by Ryan Schow
“Kick the weapons to us,” one of them barked, pointing at his guns. The lead was probably five feet away. He was at least eight feet from the guys flanking him.
“What’s your name?” Rider asked, looking only at him, not the others.
“Roberto,” he said.
“You’re not a very good listener, Bob,” Rider said. “Does your old lady tell you that? If she does, then she’s a keeper because man, it’s true.”
Now comes the posturing, the mean-mugging, the threatening weapon routine. Roberto pointed his gun right at Rider and said, “Now puta.”
Taking a deep breath, aware of every single muscle in his body and mentally supercharging them, he calmly said, “My sight’s not so good, cataracts in my left eye, shrapnel in my right, but are you pointing a gun at me? Because I gave you my guns already.”
“Kick them here!” he barked.
“Let me say this for the cheap seats,” Rider said, his impatience showing. “I have a bullet lodged in my right leg, so if I try to kick anything, I’m pretty sure the pain will make me pass out. And if I try to kick with my left, I’ll have to stand on my right, which will surely buckle. So let me reiterate this as politely as I can, take my weapons if you want, take my life if you need to, but I can’t have this bullet in my leg much longer without risking infection so stop asking for my knife and just take what I gave you.”
Roberto pulled back the slide, chambered a round.
“I ain’t asking no more, pops,” he warned. “Kick the weapons our way, with or without your gimp leg.”
“No.”
For what felt like five lifetimes they stood there. Rider didn’t back down; they didn’t back down. No one even blinked. Finally one of the guys from the peanut gallery chimed in.
“He’s just an old man.”
“Don’t let the gray hair fool you, ese,” Roberto said. “He’s young. Forty maybe, forty-five.”
“Fifty-three,” Rider lied. In truth, he was ten years younger than he’d just claimed and in excellent shape.
One of the guys said, “I can’t tell if he’s ex-military or a male model.”
The five of them had a laugh, but Roberto failed to see the humor. He was the one Rider worried about most.
“Male model,” Rider lied. “But don’t go getting your hopes up fellas. I’m a girls-only kind of guy.” Fake-hobbling back a step, Rider motioned to the weapons and said, “Have at them. I even left a piece of gum there for the soft looking kid on the end.”
“Ain’t no one soft here but you, cabrón,” Roberto said. “Turn around and walk your dumb ass away.”
“I’m not going that way, Bob,” Rider responded. Giving a forward nod, he said, “I’m headed that way, and right now you’re blocking me. Also, keep in mind I was minding my own business when you came up on me. If you want my weapons, I’ve given them to you. But if you want to sit around in some sort of testosterone-laden circle jerk, honestly, you can do that all by yourselves without me having to watch, so do your thing already then get the hell out of the way.”
Annoyed, but bested, Roberto stowed his gun in his slacks at the small of his back then stepped forward and grabbed the AR. The minute Roberto bent down, Rider grabbed his knife and in an almost otherworldly display of speed and precision, he blew past Roberto, but not before trenching open the man’s carotid artery with a ferocious sweep of the blade.
Rider was suddenly in the mix of the other five thugs who were scrambling for position. Time compressed itself and all he saw were targets, moves and the end result: all of them all being dead in a very specific order.
Gunfire shattered the silence, but not before Rider ducked a punch from the outside man, swung around and grabbed a hold of his Adam’s apple. He used the guy as his shield. To the left of him Roberto was cupping a hand over his wounded neck, but blood was pulsing out from between his fingers. He staggered backwards and forwards, like a drunk. He tried to speak but nothing came out.
“Cat got your tongue, Bob?” Rider said.
In one final attempt to go out like a true gangster, Roberto shot through his own man trying to hit Rider. Two of the three shots punched through Rider’s human shield and struck him in the chest. The lightweight body armor he was wearing absorbed the lead, but not before exacting a small toll.
What in God’s name is he shooting? Rider wondered, catching his breath.
