Housebroken (23 page)

“You’re sitting on the bullets. Pick one up. Come on, Bwake, do it!” Joje ripped one of the drawers from his desk off its hinges, dumping the contents to the ground. Mini drives and DVDs spilled to the floor, scattering along with the assortment of pens, staplers, letter openers, and all the little knickknacks that collect at the bottom of desk drawers.

“Pick up a bullet!” The next drawer came out, this one full of files. Business plans and financials, the confidential information of industry leaders converged into a heap of stapled papers and opened folders.

Blake shifted slightly, picking up one of the copper-cased bullets that had rolled beneath his foot. He held it, his hand shaking so violently he could have had Parkinson’s.

Joje tore out the contents of the small bureau in the corner, wires and cables, electronic gadgets and components, most of it junk that Blake had kept in case he needed it one day. The monitor on Blake’s desk followed them to the floor.

“Go ahead, Bwake, load your gun!”

“No,” Blake said.

Joje crossed to the other side of the desk, grabbing the gold-trimmed lamp and ripping it from the wall. He used it like a baseball bat, swatting at the bookcase, framed pictures, trophies, and artifacts tumbling from the shelves. One shelf broke, collapsing into the one below it, hardbound books, some rare editions, others signed with dedications to Blake, spilled from the shelf, a waterfall of turning pages.

“Put the bullet in the gun, Bwake!”

“No!” Blake shouted.

The US Civil Affairs challenge coin Blake had received from Major Blackledge with its display case flew across the room, shattering on the wall. The ceramic rooster Michiyoshi at Fujitsu had given him in Japan wobbled, now splintered and headless. Countless treasures, testaments of his accomplishments and triumphs, were discarded and destroyed, trampled on by Joje who callously walked back to Blake’s desk, book bindings ripping and glass popping beneath his feet.

“Why? Why won’t you load the gun, point it at my head, and pull the trigger? Why?”

“You’ll kill me,” Blake said. “And my family.”

“I would,” Joje said, looking at Blake like a wounded dog. “I will. If you don’t get your act together.”

Blake glanced behind Joje, wondering why Adam and Drew hadn’t come in yet? The gunshot alone should have triggered a reaction, not to mention Joje’s rampage of destruction.

But his office doors were closed. He remembered screaming at the top of his lungs as Adam stood just outside his doors only a few days ago. A few days that felt like a few years.

Joje snapped his fingers in front of Blake’s face, dragging him from his reverie. “Are you going to be a problem tonight, Bwake?”

“No.” No
pwobwum
.

“Are you going to try to escape? Or get help?”

“No,” Blake said again. There was no
hewp
.

“Are you going to follow my orders with exactness?”

Blake’s head hung. “Yes.”

“Because if you don’t?”

“You’ll kill me and my family.”

“Say it one more time,” Joje said. “Like you mean it. What will happen if you disobey?”

Blake closed his eyes, wanting to believe that whimper was coming from someone else. “You’ll kill me. And my family,” he said.

“Such a fast learner,” Joje said. “I’m glad we had this talk.”

A single police cruiser was parked halfway up Tom Jones’s driveway, its rotating lights bathing the shadows in unwanted color. Where the gate normally stretched across that driveway, a line of police tape ran connecting black stone wall to black stone wall. Blake wondered if the cops had finished inside and were there only to keep an eye on him and his family. Would they be following them tonight? Only a part of him hoped they might.

Joje drove Jenna’s Escalade, and Adam sat in the back dressed in all black—pants, long-sleeve shirt, he even had a black beanie he was turning in his hands. Blake and Joje were both dressed similarly. Blake wore black gym pants and a dark zip-up sweatshirt with a hood. Joje had needed to borrow a set of clothes, though they hung much looser on him.

Dark streets and darker alleys shot past as Joje drove them to a part of LA Blake was unfamiliar with. The small houses they passed were painted in what once were bright colors, now dulled with time. Reds faded to swollen pinks, yellows rotting, violets tinged with black streaks as if it had recently rained tar. Bars lined the exterior of every window, rusted gates encircling yards, big signs warning of dogs or guns or gangs depending on the amount of graffiti.

East LA? Compton?

