by Chris Lowry
Frankie gagged.
“For Fuck's sake man, you could have let me step back.”
He wiped blood spatter off his face and hands.
Danny grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close.
“You make sure I'm good and gone before you pull, you bugger.”
Frankie pulled a block of C4 out of his jacket pocket and shoved a detonator into the clay like lump.
“Relax Dan-O,” he smiled. He was missing several teeth in his freckle faced grin. “I'm a professional.”
“Aya, you're a whiz, all right. If I'm gonna die, this ain't how it should happen.”
“Just move your arse, ya shit. We're outta time.”
Danny nodded and walked around the corner. He stuffed the pistol into his coat pocket and ducked his head down around the shoulders to disguise himself further. He hunched and tried to limp to hide his gait.
Brill noticed the young man dressed like a dock worker limping home after a morning shift. The scope followed him for ten steps and dismissed him as a threat. Just another lad on the streets of Belfast looking for a pint.
The door up the street opened up and he swung the barrel of his rifle to the shadows inside.
A black Mercedes turned onto the street and rolled to a stop in front of the steps. The kids playing soccer vacated the road quickly and ran around the corner. A second car pulled behind the first and parked. Six large bodyguards exited the car and created a wall from the passenger door up the steps with three men on each side.
Brill moved the scope sight to the car door. It opened quickly and three men hustled out. They all looked similar, same height, same haircut but each had on a different color suit, black, blue and gray. Each of them carried a leather attaché case.
That confirmed it for Brill. He set the scope on blue suit and pulled the trigger. A hole opened in his forehead and he jerked back, tossed the attaché case up into the air. It blocked the second shot from hitting gray suit. A bodyguard tackled the man and took two in the back of the head that puffed out a pink mist as they fell.
The bodyguards opened up on the building across the street. No one had heard the shots, and they couldn't tell where the shooter was, so they fell back on the old reliable standard of spray and pray. The street bounced gunfire off the buildings.
Bullets shattered the window and showered glass across Brill. He jumped up, kicked out the shutters and popped the five bodyguards and black suit with fast precise shots.
Gray suit crawled out from under the dead weight of the man on top of him. He scrambled for the door of the car and what he hoped was safety inside.
Brill drew a bead on his head and pulled the trigger.
A noise at the door behind him made him spin. He peppered the wall with shots at just above waste level, stitched a line as someone ran down the hall. They screamed when he hit them.
“Not yet! Not yet!”
Brill dove behind the box at the window. The building erupted around him in an explosion of dust and debris. The front end of the wall collapsed and spilled three floors out onto the street in a pile of bricks and detritus.
Danny ran around the corner and began picking through the rubble. He lifted up Frankie's dead body and hefted it over his shoulder. He stumbled away as a dust covered hand pushes aside a section of broken brick with the tip of a silenced pistol. The hand flopped down.
A silver Peugeot slid to a stop by the collapsed building and Foster jumped out. He ripped bricks and broken bits of building to the side and grabbed Brill. He jerked him out of the rubble and folded him into the backseat of the car as sirens wailed closing in.
CHAPTER TWENTY
A cloud of gray slowly coalesced into focus as the rim of a glass held by a slender hand. The hand was on a muscular arm that led straight of the shoulder next to a smile. A beautiful smile with white teeth and the hint of a dimple. It was a nice smile, the kind that was used to getting what she wanted, and wielded like a weapon.
“Drink this,” she said.
He sniffed the rim. Water, which technically had no smell and was telling in and of itself. Besides, he reasoned, what other clear liquid would a sick man get? It had a probability of being water. Unless he was in Russia or Russian hands. Russians thought vodka was a magical elixir designed by the gods of the steppe as a cure all.
He sipped at the edge of the cup and was right. Just water. The tinge in his shoulder made him crave a little vodka though, if just to numb the ache.
He took a larger gulp and she pulled the cup away.
“I'll give you more in a minute,” she chided. “We were worried. Do you know how much blood you lost?”
“Three gallons?”
“Funny. Good to see your sense of humor didn't leak out all over my van floor. Do you know how long I'm going to have to scrub to get out the stains?”
“Surprised you could see it under all the junk on the floor,” he groaned.
“Jokes huh? Still got jokes. I think that's a good sign.”
“Where are we?” he asked and looked around.
The walls bent in at the top of the narrow eight foot wide space. Sheer curtains covered rows of windows near the intersection of wall and ceiling.
“Still at the camp,” she told him and it clicked.
He was in the bus or a bus, but which one he couldn't be sure. It was a rudimentary hospital suite, so perhaps these rebels, if he could call them that, or anthropology students pretending at rebellion had seen an action or two. One side had the cot he was on against a wall, and the other was a series of plastic bins with drawers, the opaque plastic hinting at the medical supplies inside.
Ron rolled the sheet down from his chest. It's a map work of scars, intricate and delicate, some tiny, some larger.
