On The Run

by J. M. Parker

  “Nothing?”

  “Yeah,” said Bannon, turning away and crossing the street as the door slammed shut again.

  *

  Bannon crouched beside the trash can, looking out across the parking lot and onto the door of the Moonshine Dive. It had been a few hours since he’d backed away from the men and the horizon was beginning to redden. He felt his eyes close and he slapped a hand against his cheek, willing himself to stay awake.

  Another half hour passed and the door opened again. Bannon felt a wave of adrenaline as he saw the suited man step through the door. The man turned and checked the lock before he started down the sidewalk. Bannon slipped behind the trash can, listening as the man’s footsteps passed in front. Slowly, he peered around its edge, watching as the man strode over to his car, turning his back to Bannon as he moved around to the driver’s side.

  The blood rushed to Bannon’s head as he stood. He wobbled on the spot before he dashed toward the man. The man turned as Bannon reached him and Bannon smashed a fist into his face. The man fell to the ground and Bannon dropped on top of him, reaching into his belt and dragging out the pistol. The man struggled for a moment before Bannon pressed the gun into his cheek. “Quiet,” said Bannon, gripping the man’s hair with his free hand and dragging him to the driver’s door. “Get in,” said Bannon.

  The man hesitated, and Bannon smashed the butt of the gun into his cheek. “Okay,” said the man, ducking into the car.

  Bannon stepped back and got into the seat behind. He leaned forward, reaching around the headrest and holding the gun against the man’s neck. “Drive,” said Bannon.

  The man’s hand shook as he tried to work the key into the ignition. “Where?”

  “Someplace quiet, somewhere out of town.”

  The car pulled out of the lot and headed up the street, the neon lights of the bars shining through the window. Bannon swallowed, trying to keep his eyes fixed on the man in front.

  “What do you want?” said the man.

  “I want to know everything you know about Saint Jean.”

  “He’s just a customer. I don’t know anything.”

  “We’ll see what you know,” said Bannon.

  *

  The car pulled off the main road and into a deserted rest stop. “Kill the engine,” said Bannon.

  The man obliged and Bannon reached around and grabbed the keys. “I really don’t know anything,” said the man, looking fearfully at Bannon as he slid along the back seat and leveled the gun at his face.

  “You know something,” said Bannon. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have come out to see me.”

  The man flinched as Bannon pushed the gun a little closer. “He’s just a good customer.”

  Bannon thumbed at the safety and the man pressed back against the door. “Please,” said the man. “I know he’s dangerous. He’ll have me killed. He’ll have you killed.”

  Bannon’s temper snapped at the words and he squeezed the trigger, firing just past the man’s head. The man screamed as the glass shattered behind him. “He’s already fucking tried,” said Bannon.

  “Oh god,” said the man before he burst into a mad babble of Thai.

  “English,” said Bannon, jabbing the gun back at his face. “When did you see him last?”

  “Maybe five weeks ago,” said the man, tears streaming down his face.

  “Where was he going?”

  “I don’t know, I’m just the pimp. He doesn’t tell me where and when he goes.”

  Bannon fired again, this time into the shoulder of the seat and spraying the stuffing around the car.

  “I think he was flying out of the country. Moving something, I heard something about half a shipment.”

  “What else?”

  “He said he’d be back. Said he would see me in a few months…something about the heat dying away.”

  “So he’s flying back in?”

  “I guess,” said the man, pressing himself back into the door as Bannon leaned forward and pushed the gun into his throat. “Give me your wallet,” said Bannon.

  The man reached into a pocket and handed over his wallet. With his free hand Bannon drew out his driver’s license. “If it turns out you’re lying or if I think you’ve spoken a word about this to anyone, I will find you. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then get out.”

  The man turned and fumbled for the handle before he fell out onto the pavement. He lay in a ball on the ground, whimpering. Bannon slipped into the driver’s seat and started the car, the wind whipping through the shattered window as he sped on down the road.

