by Marcus Sakey
The garage is off the Strip, set amidst warehouses being converted to lofts for whoever lives in lofts. The ramp spirals up through six stories. The top floor is open to the sky. A handful of expensive vehicles are scattered far apart. Car fetishists, terrified of every ding and scratch. You park forty feet from the stairwell, on the far side of the ramp.
The sun is brutal, burning the sky white. The windows are open, and the sweat slicking your chest feels familiar. "It's good."
Cooper nods.
"How many?"
"At least two."
"Armed?"
He nods again. You take a breath, look around. Electricity crackles and snaps between your fingers, the same old feeling you used to get as the squad mounted up. With terrain like this, there's no reason even to discuss the plan. "Okay," you say.
Cooper opens the door, pauses. Turns to look at you. "Nick—"
"Forget it," you say. The two of you share the kind of look that only men who've gone to war together can. Then he slides out of the car and walks over to the stairwell, leans against the wall.
You sit behind the wheel for a moment, listening to the relentless hammer of the heavy metal guitars. Remembering Fritz, the gunner for your Stryker's forward weapons team, a skinny kid with a Missouri twang and a pinch of Skoal perpetually in the pouch of his lip. 210 beats a minute, he'd said, and smiled. At the time, you'd thought he was talking about his heart.
You turn off the engine and get out. Stand for a moment in the sun, the same sun that lights the other side of the world. You twist the passenger mirror up at an angle, then take a breath, go prone, and wriggle underneath the truck.
It isn't long before you hear a car climbing the ramp. The sound gets louder, fainter, then louder again as it winds to the top. You take a deep breath and remember the best night you ever had, how you mastered your fear and let yourself believe.
The problem with the best moment of your life is that every other moment is worse.
The car is a BMW. It cruises up the ramp smooth and soft. You keep your face pointing down, watching out of the corner of your eye, trying to picture a basement room with a dangling bulb and a heavy door. The car parks about twenty feet away, near the stairs, where Cooper stands with his hands in his pocket. Gently, you slide out from under, keeping the truck between you and the men, using the mirror to see.
Two of them, one in a suit, no tie; the other, bigger, in jeans and a muscle shirt. Muscle Shirt gives a casual scan of the parking lot. He doesn't look concerned, lacks the edgy readiness of a man expecting trouble. Still, when he turns his back, you see a pistol tucked into his belt. Cooper raises one hand in greeting, says something you can't hear.
Keeping low, you ease around the back of the Bronco.
Your heart slams in your chest, and you can taste copper. You slide one foot forward, then the other. The distance is only twenty feet. A couple of car lengths. It seems like miles. You feel strangely naked with your hands empty. Step, beat, step.
The man in the business suit says something to Cooper. You screen it out. Fifteen feet. Ten. The sun fires jagged glints off the polished BMW.
You're almost to the man in the muscle shirt when he turns around.
#
The stars in the desert night were unlike anything you'd ever seen. They flowed across the sky like God had spilled them. Growing up in Chicago, the stars you saw were man-made, skyscrapers turning the night purple. Even when you went camping out in Wisconsin, it was nothing like this.
Sometimes, when things got bad, you closed your eyes and thought of those stars. Imagined yourself on a rise, alone, arms out, a figure cut from the sky. Looking upwards. Waiting to be pulled into them. Hoping.
#
Muscle Shirt's eyes go wide, and he starts to speak, but you don't hesitate, just take three quick strides and snap off a jab that catches his chin. Your bare knuckles sing. Adrenaline howls in your blood. The fear is gone. You feel better than you have in months. You throw another jab, and he gets his hands up in a clumsy block, and then you crack him hard in the side of the head, near the temple, a wildly illegal blow. His eyes lose focus and his legs wobble, but it's in you now, the rage, the anger that swelled every time a mortar landed on the FOB, every time a man in a terrorist-towel stepped out of an alley leveling an AK, every time the counselor at the VA said that what you were experiencing was typical, that it would pass. You swing again and again. His head snaps back and blood explodes from his nose and he'd fall if only you'd let him.
