angel couldn’t wriggle them out of this, Monica had her own plan.

  Angel turned back to the employee whose badge identified him as Todd. “So much spirit in this one. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I…ummm…well…” His mouth hung open like a guppy, and when he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down like a cork in the water.

  Angel stepped closer to him and lowered her voice. “She seems to think she’s an equal, Todd. Can you believe that? I’m tired, but there is much discipline ahead of us tonight. Such is the life. Anyway, if I can manage her, I think I’ve got this covered too, but if I need anything, I’ll ask for you personally.” She made “walking fingers” at him and raised her eyebrows. Then she turned her back, focusing once again on the chains.

  “Ummm, yeah, sure. Okay.” He backed away. “Have a good night.”

  Angel pulled a length of chain taut and stared down the links. She shifted her focus back to the kid in the apron, gave him a lecherous smile, and said, “Oh, we will.” And she dropped an exaggerated wink. He stiffened and left, not quite breaking into a run. Monica giggled as she imagined the conversation in the break room tonight.

  “Silence!” Angel barked, but amusement danced in her smile.

  Monica laughed again as Angel started to unwrap the handcuffs and placed them on the big table.

  “Okay,” Angel said, “let’s see if we can get this done before Todd has a change of heart and asks to join us.”

  “I think if he could, he’d be headed over the hills and through the woods.”

  “Quiet, slave.” Angel bit her lip as she concentrated on getting the large cutters as close to the left cuff as possible. She pulled down. The blade bit into the metal and seemed to get stuck. But as Angel continued to press, it slid down, and the chain parted. She repeated the process with the other cuff. “Well, you’ve got some wicked looking bracelets, but at least your hands are free. Hopefully your friends at the FBI can help with this.”

  They quickly re-wrapped her hands and headed back to the front of the warehouse. Todd leaned against a counter, whispering with one of the cashiers. They both stared at the women as they made their way towards the exit.

  “Did you find everything you needed?” he asked them.

  “You don’t carry anything heavy enough. It’s okay; I know a guy. Thanks anyway.” She blew them a kiss as they breezed through the large sliding glass doors.

  “Okay, thanks for shopping at…” The no-longer-so-chipper employee’s store-appointed farewell faded into the background as they hurried into the night.

  45

  Sam stared in the steel mirror, gathering himself for the task ahead. The front window of the pizza place had been made of safety glass, but the partition had not. When he and Tyron went over the counter, the barrier had shattered into sharp jagged pieces of shrapnel. His thick leather jacket protected him, for the most part, but the seam connecting the arm and torso sections, comprised of a simple, thin material, offered little protection. A long piece of the heavy glass, as sharp and wicked as an assassin’s knife, stuck out of the muscle in his chest. Blood dripped from the wound saturating his shirt. When he pulled it out, the injury would bleed even more.

  He had stopped for hydrogen peroxide, bandages, and a bottle of painkillers and asked the store attendant, in his most casual voice, for the bathroom key. He popped five of the dusty white pills. Stripping to the waist, he stood in the dull light, examining the shard.

  The shrapnel had entered at an angle with an inch of it jutting out from his flesh. He shoved a rag in his mouth. Careful not to cut his fingers, he pinched the glass and pulled. He bit down hard on the rag as the searing agony ripped his chest apart. Resistant at first, the shard gradually released its hold on his muscle. He dropped it into the wastebasket and leaned on the counter, waiting for the worst of the throbbing to pass.

  As gently as his shaking fingers would allow, Sam pressed around the injury. With each touch, the wound sent angry bolts of fire through every nerve in his torso, but he carried on. He stopped, examining a small bulge just beneath the skin. Just as he feared, a piece of the glass had broken off when it entered. In addition to the purchases, Sam had also retrieved a Swiss army knife and a pair of needle-nose pliers from a small toolkit on his bike. The truck stop didn’t have much in the way of surgical supplies, but he made do, setting everything on the counter. He poured the disinfectant over the blade of the knife. Steeling himself, he cut the tissue around the edge of the glass. When he set the tool down, his hands shook so hard he missed the counter, and the blade toppled to the floor.

  Sam disinfected the pliers next and grasped the edge of the glass. He needed to focus. If he squeezed too hard, the shard would break into smaller pieces, and he’d be forced to dig those out as well. He took a deep breath, settled himself, and gave a slight pull, encouraging the glass to move rather than forcing it from his flesh. Pain radiated from the injury, traveling the length of his body, but he continued to work the piece out. When the edge pulled free of his skin, he set the pliers down and continued moving it back and forth with his fingers until it came out with a sickening rip. He bit down on the rag so hard, there was a chance he would just bite through it. Blackness encircled his vision and pulsed with every beat of his heart, and he leaned against the sink. After a while his sight cleared, the pain faded, and he could breathe again.

  Pouring hydrogen peroxide over the wound filled it with
liquid fire. He applied a bandage, securing it with tape, and then loaded everything back into the plastic bag. He walked out to his bike, stowing the items in one of the saddlebags, then filled his gas tank.

  The effort to climb on then start the big bike drained what little energy he had left and sent a fresh wave of pain radiating from his injury. His entire body ached, and he slumped over the handlebars trying to recover some of his strength while the motorcycle’s heavy engine idled underneath him like a purring dragon. Taking a deep breath, he sat up, dropped the bike into gear, and headed out into the night.

  Though exhaustion dogged him, Sam drove on. At one point, his vision blurred, the headlights coming towards him appearing through a prism. When his eyes tried to close, he pulled into a state park, slept for two hours, then got back on the road.

  Pocahontas led him to the address Armon had given him, until she pronounced—in a computerized, pompous voice—that he had arrived.

  His eyes took in the details of his “destination”—a large, abandoned-looking gray concrete building on the edge of the city’s industrial district. A ten-foot cyclone fence, topped with razor wire angled to make it difficult for people to enter, surrounded the bunker. Sam drove around the lot to the gated entrance, noting the men on the roof with automatic weapons.

  A large lock secured the gate shut. He waited. Sam had faced drug-lords before but never anything on as grand a scale as this.

  The sun had just started to rise in the east; early-morning shadows still lingered in the pockets of the land. If he tried to climb the fence, he had a very good chance of being shot, so he did the only other thing he could think of.

  “Hey!” he yelled. “Anybody home?”

  Everything remained motionless.

  You’re being watched, Chet said. His alter ego had been almost silent the last few days.