Dying for a Fix

by G. K. Parks

  After washing my hands in warm water, I sent another text to Steele, asking where he was. The lack of response did nothing to calm my nerves, and I palmed my secondary phone, having forgotten to leave my personal cell at the motel, and considered sending a message to Cooper. Just as I began typing the text, Nicholson’s phone beeped. Steele was here. Suddenly, there was pounding on the bathroom door, and in my haste, I did the only thing I could think of and tossed my phone into the wastebasket.

  “Jesus, can’t you read?” I barked, unlocking the door to find Francisco leaning against the jamb. “Ladies only.”

  “Then why are you in there?” He offered a grin. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  “Where? I just ordered coffee.”

  “Alexia, let’s go.” He grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the bathroom and toward the back door. From where we exited, we were obscured from the street. There was no way the surveillance team would spot us. My heart beat faster. “It’s too crowded inside, and I wanted to get you alone.”

  “Why?” I shivered, unzipping my coat slightly in order to tuck my hands inside without him noticing I was moving closer to my gun. “Where have you even been? And since when do you text? Don’t you normally just holler at me or show up at my apartment?” I made a pretense of thinking. “You said that I was off the hook for four days. What gives?”

  “You ask a lot of questions,” he said, his tone accusatory. “And plans change, chica.” He led me down the dark alley, away from the front of the diner, and to the back door of some other building. He knocked a particular pattern, and the door opened. “After you.”

  He pushed me forward as I tried to determine where we were. The hallway was dark and narrow. I didn’t see any other entryways, but he continued to press against my back, urging me onward. The blood pounded in my ears, and I feared my cover had been blown. Where was he taking me? Thoughts of torture chambers and crack dens came to mind, and frankly, I didn’t know which would be worse. Either could easily lead to my demise.

  “Francisco,” my voice sounded shaky, and I didn’t know if that was nerves, the cold, or my best rendition of how Alexia would react, “why did you want to get together tonight?”

  “You’ll see.” Both of his hands braced my shoulders, halting our procession. “Hang here for a minute. Don’t go anywhere.”

  Suddenly, bright fluorescent light flooded the dark hallway, and an unseen door opened and closed. With Francisco gone, I was alone in the dark. I leaned against the wall, my eyes slowly readjusting. Vaguely, I spotted a red dot near the top corner of the corridor. Wherever we were had security cameras. Turning around to face the way we came, I saw a green keypad on the wall. Someone must have let us in. And getting out would be equally tricky without the proper code.

  Pressing my back against the door, I pulled my hands free from my jacket, zipping it up with one hand while I ran my other palm against the wall, feeling for a doorknob or latch, but there wasn’t one. Only upon closer inspection did I feel the seam of the doorway and notice the tiniest hint of light seeping out from the edges. Where the hell were we? And what was inside that room?

  After what felt like an eternity, Francisco emerged, bathing me in the harsh, bright lights. I threw up a hand to shield my eyes and caught the briefest glimpse of the KXDs’ operation. Numerous women were inside, wearing nothing but surgical masks and their underwear as they processed, cut, and packaged illicit drugs.

  “Just making a pick-up,” he said, looping an arm around my waist and hauling me back toward the door. “How do you feel about moving more than just E?”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “Five percent plus a regular fix.”

  “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “What’s to think about?” He blocked my view of the keypad while he entered a few digits, and the sound of a locking mechanism moving out of place echoed inside the walls. Obviously, it was a reinforced steel door. “You move product, same as before.” This wasn’t a debate.

  “Fine, but I want a cup of coffee before I agree to anything. It’s freezing out here,” I protested once we were back in the alley. There had to be some way of convincing him to return to our agreed upon meeting place that was still under surveillance by the OIO team.

  “Have you always been such a pain in the ass?” He led the way back to the diner at a much faster clip. “Fine, I’ll get you some goddamn coffee if you quit bitching.” Just as relief washed over me, he turned, ignoring the back entrance to the diner and emerging on a side street. “I know a quiet place where we can discuss these things in more detail.”

