by Tony Bulmer
Then she popped the door… and hell broke loose from its moorings.
Dakota felt herself toppling out of the car, her body cramped and numb from being hemmed into her backseat prison. She fell into space, grasping air as she struggled to break her fall. Her mind racing forwards now, planning how she would roll free from her captors and break open the trunk. But Dakota’s arms were numb with confinement. She moved slow, but the sidewalk came up fast. She sprawled heavily, her head impacting the concrete. The world slipped out of focus, her ears ringing with white noise confusion.
Gunshots.
The brutal crack of a heavy caliber pistol ripping through the night air.
Shouts, screams, the clatter of running feet.
Pandemonium on Santa Monica Boulevard.
Dakota opened her eyes. Lying prone on the sidewalk now, the concrete warm and hard against her face. She rolled over; stars and a hundred fleeing bodies twisting into the halogen night. The car revving. The creepy guy leaning out of the rear door, peering down at her, gun in hand; his dark eyes blazing with madness. She recoiled, staring horrified at his spiteful little lips, curling angrily away from rotting teeth. He was shouting—shouting at her. But Dakota did not understand. The words disappeared like gun smoke, into the chaos of the night. She tried to raise her self, but the impact had rendered her helpless. She wondered for a fleeting second, if she were paralyzed? Perhaps the fall had broken her neck and she would be riding around in a wheel chair for the rest of her life? She thought of the Para-Olympics and told her self that there were worse things that could happen. Maybe if she started training soon, she would get a shot at joining the team: basket ball, fencing, track and field? So many disciplines to choose from, so little time to decide.
The creepy guy was coming towards her now, getting out of the car, bending over—reaching down—his bony fingers grasping out towards her. Dakota pulled her legs up to her chest, curling away from his clutches. But the creepy guy kept coming, his dirty fingers almost touching her now. Dakota coiled backwards until she couldn’t move any further, watching in horror, as the dark barrel of the gun raised upwards. So close now, she could almost smell the rancid breath of her assailant. Dakota moved fast, unleashing a furious double-footed assault that impacted the creepy guy squarely on the bridge of the nose. The impact was instantaneous, the result dramatic. The creepy guy flew backwards, his gun clattering to the floor, his head jerking back—impacting the frame of the car door, with brutal force.
The creepy guy clutched his face, blood pouring from between his fingers. He sank back against the car for support, unintelligible squawk–box sounds gurgling out of him. Dakota leapt to her feet, the paralysis of her fall evaporating in a furious head-rush of pure adrenaline. She moved in for a double-tap, the way her dad had taught her, swinging a soccer style penalty-kick hard into her assailants balls. The car was moving now, the tires burning rubber, as Martino tried to power out of the corner the Honda had become wedged in. Dakota danced backwards, as the car door scythed past her. She panicked, thinking of Paris locked helplessly in the trunk. She moved quickly, running behind the vehicle, pressing the trunk release button. But it was futile. The trunk was locked, its smooth edges evading the purchase of her prying fingers. She hammered on the lid with her fists, as the car powered forwards, racing into the back of the Lexus with a sickening impact.
Again, Dakota ran to the trunk, attempting in vain to release the lock. Martino was looking back at her now, from behind the wheel, his arm across the seat back, like he was going to… A squeal of burning rubber and the car came at her—reversing out of the drive-thru at speed. Dakota moved fast, but the rear wing caught her hard on the thigh, sent her spinning into the street. The impact hurt, but it was only a glancing blow. She stumbled to her knees, saw the driver of the pick-up truck squirming in the road, he was moving, but only just. Again the Honda squealed forwards, impacting the Lexus for a second time in an explosion of glass and broken bodywork. The cars locked bumpers. Martino threw the Honda into reverse once more, giving it rev’s as the wheels spun out, racing to escape the wreckage of the rear-end shunt. Dakota danced out of the way, with only fractions of a second to spare. The Honda roared backwards, with deadly force. The high-rev’s taking the car further than Martino anticipated, it spun into the road, colliding at speed with the pick-up truck, hitting it so hard, that the rear of the Honda crumpled inwards.