A loud gasp pulls you from your trance. You forget Muscle Boy. Turn to the man in the suit and start his way, and in a panicky voice he says, "Cooper, what is this—" and then you break his nose. He whimpers and drops to his knees. He looks up with wide, scared eyes, one hand on his nose and the other up to ward you off, like a child menaced by a bully.
The anger and power vanish. You lower your fists. Then Cooper pushes past you, flips Muscle Shirt over. Grabs the pistol from his belt and comes up fast. The man in the suit screams.
You say, "No—" and then there are three explosions and the man stops screaming. Cooper turns to the one on the ground and fires three more times, two bullets in the center of mass and one in the head, just like they taught you in Basic.
And you stand there, hands trembling, a shattered body on either side of you as the sun beats down.
"Nick," Cooper says.
You stare.
"I had to. It's done now." He takes off his hoodie and uses it to wipe the sidearm clean. He drops it next to one of the bodies, then starts for the Bronco.
You look at what's left of their heads.
Then Cooper says, "Nick!" His voice sharp. "Come on. Move your feet, soldier." He walks around to the other side of the Bronco and opens the door.
You bend and do something without really thinking about it, and then the sun carves your shadow in concrete as you walk to your truck.
#
The drive out of Las Vegas is a surreal falling away, first the casinos and bright lights, then the subdivisions that spring up overnight—all those houses, all those people, all the same—and then retail and then diners and then garages and then warehouses and then nothing. Just dirt and sun on either side of US-15.
Cooper is all energy, the window open and fingers tapping, his whole body vibrating like a tuning fork. "Fuck that was intense," he grins. "I knew you'd boxed, but you beat the shit out of those guys."
Your fingers on the wheel are raw and dark with drying blood. He slaps the side of your truck in time with the heavy metal screaming through the tinny speakers. "Where we going, chief?"
You press the power button on the stereo. Cooper looks at you. A long stare. Some of the energy falls away. "I had to."
You say nothing.
"I had to show Vance that coming after me is a bad idea. That it will cost him." He scratches his chin. "Now we can deal. I'll even pay him, when I get the money."
"The guy," you say. Hot dry air roars in the open windows. "He knew your name."
"Who? On the parking deck? So what?"
"You told me you'd never met him. But he said, ‘Cooper, what is this?'"
He shrugged. "Vance must have told him."
"It sounded like he knew you."
"He didn't."
Your hands tighten on the steering wheel. You wait. You know Cooper. Silence he can't take.
Finally, he laughs. "Ah, shit, okay, you got me." He turned to you. "I did know him. But the rest of what I said, it was true. And Nickie, thank you. I mean it. I always knew I could count on you."
You nodded. It was true. He had always known that. You ride in silence for another couple of moments, then pull off at a lonely gas station. "I'm thirsty."
"Get me something, would you?"
In the minimart you snag a couple of Gatorades and a pack of beef jerky and a can of lighter fluid. The woman behind the counter is old as death. When she counts out your change, the motion of her lips fractures her cheeks like sunbaked mud. In the
Bronco, Cooper has his feet on the dash. As you put the truck into drive, he opens the jerky, says, "You got a destination in mind, or we just cruising? Because the chicks, man, they're the other direction."
The highway is nearly empty, cars strung out like beads on a necklace. You open the Gatorade and take a long pull. After a few minutes, you take the exit for US-93, a two-lane straight into the cracked brown American desert.
"Seriously, Nick, where we headed?"
"What were you doing when I came in?"
"What?" His eyebrows scrunch. "Came in where?"
"In Mosul. The apartment. When I came in, you were bending over the guy's body. What were you doing?"
He cocks his head. "I was checking for a pulse."
