Tony just gawped up at him. He heard the big new guy's voice from around the corner, "Where's the fucking elevator?"
The white guy held his finger to his lips, pointed the pistol at Tony, then held it behind his leg and limped down towards the corner. The three bodyguards came around. Never saw it coming. At almost point blank range, one, two, three shots into their heads, instant drop; the white guy held the pistol in both hands and went around where he could see down the hall, reached down and tugged one of the bodies out of the way, then hurried back and stepped behind Tony's wheelchair.
"We're out of here, Mr. Po. Remember what I said."
The white guy pushed hard and fast through the narrow passage around the bodies, down the hall and then a sharp turn to the right, then through swinging doors onto the loud main floor of the club, the strobes disconcerting, then the white guy slowed down, don't cause a scene --
"Who has the drive, Mr. Po? Where is it?"
"I don't have it. It's hidden."
"Here in the club?"
He kept pushing through the crowd, moving easily, trying hard not to make more of a scene. "Where in the club, Mr. Po?"
Tony knew then. End of the line for him. They had no intention of keeping him around, and when they found out it was already launched, he'd be lucky if they had this guy put a bullet in his head.
"It's here," Tony said.
"Where?"
They were almost to the front of the club, and they would have to go by the security. Lance T was standing there, talking to the big one, Kai, and turning to see him.
"The dancer," Tony said.
"What?"
"That dancer. That one. Redhead. I give it to her."
"Don't bullshit me, Mr. Po. Do you have it on you or did you leave it upstairs or did you hand it off to one of your people?"
"I give it to that girl."
"I....
Tony rocked himself sideways hard, then the other way as the man bent to compensate for the sudden change. The wheelchair tipped over, spilling the old man onto the floor.
"Help me!" Tony shouted. "Somebody help me!"
"Whoa, dude, here, let me help you out," the white guy said, bending closely and whispering, "I'll kill you, you old fuck, shut up...."
Lance started over and the big bouncer with him. The white guy held up his hand and said, "I've got him, no worries, bro..."
"Who are you?" Lance said. "Where are...."
The white guy was fast as hell. He brought the pistol up, but didn't shoot Lance, he shot Kai, aimed for the face, tagged the broad trapezius because Kai was already moving, knocking Lance off line...
"Help! Help!" Tony shouted as the music changed --
Deon Oosthuizen
...Robert's got a cool hand...six gun trigger...
Deon bobbed his head. Foster The People. He knew this one, liked it, though he wondered how many of the people watching Lizzy go through her routine actually heard the lyrics...
...all the other kids in their pumped up kicks, better run, better run, run from my gun...
He saw the chair tilt over, and then he saw the old hippy pushing the wheelchair move fast as hell bringing up a long barrelled pistol suppressed, looks like a Glock 17 with a Gemtech can and pop, he could see the ejected casing hanging in the air always funny how time slows down in a gunfight for some people and Deon was one of those experience i reckon gives me all the time in the world shouting "Gun! Gun! drop his hand and crack the case, pull up the HK, safety off time to dominate the world Get down! Get down! And then the old hippy quick scanned and saw it all that fast, turned the pistol down and shot the old man once in the head, then reached down and grabbed one arm and started dragging the body past Lance and Kai, the crowd blocking Deon's shot --
Guz
Like Deon, in the zone, had already sized it up, and went for his pistol instead of the long gun; closer, faster, and he needed one hand to knock the waitress out of the way to clear his line, and he saw the shooter lean down and put one in the old man's head and then grab the dead man's limp arm and start running, dragging the small body behind him now why the fuck is he doing that, clear the line people, I don't shoot civvies and Guz barreled through the crowd, knocking patrons, dancers and waitresses out of the way, hurdled Lance with the bleeding Kai over him protecting him, and the trail of blood ran right through the entry way, past the coat-check girl and still no line he hit the front door and paused just long enough to see, and there it was two rounds right where he would have been if he'd gone through it, this guy's a pro, no shit... break the rhythm of a pro, just enough to miss, because this guy wasn't going to hang around, and the slam of a car door and Guz came out fast and hard and low and there's the van, the door slamming shut, and one shooter with something bigger than a pistol and shorter than a long and Guz was rolling and rolling, cars slowing down and he scurried behind one, two girls dressed up for the night their eyes huge as they saw him come around, and then a burst of rounds, across the hood of the car, the girls screaming and then the van was off and running, Guz locked down, turned and saw everyone looking at him, a few cell phones coming up, and he lowered his head, tucked the pistol away and jogged back into the club....