Dakota felt as though her breath had been sucked out of her, realizing that the her sister must have been crushed in the impact. The Honda stalled, Martino slumped forward, across the steering wheel, stunned by the power of the crash. Once again Dakota ran forwards, the trunk of the car had been smashed beyond recognition, the crumpled metal raw, like a scrap-yard Junker. She grasped the crumpled lip of the trunk and tugged with all her strength, the tortured metal let out a groan of protest, then slowly, ever so slowly, the mangled edges parted and the trunk yawned open. It was dark inside, but towards the back, curled around the spare-tire was the crumpled and motionless figure of Paris, tight bound in duct tape.
THE SEX NET 41
Crumpled but alive. Paris peered out of the fetid gloom, her frightened eyes, blinking wildly against the power of the streetlights.
Dakota’s heart pounded, a wild adrenaline rush that wouldn’t quit. Short circuit possibilities spun wildly. The scenario moved fast, She heard her self screeching at Paris to get out of the trunk, feeling fear and panic, as the engine of the Honda turned over, once, then twice, the ignition failing to spark the engine. The briefest of pauses meant that Martino was checking the gearshift, making ready to turn the keys in the ignition for a final time. Dakota knew this was her final chance. The engine would fire and unless she could break open the trunk, the kidnappers would speed off into the night, with her sister in the fetid trunk. The thought was too horrible to contemplate.
Dakota reached into the darkness, grabbed her sister by the legs, pulling her to the lip of freedom. Paris was heavy, heavier than Dakota had anticipated. Worse, the kidnappers had bound her tight, too tight for Paris to wriggle free. Dakota heaved with all her strength, managing to swing her sisters legs over the edge of the trunk. She bent down, tugging furiously. The engine fired up now, roaring louder, as Martino gunned it into life.
Suddenly, steely fingers clutched at Dakota’s hair from behind, twisting hard, until she shrieked with pain. She knew from the muttered curses, that the creepy guy had recovered. Now he was forcing her forwards, into the darkness of the trunk. His strong hands pushing her inexorably downwards, forcing her over the mangled edge, into an abyss, from which she would never escape. She sprawled forwards, her desperate fingers clutching for something, anything to halt her descent into the darkness of the trunk.
Sinking deeper, she made contact: A cold, hard, metallic object that felt heavy in her fingers. Dakota steadied her grip on this makeshift weapon then, with a final desperate burst of energy, spun around, striking out with every last ounce of strength she had. She caught her attacker a glancing blow on the shoulder, but the impact was enough. He staggered away from her, whimpering in pain. The car was moving forwards now. The creepy guy gave chase, with breathless threats. Dakota dived forward, in a last desperate attempt to pull her sister free. She connected, grabbing Paris around her waist, as the car accelerated rapidly across the pavement, almost colliding with a lamppost, then careering wildly into the road. Dakota felt herself being dragged forwards. She bent her knees and gave one last heave. Paris popped clear. Dakota fielded her sister’s fall, catching her as she tumbled free. The Honda roared away, accelerating crazily into the night.
Panic filled the streets, traffic backed up to the horizon, confusion, and a thousand onlookers crowding the street. I forced my way through the surging Crowd. I let Joe take the wheel of the truck. He knew what to do: two-block holding pattern, keep clear of traffic on the Boulevard—stay ready for extraction. When the time came, he would be ready. My partner was, a man of ruthless calm, a cold operator in
the heat of battle. I could rely on him, no matter what the odds.
Leaping out of the truck, I waded through the crowd on Santa Monica Boulevard, my heart racing out of control, with the deep soul wrenching horror of what I might find: My lost children dead in the street? Raped, bludgeoned, bleeding? Scarred for life, by the unimaginable horrors of their ordeal? I wouldn’t let it be true. I fought back the torrent of fear and anguish welling up inside me. I kept it cool, but only just.
I found them, lying in the roadway, Paris and Dakota looked tiny, vulnerable, as a thousand images of their childhoods pounded before my eyes: the baby years, first steps on the veranda, trips to the beach, holidays in the mountains, first Christmas with Grandma. The crowd surged. I almost lost sight of them. But I pushed my way through, rushing to throw my arms around them both.
