“Put your guns down!” a voice commanded.
Blinking as he tried to open his eyes, Leon hesitated.
Next to him, he heard Julio mutter, “Fuck that.”
“Julio, don’t - ”
A single gunshot echoed in the room before Leon heard his closest friend fall to the ground next to him.
He dropped his weapon, raising his hands slowly. Though his friend was dead, he wasn’t worried. He still had backup outside.
“Good choice,” the voice said, moving closer to where he stood.
Finally able to keep his eyes open, Leon looked up and found the familiar face of Simeon “Skull Crusher” Williams, standing near the bound forms in the chair. In the chair on the left was a man, in the middle, a woman close in age to the man, and to the right, a younger woman that bore a resemblance to the woman. Glancing down to where Julio lay, Leon saw the pool of the man’s blood rapidly approaching his own feet. His longtime friend was dead; the top half of his skull a memory.
“You made a big mistake,” Leon growled, feeling anger rise inside him, something he hadn’t felt in weeks. Things had been so easy, he hadn’t felt the need to get angry. Maybe he’d lost his edge. Once he was out of this, he’d refocus himself, regain his edge. Return to his warrior ways.
Skull Crusher shook his head. “Nah, dog. This ain’t no mistake. This here? This is business.”
Leon scoffed. “What? You made a deal with someone? There ain’t no one more powerful than me in this city.”
Skull Crusher smiled and shook his head. Stepping closer to Leon, he stared at him intensely. “You know, Leon, you ain’t shit. Back in the day, I’d a beat your ass.” He shrugged as he backed away. “But like I said, this is business.”
Leon smiled. “We’ll see who beats who’s ass. You think I came here without backup?”
The other man grinned. “What, those six you sent around back?”
Leon felt his smile crack. The trap had been bigger than he’d realized. ‘You idiot, Leon…’ he thought, swallowing slightly.
From behind him, two people walked past, moving to the right of where Skull Crusher stood. The sight of them made Leon’s heart race.
Betrayal had come at the worst time.
“Clint? Lizette? You’re with him?”
The large black man and the petite Latina shook their heads, smiling.
Another gunshot rang out, sending Miguel’s body flying sideways as a bullet struck him in the side of his head.
Stepping forward, the young, dark haired woman, the one he’d secretly lusted after for the last week, glared at Leon. “No. They’re with me.”
“Sam? What the fuck?” Leon asked, shocked at the depth of the betrayal. He’d expected one of the men to betray him, not a woman. How did she think she could pull this off? She needed him. She needed his protection.
Samantha Garcia, a woman who barely spoke in his presence, moved her head to the side, tossing her long, dark hair effortlessly. Her dark, cat-like eyes met his as she walked around to stop in front of him. Turning away, she looked at the three people tied to the chairs. She motioned towards their bonds.
“Cut them loose.”
Skull Crusher’s men did so without hesitation, using their knives to slice through the duct tape that bound the family’s arms and legs. Pausing with a hand near the tape that covered the man’s mouth, one of the men looked back at her, his eyebrows raised questioningly.
“Nah, leave those on. I don’t want to hear any of their shit.”
With their bonds cut, the family remained seated, afraid to move.
Samantha Garcia looked at the three of them as she leaned down and withdrew a dagger from a sheath strapped to her ankle. Standing up again, she spun the blade in her hand effortlessly as she spoke.
“If you three want to live, you’ll get the fuck out of this house in the next thirty seconds. Don’t stop for anything, don’t ask for anything, and sure as fuck don’t take anything.” She gestured around the room and the greater home with her hand. “What’s here is the price of your freedom. You understand?”
The three people nodded vigorously in agreement.
“Good. Now get out.”
The three leapt from their chairs and ran for the doors in a panic. They crashed into each other as they tried to fit through the single open door, then managed to coordinate their movements enough to get through the opening. Their footsteps faded as they ran through the home before the sound of the front door being thrown open echoed throughout the house.
