The Inner Circle (Man of Wax Trilogy)

by Robert Swartwood

  The town was named Hope Springs.

  Out in the middle of nowhere, it was the kind of town whose population was less than one thousand. A few cars and pickups traveling along the main strip, but hardly anybody out and about, not in this heat, not when they could find solace from high-powered air conditioners or overworked fans.

  Just as we passed a Circle K grocery store, the Kid called.

  “He’s got a gun.”

  “What type of gun?”

  “Revolver. Looks like a Smith & Wesson.”

  “You think it’s loaded with blanks?”

  “How the fuck should I know? But I’ll tell you, this doesn’t look good. Whatever Simon’s been telling this guy, he hasn’t been taking it well.”

  “How so?”

  “For starters, the sorry bastard’s been crying for the past five minutes straight.”

  I had called the Kid earlier about the Ducati, told him that while I wasn’t one hundred percent certain it was the same one that had saved us in Miami, I was pretty certain. He had said, Yeah, well, pretty certain won’t fucking get you laid at the prom. I was half-tempted to ask him if he had even gone to his prom, but instead told him to keep an eye out for it regardless.

  Now I asked him if he’d seen it.

  “Nope.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yep.”

  When I’d disconnected with the Kid, I called Drew.

  “If he pulls off anywhere, keep driving and circle back around. We’ll try to make contact first.”

  I told him about the Kid’s call, how the Abortionist had a gun.

  Drew said, “Good luck.”

  Less than two minutes later, the Abortionist made his turn.

  We had just passed through the heart of Hope Springs, and judging by the few weathered and decrepit buildings, not to mention the single traffic light hanging suspended above the intersection, it was a safe bet to say it was an unhealthy heart.

  Up ahead, the Abortionist turned into the parking lot of one of the town’s two gas stations.

  Drew continued forward, didn’t even tap his brakes.

  The gas station looked reasonably sized. Two islands covered by an overhang to help protect those weary drivers from the harsh desert sun as they pumped overpriced gas. The building itself was white stucco, its entire front mostly glass and plastered with signs announcing sales on soda and ice cream and claiming their cigarettes were priced as low as the state would allow.

  Three cars were already parked in front of the building. Another car was at one of the islands, its weary driver not looking so weary, a young woman in a sundress fanning herself with a magazine as she watched the numbers cycling upward and onward.

  The Abortionist parked in front of the building. He was out of his car and walking, his head lowered, when Maya made her turn and parked four spaces away.

  He didn’t seem to notice us—didn’t even seem to hear us—as he neared the two glass doors leading into the store. Presumably he was deep in thought, concentrating on the task at hand, his mind trying to wrap itself around the cactus which had become the next part of Simon’s game. He was probably trying to figure out how to go about this and not get pricked, not get hurt, and I can’t say I didn’t blame him. He didn’t look very sure of himself as he walked, his shoulders slouched, but neither would I if I were carrying a small revolver in my right hand.

  The Abortionist wasn’t even trying to hide it as he opened the door and stepped inside.

  “Shit,” I said, already flinging off my seatbelt and scrambling to open the door. I withdrew my Sig just as I stepped out of the car, saying to Maya, “Stay here and call Drew. Tell him to get his ass back here pronto.”

  I slammed the door, hurried up onto the walkway toward the store’s entrance.

  Tinny music was coming from speakers perched in different spots of the overhang. At the moment Steely Dan was singing about reelin’ in the years.

  The young woman in the sundress was still by her car, pumping her precious, leaving-a-hole-in-your-wallet fuel, too busy fanning herself to have noticed the gun in the Abortionist’s hand.

  I couldn’t see through the windows, not with all those cardboard signs taped in different spots. All I could see were the racks of snacks, boxes and bags, twelve-packs of soda stacked precariously on top of one another.

  A dusty pickup truck pulled into the parking lot, what looked to be a father and son. I wanted to wave them away, tell them to get the hell out of here, when, from inside the store, I heard the first scream.

