by William Oday
Definitely added to the sinister killing machine vibe.
Rome yanked the helmet up and cracked a can of Mountain Dew. He slugged it down in a single go.
“Ready?” Bob asked.
“Hold on.” He fished another can out of a pocket and finished it in equally impressive fashion. He smashed the can flat between gloved hands. “Ready.”
“Remember the plan. I’ll try to get the prisoners out. You go for Charlie. If either of us succeed, the other’s chances get a lot better.”
Rome lowered the helmet into place. “Got it.”
Bob started to turn toward the driver’s door when Rome grabbed his shoulder. “I’ll never forgive you for what happened to my mother.”
Bob pursed his lips together and nodded. He wouldn’t forgive himself so there was no reason the kid should either.
“But if we somehow survive this, maybe that means we’re a good partnership. The kind of partnership you need in times like these.”
Bob didn’t know what to say. Rome was almost saying they could be friends. But not friends. Survival buddies? Buddies was still too optimistic. Survival associates?
Rome headed for the passenger door so Bob got in on his side. They buckled up and Bob put one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the brake release.
Rome held the semiautomatic shotgun close with the strap secured around his back. He stared out the windshield at nothing but air.
The long front hood cut off the view below, but it’d come back in a hurry as soon as Bob released the emergency brake.
“Let’s kick some ass,” Bob yelled. Tried to yell. His voice cracked on some and ass trickled out weak and lifeless.
He was too old for this.
41
Bob yanked the release, let off the brake pedal, and grabbed the wheel with both hands. The first job was to steer it at the back door.
The car rolled forward and the nose abruptly dropped.
The brewery jumped into view, already off to the left a little.
Bob jerked the steering wheel over and the car jerked to the left. He straightened out as they picked up speed.
They hit a bump and the front tires lifted off the ground before slamming back down.
His body tried to lift off the seat, but the lap belt kept him glued in place.
It was like taking a ride on one of those vomit comets, the planes that flew parabolic curves and gave people the sensation of weightlessness for brief periods of time.
The side of the hill wasn’t a road.
It wasn’t smooth.
And it was so steep that every time they bounced off a bump in the terrain, Bob half-expected the car to launch into orbit.
He glanced at their speed.
Forty-five miles per hour!
Now halfway down the hill and Bob wondered if he should slow down. It wouldn’t help to plow through the whole building and explode out the other side.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t time to weigh the pros and cons. Speed versus typical building construction on a remote island that he’d never had any business being on in the first place.
It was all Malcolm Calhoun’s fault. The back-stabbing, plastic-faced weasel that was his old boss. The one that had threatened to fire him if he didn’t come here to personally supervise the stupid TV show.
If he ever saw Malcolm again, he was going to cut his pecker off and feed it to that idiot Pomeranian that he carried around like a purse.
An image of his wife flashed through his mind.
A particularly delicious one.
Their wedding night. White lace panties with a line of coke between her breasts. A line the size of a plastic soda straw.
God, she was gorgeous. And such a freak in bed.
He couldn’t blame her for screwing his best friend. He hadn’t been enough for her. It wasn’t her fault.
It was her elemental nature.
She was a lioness, forever on the prowl for the strongest mate. The one that could make her submit.
I still love you, Sophie.
Bob glanced at the speedometer.
Eighty-eight miles per hour.
The brewery now thirty feet below.
The car hit a huge bump and Bob’s skull tried to collapse into his spine.
The vehicle shot off the ground, veering off course, briefly showing only brown sky through the front windshield.
It came back down and landed on a trash dumpster. The heavy duty plastic lid reacted like a trampoline and launched them back up into the air.
The edge of the building’s roof blurred by underneath as the front wheels crashed down. The rear wheels caught the edge and Bob slammed forward with the seatbelt trying to slice through his waist.
The back end bounced up and the windshield filled with a close up view of worn gray shingles.
Bob smashed on the brakes as the back end slammed down.
They skidded to a stop on top of the roof.
Bob’s heart hammered in his chest. His knuckles ached from gripping the wheel so hard. Sharp pain pulsed from a kneecap that must’ve hit the dashboard.
They both stared out the windshield in stunned silence.
Rome spoke first. “Whoa! That was awesome! We’re on the roof, man!”
“Yeah.”
Rome turned and Bob met his gaze. “How are we going to get down?”
Bob hadn’t gotten that far yet. He was still coming to terms with how the plan had gotten so messed up so fast.
A cracking sound below and the back end of the car dropped a little and then stopped. More creaking and splintering and the roof gave way.
The Pinto Bean dropped straight down into a fog of dust and debris.
After getting over the feeling that his spine had been permanently compressed a few inches, Bob noticed movement through the thick layer of dust covering the side window. He turned expecting to see a gun and live out the final second of his life.
A hand wiped the glass clean.
Chief Stuckey peered inside. Marco Morales stood behind peering over his shoulder. “You’re not going to believe this!” Stuckey shouted. He yanked open the door as Bob got the seatbelt free.
