Moving Target

by R. A. McGee

  Porter twisted the handle and found it unlocked, so he pushed the door open, letting it slam into the wall behind it. A laundry room, with no washer or dryer. There were bags of trash tied up on the floor. Porter closed the door to get away from the smell.

  Shotgun by his side, Porter went back to the room with the boarded-up windows. He saw remnants of duct tape on the arms of the chair, and a couple of empty fast food bags in the corner next to the bed.

  It seemed like a room where someone was being held. Porter ground his teeth. Pima might have been here, but if so, he was too late.

  Walking back into the kitchen, he opened cabinets and drawers, finding them to be mostly empty. On the coffee table in the living room was an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts and ashes, and several rainbow-colored rubber bands. He picked one up, turned it over in his hands and dropped it on the floor.

  Porter was in the process of ripping the cushions off the couch when he heard the familiar sound of tires coming up the loosely packed gravel road. He peeked through the dingy curtain, eyes trained on the road that snaked away from the trailer. Just barely, through the trees, he could see a vehicle approaching.

  He considered leaving out the back, to get out of there before the occupants of the vehicle showed up. He scratched that idea almost as soon as it entered his head.

  He’d probably be seen if he left, as the area around the trailer was devoid of trees. Porter didn’t want anyone else shooting at him, with an arrow or otherwise. Not to mention that whoever was approaching could very well know where Pima was.

  And if they knew that, they were just the person Porter wanted to talk to. He strained his eyes until the noise of the tires on loose rock was accompanied by a vehicle: a silver four-door Civic.

  This was exactly the reason Porter hadn’t driven up to the trailer. Someone could have watched his entire approach. Instead, he was the one watching the Civic, bumping along as it went over the road, tires slipping as it turned the corner to the clearing where the trailer sat.

  Hoping to see Seth Rollins or Dusty Walker get out of the car, Porter instead saw three Hispanic men swing the doors open and step out of the Honda. It didn’t shock him—people of all ethnicities had to buy their meth from somewhere, and from everything Porter had read, it seemed selling meth was the only thing Seth Rollins had going for him.

  What did surprise him was the fact that the three men were carrying AK-47s.

  Whatever they were at the trailer for, it wasn’t a peaceful transaction.

  All three were short and powerfully built. Two wore jeans, one a pair of khaki pants. All three had bandanas wrapped around the lower half of their faces.

  Porter thought for a moment, his mind running through all the options he had. The two with the jeans walked up to the front and Porter watched the third go around the back of the trailer. Porter heard them creak their way up the dilapidated wooden stairs out front.

  He stepped back from the window and raised the shotgun to his shoulder and pushed the safety off. There were no good options, but as much as he liked the state, Porter didn’t plan on dying in North Carolina.

  He stood in the hallway by the kitchen, muzzle of his shotgun pointed at the front door. There was a muffled conversation out front, but Porter was ten feet away and couldn’t hear what the men were saying.

  Briefly sneaking a look through the kitchen and to the backslider, Porter hoped the guy out back stayed out there. Maybe a contingency plan to grab anyone the two guys up front flushed out.

  He heard the front doorknob jiggle. The voices outside were louder now.

  “Uno, dos…”

  The attempt to kick in the door was laughable. It didn’t move. There were three more kicks before the door finally flew open, slamming into the wall behind it, handle sticking into the drywall.

  Porter kept his shotgun pointed at the now-open door.

  The two men rushed into the trailer in an undisciplined manner, both going straight in and looking toward the hallway on the right. Porter stepped forward, aiming the front sight at one man’s back and pulling the trigger.

  At such a short distance, the buckshot didn’t have time to fully open, and slammed into the man like a bomb. His feet were taken out from underneath him and he fell into the wall.

  Pumping a fresh shell into the gun. Porter tracked his front sight to the next man, who was turning around, trying to find the person who’d shot his partner.

  Porter had a worse shot on the second man, from the side, but he took it anyway. The man took the full brunt of the blast somewhere in his upper torso—Porter wasn’t exactly sure and didn’t care. Neither of them were moving, let alone using their rifles on him.