  46

  It wasn’t much cooler inside the store.

  A half dozen box fans were situated around the place, at the ends of each aisle, picking up the slack of the failing air conditioner. A sign above the counter read A/C on FRITZ with a frowny face scribbled in marker below it.

  The music playing outside was playing inside too, but most of it was drowned out by those six box fans, all set on high, creating a kind of maelstrom as it used the stale air to crinkle bags of pretzels and potato chips, fan the pages of magazines, send the advertising mobiles hanging from the ceiling off in drunken dances where they never got very far and always ended up in the same place.

  Besides myself, there were five other people—a man and a woman, both in their sixties, both Mexican; a guy in his thirties wearing a straw cowboy hat; the counterman, also Mexican; and the Abortionist.

  The counterman was behind the counter, his hands held up in front of him. The three others were frozen off to the side, also with their hands raised.

  The Abortionist was the only one not partaking in the hand raising. Instead he had the Smith & Wesson aimed straight at the counterman.

  “Come on, please, just give me the money. I don’t—I don’t wanna hurt anybody. Just please, give me the money and I’ll go.”

  This was what he was saying when I entered the store, when an actual bell dangling above the door with a string tied to it announced my presence with an off-key jangle.

  The Abortionist was already in a bad state. Any untrained eye could see that the hand grasping the gun was shaking. Any untrained ear could hear the nervousness and fear in his voice.

  He was starting to ask for the money again when he heard the bell jangling and spun around, already starting to say something to whoever else had unfortunately walked in on this early afternoon fracas.

  But he didn’t say anything. He tried, his mouth moving, but he couldn’t seem to form the words.

  All he could do was stare back at my Sig aimed straight at his chest.

  “Put the gun down, Clark,” I said, talking to him but also talking to the thick black glasses on his face, staring at the center where the camera was located and where Simon and Caesar and everyone else in the Inner Circle was watching me right this moment.

  He was clearly spooked at hearing his name, but slowly shook his head, the gun grasped in his hand shaking even more.

  “I—I—I can’t. If I don’t do this, they’ll kill them. I just—I need the money.”

  “They’re already dead, Clark. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you that, but your wife and sons are already dead.”

  The Mexican woman began sobbing, whispering a prayer.

  Clark shook his head slowly, staring back at me through the lenses of the glasses, his hand trembling so much now it looked as if the gun had gained one hundred pounds.

  “No,” he said in a small and soft voice, and dropped his head, his shoulders hitching up, the shaking gun lowering.

  “I’m here to help you,” I said to him, taking one slow step forward, keeping the Sig aimed right at center mass in case he tried anything stupid, anything rash. In case Simon had already broken him enough that he didn’t care who he killed or hurt to get to his family.

  I was less than ten feet away, the fans roaring around the store, Steely Dan still pouring from the speakers, when the Abortionist dropped the gun.

  His hands went to his face, and he began sobbing, his shoulders hitching e
ven more.

  Keeping my own gun aimed, I bent and picked up the Smith & Wesson, placed it in my back pocket.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  He looked up at me, his face red, tears in his eyes. He nodded once and took a step forward.

  The Mexican woman was still sobbing, still praying, and the three other men were doing nothing more than curiously watching. They stayed where they were, their hands up, their gazes now on me.

  “Sorry for the inconvenience,” I said to them.

  I took the Abortionist by the arm and led him to the doors. I pushed one open without taking the extra second to look through the glass, and in doing so almost knocked over the man and the boy stepping up onto the sidewalk.

  The man said, “Whoa,” and caught the boy, an amused expression on his face. The amusement didn’t last long. A moment later he saw the gun in my hand and immediately reached for the gun holstered to his belt. Whether he was an off-duty cop or just an average American citizen expressing his second amendment rights, I didn’t care to find out.

  I shouted, “Don’t move!” and aimed the Sig right at his face.

  He froze.

  “We’re leaving now,” I said. “We’re doing so peacefully. No need to make things worse.”

