“Ukraine.” Her arms were across her chest, and her face was free from emotion. I made a note not to ever play poker with her.
“You want these?” I pulled a pair of chinos and a tee shirt from my duffle. She reached for them but I yanked them back. “No, answers first, then clothes.”
Setting her jaw, she turned and started to pull the dresser from blocking the door. She was clearly willing to walk out into the streets of Ensenada dressed only in a towel rather than be pushed into answering my question.
“Fuck it.” I tossed her the pants and shirt. Without a thank you or even a grunt of gratitude, she slipped into the bathroom and got dressed. Pulling a web belt off her blood stained pants, she cinched up my huge chinos and dropped the razor into her pocket.
“Any chance we can talk like civilized people, without one of us getting cut to shreds?” I asked with a loose smile.
She leaned against the dresser, keeping a good distance between us.
“If I’m such a dirt bag, why am I risking my life to help some little Russian girl I never met?”
“People lie all the time.”
“They sure do. Time to roll the dice and hope I don’t come up snake eyes, or walk out the door.”
She dug a pack of Mexican smokes out of her coat. Striking a kitchen match, she inhaled a lung full of nasty smelling tobacco. Letting the blue gray smoke roll out over her thin lips, she spoke so softly I had to strain to hear her words, “If you betray me. I will kill you.”
“Sounds fair. You going to fill me in on what you’re doing down here?”
“No.”
“Right. Do you have a name?”
“Mikayla.” That was it, no last name. After a few more lame tries, I stopped asking questions that she wouldn’t answer.
I was getting my .45 out of the Scout’s hidden compartment when Peter joined us. His color was back to pink, and he looked more confident. “You’re not coming on this run,” I told him.
“Why, because I freaked when a man got his throat slit on top of me?”
“You weren’t in Afghanistan or Haiti. Are you even a reporter?” I asked. Mikayla watched Peter suspiciously over the hood of the truck.
“You want to see my press credentials? Is this some macho testosterone power play, big man Moses gets to judge who is man enough to go on his little death trip?”
“I don’t roll with liars, or wannabe tough guy cherries. Seen ‘em get too many guys killed.”
“Screw you. Ok, I never was in those places, I lied, big fucking deal. You take me with you and I’ll be fair witness to what goes down. If this shit doesn’t get reported in the States, it will keep going, spreading like a malignant tumor. You shut them down, they’ll open three more safe houses before you cross the border. Am I using you to further my career? Yes, absolutely. But you can use me to put an end to this sleazy deal.”
I was about to tell him to fuck off when Mikayla spoke up, “He comes with us.” I wanted to ask her who made her captain of this party ship, but I realized she was right. What good was saving Nika if ten more took her place? The newspapers might also be our only hope if this shit got wicked back in LA. I hadn’t a clue why the feds were eyeballing me, but I knew the one thing ol’ Unkie Sam was afraid of was bad press.
CHAPTER 13
THE STREETS WERE JAMMED WITH LATE night party drunk tourists. A toasted little blonde number stumbled out into traffic as we rolled past Papas and Beer, her shirt had come untied in the front and she was flashing more than a little bra.
“Jesus Christ, Judy, maintain!” a boy in Dockers and a polo shirt yelled as he jerked her back, “We are in Mexico, Judy! Maintain!”
The boy’s fear of the foreign made me smile. Back in wonderful LA, we had drive-bys, home invasions and a murder rate that might freak residents of Ensenada. All this preppy boy could see was brown skin and Spanish switchblades. What the fuck, he probably lived in Brentwood and had every reason to fear the unknown.
Breaking free of the traffic jam, we pulled onto Highway 1 and headed out of town. Peter was boldly staring at Mikayla. From the white crust faintly dusting the rim of his nostrils, I suspected his courage was supported by the Bolivian troops marching through his veins.
“You’re the tarot killer, aren’t you?”
Mikayla looked at him, her icy blue eyes bore through his forehead to focus on a spot a hundred yards past the back of his skull.
“Is it true you took out pimps from Tel Aviv to Mexico City to Cancun? Confirm? Deny? What?” The twitchy little fucker was on a coke-fueled roll. “It’s her, right?”