His human shield was hobbling on wonky knees and there were still four guys left. All of them were weapons hot and he had a knife, an almost dead guy for protection, and a fresh stick of gum. Not all was lost, but he hadn’t seen it play out like this. Then again, in a fight, sometimes you have to operate on the fly.
The second he felt the last of his human shield’s strength go, Rider dove in Roberto’s direction, rolling and then launching up on him hard. Gunfire peppered the air. He felt several nips and bites, but this wasn’t the first time he’d been shot under fire. In seconds flat, his knife was up under Roberto’s chin. The man stiffed. Internalizing his own injuries, Rider decided none of the rounds that hit him stuck too hard, but damn, some of that lead hurt pretty good.
He was still on his feet though, and now he had a new human shield: Roberto. Bob. Blood was pumping from the man’s neck, a veritable fountain of red, albeit not as vigorous as before. It wouldn’t be long before this human shield went the way of the last.
“Is this a Mexican stand-off we’re in?” Rider quipped, looking at the other guys. “Or do you care as much for him as he did for your compadre, the guy he just shot trying to shoot me?”
Blood soaked slurs poured from the mouth of the twenty-something Hispanic dying in his arms. Seconds had passed at this point; Roberto had precious few left.
Already his body was getting heavy.
Grabbing the weapon tucked in Roberto’s waistband, Rider open fired and hit three of the remaining four thugs. The chamber clicked twice on the fourth man.
Damn.
The fourth man open fired, hitting Roberto, and by proxy, hitting Rider. Each round kicked a little harder than the last, but the vest held even if it felt like his bones weren’t holding up the same.
Finally the fourth man’s chamber ran dry and Rider could no longer manage the dead man. He stepped backwards and shoved Roberto’s corpse aside.
The last clown standing was frantically reloading his weapon, but Rider grabbed one of his Glock’s off the sidewalk and leveled it on the man. “You have three moves here, son.”
“Yeah?” the kid replied, still loading his weapon.
“First, keep loading that gun and I’m going to shoot you in the face and be done with it.”
He stopped.
“What’s your name?” Rider asked.
“Why?”
“I’m curious by nature,” he said.
“Alejandro.”
“Like the Lady Gaga song? That Alejandro?” The street soldier rolled his eyes, which caused Rider to smirk. “Well, Ali-Ali-jandro, there are two more options.”
Still holding the gun, but poised for battle, he said, “Option two?”
“You walk away and wipe your hands of these flunkies. You lose your friends and this fight, but you keep your life.”
“And if my pride makes this an impossible choice?” he asked, eyes diamond hard and roasting with hatred.
“Well then I’ll let you choose one of my two knives and we can go hand-to-hand like civilized gents,” Rider said looking extra dignified.
“You killed them all,” Alejandro said, still reeling.
Now Rider’s mouth became a flat, emotionless slash. “All of you were dead the minute you stopped me, you just didn’t know it yet.”
“So you think I should walk away?”
“I do.”
“And you won’t shoot me in the back?”
“Depends,” he said.
“On?”
“On how much longer you want to stand here gossiping like a pair of school girls. Make a decision, Ali-Ali-jandro. Now.�
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“You really got a bullet in your right leg?” he asked, looking down.
“No.”
Tucking his gun in the front of his trousers, he burned Rider with his eyes and said, “This isn’t over, pops. We’re building an army, and when—”
The bullet plowing through the kid’s brain stopped his mouth from working. Wide eyed with death, he fell to the sidewalk in a heap.
“Your threats are duly noted,” Rider mumbled, sitting down beside the slumped over Roberto and in half the coward’s blood supply.
Roberto’s expanding red pond was generous, but it failed to reach Rider’s guns, and by proxy, his last stick of gum. Thank God. Despite the foil wrapper being flecked with blood spatter, he peeled back the foil and stuck his last piece in his mouth, chewing loudly before adding one softened wad to the other.