Jimmy John Wylde
Vaulted onto the stage, grabbed Lizzy and ran her back down the runway straight through to the back --
...better run, better run, run from my gun...all the other kids with their pumped up kicks better run, better run, run from my gun...
-- Pistol out and running, Lizzy going exactly where I moved her, like she always did, the other girls shrieking and I shouted "Get down, get down, get down!"
Move her to the back, pause, shout into the mike, "Deon, Guz, go, go, go!"
Deon hustling down the hall, rifle up, go-bag slung over his shoulder, kicking the side door open, and clearing out, then a shout from him: "Clear, Jimmy! Come to me!"
Shoving Lizzy quickly, covering her with my body as we got out the side door, Deon with the weapon shouldered scanning, crabbing across the lot to the car, I brought Deon's keys up, hit the unlock, shoved Lizzy in the back and jumped in next to her, Deon jumping into the driver's seat and handing back the HK to me, pulling the car forward and holding, scanning both ways, cars stopped in the front, backing up in a hurry to the chained off gate, Deon jumping out and lifting the unlocked padlock, courtesy of Kai, off the chain link that blocked the alternative exit, on the radio I called Guz
"Guz, you clear?"
Crisp voice back. "Yep, across and running, traffic's bad, I'm gonna jump the curb and ride some sidewalk, meet you around the corner, wait one..."
I looked back and saw his Wrangler roll out of the parking lot and turn onto the sidewalk, horn blaring, lights flashing, people jumping out of the way, and he just kept rolling till he hit the corner and bumped down into the street, drove off the wrong way --
"See you on the other side, bro," Guz said.
"SITREP."
"Whoever the old hippy was did a job on that Asian. Busted a cap in his head, dragged the body out and put it into a van, got clear, at least two other shooters in the van, no body hurt out in front that I saw."
"Roger that. Other side."
Deon didn't say, just processed it and went, wheeled around and saw the Wrangler come to a stop, nice and slow and legal, then pull into the lead position and smoothly accelerate away.
"I'm thinking your place might not be the best, oke," Deon said. "Plan B."
"Yeah," I said.
"Plan B it is," Guz said. "On it."
"Jimmy?" Lizzy said.
"Yes."
"What about everyone else?"
"I'll check when we get you safe."
"They weren't there for me. They came for Mr. Po. The old man in the wheelchair."
"Did you know him?"
"Yes. Jimmy?"
"What?"
"I did something for him."
"What did you do?"
"He asked me load something on the internet."
&
nbsp; "What was it, Lizzy?"
"A drive. Some kind of program."
I sighed. "Okay. We'll talk about it later. Did anyone see you do that? What computer did you use?"
"The one in back. The lounge. The girls, but I don't think any of them know what it was. And I gave him back the drive."
Deon looked at me in the rear view mirror. "Plan B, oke."
"Yep," I said. "Plan B, all the way and then some."
Old Hippy with a Silenced Pistol
Had his knife out and cut the old man's clothes off. Shirt, pants, underwear, tossed aside to one of the other men huddled in the van, who began to tear the clothing apart. Old Hippy opened the old man's mouth, used the knife to look under the tongue, inside the cheeks, lifted the belly fat to look in the folds, rolled him over and inserted the knife, cut open the anus to a mild explosion of gas and loose feces, used the tip of the knife to prod in it.
