Messiahs

by Matt Rogers

  It actually worked.

  King threw a wild right hook to deter the guy on the right but he missed, swinging through air inches in front of the man’s nose.

  No one’s perfect.

  The guy ducked under it and blasted into a double-leg takedown. It was competent, and the guy was heavy and tall, and it worked. King wondered if his adversary had an NCAA background as he scrambled for balance. But he killed that train of thought quickly, because wondering about anything in the heat of battle is useless, and instead bucked at the hips as he went down. The guy was expecting an easy takedown, and the rapid switch in momentum threw him off, both physically and mentally. He literally tumbled off King, and the ferocity with which he’d been bucked made him freeze up.

  On the ground, King twisted and threw a pinpoint right hand from his knees, breaking the guy’s jaw by catching him on the point of his chin at just the right moment, when he was loose from the hurry to get back to his feet. His mouth hung open as King cracked him with the shot, which took care of his jaw in the same instant.

  King was up a second later, and the last guy grabbed him and bundled him back to the edge of the pool table. He’d been sizing up his opportunity to pounce, waiting for King to get back to his feet instead of following him down to the unknown realm of ground warfare.

  King figured these boys weren’t Brazilian jiu-jitsu black belts.

  So he took advantage of that, and when the guy pinned him against the pool table with all his bodyweight King reached down and looped both hands around the guy’s forearm in a kimura grip and simply wrenched. Many of the traditional martial arts you see in movies are nonsense in street fights — you try to crane-kick someone or karate chop the arteries in their throat and you end up looking like an idiot. All those clichés about killing someone with a single strike, summoning your ki energy … it doesn’t work.

  What works is jiu-jitsu, because it’s all force and technique and physics. You bend an arm the wrong way and it snaps like a twig.

  King snapped the elbow at the joint.

  The guy gave up immediately. Howled and backed away like he’d been shot, his left arm dangling uselessly.

  King thundered an elbow into his mouth, knocking two teeth loose as he sent the guy down for far longer than a ten count.

  Silence for a beat.

  Then the big guy from the start finally made his way back to his feet.

  He limped like one of his knees was destroyed, which it probably was. Three hundred pounds going down on the joint the wrong way would spell disaster. He hobbled, his face white, and said, ‘The fuck did we do to you, anyway?’

  King said, ‘Didn’t accept my invitation.’

  He stepped over two of the writhing bearded guys, got in the big man’s face, and head-butted him.

  Forehead to nose.

  Crack.

  The guy went down and stayed down.

  King looked past him and saw the bartender in the doorway, leaning against the swinging door, arms crossed over his considerable chest, a cleaning cloth for the bar’s surface hanging from his belt.

  The man huffed and said, ‘Cops are on their way.’

  King said, ‘Not here yet, though, are they? Bet you thought that’d take me longer.’

  Echoing the big man’s sentiments, the bartender said, ‘What’d they do to you? Stole your girl or something?’

  Stick to the plan, King thought.

  He said, ‘No. I just didn’t like them. Privileged hillbillies who haven’t served their country.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I just know,’ King said. ‘Men like me, men who serve … we’re different. We’re better.’

  He took a step forward.

  The bartender didn’t budge. His mass filled the doorway.

  King said, ‘You going to be a problem too?’

  The guy flattened himself to the door, moving sideways to give King room to pass.

  King walked by. ‘Make sure people hear about this.’

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ the bartender said. ‘Word spreads fast. You’re a dead man walking — vet or not.’

  Good, King thought.

  He said, ‘Agree to disagree.’

  A couple of patrons swore at him on his way out, hurling insults. He smiled at them, one by one, which he knew would only make them angrier. It tipped one man over the edge. He was there with his wife, big and heavyset, with the build of a labourer. He got up and stepped into King’s way.

  ‘A couple of those guys are my buddies,’ he said.

  ‘And you had a front row seat to that,’ King said. ‘You want to go the way they did?’