“Keep me the fuck out of this. Two hours ago I thought she was a male psycho killer, now I just think she’s a psycho killer.”
“I know it’s you, I heard you’re called Madre Muerte. Oh, it’s you alright. One story has you coming out of Odessa, it’s all very shadowy, covert, vague rumor mill, some say that the Tel Aviv brothel fire was your doing, any comment? Come on, give me something, anything. Rumor has it, you stood in the street gunning down the pimps and their boys as they ran out of the burning building. What do you say about that?”
“I hate guns,” she said, turning to look out the window.
“I like her, Moses, a sweet mix of psychotic ice queen, and bull-dyke axe murderer.”
“I don’t think she cares two shakes of an ant’s ass whether you like her or not.” Her silence told me I was correct. Ten minutes out of town, we saw signs for Tecate and a small dirt road marker, Calle Ruiz.
A red brown rooster tail of dust spewed from the Scout’s rear tires. Bouncing up and over a small rise, the lights of a lone hacienda glowed from a hilltop ahead of us. No other lights showed in the small valley or up on the hill. I killed the headlights and drove by sheer feel, while my eyes adjusted.
“Are you completely nuts?” Peter asked.
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“Turn on the lights before you get us killed.”
“You afraid to die, Pete?” We bounced over a deep furrow, Peter let out a high girlish squeak. “You want them to see us coming, have time to get ready, maybe lay out a cheese ball, some punch?”
“It won’t help them, even if they do.” Mikayla was completely sure of herself. She was a zealot on a mission from a very angry god.
Near the foot of the mountain, an iron gate blocked the road. I pulled the Scout into a small gully and set the emergency brake. “We’ll hoof it from here.” I gave Peter my .38 and strict instructions to stay in the truck. I said if he heard gunfire he was to crash the gate, roar up the hill and get us the fuck out of there.
“Screw that, Moses, you said I’d have full access to the story, I want to be where the action is.” Bless his coke-brave heart, I thought not for the last time that I should put one between his eyes and tell god he died.
“Dead men may win a Pulitzer, but they don’t have much fun at the awards dinner.” His face fell as my words hit him. His inner pussy was battling it out with his chemical bravado. The pussy won. It always does. His eyes darted into the darkness surrounding us.
“You think they’d actually kill me?” His eyes darted into the darkness surrounding us.
“Without hesitation.” Slinging the Mini-14 over my shoulder, I slipped extra clips into my pocket and started up the hill with Mikayla. I heard the truck doors locking behind me. Peter, the poor son of a bitch, thought a locked car door would save him if this deal got wet. Locks only keep honest men out, and I had a feeling whoever was waiting for us up the hill, they were anything but honest.
Xlmen’s boots made close to zero noise as he stepped out of his SUV. He had seen the truck roll up the canyon. Even with binoculars, he hadn’t been able to spot its inhabitants, but driving with headlights off was a dead giveaway that it wasn’t coming for any good reason. From where the truck had disappeared, he plotted a trajectory up the hill. Moving quickly down an animal track, he was careful not to make a sound.
Peter watched Moses and the girl disappear into the scrub, he clutched the .38
in his sweat drenched hand. Was any story worth this? Had he weaseled his way in over his head? A turn of the key and he could be headed back home. Screw McGuire and his psycho dyke girlfriend, the Russians would most likely waste them. On the other hand, if they survived and he rabbited on them, they would kill him. Could they find him? They had found the Russians. How hard would he be to track down?
Opening a small folded envelope, Peter shook a short fat line out. Rolling up a twenty, he snorted. Rubbing the left over powder onto his gums, he felt the reassuring rush. Fuck the Russians, he could handle whatever those Slavic bastards sent his way.
I motioned for Mikayla to follow me as I crept in a circle around the hacienda. It sat on the flattened off top of a small hill, it looked to have been built back in the days when Spain ruled this patch of dirt. Deep windows were cut into the thick adobe and covered with ornate ironwork bars. No guards with guns peered out the windows, apparently they figured a remote location was all the safety they needed. Or perhaps we had killed the lion’s share of their men down in Ensenada. The only point of entry was a ten-foot wooden gate that was bolted from the inside.