Dakota looked up at me, a charge of recognition running through her, ‘Dad! I knew you would come!’
I gave her my bravest smile, it made me feel like a phony. No matter how tough the tough guy, you get kids and that steel forged macho core turns to hot-fudge caramel.
‘Are you guys OK?’ I asked at last, feeling stupid at the very suggestion. I expected a wise crack, but Dakota looked at me and smiled. It was a beautiful smile, loving and innocent, like she was suddenly five years old again. ‘I’m sorry Daddy, they split us up, locked Paris in the trunk. I tried to remember those moves you showed me, but everything went so fast. I should have never let them get us in a corner like that…’
I planted a kiss on her forehead, ‘You did good kid, I am proud of you. It looks to me like you had this thing down from the get go.’
‘They got away daddy.’
I gave her a grim smile, ‘Not from me darling.’
‘But they have guns daddy—I don’t want you to go.’
‘Don’t worry about a thing kid, your old man is bullet proof.’
Dakota smiled weakly. I brushed matted hair away from her face and cradled both children in my arms, hugging them tight, breathing their scent, never wanting to let go of them again, yet knowing I would have to, and soon. Cheers rose from the crowd, then spontaneous applause. As the emotions surged within me, approaching sirens told me it was time to make a move. Pretty soon the police would be here. I had no time for that. I had to get the children safe. I had to move on the Rothstein case and fast, before the whole ugly conspiracy collapsed in upon me, and my rapidly dissolving life.
THE SEX NET 42
‘So what the hell we gonna do smart guy, you seen the state of this car? Every damn cop in the city’s gonna be looking for this rig now.’ The Saints weasel face bleating out complaints. The Saint was always complaining. His nasal whine took Martino back to Quentin. Back to the long years he spent listening to Saint bitching about cops and the government, and how the whole damn world was turned upside down, so as a man from the projects had to stay there, or get clubbed down for trying to better himself. Martino never figured that straight job society owed him a damn thing. The big money controllers, who ran things that mattered to normal folks, had no say in his world. Sure they could lock him up for a time, put his life on hold, but that was just the way things were. He would always get out, always make up for lost time, and damn the consequences. There was no point in worrying about how broke things had gotten. You had to collect on what you were owed, simple as that.
And listening to Saint’s bullshit whining all those years, well, that weasel owed too—owed big, and soon it would be time to collect.
‘Frank ain’t going to be pleased, you know that don’t you?’ The Saint swiveled around, in the front seat next to him, giving him the eye. Martino shot him a dead look, not believing this jerk-off’s nerve.
The Saint sulked, held a blood soiled Del Taco napkin to his nose. It was hard to look menacing, holding a nosebleed tissue to your face—real hard.
Martino peripheralized. Trying to keep his eyes on the road, failing. ‘The kid hit you in the face?’ He tried to sound sympathetic, but the words came incredulous.
The brat tricked me damn it—They both did, we shoulda locked them both in the trunk like I said, those bitches was slippy, I told you they was slippy.’
Martino remembered it different. Remembered how the Saint had insisted in locking the cheerleader chick in the trunk, saving something for later and a little to nosh on now, he had said. The cat was ugly, and a bullshit liar too. Martino hated that. The cat was trying to make him look bad. Figuring him for the kind of chump who would fall for his quick talking excuses. He shot the Saint another look, out of narrow eyes and let the silence hang.
Easing the Honda into the right lane, Martino checked the mirrors. The car behind didn’t want to let him in, but had to anyway. ‘The kids tricked you—both of them? We had this one roped off Saint and you fumbled the game.’
‘Hey, I didn’t fumble nothing, those bitches was slippy, ice-ring slippy.’ Diego gave Martino a sly look. ‘I ain’t the one who blew the gig though, was I Martino? You hadn’t popped that civilian, left him bleeding in the street like that, we would be counting Costello’s cash and eating take out food–maybe even getting our selves a slice of action with those sweet little girls of his.’
