Night Road

by Brendan DuBois

  Duncan froze, staring at the man, who stared back with the firm and confident gaze of a man who had it all in control. He said, “All right, hand’s coming back.”

  “Put them up, then, high up in the fucking air.”

  The man stepped around the couch, keeping the rifle’s barrel pointed at Karen’s sweet head. Duncan stared and stared at the man, burning his appearance into his mind. His eyes flickered around the kitchen, looking for a knife, a cleaver, a hammer, anything that could be used.

  He said, “Keeping your right hand up in the air, reach around with your left hand, with two fingers—two fucking fingers only—take out your piece, drop it on the floor.”

  Duncan said, “Guy, I’ll do anything and everything you want. Just let my wife go.”

  The other man grinned. “Nice try, but it’s not going to happen. I’m going to need some answers from you. This sweet piece in front of me will ensure my questions are answered. But let’s start with getting that weapon away.”

  He took a deep breath, and then another. He couldn’t bear to look at his wife. Keeping his right hand up, he slowly lowered his left hand, turned so everything was visible to the gunman. With his two fingers, he pulled the .380 out and dropped it to the floor. The metal hitting the tile was quite loud.

  “Kick it over here.”

  Duncan gave it a swift kick. It slid across the shiny tile floor and spun as it hit the living room rug. “Iron Steeds?” he asked.

  “Good guess, genius.”

  Duncan tried again. “Let my wife go, lock her in a closet or something, but let her be. Your beef is with me. Not her.”

  With a one hand, the gunman ran his fingers through Karen’s hair. Duncan clenched his teeth, feeling his blood heat and rage sprint through him, seeing his woman, his wife, the mother of his children, being violated.

  “Not your choice, pal. You had a chance to reach a nice little agreement when two of my buds came here the other day. But no, you decided to be a stupid fucker. So this is what happens to stupid fuckers. Come on, step forward, hands on the back of your head, fingers laced together.”

  Duncan slowly went by the kitchen counter, to the living room, evaluating, looking, noting the coffee table in front of him with a large stoneware vase, thinking that may be of use, but as he went deeper into the room, he saw the second gunman.

  “Get your hands off my wife,” he said, looking back at the first man.

  The man grinned, suddenly tugged Karen’s hair, making her yelp.

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  Never in his life had he ever felt so trapped, so helpless, so useless.

  Zach waited, engine rumbling, sitting still in Duncan’s truck. His super secret cellphone was back at his room at the bed and breakfast, so at some point today he’d have to tell Tanya of his progress, or lack thereof. He still had a problem gauging what was going on with Duncan’s pleasant face and inviting approach. At one point, he was practically promising to find Zach a job up here in the perpetually economically depressed North Country, and in almost the same breath, up on the deserted side of a hill, he was inviting him to come into a small concrete shed used for butchering deer.

  He folded his arms. What the hell was taking Duncan so long?

  Louis loved it, loved it, loved it. Everything was coming together and he couldn’t believe how this was going down. Maybe Jean-Paul was right. Maybe this going to be slick as shit after all.

  “All right, pal, you’ve gone far enough. Stand still. Jean-Paul, cover him.”

  Jean-Paul stepped closer, SKS right up to his shoulder, looking straight down the open iron sights.

  Duncan stayed still. Louis gestured with his SKS. “Slowly take your left hand down, undo your belt and pants, let ’em fall.”

  The man stood still. Not moving. Staring at Louis with pure blood-fed hate. Louis didn’t care. In fact, he enjoyed the feeling. The guy was staring at him with such hatred as well as weakness at being in this position. It was a great combination.

  Louis said, “Our previous guys probably dicked around with you and didn’t show you the proper respect. Not respect like kissing your ass, but respect when you go into somebody’s yard and meet their fucking pit bull. We’re not going to make that mistake. You’re smart, you’re armed, you move fast. So drop trou, bro, or I’m going to take this shirt”—grabbing the collar of Karen’s blouse—“and rip it off your wife.”

  Eyes filled with fury, the left hand slowly went down and started working at the belt.

