Monday, April 6, 2009
Last night's update
Until Twitter fixes its problem (or I get the updates from last night re-posted -- whichever comes first), I'm posting a backup of last night's strangely-eaten updates here. You know, for completists. Like, well, me.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Chapter Eleven
The U.S. Marshals Service office was only a few blocks away from the Sheriff's station -- Eric had never actually been there, but a quick @Google search from his phone gave him the address. Assuming Dean didn't make a habit of knocking off early, Eric figured he should be able to catch him at the office.
He was expecting secured blast doors, an armed guard, or at least a front office. What he found instead was a single, normal wooden door with "U.S. Marshal's Service" stenciled on it. He opened the door and walked right into an open office with five agents, Dean among them, sitting at desks.
"Um. . . hey," Eric said, waving.
Two of the agents looked up. One of them tapped Dean on the shoulder.
"Hey, Eric. Be with you in a second," Dean said, signing off on a few sheets of paper. The huge agent stood up, stretched, and checked his watch. "Up for a stroll?"
"Sure."
Dean escorted him back out of the office and onto the street, where the Marshal lit up a cigarette as he shrugged into his suit jacket.
"You look like hell," Dean commented.
"Car accident."
"I heard. I also heard you've been working with the Sheriff's Department as a consultant."
"Problem?"
"No, it's fine. You probably just should have mentioned something. C'mon. I have something in my car you should see."
Eric followed Dean to his Crown Victoria, which was parked in a garage just across the street. Dean opened the trunk and pulled out a briefcase, which he unlocked and opened. He pulled out the only object in the case, a manila folder with the FBI's logo on it.
"I've got it on loan for the day. I have to watch you while you look at it, but I did manage to get what you asked for."
Eric nodded and opened the folder. Inside was the full autopsy report on a 29-year-old male, found in the parking lot of Raymond James Stadium in Tampa, shot several times in the chest. The man's face had been burned with acid, and both of his hands had been cut off. Eric skipped over the written report and flipped through the pictures. After less than 30 seconds, he handed the file back to Dean.
"Nope. Not Russel Brandt."
"What? How can you tell?"
Eric sighed, reopened the file folder, and pulled out a picture. He flipped it so it was facing Dean -- it was a close-up shot the forensic dentist had taken of the inside of the body's mouth.
"Yeah? So?"
"This guy has a tongue. Russel didn't."
"Fuck me. You're sure on this?"
"Yeah, I'm sure. I knew the guy eight years, he never spoke word one. His father cut his tongue out when he was a kid. Those don't tend to grow back."
"I need to get on the phone. We need to get you moved, and quick."
"Too late for that, I'm afraid," Eric smiled weakly, handing the file back to Dean. He walked away, leaving the agent standing confused next to the open trunk of his car.
When he was a kid, Eric was diagnosed with mild hypoglycemia. As the years went on, the condition mostly went away, but he still tended to get extremely cranky if he ignored his diet for too long. The half-meal he'd eaten in the past two days, combined with his recent lack of sleep, was making him feel downright belligerent, so he stopped for Chinese takeout on the drive home. As it was only four in the afternoon, the restaurant was pretty much empty, and they got his hot braised pork to him in about five minutes.
Johnny had been thoughtful enough to lock the door to his apartment as he dragged Yang Shao out, so Eric unlocked the door and set his takeout bag on the kitchen table.
"Hungry?" Eric asked.
"Nah," Yang Shao answered from his perch on Eric's couch.
"Yeah, I figured as much," Eric nodded, opening the box and sticking his chopsticks into the pork and rice. "How much amphetamine are you on, anyway?"
"I think the medical term is 'a lot,'" Yang Shao smiled. "What tipped you?"
"I suspected when I saw your eyes. Way too dilated for the harsh lights in the interrogation room. Then, when you took out the cops -- no one as sick as you are should be able to move that fast."
"Nice side effect of the Dexedrine-L-DOPA cocktail. Makes the reaction time faster than Bruce fuckin' Lee."
"Where's the cancer?"
"Started out in the lungs. Didn't catch it until stage 3."
"So it's terminal."
"Afraid so. Moved to the lymph nodes and the brain. I figure I've got two months, maybe three."
"Hence the amphetamine. Doped up enough to walk around, finish off one last errand for Jian Wa."
"The thing with Russel? It's personal. I get you, too, so much the better for Jian Wa and his people. I couldn't care less, honestly. But my best bet is to stick around you until that freak pops up."
"I tend to agree. Which is why I was going to have them move you to a hospital rather than County."
"Awww. You were gonna break me out. I'm touched. Unnecessary, though. I can handle myself."
"Not with the short one."
"Got the drop on me. My dosage hadn't kicked in yet when the cop came in. Not planning on it happening again."
"Amphetamine psychosis?" Eric asked, shoveling low-grade pork into his mouth.
"Not yet, but it's in the mail, for sure. So we should both probably hope Russel shows up sooner rather than later," Yang Shao said, lifting one of the @Newcastle bottles to his lips. "Borrowed one of your beers. You mind?"
"All yours. I should tell you, though, cops tend to drop by here all the time. My handler from the Marshal's Service, too."
"Yeah, I guessed that might be a problem when the tiny redneck shitkicker dropped in unannounced. Don't worry, I can stay out of sight. You wouldn't happen to have any guns around, would you?"
Eric shook his head as he plowed through his food.
"'S alright. I have a few in the trunk of my car."
Eric finished off the takeout and tossed the carton in the trash.
"Not that I'm not enjoying the company, but I really need some sleep."
"No problem. I'll stay entertained. Couldn't sleep if I tried, anyway," Yang Shao smiled, taking another swig of brew.
* * *
When Eric woke at six the next morning, he didn't see Yang Shao anywhere around the apartment. It was just as well -- he really didn't feel like playing The Odd Couple with a dying Chinese gangster if he could avoid it. Besides, just because he couldn't see Yang Shao didn't mean he wasn't there.
Years back, Eric had heard stories of how Yang Shao had waited in a Russian mobster's house for two days, never being seen, until the Russian was alone. He'd then slipped out of hiding, cut off all of the man's limbs, and left him to die on the front door of his boss's house. Eric knew he shouldn't have found this memory comforting, but in an odd way, he did.
Kenny had emailed Eric after the accident to let him know he could take as much time off as he needed, but Eric was planning to go to work anyway. He needed something to do other than wait around for Russel to come in and hack him up, and work was just boring enough to shut his brain off for eight hours or so. After showering and dressing for work, Eric fired up the Thunderbird and headed downtown. He thought he caught a glimpse of Yang Shao's black BMW trailing him, but the car was gone as soon as he saw it.
"Damn if he ain't creepy," Eric muttered to himself, turning up the stereo. The MC5's "Motor City is Burning" blared out of his open windows as he pulled into the parking garage and killed the engine.
"Um, hey, Eric. Uh, how are you feeling?" Kenny greeted as Eric walked past his desk.
"Couple cracked ribs. Broken fingers. Not too much worse for the wear, all told," Eric said.
"Um, good. You know, you really didn't have to come in today."
"Yeah, I needed something to do. I suck at downtime. New code build last night?"
"Uh huh."
"I'm on that, then," Eric waved as he walked to his cubicle.
Eric worked straight through lunch, as usual, and was ready to roll at four that afternoon. He'd fortunately been able to unplug from reality, jack his brain into his iPod, and work mindlessly for the entire time he'd been at work -- it was almost like sleeping, and Eric desperately needed the rest. He shut down his computer, finished off the last of his coffee, and headed for the door.
Again on the drive home, Eric thought he saw Yang Shao's BMW, but when he looked closely -- nothing. Eric made a quick stop to pick up a case of @Rockstar_Energy, then drove home and walked up to the apartment door. He was meeting with Johnny and Nathaniel for dinner and strategy before te meet with the Russian Mafia boss that night, and he needed to shower and change first -- it had been over 100 degrees again that day.
As he was drying off, he heard the sounds of a quick altercation in his living room. Eric quickly threw on a pair of pants and rushed out of the bathroom to find Yang Shao standing over the unconscious form of a white male in his mid-30s. The guy was obviously in very good shape, and he was dressed in a pair of black cargo pants and a black T-shirt. His hair was short, almost shaved, and a H&K MP5 submachine gun rested on the floor next to him.
"Friend of yours?" Yang Shao asked, shaking out his right hand.
"Nope," Eric shook his head, rolling the man over onto his back. He noticed that the main was wearing some sort of necklace under his shirt -- Eric pulled it out and realized that they were dog tags.
"Captain Henry Graham, United States Army," Eric read from the tag.
He was expecting secured blast doors, an armed guard, or at least a front office. What he found instead was a single, normal wooden door with "U.S. Marshal's Service" stenciled on it. He opened the door and walked right into an open office with five agents, Dean among them, sitting at desks.
"Um. . . hey," Eric said, waving.
Two of the agents looked up. One of them tapped Dean on the shoulder.
"Hey, Eric. Be with you in a second," Dean said, signing off on a few sheets of paper. The huge agent stood up, stretched, and checked his watch. "Up for a stroll?"
"Sure."
Dean escorted him back out of the office and onto the street, where the Marshal lit up a cigarette as he shrugged into his suit jacket.
"You look like hell," Dean commented.
"Car accident."
"I heard. I also heard you've been working with the Sheriff's Department as a consultant."
"Problem?"
"No, it's fine. You probably just should have mentioned something. C'mon. I have something in my car you should see."
Eric followed Dean to his Crown Victoria, which was parked in a garage just across the street. Dean opened the trunk and pulled out a briefcase, which he unlocked and opened. He pulled out the only object in the case, a manila folder with the FBI's logo on it.
"I've got it on loan for the day. I have to watch you while you look at it, but I did manage to get what you asked for."
Eric nodded and opened the folder. Inside was the full autopsy report on a 29-year-old male, found in the parking lot of Raymond James Stadium in Tampa, shot several times in the chest. The man's face had been burned with acid, and both of his hands had been cut off. Eric skipped over the written report and flipped through the pictures. After less than 30 seconds, he handed the file back to Dean.
"Nope. Not Russel Brandt."
"What? How can you tell?"
Eric sighed, reopened the file folder, and pulled out a picture. He flipped it so it was facing Dean -- it was a close-up shot the forensic dentist had taken of the inside of the body's mouth.
"Yeah? So?"
"This guy has a tongue. Russel didn't."
"Fuck me. You're sure on this?"
"Yeah, I'm sure. I knew the guy eight years, he never spoke word one. His father cut his tongue out when he was a kid. Those don't tend to grow back."
"I need to get on the phone. We need to get you moved, and quick."
"Too late for that, I'm afraid," Eric smiled weakly, handing the file back to Dean. He walked away, leaving the agent standing confused next to the open trunk of his car.
When he was a kid, Eric was diagnosed with mild hypoglycemia. As the years went on, the condition mostly went away, but he still tended to get extremely cranky if he ignored his diet for too long. The half-meal he'd eaten in the past two days, combined with his recent lack of sleep, was making him feel downright belligerent, so he stopped for Chinese takeout on the drive home. As it was only four in the afternoon, the restaurant was pretty much empty, and they got his hot braised pork to him in about five minutes.