"Don't open him up in here," one of the other men said.
"It's not up his ass," the old hippy said. "Unless he swallowed it, it's either in his clothes or he really did give it to that fucking stripper."
"We got eyes on her and that fucking PSD. How the hell does a stripper get a PSD? Those guys were pros! What the fuck is that?"
"Not in the clothes," the other said. "What about the wheelchair?"
"Could have been, but I didn't have time to drag that out, too," the old hippy said. "Where are they running the girl too? Maybe whoever's paying for that PSD is paying for it, and her, out of our money."
"Not ours," one said.
"Close enough. We got fat bank coming. Pull over, let's dump this shit and get back on the girl. Here is good...."
The driver pulled over and the men in back dumped Tony Po's body and his clothes in the mouth of an alley, then drove off."
"We got two guys on a bike tracking them, vectoring in the other cars," the driver said, head tilted as he listened to the radio traffic on his head set. "They're going to put up a Raven in a minute, get you real time from the drone."
"Good," the Old Hippy, whose work name was Shane, just like the old-timey time movie, given to him by a guy he'd been through school with who used that expression all the time...
Mr. Smith, aka Hank
Put the last of the Pelican cases into the back of his latest Cherokee. Later model, so there was some minor difference in the back compartment, but his cargo still fit in there well enough to suit him. He ran his situational awareness check with his scanners; all good to go. A few laptops, plenty of cell phones, routers, satellite TV. Nothing directed at him or his handiwork. He took out another control box, custom made his very own self, touched it and watched the circuits light up, rows of 4, all green for good to go. He hit the safe and watched the LEDS all go red.
M'kay. Happiness.
He got in the car and drove off. Bit of a ruckus down and around in Hmong town right now; lots of people doing the what the fuck dance: when in danger or in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout. So, as the good Machiavelli had said in his epic discourse THE PRINCE: The only means of security that are sure and lasting are those you see to yourself. In other words, no back up.
If you want it done right, do it yourself.
Off he went through the late night streets. Easy enough. Not like he hadn't done this a timey time or two.
It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day in the neighborhood, won't you be mine, won't you be mine...
Pulled into a spot right in front of Votron Electronics. So what to do?
He got out, plugged the meter, looked at the sky. Wouldn't be long till light, but this building wasn't going to be full with staff till mid-morning. Take out the building, take out the servers, night staff, security, probably a few all-nighters, but you don't get the big cheeses who wouldn't come in till their staff had been in, started the coffee, brought in the bagels.
There were other possibilities. He'd been slipping a bit, lately, and he still had to account to the Bosses about this whole thing, gunfighting in the street with the tertiary target he'd been assigned to. Not looking forward to that.
He jingled the change, looked down the block and took a stroll. Starbucks, probably deserted this time of night, but a coffee would be in order. Still line of sight, too.
Walked in. Nobody in the place, but a half-asleep barista who jumped when he saw Smith's face. Mouth open to say something, caught himself.
"What can I start for you?"
"Oh, I'd just like some water and a place to sit down for a bit. And maybe a small brewed decaf?"
"Yes sir."
The kid was young, but a good size, just about the same height though lighter than Smith. The kid was careful to not stare at him as he poured a tall glass of water with ice and lemon, and then put a small cup of decaf next to it.
"Is the decaf fresh?"
"Yes, sir. We brew it fresh every hour."
"Starbucks. Just like clockwork." Smith paid for his drinks, dropped a dollar bill in the tip jar, sat down by the window and stared out, ignored the kid. For now.
Drank his coffee and thought dark thoughts.
Nina and Nico
Her hands on the wheel, picture of the operator at work. Nico said, "It's been a hell of a day."
"Night is young," she said.
" Be dawn pretty soon."
"Not for this dick head."
"Where we going?"
"Not where they wanted."
She turned off J Street, past the Starbucks where a single figure sat inside, hat and coat pulled tight around him, and pulled up behind a new Cherokee in front of a three story building with a fancy-schmancy sign on it that said Votron Electronics.