  Duncan tried to take it as slow as possible, knowing time was the only ally he had in this room. He had two guys in front of him—both armed with semiautomatic weapons, both pointed in his direction—and all he had were his bare hands. There was the heavy vase before him, and behind him, about a yard or so away on the floor, was the piece he’d had to drop.

  He lowered his left hand, started to slowly undo his belt, fumbling his belt on purpose, feeling sick at heart for what was happening to him and Karen. He always knew that the life he had chosen, the life he had led, meant a good chance of a violent end somewhere along the way. But he had always hoped that his end would not involve Karen.

  His temples throbbing hard, his mouth tasteless, he did as he was told.

  Zach checked his watch again. This was stupid. This was taking too damn long.

  He opened the door and got out, moved forward, walking in front of the pickup truck and the Toyota RAV4. To see Karen Delaney—all right, Karen Crowley—would be a pleasant distraction from what was going on.

  At the front door, he reached for the doorknob and then quickly dropped down and moved back.

  There was a man inside there, pointing a weapon at Duncan Crowley.

  Zach took a breath, grabbed his .32 Browning, took a pause. All right. Time for another look.

  He raised his head up, grabbed another quick peek. Through the kitchen and to the living room, Duncan’s back was to him, hands held up. A woman, no doubt Karen, was sitting on the couch, facing towards the kitchen. A guy was on the right, pointing a rifle at Duncan.

  What to do?

  Run up the street, find a phone, call 911? And how long before a cop arrived? He knew Turner and its surroundings. One cop on duty, maybe two. They’d have to call backup from the other towns, from the county sheriff’s department, and the State Police. SWAT? Hell, they’d have to call in the State Police SWAT unit, which would take hours to get here, no doubt about it.

  It didn’t look like Duncan or Karen had hours. Or even minutes.

  He reached up to the doorknob, hesitated. Going through like this … opening the door would bring that gunman looking straight at him, with Duncan in the crossfire, hell, with Karen just a few feet away.

  It was like a switch deep inside of him had been closed, for the first time in a long time.

  Zach was now back in the world he knew best.

  He let his hand drop.

  Louis whistled. “Tightie whities? A guy like you, I’d thought you’d be wearing something naughty black, or bright red. Got such a foxy wife, I’m disappointed in what I’m seeing.”

  Duncan said, “I’m sure you are disappointed. It’s probably neater and bigger than what you see in the bathroom mirror every morning.”

  Jean-Paul giggled, pissing Louis off. He said, “I want some answers. You dick around, you give me any grief, then this pretty lady will be hurting. The more you fuck with me, the more the lady hurts.”

  Louis waited. Jean-Paul looked confused. Duncan just stared and Louis sensed Karen was trembling.

  “Well?” Louis demanded.

  “Well, what?” Duncan asked. “You said I’m to answer your questions. Fine. But you haven’t asked any questions, genius.”

  Jean-Paul giggled again. Louis quickly turned and said, “Shut the fuck up, will you.”

  Duncan kept avoiding
Karen’s gaze. He had to stay focused on these two characters. Seeing Karen staring at him, pleading and begging with those eyes, would throw him off-kilter. The older one with the beard and bald head seemed to be in charge. But his younger pal—the one called Jean-Paul—was definitely getting under the man’s skin. He felt a faint flicker of optimism. They weren’t a crew used to working together, which meant if a challenge were to erupt, they wouldn’t work as a team.

  The older one said, “The shipment. When’s it coming in?”

  Duncan tried to look puzzled. “What shipment is that?”

  “The one my boss wants to know about. The one that Andre and Pierre came to talk to you about. That fucking shipment.”

  Duncan shrugged. “Man, I ship a lot of stuff back and forth across the border. High-grade marijuana. Beer and liquor without the proper tax stamps. Same with cigarettes. Which shipment are you interested in?”

  He liked the look of confusion on the big man’s face. He seemed distracted, hesitant.

  Then his companion Jean-Paul stepped in.

