by Adam Bender
“I know what it is you are getting at,” she said, downing the champagne in one gulp. She took him by the arm and led him to the bedroom.
*
When the sex was over, Elza pulled up the silk sheet and let it fall airily over their naked bodies. She smiled at the satisfaction on Charlie’s lips.
“Damn, girl,” he said.
He was cute, this one. “What is it they say? You are not so bad yourself. But you know, we forgot to turn off the lights.”
The bounty hunter’s soft brown eyes settled on her own. “Maybe I like seeing you.”
Of course, he did not see Elza, really. He saw a pretty and helpless girl named Miranda, who needed to be saved. Elza did not need saving.
“Did I hurt you?” she asked.
“I can handle it, baby,” Charlie replied.
“No, I mean because of your arm.”
He looked at the bandages dismissively. “Oh, that’s barely anything. Anyway, I’ve been numbing it pretty good. If you bumped it, I didn’t feel a thing.”
As she cuddled up to him and brought her head closer, she felt him tense up. “What is it?” she asked.
“You never told me who your boss was.” He stroked the scar on her forehead. “The one who did this to you.”
“It does not matter.”
His face grew serious. “Please, Miranda. I want to know.”
She sighed. It was time. “It was Gerard Breck.”
His jaw dropped. “Like Breck Ammunition, Gerard Breck?”
“Yes.”
Charlie sat up straight and pushed himself off the bed. He started pacing around the room, looking desperately for something on the ground.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Looking for my pants,” he said, pausing to look at her. “Why didn’t you tell me it was Gerard Breck? Fuck!”
“What does it matter who he is? He hurt me, Charlie. He threw a glass at my face. I was bleeding all over the carpet!” The image appeared to freeze him in his tracks, so she continued. “I don’t remember much after that. I fell … and when I awoke, he was gone.”
He looked upset. “You don’t understand. I’m … friends with Gerard’s brother.”
Elza produced her best look of confusion. “Errol? But he has been gone for —”
“He’s back. We’re going to — shit, I shouldn’t be telling you any of this. I’ve got to go.”
Elza slithered out of the sheets, flipping herself so that she was lying naked on her stomach with her face toward Charlie at the foot of the bed. She reached gently for his lithe thighs and looked him directly in the eyes.
“I …” he said, swallowing as she lifted the hand farther up his leg.
“Is Errol going to kill his brother?” she whispered.
“I don’t know. He’s going to the board tomorrow to force a vote and — damn that feels good — take back the company.”
“And will they let him?”
“The board’s already on his side. Gerard doesn’t know about it.”
She pulled her hand away. “You know Errol shot his wife, yes?”
He gasped. “Yeah, but he said it was an accident.”
“Not entirely. He was set up.”
“What do you mean? Gerard?”
She nodded. “Errol was in line to get the company after Al Breck died. The board was not going to even consider Gerard. His only choice was to eliminate Errol from the equation. So he hired a hit man to break into the Breck Estate and kill him. It was supposed to look like a house burglary.”
“But Errol killed the hit man first —”
“And his wife, also.”
Charlie covered his mouth with his hand.
“There is a saying in this country that the ends are more important than the means, yes? Helen was not meant to die. But when she died, Errol abandoned the company and left town. The board had no choice but to make his stepbrother the CEO.”
“How do you know this?”
“When you work for a man like Gerard Breck, you learn things. And he has never been good at keeping secrets.”
Charlie started pulling his pants on again. “I’ve got to go tell Errol.”
Elza pushed herself up off her stomach and sat up on her knees so that he could see the full front of her body. “It is late, Charlie. Stay with me. You can tell him in the morning.”
He froze in his tracks. Charlie’s hands loosened and he dropped his clothing back on the floor.
“Yeah,” he said, drawing toward her. “I guess it can wait ’til morning.”
She pulled him on top of her and nibbled his neck. When she could tell he couldn’t take any more of this, she whispered into his ear, “Will you kill him for me? Gerard, I mean.”