Blowing bubbles, he swept up his guns, then got to his feet.
There was something about the fake watermelon flavor that was downright amazing for the first twenty or so minutes. He was inside that window of happiness with enough time left to get back home.
Stripping the dead of their weapons, and one man of his long sleeved button up (it was the least blood stained), Rider stacked the bodies in front of a blue and white garage door like the garbage they were. He then began loading the hardware into the stolen shirt.
Things started to hurt. He was missing bits of flesh here and there. He wasn’t sure what hurt more, being grazed a few times, or taking three rounds in the vest. Either way, by tomorrow morning he was going to be red welts and a patchwork of black and blue bruises that would turn green and yellow in the days to come.
Tying up the shirt’s arms to contain the cradle of weapons, Rider hoisted them over his shoulder and walked the remaining two blocks where his buddy in an old red and white Chevy stood patrol at the street corner.
“Rider,” he said.
“Waylon.”
“You alright?” he asked.
“Gonna need a Band-Aid and some whiskey,” Rider replied, limping a bit on his left leg where one of the bullets blazed a burn trail over his thigh.
“That racket up the street,” he said, “was that you?”
“Yeah.”
“Problem solved?”
“For now,” Rider replied, still walking.
“There gonna be blowback?”
“Maybe,” he said, limp-walking up the road, his back to his friend. “Probably.”
“You shot?” he called up.
“Couple times, yeah.”
“Go see Sarah,” Waylon said, to which Rider replied, “Heading there now.”
Not looking back, Rider made his way up to the back fence where he was let inside the compound by a woman with a gun and no sense of humor on account of her entire family perishing in a car fire.
He made his way to the makeshift triage center/infirmary to have his wounds looked at. Sure enough, his chest was a smattering of bruises and he was hit in the same leg twice. Nothing serious though, just a couple of red trenches.
Still, it was troubling that he’d been shot at all. Maybe he really was getting old.
Old and slow.
Then again, the way Sarah Richards was looking at him (she was the dewy looking beauty working on him—a twenty-four year old nursing student from Cuba, and the closest thing they had to a doctor), he realized that even slowing down a bit, not all was lost.
With his injuries cared for and Sarah looking a little flush as he put his shirt back on, he said, “Many thanks, doc,” which she liked.
“Are you doing anything later?” she asked, cleaning up the small stack of bloody gauze.
It wasn’t an invitation on a date, Rider knew—she was simply making conversation. Giving her a long second look, he realized just how attractive she was, and not for the first time.
Like his second ex-wife said, he wasn’t one for romance. He was just better at killing things. Maybe with Sarah, if he ever had the opportunity, he’d give romance one more try. Or maybe he’d just go out and shoot some more bad guys and not think about this kind of thing ever again.
“Gonna check in on our mystery guest right now,” he finally said. “She awake yet?”
“Not yet,” Sarah replied. “Maybe tonight.”
“Vitals though?” he asked.
“Steady.”
“Do I have to keep getting shot to see you, or would you be up for an evening stroll a bit later?”
Now she turned and looked at him.
“You don’t think you’re too old for me?” she asked.
“Of course I do,” he replied.
“You’ve been shot.”
“Haven’t forgotten about that,” he said.
“Yet you’re asking me out on a walk anyway?” she said, looking extra shy and ridiculously cute doing so.
“I am.”
Her head started to nod on its own as she tried on the idea, and then she said, “Yeah, I’d like that. We haven’t really gotten to know each other.”
“Not on a social level, no,” he said. “I’ll swing by your room around eight?”
“If your leg doesn’t freeze up on you, then yes, eight is good.”
“Now about our mystery patient…”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Rider headed into the next room where the woman lay in a bed, her head bandaged, yellow and green circles under her eyes. Her nose was broken, but reset. Her head wounds treated.
When he found her she was in a seven car pile up with the cars in front of her and behind her in flames. Drone attack. When all this happened, Rider was downtown. He was just walking, which was something he often did to clear his mind.
