Birds of Prey

by Blake Crouch

  It burst open and he rolled a tight somersault, coming up with both .45s in his fists.

  Jack and Clay rushed in after him.

  The pop-pop-pop of gunfire was coming from the range.

  Alex

  She couldn’t believe it, but Porter had tagged the far wall. Since he was all the way on the other side of the range, the shot was difficult, if not impossible. Especially with the short-barreled Ruger and its low-velocity rounds.

  She was especially pleased with herself when she clipped the man’s heel.

  “Twenty points!” Alex shouted.

  Charles

  Charles had already decided to pull a Luther on his next turn. Just fucking unload. This time, he aimed at Porter’s face, figuring if he killed him, Alex would win.

  He squeezed off ten shots in a blaze of fury, caught up in the excitement, and when his slide locked back, he stared through the haze of gun smoke…

  And saw Porter still crawling along.

  He’d missed.

  Goddamnit! How the fuck had all ten rounds missed? He cocked back his arm and hurled the Luger downrange at Porter, screaming, “You fucking asshole!”

  One lane over, his sister said, “Well, that was stupid.”

  Mr. K

  He was getting ready to put a round through Mr. Porter’s face when he heard a gunshot behind him.

  Much larger caliber.

  Was somebody cheating?

  He turned to look, and saw an attractive woman in her forties standing behind them holding a Colt .38.

  Luther

  He was frantically reloading his clip when the deep, deafening crack of a high-caliber firearm exploded behind him.

  Who the fuck was cheating?

  Javier

  When he heard the report of a .38 behind him, he knew instantly that something was wrong…

  Jack

  I saw the man on the firing range—the owner, Porter, covered in blood, cowering on his knees.

  Then I saw the people, five of them, shooting at him.

  I fired one shot straight into the ceiling.

  “This is the police! Everyone drop your weapons!”

  Alex/Luther/Charles/Javier/Mr. K

  The police!

  Run!

  The killers stampeded toward the fire exit, firing behind them as they ran, bursting through the door into the parking lot, and scattering into the cold, dark night.

  Clay

  Clay felt the tug of hot steel on his thigh.

  I’m hit.

  He looked down, ready to put pressure on it, then saw the tiny hole in his jeans, forming a quarter-sized dot of blood.

  What the fuck is that little thing? A .22?

  He let out a laugh. Then he yelled, “You assholes sure brought the wrong guns to a gun fight!”

  He and Jack took off after them.

  Porter

  Looking up at the fleeing bastards who had turned him into human Swiss cheese, Porter let out a bellowing laugh.

  “I’m alive! Son of a bitch, I’m alive!”

  He was still laughing when the short, blond man approached him. The man tucked away his guns into the back of his chinos.

  “Thank you, thank you, a thousand times thank you. You saved my life, buddy. Anything you want. Name it. It’s yours.”

  “Actually,” the man said, “I want the thirteen large you owe Mr. Dovolanni.”

  Porter felt his face sag. “You…you work for…”

  “Mr. Dovolanni. Yes. Do you have the money, Mr. Porter?”

  Porter shook his head, dumbly.

  “If you don’t have the money, I’m supposed to break both of your legs.”

  “I’ll have it in a few days,” Porter managed to squeak.

  The short man appraised him. “You’re pretty shot up. You need to go to the hospital.”

  “I’m hurt bad,” Porter whined. “They shot me a bunch of times. Shouldn’t that be enough for Mr. Dovolanni?”

  The short man rubbed his chin, as if considering it. “Maybe. But I’d better break one leg, just to be sure.”

  Porter screamed as the short man’s foot came down, and then he blessedly passed out.

  Mr. K

  By midnight, he had crossed the state line into the backwoods of Kentucky, cruising the dark highways behind the wheel of his Cadillac. He was disappointed in himself, disappointed that he’d taken what had amounted to a stupid risk and left town without collecting his marker.

  But…

  As much as it pained him to admit…

  That was the most fun he’d had in years.