  The guy didn’t try anything right away, which was an immediate surrender. But he didn’t want to back down for the sake of his pride. He said, ‘Make sure you actually stay in town. You’ve got it coming.’

  King whooped like he was deranged. ‘Yes! Let’s see what you’ve got. I’ll be here all week. Now get the fuck out of my way.’

  The man did. He gave him the evil eye the whole time, like he was milliseconds from throwing something. King knew he wouldn’t.

  He mock-saluted the patrons on his way out. ‘Have a pleasant evening.’

  They swore back at him.

  He stepped out into the night.

  22

  Violetta sat at the kitchen table of their room at the Budget Inn, shifting restlessly.

  Her phone rang.

  King.

  She picked up and said, ‘I take it everything went well.’

  ‘Everyone hates me,’ he said. ‘Word will get out.’

  ‘You really think Maeve will hear it?’

  ‘I can’t see how she wouldn’t,’ King said. ‘She’ll give it some thought and realise she needs an anti-establishment enforcer. That’s how she upgrades from getting eighteen-year-olds like Jace to do her dirty work. That’s when she tries to bag someone like me.’

  Violetta said, ‘I hope you’re right.’

  ‘Is Alexis doing what she’s supposed to?’

  ‘She’s out there now,’ Violetta said. ‘I doubt she’ll disappoint.’

  King said, ‘Me either.’

  ‘She’s a natural, you know,’ Violetta said. ‘She hits harder than me already. She doesn’t succumb to stress or fear. She was born for this.’

  ‘And she added two tally marks to her body count in The Bahamas,’ King said. ‘She didn’t seem affected, and Slater confirmed it. Seems like her first kill tore her up, but the subsequent ones didn’t. I guess the brain is like a muscle after all. You tear it down, and it comes back stronger. I think she’s already transitioning into an operative.’

  ‘She is one,’ Violetta said. ‘Whatever she needs to do tonight, she’ll do it. I have full confidence in her.’

  ‘We were babysitting her two months ago,’ King said. ‘Where will she be a year from now?’

  Violetta smiled at the thought. ‘All I know is that I’ll be left in the dust.’

  ‘Maybe,’ King said, as always refusing to deny the truth. ‘But a year from now, that’s what you’ll want anyway. I’ll want the same for myself, I’m sure.’

  She said, ‘Are you nervous?’

  ‘About Mother Libertas? No. Not until I get a better sense of what we’re going up against.’

  ‘About the baby,’ Violetta corrected.

  Silence.

  King finally said, ‘Yes. Like it’s my first operation all over again. It’s all relative, isn’t it? I’m so conditioned to danger, fighting, war … but fatherhood? There’s no experience in the bank there. It’s a new world.’

  She said, ‘You’ll make a great Dad.’

  ‘You’ll make a great mother,’ King said. ‘We’ll do it right.’

  ‘Don’t get complacent tonight. Get back to your room safe.’

  ‘I will. Can’t say the same for whoever tries to come after me.’

  Violetta smiled again. ‘Every thug in this town wants your head on a stick and you’re more worried abou
t having a kid in eight months.’

  King said, ‘The former is business as usual. The latter’s uncharted territory.’

  ‘I think you’re adept enough at handling uncharted territory.’

  ‘We’ll find out, won’t we?’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘You too.’

  A pause.

  King said, ‘Gotta go. Got trouble.’

  Violetta said, ‘Give ‘em hell.’

  She ended the call. It was strange — her life partner was seconds away from another violent confrontation, and she didn’t feel an ounce of nerves for him.

  Instead, she was worried for whoever he came up against.

  23

  King was two blocks away from the Arbuckle Lodge when he heard the truck crawling down the street over his shoulder.

  He muttered a hasty goodbye to Violetta, killed the call, and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

  The street was wide and the surroundings were dark. Camplex Park stretched out to his right, opposite the dormant facilities of the event space on the other side of the road. There was a horse racing track, a giant building with WYOMING CENTER AT CAM-PLEX for recreational sports, and a vast parking lot. All deserted, all quiet. It was late on a weeknight, and the good citizens were at home with their families.

