The Subway ; The Debt ; Catastrophic

by Dustin Stevens

  One nearly twice as long was lodged into his left knee, rendering the joint a mash of bone and tendon and ligament.

  When he’d first heard the sound of the car approaching, he had braced for the collision. Squirreling himself behind the Gran Torino, he had waited for the impact, having seen the move play out more times than he could remember.

  Expecting for Scarberry to come flying in right after it, guns drawn, Creel had messed up.

  He had slipped around the back end of the Gran Torino, looking for the optimal vantage, ready to mow Scarberry down the instant he appeared.

  Not once had he considered that the car was rigged.

  The initial explosion gave him pause, his natural instincts taking over. Raising a hand to deflect the first blast of heat and light, he hadn’t moved quickly enough to clear himself from the follow-up.

  By the time the chain reaction began, explosives igniting one another, culminating with the engine, it was too late.

  The pieces that had got him were gnarled like twisted pretzels, the metal hot, sizzling his flesh. On entry, they had felt like hot irons being jammed into him, pain receptors sending messages hurtling the length of his body.

  As fast as they arrived, the superheated metal and his body’s own protective processes had intervened, the nerves deadening, nothing but a tingling cool emanating the length of him.

  Taking with it most useful movement.

  Staying tucked back in his hiding spot, he stared down at the foreign items protruding from him, the sight of them only raising the animosity he felt.

  This affair had been a disaster from the word go.

  Now, it was just time for it to be over, for him to rid the world of every last person present and be on his way.

  Outside, the sound of automatic fire could be heard, a random spray moving in a haphazard pattern, breaking glass, making a lot of noise, but not accomplishing much of any worth.

  Recognizing it for what it was, Creel stayed put, his body propped awkwardly on one knee, watching as Elijah Pyle emerged from the shadows once again.

  For the only time he can remember, there was no cigar clamped between his lips, only his guns and blindingly white torso remaining as his hallmarks.

  Pulling up beside him, Pyle looked at the foreign objects lodged in various places - at the streaks of blood running down into the crook of Creel’s elbow, the knee of his jeans a shredded mass of blood and char - the usual look of bemusement on his face.

  “Aw, did you get a booboo?”

  “Go to hell,” Creel replied.

  “You and me both,” Pyle replied, twisting to look back over a shoulder.

  Waiting side by side, they listened as the shooting died away, the world falling silent for an instant.

  Keeping his glance aimed in the opposite direction, Pyle said, “I’m going to slip around, see if I can’t get a clear bead on him. After that, I’m heading toward the back corner, try to lure him in.”

  Not sure if this was a working plan or a directive to do the opposite, Creel only grunted in response.

  Without another word, as fast as Pyle had arrived, he was gone.

  Watching him go, Creel bit back the desire to unload on the man’s back, to stripe his pale bare torso with half a clip or more.

  To stand over his body and give his own amused grin. Ask him if he had a few booboos.

  Jerking his attention away, knowing that eventuality would come soon enough, Creel shoved himself to his feet, his left arm flopping by his side, his leg in agony, unable to bend, a Glock 19 in his hand. Twisting out in the opposite direction as Pyle, he heard a volley of smaller arms fire erupt, pinging against the side of the building.

  Shuffling along as much as his battered form would allow, he didn’t bother checking to see the outcome.

  Whether Pyle hit someone outside or they hit him worked just as well for Creel.

  Casting a glance up to the office on the second floor, he could see two of the glass panes had been destroyed, either by the explosion or the gunfire that followed it. Despite the lights still being on, he couldn’t see any sign of movement inside, not knowing whether Baxter was alive or not.

  Not particularly caring at the moment.

  Circling past the charred and burning wreckage of the car in the center of the space, Creel made a wide loop, headed toward the back wall, careful to keep himself beyond the flickering light of the bonfire sprouting from the shattered engine block.

  Breath coming in ragged bursts, pain receptors firing from every possible opening, he slid between various pieces of machinery, their various shapes and angles providing ample coverage, giving himself the best viewpoint he could find before settling in to wait.

  Something told him it wouldn’t be long.

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  “You good?”

  I could feel small burns and tears along the entire backside of my body, results of the explosion a few minutes before. Had I to do it over, I would have bailed a bit earlier, but I needed to be sure the Charger went exactly where I wanted it to.

  The roll top doors were big, but it wasn’t like I had the whole side of the warehouse to work with.

  “Good,” I said, thrusting one shoulder out, rolling it forward, shaking away any bit of tightness that might exist in the joint. “You?”

  Glancing over, I could see firelight dancing off the sweat and dirt and grime painting her features. With her long black ponytail and guns in both hands, she looked like the embodiment of her ancestors, a modern day take on what a warrior should be.

  “Let’s do this,” she said.

  “I’ll go right,” I said.

  Not another word was said between us. No admonishments to be careful, no promises to meet up afterward.