  Luther

  Sitting at the bar in the Ramada Inn across the street from the giant tent which had held the gun show, Luther ordered the first round for him and Javier.

  They’d been lucky to get a seat at the bar. The place was packed with the dealers and attendees who’d come from out-of-state.

  A great place to lay low. To blend in. And as much as he knew that’s what they should be doing, it wasn’t what he wanted. The shooting range had only whetted his appetite.

  The barkeep, after ten minutes, finally brought their beer in two Pilsner glasses.

  “I’m dying,” Luther said, “I won’t be able to sleep tonight. That business at the range just gave me blue balls.”

  “Relax,” Javier said. “I got a little package in the trunk. I’m willing to share.”

  Luther’s heart lifted, a burst of hope flooding into that darkness like pure sunshine.

  “Really?”

  Javier nodded, sipped his beer. “Can’t kill her, though. But we can have some fun. Cut on her a little, if that’s your thing.”

  Luther smiled. “That’s my thing.”

  “We just gotta wait for these pendojo cops to get out of here. Place is lousy with them. One dumb gringo gets shot a few times, it’s like the fucking Normandy invasion. Back where I grew up, in Sonora, a whole family could get wiped out, you’d get maybe one cop, and he’d come by a few days later.”

  “Hmm,” Luther said, a smile slowly forming across his thin, colorless lips. “I should definitely check that place out.”

  Clay

  He’d secretly always wanted to get shot. The ultimate bragging right. Pull up your shirt, show the patch of white where some doc had dug out a twisted piece of metal.

  But as Clay sat in the ambulance, he had this awful feeling that stopping a .22 round didn’t actually count. His deputy buddies back in Durango would probably make fun of him for it.

  At least the pretty lady Lieutenant was sympathetic.

  “You’d better give him two Band-Aids for that big boo-boo,” she told the EMT.

  Ouch.

  He’d laughed it off, but the worst of it was how bad it actually hurt. He’d been shot full of adrenaline back at the range, but now that everything had settled down, the pain was really starting to get to him. He’d waved off the painkiller he’d been offered in front of Jack Daniels.

  He could wait a little longer.

  Just a little .22 caliber gunshot.

  Not a problem.

  “Does it hurt?” Jack asked.

  “Naw. Maybe a little. You want to kiss it and make it better?” Clay asked.

  For a moment, it looked like she was going to go for it. Clay even went so far as to tilt his chin to the side.

  But then something crossed over her eyes, and she pulled back, instead offering her hand.

  “I’ve got to get on my way. Have to be back at work tomorrow, and didn’t have any plans to stay overnight.”

  Clay went for it, hell bent for leather. “I’ve got a room, in the hotel.”

  Jack smiled. “Thanks for the offer. But I’m with someone already. Thanks for an…interesting night. Tell your brother I said hello.”

  And then she was gone.

  Five seconds later, Clay called for the EMT and demanded a pain shot.

  Jack

  I was tired, my legs aching from the chase. The Gucci pumps I wore made my calves look kil
ler, but were shit for running in.

  Clay and I had given pursuit, but the five shooters had fled into the night, splitting up in all directions. We’d called in the Indianapolis PD, even the Staties. Given statements and physical descriptions of the perps as best we could, but there really wasn’t much to go on.

  It didn’t make sense. Why would five people break into a shooting range and use the owner for target practice? From what little I’d seen of them, it didn’t appear to be a gang initiation. These were adults, some of them well-dressed.

  When the owner, Mr. Porter, regained consciousness, he didn’t say a word. Not a damn word. Refused to even admit anything happened.

  As for me, I was going home. Both Clay and Tequila wanted to continue hanging out, but all of the sudden it felt less like harmless flirting and more like cheating. My boyfriend and I were having problems, for sure, but I wasn’t the cheating type. I was the try to work things out type. If I got on the road right now, maybe I could make it back home early enough to do some damage control.

  Hell, maybe I’d even get lucky.

