Kill or Be Killed

by James Patterson

  The thing is, now all three of them were armed.

  I was listening to their footsteps above me. They had emptied out their magazines on us and a reload might give me just enough time to roll out from the wheel well and unleash one mediocre flurry of upward shots. Glocks versus AK-47s. Not fun. Never bring a slingshot to a missile fight. The creaking floor above indicated my enemy was doing the same thing I was. Positioning. The driver stayed still, I think, but his two pals headed toward the exit. He must be staying home to guard the goods. Or to come over to where I was, by the wheels. I let loose three quick shots. Fifteen degrees apart.

  I heard him gasp.

  Payday. I must have at least nicked him. The other two guys started whispering to each other. I think they were deciding to leap out and surprise me because what happened next was a one-woman greeting party by my favorite lieutenant.

  Rita took them out from her hiding place in the ditch. Two quick shots. And two quick dropped bodies.

  “Two out!” she yelled.

  “Trailer!” I yelled back. She needed to know we had a third of our enemy still on the menu.

  “Compadre,” she shouted to the third guy. “We have you trapped! Throw the gun out! Then come slowly into my sight!”

  I could hear him shuffling around. I must have grazed him in the leg or something nonvital. He had strength and energy. I could hear him prepping for his epic finish.

  “Last chance!” I shouted. “Or we’re gonna blow your ass to burger meat.”

  “Ultima vez!” shouted Rita. “Tenemos plastique.”

  She was hoping the threat of our explosives would convince him to behave. We made our decent offer. Would he take it?

  A tiny moment of silence settled over the desert. We were alone. Possibly for miles. A slight breeze came and went. Then suddenly a storm of bullets squirted out of the trailer’s side wall. The guy was probably praying he could somehow hit Rita without knowing where she was.

  I shoved my second bag of C-4 directly into the belly of the trailer. Rita dashed up and tucked her own bag near the trailer hitch. Because we couldn’t operate directly on the interior of the target, we’d have to compensate by doubling our dose on the exterior.

  This guy was about to be erased from earth.

  “Fuse!” I yelled.

  “Fuse!” she yelled back. We couldn’t see each other but this wasn’t our first rodeo: We knew our standard operating procedure was to default to detonation. “Three…Two…One…”

  I lit my fuse. She lit hers.

  We both ran for the opposite side of the highway. Toward the parallel ditch on the far side. Diving for cover. Just as our friend let out another spray of bullets through the wrong wall of his mobile fort. Within five seconds, wham! Our explosives lit up half of west Texas. A towering fireball.

  Police sirens had already started to wail in the distance, so we had to go.

  The law was coming.

  And we weren’t exactly on the right side of it.

  Chapter 7

  Kyra joined us for the next raid. She had missed the last two because we’d sent her to obtain more explosives on the black market. It sounds funny to say, but we ran out of things that go boom. She was waiting on her connection, a shady group of bikers in Lovington, New Mexico, while Rita and I executed those first two raids. C-4 is only about fifteen dollars a pound. But that’s the price only if you have time to wait and if you trust your source and if you need only a small quantity and if you don’t need to be an anonymous buyer.

  We were absolutely none of those things.

  The bikers wanted five thousand dollars.

  Nobody said justice was cheap.

  During the next two days, the three of us converged on every active Correra shipment in Texas. He had routes strewn all over the back roads of El Paso, Dallas, Houston, and Laredo. Some loads were obviously his. Like the unmarked Peterbilt with serial numbers still visible for us to confirm. Some were tricky. He had a six-wheeler disguised as a Hertz rental truck, upon which his goons even went so far as to latch a bicycle on the back, just to throw off us dogs completely.

  But we had the list from the Fat Man. And the list was relentlessly accurate. It gave the description of each shipment and a time frame of when it would pass a certain point. “Highway 87. Milepost 55. Tuesday evening. White big rig with blue cab.”

  We blew it all up like clockwork.