Blake supposed it could be a lot of neighborhoods in Los Angeles. The street signs floating past were as blurred as his thoughts. He was just grateful they weren’t in his convertible.

He wondered if Joje had grown up in a similar neighborhood, the product a cesspool like this spits out. But Joje had risen above. He had taken the streets to those who thought they were immune, those unprepared to fight back—dirt for dirt, blood for blood, rule for rule.

A phone buzzed, vibrating in the cup holder. For a second Blake thought it was his shattered Cyborg, then recognized Jenna’s jewel-encrusted case. Joje glanced at the screen, smiling. “They’re ready for us.”

“How are you keeping in touch with Drew if you have Jenna’s phone?” Blake asked. “Your twenty-minute rule?”

“Some rules change.”

After a few turns that put them into a section of town without streetlamps, they pulled into an abandoned gas station. Two rows of pumps were set like headstones in a cemetery, hoses and nozzles long removed. The small booth in the center of the station that should have conveniently stored candy, beef jerky sticks, beer, and soda was now inhabited with spiders, cockroaches, and rats. Its windows were covered in boards decorated with the sprayed ink of whatever gang had claimed the deserted relic, like dogs pissing on a tree, marking their territory.

In the back near a dumpster, a large white box truck with dark windows idled. Shadows clung to it, and Blake felt his mouth go dry.

“Stay cool,” Joje said. Blake hadn’t realized Joje was nervous as well. Maybe this was even outside his element.

They drove slowly ahead, stopping a few feet short of the truck that looked like a U-Haul that had been painted over. No front license plate, two indistinct men in the cab.

Blake felt himself tensing. “You know these guys?”

“These aren’t the type of guys you know. They’re the type you know of,” Joje said.

He shut off the engine and climbed out, the ding of the open door bleating in Blake’s ear. Which meant the keys were still in the ignition.

Blake didn’t think, he leapt across the gap between the front seats, clawing at the driver’s door. He slammed it shut, engaging the locks and turning the key. The engine purred quietly to life. Blake cranked the gear into reverse, tearing out from the gas station, leaving a bewildered Joje behind.

But no, he was still sitting in his seat, that every-other-second ding pounding through his head. Because it would go wrong.

He’d crash into the abandoned convenience store. The men in the truck would open fire, spreading his brains against the headrest. Joje would call Drew, and Jenna would be waiting for them back at home on their couch, headless.

Adam stood outside the car, looking through the driver’s window. He held the black duffle bag Drew and Joje had brought with them, now stuffed with Blake’s cash from the safe.

One of the men opened the passenger door of the cab and stood, looking out over the frame with what looked like an automatic rifle slung over one shoulder.

Blake stepped out. Though he closed the SUV’s door, he still heard the ding.

Gloved hands assaulted him from behind, shoving him against the white truck. His son grunted as the man moved down the line, checking every pocket and crevice. The man wore a faded ball cap on his head, a thick brown beard tinged with random strokes of red draped over his shirt like a bib. Curls spilled from the sides of his hat, as greasy and dirty as the charcoal jumpsuit he had on.

“There’s a gun in my back pocket,” Joje said.

The man lifted the gun out and threw it onto the asphalt. “Take off your shoes.”

Blake bent down.

“Stand up! Just kick ’em off.”

Blake stood, his heart thrumming in his chest. He kicked his shoes free, squeezing his feet out. He thought he heard the truck’s engine rev, though it could have been his imagination. The other gunman still stood above the open door, rifle trained down on them.

“Follow me,” the man said.

They walked toward the back of the truck, loose rocks and torn asphalt pressing into the bottom of Blake’s feet. The bearded man watched them with beady eyes buried beneath all that fur on his face. At the rear of the truck, he unhitched the lever, rear door climbing upward with a rattling roar. No light came on from within.

“Climb up, don’t cross the yellow line.”

Blake hoisted himself up then bent down, offering Adam a hand. Adam ignored it, scrambling up on his own, Joje following. They stood at the edge of the trailer’s entrance, a barely visible line of paint running across the flooring in front of them. Beyond that line the floor went black, lost in shadows as dark as any cave. Blake thought he heard the slightest of sounds, a quiet shuffle, but that could have been anything in a truck whose engine still sputtered.

“Make up yo mind alweady!” Joje suddenly said.

