Resurrection Express (6 page)

“David Hartman says hello . . . and
good-bye.
”

His gun has a hair trigger.

When his finger hits it, I hear an explosion and the guy falls down dead.

•  •  •

F
ranklin steps through the back door and nudges the turtleneck guy with his foot, making sure he’s not a zombie. He sees the screaming gunman in the car thirty feet away and puts one round
through the back windshield. A red paint bomb goes off inside there, and the screaming stops. Franklin doesn’t flinch.

“Sorry I’m late, kid.”

The shot echoes into forever, smoke rising from the business hole of his weapon, which is bad business indeed: a .375 Korth revolver, 38 caliber, the kind of gun that giants with big hands use when they wanna blow holes in nouns.

That’s people, places and things.

He covers the alley, putting his other hand under my shoulder to help me up.

“We gotta move. Now.”

It’s been a long time since I was in a war zone like this—since I ran with people who killed other people so casually. Thank God for small favors. He starts to run and I follow him. The ankle throbs, but it’s not broken. A genuine miracle, that. We move fast, climb the wreck of the car, get to the other end of the alley. I shove the 9-mil in my waistband. No more shots back there, but I can hear the first sirens in the distance.

“We need a car,” he tells me, the two of us scoping the next street over, which is almost empty. We cross to the alley behind Tom’s Tabooley. There’s a 1995 Honda Accord parked near the dishwashers’ entrance. It’s unlocked, no alarm. I use my kit bag and we’re on wheels in less than twenty seconds. The older the ignition switch, the easier it is. You can start a car like this with a screwdriver. Someone screams at us, running out of the back of the restaurant. I gun the motor and leave him quick, turning left onto the next street, snaking through a series of neighborhood back roads towards South Lamar, away from the whole circus.

Feels strange driving a car. Haven’t done it in years.

“I have to bring you in,” Franklin says, putting his pistol away, scanning the road, his Deep South voice amazingly calm. “We have to get back to our people. There’s gonna be cops all over that block inside of five minutes.”

“I’m working on it, man. Let’s get some distance, then we’ll talk about destination.”

“You’re going the wrong way.”

“Look, we’re alive, right? Anyway, where
were you
when those assholes started using me for target practice?”

“Getting coffee across the street. I didn’t see what happened but I heard the shooting. The guy who survived the truck crash started wasting people inside the store.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“I went after him, thought you might be in there. That guy was an animal. Shooting women and children.”

“Christ . . .”

I take the MoPac Expressway and we cruise north, ten miles across the city, past civilization and into the lake area. The radio’s already talking about the hit. Panic and confusion. Some of them think it really is a terrorist attack. Choppers are hovering downtown. I pull over in the gravel near an old filling station, leave the motor running. The sun is starting to go down. I have no idea what to do.

“We need to ditch this car,” I tell him.

“You need to let me drive. I have to get us back to—”

I remember Washington’s 9-mil in my waistband, pull it out and thumb the hammer right between Franklin’s eyes. “I don’t think I trust you.”

“Take that gun out of my face right now, kid.”

“Then start talking. I wanna know what the hell’s going on here.”

“I think it’s pretty obvious what’s going on. Someone just tried to make you dead and I saved your life. Now, if you want to stay alive, I suggest you let me drive.”

I keep the gun aimed at him while he stares me down. We stay that way for a few seconds. I try to calm myself. In a long moment
of stupid incredulity I flash on the automatic nature of the actions I’ve been taking, and realize I don’t even know who manufactured the gun I’m holding in my hand. It’s heavy and compact, black and warm in my grip. Looks like it could be a Taurus or a Springfield. The serial numbers are sanded off and so is the brand name. I shake my head, checking reality, and Franklin scowls down the barrel.

The cell phone in my pocket rings.

I fish it out, not lowering the pistol.

UNKNOWN CALLER.

It could only be the Fixer on this line.

It isn’t.

It’s only the man who destroyed my life.

“
Hey, buddy-boy, are we having fun yet?
”

I don’t say anything. He laughs at me.