  The quantity of C-4 Kyra obtained was phenomenal. More powerful than we expected. Sent a tower of fire and smoke high up into the clouds.

  We were perched on a plateau overlooking a nice lonely stretch of Interstate 380. Kyra was using her Steiner high-power binoculars to track our prey.

  “Well, I have him in sight,” said Kyra. “But…”

  “But what?” I asked.

  “Cessna. Five o’clock.”

  Cessna? I looked up in the expansive desert sky. Yup. I saw a small plane circling our general area. Was it state troopers? Sheriffs? This was a problem. The police were using planes now. We had detonated enough C-4 to make national news. Nobody knew that we were the ones behind these raids, which was ideal, but the fact that there were drugs in the trucks was kept secret from almost every single article. To discourage copycat behavior, the authorities didn’t want to report moral victories. Fine. I didn’t want applause. I wanted Diego. But I called off our half-week rampage at target number seven.

  “We’re letting this one go,” I said.

  “Because of the plane?” she replied.

  “Too much attention.”

  “Let’s just do this one last one. We’re right here.”

  “Negative, Sergeant. Stand down.”

  We had earned our rest. It was time to lie low for a bit and be as normal as possible. Diego Correra operates nearly fifteen shipments a month. We hit half of them and thereby pissed in his revenue stream to the tune of four million dissolved dollars. For men who like money, the best way to hurt them is to punch them in the money.

  And I was just getting started.

  Chapter 8

  The place we were heading home to was Righteous. Literally. Righteous was the name of the repair garage that Kyra and I built. She started it when neighbors kept asking her to tweak their motorbikes and lawn mowers and dune buggies. Eventually, she graduated herself to cars and trucks and even boats. All of us were comfortable with power tools. Kyra, however, was a mechanical genius. And in a town like Archer, Texas, where locals thrive on old motors, we had stumbled on the formula for contentment.

  For me, going in on Kyra’s repair business was simply a chance to keep my hands busy, which was a chance to keep my brain busy, which was a chance to keep my heart busy.

  Not that it ever worked.

  Not that I could ever find sixty consecutive seconds in a day when I wasn’t thinking about my family.

  Next door to Righteous the Repair Shop was Righteous the Cafe. We served miserably underpriced doughnuts and delicious everything else. On Tuesdays Rita made gumbo. Fresh sausage. Fresh veggies. Some of the locals would bring in produce from their own gardens.

  It was that kind of town.

  Rita and her husband had made quite a nest for themselves. The income from the cafe wasn’t gluttonous but it was enough to cover its own cost. And its ten-acre setup was perfect for our needs. Base camp.

  That night I was helping in the back with the dishes when Rita came to me with the mail.

  “I think you should see this,” she said.

  It was a greasy, plain envelope addressed to me. The smudges made it look like it came from another mechanic somewhere. Clever camouflage. But it was a little too greasy. A little too carefully messed up. I knew the situation. We all did. I started to open it, with Rita giddy, as Kyra locked the door. Inside was a check for two hundred thousand dollars.

  The Fat Man delivereth.

  He may be a lot of things (annoying, tardy, elusive, cryptic, suspicious, allegedly fat) but one thing is unmistakable about our unknown friend: He pays.
/>
  He pays well.

  Two hundred thousand dollars split into three goes a long way in a backwater town like Archer. None of us lived like royalty. We were more likely to wear Smith & Wesson than Dolce & Gabbana. We never took vacations. We never bought yachts.

  Kyra held up the check for us like a title belt. We all smiled at each other knowing we did good work. For me, my share, it was sixty-six thousand dollars that simply went into a bank. Just a testament to the fact that money couldn’t buy back a dead husband or two kids.

  It couldn’t even buy the end of Diego Correra.

  Or could it?

  Chapter 9

  That night, to celebrate the dent we put in Correra’s financial shinbone, we opened up the cafe for a late-night romp. Open to the whole neighborhood. Music. Pie. Beer. On the house. We were that kind of town.