Irritated and impatient, Leon’s eyes burned a hole into the young Latina woman as he glared at her.
“Sam, you owe me an explanation for this betrayal.”
With her back still to him, the woman looked towards the bedroom wide expanse of windows as she spoke. “You know, I’ve always hated being called Sam. The thing is, you never cared to ask. To do so would have required you to give a shit about someone other than yourself.”
She shook her head, causing her long, dark hair to move in waves. “We both know that would be asking too much from you.” With catlike quickness, she spun around and threw the dagger. The blade spun as it flew through the air before embedding itself in his throat, knocking him backwards. Leon fell to the tiled floor in a heap as his mind tried to decipher what had just happened. Gurgling sounds came from his mouth as his eyes widened in shock.
Samantha Garcia stepped over his body, placing a foot on either side of him before she squatted down. She reached out, grabbed his head, and held it, forcing him to look into her eyes before he died.
“I’m the Scorpion.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Fresno, California
“You’re supposed to be dead.”
The man in front of Darren grinned as he shook his head.
“Honestly, that’s a pretty shitty way to greet a fellow Marine, Captain.”
Protesting the sight of the dead man, Darren felt his voice rise as he spoke. “But...you died in a car accident four years ago! I attended your funeral. Your father was there! Your mother was there! I hugged her to comfort her!”
The man’s grin widened.
“Yeah, you were all pretty stupid about that.”
Darren recoiled at the man’s words. “What - what do you mean?”
“I mean, they pulled a body from the wreck. Just because the man kind of looked like me - at least before his face was smashed in - ” he brought his hands up and made air quotes, “‘during the wreck’, and just because they found a wallet with the name Stephen Baldinger in the car, the police and the medical examiner assumed it was me.” The man grinned more widely, giving him a sinister look.
“I knew my parents wouldn’t want an autopsy. They didn’t want to disturb the body after death. The police and the coroner’s office saw it the easy way, which was how I wanted them to see it. They believed it was simply a dumbass driving carelessly on a dangerous road.”
“So who was behind the wheel?” Darren asked, feeling himself step backwards as he tried to increase the space between them.
The man waved his hand. “Ahhh, doesn’t matter.” He smiled again as he added, “But it wasn’t the guy who visited Corporal Ramirez and his family in San Antonio…”
Darren felt his jaw drop as the man’s words sunk in.
“But they died in a house fire…”
The man chuckled softly, nodding his head slightly, barely able to control his pleasure. “Sure they did, Captain. Sure they did.”
Feeling anger rise inside him, Darren turned his head to look around the room. His gun was on the -
“Looking for this?” The man held up Darren’s pistol, the one that matched his father’s. He looked at the gun appreciatively. “You know, I always thought of you as a bit of a pretty boy. A pansy ass who had everything handed to him.”
He glanced at Darren, measuring him. “Don’t get me wrong. I still think that. I just didn’t think you’d own an Ed Brown Nineteen Eleven.”
Ho
lding up the gun, the man admired it. “I think it looks better in my hand, though.” Nodding with an air of finality, he looked back at Darren, meeting and holding his gaze. “Yeah, I’m gonna keep this.”
“The hell you are, Staff Sergeant,” Darren replied, stepping forward. He was betting the other man would still respect the military Chain of Command. A Non-Commissioned Officer didn’t threaten a Commissioned one.
He bet wrong.
Without the slightest hesitation, Steve Sommer lifted the gun and pulled the trigger, putting a bullet between the man’s eyes. The man’s head was rocked backwards by the impact, causing him to stumble towards the window. When his body came in contact with the wall, he slumped down, collapsing to the floor.
“Damn.” Sommer said, shaking his head. “I was kinda hoping he’d fall through the window, like in the movies. That would have been cool, don’t you think, Hank?”
Hank came into the room, holding a beer in his hand. “Yeah, it would have, but it’s probably better if the glass isn’t broken.”
“True.” Steve said, nodding.
“What was he talking about, you being dead?”