  I gave each of the boys a handshake goodbye, then headed out to the parking lot. My car, a Chevy Nova, was next to a sleek, new Infiniti G35. I gave it a quick, admiring glance, wondering if I’d ever be able to afford something like that, then climbed into my beater.

  As soon as I started it up, I heard a knocking.

  The engine? Was my classic telling me it was ready to croak?

  I checked the gauges on the dash, but nothing unusual was lighting up. The knocking continued as I pulled out of my spot, but quickly faded as I drove away.

  I breathed a sigh of relief, feeling like I’d just dodged a bullet.

  One of many, actually.

  Alex

  Alex Kork snuggled up next to her brother as he drove, her lips brushing his neck.

  “Dammit, Alex! I’m driving.” Charles took another glance in the rearview mirror, his tenth in the last ninety seconds.

  “You’re so damn paranoid,” she said, pulling away. “You weren’t like this before you got married.”

  “Don’t start, Alex.”

  “Is that what I’m doing? I’m starting?”

  Charles shot her a quick, angry glance. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “Nothing. But don’t treat me like I’m your wife. I’m not your wife, Charles.”

  He laughed, an ugly thing. “Is that your problem? You want to be married? You’re my fucking sister, Alex.”

  “Let me out.” Alex tugged off her seatbelt.

  “What?”

  “Let me out here. On the side of the road. I’m sick of being next to you.”

  “We’re in the middle of nowhere. How are you supposed to get home?”

  “I’ll hitchhike. Like that girl we passed up a mile ago, the one with the pink shoes.”

  “Don’t be stupid. Hitchhiking is for psychos. Some maniac might pick you up.”

  The words hung in the air, and then both of them began to laugh.

  Tequila

  While Porter had been unconscious, and Jack and Clay busy chasing the shooters, Tequila had taken the liberty of emptying out the shop’s cash register. Technically, it was Mr. Dovolanni’s money, but Tequila figured Porter owed him for leaving a leg intact.

  When Jack and Clay came back, they called the police, and Tequila bid a quick adieu. He didn’t want to answer any questions, and Jack seemed to understand. He made a small effort to get together with her later that night, have a nightcap, but she begged off.

  No biggie. She wasn’t really his type, anyway. Too much class. Tequila didn’t like to admit it, but he preferred his women to be on the trashy side. Other side of the tracks kind of gals. Biker chicks. Strippers. Druggies with tattoos. There was something about lost causes that appealed to him. Maybe he just loved being the white knight in shining armor, although truth be told, his armor had its fair share of chinks.

  He checked out of his room, deciding against staying an extra night. Not a smart idea to make it easy for the authorities to find him, considering all the commotion.

  He was carrying his duffel bag out to his car, when he heard something strange.

  A thumping sound. Rhythmic. Like someone knocking.

  It took him a minute to locate the sound. It was coming from the trunk of an Infiniti G35 in a bank parking lot twenty yards away. Unless the spare tire had magically come to life, which was unlikely, there was probably someone in there. And from the sound of the frantic knocking, that someone wanted out.

  It took three swift kicks with his powerful legs before the trunk unlatched, yawing open.

  A woman lay sprawled across the interior of the trunk. She was beautiful—curly, black hair, dark eyes, pale skin. A gag was jammed into her mouth. She wore only a nightgown, which hugged her ample breasts and was riding up over a pair of very nice legs.

  The night was looking up.

  “Miss, is this your car?” Tequila asked.

  She shook her head, slowly. He guessed she was drugged.

  “Are you tied up and gagged in this truck because it’s something you enjoy doing?”

  Another headshake, languid and slow.

  “Do you need me to rescue you?” Tequila asked.

  A half-speed, yet still emphatic nod.

  “If I do rescue you, you want to go grab a bite to eat somewhere?”

  She stared at him, eyes wide.

  “Sorry. Hold on a second.” He undid her gag. “So, you interested? I save you, we go out?”

  “Uh, sure,” she said, a slow smile creeping across her face.

  Tequila figured it was heroin. He pulled a folding knife out of his chinos and cut her bindings. As he did, he noticed a butterfly tattoo on her hip.