Martino felt his mind winding tight. He gripped the steering wheel, said nothing, scowling into the night. They travelled onwards in silence. Martino pulled off PCH, made the turn into Topanga Canyon. Lights of the busy Highway disappeared in their wake. The canyon was dark. Rugged cliffs reared up all around them, disappearing into the night.
Martino accelerated wildly, the engine racing in protest. He gritted his teeth, pounded the steering wheel with his fist. ‘We had it nailed, ’til we made that stop,’ he snarled.
‘Hey, you talking like you blaming and that ain’t cool.’
Martino glanced at Diego, seeing him make a big deal, as he dabbed at his nose with the soiled napkin. Diego’s nose was twisted out of shape, dark bruises forming underneath his eyes. The kid had caught him good, no mistake about that. Martino allowed himself a bitter smile. They were going to have to collect on the Rothstein deal if they were going to come out ahead on this job. That much was sure. The road twisted away in front of them. Martino floored the accelerator. The Honda careered onwards, swerving erratically into the snaking mountain turns. Martino’s mind raced forwards, it was a pattern he knew of old. You got out of control on a job like this, things came alive, events twisted out of control, like the world was recoiling against you. Things were ugly now, but they were getting worse and fast, something bad was coming, Martino knew that. He also knew he had to act, and act now, if he wanted to get out of the loop and make ground into a new and untroubled day. Adrenaline surged within him. The car screeching into turn after turn, the back end fishtailing out, as they climbed, high into the swirling mists of the Santa Monica Mountains.
An electronic trill from the back seat, sounded like… a cell phone. ‘That you?’ asked Martino gruffly.
‘Hell no,’ snapped Diego, ‘Must be you.’
‘Well it sure as hell ain’t me and that’s a fact.’ Diego unclipped his safety belt, then bent awkwardly between the front seats, rummaging to find the phone amongst the detritus of their chaotic afternoon. As Diego twisted back into the passenger seat Martino noticed a thin rivulet of blood had run out his partners nose and across his face.
‘You’re bleeding,’ snapped Martino. ‘Say what you got there?’
‘The kid left her phone is what I got here,’ smirked Diego.
‘She had a fucking cell phone on her, this whole time? I thought you patted her down?
‘Hey, the bitch had it up her snatch for all I know, what you gonna do?’ snickered Diego nastily, ‘You want we should call her pops, tell him how sweet his little girls are?’
‘Toss it out the window. We got no use for it.’
‘The hell we got no use for it, this is a goddamn iPhone, top of the line. We cash this baby in, we get two hundred bucks at least.’
Two-hundred-bucks. This is w
hat their big plans had come to. All those years of cell block bullshit back in Quentin and they were looking to cash in a kids cell phone for chump-change trade-in money.
‘We get pulled with the kids phone, things will go bad for us. You ready for that? You ready to trade your freedom for a two hundred dollar cell-phone Saint?’
Diego gave Martino a nasty look, ‘Ain’t nothing going to go bad for us JC I can tell you for sure. Sounds to me like you are losing it. That right partner, you losing your nerve?’
Martino said nothing, saw the guard rail coming up fast in the headlights made the turn quick on the wrong side of the road, felt the thrill of danger arcing through him.
Diego tensed back in his seat, wiping off his bloody nose on the back of his hand, ‘Hey, what’s the matter with you, we ain’t running from nothing, why don’t you ease off on the gas?’
‘Lose the phone, said Martino coldly.’
‘You don’t have to stress about the phone JC, like I told you,’ hissed Diego nastily, ‘We got a pay day coming from Frank, phone or no phone, so what’s it to you?’ Diego was staring at him now, his eyes menacing in the dashboard light.
‘I’m not going back to jail, not ever,’ said Martino coldly.
‘Sure you’re not partner,’ cooed Diego smoothly—that’s why you been holding on to that secret little booty bag you lifted from the Costello place thinking I wouldn’t notice?’
‘The bag, of course the bag.’ Martino felt it nestling behind his legs as he threw the car into another fast moving turn.’
‘You tell me I got to lose the phone, like some shit don’t stink boss-man, when all the while you are hoarding booty you ripped off from the Costello place. You think we get pulled like you say, that little goody bag of yours ain’t going to count for nothing?