  Unable to provide a valid argument against the change of venue, I kept my mouth shut and moved next to him. Easing myself closer, I used the pretense of trying to get warm to determine if he was carrying. At the small of his back was a handgun. There was something hard and metallic in his pants pocket, and from the sound of crinkling plastic, whatever package he picked up was tucked inside his jacket.

  We walked for a few blocks in total silence when he suddenly stopped and pinned me against a building. His hands came to rest on either side of my head, and his body pressed into mine.

  “What are you doing?” he hissed.

  “Huh?” My look conveyed complete confusion.

  “Are you hoping for a taste?” He backed up, unzipping his jacket just enough so I could see the concealed brick of cocaine. “Or have you been missing me?” And I realized he was suspicious about my need for maintaining such close proximity.

  “I wouldn’t mind a taste,” I laughed, “but actually, I was just trying to keep my hands warm.

  He zipped his coat and took both of my hands in his, holding them to his mouth and blowing on them in a somewhat sensual way. “Better?” He stared into my eyes.

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  He remained still for a few seconds longer, glancing behind him to make sure no one was watching or following us, and then he led the way to a tiny dive that smelled like sweat and burnt coffee and had a scattering of semiconscious people who appeared to be stoned out of their minds. He called across the counter to someone named Danny for two cappuccinos and took a seat at the corner table.

  “You don’t strike me as a cappuccino guy,” I said.

  “Why not? Don’t you think I like nice things?” His eyes surveyed my body. “Because you’re looking pretty damn nice tonight. Y’know, I could use some TLC. What do you say?”

  “I don’t put out on first dates. And coffee is about as first date as it gets.” I cocked my head to the side, jerking my chin at his chest. “Is that why you wanted us to get together tonight?”

  “To take you on a date?” He practically laughed in my face. “No. I just needed someone to accompany me on the pick-up.”

  “Why?” It didn’t make sense.

  He shrugged, refusing to answer the question. His eyes focused on something outside that I couldn’t see, and he shifted in the chair. “No reason to worry about that.”

  “Whatever. So is that what you want distributed at the Black Cat?” We made eye contact, and I dragged my focus to his chest and the concealed brick.

  “No. Strippers and blow are an urban myth, at least in these neighborhoods. Plus, this is high-end product. I’m just delivering it to someone who has a fancier clientele.” He pulled out his phone to check the time. “He’ll be here in a few to take it off my hands.” He smiled, grabbing a plastic spoon off the table. “Maybe we should make sure it’s primo.”

  Danny came around the counter with two paper cups and placed the cappuccinos on the table. Francisco emptied a sugar packet into one. Then he disappeared into the men’s room, only to return a minute later after replacing one white powdery substance with another.

  “Shit,” I whispered, “aren’t you afraid of getting caught? You know I don’t want to go back to jail.”

  “Relax. Everyone here is cool.” He poured the cocaine out of the packet and onto the table, using the flat edge of the spoon’s handle to make two l
ines.

  “Don’t be stupid. It’s a risk. Anyone could be an undercover narcotics officer. This place practically screams out illegal substances.”

  “Suit yourself, chica. It’s only sugar.” He held up the empty packet and then snorted both lines before downing a mouthful of cappuccino, which struck me as odd. “Are you going back to the apartment tonight?”

  “I don’t know.” How did he know I hadn’t been there? “I’ve been crashing with some friends.”

  “You have another connection you’re not telling me about,” he said, leaving no room for my protest. “You’re gonna have to stop that sometime soon, but for now, I’ll let it go.” He blinked slowly as the euphoria hit. “Trust me, I’m the only one you need. Anything you want, I can get.”

  Before I could respond, the bell above the door chimed, but no one came in. I assumed someone realized this place was far too seedy to risk entering, but Francisco stood and dumped the rest of the coffee into the trashcan.