As Sommer turned to look at the other man, his face hardened, indicating the subject was not open for discussion.
“My old life.”
Stephen Baldinger’s departure from the Marines Corps had been both sudden and unplanned. The bottom line was that he hadn’t wanted to leave the Corps. He loved the military life, he loved the structure and discipline that came with it, he loved wearing the uniform, and he loved feeling like part of a team, a family, part of something bigger.
But most of all, he loved the killing.
It was disappointing to him that the U.S. Military and the fuckers in Congress were pussyfooting around the situation in the middle east. The United States was big enough and strong enough to wipe those Muslim bastards off the map, so why weren’t they allowed to do it?
‘Fucking P.C. bullshit,’ he’d thought as he’d sat in the sidewall seat of the C-17 as the plane made its way across the Atlantic, heading towards MCAS Cherry Point. Around him, other Marines snoozed in their seats, happily dreaming of being home.
Not him.
He knew Corporal Ramirez was back at the camp, telling anyone he could get to listen about what he’d seen Baldinger do. The Marine Corps leadership, who’d already proven themselves to be unwilling to do whatever it took to win the war, would take Ramirez’s accusations seriously.
They’d ask around. Chances were, others had seen or suspected what he’d been doing, but most had been smart enough to keep their suspicions to themselves. Now, with Ramirez breaking the seal on the who situation, they’d sing like fucking songbirds.
Then leadership would come for him.
He guessed with the time difference and the time they’d take to investigate the accusations, he probably had 96 hours at the most once he was back at Camp Pendleton. The safest bet was to assume he had no more than 72 hours.
Which meant he needed a plan.
Obviously, he had to run, but where? Mexico? An be surrounded by fucking Beaners? No fucking way. Asia was worse, there were more of them, and all different kinds, too. Canada? Give me a fucking break. He was an American, and he had no intention of leaving.
Which meant he needed to disappear without leaving.
But how?
He needed to find a way to get them to forget about him.
To not look for him.
Suddenly, it came to him.
They wouldn’t look for him if he was dead.
‘Alright, now we’re getting somewhere,’ he thought as he unbuckled his harness and made his way to the restroom near the front of the aircraft.
By the time the plane touched down in North Carolina, he had the beginning of a plan.
By the time he arrived in Oceanside, California, he’d have every part of the plan figured out.
“Damn, that’s a sweet truck,” he said, looking over the big Red Ford F-150 Raptor Edition. He whistled softly, shaking his head appreciatively.
“Uh, thanks man,” the driver said, holding his bag of Mexican food in his hand as he waited for Stephen to move out of the way.
Leaning over, Stephen looked at the wheels. “What are those, seventeens?”
“Nah, man, I upgraded. Got the 18 inch rims.”
“Fucking sweet, man.”
“Thanks, bro.”
“I saw you have the Rhino lining in the bed, too. Smart. That stuff is awesome.”
“Yeah, I had it on my old truck. It really holds up.”
“Definitely,” Baldinger said, jamming his hands in his pockets and nodding as he turned his head from left to right, admiring the big machine.
“You wanna check out the interior?”
Stephen feigned surprise. “Really? You don’t mind?”
“Nah, man, not at all.” The man looked Baldinger over. “You in the military?”
Stephen reached up and rubbed the back of his head, feeling the stubble there. Laughing, he asked, “How’d you guess?”
The man laughed in response.
Smiling, Stephen said, “Yeah, out here at Camp Pendleton. Seventh Marine Regiment. Infantry.”
The man nodded. “That’s awesome, man,” he said, before looking away. “You know, I almost joined the military.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, but, uh, you know...I, uh, got like a good job, and I didn’t wanna give it up.”
Stephen nodded. ‘Pussy,’ he thought to himself, before saying, “It’s all good, man.”
“Yeah. Maybe someday. I’m not that old yet.” Reaching for the door, he opened it, exposing the truck’s leather bound interior.