  This left only the man behind the trailer. As Porter swung his shotgun to the rear slider, the trailer erupted with the sound of 7.62 rounds slicing through the flimsy walls. With the big rounds chewing up all the space around him, Porter knew he had to move.

  Without aiming, he shot two shells through the back wall of the trailer. Porter understood ballistics: he didn’t like his odds of hitting the shooter, but he didn’t care. Hitting the man would have been a bonus, but it wasn’t his objective.

  He wanted to get the man's attention and suck his concentration into the trailer. Porter sprinted out of the open front door, nearly falling down the decrepit stairs in the front of the trailer. As soon as he touched ground, he darted clockwise around the trailer, back to the side with the boarded-up window.

  He looked first, then ran around the corner, pausing underneath the plywood. He listened as a rifle fired over and over again, the shooter trying to kill him through the back wall.

  But Porter wasn’t there.

  He stepped to the corner, then snuck a look at the back side of the trailer.

  There was a brief flash of khaki pants turning the corner opposite him. The killer had clearly had the same idea as Porter, and was moving to flank him. He’d just waited a little too long to start moving. Now, Porter was behind him as they circled the trailer.

  Porter sprinted again, this time the entire length of the rear of the trailer, passing the blown-out sliding glass door and bullet-pocked walls. He peeked around the next corner and saw the man in khakis, who was looking around his own corner at the front of the house.

  Wasting no time, Porter stepped out and squeezed his trigger again, sending buckshot slamming into the man’s lower back. Normally, he would have aimed higher, but he at least wanted a chance. A chance he could speak with the rifle-wielding man.

  The force of the blast had knocked the man off his feet and turned him, so he landed on his back, AK out of reach and of no use to him now. Blood soaked the dirt around the man.

  Porter stood where he was for thirty seconds, not advancing. If the man was going to make an effort to reach the AK, Porter didn’t want to be too close.

  The wait wasn’t necessary. The man moaned the entire time, his intermittent and barely understandable words coming in Spanish.

  Porter stepped over to him, looking down at him.

  The man was calling out for someone named Rosa.

  “Rosa can’t help you,” Porter said. “Only I can.”

  The man looked up at Porter, the fear in his eyes replaced by anger. Porter reached down and pulled his bandana off. “What’s that?”

  “And nobody can help you,” he said through a mouthful of blood.

  Porter smiled. “Do I look like I need help? I’m doing okay, asshole.”

  “Tenemos muchos hombres.”

  “You have lots of friends? I’m sure you do, but that doesn’t matter right now. Tell me about the girl.”

  “Tenemos muchos hombres.”

  “Yeah, I got that part,” Porter said. “The kid. Where is she?”

  The man breathed faster and faster. He tried to sit up, but the combination of his injuries and Porter’s foot on his chest kept him flat on the ground.

  “They’re gonna find you,” the man said.

  “Doubt it. You guy
s don’t even know who I am. Where’s Pima?”

  “Muchos hombres.”

  “Entiendo,” Porter said. “I heard you. Can you tell me where the girl is or not?”

  “Cuál chica?”

  “You don’t know any girl?” Porter said.

  The man shook his head and spat at Porter, the glob of blood narrowly missing.

  “Then what good are you?” His shotgun out of shells, Porter reached over, picked up the man’s AK-47, and put him out of his misery.

  Thirty-One

  He dropped both his borrowed shotgun and the AK on the dead man’s chest.

  Porter took a minute to look at the man’s tattooed face, which was now completely exposed. His ink was a roadmap of where he’d been, where he’d done time, who he’d worked for and, if his tattoos followed the rules, the surprising number of people he’d killed.

  Porter shook his head. The shooter was a hitman for a big-time cartel called Los Primos. It had fallen out of favor to call them cartels, but Porter didn’t think “Drug-Trafficking Organization” rolled off the tongue quite the same.