  Tequila held up his hand, which had a butterfly tattooed on the back. “I’m Tequila,” he said.

  She giggled, high as a kite. “I’m Candi. With an I.”

  “Are you a stripper, Candi?”

  “I’ve done some dancing.”

  “Do you like bikes?”

  She swallowed. “I love them.”

  “I’ve got a Harley softail and a pocketful of hundred dollar bills. Interested?”

  Candi with an I nodded.

  Tequila reached in and swept her out of the trunk.

  She hugged him, hard.

  “Thanks for saving me, Tequila.” She breathed hot into his ear. “I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

  Yes, indeed, the night was definitely looking up.

  The One That Didn’t

  Michigan, 2004

  Moni has the shakes. The shakes, and gut-wrenching nausea, and a jackhammer headache, and a dry, metallic taste in her mouth that makes her tongue seem twice as big. She looks down the alley, dark, wet, smelling like something died there, and doesn’t even hesitate to walk down it. She needs the fix so bad she’s come to this empty hull of a town just to get it.

  How the fuck did I let this happen?

  She’d been so good for a time. After she’d escaped that freak and his sick-ass video dungeon of horrors, Moni had gone legit. No more hooking. No more drugs. Moved out of the city, got a job at a health food store.

  Out of the life. Respectable. Clean.

  But the goddamn nightmares…

  She shakes her head, as if that’s enough to rid it of the memories.

  It isn’t.

  She tried a free clinic, talking out her problems with some overworked shrink who got stuck doing community service. Was told she had post traumatic stress disorder, like soldiers get.

  But knowing what her problem is doesn’t make the problem go away. Neither does the prescription shit the shrink told her to take.

  Moni knows only one thing can dull the horror. Only one thing can wipe that freak’s leering face out of her head.

  Glass crunches under the soles of her tennis shoes. Laces long since gone, the tread worn away. Above the stench of this alley, she smells something else—herself.

&
nbsp; Something strange about knowing you’re at the low point of your life, and for her, that’s truly saying something.

  But at least I’m not tricking.

  And she could have. The motivation was there. So much easier to score a twenty-spot sucking some guy off for five minutes than stealing a purse. The one slung over her shoulder belonged to an eighty-year-old only four hours ago. She ripped it off the woman’s arm and sprinted off down the sidewalk. An older man had come after her, but he’d been too slow. She can still feel the burn from that run in the backs of her legs.

  And the shame.

  This is the last time. She keeps telling herself over and over and over, and she’s told herself this before, but it feels different this time.

  One more high. One more fix.

  And then she’s done.

  She sees the fire in the oil drum up ahead, and her pulse accelerates.

  Always a nervous proposition meeting a new dealer for the first time. And she certainly wouldn’t have chosen to come way out here into this veritable urban ghost town, but people don’t sell drugs in front of Gucci stores. A whore she’d shared needles with had recommended this place, saying it was the best.

  Moni has her doubts. This town, like many others in Michigan, died years ago with the demise of the auto factories. The homes are all abandoned. The businesses all closed. The cops don’t bother patrolling, because there is nothing to protect and no one to serve.

  Passing between the empty buildings, she slows her approach, wondering if she should make herself known.

  “Hey!” she calls out to a black man leaning against the brick wall behind the oil drum.

  He looks up from the cell phone in his hand and squints at her through the firelight, and the rising smoke between them.

  “Hi, baby, you need something?”

  “Yeah, looking for H. Can you help me?”

  “Yeah, I got you. Come on. It’s aiight.”

  Thank God.

  Moni continues toward him, moving finally into the welcome heat of the fire.

  The man is young, maybe nineteen, twenty tops, and he’s swallowed by a black down jacket.

  “I need works too,” Moni says. In exchange for this address, she gave that whore her last syringe.

  “Got all kinds of works for you, baby.” The man smiles, showing a gold tooth, but the smile isn’t for Moni. It’s for someone behind Moni.