Johnny had been thoughtful enough to lock the door to his apartment as he dragged Yang Shao out, so Eric unlocked the door and set his takeout bag on the kitchen table.
"Hungry?" Eric asked.
"Nah," Yang Shao answered from his perch on Eric's couch.
"Yeah, I figured as much," Eric nodded, opening the box and sticking his chopsticks into the pork and rice. "How much amphetamine are you on, anyway?"
"I think the medical term is 'a lot,'" Yang Shao smiled. "What tipped you?"
"I suspected when I saw your eyes. Way too dilated for the harsh lights in the interrogation room. Then, when you took out the cops -- no one as sick as you are should be able to move that fast."
"Nice side effect of the Dexedrine-L-DOPA cocktail. Makes the reaction time faster than Bruce fuckin' Lee."
"Where's the cancer?"
"Started out in the lungs. Didn't catch it until stage 3."
"So it's terminal."
"Afraid so. Moved to the lymph nodes and the brain. I figure I've got two months, maybe three."
"Hence the amphetamine. Doped up enough to walk around, finish off one last errand for Jian Wa."
"The thing with Russel? It's personal. I get you, too, so much the better for Jian Wa and his people. I couldn't care less, honestly. But my best bet is to stick around you until that freak pops up."
"I tend to agree. Which is why I was going to have them move you to a hospital rather than County."
"Awww. You were gonna break me out. I'm touched. Unnecessary, though. I can handle myself."
"Not with the short one."
"Got the drop on me. My dosage hadn't kicked in yet when the cop came in. Not planning on it happening again."
"Amphetamine psychosis?" Eric asked, shoveling low-grade pork into his mouth.
"Not yet, but it's in the mail, for sure. So we should both probably hope Russel shows up sooner rather than later," Yang Shao said, lifting one of the @Newcastle bottles to his lips. "Borrowed one of your beers. You mind?"
"All yours. I should tell you, though, cops tend to drop by here all the time. My handler from the Marshal's Service, too."
"Yeah, I guessed that might be a problem when the tiny redneck shitkicker dropped in unannounced. Don't worry, I can stay out of sight. You wouldn't happen to have any guns around, would you?"
Eric shook his head as he plowed through his food.
"'S alright. I have a few in the trunk of my car."
Eric finished off the takeout and tossed the carton in the trash.
"Not that I'm not enjoying the company, but I really need some sleep."
"No problem. I'll stay entertained. Couldn't sleep if I tried, anyway," Yang Shao smiled, taking another swig of brew.
* * *
When Eric woke at six the next morning, he didn't see Yang Shao anywhere around the apartment. It was just as well -- he really didn't feel like playing The Odd Couple with a dying Chinese gangster if he could avoid it. Besides, just because he couldn't see Yang Shao didn't mean he wasn't there.
Years back, Eric had heard stories of how Yang Shao had waited in a Russian mobster's house for two days, never being seen, until the Russian was alone. He'd then slipped out of hiding, cut off all of the man's limbs, and left him to die on the front door of his boss's house. Eric knew he shouldn't have found this memory comforting, but in an odd way, he did.
Kenny had emailed Eric after the accident to let him know he could take as much time off as he needed, but Eric was planning to go to work anyway. He needed something to do other than wait around for Russel to come in and hack him up, and work was just boring enough to shut his brain off for eight hours or so. After showering and dressing for work, Eric fired up the Thunderbird and headed downtown. He thought he caught a glimpse of Yang Shao's black BMW trailing him, but the car was gone as soon as he saw it.
"Damn if he ain't creepy," Eric muttered to himself, turning up the stereo. The MC5's "Motor City is Burning" blared out of his open windows as he pulled into the parking garage and killed the engine.
"Um, hey, Eric. Uh, how are you feeling?" Kenny greeted as Eric walked past his desk.
"Couple cracked ribs. Broken fingers. Not too much worse for the wear, all told," Eric said.
"Um, good. You know, you really didn't have to come in today."
"Yeah, I needed something to do. I suck at downtime. New code build last night?"
"Uh huh."
"I'm on that, then," Eric waved as he walked to his cubicle.
Eric worked straight through lunch, as usual, and was ready to roll at four that afternoon. He'd fortunately been able to unplug from reality, jack his brain into his iPod, and work mindlessly for the entire time he'd been at work -- it was almost like sleeping, and Eric desperately needed the rest. He shut down his computer, finished off the last of his coffee, and headed for the door.
Again on the drive home, Eric thought he saw Yang Shao's BMW, but when he looked closely -- nothing. Eric made a quick stop to pick up a case of @Rockstar_Energy, then drove home and walked up to the apartment door. He was meeting with Johnny and Nathaniel for dinner and strategy before te meet with the Russian Mafia boss that night, and he needed to shower and change first -- it had been over 100 degrees again that day.
As he was drying off, he heard the sounds of a quick altercation in his living room. Eric quickly threw on a pair of pants and rushed out of the bathroom to find Yang Shao standing over the unconscious form of a white male in his mid-30s. The guy was obviously in very good shape, and he was dressed in a pair of black cargo pants and a black T-shirt. His hair was short, almost shaved, and a H&K MP5 submachine gun rested on the floor next to him.
"Friend of yours?" Yang Shao asked, shaking out his right hand.
"Nope," Eric shook his head, rolling the man over onto his back. He noticed that the main was wearing some sort of necklace under his shirt -- Eric pulled it out and realized that they were dog tags.
"Captain Henry Graham, United States Army," Eric read from the tag.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
25,162
The title of this blog comes from the word count OpenOffice just gave me. That means, for a novel with a target of 50,000 words, we just crept over the halfway mark. Yay, us!
I also went over 250 followers today, which means that each of you pretty much has 100 words dedicated to them. Congrats to @OValencia, my 250th follower -- you'll have a character based on you coming up shortly in the novel.
I'm having a lot of fun with this (I must be, I haven't taken a day off since I started!), and I'm grateful to all of you who have come along for the ride.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Chapter Ten
"Cracked ribs, concussion, two broken fingers. You got away pretty cleanly, I'd say," Nathaniel said, flipping through the pages on Eric's chart.
"I've had worse. When are they going to let me out of here?" Eric asked, looking with disgust on the sorry excuse for dinner on the hospital tray in front of him.
"They need to keep you overnight for observation. Standard procedure with a concussion, I hear."
"Yeah, it is. I fall asleep, I could die. I've heard it all a bunch of times. Said it even more."
"How are you feeling?"
"A little dizzy. Otherwise fine. How's Johnny?"
"Pissed off. His dad gave him that car. 'Course, if you guys had been in your T-bird, you'd have been a smear on the eastbound lane, so it was a good thing his dad gave him a freaking tank. Tell me about this rival gang that hit the Russians. You know them?"
"These guys weren't a rival organization, at least not one I'm familiar with."
"How can you tell?"
"No tattoos, for one. Tattoos are big in that world, and these guys weren't rocking any."
"That's hardly a basis to say it wasn't a rival gang."
"Oh, there's more. The way they carried out the hit -- totally not consistent. These guys were organized, professional. You saw the Mercedes. You find any bullets anywhere but where the bodies were taken from?"
"Not a one."
"It's not like there's a weapons-training program for gangs. You just kind of figure it out, which means a lot of shots go wild, a lot of collateral damage. These guys poured 40, 50 rounds into the car and didn't miss once. Also, these guys were older than the typical runners you get to pull a public hit."
"Runners?"
"Low-level members. Street-gang types, mostly. Guys their age, or my age, really, are usually at least middle management."
"So they're older and more experienced. That all you got?"
"They were dressed the same. Like, in uniform."
"Not to mention they had throat mics and in-ear recievers," Johnny said from the door of Eric's hospital room.
Damn. I didn't even notice that. Maybe this guy isn't such a bad cop after all.
Eric nodded as if he had noticed it, too.
"And the hardware they used. They weren't carrying some knockoff Chinese AK-47s -- their guns were military ordinance," Eric continued.
"What? So you're saying that the fucking Army is taking out random members of the Russian Mob?" Nathaniel shook his head.
"Maybe not the Army, but definitely Army-trained," Johnny said. "These guys moved and operated just like the SF guys I saw in Iraq."
"Is that what you're going to tell the Russian Mafia in your meeting with them Friday? Yes, Johnny told me. And yes, I think it's a terrible idea. There's no way I'm letting you go through with it."
Eric sat up in his hospital bed, and he could tell from the sharp pain it brought exactly which ribs he had cracked.
"We don't have a choice now. These guys, whoever they are, know that the law is onto them now. Unless we find out what the Russians know and put a stop to it quick, you're going to have open warfare in the streets. You'll have blood running knee-deep in the storm sewers within a week."
The hospital released Eric the next morning after a minor bit of concern over his lack of appetite. Eric assured them he was fine, deciding not to mention that the quality of the hospital's food was the reason he wasn't eating. Nathaniel had offered to come back before work to drive him home, but Eric declined -- he'd just take a cab.
That plan, however, had one unexpected kink -- judging by the hour and a half he spent waiting outside the hospital, Omaha had exactly three cabs, and all of them were off duty. An hour and forty-five minutes after he'd initially called, a red and white Chevy Venture finally pulled up to the curb. Seven minutes later, Eric was unlocking the door to his apartment.
"Would have been faster if I walked it," Eric grumbled.
The @Newcastle Johnny had brought over the night before was still sitting on the table. Eric put it back in the fridge, though he had no idea what he'd ever need it for. He'd already called work the night before and let them know about the car accident, so he had the day off. Eric realized he hadn't gotten more than two hours of sleep in the last 48, so he headed for the bedroom. He was out as soon as his head hit the pillow.
When he woke up five hours later, he was hungry -- he realized he'd barely eaten in the last 48 hours, either. The @Newcastle was all that was in the refrigerator, so a restaurant was pretty much the only viable option. He quickly showered, shaved, and dressed, then walked outside, got in the Thunderbird, and drove off.
Not thirty seconds after he had left, a black BMW 525 parked across the street from his apartment. A shockingly thin man with long, black hair, dressed all in black, got out and went into the building.
* * *
Eric was halfway through a well-deserved steak when his phone rang. He considered not answering it, but it was Nathaniel's office number, so he pressed the Talk key and brought the phone up to his ear.
"Hey, Nathaniel."
"Eric. I need you to come down to the station as soon as possible."
"Can it wait? I'm in the middle of, you know, food."
"Johnny dropped by your apartment to check on you. He caught someone inside. Guy took a shot at him, but Johnny managed to take him into custody."
"Is Johnny OK?"
"Yeah, the guy missed. I'm going to have to ask you to come in and see if you can identify this guy."
The waitress was just passing by, and Eric flagged her down.
"Can I get you to wrap this up and bring me the check?" he asked. She nodded.
"I'll be there in 20 minutes."
Eric hung up the phone, paid his bill, and got directly into the T-bird. He'd driven halfway to the station before he realized he'd left his to-go container sitting on the table in the restaurant. He was still hungry, but it would have to wait -- he needed to find out who Julian had sent for him.