Stuckey glanced past Bob and saw the black-clad figure of doom fiddling with his seat belt release. “Is that Rome?”
Bob nodded as he leaned over and poked the button to release it.
Rome flung it away. “I’m here to kill the man that murdered my mother. I don’t care about anything or anyone else.” He kicked the door open. Rather kicked it off because the door fell onto the ground. The impact shattered the already cracked window. He grunted as he stepped out and his black boots crunched onto the shards.
The four met at the back of the car.
Bob recognized a few of the faces peering through the thick particulate fog. They were his fellow prisoners. The people from the meeting that had been captured the night before.
The car had apparently come down on one of the walls of the room where they were being held. The back half inside the room and front half in the adjacent hallway.
Stuckey grabbed Marco’s shoulder. “Get everyone out the back! The plan for tonight is on! Tell them to spread the word!”
Marco shook his head. “You do it, Chief. These people look up to you, not me. I’ll go with Rome.”
Stuckey’s upper lip quivered as emotions warred within him. He bared his teeth and growled. “Okay! But you put that murderer in the grave! Got me?”
Marco nodded.
Stuckey waved to the others. “Let’s go everyone! Follow me!”
Voices shouting from somewhere in the building echoed into the room.
“They’re coming!” Bob shouted.
Rome grabbed the detached car door off the ground and held it in front like a shield. The old school door was made of thick metal and would likely stop anything that hit it.
He stepped through the gaping hole in the wall and into the hallway. Without looking back, he headed off with the shotgun tucked into his s
houlder and the barrel resting on the rim of the door window.
Bob started after him, but Marco lowered his arm to block the way. He pointed toward the press of people funneling out in other direction. “You should go with them!”
Bob tried to push the muscular arm away, but failed. “I’m going with the kid! If he dies, I’m okay with joining him.”
42
MARCO met his eyes and shared a look of understanding. Following Rome into the battle was only going to end one way. Even if they somehow took out Charlie, there were plenty of other gang members that were armed and all too willing to kill.
Bob stepped into the hallway and started off after Rome.
Marco followed and paused as he noticed something wedged under a section of framing lumber.
A Glock pistol.
Probably from the guard who’d been stationed outside the door. But whether he was buried under the car and debris or had somehow escaped wasn’t obvious.
Not that it mattered.
Marco snatched up the pistol and inched the slide back. Yep, locked and loaded. He released the magazine and saw that it was full with fifteen rounds not including the one in the chamber.
A deafening boom shook the narrow hall.
A flash of light burned through the thinning cloud of dust.
Then another boom.
He rushed forward with the pistol raised and ready.
He approached an intersection of hallways and a man came out firing.
Marco dropped to a crouched position and put two rounds in his chest. He paused only long enough to grab the revolver from the dying man’s hands. A 44 Magnum with an eight inch barrel and four rounds ready to fire. The thing would do serious damage, but it was going to kick like a mule.
He switched the revolver to his stronger right hand and the Glock pistol to his left. Now with both up at the ready, he hurried forward as the crack of small-arms fire let off like firecrackers on the fourth of July.
BOOM!
BOOM!
Rome or someone else with a shotgun added their part to the maelstrom.
The acrid taste of expended gunpowder coated Marco’s tongue. The gray smoke drifted in the air.
A hand reached out from a dark room as he passed and grabbed his arm.
Marco spun around and brought the revolver to bear. He had the trigger tight and about to break when Bob’s face appeared out of the gloom.
“I lost him! The kid took off like an idiot!”
“Do you know how to use one of these?” Marco asked as he held the Glock out.
“More or less. I took my ex-wife to a shooting range one time.”
“Only the one time?”
“Yeah, but we stayed for a few hours.”
“Whatever. Take it. Point it at what you want to destroy and pull the trigger.”
Bob’s lack of attention let the muzzle drift toward covering Marco.
Marco grabbed his wrist and angled it away. “Only at what you want to destroy! Got it?”
“Sure.”
Marco had his doubts. The last thing he needed was to get shot in the back by someone on his own side. “Stay behind me. And don’t point it at me.”
Bob nodded and shuffled out as Marco spun back toward the direction Rome had gone.
The sound of an epic gun battle grew louder as they got to the end and the open doorway to the front area of the brewery.
Marco crouched and peeked around the doorway before ducking back into cover.
“What do you see?” Bob shouted behind his shoulder.
“They’re firing from a protected position, behind a bunch of overturned tables. I couldn’t see Rome, but I think they have him pinned down behind the bar.
The high-pitched sound of shattering glass.
The tinkling of the fragments sliding over the concrete floor.
A voice spoke into the lull of quiet. “That was Johnny Walker Black Label. The next idiot that destroys a bottle of booze is gonna get shot.”
Marco recognized the madman’s voice. The southern twang. The assured air of assumed superiority.
BOOM!
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
Glass shattered.