His voice is like a southern-fried pig who eats human flesh.

“
I heard you got an early release. I also heard you got a new phone number. Unlisted. Well done. I’ll be sure to tell our mutual friend Mister Remo Williams that you’re all kinds of grateful. And nice job, running from my boys, by the way. One hell of a professional getaway.
”

I can’t believe this. Jett sold me up the river. Or maybe they just beat my name out of him. Either way, I’m dead in the water.

About a million weird emotions trainwreck inside me, all those plunging wet feelings you get when the business comes down bad, when the whole world turns against you. But all I can think to say to him is this:

“You sick maniac.”

He laughs again. “
Now let’s not get nasty, old boy. I don’t think you want me really-and-truly angry with you right about now.
”

“Those people back there . . . they were nothing to you.”

“
Fuck those people. This is just a warning, boy. I knew those morons would miss and I didn’t really care. Not this time. But from now on, anywhere you go, I’ll know where that is. And every day you’re on the street, someone is going to die. Maybe someone close to you. But mark my words: we’re covering all the bases this time and the sky is falling. Think about that while you’re running from me. Think about that really, really hard.
”

“What do you want?”

“
Well, hell now. That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, ain’t it?
”

Click.

•  •  •

I
ditch everything. Smash the laptop, the cell, throw it all in the lake. Franklin also tosses his phone. Any chance they can track us where we’re going, we can’t take it. I just pray to God they didn’t get to the Fixer. If Hartman got to Remo through the Fixer, I’m completely hosed. They wouldn’t play nice with a guy like that, either. They’ll have made him talk about everything. I remember the key to my safe deposit box, still in my pocket, maybe useless by now, maybe not.

We change rides at the magic hour in a used-car lot five miles up the road, covered by the dull copper twilight. Nobody sees us—the place is closed for the night. I get us a shiny almost-new Impala that won’t be reported stolen for at least ten hours.

I let Franklin drive.

•  •  •

T
he safe house isn’t even in Austin.

It’s near Houston, two hundred and fifty miles.

He gets us there in just under three hours.

No cops anywhere. No choppers looking for us. We’re just some other stolen car on the back roads to nowhere. A little damp outside. Fall and winter are never really cold in Texas, not like in other states. Just a ghostly chill to remind you, mostly at night.
Franklin does a lot of weird turns down highway stretches I’ve never even seen, until we finally emerge on 59 North, and I can finally see a few familiar landmarks. He’s taking us into Splendora. It’s a pissant little settlement a few miles off the edge of Houston—not like a real city or town, just houses hidden by trees. There’s a lot of rural communities like this sitting at the outskirts of H-Town, and they’re all godforsaken as hell.

A stretch of gravel snakes into a fenced area in the woods. It’s hidden real well. A hardened redneck shotgun party with a squad of bloodhounds couldn’t find this place. Two guys on the gate, wearing city clothes and combat boots.

A short driveway cuts through a thick cluster of evergreens and opens into a compound. It has a few buildings that look like they belong on a farm, lots of open space, target ranges. More hired hands around, big muscle guys. I can see two of them carrying machine guns near a concrete slab about fifty feet wide with yellow markings like a basketball court. There’s an innocent little two-story house nestled near the rear of the compound, also dotted with big guys, four of them, surrounding the perimeter.

When we pull up to the farmhouse, I can tell by the bulges in their cheap sports jackets that they’re all carrying backup weapons in shoulder holsters. The one who opens the door and asks me to please step this way has a modded Ruger SR9 Centerfire pistol visible just under his armpit—high-end hitman gear, very reliable. Nine-millimeter stopping power, with a stainless steel slide and a black glass-nylon alloy frame. You see ex-marines selling those things at gun shows. The guy has a face like the surface of the planet Mars, looks about thirty. All these guys look young, except Franklin. I see the wrinkles on his face for the first time. Why didn’t I notice them before?

I follow Mars-Face up the creaky wooden stairs to the porch, where another guy with black hair and a white T-shirt pats me
down, looking apologetic. He’s strapped with an SR9 also. These guys must shop at the same gun show.