Johnny met Eric at the station's front door.
"Hey, Eric. Looks like someone wanted to pay you a visit."
"Sounds like. What does the guy look like?"
"Skinny. Long hair. Doesn't look like much, but damn if he isn't scrappy."
Eric felt a chunk of ice drop into his stomach. Russel.
"All right. Let's go take a look at him."
Johnny escorted Eric upstairs to an interrogation room's observation area, where Nathaniel was sitting, looking through the glass at a man they had shackled to the table. He was thin and had long hair, as Johnny had mentioned. Somehow, though, the Deputy had neglected to point out that this man was Chinese.
"You know this guy, Eric?"
"Not to speak to. Met him once. I know his reputation, though. That, gentleman, is Chen Yang Shao. He's an enforcer for the Chinese Mafia down in Miami. And I'm frankly surprised he didn't kill you," Eric said, nodding at Johnny, "You must have some moves, farm boy."
"I'll run him through NCIC. First name Chen?" Nathaniel asked.
"Last name's Chen. He insists on the old attribution for his name, which I don't think is actually his name. And don't bother with the NCIC. You won't find anything. He's completly off the grid -- you won't even find a birth certificate or ID on this guy."
"How do you know that?" Johnny asked, scratching his neck idly. Eric noticed that the index and middle knuckles on his right hand were bloody.
"Like I said, I met him once, but I've heard a lot about him. Triads smuggled him into the country from Hong Kong in '96, when he was in his early 20s. He'd already racked up a pretty decent number of kills for the 14K Triad over there, and the South Florida organization paid to get him. The Triad here in the states was still pretty small at the time, but they've kept him insulated from law enforcement ever since. I wouldn't be surprised if this is the one arrest he's ever had."
"The guy didn't seem that tough to take down. I mean, sure, he hit hard, but come on," Johnny shook his head.
"Like I said, you got game, Johnny."
"But why is he here?" Nathaniel asked.
"Have you asked him yet?"
"Of course. But the guy doesn't speak English. We're waiting on an interpreter."
"Oh, fuck that," Johnny said, flinging open the door to the interrogation room and stalking inside. The door closed behind him, and Johnny turned to Nathaniel.
"What, does he speak Chinese, now, too?"
Nathaniel turned on the microphones in the room so he could hear what was going on.
"You," Yang Shao smiled at Eric.
"Yeah, me. Cut the shit, Yang Shao. I told them you speak English."
Yang Shao spread his arms as wide as the shackles would let him and shrugged his shoulders.
"Ah, well. The gig, as they say, is up, I suppose. How you been, Eric?" Yang Shao grinned, his English as smooth and unaccented as if he had been raised in Dumptruck, Iowa.
"Motherfucker," Johnny shook his head.
"Quiet," Nathaniel hissed.
"I've had better days. So, Jian Wa sent you up here to kill me, then."
"My, my. Aren't we full of ourselves? I show up here in Redneck Falls, and you assume it has something to do with you."
"I'm not wrong."
Yang Shao smiled widely. His skin was paler than Eric remembered, and something looked off about his eyes. It could have been his imagination, as well, but the man looked thinner than when Eric had met him two years before.
"But in this case, my friend, you are, in fact, wrong."
"Right. You drove 25 hours just to -- what -- vacation? In my living room?"
"I don't vacation. I'm not here looking for you -- obviously, I knew right where you were. I'm here looking for someone who's looking for you. Simple as that. Now, if you should happen to get caught in the crossfire. . . " Yang Shao shrugged as he trailed off.
"Yeah. In case you haven't noticed, you're not really going anywhere."
Yang Shao smiled again.
"You really believe that?"
"Tell me who's after me," Eric demanded flatly.
"Oh, you already know that," Yang Shao nodded.
"I suspected."
"Of course you did. And you were right."
"When?"
"He's already here."
Eric stood up from the table. As he placed his hand on the door, he turned back to Yang Shao, who smiled at him.
"No worries. We'll see each other soon," the thin Chinese said.
It sometimes amazed Eric how fast the human mind worked. In the time it took him to open the door, he decided that he was much safer with the Chinese assassin free than locked up in county jail. In the time it took to walk through that door into the observation room, Eric realized that Nathaniel would never agree to release Yang Shao, though Eric decided he'd try convincing him anyway. By the time he'd closed the door and opened his mouth to speak to the two Sheriff's Deputies, he'd already hatched a plan to break Yang Shao out.
"I need to ask you a really big favor, Nathaniel."
"Hopefully it's not what I think it is," Nathaniel sighed.
"I need you to cut this guy loose."
"Yep. That's what I thought it was. No way, Eric. I'm beginning to trust you, and all, but I don't even trust my own wife that much."
"I'd say not. You're getting divorced. No ring, but the imprint of one that was there for a long time," Eric answered Nathaniel's shocked look. "The guy that's after me is just as bad as this one, if not worse. I stand a much better chance of surviving with Yang Shao out on the streets."
"I sympathize," Nathaniel said after a pause, "Really, I do. But we've got him on breaking and entering --"
"Which goes away if I say I let him into the house."
"Assaulting a police officer --"
"Which goes away if Johnny says so."
Johnny shook his head.
"And possession of and discharging an unregistered firearm. A Desert Eagle .50, if you were interested. That one doesn't go away. This guy's going to County no matter what."
"I understand you can't release him, but I'd definitely advise against County."
"And why is that?"
"Look at him. He's sick. He didn't used to be that thin, and his skin isn't supposed to have that unhealthy grey color."
"Didn't hit like a sick guy," Johnny muttered.
"He is. I -- well, Eric Austen was a medic. Have someone check him out."
"Fine. We'll take him to the hospital under guard. I'll have a doctor look him over."
Johnny nodded. A hospital, even with a police guard, would be much easier to break Yang Shao out of than the Douglas County jail. It would mean dismissal from the Witness Security program if he was caught, and probably a nice, long stint in Federal prison -- but it was better than being hacked up and fed to whatever wildlife was indigenous to this godforsaken part of the country by a certain mute sociopath.
Twenty minutes later, Eric was outside the station, leaning on the trunk of his car and talking to Johnny when the doors opened. Two large Deputies were escorting Yang Shao to a cruiser. Eric and Johnny stopped talking and watched as one of the cops opened the cruiser's back door, the other holding tightly to Yang Shao's left elbow.
What happened next happened in slow motion. Eric heard the handcuffs hit the pavement as Yang Shao whirled, his hands and feet a blur. The cop who had been holding his elbow flew backwards, his face streaming blood. Before the other could get his hand on his gun, Yang Shao bounced his head off the side of the cruiser.
Eric felt Johnny drawing his gun, but Yang Shao was already over the hood of the cruiser and gone around the corner. Eric and Johnny set off after him, but by the time they rounded the corner, the thin Chinese was nowhere to be seen.
"I've had worse. When are they going to let me out of here?" Eric asked, looking with disgust on the sorry excuse for dinner on the hospital tray in front of him.
"They need to keep you overnight for observation. Standard procedure with a concussion, I hear."
"Yeah, it is. I fall asleep, I could die. I've heard it all a bunch of times. Said it even more."
"How are you feeling?"
"A little dizzy. Otherwise fine. How's Johnny?"
"Pissed off. His dad gave him that car. 'Course, if you guys had been in your T-bird, you'd have been a smear on the eastbound lane, so it was a good thing his dad gave him a freaking tank. Tell me about this rival gang that hit the Russians. You know them?"
"These guys weren't a rival organization, at least not one I'm familiar with."
"How can you tell?"
"No tattoos, for one. Tattoos are big in that world, and these guys weren't rocking any."
"That's hardly a basis to say it wasn't a rival gang."
"Oh, there's more. The way they carried out the hit -- totally not consistent. These guys were organized, professional. You saw the Mercedes. You find any bullets anywhere but where the bodies were taken from?"
"Not a one."
"It's not like there's a weapons-training program for gangs. You just kind of figure it out, which means a lot of shots go wild, a lot of collateral damage. These guys poured 40, 50 rounds into the car and didn't miss once. Also, these guys were older than the typical runners you get to pull a public hit."
"Runners?"
"Low-level members. Street-gang types, mostly. Guys their age, or my age, really, are usually at least middle management."
"So they're older and more experienced. That all you got?"
"They were dressed the same. Like, in uniform."
"Not to mention they had throat mics and in-ear recievers," Johnny said from the door of Eric's hospital room.
Damn. I didn't even notice that. Maybe this guy isn't such a bad cop after all.
Eric nodded as if he had noticed it, too.
"And the hardware they used. They weren't carrying some knockoff Chinese AK-47s -- their guns were military ordinance," Eric continued.
"What? So you're saying that the fucking Army is taking out random members of the Russian Mob?" Nathaniel shook his head.
"Maybe not the Army, but definitely Army-trained," Johnny said. "These guys moved and operated just like the SF guys I saw in Iraq."
"Is that what you're going to tell the Russian Mafia in your meeting with them Friday? Yes, Johnny told me. And yes, I think it's a terrible idea. There's no way I'm letting you go through with it."
Eric sat up in his hospital bed, and he could tell from the sharp pain it brought exactly which ribs he had cracked.
"We don't have a choice now. These guys, whoever they are, know that the law is onto them now. Unless we find out what the Russians know and put a stop to it quick, you're going to have open warfare in the streets. You'll have blood running knee-deep in the storm sewers within a week."
The hospital released Eric the next morning after a minor bit of concern over his lack of appetite. Eric assured them he was fine, deciding not to mention that the quality of the hospital's food was the reason he wasn't eating. Nathaniel had offered to come back before work to drive him home, but Eric declined -- he'd just take a cab.
That plan, however, had one unexpected kink -- judging by the hour and a half he spent waiting outside the hospital, Omaha had exactly three cabs, and all of them were off duty. An hour and forty-five minutes after he'd initially called, a red and white Chevy Venture finally pulled up to the curb. Seven minutes later, Eric was unlocking the door to his apartment.
"Would have been faster if I walked it," Eric grumbled.
The @Newcastle Johnny had brought over the night before was still sitting on the table. Eric put it back in the fridge, though he had no idea what he'd ever need it for. He'd already called work the night before and let them know about the car accident, so he had the day off. Eric realized he hadn't gotten more than two hours of sleep in the last 48, so he headed for the bedroom. He was out as soon as his head hit the pillow.
When he woke up five hours later, he was hungry -- he realized he'd barely eaten in the last 48 hours, either. The @Newcastle was all that was in the refrigerator, so a restaurant was pretty much the only viable option. He quickly showered, shaved, and dressed, then walked outside, got in the Thunderbird, and drove off.
Not thirty seconds after he had left, a black BMW 525 parked across the street from his apartment. A shockingly thin man with long, black hair, dressed all in black, got out and went into the building.
* * *
Eric was halfway through a well-deserved steak when his phone rang. He considered not answering it, but it was Nathaniel's office number, so he pressed the Talk key and brought the phone up to his ear.
"Hey, Nathaniel."
"Eric. I need you to come down to the station as soon as possible."
"Can it wait? I'm in the middle of, you know, food."