  We cleaned up the garage and annexed it off as the world’s most backwoods discotheque. Picture the barn dance in Footloose minus the barn. Domestic beer flowing. Free biscuits and gravy. Braised pork ribs worth starving yourself all day for. And, my goodness, a slice of pecan pie à la mode.

  Rita and her rhythmic hubby captivated the middle of the dance floor. Kyra was getting hit on by half the locals, and I…

  I couldn’t be happier watching from the sidelines.

  I managed to sneak back toward the periphery, unseen by the crowd. I didn’t want to draw attention. There’s a type of loneliness where you’re just aching to be approached by someone to coax you back into the crowd. Then there’s the loneliness that can’t be solved by the mechanisms of this world.

  I have that second type.

  I miss my husband so much. I look up at the stars every night and search for his soul. I know he’s there. I can feel it. I can hear him talking to me. And I know he’s got both our little cherubs with him. And they’re all pleasantly restless, waiting for me. But they’re also looking down with understanding.

  At least, I hope so.

  I have the same argument in my head over and over. That I blew it. That I got them killed. That no matter what I do to Diego, it’ll never address what Diego did to us.

  Then I hear my family chime in. I hear them tell me I’ve always stood on the right side of any decision in life. That I’m not perfect. I make mistakes. But I don’t make mistakes out of selfishness. I’m trying as hard as I can to contribute to this world.

  To protect the kids of future generations.

  “What are you doing?” came a voice from behind.

  It was Gus, the honorary vice mayor. We have an honorary vice mayor. It’s that kind of town. Gus was ninety-seven years old and didn’t look a day over ninety-six. Still drove a car. Still mowed his own lawn. He saw me out there in the darkness, beyond the doorway to the dance-hall garage.

  “Oh…I…uh…heard a couple coyotes,” I replied. “And wanted to make sure the hens were okay in the coop.”

  “Always on recon.”

  “Me? No. I’m just secretly a terrible dancer. I can’t let anyone witness that.”

  He offered his hand. “Well, now I have to expose you.” Bouncing his head to the music, he wanted to see me Texas two-step. No human being should be subjected to the sight of me dancing.

  But he insisted. “You’re a good person, Colonel. You deserve to wear a smile tonight.”

  He knew what was going on with me. I think the entire town did. When we entered the room and headed for the dance floor, they all cheered like I was a hero. It was really embarrassing, and it made me feel stupid. But I swear I could hear my kids cheering in the background as well.

  And I could hear my husband’s voice. I could hear him warning me.

  That things were about to get rough.

  Chapter 10

  Around here it doesn’t take much to stick out. Archer, Texas. If all you did was get a faulty haircut, everyone would know about it within a half day. And it would be talked about. Passionately.

  So when he arrived, of course he was the main topic of gossip.

  I started hearing rumors that there was a stranger asking questions at local businesses, trying to seem casual about it. It raised red flags with certain friends of mine. We didn’t know this stranger’s name yet, but already the gaggle of ladies down at the salon were making uneducated guesses:

  “I bet his name is Lorenzo. He’s tall. Like Lorenzo tall.”

  “No, no, no, he’s a Victor,” said the second lady. “Those yummy shoulders.”

  “You’re both wrong about my Derek,” said the third lady.

  It probably wasn’t Derek. Most locals thought he was at least half Latino. He reportedly had a very slight but definite accent while doling out random questions to random people about the neighborhood. Is it safe around here? Would this be a good place to raise a family? How well do you know your neighbors?

  He apparently had been asking around town about us without actually asking around town about us. Until the next day when he decided to stop being coy. He marched right into Righteous the Cafe and was soon joking around with the busboy and suckering him into a free round of billiards on our pool table. Kyra didn’t like that. She didn’t like that he skimped on paying the measly seventy-five cents for a rack.

  “Excuse me, pal,” she said to him. “Games ain’t quite free.”

  But he wasn’t going down easy. In fact, he wasn’t even going to participate in the same conversation she started.