"What the fuck?" Nico said.
"OGA's digs," Nina said. "We're gonna do some enhanced interrogation here."
"Nina, this isn't my thing. Not what I signed up for."
She turned to him and got dead in his face. "Listen to me and listen good. That fucker back there in that car killed a lot of people. This is how we get things done. We'll get what we need, and then you can have your due process back, got it? Once he goes to them, it's not our problem anymore."
"Whoa, okay, cool down, will you? You never cut me in on what you're doing."
"I'm too busy getting shit done. Are you in or not?"
"In."
"Let's go, then."
Mr. Pham and his men got out of the Hummer, pushed the girl along and two of them carried the wounded man.
"This way," Nina said. She bounded up the stairs, hit the buzzer, held it down. The door buzzed back, and she held it open. "Let's go." She scanned the street; nobody around, just the one car in place weird place, must be an OGA car, but why would they park there and not in the lot? worry about it later... and they all piled through the door.
Inside, at the top of the stairs, Carol the OGA Chick stood with two burly security types.
"Up this way, through here and into the back," she said crisply. "We're ready for you."
And up the stairs they went....
Mr. Smith, aka Hank
Watched the sudden flurry of activity out front with intense curiosity. Did the bosses know this was going to happen? Did they have somebody watching him right now? Were they tracking his payload? Or was this one of those Random Finger of God moments that seemed to be coming on him fast and furious?
His gut told him this was a decision branch. Now or never.
"Hey son," he called to the barista.
"Sir?"
"You want to make a hundred dollars?"
"What?"
"Look, I know it's just you here, but as you can see, I have a medical condition, and I forgot to put change in my meter. It's worth a hundred bucks to me not to have to get up and go do that. Will you do it? Just take you less than a minute."
"I can't leave the store...."
"Look around, there's nobody here but you and me. Think of it as a bathroom break, but you're getting paid. Here, I'm not bullshitting." Smith held up a c
rips $100 bill and a handful of quarters. "Do an old sick man a favor, will ya? Please. I'm in some pain and I need time for my meds to kick in."
The kid went back and forth about it, then came around and said, "Where's your car?"
Smith pointed down the block. "There, see where that Hummer is?"
"Yeah."
"Cherokee, right there. Here's my key fob, would you bring me the pills on the front dashboard, please?"
"Okay...if anybody comes in, tell them I'm in the bathroom."
"You bet. Just hit the key fob, it unlocks the door." He handed the kid the $100 and the quarters, and he was out the door at a light jog. Smith gave him half way to the car before he got up and walked out the side door, pushed the button his box and watched the lights go green, then hurried around and put the Starbucks between him and the street, started walking away as fast as his scarred legs could carry him.
Starbucks Barista
Now why the fuck did I let myself get talked into this?
Oh, okay. A hundred bucks is a hundred bucks, and that poor old fucker looked like he was dying. Least I could do.
Past the Hummer, past an unmarked squad car. There was the Cherokee. Huh? Meter was almost full up, he plugged in a quarter and it stopped at two hours.
Fucking Lake City. Gouge everybody for what time they get.
He looked inside the Cherokee, raised the fob, pressed it.
Guz
Liked his Wrangler. Not the best in a car fight, too light, too unstable, but it was fine for knocking around. Hands on the wheel, eyes cutting high on the windshield to the side mirrors to the rear view, relaxed with that coiled tension that gave him that little bit of extra speed in the moment.
Slowed for a sign, stopped.
Dodge Ram pickup idling, waved him on.
Guz pulled into the intersection slowly, waiting for Deon to catch up, when he caught the movement in the pick up truck bed, old trick, two shooters coming over the top, and as he drilled in on them, a beige Ford Taurus came through the intersection and caught Deon's Cherokee right on the front wheel well, slamming it hard and crushing the well in around the tire --
Too Wylde Page 17