  The man said nothing. His other hand gripped the boy and pushed him back behind his body.

  “I got him.”

  This was from Drew, standing outside the SUV now parked beside Maya in the Focus. He had his gun out, the barrel trained on the man.

  This wasn’t going down nearly as well as I had hoped, but there wasn’t any time to worry about it. Right now we had to get out of here as soon as possible before the police showed up. Not even twenty seconds had passed since we stepped outside, but I was sure the counterman—or someone else inside the gas station—had already dialed 911.

  “Get in the SUV,” I told the Abortionist.

  He wiped at his eyes. “Huh?”

  “Get in the SUV now.”

  Before he could take a step in the SUV’s direction—Jesse opened the driver’s door to get out and help—a thought occurred to me and I reached out and snatched the glasses off his face.

  “Hey,” he said, startled, trying to grab for them, but I dropped them to the ground and smashed them with the heel of my shoe. He looked up at me, dumbfounded. “Why’d you do that?”

  The music from the speakers in the overhang had changed. Steely Dan had faded to be replaced with Buffalo Springfield, telling us that something was happening and whatever it was wasn’t exactly clear.

  Jesse came up behind the Abortionist. He gently grabbed his arm and the back of his neck to start leading him to the SUV.

  “Let’s go,” I said again, pointing the way, and that was when I heard the low oncoming rumbling from the street.

  Jesse and Drew and Maya heard it too. They all glanced toward the main drag—Jesse pausing as he led the Abortionist toward the SUV—right as a red Corvette convertible came roaring down the main strip.

  It happened so suddenly that we forgot all about the man and the boy.

  It happened so suddenly it gave the man enough time to grab his gun and pull it from its holster.

  “Stop!” he shouted.

  I didn’t even get a chance to look back at him. I could see him from the corner of my eye—his gun aimed at me—but that was it. My focus was instead on the Corvette as it swerved into the gas station parking lot. On the two men inside, both wearing sunglasses. On the passenger and the Uzi in his hands.

  The Corvette screeched to a halt, parallel with the gas station, and both men jumped out, the passenger brandishing the Uzi, the driver a Glock.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” the driver said.

  From the corner of my eye I watched the man turn toward the two men from the Corvette. “Stop!” he shouted again.

  The passenger said, “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Deputy Ray Porter. Now drop your weapons!”

  The driver laughed and said to the passenger, “Talk about wrong place, wrong time.”

  From the corner of my other eye I watched Maya open her door silently, step out, place one foot on the ground.

  I said, “Deputy Porter and his son aren’t involved here. Let them go.”

  “That depends,” the driver said, “on how big of a hero he thinks he can be.”

  “Deputy Porter,” I said, “for the sake of your son, stand down.”

  “I said drop your weapons!” the deputy shouted.

  Ahead of me Drew had positioned himself to sight over the SUV’s hood. Jesse, still with one hand on the Abortionist’s arm, withdrew his gun.

  The Corvette’s passenger said, “Ben, this cop here is making things difficult.”

  “What do you want?”

  “For you to surrender—for all of you to surrender. You do that, you get to see your friend again.”

  The boy started crying, hiding behind his father.

  “For the love of God, Deputy Porter,” I said, “don’t be stupid. Take your boy inside.”

  Deputy Porter shouted, “This is your last warning! Drop your weapons now!”

  The woman in the sundress, who’d been methodically fanning herself as she pumped gas, stood frozen by her car. Her eyes were wide as she watched the unfolding drama. I wanted to yell at her, tell her to get in her car and just drive away, but before I could the Corvette’s driver shook his head.

  “Like I said—wrong place, wrong time.”

  And he tilted his gun and shot Deputy Ray Porter right in the forehead.

  His boy screamed. The woman screamed. The Abortionist screamed.

  I shouted, “Now!”

  Maya opened up first, striking the Corvette’s passenger in the chest. His Uzi sprayed the front of the gas station, shattering glass. Drew fired at the driver who had already turned away to take cover behind the Corvette, while Jesse and I hurried the Abortionist toward the SUV.