  The bad citizens were out for blood.

  It was a tiny portion of the population, but that’s the case everywhere.

  Most people are good.

  Some are bad.

  Confront the bad, and they come after you.

  The pickup truck pulled to a stop in the middle of the road, alongside King on the sidewalk. It was a new Dodge, black and shiny under the streetlights. Two beefy men leapt out of the rear tray, and the driver and passenger got out of the cabin. They were all bearded, just like the boys from the bar, and looked like truckers. All four had identical physiques, the same equal mix of muscle and fat. Size and strength seemingly weren’t rarities out here. Two wore cut-off denim vests exposing slabs for arms, and the other pair wore big leather jackets over faded tees.

  One guy from the rear tray had a pump-action shotgun.

  A Mossberg 500.

  King put his hands in the air right away.

  The last thing he needed was catching an impulsive round to the chest. One tiny mistake right now, and he’d pay with his life. He’d leave Violetta to raise their child on her own, and the kid would grow up without a father.

  That generated a determination unlike anything he’d felt before.

  His emotions burned hot under the surface.

  On the outside, he acted scared.

  The guy with the shotgun spat on the ground and laughed. ‘Not so tough now, big boy.’

  One of the guys in the leather jackets said, ‘You’re coming with us.’

  ‘Okay,’ King said, making his voice shake. He looked at the ground. ‘Fuck, I’m sorry. I was drunk before. I don’t want you to—’

  ‘Don’t want us to what?!’ the guy with the shotgun said, and let out a shrill laugh for no one to hear. ‘We’ll do whatever we want to you. What was it you called us? “Hick fucks”? Was that it? My memory might be failing me.’

  ‘I didn’t say that to you,’ King said, on the verge of tears.

  ‘Yes you did,’ the guy said through gritted teeth. ‘You said it to my best friend right before you shattered his nose. He’s already in an ambulance. Word spreads fast. You’re gonna pay for that. You’re gonna wish you never opened your dumb mouth.’

  King put his hands behind his head, trying his hardest to feign surrender. He kept his head bowed.

  The guy with the Mossberg stepped off the road, up onto the sidewalk.

  He jabbed the big barrel into King’s chest.

  King lifted his head. ‘Looks like you’re a dumb fuck just like your best friend.’

  The guy’s face flared hot and he went to put the barrel of the Mossberg against King’s throat.

  King grabbed the barrel and ripped the whole thing out of his hands. He gripped the barrel double-handed, swung it like a world-class pitcher and knocked half the guy’s teeth out. He spun to the pavement, his mouth pouring blood, immobilised by the pain and the shock.

  Two of the three still on their feet pulled their pieces. A pair of 9mm Glock 43s, optimal for concealed carry. The last guy didn’t have a weapon. He stood there bristling, his bare hands clenched and shaking with adrenaline.

  King already had the Mossberg trained on one of the Glock wielders. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘You goddamn piece of shit,’ the guy said. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’

  King said, ‘Says who?’

  ‘This is a Mexican standoff, ain’t it? We’ve got buddies on the way. You’re a dead man. Do what’s right and put that thing down.’

  ‘This isn’t a standoff,’ King said. ‘My buddy’s already here.’

  A confused look spread across the guy’s face.

  Will Slater came up behind him and wrenched the Glock out of his hands.

  24

  The guy spun and Slater put him down with an elbow to the forehead.

  The sound of a splitting watermelon echoed down the empty street.

  It spooked the hell out of the other guy with the Glock, who spun fast, but not fast enough. He was crippled by indecision, unsure whether to keep his aim on King with the Mossberg or deal with this new threat, and he ended up in the anaesthesia of no-man’s-land, between a rock and a hard place.

  Slater was the rock.

  He darted sideways and put everything he had into a body kick, using his shin like it was a murder weapon. He didn’t hold back.