  *

  He ditched the car and jogged the last mile to the harbor. When he reached it he slumped onto a bench, barely able to catch his breath and dizzying badly. He heard the hum of a plane propeller and he looked to the sky. A small hydroplane descended toward the ocean. Bannon reached instinctively for the gun, his vision steadying as he gripped the handle. He saw the plane disappear behind the harbor wall and heard the engines roar again. After a couple of minutes the plane motored into the harbor and anchored against a pontoon. Bannon stood, edging to the end of the dock and waiting for the pilot to exit. The door popped open and Bannon cursed as an unfamiliar figure stepped out of the plane.

  The pilot walked out onto the dock, crossed the harbor road, and stepped into a small office. Bannon looked that way, watching through the large glass window in front. The pilot shook hands with what appeared to be a customs inspector before he leaned over a desk and signed something in a book. A moment later the two men exited and returned to the plane. Bannon glanced once in their direction, then hurried over to the office. The door was still ajar and he stepped inside, spotting the logbook on top of a small wooden desk. He snatched it up and began skimming through the pages, stopping suddenly and starting at an entry, recognizing the unmistakable penmanship of the Frenchman, the same italic lettering he’d seen written across business cards and maps. He looked across to the date, almost six weeks to the day. He took a long, deep breath and set the book back on the table, checking the docks once more before he rushed back outside.

  18

  He spent the next two weeks holed up on the top floor of a motel, staring at the harbor. A little weight had returned to his body as he forced himself to eat. He’d wake in the night in a cold sweat, yearning for a drink as he tried desperately to fall back to sleep. He thought constantly about the Frenchman, his anger building as more planes landed and more unfamiliar figures stepped out onto the docks.

  He woke up early on the second Sunday of June. A familiar cold sweat covered his body and he shook a little as he crossed the room to the sink. He splashed a handful of cold water across his face, about to run the shower when he heard the sound of propellers on the horizon. He stepped back into the room and looked at the clock on the dresser, 6:30a.m. It seemed early for a plane to be landing and he hurried over to the window. He saw the plane immediately, descending at a sharp angle to the ocean before it pulled up at the last moment and shot across the tops of the waves. Bannon felt his pulse quicken as it touched down and two long arcs of water sprayed out behind it. He grabbed a T-shirt and jeans and threw them on, tucking the pimp’s pistol into the back of his pants before he sprinted out of the room.

  He reached the docks as the plane moved into the harbor, the propellers slowing as it drifted over to the pontoon. Bannon stepped behind a row of boats and stared through a gap at the plane. The far door swung open and he saw the pontoon rock as a figure stepped out. He reached for the gun, about to move toward the dock when the office door swung open and a customs inspector hurried out of the office. He moved quickly to the plane, stopping just in front and dropping into a low bow as the Frenchman stepped into view.

  Bannon felt his pulse quicken as the Frenchman’s laughter echoed out across the harbor. He watched as the Frenchman reached into a jacket and handed the inspector a thick envelope. The man bowed again before he opened the logbook, waiting patiently as the Fren
chman leaned in and signed. Steadily, Bannon moved to the end of his pier, staring at the two men as they moved closer to the road. He wrapped his hand around the gun, the two men maybe forty yards away. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, about to step out from behind the boats and sprint at the Frenchman when a jeep shot past. “Shit,” said Bannon, watching as the jeep skidded to a stop and the Frenchman hopped inside. Bannon turned, racing out of the harbor and on to the main road. He spotted a taxi across the street and he jumped inside.

  The driver asked where to and Bannon told him to wait. A minute later the jeep appeared at the harbor gates. “Follow,” said Bannon.

  The driver didn’t move and Bannon started to panic as the jeep set off down the road. “Follow,” said Bannon.

  This time the driver shook his head, “What place?”

  Bannon watched as the jeep disappeared around a corner and he drew the gun from his belt. “Get out,” he said, stabbing the gun at the temple of the man. The driver reached frantically for the door and dived out into the road. Bannon jumped into the driver’s seat and pressed hard against the accelerator. He spotted the jeep about a half mile up the road, sitting at the end of a small line of traffic. He pulled the car over, waiting for the traffic to move. He felt his hands start to shake and he gripped the steering wheel.

