American Blood (25 page)
He sucked a tooth gently, very still as he stared off down the coming road, and Marshall knew he was gearing to philosophize. Cohen said, “Way I see it, you go into something with a gun, you’re pretty much agreein’ that things can be resolved in a bloody manner. So you get what’s coming to you. And anyway. I figure if there’s a God and he’s welcomed him to heaven, I’ve done him a favor.”
“What if he’s gone to hell?”
He took a moment with that. “Then it was obviously a righteous shootin’, wasn’t it?”
Marshall said, “What if he’s gone to neither and he’s just completely dead?”
“Then he’s certainly not worrying about me, is he, so I may’s well reciprocate.”
Marshall didn’t answer. Cohen looked at him, a smile just showing at one edge. “What’s with the questions, anyway? You don’t give a shit about personal stuff.”
“I’m trying to improve.”
“I thought you were more fond of quiet reflection.”
“I am. We can give it a try if you like.”
Cohen said, “All right. We can at least see how we get on. Feel free to cut in with something if it gets unbearable.”
2010
There was a gun range in Brooklyn that he used. It was a converted sugar refinery on the East River, probably eighty years old. Brick walls darkened by city grime, a high truss roof underslung with girders, all rust streaks and rivets. Marshall thought it was a good aesthetic. Old steelwork seemed well suited to gunfire.
The morning after his night with Chloe, he got there at five minutes after seven. He’d dreamed of Russian thugs, voices in his sleep telling him Mikhail was dead and now they were coming for him. He didn’t know if the guy was alive, but practice seemed like a good idea anyway.
Seven was his normal time. At that hour the only other patrons were diehard enthusiasts, tattooed guys with camo and close-cropped hair, dressed to show they were serious. Just two of them today, adjacent booths, four revolvers each. Marshall only ever brought one weapon, either his service Glock or the Beretta Asaro had given him. He didn’t care for modified pistols. He used standard weapons and factory ammunition, and he shot at close distances, ten to fifteen yards. He saw skilled shooting as a pragmatic imperative, not a hobby. When someone tried to kill him it would be close range, no warning, no second chance.
Today he ran draw-fire exercises: tight double-tap shots on side-by-side targets. At his quickest he could clear the holster and hit both in less than a second. Today he was slightly out, 1.10, but he knew why.
Too much on his mind.
A gut-shot Russian gangster he prayed he hadn’t murdered, and his night with Chloe Asaro: a bad idea he didn’t actually regret.
He shot another twelve rounds, three sets of two double-taps. The timer was hands-free and worked on acoustics. You drew as the buzzer sounded, and the clock stopped on the fourth shot, the second double-tap.
His fastest down to 1.08 now.
Chloe.
He knew even one-time-only was not a great decision, but that was why he came here. Preparation for when a wrong move meant a bullet. Him or someone else. He was resigned to the notion of bad endings.
He shot another twelve. Back up to 1.10. He wouldn’t leave until he’d cracked one second. That was Marshall’s rule. It had got him this far, and he had a feeling he might need it again, too.
Marshall
Going on 10:00 by the time they got down there. Rolling slow on 550, the far right lane, getting a good feel for the place.
Cohen said, “Where is it?”
“Said it was about a quarter mile. Just pull in here. There’s a Subway.”
Cohen indicated and turned in. Marshall unclicked his belt and leaned forward in his seat and took the Colt from his jeans. He checked the load and cocked it and set the safety.
Cohen parked. “That’s a fairly serious talk you’re gearing up for.”
Marshall sat back. Lonely spot out here. The shop’s small bright frontage, and beyond it the dry and yellow countryside, windswept grass standing almost plumb on the flat terrain. Gray trees stark and brittle in the clear morning.
Marshall said, “There’s another element to this I haven’t mentioned.”
Cohen was looking at the gun. “Right. Better late than never and all that.”
“He reckons there’s guys across the street in a motel, probably got a scope on his front door, and then another couple of guys out the back of the place.”
Cohen slipped the shades off, inspected them, put them back on. “If you’d mentioned this at the get-go, would’ve been terrific.”
“Then you would’ve been hesitant about taxiing me down here right away. And that might’ve been a problem.”
Cohen didn’t answer.
