A huge wooden desk stood on the far side of a square burgundy colored throw rug, at the center of a large office. Kevin stared at the fluorescent blue hair on the man seated behind it, glowing from the effect of ceiling-mounted blacklights that made his blazer appear luminous indigo. Eerie green luminescence emanated from in-wall fish tanks along the left, though it was likely many years since anything lived in them.
“Ah, that was fast.” The man who had to be Neon smiled. “I wasn’t expecting the shipment for at least another few days.”
The four thugs formed a wall of meat behind Kevin and Tris, blocking them off from the door. Kevin approached the desk with the usual ‘I’m not up to anything’ slowness he’d become accustomed to in such situations. He held the cloth bundle high and unwrapped the black cube with cobalt blue light strips down the sides.
“Cargo like this, it pays not to waste time.” He set the cube on the desk and took a step back.
“Quite true.” Neon’s iridescent blue eyes twinkled. He leaned forward and pressed his thumb on a small spot of gloss amid the otherwise flat black surface.
The top split down the middle, opening like the hatch of an old missile silo. Four trays rose one after the next, pivoting to the sides like an aluminum flower. A fifth tray clicked into place in the center. Each pad held a twelve-by-twelve grid of one-inch glass ampules, containing about six drops worth of violet liquid apiece―720 doses of a drug called void salt.
Neon plucked one out, upending it to appraise the quarter-inch needle protruding from a plastic cap. He held it under his nose, sniffed once, and replaced it in the pod before a light touch on the glossy square caused the cube to motor closed.
“It’s all there,” said Kevin. “I’m supposed to collect 2700 coins. No offense, but this is an official contract from the roadhouse network. Everything by the book.”
“Oh, ye of little faith.” Neon clucked his tongue. “I have no intention of reneging on the arrangement. Bad deals create supply problems in the future. I do, however, want to make you an additional offer.”
Dammit. You’re done. 250 coins and it’s roadhouse time. Get out. “I’m not sure I’m for hire right now.”
“Oh, I don’t wish to hire you.” Neon smiled, touching all his fingertips together in front of his face. “You’ve got quite an exotic little beauty with you. I’d like to take her off your hands. Say, 1800 coins?”
Fuck. Kevin bit his lip. There it was. All set. Done. Finished. No more runs. Roadhouse. Beer, food, and guns to idiots. He glanced at her and puckered his lips so hard they had to resemble an asshole. A wounded look formed on her face. Yeah, I’m an asshole… “She ain’t up for sale. Ain’t mine to sell.”
Neon’s smile fell flat. “Let me rephrase then. I’ll pay you a thousand coins then to do nothing. Glimmertown belongs to me, and I always get the things I want.” He stood. “And I want this fuck toy.”
Kevin cringed inside as two of the meatheads seized Tris by the arms from behind, right below her armpits.
“She’ll bring in a lot of coins,” said Neon. “What’s she eighteen maybe? Exotic hair…”
Meathead Three grabbed her Beretta.
“I can’t wait to break this tiny little ass in,” said Dreadlock.
Tris’s hands moved in a blur, appearing solid for an instant as she swiped pistols from the belts of the men holding her. Before Kevin could open his mouth to shout, she crossed her arms and fired both guns, nailing each man in the side of the head. A patch of scalp with a long trailing wad of dreadlocks stuck to the wall. She stepped forward, raising her arms and firing backward over her shoulders, squeezing off three shots from each pistol at a speed fast enough to pass for automatic fire. Meaty slaps preceded the thud of two bodies hitting the ground behind them.
Kevin got his .45 out and aimed at Neon. “Methinks the lady doth protest.”
“This ‘tiny little ass’ isn’t on the market.” Tris scowled.
“Hold on.” Neon raised a hand. “You don’t understand this situation very well. I own this town. You’d have to be some special kind of stupid to piss me off.” He smiled, though a trickle of sweat ran down the side of his head, glinting in the wavering emerald light from the fish tank. “I’ve never seen someone with moves like that. Perhaps we could come to an arrangement?”
“What kind of arrangement?” asked Kevin.
Tris adjusted her grip on her guns, a Glock and a Sig. “I don’t trust him. He’d only come after me for revenge, plus he’s a slaver pig.”