"Johnny dropped by your apartment to check on you. He caught someone inside. Guy took a shot at him, but Johnny managed to take him into custody."
"Is Johnny OK?"
"Yeah, the guy missed. I'm going to have to ask you to come in and see if you can identify this guy."
The waitress was just passing by, and Eric flagged her down.
"Can I get you to wrap this up and bring me the check?" he asked. She nodded.
"I'll be there in 20 minutes."
Eric hung up the phone, paid his bill, and got directly into the T-bird. He'd driven halfway to the station before he realized he'd left his to-go container sitting on the table in the restaurant. He was still hungry, but it would have to wait -- he needed to find out who Julian had sent for him.
Johnny met Eric at the station's front door.
"Hey, Eric. Looks like someone wanted to pay you a visit."
"Sounds like. What does the guy look like?"
"Skinny. Long hair. Doesn't look like much, but damn if he isn't scrappy."
Eric felt a chunk of ice drop into his stomach. Russel.
"All right. Let's go take a look at him."
Johnny escorted Eric upstairs to an interrogation room's observation area, where Nathaniel was sitting, looking through the glass at a man they had shackled to the table. He was thin and had long hair, as Johnny had mentioned. Somehow, though, the Deputy had neglected to point out that this man was Chinese.
"You know this guy, Eric?"
"Not to speak to. Met him once. I know his reputation, though. That, gentleman, is Chen Yang Shao. He's an enforcer for the Chinese Mafia down in Miami. And I'm frankly surprised he didn't kill you," Eric said, nodding at Johnny, "You must have some moves, farm boy."
"I'll run him through NCIC. First name Chen?" Nathaniel asked.
"Last name's Chen. He insists on the old attribution for his name, which I don't think is actually his name. And don't bother with the NCIC. You won't find anything. He's completly off the grid -- you won't even find a birth certificate or ID on this guy."
"How do you know that?" Johnny asked, scratching his neck idly. Eric noticed that the index and middle knuckles on his right hand were bloody.
"Like I said, I met him once, but I've heard a lot about him. Triads smuggled him into the country from Hong Kong in '96, when he was in his early 20s. He'd already racked up a pretty decent number of kills for the 14K Triad over there, and the South Florida organization paid to get him. The Triad here in the states was still pretty small at the time, but they've kept him insulated from law enforcement ever since. I wouldn't be surprised if this is the one arrest he's ever had."
"The guy didn't seem that tough to take down. I mean, sure, he hit hard, but come on," Johnny shook his head.
"Like I said, you got game, Johnny."
"But why is he here?" Nathaniel asked.
"Have you asked him yet?"
"Of course. But the guy doesn't speak English. We're waiting on an interpreter."
"Oh, fuck that," Johnny said, flinging open the door to the interrogation room and stalking inside. The door closed behind him, and Johnny turned to Nathaniel.
"What, does he speak Chinese, now, too?"
Nathaniel turned on the microphones in the room so he could hear what was going on.
"You," Yang Shao smiled at Eric.
"Yeah, me. Cut the shit, Yang Shao. I told them you speak English."
Yang Shao spread his arms as wide as the shackles would let him and shrugged his shoulders.
"Ah, well. The gig, as they say, is up, I suppose. How you been, Eric?" Yang Shao grinned, his English as smooth and unaccented as if he had been raised in Dumptruck, Iowa.
"Motherfucker," Johnny shook his head.
"Quiet," Nathaniel hissed.
"I've had better days. So, Jian Wa sent you up here to kill me, then."
"My, my. Aren't we full of ourselves? I show up here in Redneck Falls, and you assume it has something to do with you."
"I'm not wrong."
Yang Shao smiled widely. His skin was paler than Eric remembered, and something looked off about his eyes. It could have been his imagination, as well, but the man looked thinner than when Eric had met him two years before.
"But in this case, my friend, you are, in fact, wrong."
"Right. You drove 25 hours just to -- what -- vacation? In my living room?"
"I don't vacation. I'm not here looking for you -- obviously, I knew right where you were. I'm here looking for someone who's looking for you. Simple as that. Now, if you should happen to get caught in the crossfire. . . " Yang Shao shrugged as he trailed off.
"Yeah. In case you haven't noticed, you're not really going anywhere."
Yang Shao smiled again.
"You really believe that?"
"Tell me who's after me," Eric demanded flatly.
"Oh, you already know that," Yang Shao nodded.
"I suspected."
"Of course you did. And you were right."
"When?"
"He's already here."
Eric stood up from the table. As he placed his hand on the door, he turned back to Yang Shao, who smiled at him.
"No worries. We'll see each other soon," the thin Chinese said.
It sometimes amazed Eric how fast the human mind worked. In the time it took him to open the door, he decided that he was much safer with the Chinese assassin free than locked up in county jail. In the time it took to walk through that door into the observation room, Eric realized that Nathaniel would never agree to release Yang Shao, though Eric decided he'd try convincing him anyway. By the time he'd closed the door and opened his mouth to speak to the two Sheriff's Deputies, he'd already hatched a plan to break Yang Shao out.
"I need to ask you a really big favor, Nathaniel."
"Hopefully it's not what I think it is," Nathaniel sighed.
"I need you to cut this guy loose."
"Yep. That's what I thought it was. No way, Eric. I'm beginning to trust you, and all, but I don't even trust my own wife that much."
"I'd say not. You're getting divorced. No ring, but the imprint of one that was there for a long time," Eric answered Nathaniel's shocked look. "The guy that's after me is just as bad as this one, if not worse. I stand a much better chance of surviving with Yang Shao out on the streets."
"I sympathize," Nathaniel said after a pause, "Really, I do. But we've got him on breaking and entering --"
"Which goes away if I say I let him into the house."
"Assaulting a police officer --"
"Which goes away if Johnny says so."
Johnny shook his head.
"And possession of and discharging an unregistered firearm. A Desert Eagle .50, if you were interested. That one doesn't go away. This guy's going to County no matter what."
"I understand you can't release him, but I'd definitely advise against County."
"And why is that?"
"Look at him. He's sick. He didn't used to be that thin, and his skin isn't supposed to have that unhealthy grey color."
"Didn't hit like a sick guy," Johnny muttered.
"He is. I -- well, Eric Austen was a medic. Have someone check him out."
"Fine. We'll take him to the hospital under guard. I'll have a doctor look him over."
Johnny nodded. A hospital, even with a police guard, would be much easier to break Yang Shao out of than the Douglas County jail. It would mean dismissal from the Witness Security program if he was caught, and probably a nice, long stint in Federal prison -- but it was better than being hacked up and fed to whatever wildlife was indigenous to this godforsaken part of the country by a certain mute sociopath.
Twenty minutes later, Eric was outside the station, leaning on the trunk of his car and talking to Johnny when the doors opened. Two large Deputies were escorting Yang Shao to a cruiser. Eric and Johnny stopped talking and watched as one of the cops opened the cruiser's back door, the other holding tightly to Yang Shao's left elbow.
What happened next happened in slow motion. Eric heard the handcuffs hit the pavement as Yang Shao whirled, his hands and feet a blur. The cop who had been holding his elbow flew backwards, his face streaming blood. Before the other could get his hand on his gun, Yang Shao bounced his head off the side of the cruiser.
Eric felt Johnny drawing his gun, but Yang Shao was already over the hood of the cruiser and gone around the corner. Eric and Johnny set off after him, but by the time they rounded the corner, the thin Chinese was nowhere to be seen.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Chapter Nine
Tampa, Florida, 2008
"Usually I'd have Russel run this kind of errand, but, as you know, he's down helping Jian Wa with a few things in Miami," Julian said. Eric could hear music in the background -- no doubt his boss was "entertaining" some female acquantaince.
"You pay me, Julian. You don't have to ask me nicely to do my job," Eric said into the phone as he pulled his Land Rover into the parking lot of his apartment.
"Oh, but I do so enjoy being polite. After all, what else separates us from the jackals?"
"Point taken. So, what's the job?"
"Nothing major, my boy. You're to meet a few of my boys down at the docks -- Reggie and Edward, you know them -- and one of Jian Wa's people. There's a container coming off of a Chinese freighter tonight."
"What's in the container?"
"Whores, my boy. Jian Wa has graciously agreed to sell their contracts to me at a steal, and I'm opening a brothel up here. You're just management -- just make sure they all do their jobs, and then take the weekend off."
"Sure thing, boss," Eric said, unlocking the door to his apartment. "What time?"
"Oh, the witching hour, of course. Listen, darling, I have to go -- this silly woman has just spilled Pinot Nior all over my couch. Call me when you're done, yes?"
Eric hung up the phone and threw his keys on the dining room table. It was already getting on towards eight at night, and he'd need a shower and dinner before heading out. Before the shower, though, he went to the closet and picked out a pair of guns for the night -- two matched Glock .23s -- and tossed them on the bed.
* * *
Reggie was waiting at the gates to the Port of Tampa when Eric pulled up in the Land Rover. He liked Reggie -- though the kid wasn't even yet 21, he seemed pretty smart, and the kid could definitely make a joke. Reggie closed the gate behind the Land Rover, then got into the passenger seat.
"Hey, boss," Reggie smiled widely. "Glad it's you tonight and not that nutjob Russel."
"Ah, don't take it so hard on the guy."
"Yeah, but he never talks. Freaks a brother out, you know?"
"You never heard why he doesn't talk?" Eric asked, slowly heading for berth 36.
"No, man. Not like he'd tell me," Reggie grinned.
"He doesn't talk because he can't. His father was kind of a bastard. When young Russel wouldn't stop babbling one day, Daddy cut his tongue out with a straight razor."
"You're fucking with me."
"Nope. That's what Julian told me."
"Now I feel bad for calling him a nutjob," Reggie shook his head.
"Don't. I like Russel, and all, but there's definitely something wrong with the boy," Eric told him as he rolled to a stop near berth 36, where Edward and a young Chinese guy were waiting, smoking cigarettes. Eric killed the headlights, but not before he noticed the pair of brand-new cargo vans parked just behind Edward and his Chinese pal -- the transport for their cargo, he assumed.
Eric shut off the engine and got out of the car. Edward shot him a nod, which he returned. The Chinese guy next to Edward stuck out his hand.
"Billy Tan," he smiled widely.
"Eric Austen," Eric said, shaking the young man's hand.
"Heard a lot about you. Jian Wa thinks you're all right."
"Happy to hear it," Eric nodded to a long, red cargo container, "This our can?"
"Yes, sir."
"All right, let's do this quick."
Edward and Billy went to the cargo vans -- each pulled an AK-47 from the front seat. From behind the container, another young Chinese appeared, shuffling through a set of keys.
"This's Harold," Billy nodded at the other Chinese.
"I thought there was only supposed to be you?"
"I get bored on the drive up from Miami."
Eric nodded. Harold finally found the right key and unlocked the container. The smell was what hit Eric first -- the people in the container obviously hadn't had access to shower or toilet facilities in quite some time. As the containers doors swung all the way open, Harold shined a Mag-Lite inside -- huddled together in the center were no fewer than twenty people, male and female. It took Eric a second to realize that not one of them was a day over twelve years old.