Scars tell a story, or most stories, the good ones at least, end with a scar or two as a memento and reminder of a lesson learned.
His chest told of a story that lessons had been harsh. It was yet to be determined what he had learned.
“What happened to you?”
“Wrong place, wrong time,” he answered.
“More than one wrong place.”
“More than one wrong time.”
“Did you learn your lesson?”
He licked his lips and indicated he wanted more water. She held the glass to his mouth for a sip, then another and pulled it away. She set the glass down and lifted up a flattened bullet.
“Who shot you?
The bus sagged as someone stepped on board.
The mosquito netting that separated them from the front compartment moved aside and Enrique stood there.
“Is he dead?”
“You heard us talking,” she said. “Not yet.”
Enrique moved and stood behind Ron. He stared down at the mishmash of scars and tried to hide a wince. He failed.
“How you feel amigo?”
“Thirsty,” Ron answered for Brill.
“Some of those look pretty old,” the rebel nodded toward his chest.
“Enrique-” warned Ron.
“And some not so old, I think.”
“Enrique,” she said again and this time it sounded like a command. He took a step back.
“What?” he grumbled. “I can't ask a question?”
“He is a guest,” she stared him down with icy eyes. “We treat him like any other.”
Enrique shook his head and pointed.
“With a pattern like that, he could be a mole.”
The bus sagged again and Dana skittered on board. She flitted to the end of the bus.
“Who's a mole?” she asked in her high pitched voice.
“No one is a mole,” said Ron.
“We haven't established that yet,” said Enrique.
Dana saw the mess of Brill's chest and yanked a camp stool over to sit next to him.
“Oh my God,” her voice trembled. “Who did this to you?”
Tears gathered in the corner of her eyes as she traced the tip of a rough finger across the n
etwork of tissue. Her lip quivered.
“They got me too, you know.”
She unbuttoned her shirt and opened it up to reach the plain white tee she wore under. She lifted the tee and revealed scars across her side and lower back.
“They had me for six months,” she said. “Whipped me. And other things.”
She dropped her shirt and put her hands on his chest. Her haunted eyes stared into his as she tried to offer comfort.
“How long did they have you?”
“They may still have him,” Enrique snapped.
He reached down and gently pulled Dana back from the cot.
“No one has me,” Brill answered.
He struggled to sit up, but Ron pushed him back with one hand.
“Who shot you?”
“I told you. Wrong place.”
“Wrong time,” she finished for him and held up his pistol.
His eyes narrowed as he watched her closely.
“This is a Company issued silence,” she said.
“What company?”
She twirled the gun on the end of her finger.
“And none of us can guess who modified the gun. We've never seen anything like it.”
“What do archeology students know about guns?” he asked.
“We know who supplies the policia,” snarled Enrique. “The same men that gave you this silencer.”
“You have to tell us who shot you,” said Ron. “Or we'll have to assume a story for you and ours is a worst case scenario.”
Brill glanced from her to the others and back again. She held his gaze, as did Enrique, both itching for a fight maybe.
He definitely was, muscles tense, vein throbbing in his neck, one hand clenched in a fist.
The other hand was on Dana, who looked at him with sympathy and concern, even as she took a half step behind Enrique. Cautious, just in case.
At one hundred percent, he could take them. It would take less than four seconds. But he wasn't one hundred percent. He couldn't even be sure he was fifty percent until he moved, and given the situation, he wasn't sure he should move.
“Talk to us,” growled Enrique.
“Talk is overrated,” Brill shot back.
Ron passed the pistol to Enrique and stood back from the cot.
“He's not going to tell us who he works for,” she said.
“Then that is answer enough.”
“I can't do it,” she said.
Dana moved between them and stared down at Brill.
“We helped you,” she said. “Now you have to help us. Don't make them kill you, please. Are you here to spy on us?”
“I'm not a spy,” Brill snorted.
“How do we know?” asked Enrique.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Foster stood in the corner of the roach infested motel room. The carpet was stained with dark blotches from years of abuse, the walls were a Jackson Pollack painting of browns, and mold and gunk. The furniture was third rate, bought second hand from another flop house that was going out of business due to too many murders.
There were two beds though, large, saggy and lumpy and private.
A pay by the hour affair that promised a clerk who paid zero attention to the two men as they checked in, one in the parking lot in the car, and the other wearing glasses into the smoke choked front office.
Foster flipped one of the saggy mattresses against the wall.
“Never point a pistol across the room,” he instructed. “It's made for close range work.”
Foster moved in front of the mattress by the wall.
“Shoot at my head, once.”
Wallace raised an eyebrow. Foster nodded, go on.
His protege reached into his jacket, pulled a pistol out of the shoulder holster, aimed and fired. Foster shifted his head left. The bullet puffed into the mattress with an explosion of feathers and a dull thud.