A blue light pierced the darkness from the top of the back of the truck, blinding in its intensity. In that brief glimpse of light, Blake thought he saw a giant insect with huge, bulbous eyes toting what had to be an automatic rifle pointed at them. It was gone before he had time to process it.

An overhead dome light swelled. Blake felt his son grab onto his arm, then quickly let go.

In the center of the vehicle stood a man who looked like the actor from
The Fly
halfway through his metamorphosis. He wore a black mask that covered his face, with dark elongated eyes extending out, a green grated panel for a nose. Bands stuck out at odd angles with a shroud that draped over his shoulders and neck. He was dressed in black fatigues that made their own getups look like ninja-themed pajamas, the kind that go on clearance before Halloween.

The walls of the trailer were lined with high-caliber artillery, wide racks sporting guns so large they were probably meant to be mounted on vehicles. Bins were filled with actual rockets and grenades, other gadgets and weapons Blake could only guess at.

“Be glad it was the blue light,” Joje said softly.

“Security stays,” the bearded man said, hefting himself up. “No questions about the merch. If you don’t know what it can do, you don’t need it. If you don’t know what you need, you’ve come to the wrong store.”

“Fair enough,” Joje said.

Bug Man quietly released the clasps from boots strapped into the floor of the trailer and withdrew to the corner. His gun never wavered from staying on them.

Joje went up and down the racks, pointing at certain bins, tubs, and weapons. The bearded man followed, nodding like a waiter mentally taking notes. It was over quickly. Blake didn’t hear the negotiations, but Joje only took out two stacks of bills. Instead of handing the bearded man the two stacks, he handed him the bag.

“You clear our arrangement?” Joje asked.

The bearded man glanced at Blake then Adam, possibly looking for an interpretation. If Blake hadn’t been spending so much time around Joje, even he might not have understood that last sentence. “We’re good.” The bearded man closed the roll-up door. “Be a few minutes.”

They waited while Bug Man assembled their equipment. The night was oddly humid, Blake’s shirt soaked through in sweat, clinging to the small of his back and chest. He tried to convince himself it was just the humidity.

“Think Mom’s okay?” Adam asked.

“Let’s hope so.”

A loud clang sounded against the rolling door. Their escort undid the hatch, the door rising a mere foot and a half, their gear passing through. A hundred thousand dollars had just purchased a few clunky items zipped inside Joje’s duffle bag, three milk jugs full of a clearish substance, and a red canister that looked like an undersized propane tank. Expensive store.

Joje grabbed the jugs. “Let’s go.” Adam grabbed the duffel, groaning at its weight.

“Let me help,” Blake said, taking the bag by the other side while hefting the tank. As they turned to leave Blake caught a glimpse of Bug Man lying on the floor, goggle mask still in place, one bulging eye staring back at him.

The other was lost behind the rifle aimed at his head.

The rolling door crashed closed, Blake breathing a sigh of relief. These guys certainly didn’t take chances.

Blake and Adam moved to the back of the SUV with the red canister and duffel bag. The back was popped open, milk jugs inside.

The soft crunch of gravel announced they weren’t alone.

A thin older man with gray hair bunched into a ponytail stepped from behind the car next to Joje. His face was hard, wrinkles and lines earned from more than just the passage of time. He wore a tight leather jacket, his hands gloved as well, tapping a gun with a long, thick nozzle on it against his leg.

A silencer.

Blake swallowed hard. “Is there a problem?”

“You forgot yer shoes,” the man said.

The bearded man appeared behind them, blocking their passage the way they had come. A shortened double-barrel shotgun extended out from his hip. He carried it low, like a head-banger guitarist plucking chords at his knees.

This was going to go badly.

“Look, we’re not with him,” Blake said.

The older man with the ponytail cocked his head. “We know.” He stepped forward, gun barrel centered on Blake’s head. “Don’t do anything stupid. Your son’s coming with us.”

Blake barely felt his muscles tense before the shotgun slammed into the back of his knees from behind. He crumbled, hands scraping against the graveled pavement. He cried out, answered only by Adam. Shouting.

“No!” Blake yelled.

Ponytail pressed a syringe into Adam’s neck, Blake’s son going limp in the man’s arms.