Dying for a Fix

by G. K. Parks

  “The acoustics are wrong.” My eyes darted to the enclosed space. “The sound of gunfire will bounce off the buildings, causing a massive echo. It’ll be loud enough to wake the dead.” I turned my head, making sure my voice would be heard clearly on the recording device inside the SUV. “Everyone inside Gino’s Pizzeria will hear the shots, along with every single Lord within four blocks.”

  “You don’t want to do it,” he sneered, “which is fine, but if you don’t, I’m supposed to take care of them and you.” Something slimy crossed his face, and I recognized him as one of the men who tried to jump me when I first moved into the neighborhood. He had recently grown a beard, but the dead look in his eyes was still the same. “And this time, Francisco won’t rescue you.” He glanced back at the rest of the group congregating together next to Bard’s vehicle to work out a plan. “You’re either fully committed or you’re gone. What’ll it be?”

  “I’m committed,” I snarled, leaning inside the SUV and pretending to search for something useful. Just as I was about to give up, I spotted a half empty soda bottle in the rear cup holder. “And luckily for you geniuses, I’m more afraid of serving hard time than anything you could do to me.”

  Pouring out the contents, I removed the knife from my pocket, cut the end off, and fashioned it into a makeshift suppressor. It wouldn’t do much to silence the gunfire, but it was enough to demonstrate my willingness to become one of the KXDs. He rolled his eyes, as if this was the most ridiculous idea ever, which it was, and went to chat with the others while I pretended to search for something to secure the bottle to the barrel of the handgun. After a final glance to make sure no one was paying attention, I retrieved the cell phone I planted days ago, noticing the blinking battery light.

  “Track and trap,” I muttered, shoving the device inside my pocket and hoping it was transmitting and the battery would last long enough for units to trace the GPS and roll in before the streets were splattered with blood. Now I just needed to find some way of killing three men without causing them any permanent damage. When the hell did I become an illusionist because I didn’t remember ever attending a course on this at Quantico?

  “As soon as the sun goes down, you’re up,” Bard said once I joined the group. “I don’t care what you have to do to get them away from that door. We need access to the restaurant, and it’s not like we can just go in the front.”

  “What’s in the restaurant?” I asked.

  “Not in,” Steele shook his head, “below.”

  “Just get them away from the door and don’t think too hard about the rest,” Bard commanded. “The only way we’re getting inside is by putting those fuckers down.” Bard eyed the punk behind me, but I couldn’t turn around to see what his eyes were communicating. “Excellent,” Bard said with such exuberance I couldn’t tell if it was due to the drugs he inhaled or whatever nonverbal signal he just received. “We’ll load up and be gone before they realize what hit them.”

  Francisco and Bard moved away, taking up positions inside the two parked vehicles and starting the engines. The six remaining gang members eased into the shadows, exchanging snickers and knowing looks. Obviously, I was up, and from the sounds coming from the peanut gallery, I wasn’t sure if they were waiting to see my award winning impersonation of a prostitute or if they were excited by the prospect of killing the Lords. Either way, I needed to think on my feet.

  As usual, I wasn’t dressed for the part. It seemed that Francisco took some kind of perverse pleasure in forcing me into situations like this completely ill equipped. It happened last night when he wanted me to hock cocaine at the dance clubs while dressed in a baggy sweatshirt. Luckily, I had the Black Cat uniform on underneath and was able to make-d0. This time, I was standing outside in the freezing cold in nothing but jeans and a t-shirt. Hookers, while dressed inappropriately, would have had the foresight to put a long coat on over their barely there skirt and tube top, and they wouldn’t be caught dead working the streets in jeans and a t-shirt.

  After taking a few steadying breaths, I turned onto the main street, hugged my arms around my body, and continued toward the pizzeria. Keeping my head down, I pretended not to be aware of my surroundings, but my five senses were on alert. The sound of car horns, the hum of engines, conversations, and televisions blurred into the background of noise pollution while I watched my exhales turn into puffs of frozen vapor in the frigid air.