“Sorry, boss.”
CRACK!
The thump of a body hitting the floor.
“Bet you're sorrier now. I thought I was clear on that. Nobody shoot it!”
Grumbles of agreement and understanding echoed around the large room.
“Hey, you, behind the bar! Would you mind terribly coming out where we can kill you without shooting up the bar? Wasting liquor is a mortal sin. I think I remember learning about it in Sunday school. Moses held the stone tablets and rule number one was not to waste good booze.”
Marco peeked around the corner just in time to see Rome pop up and heave an expensive looking bottle of something into the no man’s land in the middle of the space.
It hit and shattered into sparkling diamonds.
“I was just gonna kill you before! But now you’ve gone and made me mad!”
“I’m going to kill you!” Rome shouted back.
“Our mystery guest speaks at last,” Charlie said with an air of amusement. “And how do you propose to go about doing that?”
BOOM!
“Well, I like simple answers but we got you pinned down and outgunned. I admire your gear. Saved you twenty times over already. But sooner or later, I’m gonna get you. And I’m gonna kill you real slow.”
“You murdered my mother!”
“Your mother?”
“The bomb you set off in the police station!”
Charlie chuckled. “Oh, that little bit of mischief. I have to admit. It turned out better than I’d hoped. Think I killed the whole police force in one go.” He laughed, apparently enjoying the pleasant surprise once again.
Bob tugged on Marco’s shoulder. “Rome’s not going to last much longer in there. He’ll run out of ammo or they’ll overwhelm him. We have to do something.”
Yeah, but what? Nothing that had a chance of succeeding had come to mind yet.
And he was right. They were running out of time.
Voices from the front parking lot echoed through the shattered windows.
The front door clanged open.
“Boss! The prisoners! The prisoners!”
“Cool your heels and catch a breath. And try to be more specific. The prisoners is a subject without a verb, you see? It’s half a thought. Something does something. That’s a whole thought. You just told me something and nothing else.”
“Sorry, Boss. The prisoners have escaped out the back. Lyle spotted Chief Stuckey herding ‘em up the hill.”
“Why do I have to do everything around here?” Charlie said with exasperation. “Alexei, you stay here and kill the nitwit behind the bar. You four! With me!”
“Yes, Boss. Okay, Boss.”
Marco peeked around the corner as Charlie and his lackeys ran out the front after the prisoners.
“No!” Rome shouted as he popped up. “You can’t leave!” He charged out after Charlie. The car door shield and shotgun swinging back and forth, spraying death in all directions.
Marco didn’t hesitate. He yanked Bob forward and they joined the assault. The classic Smith and Wesson .44 in his hand did in fact kick like a mule as he picked a shot at an exposed foot sticking out from behind a table.
A man screamed in agony.
What had been a black boot was now a red mess.
Marco noticed Bob to his left and the flickering flower of flame as the Glock fired.
Rome didn’t bother going for the front door. It would’ve meant running straight at a bank of overturned tables and the half dozen men with guns behind it.
Instead, he angled toward the nearest window and didn’t slow down.
His weight and speed hit it like a thunderclap. The large pane exploded outward, blasting shards into the parking lot. His boot caught the sill and took him down.
Hard.
He face planted
and then flopped over to his side while the car door skidded away.
Marco and Bob continued firing on the group behind the tables as they raced to follow the same escape route. They made it and jumped through as the last round left Marco’s barrel.
He landed lightly and went for the shotgun harnessed around Rome’s middle. He snapped it up but the sling held fast.
Glass shattered as rounds ricocheted off the pavement inches away.
Marco dropped to his belly, turned the shotgun toward their attackers and fired.
“Get up!” he shouted at Rome as he dragged him up by the shoulders.
Bob fired a couple of times and the slide locked back on his pistol. He continued to try to fire the empty gun.
Rome was on his feet, but not all there.
Marco slipped the strap off and over his own head. He hooked one arm under Rome and trained the shotgun at the men inside. He squeezed the trigger.
CLICK.
Empty!
“Run!”
There were no men standing guard on top of the buses out front. There was no one anywhere. They’d apparently all gone after the prisoners.
Rome dug into his cargo pocket and pulled out an old World War II style pineapple grenade.
Marco’s eyes went wide as the kid pulled the pin and let the spoon fly open.
The tennis ball sized sphere of death sailed through the missing front window and bounced inside.
The men inside shouted in terror.
“Grenade!”
“Grenade!”
Marco waited for the explosion as they ran between two buses and saw the way ahead was clear. Something from the edge of his peripheral vision flew through the air.
Headed right at him.
He tried to duck but it was too late.
A fur ball of fury and indignation landed on his head, sharp claws digging into his scalp, harder than was strictly necessary to hold on.
Oscar hopped down onto his shoulder and bit his ear hard enough to draw blood.
“Hey buddy!” He would’ve given their reunion the attention it deserved, if he hadn’t been running for their lives.
They kept going at a steady clip.