Edward and Billy gestured at the kids with their weapons, and Billy growled something in Chinese.
"Hold the fuck up. Julian said we were supposed to be bringing in prositutes," Eric yelled.
Billy looked at Eric and grinned. The lower half of his face was all teeth.
"Yep. That's them, right there."
"They're children."
Billy started giggling.
"Whore's a whore, man."
Billy's giggle turned into a full-blown laugh, and he gestured at the kids again with the barrel of his weapon.
Before he knew what he was doing, Eric had one of the Glocks from his behind-the-back- double holster in his hand, and he was squeezing the trigger. The first bullet augered into the side of Billy's head, sending a huge spray of blood and bone over the door of the container.
Eric whirled, drawing the other gun, and fired three shots as quickly as possible at Harold, who was just reaching for a weapon. Harold's head exploded into a wet red mist, and the man's body thumped to the dock.
Reggie was frozen in place next to Eric. Edward still had his gun pointed at the kids, and he slowly turned to stare at his boss.
"Eric. What the fuck, man! Don't you know what Julian's going to do to you?"
"Put it down, Edward. I don't want to shoot you."
"I can't put it down, Eric. This cargo doesn't get delivered, it's my ass and yours," Edward shook his head, slowly bringing his AK-47 to bear on Eric.
"Dammit," Eric muttered, squeezing the trigger on the Glock in his right hand. Edward dropped without firing a shot, blood from his head wound pooling on the concrete.
"Run, Reggie. Get the fuck out of here, now," Eric growled, not turning to look at the younger man. He heard Reggie sprint away towards the gate.
* * *
Eric had managed to get all of the children into one of the vans, which he had left parked in the handicapped space in front of the Tampa Police Department's Franklin Street station. He then walked a few blocks north and stole an Acura Integra, which took him less than a minute to hotwire.
He knew Julian would be looking for him, and his apartment would be the first place he'd check. Still, he had a rather large amount of cash stashed there, and he'd need it -- Eric planned to vanish off the face of the Earth. He figured he still had an hour, maybe two, before Julian figured out what had happened.
He was wrong. When he opened the door to his apartment, he saw Russel's disturbing grin. Then he saw Russel's right fist, and then he saw black.
* * *
Eric awoke to room-temperature liquid splashing in his face. From the way it burned his nose and eyes, he assumed it was gasoline -- burning, then. Julian was going to torch him alive.
A few drops of the liquid trickled past his lips, and Eric found that it wasn't gasoline -- it was Southern Comfort. Probably not burning. . . the SoCo was just meant to wake him up. It had worked.
Eric blinked the remaining Southern Comfort out of his eyes, and found as they refocused that he was in Julian's kitchen, whic was a bad sign. His arms were lashed, underside-up, to the same oak chair he'd seen Jason butchered in.
Great. Bleeding to death. Not the way I wanted to go.
"Oh, look, Russel. Eric's back. How's your breathing, my boy?"
Eric hadn't realized it, but he was having a problem drawing in air through his nose. Russel must have broken it, which is why the Southern Comfort stung so much.
"It's been better," Eric coughed. There was dried blood in the back of his throat. Definitely a broken nose, then, and a pretty bad one at that -- most likely, he guessed, both eyes were black by now. He must have been out for more than an hour for the blood to have dried.
"I guess. Looks like you hit him pretty hard, there, Russel. Not that I mind so much," Julian grinned, lighting a cigarette.
"Look, Julian. We both know where this is going. What say that, for once, you skip the speechifying and just have the freak cut me up?" Eric sighed.
"Ooh. Look at you, big guy. I remember when I met you, you were just a sad little drunk who couldn't have weighed more than 110. Now you're firing orders around the place --"
"So no skipping the speeches, then. I get it."
"You have to let me at least have that, Eric. You did cost me more than $10 million tonight," Julian shrugged.
"Yeah. From peddling children into the sex trade. I feel real bad about that, Julian. I really do."
"Sarcasm. Nice. Haven't you learned anything working for me, Eric?" Julian asked, nodding to Russel. Russel pulled his Hissatsu from behind his back and ran it quickly across Eric's chest. Eric gasped as blood started to flow freely down the front of his shirt.
"Morality. It's an obsolete concept anymore, Eric. When this world finally falls apart, I'll hold the head of the last moral man in one hand, and the head of the last brave man in the other," Julian said. He took a long drag from the cigarette and nodded to Russel again. The knife flashed out once more, slicing across the cut he'd already made. More blood poured down, splashing onto the kitchen floor.
"Morality gets in our way, Eric. For example, if I was a moral man, I would have had a problem putting cameras up in your house. I wouldn't have known about the girlfriend you never mentioned, the one you thought I didn't know about. Don't worry about her, my boy. Russel already paid her a visit."
Eric bucked in the chair, pulling against the arms with all his strength. He felt the wood start to crack, and he began to rise onto his feet, still strapped to the chair. Russel stabbed the Hissatsu down into Eric's right thigh, and the chair fell down to the floor. He quickly pulled the knife out of Eric's leg and slammed it into his left shoulder, pinning it to the back of the chair.
"Why, thank you, Russel. My, Eric. You have gotten strong in the last couple of years. I do believe you could break out of that chair in time. Weaken up those guns a bit, would you, Russel?"
Russel picked up a scalpel from the kitchen counter. Eric was still struggling in the chair as Russel brought the blade close to his left arm.
"Now, don't fidget, my boy, or Russel here might accidentally nick an artery," Julian laughed, snuffing out his cigarette.
The point of the scalpel touched lightly to Eric's wrist.
"Mind the tattoos, Russel. It's beautiful work, isn't it? Hate to spoil them."
Russel nodded, then plunged the scalpel deep into Eric's wrist. There was blood, certainly, but not as much as Eric was expecting. He saw the flesh of his arm split apart like an overcooked sausage casing as Russel ran the blade all the way up to his elbow.
"See, if the Chinese had caught you first, they would have done this 'death of 100 cuts' thing. None of the cuts would be fatal, but you'd bleed to death anyway. I kind of like that, but I don't have the patience," Julian explained, pouring a glass of Southern Comfort. "Drink?"
Eric was too busy trying not to scream to form any sort of answer. Julian shrugged and poured the entire glass of liquor on Eric's arm.
Eric screamed then, and didn't stop until he'd passed out.
* * *
Eric couldn't see anything. Couldn't feel anything. But he could hear Julian cackling.
My, that's a lot of blood. He's got to be gone by now, no, Russel?
A long pause.
Ah. No matter. He will be soon enough. Sun will be up in an hour. Let the pelicans feed on what's left.
A very long silence. Suddenly, the pain hit him with a huge, violent, full-body fist. Eric forced his eyes open -- they stung, and he realized he couldn't breathe. He was underwater. Salt water -- the bay. His shirt, still tucked into his pants, hung in tatters around him. Eric ripped off the two largest pieces and tied them around his forearms as best he could, then started kicking upwards.
His legs were barely moving. He couldn't see light, wasn't even sure he was headed up. He kicked for as long as his legs would let him, but his head didn't break the surface. He didn't have anything left.
Then, he was facedown in the sand. It took all of his effort to lift his head, but he managed to do it. It was dark, but he could tell he'd washed up on a beach. A public beach, with a public phone fifty feet away. He tried to claw his way there, but his hands didn't want to work.
Eric managed to belly-crawl across the sand. It took everything he had to reach up and grab the phone. He was pretty sure he pushed in the digits 9-1-1, but there was no sound from the earpiece for a long time. Finally, just before his eyes slid shut, he heard in a far-off voice, "911, what is the nature of your emergency?"
Eric could only force out one word before he collapsed, leaving the phone hanging just above the sand.
"Murder," he choked. His forehead hit the sand, and the pain went away.
"Usually I'd have Russel run this kind of errand, but, as you know, he's down helping Jian Wa with a few things in Miami," Julian said. Eric could hear music in the background -- no doubt his boss was "entertaining" some female acquantaince.
"You pay me, Julian. You don't have to ask me nicely to do my job," Eric said into the phone as he pulled his Land Rover into the parking lot of his apartment.
"Oh, but I do so enjoy being polite. After all, what else separates us from the jackals?"
"Point taken. So, what's the job?"
"Nothing major, my boy. You're to meet a few of my boys down at the docks -- Reggie and Edward, you know them -- and one of Jian Wa's people. There's a container coming off of a Chinese freighter tonight."
"What's in the container?"
"Whores, my boy. Jian Wa has graciously agreed to sell their contracts to me at a steal, and I'm opening a brothel up here. You're just management -- just make sure they all do their jobs, and then take the weekend off."
"Sure thing, boss," Eric said, unlocking the door to his apartment. "What time?"
"Oh, the witching hour, of course. Listen, darling, I have to go -- this silly woman has just spilled Pinot Nior all over my couch. Call me when you're done, yes?"
Eric hung up the phone and threw his keys on the dining room table. It was already getting on towards eight at night, and he'd need a shower and dinner before heading out. Before the shower, though, he went to the closet and picked out a pair of guns for the night -- two matched Glock .23s -- and tossed them on the bed.
* * *
Reggie was waiting at the gates to the Port of Tampa when Eric pulled up in the Land Rover. He liked Reggie -- though the kid wasn't even yet 21, he seemed pretty smart, and the kid could definitely make a joke. Reggie closed the gate behind the Land Rover, then got into the passenger seat.
"Hey, boss," Reggie smiled widely. "Glad it's you tonight and not that nutjob Russel."
"Ah, don't take it so hard on the guy."
"Yeah, but he never talks. Freaks a brother out, you know?"
"You never heard why he doesn't talk?" Eric asked, slowly heading for berth 36.
"No, man. Not like he'd tell me," Reggie grinned.
"He doesn't talk because he can't. His father was kind of a bastard. When young Russel wouldn't stop babbling one day, Daddy cut his tongue out with a straight razor."
"You're fucking with me."
"Nope. That's what Julian told me."
"Now I feel bad for calling him a nutjob," Reggie shook his head.
"Don't. I like Russel, and all, but there's definitely something wrong with the boy," Eric told him as he rolled to a stop near berth 36, where Edward and a young Chinese guy were waiting, smoking cigarettes. Eric killed the headlights, but not before he noticed the pair of brand-new cargo vans parked just behind Edward and his Chinese pal -- the transport for their cargo, he assumed.
Eric shut off the engine and got out of the car. Edward shot him a nod, which he returned. The Chinese guy next to Edward stuck out his hand.
"Billy Tan," he smiled widely.
"Eric Austen," Eric said, shaking the young man's hand.
"Heard a lot about you. Jian Wa thinks you're all right."
"Happy to hear it," Eric nodded to a long, red cargo container, "This our can?"
"Yes, sir."
"All right, let's do this quick."
Edward and Billy went to the cargo vans -- each pulled an AK-47 from the front seat. From behind the container, another young Chinese appeared, shuffling through a set of keys.
"This's Harold," Billy nodded at the other Chinese.
"I thought there was only supposed to be you?"
"I get bored on the drive up from Miami."