  Letting out a sigh, I cocked my head to the side and looked at the men. One of them wore a red polo with the Gino’s emblem on the left breast. The other two were dressed similarly to the KXD lookouts, smoking menthol cigarettes. Apparently gang wear was a style all its own.

  “God, it’s freezing out here,” I said loud enough to catch their attention. My presence didn’t register on any of their faces, which meant they probably had no idea who I was, and if they did, they didn’t recognize me without the sequined top and glitter. “Can I bum a cigarette?”

  One of them shrugged, so I approached the side door. “Where’s your coat?” he asked, pulling out a pack and flipping it upside down against the palm of his hand to make the cigarette fall free of the soft packaging.

  “I was out late partying last night, and I can’t seem to remember where I left it.” I took the offered cigarette. Having never been a smoker, I wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it, but it seemed like a good way to strike up a conversation. Giggling, I crinkled my nose playfully. “Oh,” I covered my mouth with my hand as if embarrassed, “I think I left it on the floor of some guy’s limo. Oops.” I pursed my lips and cast bedroom eyes at one of the men. “Do you think there’s any way I could persuade you to lend a girl your jacket in order to get home?” I put the unlit cigarette up to my lips suggestively. “I might freeze to death while I wait for the bus.”

  Polo guy let out a surprised snort and winked at his friends. “I’ll meet up with you guys after work,” he said and went back inside.

  Okay, one down, two to go. That meant my odds were getting better. My nine millimeter was still tucked at the small of my back, and the twenty-two was shoved into my ankle boot. Without adhesive, the makeshift silencer was nothing but a useless piece of plastic which I abandoned next to Francisco’s SUV.

  Neither weapon was in a particularly secure position, but at least they weren’t blatantly obvious to a casual observer. However, I couldn’t just shoot these men, and I was lacking in gags and handcuffs. Knocking them out seemed like the only option. Dammit, where was back-up when I actually needed it?

  “Don’t you want a light?” Cigarette guy asked.

  Tucking the unlit cigarette behind my ear, I smiled at him. “I’d like one afterward. Come on, it’s just a coat. I even promise to return it tomorrow to the restaurant. And you’ll get a little something to keep you warm in the meantime. What do you say?”

  The third man hadn’t spoken since my appearance, and he clapped Cigarette guy on the back. “Go for it. I’ll keep an eye out until you’re done.” He met my eyes. “Maybe I could interest you in a scarf or some gloves?” He wore a wool scarf over his leather bomber jacket with a matching pair of fingerless gloves.

  “Maybe.”

  Taking Cigarette guy’s hand in order to keep him from putting it at the small of my back, I guided him away from the side door, past the double doors for deliveries to the restaurant, and behind the dumpster. He was out of sight of his friend, and I shoved him playfully against the brick wall. A quick glance ensured no one could see us, and when I turned back, his fingers were already on his zipper.

  Clamping my mouth over his, I ran my fingers through his hair, down to his neck, and eased them around, feeling his pulse point and identifying his carotid. Cutting off blood flow to his brain would put him out cold, and I leveraged my arm around, catching him unexpectedly and squeezing hard. His surprised gasp was muffled, and when he stopped flailing, I counted to twenty and then carefully released pressure, letting him crumple down the wall and into a heap behind the dumpster.

&
nbsp; I needed to find some way to secure him in the event he gained consciousness faster than expected, but the only thing of use were his shoelaces. He wore a fancy, high-end brand of kicks with custom laces. They were thick, plastic coated nylon. Making fast work of his shoes, I unlaced each one and bound his wrists behind his back before tying his ankles together. The laces were extremely long, and I looped them enough times to increase the tensile strength and minimize the chance of him breaking free.

  Then I mussed my hair, as if he’d been running his hands through it, and stepped away from the dumpster. From the looks of his pal, Wool Scarf, I’d wager that he’d been straining to hear what was going on. Pervert.

  “Hey,” I said, batting my eyelashes, “your buddy isn’t quite up for the job. Do you think you can help him out?”

