by Teagan Kade
Max walks over and takes my arm. “Let’s go,” he whispers.
I don’t argue. I’m just as eager to get out of here.
“One week,” Saul calls to our backs.
The guy in the corner, the one Saul referred to as Viktor, doesn’t move, continuing to drag on his cigarette in the darkness. He gives me the heebie-jeebies.
The goon on the other side of the door checks out my ass when I walk past, Max leading us through the crowd below. We come out into the cool, heading around the side of the building to an open street.
I sit down, press my back up against the wall and bury my face in my hands. I’m shaking, in shock.
Max crouches, scanning. “You okay?”
I’m struggling to even out my breathing. Panic’s clamping my throat. I bring my hand up to my chest.
Max places a hand on my shoulder. “Breathe.”
“I’m trying,” I gasp.
“Forget about those guys and concentrate on the task at hand. Focus and we’ll get out of this. Where is this Rick guy?”
I shake my head. “I… don’t know.”
“Not good enough. Give me something, anything. When did you last see him?”
I concentrate, but all I’m seeing in my head is the man in the corner of the office, his beady eyes black as night. “Um, we went to dinner about six weeks ago, this Italian place down by the waterside in Jersey City, Belmonte’s or something. He said he was going to the bathroom, but I saw him go into the kitchen, talk to someone. I don’t know who or what about. We came home and the next morning he was gone, no note, no nothing.”
Max stands, hand against the wall, nodding to himself. “Belmonte’s. Yeah, I know it. The Italians run most of the underground tables in town. That’s good. It’s a start. Anything else?”
“He had a bike, a bobtail Harley with Pamela Anderson airbrushed on the tank, custom. It was his pride and joy.”
Saying it aloud makes it sound even more stupid. You dated a guy with a Baywatch star airbrushed onto his motorcycle. What were you thinking?
I wasn’t. That’s the whole darn problem here.
Max pushes off the wall and extends his hand.
I reach up and take it, surprised at how strong his grip is. He pulls me to my feet like I’m a feather. I can make out his eyes better now, the deep, brandy amber of them, as firm and telling as his touch. I have no doubt there’s pain there—deep and penetrating. “Good,” he says. “Very. Fucking. Good.” He points down the street. “I’ve got to make some calls. Wait in the car.”
“What if I run?”
He locks his eyes on mine. They’re feline, feral. “You won’t if you want to stay alive. I’m your only hope now.”
I nod, defeated, and head down to the Lincoln.
The door’s unlocked, though I imagine it would be unwise to jack cars from outside a crime lord’s hideout, because that’s surely what this Saul guy is. I’m in deep, way too deep. I should run, but then what? Where am I going to go? Drag Noel into this mess? She’s probably speaking to the cops already, sorting this out.
Yet something deeper still is telling me to stick with Max. He could have handed me over up there, but he didn’t. He wants to make this right, which means in some, strange, twisted way he’s looking out for me, and try as I might I am pulled to him. There’s something about him that wants me to draw closer, an animal magnetism that’s got the spidey sense between my legs running on overdrive.
He works for a crime lord, Dawn. That is not the kind of guy you want to get involved with.
It doesn’t seem like I have a choice.
I sit in the passenger seat and sigh, the tight ball in my chest refusing to unravel.
Fifteen minutes pass. The glovebox begs to be opened.
Don’t do it.
I check down the street, the rear-view. There’s no sign of Max.
I turn and look at the rear seat. It’s full of clothes and boxes. He probably lives in this car.
I come back to the glovebox. Better the enemy you know, right?
Quietly as I can, I open the glovebox and fish inside. There are a bunch of papers in there, mugshots of people, random police files. It’s not a casting call for Jeopardy, that’s for sure.
There’s an additional photo tucked underneath. It’s a black-and-white glossy of Max in a boxing ring, his gloved hands held high, a belt between them. Half of his face is bloody, one eye closed over completely, but he looks happy.
I’ve never understood boxing. It seems like nothing more than an excuse for grown men to beat each other senseless. I’m surprised such an arcane sport still exists.
I dig deeper into the glovebox, my hands falling on something cool and hard. What do we have here?
I take out the object and stiffen.
It’s a gun, a pistol to be precise.
I’ve never held a gun before. It feels alien in my hands, shaking there between them. I bring my other hand up to keep it steady, holding it before me.
Without thinking, I pull the hammer back, the click that follows is louder than I expect.
I hold the gun and thoughts stream into my head, thoughts of escape.
You think you’re going to shoot your way out this? You’re not Clint Eastwood, Dawn.
I’m about to un-cock the hammer when there’s a tap on the window.
Without thinking, I turn, squeezing the trigger involuntarily.
The figure there shifts away just in time, the window shattering. The pistol kicks me back into the seat, my ears ringing.
A hand reaches in and pulls the gun away, the door opening and glass spilling to the ground. “What the hell are you trying to do?” Max shouts. “Kill me? Didn’t you fucking hear me before?” He’s angry and I don’t blame him.