Eric nodded. Harold finally found the right key and unlocked the container. The smell was what hit Eric first -- the people in the container obviously hadn't had access to shower or toilet facilities in quite some time. As the containers doors swung all the way open, Harold shined a Mag-Lite inside -- huddled together in the center were no fewer than twenty people, male and female. It took Eric a second to realize that not one of them was a day over twelve years old.
Edward and Billy gestured at the kids with their weapons, and Billy growled something in Chinese.
"Hold the fuck up. Julian said we were supposed to be bringing in prositutes," Eric yelled.
Billy looked at Eric and grinned. The lower half of his face was all teeth.
"Yep. That's them, right there."
"They're children."
Billy started giggling.
"Whore's a whore, man."
Billy's giggle turned into a full-blown laugh, and he gestured at the kids again with the barrel of his weapon.
Before he knew what he was doing, Eric had one of the Glocks from his behind-the-back- double holster in his hand, and he was squeezing the trigger. The first bullet augered into the side of Billy's head, sending a huge spray of blood and bone over the door of the container.
Eric whirled, drawing the other gun, and fired three shots as quickly as possible at Harold, who was just reaching for a weapon. Harold's head exploded into a wet red mist, and the man's body thumped to the dock.
Reggie was frozen in place next to Eric. Edward still had his gun pointed at the kids, and he slowly turned to stare at his boss.
"Eric. What the fuck, man! Don't you know what Julian's going to do to you?"
"Put it down, Edward. I don't want to shoot you."
"I can't put it down, Eric. This cargo doesn't get delivered, it's my ass and yours," Edward shook his head, slowly bringing his AK-47 to bear on Eric.
"Dammit," Eric muttered, squeezing the trigger on the Glock in his right hand. Edward dropped without firing a shot, blood from his head wound pooling on the concrete.
"Run, Reggie. Get the fuck out of here, now," Eric growled, not turning to look at the younger man. He heard Reggie sprint away towards the gate.
* * *
Eric had managed to get all of the children into one of the vans, which he had left parked in the handicapped space in front of the Tampa Police Department's Franklin Street station. He then walked a few blocks north and stole an Acura Integra, which took him less than a minute to hotwire.
He knew Julian would be looking for him, and his apartment would be the first place he'd check. Still, he had a rather large amount of cash stashed there, and he'd need it -- Eric planned to vanish off the face of the Earth. He figured he still had an hour, maybe two, before Julian figured out what had happened.
He was wrong. When he opened the door to his apartment, he saw Russel's disturbing grin. Then he saw Russel's right fist, and then he saw black.
* * *
Eric awoke to room-temperature liquid splashing in his face. From the way it burned his nose and eyes, he assumed it was gasoline -- burning, then. Julian was going to torch him alive.
A few drops of the liquid trickled past his lips, and Eric found that it wasn't gasoline -- it was Southern Comfort. Probably not burning. . . the SoCo was just meant to wake him up. It had worked.
Eric blinked the remaining Southern Comfort out of his eyes, and found as they refocused that he was in Julian's kitchen, whic was a bad sign. His arms were lashed, underside-up, to the same oak chair he'd seen Jason butchered in.
Great. Bleeding to death. Not the way I wanted to go.
"Oh, look, Russel. Eric's back. How's your breathing, my boy?"
Eric hadn't realized it, but he was having a problem drawing in air through his nose. Russel must have broken it, which is why the Southern Comfort stung so much.
"It's been better," Eric coughed. There was dried blood in the back of his throat. Definitely a broken nose, then, and a pretty bad one at that -- most likely, he guessed, both eyes were black by now. He must have been out for more than an hour for the blood to have dried.
"I guess. Looks like you hit him pretty hard, there, Russel. Not that I mind so much," Julian grinned, lighting a cigarette.
"Look, Julian. We both know where this is going. What say that, for once, you skip the speechifying and just have the freak cut me up?" Eric sighed.
"Ooh. Look at you, big guy. I remember when I met you, you were just a sad little drunk who couldn't have weighed more than 110. Now you're firing orders around the place --"
"So no skipping the speeches, then. I get it."
"You have to let me at least have that, Eric. You did cost me more than $10 million tonight," Julian shrugged.
"Yeah. From peddling children into the sex trade. I feel real bad about that, Julian. I really do."
"Sarcasm. Nice. Haven't you learned anything working for me, Eric?" Julian asked, nodding to Russel. Russel pulled his Hissatsu from behind his back and ran it quickly across Eric's chest. Eric gasped as blood started to flow freely down the front of his shirt.
"Morality. It's an obsolete concept anymore, Eric. When this world finally falls apart, I'll hold the head of the last moral man in one hand, and the head of the last brave man in the other," Julian said. He took a long drag from the cigarette and nodded to Russel again. The knife flashed out once more, slicing across the cut he'd already made. More blood poured down, splashing onto the kitchen floor.
"Morality gets in our way, Eric. For example, if I was a moral man, I would have had a problem putting cameras up in your house. I wouldn't have known about the girlfriend you never mentioned, the one you thought I didn't know about. Don't worry about her, my boy. Russel already paid her a visit."
Eric bucked in the chair, pulling against the arms with all his strength. He felt the wood start to crack, and he began to rise onto his feet, still strapped to the chair. Russel stabbed the Hissatsu down into Eric's right thigh, and the chair fell down to the floor. He quickly pulled the knife out of Eric's leg and slammed it into his left shoulder, pinning it to the back of the chair.
"Why, thank you, Russel. My, Eric. You have gotten strong in the last couple of years. I do believe you could break out of that chair in time. Weaken up those guns a bit, would you, Russel?"
Russel picked up a scalpel from the kitchen counter. Eric was still struggling in the chair as Russel brought the blade close to his left arm.
"Now, don't fidget, my boy, or Russel here might accidentally nick an artery," Julian laughed, snuffing out his cigarette.
The point of the scalpel touched lightly to Eric's wrist.
"Mind the tattoos, Russel. It's beautiful work, isn't it? Hate to spoil them."
Russel nodded, then plunged the scalpel deep into Eric's wrist. There was blood, certainly, but not as much as Eric was expecting. He saw the flesh of his arm split apart like an overcooked sausage casing as Russel ran the blade all the way up to his elbow.
"See, if the Chinese had caught you first, they would have done this 'death of 100 cuts' thing. None of the cuts would be fatal, but you'd bleed to death anyway. I kind of like that, but I don't have the patience," Julian explained, pouring a glass of Southern Comfort. "Drink?"
Eric was too busy trying not to scream to form any sort of answer. Julian shrugged and poured the entire glass of liquor on Eric's arm.
Eric screamed then, and didn't stop until he'd passed out.
* * *
Eric couldn't see anything. Couldn't feel anything. But he could hear Julian cackling.
My, that's a lot of blood. He's got to be gone by now, no, Russel?
A long pause.
Ah. No matter. He will be soon enough. Sun will be up in an hour. Let the pelicans feed on what's left.
A very long silence. Suddenly, the pain hit him with a huge, violent, full-body fist. Eric forced his eyes open -- they stung, and he realized he couldn't breathe. He was underwater. Salt water -- the bay. His shirt, still tucked into his pants, hung in tatters around him. Eric ripped off the two largest pieces and tied them around his forearms as best he could, then started kicking upwards.
His legs were barely moving. He couldn't see light, wasn't even sure he was headed up. He kicked for as long as his legs would let him, but his head didn't break the surface. He didn't have anything left.
Then, he was facedown in the sand. It took all of his effort to lift his head, but he managed to do it. It was dark, but he could tell he'd washed up on a beach. A public beach, with a public phone fifty feet away. He tried to claw his way there, but his hands didn't want to work.
Eric managed to belly-crawl across the sand. It took everything he had to reach up and grab the phone. He was pretty sure he pushed in the digits 9-1-1, but there was no sound from the earpiece for a long time. Finally, just before his eyes slid shut, he heard in a far-off voice, "911, what is the nature of your emergency?"
Eric could only force out one word before he collapsed, leaving the phone hanging just above the sand.
"Murder," he choked. His forehead hit the sand, and the pain went away.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Mailbag!
Yep, tonight I'm finally going to get around to answering some of the questions I've gotten in email and via DM. I have no clue why so few of you comment on the blog (thanks to those who have), but don't be shy -- we can always get some discussions going. And now, I give you the Q&A for the past week or so:
- Q: Are you writing this all out ahead of time?
A: Not really. I write something, copy it over to OpenOffice to make sure I have enough words for at least 20 tweets, then immediately start posting it to Twitter.
- Q: Where did you get the idea for this story?
A: Not to sound too much like a dick, but I just made it up. I had the original idea a while back, but never did anything with it (and I'm kind of glad, because this story is taking a completely different course from the one I had mapped out for that one), and I just started writing Eric the day I started this project.
- Q: How is it you make money off this project?
A: I've actually been asked this a couple of times, and there's a very simple answer. I don't make money by doing this. If you're looking for one of those "I can show you how to make money with Twitter!" guys, you'll be wanting to look in another direction. I'm just here to tell a story, folks. For free, as it turns out.
- Q: Seriously, though. You can tell me. How are you making money doing this?
A: OK, I'll tell you. I'm not. It's that simple. By following my plan, you can also not make money.
- Q: I think I know you. Are you [this guy]?
A: Nope. That's some other guy. In all seriousness, if I do know you, and you've sent me an email, I've already confirmed it.
- Q: Why the big identity mystery? Ashamed of who you are, that it?
A: You've found my horrible, dark secret! Who I am is irrelevant. It'd probably just get in the way of the storytelling, anyway.
That's about all of them, I think. Keep the emails, comments, and DMs coming in -- I'll try to answer them somewhat more regularly.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Chapter Eight
"You keep looking at your knuckles," @blondie80 said.
"I got into a fight today," Eric told his therapist.
"Now, you know that violence never solves anything," Dr. Kepler chided, making notes on her pad.
"Oh, I disagree. Violence solves a whole lot of problems. Throw enough violence at a problem, and it'll probably go away. But I'm trying to be of the opinion that it's not the preferred problem-solving method."
"That's some progress, at least."
"To be honest, Doctor, I'm more than a little disappointed in myself. I knew I could have talked my way out of the fight, but I just wanted to hit someone."
"Would this person have hurt you?"
"People, yes. And it was pretty clear they wanted to kill me. That's not the point, though. There's something I'm trying to do here. . . to become something other than a petty thug, I guess."
"And that's the reason for the somewhat monastic lifestyle you seem to have adopted since entering the program? No alcohol, no cigarettes, no sexual relationships?"
"It sounds so clinical when you say it that way. But yes, that's part of the reason. I have a feeling that. . . have you ever read Hagakure?"
"I don't believe so, no."
"Um, OK. That analogy probably won't make much sense, then. How about this. . . do you think that, with enough discipline, someone can rise above their programming? That they can become something better? Something more than they are?"
"That's kind of the whole idea of therapy."
"Then that's what I'm trying to do," Eric nodded. "Agent Dean tells me that a lot of guys in the program don't take it seriously, don't work at it. A lot of them end up in jail or dead in a few years."