“Time to divide our eggs,” I whispered. “I’m going over the roof. If I don’t get nailed I’ll open the gate.”
“And if you get nailed?”
“Then I’m counting on you to avenge me.”
Using the ironwork over a dark window I climbed up onto the red tile roof. The pitch was close to flat, but every step creaked and the old tiles felt ready to crack and give away my position. From the rooms below my feet, I could hear the muffled mumble of conversation; somewhere a radio was playing the dull thump of dance club music. Crawling on hands and knees, I made it to the roof over the front gate; below, an open courtyard held several cars and a white van. Slipping over the edge I was able to lower myself onto the van’s roof. I paused, crouching for a long moment, listening for any sign of alarm. The music thumped on and a male voice crooned along with it.
Sliding off the van, I dropped softly to the dirt. A deep growl rumbled behind me. Twisting at the sound, I saw a massive blur of brown fur, muscles and teeth leaping out of the shadows. The pit beast leapt straight at my throat, jerking back, I escaped death by less than an inch. Stumbling with the force of the flying dog, I latched onto his neck as I fell to the ground. The powerful jaws snapped inches from my face. It took all my strength to hold him off. The steaming scent of rotten flesh from his breath filled my lungs.
Curling my boot up into his belly, I kicked up. The beast flew up and away. It landed ten feet from me, winded, then it was up and charging me again. I pulled my buck knife from my boot, snapping it open as the creature leapt. His eyes went wide as I drove the blade up into his throat. He kept snapping at me, even in the throes of death. Twisting the knife, I rolled over so that I was on top of him. Warm blood soaked my arm and chest. When I thought it was over, he reared up, a twist of my head kept him from ending my life, instead of my throat he sank his canines deep into my shoulder.
Dropping my blade. I grabbed his jaw, as I fought to free myself from his grasp, he let out a long exhale and went limp. His last act had been to try and kill me, I had to respect his devotion to the task.
Looking down at his corpse, I heard something whistling through the air. From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a shovel as it flew toward my head. The world shattered into a spark filled pain. Then nothing. Black empty nothing.
CHAPTER 14
PAIN FLARED IN MY SHOULDER AND spread like wildfire across my body until it completely engulfed me. My muscles clenched in a powerful spasm. My back arched and my limbs shot out. My eyelids snapped open. I was unable to focus on or comprehend the room around me. A blurry form reached out and pressed a short stick into the dog bite on my shoulder. Volts of electricity blasted through me, blowing out my circuitry as it roared across every nerve ending. The wave passed, leaving me limp. I could taste the salty iron of blood in my mouth where I had bitten a small chunk out of my tongue.
Somewhere in the blurred fog around me, I heard a man speaking Russian. An ugly pockmarked face leaned in close to my face. “You are who?”
I opened my mouth, to plead, to beg, to cajole, whatever it would take to make the pain stop. But I was betrayed by my gut, instead of words - a nicely chunky spray of vomit spewed.
“Vali otsyuda!” He jammed the cattle prod into my shoulder, but before he could trigger the jolt, he was pulled away by a second form. In the shadows, a guttural Slavic argument bounced off the walls. Focus was returning. Out of the mess, a barn or garage formed around me. I was strapped down on a work bench. On a peg board, power drills, saws and hammers rested, waiting to be put to bad use.
“It’s for you.” A furry man in a blue satin jogging suit pressed a cell phone to my face.
“Mr. McGuire, you have outlived my expectations.” The voice was dry, Russian and void of any human emotion. The old man in the white room. I should have killed him when I had the chance. “However, you have now outrun your expiration date. I now have one last offer to make you, the man whose home you have defiled has asked permission to exact retribution, slow, painful retribution. Apparently, you brought on the early demise of his beloved pet. And here is where the offer comes in, pay close attention. Tell me where I can find Anya and I will command Kolya to execute a swift end to your life.” I could hear his breath as he waited for me to reply.
“Suck... my... dick,” I mumbled as clearly as I could muster. The fur-ball in satin slapped me across the face. He spoke quickly into the phone, then snapped it closed and sent his pockmarked lackey out of the room.