  Besides neither one of us possibly being able to keep them, we both knew there was no need. We had walked into this willingly, knew what the cost might be.

  We also both knew that if anything happened to one of us, the other would do whatever they could to make sure my uncle and her father were avenged.

  The ground outside of the warehouse was nothing more than dirt and gravel, the pavement ending abruptly at the edge of the road. Underfoot, it crunched with each step I took, the Beretta extended to full length in my right hand, left cupped under it for support.

  As I drew closer, I could smell the char of the recent explosion, the scent of the interior of the car burning. Mixed in were an assortment of chemicals, even some fresh paint, a strong concoction that burned the nostrils and eyes.

  Raising my pace into a jog, I swung out wide from the open doorway, arriving a few moments later, bracing myself against the very spot that Lou had been using for target practice just moments before.

  Pressing my shoulder tight against it, I could see Lou doing the same opposite me.

  Each with a better vantage of the area on the opposite side, I scanned the ground beyond where she was. Releasing my hand left hand from the gun, I fixed my middle and index fingers into a V, motioning from my eyes to the space beyond where she was.

  Following it in order, I held up a clenched fist, signaling that it was clear, she could proceed.

  Fifteen feet away, she nodded, using her own hand to signal the same to me, doing as best she could despite the weapon curled into her fist.

  Giving her the same sign of acceptance, I drew in one deep breath.

  Conjured up the image of the chess piece in Uncle Jep’s bedroom.

  Spun out around the edge of the doorway, gun extended before me.

  The interior of the warehouse was at least a hundred degrees, the combination of the metal roofing and the wildfire burning from the Charger making the place a veritable oven. A heavy film of sweat immediately came to my features as I inched my way forward, the front tip of the Beretta like some form of primal metal detector, flashing from left to right.

  Around me were the silent vestiges of a working metal shop, presses and torches scattered between oversized benches, most everything left where
it was last used, cast aside at the end of one day, ready to be grabbed at the start of another.

  Weaving my way through them, their various pieces and implements were extended outward, silent miniature castoffs from a Transformers movie set.

  Keeping both feet on the ground, I slid forward over the polished concrete floor, the gun twitching before me, trying in vain to pick out any opposition.

  As best I could tell, there was none.

  Which was what made the pain of the bullet entering my leg that much worse.

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  I never heard the report of the gunshot. Never so much as a peep. The sole warning I had was the momentary bit of shock that passed through my thigh before the full weight of it smacked into me.

  Ripping the breath from my lungs, my body toppled to the side, the unexpected blow cutting my support out from beneath me.

  Dropping to one knee, both hands slammed down before me, the Beretta wedged under my right palm.

  My left leg - the one that had been shot - remained at an angle, extended away from my body, a steady torrent of blood droplets speckling the concrete beneath me.

  “Slide the gun away.”

  Spoken by a male, there was a firmness to the tone, a directive that was not negotiable, full compliance the only response.

  And it was coming from behind me, my entire backside exposed.

  “Do it, or I pump you with a clip, then go do the same to your girlfriend.”

  Given my situation, I had no choice but to obey. I didn’t know who was back there, had yet to even see the man, and he already had put a round in me.

  Rattling off a few more would be of no concern.

  Using my right hand, I shoved the gun away, the metal sliding almost ten feet across the smooth floor. Using the momentum from the action, I shoved my body upright, my knee the sole remaining point of contact aside from my feet.

  “Don’t stand,” the man said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

  Doing as told, I resisted the instinct to raise my hands, to give this bastard even the slightest hint that he had gotten to me.

  Instead, I let only the hatred I felt show on my face.

  I had gotten my uncle killed. Had flown across the country. Made a mess of things for Lou and Lipski and untold others only to walk inside and get my ass shot.

  Served me right.

  The man seemed to emerge directly from the shadows, springing up fully formed, quite a feat for someone with no shirt and a ghostly pallor. Sauntering forward one step at a time, he held a gun in either hand, the smile on his face confirming what I’d suspected a moment before.

  On a face I recognized in an instant.

  “Elijah Pyle,” I whispered, the wrath I’d felt growing in intensity, far outstripping the burning in my thigh.

  Raising a hand to his chest, he feigned as if honored, his mouth dropping open a bit.

  “So you remember me?”

  “Eric Baxter’s lapdog?” I asked. “Yeah, I remember you.”

  The smile faded as he stared at me, clearly not appreciating the comment.

  “Last I saw you, you were crying like a baby as they led him out of that courtroom in handcuffs.”

  Pressing his lips tight, he stared at me a moment, seeming to feel the same animosity I harbored for him.

  Which was entirely likely, his showing up six years later proving the incident had just as much bearing on him as me.

  Extending his guns my way, every muscle striation stood out, his body clenched so tight he quivered as he stared down the barrel.

  It was clear that he wanted nothing more than to pull the trigger, to empty every last bullet he had into me and watch as I toppled to the ground lifeless.