  I created a mantra in my mind, repeating let’s go let’s go let’s go, while bullets zinged everywhere, puncturing metal, shattering more glass.

  Once I was certain Jesse could handle getting the Abortionist loaded—this was about three seconds since the gunfire had first started—I pushed away and raised my gun, aimed at the passenger who was still standing, still spraying the Uzi.

  I fired, one two three shots, and still the Corvette’s passenger was on his feet, his finger stuck against the trigger, spewing bullets everywhere. He went down a second later, taking the Uzi with him.

  Jesse and the Abortionist had taken cover behind the SUV, Jesse shielding the man with his body.

  I started that way when I realized the gunfire wasn’t over. The driver was still alive.

  He popped back up behind the car, jumped inside, firing wildly as spun the wheel with one hand and punched the gas.

  Maya had moved from her position by the Focus and advanced on the Corvette as it squealed out of the parking lot, Maya shooting first at the driver and then at the back of the car, trying for the wheels if possible, trying for anything.

  Moments later the Corvette had made it back on the main strip, nearly colliding with a pickup heading south, the pickup’s horn blaring.

  Maya turned back, lowered her gun, started toward the SUV.

  The Abortionist, sensing the gunfire was over, tried getting back up but Jesse was still shielding him with his body.

  “Jesse, we’re clear,” I said.

  Jesse didn’t move.

  “Jesse?”

  Still nothing.

  The tinny music had faded away once again, from Buffalo Springfield to The Doors, Jim Morrison going on about breaking through onto the other side. Just behind this the boy was still screaming, as was the woman.

  Maya and I hurried forward, but Drew was the closest, only feet away. He leaned down and turned Jesse over.

  Jesse’s entire front was dark with blood. His eyes were open, blinking slowly. His mouth was open, and he was gurgling blood.

 
I fell to my knees beside him. I touched his forehead, felt for a pulse.

  It was very weak.

  “Jesse,” I said, and grabbed for his hand, held it tightly.

  “B-B-B-Ben,” he said and his voice was frail and as thin as a piece of parchment.

  “Jesse, it’s okay, it’s okay,” I said, telling him the same words you tell anyone who’s been mortally shot, who’s very close to knocking on heaven’s door.

  He continued to blink slowly. His eyes rolled around in his head, left and right, up and down, until they found me.

  “I’m ... c-c-c-cold,” he whispered.

  And died.

  47

  I stood up almost immediately. Stared past the SUV toward the main strip.

  “Ben?”

  I turned away and started toward the Focus. Paused and turned back. Leaned down and grabbed my gun off the ground and then stood back up.

  “Ben, what are you doing?”

  A part of me—the sudden numb part—wanted to continue ignoring Maya. Instead I jabbed my finger at Jesse and the Abortionist and said, “Get those two loaded up and get the fuck out of here.”

  “But what about you?”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said, already heading for the Focus. I climbed inside, tossed my gun and the Abortionist’s gun on the passenger seat, fired up the ignition, and then tore out of the parking lot in the same direction the Corvette had been headed less than a minute ago.

  There wasn’t much traffic on the main street—a few cars and pickup trucks—but still I needed to swerve around them as I pressed the gas pedal to the floor. I knew the Focus couldn’t compete with the Corvette, not when it came to horsepower, but at that moment I didn’t care. Hope Springs was barely a dot on the map. The only way to enter and exit the town was via the main street, which eventually turned into the highway. From there, it was miles of endless asphalt until the next town loomed on the horizon.

  My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I made no move to answer it. It was either Maya or the Kid, and right now I didn’t want to deal with either of them.

  Less than a minute later I reached the outskirts of Hope Springs, and the highway opened up. In the distance—maybe a half mile away—was the red Corvette. It was a peculiar choice for Simon’s men, almost too conspicuous, but again, it had massive horsepower. My only hope was that during the shootout something vital had been struck. My fingers were crossed for the fuel line.