  “Louis, what the hell are you doing, letting this asshole jerk with you?” The younger one came over, slapped Karen right on the side of her face.

  Duncan moved, Louis pointed his weapon right at him, and a shadow moved across his eyes.

  Zach moved in a crouched run, going around the two-car garage, to the side yard and then the rear yard. Swingset, kid’s pool, some low shrubbery. Rear deck with grill and outdoor furniture. He kicked off his shoes, climbed up the side of the deck, everything slowing down, everything sharp-focused, seeing splinters on the deck, spilled barbecue sauce on the side of the grill, the smear of kid’s handprints on the sliding glass doors leading into the living room.

  His Browning up in a two-handed combat stance and damn it all to hell, a complication. A second gunman inside! He hesitated. Now what? With one gunman, there was a chance, an opportunity.

  His mind raced along, even though everything else seemed so damn clear and slow. Angles, options, placement of targets. Karen’s head visible above the couch, Duncan there, pants around his ankles, bald-headed gunman to his rear, second gunman coming into view, second gunman now moving, going to the couch.

  Slapping Karen.

  Automatic rifle lowered at his side.

  Time!

  Louis was startled at the sudden slap, pissed once more at Jean-Paul stepping into it, and he turned and—

  Explosions.

  Glass shattering.

  Louis turned, gunfire roaring all around him, Jean-Paul shouting, falling to the ground. A guy had blown through the rear deck sliding glass door, pistol in hand, the glass shattering, plowing through.

  Louis whirled about, brought his SKS up, aimed at the man, ready to splatter his guts across this clean light blue carpet, and—

  The trigger wouldn’t move.

  The trigger wouldn’t move.

  Fuck, he hadn’t taken it off safe!

  Something hammered at the back of his head. Gray and black swam over him.

  Duncan saw Zach sprint in front of the rear sliding glass door, so he dropped to the carpeting, grabbed Karen’s ankles, tugged her off the couch. She yelped and fell and he jumped on top of her as gunfire erupted, glass smashed, Zach burst in. The younger guy cried out and the older guy moved back, moved back, bringing up his rifle, and …

  Nothing happened!

  Duncan saw his chance, grabbed the heavy stoneware vase, bounced it off the back of the big man’s head.

  Zach felt glass cut at his face and hands as he blasted his way through the freshly shot sliding glass door, the younger gunman falling to his knees, dropping his rifle. Duncan was out of view, Karen was now off the couch, and the first gunman brought up his rifle and Zach thought, fuck, it’d be so fine to have a vest on, but the guy couldn’t get a shot off. Zach brought his Browning up and then Duncan moved whip-fast, holding an ugly piece of pottery in his hand, smacking it against the guy’s bullet-shaped head.

  Zach got off another shot but missed, and then he turned to the first gunman, on his knees, gurgling, trying to get to his weapon. Zach kicked his face, looked over, saw the bigger guy was up and running to the door, rifle in one hand.

  Duncan shouted, “Zach! Get him! Go get him!”

  The guy threw the door open, disappeared.

  Zach gave chase.

  Outside, his lungs burning, head bleeding and aching, Louis started running through the yard, heading to the cemetery where the van was packed, feeling sorry for poor Jean-Paul—the guy had definitely taken one or two rounds, but that fucking ship had sailed.

  As he ran, the same ridiculous phrase kept on running through his head: slick as shit, slick as shit, slick as shit.

  He turned and saw the squat man who had burst into the living room had made it around the corner of the house, was running right after him.

  Louis raised up the SKS, flipped the safety off, yelled out, “Eat this, motherfucker!”

  Fired off round after round after round, as the guy plastered himself to the ground.

  Zach saw the guy running, saw him stop and whirl around, rifle raising up in his hands, shots raining out, no real aiming, no discipline, just ripping off a magazine. There was a slight grassy enfilade to the right. He flattened himself out, letting the rounds whip over his head.

  Duncan stood up, yanked his pants up, Karen sitting against the couch, crying, sobbing. He retrieved his .380 Bersa, grabbed the rifle—recognized it now as a Chinese-made SKS semiautomatic—placed it in safe, tossed it onto the couch. The younger guy was on his side, moaning, holding his right shoulder. Blood seeped through his fingers. He was crying.