"I've thought about that a lot since I got back. The way you were bent over him. It was strange." You set your drink in the cup holder. "You weren't looking for a pulse, were you? You were going through his pockets."
"That's crazy."
You say nothing, just look at him sideways, put it all in your eyes. For a moment, he keeps it up, the façade, the Cooper Show. Then he says, "Huh," and the mask falls away. "When did you know?"
"I guess I knew then. In Mosul. I just wanted to believe you."
Cooper nods. "See, I knew I could count on you."
"What I want to know is why."
He sighs. "I had a sideline going with the guy, weed, meth, but he got unreliable. Always talking about Allah, you know." He shrugged. "And today, well, I really did owe Vance ten grand."
"That why you shot him? He was the one in the suit, right?"
"You don't miss a trick, Nickie."
"Why bring me into it?"
"I couldn't be sure how many guys he'd have."
"No. Why me?"
"What do you want me to say?" He shrugs. "Because you buy the whole lie. You win the Golden Gloves and to celebrate, what do you do? Get drunk and nail your girlfriend? Not you. You join the Army."
"You used me."
"You let yourself be used."
"I could go to the cops."
"They'd arrest you too. But you know what?" He shakes his head. "That doesn't matter. You didn't do that in Iraq, and you won't here. That's why I came to you. Because you're predictable, Nickie. You never change."
The moment stretches. You remember your trainer saying all you had to do was believe. Remember the feeling of being part of a team, a soldier, and what it got you, a diagnosis of PTSD and a rented room in a city you hate and a raw and formless anger that seems some days more real than any version of you that you once thought might be the real thing.
And then you raise the pistol you took from the parking deck and put it to Cooper's head and show him he's wrong.
#
Your knuckles hurt and your lips are chapped. There's a line from an old Leonard Cohen song running through your head, something about praying for the grace of God in the desert here and the desert far away. Sometimes you're thinking of Cooper. Sometimes you're not thinking at all.
When the sun slips below the horizon, you get up off the boulder you've been sitting on all day. A quiet corner of searing nowhere at the end of an abandoned two-track, brown rocks and brown dirt and white sky and you.
The Bronco's passenger window is still open.
You reach in your pocket and pull out the can of lighter fluid and pop the top and lean in the window to spray it all over your friend and the front seat and the floorboards, the smell rising fast. You squeeze until nothing else comes. You think you might be crying, but you're not sure.
The butane catches with a soft whoomp and a trail of blue-yellow flame leaps around the inside of the truck you once loved. The upholstery catches quickly, and Cooper's clothing. Within a minute, greasy black smoke pours out the windows, and a fierce crackling rises.
You stand on the ridge of the desert and watch. Another truck engulfed in flame beneath another burning sky, and you still standing, still watching.
And then you turn and start walking alone.
Bonus Materials
Following are excerpts from my four published novels. They're all available as e-books, so if you find yourself hooked, it's a quick click.
I've also included an exclusive peek at my upcoming fifth novel, The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes, which I hope you enjoy. That one will be out in June, 2011.
Meanwhile, you can always visit MarcusSakey.com for news, contests, appearances, and movie updates.
THE BLADE ITSELF
How far would you go to protect everything you love?
Danny and Evan earned their reputation knocking over pawnshops and liquor stores, living from score to score, never thinking of tomorrow. Then in the roar of a gun blast everything changed.
Years later, Danny doesn't think about his past. He's built a new world for himself: a legitimate career, a long-term girlfriend, and a clean conscience. He's just like anyone else. Normal. Successful. Happy.
Until he spots his old partner staring him down in a smoky barroom mirror.
The prison-hardened Evan believes he's owed major payback, and he's willing to do anything to get it. With all he loves on the line and nowhere to turn, Danny's new life hinges on a terrible choice: How far will he go to protect his future from his past?
Selected as a New York Times Editor's Pick and named one of Esquire Magazine's 5 Best Reads of 2007, The Blade Itself is the story of a man held hostage by circumstance; an exploration of class, identity, and the demons that shape us.
