by Jordan Cole
Bad Intent
Jordan Cole
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Contents
1.
2.
3.
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1.
Riley’s first thought was: If she gets into that pickup truck, she's dead.
It didn't take a Nobel Prize winner to figure that out. This guy wasn't a Good Samaritan out to help a stranded motorist. That much was made clear by the circumference of the woman's eyes and the terrified O shape of her mouth. The guy in question was bulky and tall, wearing a camouflage army surplus jacket and loose workman's jeans. He had a firm grip around her bicep, the easy grin he'd sported moments prior melting away into a sneer. His other hand fumbled around inside his jacket, and Riley was pretty confident he wasn't going to pull out a love poem.
All this happened in the space of a few seconds.
The deserted switchback where the woman's car had stalled was shaded by a dense copse of trees, a lonely stretch of mountain road where another passerby might not roll through for hours. Riley had been passed out in his hammock, deep in an alcohol-induced sleep when the woman’s late-model Lexus must have broken down a short while earlier, but he'd woken up when the man's dark pickup rolled to a stop behind her. He was far enough away that he couldn't hear exactly what they were saying, but then, he didn't need to. Watching from the guarded vantage point of the underbrush, the scene was clear. The man was offering her a ride, but the woman was understandably reluctant to accept help from a strange male. As the timbre of their voices rose, Riley was further roused from his ethanol coma, shifting in the hammock to get a better view. At first, the man had crowded against the driver's seat of the Lexus, encroaching on the woman’s personal space, perhaps subtly making her too self-conscious or uncomfortable to get on her cell phone and call for help. Something the man said persuaded her to leave the car and stand alongside him as he checked under the Lexus's hood.
Big mistake.
The woman was pretty, with a buoyant shock of curly red hair. She stood anxiously while the man feigned his inspection of the Lexus's engine. At that point, Riley had climbed out of the hammock, still invisible, squatting on his haunches like a recon scout surveying enemy territory. He spat.
Riley's second thought was: Her car has been tampered with.
No way it had broken down randomly. Not a brand-new Lexus that looked like it had rolled off the assembly line sometime in the last six months. Riley was no car expert, but he had a handle on probability, and the chance of a luxury car with fewer than ten thousand miles on it suddenly seizing up in this exact spot was akin to a lightning strike. Either this guy had just won the rapist Powerball, or something else was going on. Possible she had run out of gas, but not likely. She was wearing heels, a sharp navy-blue business suit, and an expensive haircut. Put together. Someone like that didn't run out of gas, not here. Maybe if she was lost, juggling a couple of screaming kids in the backseat. But there were no brats, and Riley could see the faint outline of a GPS monitor clamped on the dashboard. Whatever happened, she’d had a destination in mind.
Riley figured maybe these two had been stopped together at a gas station some miles back. Maybe she'd caught his eye randomly. Or maybe he was targeting her, which was slightly more concerning. Either way, he'd done something to her vehicle. He could have punctured the oil pan while she was inside buying a bottle of water. Or tampered with the distributor cap. A guy who knew his way around cars. A professional.
The escalation happened quickly. The woman made to get back into her Lexus, maybe to grab her phone. His hand took her arm, softly at first.
Come on, I'll give you a lift.
It's just a short ride.
You can trust me.
Then, after she'd refused, his grip tightened. The stakes were becoming clear. Which brought Riley to his third big thought of the day so far: What am I going to do about it?
He could help her, sure. Emerge from the woods like Swamp Thing, use the surprise factor to try and scare the guy away. If this guy was operating along a set plan, a strange man emerging from the forest might throw him off his game. An unexpected variable.
But confrontation brought risks. The possibility of injury and death, obviously. Potential legal liabilities later, if it got that far. Riley supposed he'd prefer if no harm came to the woman, but he'd prefer it more if no harm came to himself, all things considered. A hangover headache gnawed at his temples. Easy enough to fall back asleep and wake up when the whole scene was finished, one way or another.
Then the gun finally came out of the jacket, and the look on the redhead's face got the better of him.
Riley approached, taking care to rustle the surrounding shrubs as loudly as possible, like he had spotted a bear off in the distance. He went sauntering over to the two of them with a wide smile. Two outcomes here. Either the gun would stay out, or it would burrow back into the jacket. He was ready for either possibility.
They both turned at the same moment. The woman's face agape and afraid, but now with a small sliver of hope set somewhere in the back of her eyes. A resourceful girl. Assessing her options. Riley hoped she wouldn't try anything stupid.
The man in the camouflage jacket let go of her arm. His gun, a dark Sig Sauer, disappeared quickly into his pocket.
“Car trouble?” Riley asked, still grinning like the village idiot. Like he was the least threatening person in the world.
“It's taken care of,” the man said. His voice was measured. Surprised, but not shaken by this new development. A pro, for sure. “Just needs a jump.”
The woman didn't say anything. She took a step away from the man, whose attention was now focused entirely on Riley.