  But just as clear was the fact that if he truly harbored any of the same feelings I did, there was no way he was going to let it go that easily.

  Slowly lowering them by his side, he rocked his head back an inch, staring down the length of his nose at me.

  “I’m going to do to you exactly what I did to your uncle.”

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Talula Davis waited just a split second by the doorway, watching as Tim spun in the opposite direction, disappearing beyond the fiery wreckage of his car.

  Hours before, they had debated how things might go once they got here. How to best approach the outside, to proceed if they were able to make it inside.

  The biggest point of contention had been whether or not they should split up or remained joined, the debate not between each other but the pros and cons of such an approach.

  In the end, they had decided that with such a small number, likely facing a location that was quite large, it would be better for them to part. To spread Baxter’s men out, not make it so easy for them to be hemmed in.

  The ultimate goal was, after all, to end it.

  Not to merely survive.

  Right up until the moment she saw Tim disappear, Davis wasn’t certain he would go for it, would trust her enough not to reverse course, to insist on being by her side.

  Once he did, though, it brought about a renewed sense of purpose in her. He trusted her enough to do as they agreed, respected her to be an able ally against Baxter.

  Which meant she needed to prove she was just that.

  Holding the HK’s before her, Davis kept one at shoulder height, the other pointed at a downward angle. Occasionally moving them back and forth across her body, she covered every inch before her, gaze tracing over the grounds, watching for any sign of movement.

  Behind her, she could feel the heat of the wreckage, could hear the low crackle of the seats burning inside, smell their acrid smoke.

  Along the wall beside her, she spotted a metal staircase rising sharply up to a second-floor office, shattered windows overlooking the operation below.

  If she didn’t know what the warehouse was designed for, the true purpose it performed day in and day out, she might have believed that it was nothing more than an auto body shop.

  Spread in equal intervals around her were hydraulic lifts, air wrenches, assorted metal tool cabinets. Striping the wall beneath the office was a rack of tires, their tread new, arranged in ascending order of size.

  On the ground was even a few oil spots, the smells of grease and gasoline in the air.

  Crossing one foot over the other, Davis kept her back just a few feet from the wall. Moving slow, continuing to sweep the HK’s back and forth before her, she worked in a clockwise direction around the room, watching for any hint of movement, any sign of someone lurking, waiting for her to give them an opportunity.

  A sign such as the sporadic droplets of blood speckling the floor around her.

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  There was no time to think, no pause to let what she was seeing register, to even consider some form of verbal parlay.

  One moment, Talula Davis was standing near a wall, staring at the random assortment of droplets and bloody smears working perpendicular to her across the floor.

  The next, she was planting her right foot, using every bit of basketball agility ever attained to shove her body toward the wall. Splayed parallel to the ground, she seemed to levitate, hovering above the floor, as a pair of muzzle flashes ignited no more than fifteen feet away.

  Landing hard on her hip, spasms of pain roiled up her side as she slid to the wall, her body twisting up tight against the base of it. With both weapons still extended before her, she squeezed off a pair of shots from each, hearing the rounds ping against the metal structures before her.

  Just as they had outside, sparks ignited on contact.

  Unlike that time, they were immediately answered by another pair of bursts, the first nudging the wall behind her, the second tracing along the outside of her deltoid, cleaving a trench through the skin.

  Agony coursed down from the wound, followed by a curtain of blood, the liquid spilling down, aided by the rivulets already carved by sweat through the dirt and grime on her skin.

  Sucking in a s
harp breath of air, Davis pulled herself into a straight line, her stomach flush against the ground. Drawing her feet up toward her core, the toes of her boots slipped twice, fighting for purchase, before the treads caught hold, propelling her forward again.

  Her options were sparse. She was exposed, had been lucky to only be grazed. The men across from her were experts, and likely wouldn’t miss again.

  Just a few minutes inside and already it was time for extensive measures, they being the only kind that could truly exist in such a situation.

  Offering two more rounds from each of the HK’s, she drove straight ahead. Twisting her head a few inches to the right, she released her grip on the guns, letting them fall to the side as she slammed her body into the tire rack along the wall.

  On contact, her left shoulder seized tight, almost matching the pain of the right.

  For an instant, there was no movement, no response at all from the rack.

  Feeling panic rise within her, knowing she was exposed, that she had cast down her weapons, Davis pumped her legs, her knees driving like pistons into the rack, as a round thudded into the thick rubber of a steel radial no more than a few inches from her head.

  Letting out a mighty, guttural roar, she pushed with everything she had, every last bit of anything she could muster, waiting as bit by bit the rack gave way.

  Spilling the entirety of its contents down on the floor around it.

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  I was aware of the guns Elijah Pyle held being cast aside. I watched as he tossed them in either direction, could faintly hear the din of them hitting the floor with a clatter.

  But I didn’t really focus on any of that.

  Instead, my sole point of concentration was on the words he had just uttered, on the look of glee now dancing across his face.