He pulls me out, holding me tight with one hand, the pistol in the other. “If you think there is a way out of this, you are wrong. I am your way out. Understand? Without me, you are dead. D-E-A-D, and I’m not talking about being put in the ground, I’m talking about being forced to work in a whorehouse, fucking guys 24/7, drugged out of your mind, fucked literally to death over months, maybe years. Is that what you want?” He shakes me for emphasis. “Do you fucking understand me?!”
“I’m sorry,” I plead. “I didn’t know it was—”
“Loaded?” he laughs. “Why the fuck wouldn’t it be? Do you know who I work for?”
He lets go of me, hands on his head as he paces out into the street. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
“I’m sorry.”
He exhales and turns back, placing the pistol down the back of his pants. “We’ve got to trust each other, okay? That is the only way this is going to work. It’s asking a lot, I know, but if we don’t, we’re fucked.”
I nod, wrapping my arms around myself. “Okay.”
He leans against the car beside me, temper simmering. “Alright then. The good news is I’ve got a lead on your boy.”
“A lead?”
“The Italians came through. It seems Saul’s not the only one Rick the Dick owes money to.”
That comes as no surprise. “Why did you stand up for me?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Why didn’t you just hand me over?”
Max looks down at the ground, shaking his head, hands on his hips. “Honestly? I don’t know. I guess I just don’t like to see innocent people hurt, and you… you’re…” but he can’t finish it.
“Isn’t that your entire job description? Hurting people?”
His lambent gaze is electrifying. “Not like you. Not…” he trails off. “We should get going. We’ve got a bit of a drive.”
“Can I at least let my friend know I’m okay?”
He shakes his head. “No. I’m sorry. It’s better this way.”
My throat’s tight. “If you’re expecting me to… you know…”
He faces me in full. “Are you fucking serious? You think I’m doing all this to what? Get laid?”
He shakes his head. “Fucking hell. There are easier ways. It�
��s not that you’re not attractive. I mean, you’re fucking amazing… but… Forget it. We should go.”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
The funny thing is, I do want to kiss him, a small gesture to say thanks, a peck on the cheek, but I can’t bring myself to do it, to approach him or make the first move. You don’t step closer to a fire when you’re already being burnt.
He holds the passenger door of the Lincoln open, taking out the pistol and swiping the rest of the glass out of the window.
“To answer your question,” he says, standing there with the pistol in hand. “Nowhere nice”.
*
Max drives, the road as black as the moonless sky above. “It turns out your beloved Rick took off as soon as he got the money from Saul. From what I can gather, he never intended to pay it back, the motherfucker, knowing full well you’d be left to deal with it.”
I shift in the seat. “Where is he now?”
“He was last seen at an underground betting agency putting down some big numbers, enough to get him noticed by the wrong people.”
“Where is it, this ‘agency’?”
“Shithole Central, and by that I mean Newark. The Italians are one thing, but the Ukes run this establishment, which is why you are going to stay in the car and let me handle this. The last thing I need is more blood on my hands.”
I’m not about to argue. “You think they’ll tell us anything, these, uh, Ukes?”
“Ukrainians,” he fills. “They’re scary fucking characters, like our friend Viktor back there.”
I think back to those soulless eyes, the dread returning. “Are you going to kill me, once this is all over?”
He laughs. “Kill you? No. That’s not my MO.”
I pick at a broken thread in the seat’s leather. “What is your MO?”
“Get in, get the job done, get out—simple.”
“It doesn’t sound like anything about your job is simple.”
He laughs again. “Ain’t that the truth.”
Twenty minutes later we arrive in Newark. This is about as far from the glamor and prestige of the city as you can get. Housing projects blot the horizon like giant Lego blocks. Kids skulk around on the streets, on corner fronts, sneering and spitting as we drive by. The sound of sirens is ever-present. It’s hard to believe we’re only an half an hour from Manhattan.
It appears even more sinister under the cover of darkness, only the odd street light providing shape to the shadow.
The agency in question is actually a shop that sits in a row right by the train tracks, each store more decrepit and lackluster than the last. There are, however, people about, which means something must be drawing them here.
Max parks on the opposite side of the street and points at a non-descript butcher’s shop with a giant ‘Buy in Bulk!’ slogan on the window. The lights are on inside. No regular butcher I know of is open this late.
“The betting happens out back,” says Max. “But the only way in and out is through the store. It takes big balls to do a runner when you have to pass by three big Ukrainians with knives on the way out, you see.”
I don’t ‘see’ at all. This world is as foreign to me as Mars.
Max opens the door and steps out, swooping down to speak into the cabin. “Stay here, don’t move, and don’t speak to anyone. I’ll be out soon.”
I tilt my head towards the glovebox. “Don’t you want your gun?”
He shakes his head. “Like I said, simple is my MO, and you never get simple when you wave a gun around. You get dead.”
I nod in understanding.
The door closes. I watch him making his way across the street. He’s tall and extremely well built—definitely the body of a boxer. You could use those shoulders for bookshelves they’re so solid, and, as foolish as it is to be having such thoughts right now, his ass tucked tightly away in those jeans is what dreams are made of.
He kidnapped you and you’re checking out his ass?
“Got any change?”
