Birds of Prey

by Crouch, Blake

  Alex felt mad enough to spit in his face. “Laws? You’re getting married because you’re afraid of breaking some goddamn laws? What we have, Charles, is a lot bigger than any law. We have something special…”

  “I know,” Charles said, looking grim. “And I don’t want that to end. But I also don’t want to get caught.”

  “So instead, we’re going to do it in your house, with your wife home?”

  “She’s an airhead. She won’t ever suspect a thing.”

  Alex searched her brother’s dark, pitiless eyes. She wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that things could go on just like they had been.

  But deep down she knew the world wasn’t suited for people like them. They were brother and sister, and the things they did together not only broke the law, but also caused knee-jerk revulsion in the majority of the population.

  That shouldn’t matter though. Alex knew, fucking knew, she and Charles were above the rest of the world. Better than they were. Stronger. Superior in every way.

  And now he wanted to hide that superiority in a cloak of normalcy.

  “What’s next?” she asked, bitterly. “You going to knock the bitch up?”

  “Can we discuss this later? Let’s just go downstairs and—”

  “You think I’m just going to forget this and go downstairs with you? Are you crazy?”

  “Why not? Things don’t have to change, Alex. Maybe we won’t be able to do this as much, but we won’t ever have to stop.”

  Alex shook her head. “You’re an asshole.”

  “Come on.” He reached out, stroking her arm. “We’ve got the rest of the night. Let’s have some fun, forget all of this.”

  Alex pulled away, refusing to cry. “I’m leaving. You can go downstairs by yourself. Have fun with your whore.”

  Then she got the hell out of there.

  -2—

  A steel crossbeam, flaking brown paint.

  Stained PVC pipes.

  White and green wires hanging on nails.

  What she sees.

  Moni blinks, yawns, tries to turn onto her side.

  Can’t.

  The memory comes, jolting.

  Rainy, after midnight, huddling under an overpass. Trying to keep warm in hot pants and a halter top. Rent money overdue. Not a single john in sight.

  When the first car stopped, Moni would have tricked for free just to get inside and warm up.

  Didn’t have to, though. The guy flashed a big roll of twenties. Talked smooth, educated. Smiled a lot.

  But there was something wrong with his eyes. Something dead.

  Freak eyes.

  Moni didn’t do freaks. She’d made the mistake once, got hurt bad. Freaks weren’t out for sex. They were out for pain. And Moni, bad as she needed money, wasn’t going to take a beating for it.

  She reached around, felt for the door handle to get out.

  No handle.

  Mace in her tiny purse, buried in condoms. She reached for it, but the needle found her arm and then everything went blurry.

  And now…

  Moni blinks, tries to clear her head. The floor under her is cold. Concrete.

  She’s in a basement. Staring up at the unfinished ceiling.

  Moni tries to sit up, but her arms don’t move. They’re bound with twine, bound to steel rods set into the floor. She raises her head, sees her feet are also tied, legs apart.

  Her clothes are gone.

  Moni feels a scream building inside her, forces it back down. Forces herself to think.

  She takes in her surroundings. It’s bright, brighter than a basement should be. Two big lights on stands point down at her.

  Between them is a tripod. A camcorder.

  Next to the tripod, a table. Moni can see several knives on top. A hammer. A drill. A blowtorch. A cleaver.

  The cleaver is caked with little brown bits, and something else.

  Hair. Long, pink hair.

  Moni screams.

  Charlene has long pink hair. Charlene, who’s been missing for a week.

  Street talk was she’d gone straight, quit the life.

  Street talk was wrong.

  Moni screams until her lungs burn. Until her throat is raw. She twists and pulls and yanks, crying to get free, panic overriding the pain of the twine rubbing her wrists raw.

  The twine doesn’t budge.

  Moni leans to the right, stretching her neck, trying to reach the twine with her teeth.

  Not even close. But as she tries, she notices the stains on the floor beneath her. Sticky brown stains that smell like meat gone bad.

  Charlene’s blood.

  Moni’s breath catches. Her gaze drifts to the table again, even though she doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to see what this freak is going to use on her.