  He recognized their symbols and tattoos from his time chasing down gangbangers with Joe. The Los Primos cartel was one of the most vicious he’d ever come across, and he was more than a little surprised to find them in small-town North Carolina.

  This was not good. If the Los Primos were in town, he wasn’t just dealing with some hillbilly drug cookers.

  If the Los Primos were in town, things were worse than he thought.

  Porter rifled through the man’s pockets. He found no ID and only a cursory amount of money. He moved around to the front of the house, up the rickety stairs, and searched the other men, both long since dead. They also had no identification.

  Standard procedure for cartel hitmen. No names, no IDs, and if they were caught by the cops, they’d give them fake information. There was nothing for Porter to go on.

  He glanced at their Honda, still running except now there were bullet holes spiderwebbing the front glass from some of the errant AK rounds the man had shot through the trailer. Porter checked the seats and found nothing. He popped the trunk and, in addition to several boxes of 7.62 rounds, found a couple of small bundles of money, banded together with rubber bands—the same rainbow-color design as the ones from inside the trailer.

  Porter stuffed the money into his back pocket, then stepped away from the Honda.

  His route back to his car was quicker and more direct than his approach to the trailer. As remote as the location was, there had still been enough shots fired that even Sheriff Spaulding’s guys could have found their way.

  After a few minutes he stepped out of the clearing and fished his keys out of his pocket, unlocking the Yukon and hopping in. He tossed his gloves onto the back seat and drove away from the construction site. Porter pointed the truck toward his motel.

  He needed a shower.

  Thirty-Two

  “Slow down, Dusty, damn.”

  Laura Bell leaned forward from the back seat to look at the speedometer, then sat back and grabbed tightly to the handle anchored to the roof of the car. She’d heard them called “oh shit” handles, but this was the first time she’d really understood the phrasing.

  The Lumina was hurtling down the highway, which, thankfully, was mostly empty. They’d passed joyriders on motorcycles and cars in the slow lane, taking pictures of the remnants of the leaves. She gripped the handle, pistol digging uncomfortably into her waist, as she watched her brother smoke more and more of their meth stash.

  Seth hadn’t stopped ranting since they’d gotten into the car.

  “I don’t give a shit, you hear me? I don’t. Those motherfuckers killed my brother. I’ll dust them all. I’ll go to Mexico and kill their families. Their wives and kids. Hell, I’m going into nursing homes and snuffing out their grandmothers. They’re all dead.”

  “Be quiet and put that pipe down,” Laura Bell said, barely recognizing the vacant look in her brother’s eyes.

  It had been like this the entire ride. Laura Bell had told Dusty to head to one of their old cook spots, so they could lay low and regroup. As Dusty sped toward the trailer, Laura Bell had to brush off every one of Seth’s dumb ideas about how to get rid of Pima.

  In the end, Laura Bell stopped trying to correct him and just prayed for the Lumina to safely get where it was going.

  “I’m thinking we need to hit those bikers,” Seth said.

  “Don’t,” Laura Bell said, her hand aching from her grip on the handle. “I’ll think of something. I’ll call the Big Man and see what he can—”

  “The Big Man? Don’t get me started on him. That son of a bitch set Rich up.”

  “You don’t know that, maybe—”

  “Hah. Who’s the smart one now? Who else sets up the meetings and gets Rich in touch with the Mexicans? The Big Man did it, and he let Richie die. When I get back from Mexico, the Big Man’s next. Once I find out who he is, I’m going to kill all the—”

  “I got it, I got it,” Laura Bell said with a sigh.

  “No, listen to me, now. If he has kids, I’m killing them. I know the bastard has to have parents. He’s going to get it, right when I get back from Mexico. You know what? He’s local, right? I’ll swing by and do him on my way out of town.”

  Laura Bell sighed and looked out the window, thinking of how she could fix this situation and stop her high-as-a-kite brother from making it worse.

  There were several blissful seconds of quiet. Then Dusty shattered the silence.

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Uh-oh, what? What uh-oh, Dusty?” Laura Bell said, leaning forward into the front seat.

