I move toward him, stepping over and around moving, writhing, groaning men. They’re street thugs, this much obvious from their attire—sagged jeans, too-big T-shirts, boots, bandanas, backward hats. Definitely the kind of assholes Alvin would recruit for a job like this, telling them it’s simple and easy, just drive by, shoot up a motel room, go in make sure they’re dead.
They clearly didn’t take into account the kind of man Chance is.
He takes my free hand and helps me over the last of the thugs, kicking aside what looks like an AK-47. The door hangs off its hinges, the latch and frame splintered. The sheer number of bullet holes is mind-boggling.
“How did they not hit us?” I ask, as we emerge in early morning daylight.
“Aimed high. Basically, they were just spraying and praying.” He mimes holding a gun at waist height and moving it side to side. “One bullet hit the bed, and none came even close to the floor.”
I frown. “I mean, I don’t know the first thing about shooting people or whatever, but it seems logical enough that if someone hears gunfire, they’re going to hit the floor. So if I was trying to kill them, I’d aim low.”
He nods. “No shit. These dudes aren’t working with a full deck, obviously. I mean, if you want to make sure your target is dead, you can’t spray and pray.”
“Do you, um, want a gun?” I ask.
He pauses, glances back into the room. “Want? No. Need? Probably.”
He shuffles back into the room, kicks aside another AK-47, bends to grab a handgun. He then shoves the nearest attacker over to his back, rifling through his pockets until he finds a magazine. On the way back to me, he ejects the magazine from the handle of the gun, glances at it, and replaces it with a speed and efficiency which speaks of long practice. The pistol goes into his waistband at the small of his back, and the spare magazine in his hip pocket.
“You don’t want the AK-47?” I ask as he rejoins me outside in the parking lot. “Seems like you would.”
He shakes his head. “Too big, too hard to conceal, too many questions if we’re seen with it. Not enough reason to carry it, either. I’m not looking to kill anyone, much less a lot of people, and assault rifles are built for one thing and one thing only—killing a lot of people very quickly. A handgun, I can conceal it. I can threaten someone with it. I can toss the components in various places across the city when I’m done with it and no one will ever be able to match the pieces to me.”
“I…” trailing off, I stare at him. “Oh.”
He turns away from me, looking toward the Benz. “Well fuck.”
All four tires have been shot out. The glass has been riddled with bullets on all sides, as has the hood.
“Well that’s unhelpful,” I say.
“Very.” He scratches his jaw, shakes his head. “Stupid. What’s the point? They were sent to kill us. So if we’re dead, why wouldn’t you want to take the truck? Even assuming they have no way of knowing it’s a Brabus armored G-Wagen, it’s still a fucking G-Wagen worth, base trim, at least a hundred grand. Why shoot it to hell? Dumbass fucking turd-lickers, I swear to fuck.”
“It’s a what?” I ask.
“Brabus. A tuner company based in Germany. They take stock Mercedes-Benzes and tune shit out of the engines so they’re stupid powerful, fix up the interior so they’re even more lux, and in this case, they kitted it out with armor.” He gestures. “They dumped entire magazines at that thing, and the glass is intact. If we’d been in there, we’d be fine. As is, it probably still runs. We just couldn’t see shit, and the tires are flat.” He shakes his head again.
“So…now what?”
He scans the parking lot—it’s obvious which car the attackers came in. It’s an older model Tahoe, lowered so it’s only an inch or two off the ground, with giant thin tires and brilliant chrome rims. It’s still running.
“Jesus shits,” he murmurs, sighing in disgust. “Why slam a Tahoe? Defeats the entire purpose of owning a fucking SUV.”
“Slam?” I ask.
He gestures at the vehicle. “Lower it like that.” He shakes his head. “A muscle car, or a badass old boat like a vintage Cadillac, I can get it. This is an early two-thousands fucking Tahoe. Stupid.” He sighs again. “Probably too much to hope that it’s bagged instead of just slammed.” He looks at me, grins, answering my question before I can ask it. “Bagged meaning air bag suspension. Which has an actual purpose, function, and utility.” He opens the driver’s side door, glances in, hisses. “Nope. Slammed. Shit.” He shoves the seat as far back as it will go, slides in, leans the seat way back. “Let’s go, mama. Time to get scarce before cops come investigate the automatic weapons fire.”
I move to the passenger side, shove my cane in first and use the oh-shit bar to haul myself in. “Well, you may not appreciate it, but I do. It’s a hell of a lot easier for me to get into than something lifted way up.”
“Wait till we hit a bump, honey. You’ll be singing a different tune.” He waits till I’m buckled in to shove the shifter into gear.
And, indeed, as we exit the hotel parking lot, we go down a slight curb from parking lot to road, and the jolt is shocking and loud.
“Oh, I see what you mean,” I say with a laugh.
“Right. Why? Just why?” He digs in his pocket and comes up with a cell phone. As we stop at a light, he hits a speed dial, puts it to his ear. “Hey, Inez. Yeah, so we’ve run into some issues. No, we’re both fine, but Annika and I are dealing with a real bastard named Alvin, a drug dealer with a vindictive streak. He’s a loose cannon so we’re gonna avoid the club until I figure out how to deal with his punk ass.” He listens. “Yeah, Inez, I’m good, I swear. Annika and I actually have that problem in common, so we’ll keep each other on the wagon.” More listening. “So, one further, minor issue. We were holed up in a shitty no-tell motel in a not-great section of town, and there was a little bit of a drive-by—no, I told you, we’re good, we’re safe, I dealt with them and yes, I kept my vow. But the problem is they shot up the Benz…eh, it can probably be salvaged, but it’ll be expensive as fuck…no, the fuckers emptied into it, shot out the tires, riddled it with holes, shot up the windows. Yeah, I’ve got wheels. Shitty wheels, but wheels…” More listening. “Yeah, I’ll call in if I need anything. Yeah, if you can find me leverage on this fucker, info, anything, I’d be grateful.” He listens again, turns to me. “Last name?”
“Robertson,” I say. “His name is Alvin Robertson. And I actually do happen to know where he lives.”