“If your Armenian is out there, Zhenya will find him.” Picking up a rusted hacksaw, Kolya toyed with it. Running his thumb lightly down the blade, he looked me over like a butcher appraising a side of beef. “The boss doesn’t think pain will loosen your tongue. Is he correct?”
I had learned in prison to relax my face muscles, regardless of the storm in my head. A neutral face showed no fear. He might kill me but I wasn’t about to show him I cared one way or the other.
“I think maybe I will kill two birds with one blunt object.” From his pocket he took a small pillbox. “Do you know what is the great motivator? Not fear, no. Guilt. Pain fades and must be re-administered. Guilt can break a person for life.” Grabbing my jaw he forced my mouth open. Like you would an animal, he tossed several pills into my mouth, he chased them with a bottle of vodka upended past my lips. Glass smacked against teeth. My throat shut down. Short stubby fingers clamped onto my nostrils, I had to drink or drown.
The quart was halfway down when he pulled it away. Sputtering, I struggled to fill my lungs. The neck of the bottle cut my lip against my teeth as he shoved the bottle back in my mouth. Drink or drown.
Dropping the empty bottle, he looked at me and let out a small laugh. “Think of this as your last meal. Vodka, what more could a man ask for?” I was brain fucked. Searching for some bullshit comeback line. But he was gone. I was alone, me, my fear and whatever pill he gave me. That and the vodka. I wished it didn’t feel so good. But it did. That familiar glow, that everything-will-be-fine sensation. I knew it was a whore’s promise, but one my body was fighting to accept. Warm cotton candy wrapped itself around my pain and told it to go home, come again some other day. Somewhere in another country, men shouted in Russian. The rusting blade of a jigsaw came in and out of focus.
I am quiet. I wait. I hunt. I watch as the large American drops out of sight. I move around the perimeter. I hear a dog attack. I hear men moving. His problem. Below us a body moves. Only a glimpse. We are being hunted from below. I drop, silent. Hide behind an outcropping. I watch. I wait. Nothing. Someone is coming up from the valley floor. I can feel them. But I am blind to their movements. They are good. I close my eyes and flare a match to life. I feel my way to light a cigarette. I blow the match out. My eyes need no adjustment. I drop the cigarette. A hundred yards below something shiny twinkles. A rifle sight. It will take him time to
find me.
Fuck. I fought to free my arms. Fuck. My heart was starting to race unnaturally fast. I fought to slow my pulse but it was a runaway train. Loopy thoughts crowded for attention. What was her name? The Ukrainian assassin, I could see her cards, but the name?
Thump thump.
Fuck, I was going to die.
Thump thump thump.
Angel, I wanted my dog.
Thump thump thump thump. My fucking heart was pounding like a pile driver. The throbbing in my temples climbed on top of the vodka and reminded me I’d been hit in the head with a shovel.
Time went sideways. Where the fuck had all the sweat come from? Beads rolled off my face, stinging my eyes. The furry little fireplug swam out of the shadows. His pockmarked pal was grinning down at me. Mikayla. That was her name and she hadn’t slit his ugly throat. I was well and truly fucked. Someone started laughing, high pitched and sad. It was me.
Nika lay alone in the dark. They had moved her into a small bare room. On the cold tiles, she lay without the comfort of a pillow or blanket. Her self-imposed fast had driven her into a soft madness. She could no longer remember why she had refused to go with the other girls, only that she couldn’t give in. She had made her peace with the fact that she would die on this cold floor. Whatever she had hoped or dreamed for in her life was now never going to happen. Oddly, she had come to be ok with this fact. She could see how silly her dream of being a star in America was. She was sorry that she would never see Anya again, but it was how it worked out. Fate had given her thirteen years and that would have to be enough.
A dog choker pinched my throat. Pockmark pushed his pistol into the base of my skull, yanking the chain at the same time. The floor felt rubbery and the walls kept tilting on me. Keep moving. Stumble and this twat will kill you. And thump thump thump my rapid-fire heart. Was I dreaming or did I have a raging erection? No. Not dreaming. It was hurting as it tried to explode the seams of my jeans. What the fuck? Really. What the fuck was happening?
Out There Bad (Moses McGuire) Page 12