"And you don't want that to be you."
It wasn't a question Dr. Kepler asked -- more of a statement of fact -- so Eric didn't bother to answer it. Instead, he checked his watch.
"Looks like our time is about up," he mentioned.
"Looks that way. Next week?"
"Until they say I can stop showing up, yeah."
Eric turned and smiled at Dr. Kepler on his way out. In another life, he would have found the thin, blonde 30-year-old almost irresistible -- she was smart, funny, and didn't seem to judge him in any way (though she wasn't much of a therapist, really -- she mainly told him things he'd already figured out). Whenever he had those feelings now, though, he just shut them off as best he could and thought about something else. He picked up his appointment card from the temp at the front desk, walked out to his car, and started the long drive east towards his apartment. After the day he'd already had, he just wanted to get some sleep.
He clicked the in-dash MP3 player over to "Lexicon Devil" by the Germs as he merged the decade-and-a-half-old Thunderbird onto I-680. After the fight with the Russians in the bar, Eric had considered taking one of their guns rather than trying to buy one, but, for some reason, he'd left all of their hardware on the floor with them. He told himself it was because the program didn't allow him to have a gun, so he didn't want a gun, but Eric knew the real reason -- if Russel was alive and after him, he'd probably never have a chance to use the thing anyway.
So Eric decided to keep the emergency fund where it was for the time being. He knew how Russel operated -- he'd just have to keep his eyes open for any sign of the man and hope he would see him coming. Then, at least, he stood a microscopic chance.
* * *
Eric had been asleep on the couch for a couple of hours when a loud knock on the door woke him.
"Shit. . . someone knocks like the po-lice," Eric mumbled groggily, rolling off the couch and stretching out the knots in his lower back.
Another loud knock.
"Coming, coming."
When Eric opened the door, he found that it was, in fact, the police on the other side. Specifically, Deputy Johnny Teal. Eric poked his head out the door and looked around.
"Boss isn't with me," Johnny told him.
"Oh. Uh, right, then. What brings you by, Deputy?"
"I think we can call each other by first names, Eric."
"Johnny. What's the reason for the visit?"
Johnny was in street clothes, Eric noticed -- the same type of khakis-and-polo combination from the night before, only in different colors. From behind his back, Johnny held up a six-pack of @Newcastle.
"I bring an olive branch," Johnny smiled. He had freakishly good teeth -- Eric guessed they were implants.
"I don't drink. But knock yourself out," Eric said, opening the door and beckoning Johnny inside.
Johnny noticed that the apartment appeared to have been refurnished recently -- there were still indentations in the floor from a much larger couch sticking out from under what looked to be a brand-new, red IKEA knockoff. The coffee table looked showroom-new, and the entire place was obsessively clean.
"I wish this was just me dropping by to hang out, Eric, but I need some help on something," Johnny started, taking a seat in a brand-new leather armchair.
"I suspected."
"I've been a cop for a long time now -- six years in the Army as an MP, four in the Sheriff's department here -- and I've never had to deal with organized crime in any real fashion. Street gangs, sure. Organized retail theft once, which was pretty cool, actually. But the capital-M Mob? I'm in over my head."
"Yeah, it's not like it was in the old days, where you pretty much knew where the mob was and who ran it. Today's organized crime is all about making money and staying out of sight as much as possible."
"So how do we go about getting a handle on the Russian problem? More to the point, who's knocking them off? Can two factions really carry off a mob war this quietly?"
"I think I'm going to be able to help you out a lot, actually. I got into a fight with the Russians from the other night today. . . before you say anything, no, it wasn't on purpose. I was dumb and walked into their bar with a co-worker without realizing where I was going."
Johnny had been getting ready to open a beer, but as soon as he heard this, he stood quickly and set the beer back on the table.
"Shit. Why didn't you tell me this earlier?"
"Um, I'm telling you now."
"Think, Eric. You just poked the hive. Don't you think we should take a look and see what the bees do when they're threatened?"
Eric blinked twice. It was a shockingly competent piece of police thinking, which he hadn't expected from Johnny. From Nathaniel, maybe, but not Johnny.
"I'll get my keys."
* * *
Johnny parked his truck, an immaculate 1989 Dodge Power Ram, in a public lot across the street from the Russian's bar, which Eric now noticed was named Alexander's. He had a cup of @Starbucks on the dash in front of him.
"So, I never got to tell you how the fight panned out."
"You're still alive, so I assume you won," Johnny smirked.
"Well, yeah. But I got them to agree to have their boss meet me in a couple of nights."
"How'd you do that?"
"I posed as a freelancer. Discuss holes in their security, as someone does seem to be murdering an awful lot of their people."
"I'm not sure the boss is going to be down with this. Scratch that -- I'm sure the boss is going to think this is a terrible idea."
"And you?"
"I think that, if we can trust you, we might as well get someone they won't suspect inside to get some more information. I figure any way we can get the bodies to stop dropping, we have to try."
"Good man."
"So can we? Trust you, I mean?"
Eric let a breath out through his mouth, slowly.
"To not get you killed? Sure. To not flip and go back to my evil ways? I'd love to say yes, but the jury's still out on that one."
"I'm just going to pretend you said 'yes.' Lot less disturbing that way," Johnny shook his head. "Black Mercedes."
Eric followed Johnny's line of sight, and the same black car from the night before was just pulling out of the alley behind the bar.
"Can't be a re-up already. We follow them, they'll lead us somewhere new," Eric suggested.
"Agree," Johnny said, starting up the truck. He followed the Mercedes up Dodge Street, heading north, keeping a few cars back.
"So I ran the plates on that car," Johnny said, sipping from his coffee as he drove.
"Registered to a nice little old lady with dementia in a nursing home with a non-Russian last name," Eric guessed.
"How'd you know that? You haven't been hacking our databases, have you?"
Eric chuckled.
"Nope. It's standard operating procedure if you want to stay ghosted. Nothing in your name, nothing to connect you to anyone or anything else. I drove a Land Rover for years that was registered to a 97-year-old schizophrenic in Temple Terrace."
Johnny nodded slowly.
"That makes sense, actually. Smart."
The Benz traveled up Dodge past 42nd Street, and traffic started to ramp up a bit. Johnny moved the truck closer, and the two of them could see that Nikolai was driving. Another man, one they hadn't seen yet, was in the passenger seat.
"Looks like you were right. They've passed where they were headed last night."
"My guess is they have business spread out all over this town. It's big enough that they can decentralize and communicate by cell and email, but small enough that they can get from anywhere to anywhere else in 20 minutes in a pinch."
"Yeah, and they get so the local lawmen don't know their faces," Johnny said as they followed the Benz past 72nd Street. A dark blue Nissan Titan sped by the driver's side of Johnny's truck, cut in front of the Benz, and slammed on the brakes inches from the Merc's front fender. The Benz slammed hard into the bed of the truck, and both vehicles screeched to a dead stop.
"What the fuck!" Johnny yelled, slamming on his brakes.
The Titan's doors flew open, and two men in black cargo pants and T-shirts hopped out holding assault rifles. They fired into the Benz's windshield, quickly dumping forty or fifty rounds into the sedan's passenger cabin.
Johnny had his radio in his hand.
"Officer needs assistance! Shots fired, 81st and Dodge!"
The two men yanked open the Mercedes and dragged out the bodies, then threw them into the bed of the Titan as if they weighed nothing. Johnny grabbed his Glock from the holster on his belt and jumped out of the Ram. Eric, not knowing what else to do, hopped out as well.
"Sheriff's Department! Drop your weapons and get down on the ground, now!" Johnny yelled.
The two men just looked at him. One of them cocked his head to the side and muttered something. Then they both got back into the Titan and tore off.
"Fuck!" Johnny hopped back into his truck, and Eric followed.
"Officer in pursuit, dark blue 2007 Nissan Titan, license HJU --" Johnny never got a chance to finish yelling the plate into the radio. Another large pickup slammed into the passenger side of the Power Ram at better than 65 miles an hour, flipping the huge old truck on its side.
* * *
Consciousness flickered in and out like a cheap candle with a burned-over wick.
Eric was hanging upside-down, the powder-blue polyester of the truck's seat belt digging into his shoulder.
He blinked -- he was on the roof of the cabin, and he could see his shoe sitting right next to his head. Eric reached out for the shoe.
He blinked -- he was half-out of the smashed passenger window. His right hand held on tightly to the black Converse Chuck Taylor that had been sitting next to his head. Eric could hear sirens off in the distance. He was face-down, and could see glass splayed all over the pavement.
He blinked -- we was laying on his back, looking up at the night sky. He tried to lift his head, but he suddenly felt like he needed to vomit. He tried, instead, to roll his head to the side, so as not to choke himself.
He blinked -- someone was shining a light in his eyes. He could smell gasoline.
"Sir? Can you hear me?" someone asked.
"Yeah," Eric coughed.
Eric blinked again, but this time, the scene didn't change on him. The light clicked off, and he saw the face of a youngish black woman staring down at him. There were streetlights blazing above, and he could hear traffic going by slowly. The truck -- or what was left of it -- was about a hundred feet away from him, in the oncoming curbside lane, flipped on its roof, all of the glass busted out. Two cops stood guard over the motionless hulk, which was cordoned off with yellow tape and flares.
"You were in a car accident, sir," the young woman said. She was wearing a dark blue T-shirt and blue vinyl gloves. The wingless caduceus inside the asterisk on the left chest of her shirt identified her as a paramedic -- about a million and a half years ago, Eric Austen had owned a couple of shirts that looked exactly the same.
"You think?" Eric tried to smile. He tried to lift his head once more, and found it much easier this time.
"Don't try to move, sir. You could have some spinal damage."
"Sir. Do I really look that old?" Eric found that his shoe was still off, and he wiggled his toes. "Look. Toes are moving. Not paralyzed."
"Not yet," the paramedic muttered.
"Zing!" Eric smiled at her.
"Look, you have a concussion. At least. You mind not making my job any harder? Just lay there and stay awake so I can get you into the ambulance, OK?"
"Fine, fine. How's Johnny?"
"Better shape than you," Eric heard Johnny grumble. He was sitting on the curb, holding a bloodied ice pack against his forehead. Another paramedic, this one a young Asian guy, was bandaging a cut on the Deputy's forearm.
"Hey, Johnny," Eric smirked, trying not to giggle.
"What?"
"You get the license number of that truck that hit us?" Eric smiled widely, now unable to hold in the laughter.
"I got into a fight today," Eric told his therapist.
"Now, you know that violence never solves anything," Dr. Kepler chided, making notes on her pad.
"Oh, I disagree. Violence solves a whole lot of problems. Throw enough violence at a problem, and it'll probably go away. But I'm trying to be of the opinion that it's not the preferred problem-solving method."
"That's some progress, at least."
"To be honest, Doctor, I'm more than a little disappointed in myself. I knew I could have talked my way out of the fight, but I just wanted to hit someone."
"Would this person have hurt you?"
"People, yes. And it was pretty clear they wanted to kill me. That's not the point, though. There's something I'm trying to do here. . . to become something other than a petty thug, I guess."