  Obviously, this strange turn of events was too confusing for his tiny reptilian brain to process, so he smiled and abandoned his post, an obvious swagger to his walk. In a few more steps, he’d spot Cigarette guy, so I had to act now. Grabbing the ends of his scarf, I tugged, and he turned. I pulled the wool upward, over his mouth, like I planned to pull it over his head, but instead, I used the motion to spin around, grabbing him from behind and pulling the scarf tight around his neck. Then I made sure the bend of my elbow rested against the main arteries in his throat and squeezed.

  He bucked, throwing his head back, but since he was six inches taller than I was, he hit nothing but air. He thrashed sideways, knocking my hip into the side of the dumpster, and I saw stars. My grip loosened slightly, and he reached around, continuing to squeeze and claw at my side while using his other hand to pry my arm from around his neck. From this position, it was obvious he planned to flip me over him, and when I couldn’t get him to go down, I let him hurl me forward.

  As I sailed over his shoulder, I swung my legs out, kicking him under the jaw. He faltered backward, losing his balance and landing on his ass. When he opened his mouth to stabilize his equilibrium, I took that opportunity to wrap my legs around his torso, holding him down and putting him into a chokehold with his back against my chest. Once he stopped struggling, I waited a full minute before releasing my grip and rolling him off of me. It was a good thing I’d insisted on refreshing my hand-to-hand combat skills.

  Repeating the process of tying him up with his own set of shoestrings, I dragged him a few feet closer to his friend, put them back to back, and wrapped the scarf around both of their mouths, binding their heads together and hopefully silencing any sounds they might make once they roused. The KXDs still hadn’t moved into position, and I didn’t know how much time I had left. The longer I could delay, the greater the chance law enforcement would intervene. But as the minutes ticked past, I knew Steele would become even more irritated, and Bard wasn’t exactly patient either. After another minute, I pulled out the twenty-two, firing four times into the base of the brick wall.

  The sound of gunfire ripped through the alley, like I knew it would, and the eight KXDs appeared near the entrance, already moving inside. The one that was told to kill me if I failed gave me a cursory glance and jerked his chin toward the door. Apparently I was one of them now. Moving inside, Steele bashed through the door immediately to our right and began moving down the steps. It was scary how well he knew what their competitor’s fortress looked like.

  Down the steps was the boiler room and just beyond that was a sealed door. This one was made of reinforced steel, but the lock was rudimentary. I could have picked it in ten seconds, but Steele pulled his gun, firing to the side of the knob and opening the door. Heavy footsteps thundered above. And I had been worried about making too much noise. Sheesh.

  “The four of you stay here and keep those pricks at bay,” Bard ordered, leading the rest of us deeper inside.

  I didn’t want to think about how many lives would be lost. With any luck, the only people checking on the basement would be gang members and not innocent pizzeria employees or curious patrons. Enough time had passed that a tactical team should have shown up, but they weren’t here yet, which probably meant the battery was dead and they were still working on tracking the exact location. In the meantime, gunfire erupted in a nonstop barrage behind us, but Bard and Steele continued to move through the newly exposed room, taking in the sights of what must have been hundreds of bricks of cocaine, bags of pills, and sacks of marijuana. This was the largest drug operation I’d ever seen, and my blood ran cold to think that the Lords’ stockpile paled in comparison to Bard’s resources.

  Thirty-four

  “Let’s load ‘em up,” Bard ordered, pointing to a pallet of carefully wrapped product. “Grab the biggest ones you can carry and bring them out to the trucks.” The two lower level KXD members complied while my brain attempted to restart after the obvious glitch. “You too,” Bard ordered, tossing a bag with a few kilos in my direction.

  Barely catching it before it hit the ground, I stood there, dumbfounded. The direction in which we had just come was blocked by gunfire. We couldn’t go back that way, especially with thousands of dollars of drugs in our arms.

  “Chica,” Francisco said, appearing at my side with a large stockpile hoisted atop his shoulder, “there’s a back door. Follow me.”

  At the far end of the room was a hidden doorway that led to a few narrow steps that brought us out on street level behind the building. The two SUVs were parked out back, waiting. Apparently while I was taking care of the lookouts, Francisco and Bard found two primo parking spaces. As we dumped the contents inside Francisco’s SUV, I strained to hear sirens, but I couldn’t hear much over the faint gunfire and my own beating heart.