Stephen whistled. “Nice!” Stepping closer, he looked in and nodded again. “You know, I saved up a good chunk of change while I was over in the shit. I’m serious thinking of getting one of these.”
“Awesome, man. They’re sweet.” The man looked back and grinned. “Wanna go for a ride? I’ll let you check it out.”
“Yeah? That sounds awesome, bro, thanks.”
“No problem at all, man. It’s the least I can do for someone in the military. Ya’ll are the real heroes.”
“Cool, thanks.”
The man cocked his head to the side slightly, then said, “You know, we kinda look alike.” He laughed. “Shoot, people’d probably think we’re brothers or somethin’.”
Baldinger laughed, then stuck his hand out. “I’m Steve. Steve Sommer.”
The other man smiled. “Eric Handley. Nice to meet you, Steve.”
Planning out the ‘accident’ was easy. First, with the man’s body in the trunk, he drove out to the Pala Indian Reservation and visited the casino, where he placed a number of bets on upcoming football games. While he was there, he made sure the cameras captured clear, unobstructed views of his face as he strolled through the casino, pretending to work his way through multiple drinks as he did. Just before two a.m., after spending over three hours at the casino, he made his way back to his car, tickets for his bets in hand. He carefully placed the tickets inside his leather wallet and placed it in the center console storage box.
Driving to a dark part of the winding, two lane road that was Highway 76, he pulled over and spent twenty minutes pouring alcohol down the dead man’s throat and over the clothes he’d taken from his own closet and dressed the man in. Next, he spilled alcohol inside the car, making sure it soaked into the carpets and seats. When the bottle was nearly empty, he screwed the cap on tightly and set in on the passenger side floorboard.
Getting the man’s body behind the wheel of Baldinger’s old car had been more challenging than he’d expected, but he’d managed. The real issue had been the blood from where he’d to basically disfigure the man’s face. Though he figured the crash would do enough, he couldn’t take any chances with anyone looking too closely at ‘him’ at the scene of the accident or later in the morgue, so he gave the man’s face a few extra smashes with the wrench befor
e stuffing him into the car. Doing so made the man’s clothes messy and his skin slick. Fortunately, he’d thought ahead and purchased latex gloves and an extra pair of sweats, both of which he’d burn in a bonfire at the beach later that night.
Having finally placed the man’s body behind the wheel, with the seatbelt intentionally left off, and the car lined up with a dangerous curve that had already claimed multiple lives, as evidenced by the series of small crosses that were adorned with bouquets of flowers, he started the car’s engine. Leaning in through the door, he carefully placed the man’s left foot on the brake ensuring it was pressing the pedal all the way down, then placed his right foot on the gas. Reaching across the man’s body, he put the car in gear. The engine revved loudly as it tried to move the car while working against the vehicle’s brakes. Stepping back and closing the door quickly, he yanked the rope he held, pulling the loop that he’d loosely placed over the top of the man’s left foot. The foot was pulled off the brake before the rope came flying out of the car, just as the engine took hold and sent the car speeding towards the curve in the road. The car smashed through the guardrail with ease before plummeting towards the piles of dirt and rock fifty feet below, where it landed with devastating force, smashing the front end of the car all the way into the vehicle’s back seats, just as Baldinger had hoped for.
Watching from the road as small flames emerged from the engine compartment of his old car, he smiled before turning and walking away, crossing the road and climbing the hill on the other side. Twenty minutes later he emerged from the bushes onto a small road, where he’d parked the man’s truck.
From there it was the trip to the beach, where he’d allowed himself to enjoy a single beer while he destroyed the clothes and gloves in his pallet-fueled bonfire, then down to the International border. Once in Mexico, he parked the truck in front of a bar, intentionally stradling the painted lines that outline the space. Glancing towards the group of men he’d spotted in the corner of the lot to make sure they were watching, he stumbled drunkenly as he exited the vehicle, then made a show of dropping his keys on the ground as he headed into the bar.
Surviving Rage | Book 2 Page 38