"A hard-charging thriller...delivers a kick and leaves no loose ends."
The New York Times
"The first page turner of 2007...this is how immortality gets started."
CBS Sunday Morning
"An astoundingly good writer...the terrifically engaging,
poetically structured tale of a man both tortured and tempted by his criminal past."
San Jose Mercury News
Excerpt from The Blade Itself, Copyright 2007, St. Martin's Minotaur
Available as an e-book or wherever books are sold
The alley wasn't as dark as Danny would've liked, and Evan was driving him crazy, spinning the snub-nose like a cowboy in some Sunday matinee. "Would you put that away?"
"Keeps me cool." Evan smiled the bar-fight grin that showed his chipped tooth.
"I don't care if it makes you feel like Rick James. You shouldn't have brought it." Danny stared until his partner sighed and tucked the pistol into the back of his belt. Evan had always lived for the thrill of the job, all the way back to when they were stealing forties of Mickey's from the 7-11. But the addition of the gun made Danny uneasy. Made him wonder if Karen was right to suggest he start thinking long term. Reconsider his options.
He shook his head and stared out the window. Earlier, munching greasy chips in a taco bar across the street, they'd watched the owner of the pawnshop lock up. The dashboard clock now read just after eleven, and the alley was stone quiet. Chicago life centered on the neighborhoods; once night fell, the downtown area died. Twenty minutes ago they'd cut the phone lines without a show from the cops, which meant no cellular alarm. Everything looked good.
Until something moved.
Fifteen yards away, in a pocket of black. There, then gone again. Like someone stepping carefully. Like someone hiding. Danny leaned forward, one hand covering the glowing radio to sharpen his night vision. Shadows painted dingy brick walls with a black brush. A breeze sent a newspaper tumbling by the passenger side window. Maybe he'd just seen blowing trash and his mind had filled in the rest of the picture. The tension could get to you.
Then he saw it again. A slight motion. Someone getting closer to the wall, deeper in the shadow. His pulse banged in his throat.
Beat cops didn't sneak around that way. They just rolled up with their lights spinning. Unless the police hoped to catch them actually robbing the place. Danny pictured Terry, that weasel mustache, the moist stink of a habitual farter. He'd told them about the job—had he sold them out?
/> Out of the darkness stumbled a stooped man with greasy hair. He ran one hand along the wall to steady his cautious shuffle. A pint bottle nosed out of a frayed pocket. Reaching the trash bin, he glanced in either direction and unzipped his fly. Took a piss with one hand in his pocket like he was in the men's room of his country club.
Danny breathed again, then chuckled at his nerves. When the bum finished, he crossed to the other side of the alley and leaned against the wall. He slid down to a squat and closed his eyes. Danny said, "He's camping."
Evan nodded, rubbed one hand across his chin, the stubble making a grating sound. "Now what?"
"Guess we could give him a minute."
"He looks pretty tucked in." Evan paused, then looked over. "Should I shoot him?"
Danny shrugged. "Sure."
Evan drew the gun, sighted through the windshield. He closed one eye. "Bang." He spun the gun to his lips and blew imaginary smoke.
Danny laughed, then turned back to the problem at hand. The drunk sat directly across from the pawnshop door. With his head resting on his knees, he looked almost peaceful.
"Chase him off?"
"No. He might yell," Danny said. "Might run into a cop, who knows."
"So I'll knock him down." Evan smiled. "You know they don't get up after I knock ‘em down."
The idea wasn't totally without merit, but lacked elegance. Too much noise, and it wasn't like the bum had done anything to deserve a beating. Besides, Evan was Golden Gloves. Probably end up killing the poor bastard. He squinted, trying to think of a way to get rid of the guy without complicating the job. Then he smiled. "I'll take care of it." He reached for the door handle.
"He looks dangerous. Don't forget the pistola." Evan held it out, a mocking smile on his lips.
