Chapter 8: El Rapido y El Furioso
May 24, 2001
2:52 P.m.
La mecánica Baja, Los Angeles, California
“Cabron. Necesito mas cerveza.”
“Ya voy.”
The yellow eyed mechanic spat from beneath the innards of the jeep she was working on, ten years past its prime but still in use to serve the Mexican family that couldn’t afford to buy a new car. Unfortunate, but a sad fate that befell many; the best the worker could do was make the service cheap, not too much as to bleed the poor but not so cheap as to insult their Latin pride. Given the worker’s past and heritage, the FTM knew where they were coming from.
Couldn’t betray her own people, especially when gringos like Jack were there to witness it.
“Bibiana… I don’t think I’ve ever snuck up on you when you were not working on a car.”
The woman in overalls immediately pulled herself from her work, sliding out on the dolly her back rested upon as she leaned up and wiped the grease and sweat from her face. With one of her many employees approaching, a work force that put Jack’s humble garage to shame, she snatched the beer the man had brought and downed it quick, the rough girl making it clear that was the only sort of greeting she was willing to give.
“Still rough as ever… it seems.”
“Well, gal like me has to be to survive in LA. How’s it going, Boss?”
“Eh… work as usual. You save cars, I save people.”
The woman, with short brown hair covered in a black and purple bandana unrecognizable in its original design, laughed as she nodded to the man in jeans and ducked back beneath the car, grunting as she picked up a wrench and went back to her own trade. With eyes glowing and seeing clearly in the dark, there were no slip ups as she began to tighten a nut, her enhanced hearing knowing the exact moment that Jack sat down on a bench meant for holding tools.
“Careful. You break it, you buy it.”
“Oh, that’s not the only thing I need Bibiana… you hear about this Rodrigo Morales?”
“The punta that’s killing Mexican cops? Course we have; not long before he comes after us.”
“That won’t be a concern… I’m here to kill him. By the end of the day, he’ll be nothing more than a smear on the pavement.”
“Good. Need me to help with that? Been a while since we worked together.”
Though she couldn’t see it from the insides of the jeep, she knew that Jack was shaking his head by the way the air pressure changed. So many details that one can discern if one simply has the senses and the mind to pay attention.
“No… but I do need you to help me with another problem. He has someone under him making FTMs. His martyr’s mark is a V… ring any bells?”
The Latin girl dropped her wrench, cursing as she pulled herself from beneath the car with anger plain. “You sure it’s a V?”
“Do I joke?” Jack asked, eyebrows raised.
“No… mierda. Voy a matar el maldito.”
“Language.”
“Sorry… I know who you want. Thankfully, it’s not a Latin; we have enough idiotas running our name as is.
“Hombre you’re looking for is an ex of mine. White boy by the name of Oli Cage. Great in bed, terrible temper… should have known he’d be involved in a gang. Should have killed him when I had the chance.”
A name was all he needed; anything else that Bibiana Garcia could tell the one eyed man would simply be a bonus. “Know where I can find him this time of day?”
“Yeah. He runs a racing rally about ten minutes outside the city limits. An old field, some farm that got destroyed in the great depression and has been vacant since. Oli bought it and turned it into his own racing paradise after seeing some of the night racing that goes on around these barrios. Fun place if you have nothing to live for.”
“Sounds like my kind of place… Oli ever participate?”
“Every day given he’s a level four mutant. His special ability is to control rocks; he starts losing, he’ll cause a stone to just stick up enough to pop a tire. They call him the best driver in the west.”
Jack smiled, waiting as the mechanic finished her work and popped out again. Standing fully upright at a mere five foot six, she wasn’t much of a physical challenge; even her muscles, defined for a woman, were not much when compared to most male athletes.
Still, the soldier could use that to his advantage. Motioning his head to the Ford Falcon outside, he knew the dirty girl was already thinking about the question he had yet to ask. “Care to claim the title? Cause a little accident?”
“Do you even have to ask?”
Times of Peace: Volume 1 of the side adventures to The Mercenary's Salvation Page 20