He looked at her gravely. “I think I’m going to have to.”
She reached down and pulled him in.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Truth?
The Wanderer watched as Kid Hunter pressed a paper bag into the security camera. “Anyone home?” came his voice over the intercom. The bounty hunter was standing outside the front gate. “I’ve got bagels!”
“Look who the cat dragged in,” said Errol, pressing a button to open the gate.
On his way to Rosie, he stopped at a hallway mirror, an antique oval with gilded edges that had been with his family for generations. He had on a fresh, blue plaid shirt and was happy to see some stubble returning to his chin. Errol patted down a cowlick in his dusty brown hair before moving on.
He found the reporter in the kitchen, attempting to find ingredients that could conceivably be turned into breakfast. He knew it was no easy task. He hadn’t lived in the Breck Estate for many months, they hadn’t made a trip to the grocery store, and Errol hadn’t gotten around to letting the help know he’d moved back in. “I reckon you can give up. The Kid’s back, and it looks like he’s brought breakfast.”
Rosa sighed with relief and commenced a new task of closing all the cabinet doors she’d opened during her search. “I did find some coffee at least,” she said, pointing at the percolating filter. “So, there’s that.”
“Mm-hmm,” he said. “Smells real nice.”
They took seats across from each other at the wooden table, the same one where he’d argued with Gerard the previous day. Rosie was back in comfortable clothes — jeans and a green Nike T-shirt — but the way the cloth fell over her breasts still caught Errol’s eye. He took a deep breath and said what he wanted to say. “Rosie, I’m real sorry for last night …”
“We never talked about what happened in Union. You came to save me, and I … I don’t know. You’re a handsome man, Errol, and you’ve got a heart of gold. You’ve become one of my best friends, but … I don’t think it can be any more than that.”
He felt a hard lump forming in the back of his throat, preventing him from making a case for himself.
She continued. “It’s just … you believe in that Lassiter of yours, and well, as hokey as it sounds, I believe in peace. I want to keep fighting for peace. I want to keep writing The New West. Anyway, when you take back Breck Ammo, how’s it going to look if we’re —? And then there’s Helen. She still haunts you, doesn’t she?”
She was right, but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t hurt. “I’ve been thinking about how I almost went out and shot that man last night. For so long I’ve been thinking of my semiautomatic as the bad gun because it’s the one that shot Helen. But last night I nearly shot a man with the Lassiter just because I was jealous.”
He unstrapped his gun belt and placed it on the table. “Maybe there is no good gun, Rosie. Maybe there’s just me.”
She smiled warmly. “You’re a good man, Errol. I’ve always known it. That’s why I’ve been writing about you in my blog — so everyone else can see what I see.”
He took a deep breath. “That reminds me, there’s something else I’ve been thinking about.”
She laughed. “Sounds like you’ve been thinking quite a lot.”
“When this is all over, I want to help you expand The New West.”
She raised her eyebrows. “How do you mean?”
“You know my family owns Our Times, right? Well, I know they fired you, but how would you feel going back to work as the editor-in-chief? You could still write, but you’d also have people to give assignments.”
She appeared speechless at the offer. He couldn’t tell if that was a yes or no, and so he asked her.
“I … I need to think about it.”
He was perplexed. What was there to think about?
*
She found it difficult to explain why she couldn’t just go ahead and accept the offer. It was an amazing offer. There was so much she could do with the budget of a national newspaper. In addition, she would get the chance to reform Our Times and maybe turn it into something respectable, something better for the American readers. She guessed the hurdle was how the newspaper could be run independently if its principle source of funding was America’s gun company. No matter how much editorial control Errol gave her, in the end it would still be Breck Ammunition writing her paychecks.
Errol waved his hand dismissively. “You could write what you want. I’d keep out of your way.”
She frowned. Were good intentions enough? “I don’t know. Just give me a little time?”