  “I’m dead,” she thinks. “And it’s gonna be bad.”

  Moni doesn’t like herself. Hasn’t for a while. It’s tough to find self-respect when one does the things she does for money. But even though she ruined her life with drugs, even though she hates the twenty-dollar-a-pop whore she’s become, Moni doesn’t want to die.

  Not yet.

  And not like this.

  Moni closes her eyes. She breathes in. Breathes out. Wills her muscles to relax.

  “I hope you didn’t pass out.”

  Every muscle in Moni’s body contracts in shock. The freak is looking down at her, smiling.

  He’d been standing right behind Moni the whole time. Out of her line of sight.

  “Please let me go.”

  His laugh is an evil thing. She knows, looking at his eyes, he won’t cut her free until her heart has stopped.

  “Keep begging. I like it. I like the begging almost as much as I like the screaming.”

  He walks around her, over to the table. Takes his time fondling his tools.

  “What should we start with? I’ll let you pick.”

  Moni doesn’t answer. She thinks back to when she was a child, before all of the bad stuff in her life happened, before hope was just another four-letter word. She remembers the little girl she used to be, bright and full of energy, wanting to grow up and be a lawyer like all of those fancy-dressed women on TV.

  “If I get through this,” Moni promises God, “I’ll quit the street and go back to school. I swear.”

  “Are you praying?” The freak grins. He’s got the blowtorch in his hand. “God doesn’t answer prayers here.”

  He fiddles with the camcorder, then kneels between her open legs. The torch ignites with the strike of a match. It’s the shape of a small fire extinguisher. The blue flame shooting from the nozzle hisses like a leaky tire.

  “I won’t lie to you. This is going to hurt. A lot. But it smells delicious. Just like cooking bacon.”

  Moni wonders how she can possibly brace herself for the oncoming pain, and realizes that she can’t. There’s nothing she can do. All of the mistakes, all of the bad choices, have led up to this sick final moment in her life, being burned alive in some psycho’s basement.

  She clenches her teeth, squeezes her eyes shut.

  A bell chimes.

  “Dammit.”

  The freak pauses, the flame a foot away from her thighs.

  The bell chimes again. A doorbell, coming from upstairs.

  Moni begins to cry out, but he guesses her intent, bringing his fist down hard onto her face.

  Moni sees blurry motes, tastes blood. A moment later he’s shoving something in her mouth. Her halter top, wedging it in so far it sticks to the back of her throat.

  “Be right back, bitch. The FedEx guy is bringing me something for you.”

  The freak walks off, up the stairs, out of sight.

  Moni tries to scream, choking on the cloth. She shakes and pulls and bucks but there’s no release from the twine and the gag won’t come out and any second he’ll be coming back down the stairs to use that awful blowtorch…

  The blowtorch.

  Moni stops struggling. Listens for
the hissing sound.

  It’s behind her.

  She twists, cranes her neck around, sees the torch sitting on the floor only a few inches from her head.

  It’s still on.

  Moni scoots her body toward it. Strains against the ropes. Stretches her limbs to the limit.

  The top of her head touches the steel canister.

  Moni’s unsure of how much time she has, unsure if this will work, knowing she has less than a one-in-a-zillion chance but she has to try something and maybe dear god just maybe this will work.

  She cocks her head back and snaps it against the blowtorch. The torch teeters, falls onto its side, and begins a slow, agonizing roll over to her right hand.

  “Please,” Moni begs the universe. “Please.”

  The torch rolls close—too close—the flame brushing Moni’s arm and the horrible heat singeing hair and burning skin.

  Moni screams into her gag, jerks her elbow, tries to force the searing flame closer to the rope.

  The pain blinds her, takes her to a place beyond sensation, where her only thought, her only goal, is to make it stop make it stop MAKE IT STOP!

  Her arm is suddenly loose.

  Moni grabs the blowtorch, ignoring the burning twine that’s still wrapped tightly around her wrist. She points the flame at her left hand, severs the rope. Then her feet.

  She’s free!