“There’s a certain problem of mine that needs eliminating.” Neon smiled.
“Assassination isn’t my scene,” said Kevin.
“I wasn’t trying to hire you.” Neon tilted his head. “This girl is a lot more than she appears to be. Besides…” He gestured at the dead men. “You’d better make it your scene. I can’t let something like this go without some kind of response. Bad for business, you see.”
“You’re not in the best negotiating position right now.” Kevin focused on the .45 in his hand, rendering Neon in blur.
“Neither are you.” Neon eased his weight back into his chair. “Official roadhouse business and all. Isn’t killing the client against your ‘code?’ You could say no, but one way or another, this girl is going to work for me. Either on her feet or on her ba―”
Bang.
Neon’s iridescent blue eyes became gaping voids; the back of his head exploded in a spray of gore. He rocked back in the seat, still with a cocky grin on his face, and slumped down.
Trails of smoke wisped from both of Tris’s guns.
“Fuck.” Kevin let his arm fall limp at his side. “You’re not much for planning stuff out are you?”
“Nah.” She lowered her weapons. “Guess I’m that special kind of stupid.”
20
Dream Killer
Kevin kicked the front of the desk. “Goddammit!”
Neon slid farther down in his chair, mouth gaping. Blood ran from empty eye sockets, down his cheeks like tears. The music from the main room was at least loud enough to mask the gunfire. That, plus no one expected two on five would have had any chance. If anyone had heard gunshots, Kevin and Tris were the ones they’d assume got the bad end of it.
Kevin headed for a curtain a few feet behind the fish tank where a hint of a safe poked out.
Locked.
He ransacked the desk drawers. Tris threw Neon to the floor and went through his pockets. The drawers held little of any use: old ledgers, a few music CDs, spent brass, post-it note pads, pens that probably hadn’t worked in decades, and a couple of bottle caps. Kevin pocketed some jewelry, hoping it wasn’t costume crap.
“Found the keys.” Tris, near a folding table on the right side of the room, held up a jingling bundle.
“Great. No money.” He grabbed the cube. “You do realize that it’s on me to get the payment for the shipment right? How the fuck am I gonna retire if I get a rep for killing the damn clients.”
“You didn’t kill him.” She smirked. “You didn’t even get a single shot off.”
Kevin looked at the two men by the door. One took all three slugs, two to the chest and one right in the nose. The other man only got hit once, but it caught him in the forehead. “You’re starting to scare me, Tris.”
“Starting?” She winked. “Glock 17 and another 226.” She tossed the Sig to him.
He caught it and stuffed it in his belt on his way to search the two by the door. Both had MAC-10s. After slinging the weapons over his shoulder on their straps, he plucked three spare magazines and a knife.
“Don’t take their clothes this time. One, no one with any self-respect will wear this shit. Two, we don’t have time.”
Kevin wrapped the cube in the cloth, and hurried out.
Tris jogged behind him.
He slowed from storming to trudging at the second set of double doors and slipped into the restaurant area as though nothing went wrong. Hope no one notices the new guns. Barbie hovered by the tab
le they’d been using. She looked over her shoulder at him. At the sight of him heading for the exit, she seemed ready to burst into tears.
The waitress with the miniskirt and leg irons, Luisa according to Barbie, eyed him from across the room, as if aware of some manner of plot. After a quick look at the cages, and all three girls staring at him, he stopped, gazing at his boots. Tris bumped into him.
Shit. Why did I have to go and make eye contact? That one in the middle cage is too young.
“Well, I suppose if we’re going to stir some shit, we might as well bring it to a boil.”
She grinned.
Kevin directed a meaningful look at Barbie and flicked his gaze to the oaf in the back with the sledgehammer. Her eyes shone with eagerness. She nodded and fidgeted with her chains as if hating them more all of a sudden. “Tris, you get the two on the right. I’ll get the bartender.”
“Go,” whispered Tris.
“Need one for the road.” Kevin spoke loud, hurrying to the bar.
Luisa slipped under a flap on the narrow side of the bar. At Kevin’s purposeful stride, the bartender looked at him and smiled. He does look harmless. I don’t trust it. Shailaja approached the dancing cages with a bucket and ladle. She scooted past the giant with the hammer, after which, she locked her glare on Kevin.