Franklin is right behind me. “We’ve got a code thirteen, Larry. I gotta get the boss on a secure line now.”

Mars-Face squeezes his lips together and shakes his head. “The boss is already here. Get the kid inside.”

The house has an old-fashioned screen door that sounds like a mouse getting pissed-off about something when Franklin opens it for me. My father stands up from the couch just inside the living room. He looks like he hasn’t slept in two days, since I last saw him. The TV in here is tuned to MSNBC and an image of the toy store I used to work at fills the screen on shaky video with urgent red letters rolling across the bottom:

Attack On Texas Capital

“Son . . . what the hell just happened?”

I shrug at him and say the first thing that pops into my mind:

“You got any beer in this place?”

•  •  •

I
drink two Lone Star tallboys and it’s like water floating in my guts. I don’t even get a half a buzz. Dad tells me they have some whiskey but that’s never a good idea. The hard stuff makes me fuzzy and stupid. So do cigarettes. He’s still asking me questions and I still don’t know exactly what to tell him. I’ve screwed up here, but how much of this is really my fault? What the hell did Hartman mean? People I care about are going to die. Everywhere I go, he can find me. The sky is falling.

That maniac.

He never did anything this crazy before.

Not in broad daylight.

The TV says ten are dead that they know about, including a mother and her child who were gunned down inside the store while I was running for my life. Identities being withheld until
notification of the victims’ families. I’m impressed with how fast the word got out. It’s been just over four hours since we ran like hell. I shouldn’t be surprised. They had the World Trade Center on every goddamn channel before any of us in Texas even knew what was happening. That gives me the wet, slimy feeling again.

I cut off the feeling.

Have to focus on the here and now.

I keep the kit bag on my shoulder this whole time. It still has twenty grand in it, the money the Fixer got me. My getaway insurance. It might be the last money I ever earn, if the key in my pocket is worthless.

Shitfire, Elroy. What the hell do you do now?

Heavy boots clock hard outside on the porch, and I hear the screen door squeak again. A big thick fella with a hard, sculpted face stands in front of me now, brown and mean-looking like an Italian, out of breath. He’s decked head to toe in military olive, like a drill sergeant with no decorations. Looks like a crazy man.

He points at me. “Is this the guy?”

He’s a good old boy, every syllable dripping with redneck fury.

Franklin stands up from the couch next to me as my father confirms my identity. The good old boy shakes his head at me.

“Mister, you’ve got a lotta explaining to do.”

4

00000-4

FULL DISCLOSURE

W
e leave the farmhouse—me, my father and the guy who looks like a drill sergeant—and cross the open compound to one of the other buildings, near the concrete slab. It looks like a barn. On the inside, too. Even has horses in the stalls and smells like rotten hay. It strikes me as a little odd that I grew up in Texas and I’ve never been in a barn once or even seen a farm animal this close up. I once saw a movie where Sean Penn played a guy on death row in New Orleans, and for his last meal he had shrimp, and when they brought it to him, he told Susan Sarandon he’d never eaten shrimp before. You never stop to smell the roses when you live the lives we live. But I was never on death row. And I never killed anyone.

Sure as hell tried today, though.

The gun felt cold and unforgiving in my hand when I aimed it—like the revenge I’ve lusted after for years.

But I couldn’t pull the trigger.

The man would have shot me dead.

And I just stood there.

A wooden stairwell in a dark corner that smells raw and unfinished drops below the floor, taking us into a short basement corridor with miners’ lights strung along the ceiling and another guy with a Ruger on the next door. He salutes the good old boy in olive green, turns a key in the lock, punches in a code. The security
is a joke, I can tell just by glancing. The digital keypad has a
SERIO-SYSTEMS
trademark on the outer plastic. You blow past those things easy, just by pressing in a row of sixes and holding down the pound key for six seconds.

Through the door, a conference room with a long table and a flat-screen monitor taking up one entire wall. Two flunkies in the room wearing guns in shoulder holsters. Three men and two women sitting at the table, most of them in army green.