He shrugged. “Well, no reason to get too excited anyway. We still have to deal with my stepbrother.”
“Or you could get excited,” suggested Charlie, strutting into the room, “because Kid Hunter is back and he’s got bagels!” The Kid poured a dozen of the savory beauties from the brown bag onto the table, and spread several packets of cream cheese over the table as if they were playing cards.
The sleight of hand failed to keep Rosa from noticing the bruising on Charlie’s cheek. “What happened to you?”
The Kid paused like he was unsure how to answer that.
“I reckon it’s not that hard a question,” prodded Errol.
Eventually, Charlie answered, “I needed to go sort out things with El Tiburón.”
Errol glared. “You went alone?”
It looked like Charlie had taken more than a few hard punches to the face. “El Tiburón did this to you?” Rosa asked.
Charlie explained. “El Tiburón was the one who asked me to kill the Wanderer. I never completed the job, obviously, and I want out of the mercenary life. So I went to see him to, uh, clear the air.”
“And did you?” asked Rosa in disbelief.
“Yup,” he said. “Totes.”
She wasn’t convinced. “Why did it take all night?”
A sneaky grin popped onto the Kid Hunter’s face. “Well, I also kind of met someone.”
Rosa guffawed. “Only in Vegas can you get beat up by a mob boss and score with some bimbo on the same night. Who is she?”
Charlie looked hurt. “She’s not a bimbo. As a matter of fact, through the miracle of coincidence, she gave us a great lead. See, she works for Gerard Breck.”
The revelation sucked all the oxygen out of the room until, in unison, Rosa and Errol exclaimed, “Elza?”
“Who? What? No! Her name is Miranda. She doesn’t work for him anymore — Gerard hit her pretty hard with a glass. He left a scar —”
“On her forehead?” Rosa completed for him.
Kid Hunter shut up.
“And was she thin and pretty? And did she have an accent?”
Charlie cringed. “How do you know all this?”
Rosa exploded, “Because you got screwed by Elza! She’s the bitch who got me fired from Our Times, and then helped Gerard nearly cut off my fingers!”
“But the scar …” Charlie replied shakily.
“Gerard didn’t do that to her,” said Rosa, holding her forehead in exasperation. “I did back in Union. That’s from when she was trying to run away from us, and I tripped her!”
“You?” yelped Kid Hunter. “Oh … shit.”
She took a deep breath. “Did you tell her anything?”
“Uh, well …”
“Charlie!”
“Look, I might have told her our whole plan, but —”
She nearly smacked him. Kid Hunter appeared to anticipate this and held up his hands defensively. “Look, maybe she lied about her name and how she got the scar, but I still really don’t think she’s on Gerard’s side.”
Rosa rolled her eyes and stood up to leave. “Well, my article is ready to go. I better publish immediately. If we’re lucky, it won’t be too late.”
She lingered in the room as Errol, who had been absorbing the exchange with cold fury, suddenly spoke up to berate his partner. “Kid, what do you mean you don’t think she’s working with Gerard? Because of one night of bliss?”
“No, no! Because, because … she told me the truth about Helen.”
Errol paled. “The truth?”
“Man, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but Gerard set you up! That wasn’t no burglar who invaded your house. He was a hit man! Your stepbrother hired him to kill you so he could have the company. If he hadn’t sent him —!”
“Helen might still be alive,” finished Errol. His expression turned to stone and he seemed to pale several shades.
Rosa looked at him with worry. It sounded plausible, even if it had come from Elza.
“Errol …” she said, touching his hand.
But Errol was gone. There was something different about his eyes, something cold as ice, and the reporter knew what he planned to do. There was no doubt now. No matter what happened at the board meeting, the Wanderer was going to kill Gerard Breck.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Riders!