Last time I trust a blonde to keep a secret.
He smiled his best false smile as he approached the older man. Luisa let out a shriek, produced a kitchen knife from under her cheerleader’s skirt, and lunged at the bartender. Her leg irons tripped her into a dive, and the man caught her by the forearms, shouting.
Shit! Kevin yanked the .45 from its holster, not trusting his odds at firing into a melee without hitting the girl. Other patrons screamed and ducked. One or two pulled weapons. Kevin whirled to the right and fired at a man aiming a long-barreled revolver at Luisa. The heavy round caught the guy in the upper chest, killing him in an instant. The woman seated with him screamed and slid to the floor.
Behind Kevin, a ripple of gunfire scared him into thinking the two idiots opened up with their submachine guns. He glanced over his shoulder for a second. Tris had shot both men before they even got a hand on their weapons. Barbie, now less than fifteen feet in front of him and two tables right, threw herself on the towel and grabbed the concealed pistol. She slid off the bench seat to her knees, the chain leaving her unable to raise the weapon up high enough to sight over it while standing.
The bartender hurled Luisa into shelves of bottles behind him. She flailed for a handhold, but fell out of sight. Kevin pivoted to aim at him, but he dove down going for something under the bar. Luisa, screaming in Spanish, jumped on his back, and stabbed him. Kevin hesitated for half a second, and fired. A gouge of wood splinters sprayed the bartender in the face when he popped up, but the bullet didn’t find meat. A man in a hideous green ‘suit’ at the bar went for a gun, his attention locked on Luisa.
Kevin fired one round into his back. He slumped forward and fell off the stool.
The hammer-wielding behemoth hurled a round table from the dancer’s area at Tris like a Frisbee. She yelped and ducked. Shailaja screamed and cowered to the ground, looking meek and uninvolved. Barbie raised her hands as high as the chain allowed and fired shot after shot at the charging giant. He roared and went down, howling and screaming in pain rather than anger. The dancing girls shrieked and ducked as a few bullets ricocheted off their cages. The men watching them hit the deck. Kevin sprinted at the bar, gun up. Luisa yanked the knife out from the man’s back and lunged again. The bartender flung a glass of something in her face, which made her retreat and shriek. Kevin aimed at the old one-armed man, but he dropped out of sight behind the bar again before he could squeeze off a shot.
Gunfire came from behind, followed by a gurgle and a yelp from a table to his left. A metallic thud struck the floor.
“I see a weapon, someone fucking dies,” yelled Tris.
Shailaja pulled her hand out of the water bucket, with keys, and set to opening the cages. The bartender popped up with a shotgun, though it looked like a pump rather than an automatic. He seemed torn for an instant between firing on the blinded Luisa or Kevin. A shot from the .45 winged the bartender on the shoulder, forcing him down out of sight. Luisa’s shrieks went from hurt to pissed off. She wiped a hand over her eyes and spat before diving to the floor behind the bar. The shotgun discharged, blowing a head-sized chunk out of the wood paneling and pulping the left calf of a man seated at a table near the bar. Luisa’s hand rose into view, clutching the knife, and went down. Again it came up, and went down.
A potbellied man in a black tee under a blue button-down ran in the front door while pulling a pistol from his belt. Kevin pivoted and fired, drilling him in the chest twice. The handgun, half out of the holster, went off. A ricochet caused a puff of dust from the ceiling and floor at almost the same time.
Kevin kept his gun trained on the door, half his attention on the nervous whimpers of patrons who hadn’t been stupid enough to get involved. For a few seconds, eerie silence settled over everything. Dust hung in the air, and the loudest noise came from Barbie’s rattling chains.
The blonde shivered, not having moved from where she knelt. She kept the pistol pointed at the last place she’d seen the big man. Tris hopped up onto tables, leaping from one to the next until she reached the spot.
She aimed a pair of MAC-10s at the floor behind the barrier. “Neon’s dead. You wanna join him?”
“Fuck Neon,” said a labored deep voice.
“No thanks,” said Tris. “Get outta here… and leave the hammer.”