  Another mile along the road and the car turned right into a little housing development. Again Bannon stopped the car, unsure how close he should get. He turned into the development just in time to see the jeep turn left past a dilapidated wooden house. He drove that way, stopping just past the intersection as he saw the car stop in front of a little concrete house. He watched as four men stepped from the vehicle, three Thai men forming a sort of triangle around the Frenchman. They moved into the building and shut the door behind them. Bannon pulled the cab a little further forward before he stepped out and inched along the road to the house.

  Curtains covered most of the windows and Bannon crept past them, finding a gap and peering into an empty bedroom. He could hear voices inside but he couldn’t hear what was being said. A door opened across the road and he retreated back to the cab, watching as a group of ladies carried their laundry out into the street.

  Almost an hour passed, the heat of the day stifling inside the taxi. He tried to run the air conditioning and listened as it choked dead. Sweat dripped out of his body and he could feel his damp clothes sticking to the leather. The door of the house opened and Bannon felt a wave of adrenaline. He thought of the Defender crashing into the side of the camper and he started the cab, thinking of launching the taxi into the Frenchman’s side of the jeep. Bannon watched as the three Thai men moved to the car, waiting for a sign of the Frenchman, wondering what seat he’d get into. The men got into the car and Bannon’s hand fell from the wheel as the jeep pulled away. He looked back to the house, thought he saw a curtain move but he couldn’t be sure. He felt his breathing quicken and he slammed a hand against the dash. Slowly, he stepped from the car, holding the gun at his side. He paused just before the house, staring at the drawn curtains and looking for a sign of movement. He slinked back to the gap, staring into the middle of the room and seeing no one there. He heard the sound of a shower running and he felt a fresh surge of energy.

  He moved to the front door and tried the handle, unlocked. He pushed it gently open, the door barely making a sound as it brushed across the carpet. He stepped inside, finding a small hallway with doors on either side. The bedroom door was wide open and Bannon could see the steam creep under the bathroom door at its end. He raised the pistol and stepped into the room, oblivious to the hidden figure waiting behind the door. “Mon ami,” said the Frenchman, stopping Bannon in his tracks as he felt the cold steel barrel of the gun press against his skull. “Drop the pistol,” said the Frenchman.

  Bannon let the gun fall to the floor and the Frenchman pushed the revolver into the back of his head, sending him staggering to the bed. “Take a seat,” said the Frenchman.

  Bannon sat, turning to find the Frenchman pointing the Colt Walker at his chest. “You are alive,” said the Frenchman, smiling as he seemed to spot the scars showing on Bannon’s skin. “Just, it seems.”

  “You did it to me.”

  The Frenchman took a step closer. “We are the masters of our own destinies; everything that has happened to you is a consequence of the choices you have made.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  The Frenchman laughed. “But I will not say I am not surprised to see you again. Resurrected before my very eyes. How has it come to be?”

  “What’s it matter to you?”

  “Humor me,” said the Frenchman, aiming the pistol at his knee and squinting down the sight.

  “DEA dragged me out of the setup.”

  “So the girl alerted them in time,” said the Frenchman, his polished teeth showing in another smile. “I must admit, she was a most cunning creature, I did not expect her to escape the house.”

  “You knew she was undercover?”

  “I had a feeling.”

  Bannon felt a burst of anger as he remembered the naked corpse in front of the sofa. “So you ordered her dead, right after your man got done raping her.”

  “She had served her purpose,” said the Frenchman. “Turning attention to you and your camper, keeping the DEA thinking it would lead to me.”

  Bannon didn’t reply and the Frenchman laughed again. “You really cared for her, it must have been hard for you to find out she was using you?”

  “You’re a nasty piece of work,” said Bannon. “I don’t have a goddamn clue how you live with yourself.”

  The Frenchman laughed at the words. “Tell me,” he said. “What did you expect to happen today? What fruits did you truly believe your trail would yield? Revenge, retribution: these are things parceled out by the strong and the tyrannical. Can you, with any shred of certainty, count yourself to be these things?”