“Mind if I take a look?” Riley kept walking toward them, and the man took a slight, instinctual step backward. “If it's a stall, I could probably narrow down the problem.”
“Don’t bother,” the man said. His right hand stayed inside the pocket, his left hanging at his side. “I’ve got it under control.”
“Bad place to stall out,” Riley said. He stretched out his arms, as if beckoning to the vast expanse of wilderness that surrounded them. “Nearest service station is probably a good twenty miles from here. Looks like a new car, too. Strange.”
None of them spoke. The woman took another half-step back, and the man in the camouflage turned his head to track her, a fractional movement.
“I think you’d better just keep walking,” the man said to Riley.
“Pardon?”
“You heard me. Turn around and hike back into the woods.”
Riley made a big show of scratching his head, like he was confused.
“Y’all don’t want my help?”
“No.”
“Well all right, then. If you say so. I guess I’ll let you handle it.”
The man relaxed somewhat. The stiff tension in his shoulders loosened. Riley considered. A guy who was an expert wit
h cars might not be an expert with firearms or close-quarters combat. The guy was big, maybe six four, with a few inches on Riley. Riley was covered in leaves and dirt, eyes red-rimmed, and still smiling broadly. There was nothing altogether threatening in Riley’s posture or appearance. For a moment, it seemed like nothing would happen.
“Wait a second,” the woman said.
This time, the man in the camouflage jacket turned nearly his whole head to her, a good ninety-degree swivel. The barrel of his gun sneaked out from his pocket.
One thing the guy probably hadn’t noticed during his quick evaluation of Riley’s threat level was Riley’s boots. Not the most pressing item of concern, given the situation. They were of quality construction, thick rawhide leather with unyielding steel-shanked toes. Built solid. In the past, Riley had dropped two-hundred-pound crates on them, and while it left a decent bruise, all his phalanges and metatarsals had remained intact. Riley wagered this guy’s balls would be significantly softer than a two-hundred-pound crate.
He was right.
During the split-second the man had turned his attention to the redhead, Riley’s foot smashed upward. The guy made a strangled bark, like a choking dog. Two things happened. The guy’s hands went involuntarily to his crotch, and his legs gave way. He landed on his knees, clutching himself, and the gun went tumbling out of his pocket. But the guy was quicker than Riley anticipated. He was able to pry one arm away from his assaulted genitals down on top of it. He pivoted on the ground, bringing the Sig Sauer up in a fast arc. Riley vaulted forward. He was at a bad angle to go for the gun, and scrabbling on the ground for a loaded firearm was never a great idea. So Riley kicked again, this time at camouflage guy’s head. A full body motion, like a football punter. Magnitudes stronger than any punch could ever be. If the blow wasn’t hard enough, the guy might be able to fall onto his back and fire off a shot. But it was.
A smattering of teeth flew across the morning air like a dental rainbow. All limbic movement ceased, and the gun fell to the ground without fanfare. The guy lay there, unmoving. Maybe just concussed, maybe not. If he didn’t wake up within a few minutes, he probably wasn’t going to ever again. Riley hadn’t set out to kill anyone this morning--in all fairness, he hadn’t set out to do anything--but he wasn’t about to shed any tears over it.
Riley turned to the redhead. She watched him with eyes wide, her whole body trembling. This didn’t surprise him. Then, in one fluid motion, she dove for the gun, scooping it off the grass and bringing it level with Riley’s chest. This did surprise him. She dug into camouflage guy’s pocket and came out with a set of keys. With the gun still trained on Riley, she motioned to the dark pickup.
“Get in.”
2.
Riley eased himself into the driver’s seat of the pickup. The woman sat beside him, clutching the gun with shaky hands a few inches from his ribs. She dropped the keys into his lap.
“Drive,” she said. Riley started the car and moved the selector into gear. Swung the pickup onto the mountain path and accelerated. Got going at a steady clip, the frame of the truck lumbering over the gradations in the bumpy dirt. Soon they were moving at a steady pace through the Appalachian foothills. The winding road swung over lush valleys below, the slopes dotted with oaks and chestnuts in full bloom. The atmosphere in the cab was stale and heavy, reeking of cigarette smoke. Riley cracked his window. The woman stared at him, her lips clamped tightly, like she was waiting for him to speak. He kept her waiting. Silence was maybe the oldest interrogation technique in the book. Made the subject retreat in on themselves, trapped in a loop of their own thoughts. It usually got them talking before too long. Some people couldn’t handle a lack of conversation, but Riley wasn’t one of them. Virginia was a big state. He could keep this up for as long as she willed it. In the end, she lasted longer than he expected. A good fifteen minutes of silence, nothing but the smooth hum of the pickup’s transmission and its wheels jostling along the mountain road. The gun wavered beside him, until finally she lowered it into her lap.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Strange way of saying thanks,” he said. “Holding me at gunpoint after I saved your bacon.”
She didn’t respond right away. Kept the Sig Sauer lowered but still gripped firmly in her right hand.