  No time to dress. No time to hide. Up the stairs, two at a time, ready to dive out of a window naked and screaming and—

  “What the hell?”

  The freak is at the top of the stairs, pulling a wicked-looking hunting knife out of a cardboard box. He notices Moni and confusion registers on his face.

  It quickly morphs into rage.

  Moni doesn’t hesitate, bringing the blowtorch around, swinging it like a club, connecting hard with the side of the freak’s head, and then he’s falling forward, past her, arms pinwheeling as he dives face-first into the stairs.

  Moni continues to run, up into the house, looking left and right, finding the front door, reaching for the knob…

  And pauses.

  The freak took a hard fall, but he might still be alive.

  There will be other girls. Other girls in his basement.

  Girls like Charlene.

  Cops don’t help whores. Cops don’t care.

  But Moni does.

  Next to the front door is the living room. A couch. Curtains. A throw rug.

  Moni picks up the rug, wraps it around her body. Using the torch, she sets the couch ablaze, the curtains on fire, before throwing it onto the floor and running out into the street.

  It’s early morning. The sidewalk is cold under her bare feet. She’s shaken, and her burned arm throbs, but she feels lighter than air.

  A car stops.

  A john, cruising. Rolls down the window and asks if she’s for sale.

  “Not anymore,” Moni says.

  She walks away, not looking back.

  An Unkindness of Ravens

  Gary, Indiana, 2003

  Javier Estrada

  Javier had been transporting a package west out of Pennsylvania en route to meet his drop-off in Boise—a fat-assed trucker named Jonathan—when he started seeing the billboard advertisements.

  The early ones, those just over the Indiana state line, were vague.

  GOT BABGAKS?

  By Richmond, the billboards were advising him to….

  GET BABGAKS!

  …and he was becoming angry—some bullshit American marketing scheme. All this fucking country did was try to sell you shit.

  But by the time he reached the west side of Greenfield, the acronym had revealed itself, literally:

  BABGAKS = BULLETS AND BABES GUN AND KNIFE SHOW

  Jav’s anger melted, just a tad.

  A gun show.

  Hmmm.

  In theory, he hated them. Or rather, he hated the people who attended them. Small-dicked redneck pieces of shit who had no concept of the beauty and function of a perfectly-constructed weapon. Crackers who didn’t have a drop of the inner-steel it took to use them for their true purpose.

  It wasn’t shooting mangy-looking deer, and it wasn’t shooting targets at the range.

  But despite this, he could feel himself coming to the gradual realization that he kind of wanted to go. The billboards said the show was being held at the Indianapolis Merchandise Mart, which was right off I-70, not even ten miles ahead. He’d driven all night out of Pittsburgh, and he was already well-ahead of schedule. Even better, since his Escalade was in the shop for a new sound system install, he’d rented a brand new 2003 Infiniti G35 sedan for this job.

  Which had a trunk.

  Which was where his cargo currently slept in a blissful black tar dream. He could simply redose her, hit the gun show for several hours, and see if there was anything special that caught his eye.

  Porter

  Leo Porter, of Porter’s Guns and Ammo, surveyed the customers milling about in his eponymous shop and frowned. He was busy, but not busy enough. Unless he started selling some big ticket merchandise, and plenty of it, he was never going to be able to repay the loan.

  The loan, eleven thousand bucks, had been given to him by Sal Dovolanni, a Chicago wiseguy who wanted the principal, plus an outrageous thirty percent interest, by noon tomorrow. Porter had taken the loan to bid on hosting the annual Bullets and Babes Gun and Knife Show. The BABGAKS traveled around the country, and Sal had done well as a vendor during the past years. But he’d been told the big money was in sponsoring the event. If Sal did that, the vendors would pay him, and he’d be able to offer his entire inventory for sale, rather than just the limited amount of firearms he could cart from state to state.

  So he’d taken the loan, convinced that he’d make the money back and plenty more besides. And actually, he’d more than doubled the loan. But he’d forgotten something extremely important.