Wallace stared at him, dumbfounded.
“If you can't surprise a mark, he can move out of the way. Success in our business can be measured in centimeters.”
“How did you do that?”
“I watched your finger. The knuckle goes white as the muscles contract. A trigger takes less than a pound of pressure, but there is a tell you're always on the watch for.”
Foster pulled his pistol from the holster and aimed it at Wallace.
“Allow me to demonstrate,” he pulled the trigger.
Wallace threw himself across the bed as the pistol dry fired.
“Holy shit, you almost shot me.”
“Observe,” Foster said in a cool calm voice.
He aimed the pistol at Wallace's face again. The firing pin clicked and clicked and clicked as he showed the younger man how to watch the finger change color.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The tip of his finger turned purple and the knuckle shifted over to white. Brill jerked his head to one side as Enrique pulled the trigger. A puff of feathers erupted out of the pillow.
Brill kicked Enrique's hand against the wall, jackknifed out of bed and grabbed his arm. He twisted Enrique's wrist and popped the gun loose. He spun the rebel around and slammed him into the side of the bus, caught the pistol and crammed it into his neck.
“I told you I'm not a spy,” he coughed.
He winced and slumped against the bed, but held the guns steady. Enrique pulled himself up, massaged his throat, massaged his arm, his hand moved back and forth as he tried to make up his mind which hurt worse. Neither injury burned more than his pride though.
“Damn,” whispered Dana. “You pulled some stitches.”
Brill felt the syrupy stickiness of blood as it oozed down the back of his shoulder and arm.
Dana grabbed the gauze.
“May I?”
He nodded and leaned the injured shoulder toward her.
“How did you do that?” Ron asked from two steps away. The confines of the bus were tight, but she still managed to wedge herself closer to the door.
“Practice,” hissed Brill as Dana pressed on the pucker wound. “Lots of practice.”
“I don't trust him,” Enrique groaned.
“You shouldn't,” said Brill. “But you're not going to kill me for it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Snow melt turned the rocky trail into a muddy slog up the side of the mountains. The path was overgrown, hardly used, but the two hikers didn't seem to care. They laughed and giggled as they picked their away upwards.
A majestic landscape surrounded them as they stopped to take in the view. Snow capped peaks hovered in the distance, higher than their elevation, and Aspen woods stretched across a wavering tree line just below them.
They could have kept going higher, if they had the proper gear. Above them the path veered to the left and twisted around the Western edge of the mountain they climbed. A spring bubbled from somewhere further up, a trickle that carved through the rock to grow bolder and larger below.
They stopped at the stream at a crevice. Here it was wider than six feet, too hard to jump. The melting snow and ice had turned the trickle into a steady flow.
“I don't want to get my feet wet,” she said.
Brill sat on a rock and pulled off his boots and socks.
“Hop on.”
“I don't know if I can trust you.”
He smiled over his shoulder at her and took a step out into the water.
“You probably shouldn't,” his grin was infectious. “It's cold. I can't wait forever.”
“What if you drop me?” she teased.
“I promise.”
He winked, his smirk promising that he might.
She laughed and shook her head.
“Take a chance,” he shivered.
That did it. She took two quick steps and launched herself at his back. He staggered, not because of the weight but the speed with which she latched on.
He recovered and carried her across the stream in a few quick steps.
“No worries, right?” he said a
s he set her upright and put his wool socks and hiking boots back on.
She bent down, grabbed his face and kissed him long and deep. It was a good kiss, full of potential and promises. He didn't want her to pull back but she finally did.
“I always worry,” she smiled.
She continued slogging up the mud trail. He tied off his boots and marched after her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
They saw the steam before they wandered over the crest. It made a fine layer of fog that drifted across the ground and floated down the trail. The hot spring was a geothermal event where the stream intersected a vent in the rocks. The stream created a series of pools that cascaded down the rocks.
Brill sat on a rock and slipped out of his hiking boots again. He began to strip his jeans.
“Get in,” Maddie laughed. “Wait for me.”
He slid over the edge of a rock and eased down into the scalding water.
“Where are you going?”
She slung her pack over one shoulder and traipsed down the path.
“Little girl's business.”
She disappeared through the trees. He watched her go as he relaxed into the water.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Maddie glanced over her shoulder when she hit the trial. Brill was up to his neck in the pool, eyes closed as he lounged. She shifted up on her toes and sprinted through the woods, trees whizzing by in a snow covered blur.
She spied the ridge off to the side and darted between two evergreens to angle up the edge. She reached the precipice and threw herself down on the ground as she slung her pack in front of her.
She whipped out a monocular and peered through it. A pristine slope slid into view.
She laid the monocular down and began to assemble a rifle from her pack. She slid the barrel into the stock and locked it down, twisted a shoulder mount into the stock and set it against her shoulder to lock it. She glided a scope onto the slide and tightened it on pre-determined marks.