  He connected.

  Shin slamming into abdomen.

  Massive internal damage made the guy fold over and drop like he suddenly weighed four hundred pounds. The Glock spilled from his hand, and Slater snatched it up and aimed both of them akimbo-style at the last man’s face. He was still unarmed, fists still clenched, hands still shaking. The only difference was they were shaking with fear, not adrenaline.

  Slater said, ‘Get back in your truck, go find the rest of your buddies, and tell them they have a very serious problem on their hands.’

  The guy nodded, his face pale beneath the thick beard.

  Slater said, ‘Tell them they should reconsider their approach.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  A beat of quiet.

  Slater tilted the weapons in a shrug. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  The guy needed no further prompting.

  He backed up, keeping his eyes on the barrels, ignoring his friends entirely. Two of them were returning from the depths of unconsciousness, and the other was rendered immobile on the ground, curled in the foetal position, clutching his stomach and riding out waves of unimaginable agony.

  The last guy got back in his truck, slammed the door, and peeled away fast enough to make the tyres squeal in the night.

  King said, ‘Thanks.’

  Slater said, ‘Maybe you went too far.’

  ‘Of course not,’ King said. ‘I went far enough to make sure this happened.’

  ‘What if you didn’t alert me in time? How’d you know they’d come at this exact moment?’

  ‘Because I did,’ King said, brandishing the Mossberg. ‘And now we have guns.’

  He tucked the Mossberg inside his jacket and Slater concealed the Glock 43s in his own waistband. They walked away from the scene before someone walked their dog past three crippled thugs and spotted the two culprits standing over them.

  Slater said, ‘What’s the point? You really think they’ll let us bring arms into the commune?’

  ‘Of course,’ King said. ‘They’re going to beg for our help.’

  ‘Why?’

  King laid it out. The movements, the sequences, the chain of events that would let them infiltrate Mother Libertas with minimal resistance.

  Slater listened, digested, then said, ‘That’s banking on Alexis pulling it off perfectly.’

>   ‘You don’t think she will?’

  Slater smirked in the dark. ‘I think she’ll do whatever she needs to do. She might end up a better operative than the both of us before we call it a day.’

  King went to say something, then stopped himself.

  The Arbuckle Lodge loomed in the distance, its exterior lights bathing the surrounding area in warmth.

  Slater said, ‘Say it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know what you were going to say. So say it.’

  King said, ‘When you met her, she had none of these abilities, and now she’s closer to Ruby Nazarian than anyone else you could have met.’

  Slater smiled, which wasn’t what King was expecting. Any mention of Ruby in the past had brought up mixed emotions, a combination of regret and guilt, overlaid with a sad fondness.

  Now he seemed at peace.

  He said, ‘I know. Sometimes I worry I’m the one making her do this. But I’m so proud of her.’

  ‘She took the initiative on Grand Bahama,’ King said. ‘Without her going out on her own, we never would have found that logbook. We never would have found out about who Teddy really was.’

  King could sense the pride radiating off Slater.

  King said, ‘You got lucky meeting her.’

  Slater said, ‘And you with Violetta.’

  Now armed to the teeth, they snuck back into their room inside the lodge with newfound reassurance.

  It felt good to be back in action.

  25

  The next morning, Alexis made her presence known.

  She handed her location to any curious tails by stepping out of the Budget Inn first thing in the morning and covering a decent chunk of Gillette on foot. The sun hovered in a cloudless sky, adding a hint of warmth to the freezing air. She exhaled a cloud of breath, then set off east, passing auto shops and roadside takeout restaurants and a Ford dealership, all gleaming in the sunshine. Her surroundings were too industrial, too sparse and empty, so she veered north up South Burma Avenue and crossed the intersection separating Echeta Road and West 1st Street. She passed a hydraulics factory, a self-storage facility and a seemingly endless chain of warehouses on concrete lots until finally her surroundings became residential when she hit West Warlow Drive.