Marshall said, “Rojas said he’s had a falling-out with his employer. There’s a guy called Vance coming down to kill him.”
Cohen looked out his window along the road, like maybe he could see all this precipitating. He said, “When?”
“Right this very minute, I’d imagine.”
“Terrific. A falling-out, that’s what he called it?”
“Well. He said the guy’d gone kinda funny.”
“Right. And by virtue of them folks across the street he can’t go anywhere in the meantime.”
“Exactly.”
Marshall opened the glove compartment in case there was something good, saw a cheap pair of Wayfarers hiding near the back. Black plastic frame with bright pink legs. He slipped them on.
“Jesus. That’s your disguise?”
Marshall nodded. “No one’ll think I’m official with these on. What they’re doing in your car, I hate to think.”
“It’s a pool vehicle, gets shared around.”
“Right.”
Cohen said, “So you intend to do what, exactly?”
“Well. While you no doubt make some phone calls, I’ll go check this motel, see where these guys are.”
“You gonna come on all gentlemanly, say excuse me ma’am at the front desk?”
Marshall said, “Something like that. Get your backup people some decent info, lock things down nice and discreet before this Vance guy shows up, or Rojas hears a siren and decides he doesn’t want to talk to me anymore.”
Cohen took the keys from the ignition, twirled them on his finger. “Why’s it you nominated yourself for the checking, and not me?”
Marshall nodded at him. “You’re dressed up as Gatsby, so they’ll see you coming.”
Cohen looked away into the distance, pushed his lower jaw out a bit. “And what makes you think you’re adequate?”
Marshall opened his door and put his feet on the ground, looked back across his shoulder. He said, “I’ve had some practice.”
* * *
He put the gun in his belt and walked up the highway along the shoulder. Four lanes of intermittent traffic. Low-rise commercial along both sides. Storefronts behind deep parking lots and the parched country beyond.
After a hundred yards, he noticed the motel diagonally opposite. Parked nose-in at a room midway down was the red Cherokee he’d seen yesterday morning. He slowed but kept walking, a dead stop too eye-catching. Nothing really happening over there: a couple of doors open, handful of cars in the lot. Rojas had his blinds drawn.
Coming up on the near side of the street was a pizza place and next to it another motel, two-level, maybe ten rooms top and bottom. A Chevron station on the next lot.
Gas was doing a good trade, but the motel had just seven cars, only two getting pizza. Marshall walked along the drive-thru lane. The girl at the window with the headset watched his progress, didn’t say anything. Marshall put his hands in his pockets and kept an eye across the street. Rojas’s place still quiet. A door down the end opened and a bald guy in his sixties came out hands-to-hip, appraised the day, went back inside.
Marshall crossed the little strip of lawn at the edge of the parking lot and walked fast for the nearside motel. It wasn’t an attractive building: precast concrete panels in lime green. A walkway cantilevered off the upper floor. Reception was in a little annex at the near end. An old Toyota Camry was parked out front, three kids between five and ten on the backseat. The driver’s door was open and a woman in her thirties was in the office, leaning on the counter with her arms folded. She glanced back over her shoulder as Marshall entered.
“Nice shades.”
“Thanks.” He pushed the Wayfarers up on his head.
Through a door behind the counter he could see an office space with desks and a chair and a metal filing cabinet.
No sign of management.
The woman kept an eye on him as he sized everything up and said, “I thought you might work here or something.”
Marshall shook his head. “How long you been waiting?”
She checked her watch. She was a short woman, everything about her a tight fit. Feet wedged into tiny stiletto heels, and a skirt that was just a high, taut band on her thighs. A sleeveless top with a deep V-neck struggling to keep everything where it should be. “Dunno. Fifteen minutes maybe.”
The room had filled up with her perfume. Marshall pushed through the little swing gate to get behind the counter. There was a computer running, but when he nudged the mouse a window prompted him for a password.
“I don’t think you’re meant to be back there.”
“I don’t think you’re wrong.”
He glanced in the back office. No one home. Instinct told him draw the gun, but he didn’t. Keep it quiet, get her out of here.
He said, “I think you’d best find another motel.”
“What? We had a reservation, though.”