  Duncan kicked at the hand, causing him to scream. He stepped on his good shoulder, pushing him down to the ground. He pointed his pistol right at the kid.

  He tried to catch his breath. This was the man who had broken into his house, had threatened his wife, had hit his wife.

  “Answer me now,” Duncan said. “Are you two the only ones here?”

  “Fuck … oh fuck … it hurts so much …”

  Duncan moved his foot, pressed it against the fresh bullet wound. A sharp and loud scream burst out. He removed his foot.

  “Answer me,” he said, voice even and determined. “Are you two the only ones here? Are there any more shooters out there?”

  Jean-Paul moaned, cried, and Duncan winced as a gunshot rang out.

  Louis kept running, the rifle feeling fucking heavy, the tree line coming real close, real close now, get to the tree line, pound a few more shots at that guy chasing him, and then he’d have it made. Thank God he had told Jean-Paul to leave the keys in the van’s ignition! Get in the van, turn on the engine, and get the hell out of this small town with that crazed freak back there who had beaten the Iron Steeds once again.

  Slick as shit, slick as shit, slick as shit …

  Zach got up, saw the guy had made pretty good distance. There were lots of thoughts racing back there in his mind—not your fight, way out of your jurisdiction, call the cops, let them handle it, you can’t screw up your original mission—and the guy was still running at a good clip.

  A pistol shot at this distance was complicated.

  A maple sapling was nearby. He ran over in his stocking-covered feet, found a branch at the right height and angle. Took the .32 Browning, put both hands around it again in the combat stance, braced his forearms against the branch, aimed over the open sights, worked the angle, the speed, where he wanted the bullets to land. He aimed at a space below the man’s buttocks, fired off three quick rounds, each round working up the man’s spine.

  The gunman arched his back, yelled, fell.

  Louis was about to turn when the weight of the universe seemed to hammer at his back.

  Duncan turned, shocked. Karen was there, her Colt .45 semiautomatic in her slim and pretty h
ands. Smoke wafted out from the barrel. He looked back at the younger man. His eyes were open, his mouth was still, and there was a bloody hole in the center of his chest.

  Karen said, “I think I might have overreacted, hon.”

  Duncan gently took the pistol from her hand, gave her a long hug. “Not a problem, Karen. Not a problem.”

  Pistol still in his hand, Zach took his time going up the slight hill, his socks damp from the grass and soil. The man he had shot was crumpled on the ground, legs and arms splayed out. Zach was focused now on the man, making sure there was no movement, no action. The rifle was about a yard away from his right hand. Zach moved closer, picked up the weapon, and tossed it away.

  The man looked dead. Three rounds had gone into his back in a nice tight group. Not bad. He circled him twice and then went to the rifle, popped out the magazine, tossed it down the hill, worked the action to expel the live round, then threw it up the hill. He looked at the man again. His skin was losing its color, turning the shade of chalk. Zach quickly checked for a pulse on the side of the man’s cool neck, pleased and not surprised to find nothing.

  He stood up, looked around the neighborhood. A couple of isolated trailers down the road, that cemetery up the hill. Gunfire in a rural northern New Hampshire neighborhood? It would take 105mm mortar rounds impacting in the near fields before someone would be concerned enough to call the cops.

  Zach looked at the dead man one more time. “Thanks, pal, whoever the hell you are,” he said.

  twenty-five

  Karen sat on the couch, Duncan’s arm around her, his other hand holding his .380 Bersa. She cried and told him what had happened, cried some more, and apologized over and over again for letting them break in, for not using the dish towel warning system, and Duncan murmured and said “it’s all right, it’s all right,” all the while wishing his lovely and deadly bride had waited a couple of minutes before wasting that Iron Steeds biker. A few more minutes and Duncan would have found out if there was a backup crew out there, or just how much Francis Ouellette knew about the upcoming shipment, and other bits of useful information.