  “That’s my guy. I’ll see you later, chica. Monday, things are gonna change. Be ready for it.”

  He darted out the door, and I gave the room an uneasy glance. No one seemed to notice me, except the barista. As Danny continued to fiddle with the coffee machine, I pretended to drink the cappuccino. Luckily, I kept the lid on it, so no one could tell I had yet to take a single sip.

  After an appropriate amount of time passed, I dumped the cup into the trash and went out the door. It was after midnight, and I hoped to backtrack to the diner to pick up my discarded phone. Ditching it had been a mistake. I panicked, and if Jablonsky found out, he’d be so far down my throat that he’d pop out my ass. Plus, the surveillance team was probably still out front, awaiting visual confirmation of the meet.

  But as I began the trek back, I felt someone watching me. Cautioning a glance, I didn’t see anyone. So I picked up the pace a little and strained to hear footfalls coming from behind.

  Without warning, something slammed into me, knocking the wind from my lungs. Gasping, the same force spun my body around, shoving my back against the brick so hard my skin scraped through the thick parka. Slightly dazed, I made a move to push my attacker aside but stopped when I felt the barrel of a gun pressed against my temple.

  Eighteen

  “Where is it?” the attacker asked. He was barely out of his adolescence, and a quick glance confirmed that he wasn’t alone.

  “Where’s what?” I replied, quickly sizing up the four gangbangers. Estimating their ages, I’d say two were still minors, the one that introduced me to the wall was probably twenty, and the last was a little older, covered in scars and missing an eye.

  “Don’t play dumb, bitch.” He yanked me toward him just so he could throw me backward into the wall again. “We know you made a pick-up, so where are the goods?”

  The weakest link was probably One Eye. He had an obvious impairment. The two youngsters were just punks, but they might be undergoing an initiation or possess an immortality complex which made them dangerous. They’d be the first to shoot their mouths off, but hopefully, that’s all they’d be shooting off.

  “I don’t have anything. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said slowly in case he was mentally impaired. To choose this life, he ought to be.

  “Fine.” He tossed a look behind his back. The punks stepped closer, each seizing one of my wrists and holding me in place. Mr. Talkative unzipped my parka, probably hoping to find a brick of coke. Instead, he found my holstered nine millimeter. “Then why are you packing heat?”

  “Really? Packing heat? Who says that?” I queried, throwing him off guard with the sarcastic remark.

  He was probably trying to come up with a smartass response when my knee slammed into his balls. He doubled over, and I used the distraction to perform a side kick. My intended point of impact was a kneecap, but I underestimated the strength of the punk’s grip and fell short, landing a glancing blow to one of their shins. It was just enough of a distraction to free one of my wrists, and I reversed course, spinning away from the wall and using my momentum to circle around the punk who still had a firm grip on my other wrist. I wrapped our joined arms around his neck and ended up behind him with my nine millimeter in hand. He dug his fingers into my skin, scraping up my arm, but I held tight. With any luck, they wouldn’t shoot since I had their buddy for protection.

  One Eye moved toward us, causing me to back step into a small side street. Tossing a quick glance behind me, I saw car lights in the distance and wondered if an audience would encourage my assailants to take a hike. Just as my focus returned to the men in front of me, the ringleader pulled a piece and began a rapid-fire staccato. A few shots went into the punk, and I dove out of the way. A cry of pain rang out, followed by a gurgle, and I knew he was dead.

  “Shit, Bobby, what the fuck?” the other teenaged punk yelled, but the ringleader’s gaze was focused on me.

  My nine millimeter was drawn, and I knew I could take him. My eyes remained fixed on his trigger finger. Even a slight flinch and I would shoot. The only problem was One Eye and the teenaged punk were attempting to flank me.

  “Where is it?” the ringleader asked again, continuing the approach.

  “I don’t have it.”