"And that's the reason for the somewhat monastic lifestyle you seem to have adopted since entering the program? No alcohol, no cigarettes, no sexual relationships?"
"It sounds so clinical when you say it that way. But yes, that's part of the reason. I have a feeling that. . . have you ever read Hagakure?"
"I don't believe so, no."
"Um, OK. That analogy probably won't make much sense, then. How about this. . . do you think that, with enough discipline, someone can rise above their programming? That they can become something better? Something more than they are?"
"That's kind of the whole idea of therapy."
"Then that's what I'm trying to do," Eric nodded. "Agent Dean tells me that a lot of guys in the program don't take it seriously, don't work at it. A lot of them end up in jail or dead in a few years."
"And you don't want that to be you."
It wasn't a question Dr. Kepler asked -- more of a statement of fact -- so Eric didn't bother to answer it. Instead, he checked his watch.
"Looks like our time is about up," he mentioned.
"Looks that way. Next week?"
"Until they say I can stop showing up, yeah."
Eric turned and smiled at Dr. Kepler on his way out. In another life, he would have found the thin, blonde 30-year-old almost irresistible -- she was smart, funny, and didn't seem to judge him in any way (though she wasn't much of a therapist, really -- she mainly told him things he'd already figured out). Whenever he had those feelings now, though, he just shut them off as best he could and thought about something else. He picked up his appointment card from the temp at the front desk, walked out to his car, and started the long drive east towards his apartment. After the day he'd already had, he just wanted to get some sleep.
He clicked the in-dash MP3 player over to "Lexicon Devil" by the Germs as he merged the decade-and-a-half-old Thunderbird onto I-680. After the fight with the Russians in the bar, Eric had considered taking one of their guns rather than trying to buy one, but, for some reason, he'd left all of their hardware on the floor with them. He told himself it was because the program didn't allow him to have a gun, so he didn't want a gun, but Eric knew the real reason -- if Russel was alive and after him, he'd probably never have a chance to use the thing anyway.
So Eric decided to keep the emergency fund where it was for the time being. He knew how Russel operated -- he'd just have to keep his eyes open for any sign of the man and hope he would see him coming. Then, at least, he stood a microscopic chance.
* * *
Eric had been asleep on the couch for a couple of hours when a loud knock on the door woke him.
"Shit. . . someone knocks like the po-lice," Eric mumbled groggily, rolling off the couch and stretching out the knots in his lower back.
Another loud knock.
"Coming, coming."
When Eric opened the door, he found that it was, in fact, the police on the other side. Specifically, Deputy Johnny Teal. Eric poked his head out the door and looked around.
"Boss isn't with me," Johnny told him.
"Oh. Uh, right, then. What brings you by, Deputy?"
"I think we can call each other by first names, Eric."
"Johnny. What's the reason for the visit?"
Johnny was in street clothes, Eric noticed -- the same type of khakis-and-polo combination from the night before, only in different colors. From behind his back, Johnny held up a six-pack of @Newcastle.
"I bring an olive branch," Johnny smiled. He had freakishly good teeth -- Eric guessed they were implants.
"I don't drink. But knock yourself out," Eric said, opening the door and beckoning Johnny inside.
Johnny noticed that the apartment appeared to have been refurnished recently -- there were still indentations in the floor from a much larger couch sticking out from under what looked to be a brand-new, red IKEA knockoff. The coffee table looked showroom-new, and the entire place was obsessively clean.
"I wish this was just me dropping by to hang out, Eric, but I need some help on something," Johnny started, taking a seat in a brand-new leather armchair.
"I suspected."
"I've been a cop for a long time now -- six years in the Army as an MP, four in the Sheriff's department here -- and I've never had to deal with organized crime in any real fashion. Street gangs, sure. Organized retail theft once, which was pretty cool, actually. But the capital-M Mob? I'm in over my head."
"Yeah, it's not like it was in the old days, where you pretty much knew where the mob was and who ran it. Today's organized crime is all about making money and staying out of sight as much as possible."
"So how do we go about getting a handle on the Russian problem? More to the point, who's knocking them off? Can two factions really carry off a mob war this quietly?"
"I think I'm going to be able to help you out a lot, actually. I got into a fight with the Russians from the other night today. . . before you say anything, no, it wasn't on purpose. I was dumb and walked into their bar with a co-worker without realizing where I was going."
Johnny had been getting ready to open a beer, but as soon as he heard this, he stood quickly and set the beer back on the table.
"Shit. Why didn't you tell me this earlier?"
"Um, I'm telling you now."
"Think, Eric. You just poked the hive. Don't you think we should take a look and see what the bees do when they're threatened?"
Eric blinked twice. It was a shockingly competent piece of police thinking, which he hadn't expected from Johnny. From Nathaniel, maybe, but not Johnny.
"I'll get my keys."
* * *
Johnny parked his truck, an immaculate 1989 Dodge Power Ram, in a public lot across the street from the Russian's bar, which Eric now noticed was named Alexander's. He had a cup of @Starbucks on the dash in front of him.
"So, I never got to tell you how the fight panned out."
"You're still alive, so I assume you won," Johnny smirked.
"Well, yeah. But I got them to agree to have their boss meet me in a couple of nights."
"How'd you do that?"
"I posed as a freelancer. Discuss holes in their security, as someone does seem to be murdering an awful lot of their people."
"I'm not sure the boss is going to be down with this. Scratch that -- I'm sure the boss is going to think this is a terrible idea."
"And you?"
"I think that, if we can trust you, we might as well get someone they won't suspect inside to get some more information. I figure any way we can get the bodies to stop dropping, we have to try."
"Good man."
"So can we? Trust you, I mean?"
Eric let a breath out through his mouth, slowly.
"To not get you killed? Sure. To not flip and go back to my evil ways? I'd love to say yes, but the jury's still out on that one."
"I'm just going to pretend you said 'yes.' Lot less disturbing that way," Johnny shook his head. "Black Mercedes."
Eric followed Johnny's line of sight, and the same black car from the night before was just pulling out of the alley behind the bar.
"Can't be a re-up already. We follow them, they'll lead us somewhere new," Eric suggested.
"Agree," Johnny said, starting up the truck. He followed the Mercedes up Dodge Street, heading north, keeping a few cars back.
"So I ran the plates on that car," Johnny said, sipping from his coffee as he drove.
"Registered to a nice little old lady with dementia in a nursing home with a non-Russian last name," Eric guessed.
"How'd you know that? You haven't been hacking our databases, have you?"
Eric chuckled.
"Nope. It's standard operating procedure if you want to stay ghosted. Nothing in your name, nothing to connect you to anyone or anything else. I drove a Land Rover for years that was registered to a 97-year-old schizophrenic in Temple Terrace."
Johnny nodded slowly.
"That makes sense, actually. Smart."
The Benz traveled up Dodge past 42nd Street, and traffic started to ramp up a bit. Johnny moved the truck closer, and the two of them could see that Nikolai was driving. Another man, one they hadn't seen yet, was in the passenger seat.
"Looks like you were right. They've passed where they were headed last night."
"My guess is they have business spread out all over this town. It's big enough that they can decentralize and communicate by cell and email, but small enough that they can get from anywhere to anywhere else in 20 minutes in a pinch."
"Yeah, and they get so the local lawmen don't know their faces," Johnny said as they followed the Benz past 72nd Street. A dark blue Nissan Titan sped by the driver's side of Johnny's truck, cut in front of the Benz, and slammed on the brakes inches from the Merc's front fender. The Benz slammed hard into the bed of the truck, and both vehicles screeched to a dead stop.
"What the fuck!" Johnny yelled, slamming on his brakes.
The Titan's doors flew open, and two men in black cargo pants and T-shirts hopped out holding assault rifles. They fired into the Benz's windshield, quickly dumping forty or fifty rounds into the sedan's passenger cabin.
Johnny had his radio in his hand.
"Officer needs assistance! Shots fired, 81st and Dodge!"
The two men yanked open the Mercedes and dragged out the bodies, then threw them into the bed of the Titan as if they weighed nothing. Johnny grabbed his Glock from the holster on his belt and jumped out of the Ram. Eric, not knowing what else to do, hopped out as well.
"Sheriff's Department! Drop your weapons and get down on the ground, now!" Johnny yelled.
The two men just looked at him. One of them cocked his head to the side and muttered something. Then they both got back into the Titan and tore off.
"Fuck!" Johnny hopped back into his truck, and Eric followed.
"Officer in pursuit, dark blue 2007 Nissan Titan, license HJU --" Johnny never got a chance to finish yelling the plate into the radio. Another large pickup slammed into the passenger side of the Power Ram at better than 65 miles an hour, flipping the huge old truck on its side.
* * *
Consciousness flickered in and out like a cheap candle with a burned-over wick.
Eric was hanging upside-down, the powder-blue polyester of the truck's seat belt digging into his shoulder.
He blinked -- he was on the roof of the cabin, and he could see his shoe sitting right next to his head. Eric reached out for the shoe.
He blinked -- he was half-out of the smashed passenger window. His right hand held on tightly to the black Converse Chuck Taylor that had been sitting next to his head. Eric could hear sirens off in the distance. He was face-down, and could see glass splayed all over the pavement.
He blinked -- we was laying on his back, looking up at the night sky. He tried to lift his head, but he suddenly felt like he needed to vomit. He tried, instead, to roll his head to the side, so as not to choke himself.
He blinked -- someone was shining a light in his eyes. He could smell gasoline.
"Sir? Can you hear me?" someone asked.
"Yeah," Eric coughed.
Eric blinked again, but this time, the scene didn't change on him. The light clicked off, and he saw the face of a youngish black woman staring down at him. There were streetlights blazing above, and he could hear traffic going by slowly. The truck -- or what was left of it -- was about a hundred feet away from him, in the oncoming curbside lane, flipped on its roof, all of the glass busted out. Two cops stood guard over the motionless hulk, which was cordoned off with yellow tape and flares.
"You were in a car accident, sir," the young woman said. She was wearing a dark blue T-shirt and blue vinyl gloves. The wingless caduceus inside the asterisk on the left chest of her shirt identified her as a paramedic -- about a million and a half years ago, Eric Austen had owned a couple of shirts that looked exactly the same.
"You think?" Eric tried to smile. He tried to lift his head once more, and found it much easier this time.
"Don't try to move, sir. You could have some spinal damage."
"Sir. Do I really look that old?" Eric found that his shoe was still off, and he wiggled his toes. "Look. Toes are moving. Not paralyzed."
"Not yet," the paramedic muttered.
"Zing!" Eric smiled at her.
"Look, you have a concussion. At least. You mind not making my job any harder? Just lay there and stay awake so I can get you into the ambulance, OK?"
"Fine, fine. How's Johnny?"
"Better shape than you," Eric heard Johnny grumble. He was sitting on the curb, holding a bloodied ice pack against his forehead. Another paramedic, this one a young Asian guy, was bandaging a cut on the Deputy's forearm.
"Hey, Johnny," Eric smirked, trying not to giggle.
"What?"
"You get the license number of that truck that hit us?" Eric smiled widely, now unable to hold in the laughter.
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