  “Where did they get this much stuff?” I asked.

  “The cartels. Same as us,” Steele replied, shoving the narcotics into the rear hatch. “As far as I know, they don’t cut or manufacture their own shit. So we have a leg up on them. Two now.” His eyes flicked to me. “And when we get back, both of your legs will be in the air. I don’t care what Hotshot thinks. He doesn’t own you. I do.”

  I swallowed, a cold chill traveling through me. “Is that it?” I asked as another KXD member exited with a handful of loot.

  “No, go make a few more runs,” Francisco ordered. “Shakespeare wants to clean them out. So don’t stop until every last joint and dime bag is ours.”

  Edging down the steps, I wasn’t in a rush to return. With only two exits, it wouldn’t take much for the Lords to box us in. And with the limited hiding spots and vantage points, if they set up a crossfire, we’d be dead in a matter of seconds. Granted, Steele was outside, theoretically preventing such a thing from happening, but he was one guy.

  The gunfire grew louder, and a single cry of anguish echoed off the walls. I couldn’t let this continue to happen. I had to stop it; consequences be damned. For the most part, the constant vibrato wasn’t interrupted by screams, indicating the bullets were missing living targets, pounding into the walls, and ricocheting off pipes and fixtures instead.

  “Where are you going?” Bard grabbed my arm as I moved toward the door. “The exit’s on the other side.”

  “Your people are dying out there. They need help.”

  “They’re fine. The Lords are the ones dying. And if my people aren’t good enough to stand up to some wannabe losers like the Lords, then they’re getting what they deserve.” His cold demeanor brought his ruthlessness to the surface, and I realized this was nothing more than a power play by a megalomaniac. Sure, Bard tried to be smart by legitimizing some business ventures and property acquisitions, but he was just another thug from the streets that wanted to prove his stick was bigger than anyone else’s. Teddy Roosevelt should be rolling over in his grave. “Now move your ass.”

  Before I could say anything, a metal canister rolled into the room. I barely had enough time to realize it wasn’t a pineapple before it spewed tear gas. From the sound of metal tinking against the floor, no guesswork was needed to know what was coming.

  The air was heavy with chemicals that burned my e
yes, nose, and throat. As if that didn’t make it hard enough to see through the tears and choking, a few smoke grenades went off. The room was enveloped in thick clouds of darkness, and I dropped to my knees, hoping to avoid the gunfire that was likely to accompany it. Instead, heavy footfalls thudded against the tile floor, and through the blinding haze, laser sights lanced through the smoke.

  “On the ground. Get on the ground.” The words repeated in a chorus throughout the room. Flopping onto my stomach, I laced my fingers behind my head, hiding my face in the fabric of my shirt to lessen some of the abuse my mucus membranes were enduring. Rushed footsteps sounded from all around, and in my current state, I couldn’t tell which direction they were traveling. The sounds of my own coughing and choking blurred out everything else. Gloved hands moved along my body, searching and removing my weapons, before cold metal secured my wrists behind my back. Instantly, my skin burned at the contact. “On your feet.” Someone hauled me up and dragged me, sputtering and dizzy, into the hallway and up the steps.

  Outside, the first breath of clean air felt like razorblades inside my lungs. Hacking up a few mouthfuls of phlegm and wiping my runny nose against my shoulder, I searched for a familiar face through my blurry, teary eyes but didn’t see anyone I recognized. ESU, emergency services unit, had taken control of the situation. Using advanced tactical gear and methods, they neutralized the firefight and were taking everyone into custody. Questions would only be asked and answered in a much more formal setting.

  A female officer was on scene, along with a dozen police cars, two ESU vans, and a couple of ambulances. After spotting me, she took custody, leading me away from the side door and to one of the squad cars. The entire time she recited my Miranda’s while I choked on my own snot. Pushing my head down, she shoved me into the back of the car and closed the door.

  What felt like eons later, she climbed into the driver’s seat, turned on the lights, and headed for the precinct. Since my eyes were too sensitive to remain open against the burning and tears, I kept them closed. When it felt like the car finally came to a stop, I cautioned a glance.