“Not pointed at you anymore. You ready to talk?”
“Sure. If you’re willing to be civil.”
“Fine.”
“My name’s Riley,” he said. “Clay Riley the third, to be precise. But Riley will do, at least until we get on better terms. And you?”
She debated. Striking blue eyes beneath the red curls, thinking hard.
“Agatha Dumont.”
He nodded. He liked it. Imparted a bit of class. He imagined a wealthy dowager mother, some ancient European baronage. Ancestors from aristocratic nobility, a twisted family tree. Maybe she thought the same of him, with the Roman numerals after his name. Not likely. At the moment, he looked more homeless than royal. And there was nothing special about his lineage. Just a daddy named Clayton, who had a daddy named Clayton. They passed a sprawling farmstead, cows munching grass with lazy aplomb.
“Okay, Riley,” she said. “What exactly were you doing in the woods back there?”
“Sleeping it off.”
“Outside?”
“Not my finest moment. Whiskey and I can get on bad terms sometimes. Don’t usually pass out with my boots on, but it was one of those nights. It worked out, all things considered.”
“You live back there?” she asked.
“Got a cabin a little ways off from where you found me. Was hoping I’d see the inside of it at some point today, but it doesn’t look like it’s meant to be.”
She stared at him, searching his face for deceit. Finally breathed out a long, exhausted sigh. The gun sank lower.
“Why don’t you put that away,” Riley said. “If I was out to hurt you, I’ve have done it by now.”
Agatha finally relented. Opened the glove box and stashed the gun under some maps, next to a tin of chewing tobacco.
“Were you following me?” she asked.
“Lady, the first I’ve seen of you was that guy in the camouflage jacket ready to bundle you up into this truck and do God knows what to you. Considering what happened I’d say you’re right to be paranoid, but I ain’t gonna hurt you.”
“Why’d you help me, then?”
“I didn’t particularly want to see you get killed.”
She leaned back onto her arm, relaxing somewhat for the first time since the ride had begun.
“He wasn’t trying to kill me.”
“No,” Riley agreed. “At least, not just then. Otherwise he wouldn’t have made the big production of trying to get you into his truck. He’d have pulled up alongside your stalled car and put two bullets in your forehead. A deserted switchback like that? You couldn’t ask for a better spot.”
“You sound like you know something about this kind of thing.”
“I know a little bit.” He craned his neck. “Do me a favor. Hand me that chewing tobacco.”
She undid the glove and passed it to him. He switched driving hands and popped off the cap, smearing a wad beneath his gums. An old wartime vice, but he figured he’d earned it, today.
“That stuff will rot out your tongue.”
He grinned. “Would’ve made my ex-wife happy.”
She just shook her head.
“I think the guy back there sabotaged my car.”
Riley rolled the window down a fraction more and spat out a dark glob.
“I was thinking the same. How long you have it? A couple months? Lexuses don’t just go belly up with no warning.”
“It’s a rental. Less than five thousand miles on it.”
“Exactly. You stop at a gas station prior? Some place where you left it unattended?”
“I was at the mall near the Verizon center. Had some time to kill, and I needed to get some errands done. I was inside shopping for mayb
e a half hour.”
“Even better. A big lot like that and that much time? He could have painted it another color and put rims on all the tires.”
“So why’d he do it?”
Riley laughed. It came out more derisively than he intended.
“You tell me, Agatha.”
“I don’t know.”
“You know more than you’ve let on. You’re surprised he was following you, but not completely shocked. Shocked people don’t ask if their car’s been tampered with. Shocked people don’t pull a pistol on the first guy who happens by to help.”
She lowered her head. Looked up at him contritely.
“I’m sorry about that. Truly, I am. Like I said, I’m not in the position of knowing who I can trust.”
He turned to her. The soft curve of the mountain prominent in the rear-view.
“What exactly have you gotten yourself into?”
She stared long and thoughtful through the windshield, like whatever it was, it concerned more than just her own safety. Like she had a hard choice to consider.
“Maybe you can help me,” she said finally. “I’ve got money. Quite a bit. I could pay you. And I don’t know who else I can ask.”
“You think I’m for hire?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I think you might be.”
“I might be anything, for the right price. But I’d need to know what I’m getting into.”
“I’m afraid that if you knew, you wouldn’t want anything to do with me,” she said. “I’m afraid you’d get out of this car and run the opposite direction, as fast as you could.”
3.
They agreed to stop for food. Riley had been driving for the better part of an hour, and although he found it strangely relaxing, it was clear Agatha was growing anxious. Eventually they settled on a diner in a sleepy town called Leesburg, a few miles off the highway. The diner was called Pat’s Cafe, and nestled in the glow of warm red and white lighting. Rows of cherry-colored booths flanked a long bar filled with people quietly eating early dinners. Not full and not empty. The hostess led them to a wide booth deserted on both sides. Privacy. An atmosphere of mellow contemplation pervading the establishment. A good spot for a serious conversation.