Ben Martin woke up in a canopy bed designed in the colonial style of the first American presidents. He searched the bedside table on the left for a clock. Not finding one there, he checked the other side of the king-size mattress and happened upon a fancy digital tablet with the time: 11:30 a.m. That was a lot later than expected. He had tossed and turned for most of the night, which he reckoned was a combination of sleeping in an unfamiliar place and the aftermath of nearly two days of drunken celebration. Must have finally gotten some real sleep a little after sunrise.
Stepping into the hallway, Martin nearly collided with Elroy Wolfe. He used to be an officer on the Liberty police force and was about ten years Martin’s junior.
“Good morning, Sheriff!” Wolfe greeted brightly. “We’re all up on the roof. Why don’t you grab a beer and join us?”
Martin confessed that was one order he didn’t mind taking from a subordinate. He went downstairs for a couple cans of Bud, then huffed his way up to the roof of the mayor’s mansion. The other six militiamen were stretched out in blue directors’ chairs and white beach recliners. It was a hot, clear day, and they had a glorious panorama view of the town of Liberty surrounded by red mountains.
Martin cracked open one of the Buds and eased himself into one of the empty plastic beds. Maybe he was still a little tired. It felt good to lie back in the sun. He sipped his beer and listened to the others chirp about the militia’s progress toward restoring Liberty to its former glory.
He reckoned he could declare himself mayor now that White was dead. He’d turn the militia into a real police force, using his own taxes to pay for it. There’d be law again, and no one would be allowed to come in and make trouble. Not even the Wanderer!
Martin drained the rest of his beer and tossed it behind him. “We should invite Joe over,” he said to the group. “He’s been stuck at the station with that dumb lawyer since … what’s today again?”
“Friday,” someone answered.
“Friday? Shit, I reckon he’s been there since Wednesday!”
As he laughed about that with the others, Martin realized he needed a piss, but he couldn’t bear the thought of all those stairs. Rather than put himself through all that again, the sheriff stood up and strolled over to the ledge of the roof facing into Liberty. With his back to the militiamen, he unzipped his
fly and arced a sparkling yellow stream onto the lawn two stories below. As he was finishing up, he noticed what looked like a line of ants parading south from the desert and down the big road that led into the town center.
“Oh my God,” whimpered Alyssa Carey from behind him. She was up and staring into the town, too.
Martin didn’t get it. He looked blankly from Carey to the view and back again. She turned to address the rest of the lounging militiamen. “The Red Stripe Gang are here! They’ve … they’ve brought an army!”
Beers splattered onto the floor. Yelling war cries, the men and women of Martin’s Militia raced to the stairs.
*
Between thick bars of steel, Jack watched Joe Lin’s head dip and jerk upright. The situation reminded him of a Looney Tunes cartoon in which Elmer Fudd fell asleep with a big ring of keys around his belt. The imprisoned Bugs Bunny then stretched his arm several feet out of his cage to steal them. Unfortunately for Jack, he didn’t have quite the same reach or flexibility as a cartoon rabbit.
He scratched the stubble that had formed on his face after two days of captivity. Sweat darkened the armpits of his checkered short-sleeve button-down, and there was a definite odor emanating from his feet. But there was nowhere in the jail to shower, nor did he have a change of clothes. He was lucky to have a toilet, but even that wasn’t private. Lin had come and gone a few times, but Ben Martin had never shown up, and Lin was unwilling to release Jack without the sheriff’s permission.
A sharp squeal of static woke the sleeping guard. “Joe! Come in, Joe!”
The static-filled message came from a radio on the desk. Lin bolted toward it and answered, “Ben, is that you?”
Static. Pop! “The Red Stripe Gang is coming! Round up anyone left in town and tell ’em to bring their guns!”
“Roger,” said Lin. But as he dropped the radio, he looked at a loss for what to do.
Jack pressed his head against the bars. “Joe, if the Gang is coming, you’ve got to warn the whole town!”
Lin flashed a worried expression. “The Gang? But that means … I brought them here. It’s my fault! Oh God, now I’ve failed everyone!”
