16
Just as it’s nearly impossible these days to fake your death, there’s also no easy way to prepare for your likely actual death other than recognizing that it’s one of several possible outcomes. Normal people don’t usually possess this ability. It’s an existential conundrum and most people can’t even define “existential” or “conundrum” much less handle the philosophical questions of being. When you’re trained by the government to kill, you get a crash course in desensitization. From the first day of boot camp onward, you speak of death-both the death of your enemy and your own.
From the cadence chants of basic training to the man-shaped silhouettes you’re taught to fire at, to the new virtual-reality simulations that allow you to take on an entire city of people, you become inured to the common fear of death that a sane person might have. You’re willing to walk into enemy fire because you’ve already survived.
The result of this training is a series of skills that most humans really shouldn’t want, including the inability to feel fear when they really should.
Give this training to the wrong person and you just might give a platform for a burgeoning sociopath.
Give this training to the right person… and you end up with me and Sam riding howling hogs down a street in Miami, our saddlebags filled with paperwork and patches belonging to the Ghouls Motorcycle Club and one human hand, minus a severed pinkie.
We pulled up across the street from Purgatory and parked our bikes. It was barely 11:00 A.M. and traffic was light, but regular. Even a cop drove by once, but he didn’t bother to slow down. A block up the street was a 7- Eleven. A block down the street was a McDonald’s. There was a used-car lot within fifty feet of where we stood. And at 11:00 A.M. all had customers.
In front of Purgatory was the gold Lincoln and two bikes. Clete wasn’t holding up the front door, for obvious reasons, but his replacement looked to be cut from the same piece of cloth. Neck tats, arms the size of barrels, sunglasses, jeans, a bat.
He also had an iPhone, which he was playing with and therefore didn’t notice me and Sam staring directly at him. Not even the Ghouls can get a decent security detail, apparently.
“That guy is pretty scary-looking,” Sam said. “If a softball game breaks out, we’re done for.”
“Be careful,” I said. “He might also text you to death.”
“Kids,” Sam said, “they love the texting.” Another cop drove by. It wasn’t that odd, really. It wasn’t the best neighborhood in the city, or the worst, but it was also only about a mile from a substation where, a few months earlier, a delusional gangster had decided he’d go Terminator and try to shoot several police officers using a paintball gun. It didn’t go well, which told me that at least the cops were pretty good shots.
“Nice that there’s a legal presence here,” Sam said. “It would be a real shame if they just let a criminal organization roost here under their nose.”
“Alleged criminal organization,” I said.
If the Ghouls were really savvy, they’d call the cops as soon as we got anywhere near them. We were in possession of stolen property, after all, and they knew we’d be strapped.
Which gave me an idea.
I called 911.
“Yes, hello,” I said, “an eighteen-wheeler holding about ten cars on it? Toyotas? Maybe Hondas? Anyhoo, I think they are foreign cars? Well, I just saw one of those crash into one of those big apartment buildings on 142nd Avenue. Pardon me? Oh, the south part. Maybe south and to the west. There’s a huge fireball. Such pretty colors!”
Before I could continue with the show, the 911 operator told me authorities were on the way and disconnected me.
“Nice,” Sam said. Twenty seconds later, we heard the first sirens in the distance. An ambulance raced by us shortly thereafter, followed by two fire engines and two police cars.
“Good response time,” I said.
“Unless one of us needs an ambulance,” Sam said.
I tossed my cell phone into the street and watched as a second ambulance drove right over it, crushing it to pieces. Making a prank call to 911 isn’t advisable. They tend to track you down, arrest you, and put you in jail. It would be slightly more difficult to find out who I was with my burner crushed into the pavement. It was okay, though; I had another phone on me and another fifty or so at home.
After the authorities passed on by, traffic returned to normal. A city bus rolled by. A low-flying plane pulled an advertisement. A man pushing a taco cart walked in front of Purgatory but didn’t even look up from his feet.
Not a great time to open fire on a city street. Which was good. I didn’t want to get shot.
But sometimes, you need to let the neighbors know you’re home.
“Do you want to shout the hard-core thing or should I?” I asked Sam.
“I’ve got a couple of lines I’ve been working on,” he said.
“Please, no more John Wayne,” I said.
“You’ll have to wait and see.” We both pulled out our guns. He shouted, “Wagons forward, ho!”
I fired two shots into the gold Lincoln, taking out two of its tires. Sam fired two more shots, taking out the other tires. The guy guarding his iPhone surprised us both by throwing down his iPhone and ducking for cover, which was the smart move.
“Hondo?” I said.
“It was on television.”
I stepped out into the middle of the street, my gun on the crouching Ghoul. I could see that he was trying to get something out of his pants; his gun, most likely, which proved yet again how stupid it is to keep your gun in your belt, since it’s not very easy to retrieve it when you’re crouched down hoping to save your life. I walked a few more steps and then said, “Don’t do that.”
The Ghoul looked up at me. “Don’t do what?”
“Your gun. Don’t take it out and don’t try to shoot me with it. If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead. And if you’re not careful, you’re liable to blow your right testicle off. So stand up and pull your gun out slowly and then toss it into the gutter.”
Sam had followed me but was still about ten yards behind me. Cars swerved around him on the street, but no one seemed to be the least bit surprised that two guys with guns were stalking around. The man with the taco cart was about a block away, but hadn’t bothered to turn and look at the commotion. McDonald’s was still serving up Quarter Pounders. Gas was still being pumped. For some reason, the rest of the Ghouls hadn’t stormed out of Purgatory yet, which led me to believe they were expecting a show, which probably meant that the Ghoul on the street was not their most treasured asset.
“Man,” the un-treasured asset said, “you’re in the wrong place,” but he tossed his gun into the gutter anyway.
“People keep telling me that,” I said. “And yet, here I am. I wonder why that is?”
“Do you know who you’re shooting at?” he asked. He sounded incredulous. It was the default sound of tough guys who can’t believe other people don’t think they are tough.
“If you have to ask that question,” I said, “then the answer is yes. Now, run inside and tell your boss that there are some bad men outside who’d like to talk to him.”
The Ghoul didn’t move.
“He gonna shoot me in the back?” he asked. He indicated Sam with a lift of his chin.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Duke, you gonna shoot him in the back?”
“Out here, due process is a bullet,” Sam said, which only confused the Ghoul.
“That means no,” I said, though that wasn’t true. It just meant Sam had also seen The Green Berets recently. “But walk backwards if it makes you feel more comfortable.”
The Ghoul did just that, but before he made it up the steps to the door, it opened and Lyle Connors stood in the doorway. He wore a linen summer suit with no tie. His hair was parted conservatively to one side and his face was freshly shaved.