The big man staggered upright, a hand clamped over his bleeding thigh. Barbie aimed at him, but held her fire. Cage doors grated open, and the three underwear-clad women jumped down to the floor.
Ka-chuck.
Everyone looked toward the sound.
Luisa, leg irons clicking, padded out from behind the bar and leveled the shotgun at a table with two couples and an extra man. “Clothes. Now.”
A mixture of head shaking and murmurs of protest came from the people.
“Bloody clothes are better than no clothes.” Luisa aimed at the head of a woman in a red dress. “It won’t show on red.”
The dancers gathered around Luisa, trying to cover their miniscule thongs and see-through bras with their hands. One by one, they snapped the leather ‘price collars’ off their necks and hurled them away. The smallest, who didn’t look much older than sixteen, reached up and removed Luisa’s choker. Tris tossed the keys to Barbie who seemed all too ready to drop the pistol and search the mass of metal bits for freedom.
Tris collected the MAC-10s from Kevin and offered one to Shailaja, the other to the tallest of the dancers. Luisa kept the shotgun trained on the people at the table while they peeled off their outer clothes and handed them to the former dancers.
The youngest wriggled into the red dress. “I can’t believe he didn’t see you take the keys.” She gawked at Shalaja. “I thought we were all gonna get beat.”
“Wait,” asked Kevin. “How’d you wind up with keys in the bucket?”
Shailaja blinked at him. “Barbie said you were here to help us escape. I slipped them off Pedro’s belt while he was squeezing my tits.”
The grateful look on the smallest dancer’s face made her look more like fifteen.
Thoughts of the women all revved up for freedom, then watching him stride right out the front door brought on a cringe. I’m gonna go out just like Dad. Kevin holstered his .45 and walked over to Barbie, who still hadn’t found a single key that worked. She fumbled, trying to get one to go into the cuff on her left ankle. He took a knee, grasped her shaking hands, and made eye contact. “Calm down, Barbie.”
She stared at him. “Tina. My name’s really Tina. Get this shit offa me.”
Except for three keys likely meant for the cages, the other nine were identical. He unlocked her and snapped the leather strip off her neck. Tina rubbed the angry marks on her wri
sts and cried.
“Don’t thank me yet. I’m sure Neon has friends.” He waved her at the shotgun-toting woman and pressed the keys into her hand. “Here, go unlock her and get some real clothes.”
Tris walked over and stood beside him, grinning. “Tell me that didn’t feel good.”
“It feels like I spent two thousand coins on fucking up a delivery.” He scowled at the cube. “Why are you giving away guns?”
She put her hands on her hips and shifted her weight onto her right leg. “Because I didn’t think you’d want to babysit six women or try and stuff them into your back seat.”
Kevin scowled. “If we leave them in this city, they’re gonna wind up someone else’s toy. They’d have a better shot in Cortez.”
Tris grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed him. “You’re right. Let’s get out of here.”
“Not yet.” He patted the cube. “I’ve still gotta deal with this. Look. Tell them to hole up somewhere. This place has to have a hotel. When we leave, we’ll play clown car.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Kevin chuckled. “Cramming six women in a Challenger’s back seat.”
“What about that silver shark? I bet that’s Neon’s.”
“You know his codes? Oh, that’s right… you splattered the codes all over the wall. Not to mention, killing a man is one thing… but stealing his car?” Kevin cringed.
“He’s dead.” Tris smirked. “He’s not gonna miss it.”
Kevin sighed and stomped for the door. A ripple of automatic fire made him spin, .45 raised.
The middle dancer, a slender brunette now in a frilly Frankenstein version of a saloon girl dress, held a smoking MAC-10. A man who’d been sitting by the cages collapsed in a leaky heap of meat.
Kevin glanced at Tris. “Guess he was a lousy tipper.”
She glared.
He holstered the .45 and went outside, heading right, wanting to get as far away from Cloud 9 as he could, as fast as he could. Thugs, punks, and prostitutes observed him from the shadowed patches between buildings, one of which consisted of an upside down metro bus. None did more than look. If they only knew what I was carrying. Enough void salt to go to Pluto… and not come back.
The Roadhouse Chronicles Box Set [Books 1-3] Page 16