I jolt in my seat, turning to find a homeless man at the passenger window. He’s smiling even though he has no teeth to show for it.
I shake my head, can’t even get the word ‘no’ out I’m so shaken.
I’d wind the window up if there was one.
The man mumbles something and moves on, sitting down by the fence dividing the road from the train line, bringing a bagged bottle to his mouth.
Worst case, I go for the gun.
Yeah, like you could pull the trigger…
I already have, haven’t I?
By accident. You’re lucky you didn’t blow his brains out.
But what do they say? People do exceptional things in extraordinary circumstances, right?
Whatever you say, Lara Croft.
I watch the front of the butcher’s, turning every so often to check on the man by the fence, scan the side mirrors for anyone else deciding to scare me into an early grave.
The first sign of trouble is shouting. I can hear it, voices raised, but I can’t see anything in the shop.
Crap.
There’s a gunshot, the front of the shop window shatters, a torrent of glass spilling to the pavement.
Three people come bursting out of the shop onto the sidewalk.
One of them is Max.
He’s wrestling with a large man in a butcher’s apron, trying to wrangle a shotgun off him.
People scatter as the third man, also in a butcher’s apron, skips around Max and the other butcher. I notice he has a large machete in his hand.
I sit up straight, my heart beating hard. Crappity crap crap.
My flight response kicks in. I’m about to swing into the driver’s seat and take off. He did leave the keys in the ignition, but I can’t do it. I can’t leave him here.
I keep my eyes trained on Max. He brings his elbow down onto the man’s arm and pulls the shotgun away from him, holding it high and firing twice into the sky before tossing the gun onto the road and raising his fists.
Maybe you don’t need to.
The butcher he took the gun from curses and begins to circle him, his right arm hanging loosely. The other lifts his machete higher, circling from the opposite side.
The butchers attack together.
Max ducks the first swing of the machete, spinning and driving his fist into the man’s stomach. The man buckles in two, but doesn’t drop the knife, slashing it downwards and just catching Max’s shoulder.
Max spins around, lightning fast, and takes the man’s wrist, holding him in position while he delivers a series of brutal body blows to the man’s chest, finishing with an uppercut that lifts the man off his feet, the machete clattering to the ground.
The other butcher cries out and lunges for the knife, but he’s too slow, Max steps on it and blocks his path, swinging down into his jaw with a hard right. I hear the sick crunch of it from the other side of the road, the butcher turning floppy and collapsing to the ground.
Max reaches for his shoulder, the back of his t-shirt blooming red. He’s yelling something, running for the car, but I can’t quite make it out.
“What?” I call, lifting my shoulders.
“Down!” he screams.
That I hear.
I see the homeless man stand from the fence and pull out a revolver.
I duck as the windscreen explodes, fragments of glass raining over my head. The driver door opens and Max dives in, turning the ignition and hitting the accelerator with his hand, the car burning off before he’s pulled himself fully inside.
There’s another shot. I hear more bullets slam into the trunk. Max steers, now upright, groaning, waiting until we’re down the street before seating himself properly and hitting the accelerator in full, wrangling the car down the road while he wipes glass from the dash.
I get up from the floorboard carefully, shaking off what only moments ago was the windshield. “I thought that was a homeless guy.”
“He was a lookout dressed like a bum. F
uck knows how I missed him.”
Max’s shirt is soaked in blood around the shoulder. “Jesus, are you okay?”
He glances at it. “It’s nothing.”
I use my dress to clean the seat of glass before sitting down, the engine revving hard. “I take it they weren’t too happy to see you?”
Max looks across at me, still breathing hard, his tawny eyes sharp. “They were not.”
“How you put them down… That was incredible.”
He shrugs. “I should have pumped the second round into that prick’s chest, cleared the world of one more lowlife.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I don’t need that kind of shit storm, and neither does Saul. He’ll be pissed about this as it is. There are lines you do not cross in the crime world.”
“And let me guess, you just crossed one?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you find anything out about Rick?”
Max makes a turn and eases off the speed. “I found the owner in the bathroom down back. He wasn’t going to talk, but a meat hook pressed up against his beanbags soon changed his mind.”
“He told you where Rick is?” I ask, hopeful.
“Not quite. He said last he heard Rick had gone across to Vegas, started working for one of the big dogs over there—the biggest, actually. He was about to spill more, until one of his butchers decided to come in for a piss… and that’s when things got messy.
“So we’re going to Vegas?”
“First flight out tomorrow. But first, I need rest… and a drink. You hungry?”
I realize the last thing I ate was a cinnamon roll for lunch. “I could eat.”
Max nods. “I know a place.”
CHAPTER FIVE
MAX
There’s a drop of mustard on her lower lip. I’m dying to swipe it off, to touch her. She’s so god damn beautiful. It’s a crying fucking shame we couldn’t have met under better circumstances.
She takes another bite of the hot dog, looking out the window of the railway car-turned-diner at the urban sprawl beyond. “You used to live out here, in the projects?”
I put my dog down and point to a building in the distance. “Right there, third floor.” I shift my finger to the left. “The gym I used to train at was over there.”