  Bannon looked up at the Frenchman, the gun pointed at his heart. He thought for a moment about Alina, her cobalt-colored eyes shining toward him. He smiled as he thought about his father, the two of them suspended in the clear crater waters. “Guess I can’t.”

  “Of course not,” said the Frenchman. “Now, last thing, tell me how you found me.”

  Bannon shook his head. “Maybe I’m done taking questions, how about you finish it.”

  “My friend, do not make this harder on yourself than it has to be.”

  Bannon didn’t answer.

  “So be it,” said the Frenchman.

  Bannon stared back, a sudden hope seizing hold as light fell through the gap in the curtains and formed a shimmering wall between them. “Wait,” said Bannon. “I remembered about the Moonshine Dive, pimp gave you up, said you’d be flying back in.”

  “Was that so hard?”

  “There are people that know I’m here.”

  The Frenchman smiled. “No there are not.”

  Bannon watched as the Frenchman curled a finger around the trigger, the wall of light still shining between them. He spoke again, dropping his voice to a whisper. “They know you’re here.”

  “What?” said the Frenchman, taking one last step toward him and turning his head to the side as the light caught his eyes.

  Bannon lunged to his right, then dove at the Frenchman. He felt a bullet whip past his cheek as the Frenchman fired. The recoil of the gun kicked the Frenchman’s hand up into the air and Bannon grabbed at his wrist, driving his free hand into the Frenchman’s stomach and sending them tumbling to the floor. The Frenchman punched back and Bannon gasped for air as a fist landed in his side. He could feel the Frenchman pulling his hand free of his grip and he looked that way, watching as the pistol started to turn toward him. He leaned down and bit into the Frenchman’s neck, blood spilling across his mouth as his teeth broke the skin. He heard the pistol land on the floor and he slapped his hand at it, sending the gun sliding across the carpet. He felt the Frenchman press his knees into his stomach and drive him to
the side. He saw the pimp’s pistol laying on the floor and he dived at it as the Frenchman crawled to his own. He grabbed the handle and rolled onto his back, pulling the trigger as the Frenchman turned toward him, the bullet ripping into his hand as he tried to shield his face.

  The Frenchman screamed, grabbing his hand and writhing on the floor. Bannon heaved himself to his feet, his heart thumping inside him as he tried to catch his breath. He moved over to the Frenchman and kicked him hard in the stomach, watching as a little foil square slipped out of his pocket. Bannon looked at the thing, remembering the Thai hands forcing him to chew, remembering the brain of the man pulsing in a horrible mess before his drugged eyes. He reached down and grabbed the square, “Please,” said the Frenchman, looking wildly at Bannon as he unwrapped the foil.

  “You sold these things to kids,” said Bannon, crumbling the square into a sticky powder before he grabbed the Frenchman’s bloody hand, pressing the paste against the bloody nub where his index finger used to be. “It ain’t more than you deserve,” said Bannon.

  The Frenchman’s voice shook as he spoke. “Please, help me.”

  Bannon stood, placing his foot over the Frenchman’s hand. “And there ain’t no helping you either.”

  The Frenchman howled as Bannon pressed his foot down, bones crunching under the pressure. Bannon watched as the Frenchman writhed on the carpet before he pointed his gun at him. The Frenchman stopped squirming as he spotted the pistol pointed at his face. “Please” he said. “There is money here, the walls are full of it. Let me go and I’ll make you rich.”

  Bannon swallowed, his hand starting to shake as he thought about pulling the trigger. “Shit,” he said, leveling a kick at the Frenchman’s stomach. The Frenchman groaned as he folded around the blow. Bannon grabbed the Colt. “Everything you’ve done to me, you think I’m still for sale.” he turned and left the room, stopping in shock as he moved into the kitchen. Blocks of opium covered the table and Bannon stepped over to them. He reached into his wallet, finding the agents’ business card tucked in behind the last of the pimp’s money. He sighed, looking from the card to the blocks before headed for the phone in the corner of the room.