  “So whose bar is this?” he asked.

  “Bar?” said Kyra.

  “Bar…cafe…I like it. You built this place yourself?” He smiled with each sentence. He had that Ted Bundy sort of charm. You couldn’t help but like him, but you were also pretty sure he’d be murdering you by 9:00 p.m.

  Kyra was direct. “It belongs to Rita. Me and Coll run the auto shop.”

  “Coll?” he asked, racking up the table for eight-ball. “Amanda Collins?”

  “Are you here to play or to gossip? Because I can get some yarn and we can sit and knit. Otherwise, seventy-five cents.”

  He gestured to a dollar bill that was already on the table. He had indulged her fee. Without her knowing. Sly. Hot-guy sly.

  She took the money as he cracked a thunderbolt break and sent three balls in three different pockets. All solids. He was here to play. In every sense of the word.

  I was hearing all this firsthand. I was in the back of the diner, carrying boxes to the kitchen, shielding my face from view by my stack of cardboard. He hadn’t seen me.

  Until now.

  Until he turned to me, calmly, knowing I was there the whole time. A cocky smile already orchestrated on his face, as if he knew I was stepping forward, as if his entire mission was this moment.

  “Are you Amanda Collins?” he asked me.

  Screw this guy.

  “I’m not very good at pool,” I replied. “So I’ll make you a deal.”

  I set my boxes down and approached his table. “You win: I’ll introduce myself. I win: you leave town immediately.”

  “Ouch. No kiss?”

  “Deal?”

  I figured I could at least scrimmage with him for a little bit and let him divulge whatever he might divulge about himself.

  “Deal.” He gave me a dangerously confident nod.

  I’ve seen how these Mexican cartels send a message. When they have a true enemy, like myself, they can’t just kill her. They need to make her front-page news.

  “Whoops,” he said, nailing his next shot nonchalantly. A combo.

  How would they kill me? How would they amplify it? A severed head in front of a school? A burned body?

  After two more shots, he finally missed, perhaps on purpose, and handed me the cue.

  I yanked it from him, noting he had a large pistol in his jacket pocket. He was doing his best to hide this fact from me, but over the years I’ve gotten disturbingly good at spotting a concealed weapon, even under a puffy jacket.

  I’ve also gotten disturbingly good at a two-cushion corner pocket shot. I kept up w
ith his sharp shooting. We traded two rounds, then I sunk three stripes in a row and positioned myself for an easy fourth. He was better than me, but he was letting me win.

  “Eight ball. Side pocket.” I said. And sunk it. Game over.

  “Good shot, Colonel.”

  I walked over to the front door, opened it, and held it there for him. “You a man of your word?”

  “I am.” He slowly walked over to me and stopped to get close to my face. “But I should tell you something.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “I’m coming back.” He walked out the door. Heading to his car. And without looking at me, he added, “With friends.”

  Chapter 11

  I didn’t sleep much that night. I’m a bad sleeper in general, but that night I was staring at the ceiling fan, watching it go in circles, wasting brain cells ruminating on the fact that the blades keep slicing the same area, the same invisible circle of air, never slicing anything new, never improving their position.

  I was also listening.

  For him. The stranger.

  By the time I finally felt slumber take hold of my thoughts, the first light of dawn was piercing my window. I slept like I was dead for an hour or so then awoke again. It was seven o’ clock. I was still in bed but my mind was twisting around. Something didn’t seem right. And after a half minute I realized what it was. There was no noise from the cafe kitchen.

  I generally hear the assistant cooks start banging around early in the morning. Today there were some sounds from out back, but as I lay there, piecing together a sleepy recollection of the early morning hours, I realized the sounds I’d heard came from the garage, not the cafe.

  The garage? Uh-oh.

  I grabbed my bowie knife and headed outside to check around. This couldn’t be what the Ted Bundy guy meant, could it? This quick of a return?

  I crept into the garage through the backdoor and braced myself for the worst.