  “Shakespeare’s guy must have kept it on him,” the teenaged punk muttered, tossing a worried look at his fallen friend. “When word gets out that we missed the target, we’re screwed.”

  “Shut it,” the ringleader growled. “So the KXDs are risking their girls in order to make sure their drugs stay safe?” He let out a harsh laugh. “It’s funny how fast they changed their tune.” He shrugged. “Fine by me. You’re gonna deliver a message for us.”

  “I don’t think so.” I continued to step backward until my back came into contact with a dumpster. “Now, I’d suggest you lower your weapons and get out of here while you still can.”

  “Grab her,” the ringleader growled, and One Eye closed the gap between us.

  Shifting my aim to the left, the punk grabbed me around the waist and lifted me off the ground. I kicked out, managing to use the dumpster as leverage to push upward, flipping myself over his shoulder. My back pulled at an odd angle, but the slight twinge wasn’t nearly as devastating as the concrete. Thankfully, the punk took the brunt of it, landing hard.

  During the acrobatics, I lost hold of my gun and didn’t have enough time to recover it before One Eye launched himself onto me. We scuffled for a bit. His hands wrapped around my throat, and I clawed at his one good eye to no avail. Finally, I managed to get the heel of my hand under his chin and shove his head up. He faltered backward, losing his center of gravity, and I rolled to my side, into his blind spot, and twisted his arm at the perfect angle for a break.

  More shots rang out, nicking the concrete next to us, and I scrambled toward the dumpster. Running in a crouch, I found my discarded nine millimeter and slid across the asphalt, feeling bits of broken glass and gravel cut into my legs and arms as I scooped the gun up and took cover between the building and the dumpster. The metal vibrated as the ringleader emptied his clip into the side wall. Once the gunshots stopped, I fired blindly in his direction, keeping track of the number of bullets remaining.

  Edging closer to their positions, I couldn’t afford to continue returning fire in this manner. Cautioning a glance around the corner, I spotted One Eye attempting to sneak around to box me in. Without hesitating, I popped up, firing in his direction, but the punk had recovered and was only a few feet away. Upon my emergence, he rushed forward, cracking the butt of his gun between my shoulder blades. I howled, twisting to fire at him and crashing to the ground, slicing my parka and maybe my back on the sharp corner of the dumpster.

  At point blank range, I didn’t miss hitting my target, and he went down. Without waiting to see if he was alive or dead, I retreated into the space between the wall and the dumpster. There wasn’t a chance in hell I was coming out again. Maybe I was boxed in, but if they came for me, I’d kill them before they
could get to me. Reaching into my pocket, I grabbed my cell phone, dialing 911 and waiting for the two remaining gangbangers to make another approach.

  Who were these people? They obviously weren’t part of the KXDs. A rival gang perhaps? But what the hell were they doing following Francisco, and why would they think I had the drugs?

  The car lights from before grew brighter and larger, and an SUV screeched to a stop a few feet away. Automatic weapons discharge sounded, accompanied by agonizing screams, and just as the sound began to dissipate, tires squealed. And the smell of burning rubber filled the air. The lights came closer, heading right for my hidey hole, and I scrambled to escape before the SUV could crash into the dumpster.

  Just as my torso cleared the narrow enclosure, the SUV hit the edge. The force knocked the dumpster backward into the space I had occupied, and the SUV corrected course, darting into traffic and disappearing.

  “Holy shit,” I breathed, glad to still be alive. But now that the firefight was over, my body began to take notice of the damage that was inflicted, and I realized my left leg was pinned behind the dumpster. “Dammit.” I reached into my pocket to see if my phone connected with 911, but it was missing. It probably landed behind the heavy immovable object.

  My thoughts were jumbled. My only instinct was survival. Then escape. Now as the snow began to fall in thick, heavy flakes, I wondered if the four gangbangers were really dead or if they were only wounded. Who was in the SUV? Who opened fire? And would they be back to finish me? As the adrenaline continued to course through my system, I became more and more panicked. I needed to get free.