  “Look,” Dusty said, eyes on the rearview mirror.

  She turned around, rewarded by the flashing lights of a trooper from the North Carolina Highway Patrol. “Shit. Shit. I told you to slow your dumb ass down, Dusty.”

  “I’m sorry, Laura Bell.”

  “Doesn’t matter, I’ll do him first,” Seth said, stuffing his pipe into the glove box.

  “You shut your mouth. Don’t do anything. The car isn’t stolen, your idiot friend was just driving too fast. All they want to do is give us a speeding ticket.” She reached up and touched Dusty on the forearm. “Dusty, just be cool okay? Do what the cop says.”

  “Yes, Laura Bell.”

  The lights drew closer, the shape of a car finally recognizable. Dusty pulled over to the shoulder and put the car in park.

  The group waited for what seemed like an eternity until the lean, fit trooper arrived, circular hat clamped to the top of his head. He stooped just behind the driver’s side window, forcing Dusty to turn to face him as they spoke.

  “I’m Trooper Pirelli, North Carolina Highway Patrol.” His accent made it seem like there was no R in “North” and an H somewhere in “Carolina.”

  “Sir,” Dusty said.

  “Do you know why I stopped you?”

  “I think I was driving too fast,” Dusty said.

  “Bingo. I clocked you at eighty-nine in a fifty-five,” Pirelli said.

  “Wow,” Dusty said.

  “Most people don’t notice that the speed drops when going over the little bridge back there.”

  “I didn’t,” Dusty said.

  “Understandable. License, registration, and proof of insurance please.”

  Dusty got his information and driver’s license out, and handed it to Pirelli. The entire time, Seth was shaking his leg so violently that the car was rocking.

  “Back in a minute,” the trooper said as he walked back to his vehicle.

  Laura Bell stole a glance behind her, then leaned up into the front seat again. “You’re doing good, Dusty. Keep doing what you’re doing. We’ll deal with the ticket later.”

  “Okay.”

  She turned her head toward Seth. “Stop with your leg, you’re gonna freak the cop out. Sit still.”

  “Sorry, Sis,” Seth said, his forehead freely dripping sweat. He stopped shaking his leg and
started grinding his teeth.

  Laura Bell watched as the minutes on the dash clock crawled by, listening to Seth grind his teeth the entire time.

  Ten minutes later, Trooper Pirelli came back, his walk a bit looser. He stepped all the way up to the driver’s window. “Here’s your information back, Mr. Walker.” He leaned down into the window.

  “Thank you.”

  “You know, I didn’t recognize you, sitting in the car and all. We played against you guys back in oh-one.”

  “My memory is bad,” Dusty said. “Sorry.”

  “It was the semi-finals of regionals that year. You guys beat us, but we put up a fight,” Pirelli said.

  Dusty thought for a moment. “The Bearcats?”

  “That’s us. I played receiver, so we never lined up against you, but I can tell from standing here, I’m lucky I didn’t.”

  Dusty smiled. “You look tough.”

  Trooper Pirelli laughed and then the smile was gone from his face.

  “Look here, my computer told me you’re on probation. I’m supposed to let your PO know I pulled you over for speeding, since you were going so fast.”

  Laura Bell sat still as a rock, listening to the trooper. Seth’s teeth were still as loud as walnuts cracking.

  “I don’t think I need to do that, do you?” Pirelli said with a smile.

  “No, sir. I won’t speed again ever,” Dusty said.

  Seth was back to rocking the car again with his leg shake.

  “Let’s not go too far. Just try to slow it down, got it?” Trooper Pirelli laughed.

  “Yes, sir,” Dusty said.

  “Can’t let the best player to ever come out of Western North Carolina wrap himself around a pole one day.”

  “I’ll slow down.” Dusty raised his fingers in a strange sort of half salute.

  Trooper Pirelli patted the top of the Lumina. “Have a good day, folks.”

  Then he was gone.

  “You did good, Dusty,” Laura Bell said, resisting the urge to look behind her again.