If not for the routine, the almost aimlessness of it, he would probably begin to go crazy. He was a former operator, a contract killer for the CIA, and now retired. He left the company gracefully, but the truth was, he both hated and loved the chaos he left behind. The strange dichotomy was the basis of many a conversation with many a post-service shrink.
In the end, he stopped going to therapy because he realized he was a natural magnet for pandemonium. If not in the battlefield, then in the business world; and if not in the business world, then in the bedroom. In the end, he gave up the women and the work in favor of making ends meet on simpler terms. To do this he bought and sold various items on Craigslist as a means of affording his Spartan lifestyle. There was never any comfort in it. He loved almost nothing about his life. It was almost as if he were waiting for something to come along and take him from all this monotony. That something happened to be a drone strike on the city.
Armageddon.
When he’d come upon the pile-up of vehicles, he moved from car to car checking the bodies. When he got to the woman, he’d stopped. She was a looker. But dead. He almost moved on, but he didn’t. It wasn’t because of her good looks, it was because he caught a glimpse of a very weak pulse beating in her neck.
As good as dead, he thought.
Or not.
Standing there in that moment, thinking about all the lives he’d taken over the years, he realized it was high time he try to balance the scales and save a few, even if the effort seemed futile. Certain the drones had gone, he looked in on the woman with greater focus.
The airbag had gone off and hit her in the face, breaking her nose. Another car had t-boned her on the driver’s side. The driver of the offending car (a twenty-something Asian kid with half his face ripped off) had flown through the windshield and slammed head-first into the side of this woman’s A pillar. Looking at the kid’s car, he saw no airbags. An unbuckled seatbelt. His neck was broken in half and lolling to the side at an extremely unnatural angle. The eye that was least damaged was open wide, glassed over with death.
When he dragged the boy’s ravaged body out of the way, the woman in the car moved just enough to let him know she wasn’t a lost cause after all.
The driver’s side window was glass shards everywhere. Blonde hair was matted red. The woman’s nose
was slightly crooked, twin streams of blood flooding her generous lips, staining her perfectly white teeth in splotchy dollops of crimson.
For a second he saw her nice clothes, her jewelry, her manicured nails and he almost left her. He hated that sometimes he thought like that, but he did. His experiences with wealthy women were varied, none of them good.
Would this be different?
At this point, the fires in front of and behind her car were spreading. The bodies inside these automobiles were engulfed in flames, and it reminded him of the war overseas, of a village he and his team once cleared using M4A1’s and napalm.
Looking away, forcing himself to grab the woman and carry her to safety, he wondered if saving her might relieve a bit of the karmic burden now plaguing him daily.
Standing in that village, he’d watched the bodies burn, and he did nothing.
Back then, he’d been remiss to save a single soul. Not because he didn’t want to, but because the death of innocents was the cruel message they were sending. It turned out, the message meant for someone else was seared so permanently into his mind that not a day went by when he wasn’t tortured by these memories.
Self-loathing often made him careless with his life which, in turn, took his hard edges and made them razor sharp. He was an efficient killer only because he had so much pain and rage inside him that when it came out, often the only thing left behind were tarns of blood, and a stack of bodies. He was a smile on the outside, a calm demeanor, a man at peace with his surroundings. But inside, he was barely held together and only by the sheer force of will alone.
Then along came this woman…
She weighed nothing in his arms as he carried her to the compound. He knew they had a doctor there, a student rather, and he knew this was his only chance to get the woman the medical attention she needed.
Her injuries were superficial by the look of it, but beyond that he didn’t know what kind of internal bleeding she might have and he wasn’t about to inspect her without her permission, which she couldn’t give to him while unconscious.
Two or three times she woke up, coughing, crying, mumbling incoherently. He simply did the best he could to reassure her, and to get her to safety as quickly as possible. It was no easy task and twice they were nearly eviscerated by drones.