  The majority of his sales were by credit card. Porter wouldn’t see that money until next week, when it was direct-deposited into his bank account.

  Dovolanni wanted cash. Wanted it right fucking now. And Porter only had 5k in the safe, maybe another few hundred in the register.

  He’d realized his mistake that morning, but a frantic call to Dovolanni for more time had been met with derision. Sure, Porter could be late. But he’d get two broken legs just the same.

  So earlier that day, Porter began offering drastic discounts for cash. In some cases, he was actually losing money by selling below cost. But he liked his legs as they were, functional and unbroken. Years ago, he’d dislocated a finger. That had been agonizing. He couldn’t imagine the pain of a larger bone being broken. If it came down to that, he’d seriously consider eating a bullet first. Porter knew plenty of guys who’d been shot. Supposedly, it didn’t hurt that much.

  “How much is this box of 7.62 shells?” The question came from a guy in fatigues with SWANSON stenciled on his breast pocket. Two other matching wannabes named MUNCHEL and PESSOLANO flanked him. Porter knew they were wannabes because they called the ammo shells instead of their proper name, cartridges. He would have bet all the cash in the safe that none of them had a shred of military experience.

  “Price is on the box, like all the other cartridges you asked about,” Porter said. These guys had been in his shop for over an hour and hadn’t bought a single thing.

  “Right,” said Swanson, “but you said there’s a twenty percent discount for cash.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So how much?”

  Porter fought not to shake his head, and instead explained, with infinite patience, as if speaking to a brain-damaged child, how to calculate twenty percent off.

  The moron put the ammo box back anyway.

  Porter turned away and sighed, wondering if he should run for the border now, or at least wait until closing time.

  He decided to ride it out. Occasionally, miracles happened.

  Maybe he’d stumble into one today.

&nb
sp; Jack

  Cops and guns went together like cops and donuts. While I’ve never been partial to donuts, except for an occasional Boston Crème, I did respect and appreciate guns.

  Last year, the Bullets and Babes Gun and Knife Show had been in Chicago, and I’d attended with my partner, Herb Benedict, for the express purpose of buying a semi-automatic.

  My carry gun, a .38 Colt Detective Special, held six cartridges and weighed twenty-one ounces. It was no longer being produced, and I was becoming the butt of ageism jokes around the station. The latest was a Photoshopped pic of me wielding a wooden club with the caption: “Lt. Daniels Finally Upgrades Her Weapon.”

  I liked revolvers, because they never jammed—one of my first cases almost ended in my death because I’d been relying on a semi-auto. But last year I’d been tempted by a Heckler & Koch P2000, which weighed the same as my Colt, and held a clip of ten .357 Sig rounds. I liked how it fired, how it felt, how it didn’t jam even though I put two hundred rounds through it on the practice range, and I’d been very close to sealing the deal when Herb was overtaken with a particularly terrible bout of food poisoning, publicly erupting at both ends. Which, coincidentally enough, came from eating donuts. I took him to the ER, intending to return to the show, but didn’t have the chance. And while Illinois had its fair share of gun shops where I could order an HK P2000, real life had gotten in the way and I never got around to it.

  But my Captain had forced me to take a day off, and so I drove out to Indiana for this year’s BABGAKS, with the intent to pick one up. It didn’t hurt that the gun dealer from last year was easy to look at. Though I was currently living with a guy, things had been going poorly, so it didn’t hurt to keep my options open. My boyfriend was the reason for my recent tendency to put in more hours at work. Better to stay at the Job than try to deal with our growing dissatisfaction with one another.

  The show took place under a gigantic tent, in a parking lot adjacent to Porter’s Guns and Ammo. Half of it was apportioned to the vendors, the other half to speakers for various demonstrations. Even though it was cold outside, the body heat generated by the number of people inside provided so much efficient heating, I regretted not leaving my Donna Karan jacket in my car.

  The crowd was 90% men, most of them carrying. You’d think there’d be strict regulations about bringing in ammo for fear of a disagreement that ended in a shooting, but in fact the opposite seemed to be true. When everyone was armed, people tended to stay on their best behavior.