There was a coffee cup beside the keyboard, half full, cold to the touch. Marshall lowered the sunglasses, make things look more official. He reached in his shirt pocket and showed her Cohen’s card.
“We’ve got a bit of a situation developing here, I think it’s best you be on your way.”
She leaned over to read. “Dammit. You know where a good motel is?”
Marshall said, “Long as it’s not this one, or the one across the street there, I’d say they’re all pretty terrific.”
He stood in the doorway to reception and watched the lot as the Camry drove away, rear suspension nearly bottomed out.
Six cars remaining.
Two Chevy sedans, a GMC pickup, a Ford Focus hatch, a Toyota Prius, a Ford Bronco pickup.
He drew the gun and leaned on the frame and looked along the length of the building. All quiet. From the upper level the view across the street to the other motel would be above the traffic. An unobstructed sight line. Up there right now, someone with a rifle waited at a window.
All he had to do was find them.
Lucas Cohen
He called the state police back and explained the situation.
They put him through to SWAT. The call went on hold. Cohen drove out of the Subway lot onto 550 and rolled slowly westward on the shoulder. When the motel came into view diagonally opposite he set the brake and sat there with the engine idling.
He waited. A minute. Two.
Over at the motel he saw a tan Chevy Tahoe turn in off the highway by reception and cruise quietly down the length of the building and cut a sharp U-turn and park facing the Cherokee. Two guys about thirty up front, dark close-cropped hair, tank tops, tattoos on their arms.
The call came off hold. A guy called Henry Lee picked up. Cohen had met him a few times. Looking across the street with his chin ducked to see over the aviators he said, “Henry Lee, I’d bet the New Mexico State Police is the last institution in America that doesn’t have hold music. Just defies belief.”
“Make it quick, Cohen, this is the crisis line.”
He could have come back with something biting about how three minutes was a long time to be left waiting in a crisis, but he let it go. He said, “How fast can you get a team up to Bernalillo?”
“Thirty minutes. But depends what for.”
Cohen gave him the gist of it.
Henry Lee said, “You got confirmation on the sniper or is this just a maybe?”
“I’m waitin’ on more details. Can you put a team on standby just off I-25?”
What he didn’t want to tell him: he had a civilian making inquiries, trying to find the guy.
Henry Lee said, “I think we need more details.”
“Here I was thinking I could just say the name Rojas and you’d be straight out the door.”
“Some positions would be nice.”
Cohen didn’t answer. He could see the two boys in the Tahoe looking over at the Cherokee, heads turning as they talked, the driver leaning back in his seat to see past the windshield pillar, passenger checking his watch.
Cohen said, “Just put them on standby. I’ll call you back.”
He clicked off.
He sat there tense a moment, thrumming the wheel, wondering if he was about to broach a whole new realm of brave, or just plain stupid.
Shit. He shut off the engine and removed the key. If the Tahoe boys moved he’d just have to sit and watch, lest he end up getting sniped. Only way to get them was to move first, preemptive action, don’t let them know what’s happening.
It was one of his long days, so Mrs. Cohen had packed a thermos. He reached in back for it and had a little pick-me-up hit, started undoing his tie. He took his time with it too, figuring his coming actions probably warranted some serious thought, so he did his best to grasp the full bell-curve spread of likely outcomes while he worked on the knot. Then he pulled the tie through his collar with that whisper noise and looped it round his fingers and laid it carefully on the passenger seat and popped the trunk and got out.
Light traffic. A truck roaring as it down-shifted. He waited a moment, buffeted by the wake. The road straight and endless both ways and confronted by the enormity of the plain with the distant mountains the one feature of note, he got that cold fear of being a worthless element of a much larger thing.
He removed his suit jacket and folded it and laid it in the load space and tugged his shirt from his belt to hide his star. Then he arched sideways and slipped the Glock .40 off his hip and took his backup SIG from the small of his back and put the pistols in the gun bag with the 12-gauge. The Tahoe guys still watching the Cherokee. Nothing happening at the other motel. A beat-up old Camry just pulling out, exhaust mist scurrying behind. Someone at reception, maybe Marshall, half-hidden in the doorway. He slung the gun bag on his shoulder and slammed the lid, locked the car with the remote and walked up the highway toward the pizza place.