Chapter 12
Brendan pulled into his parents’ driveway and turned off his truck. Without any hesitation he had his phone out, found the name he wanted, and hit the call button. It was do or die time, and he didn’t have any other options.
“This is Deputy Armstead.”
“Marcus, it’s me, Brendan.”
The serious voice elevated a few levels of cheerfulness. “Hey, bro. I can’t really talk long; I’m at work right now.”
“Right, right,” Brendan said. “I got a favor to ask.”
Marcus laughed. “Yeah, already? That didn’t take long.”
“This is actually kind of serious, Marcus. Did you know my sister is hooked on something?”
“Taryn? Honestly, man, I’ve hardly seen her these last few years,” Marcus said. “We get calls out to her park for domestic disturbances pretty frequently, but never for her place.”
“Never, huh?”
“Yeah,” Marcus continued. “That big ol’ white boy she lives with looks mean as hell, but he seems to treat her right, as far as we can tell.”
“Except for the drugs
.”
“Don’t know nothing about that, man, but I believe you,” Marcus said. “Lots of that crap gets around in those parks.”
When Brendan didn’t say anything immediately, Marcus insinuated that he sort of needed to jet.
“Wait a second,” Brendan urged. “I got a meeting with a big distributor tonight. I told him I’m a dealer—”
“Hold up. You did
what
now?”
“I told Scott Fisher—”
“You need to stay away from that cat, Brendan. I’m not dicking around here. Let the DEA sort this out.”
“They would’ve sorted it out already if they could, so screw that.”
“So what’s your play here, man? You going to walk in there and kill them all? I can tell you right now that won’t get you what you want. These sickos are a dime a dozen; you kill one and five more take his place by tomorrow.”
“I’m n
ot going to kill anyone tonight.” At least, not if he didn’t have to. “I’m just going to get some info out of them. You know, prove they’re the ones running the meth in town.”
“Sounds just great, bro, but I can’t get involved in that. I’m a cop.”
“That’s exactly why you
should
help.”
“No, that’s why I shouldn’t,” Marcus said, now in hushed tones. “I already told you, the DEA’s got this one. Let them handle it. A civilian shouldn’t be running around going Rambo in Shallow Creek. It doesn’t look like it, but this can be a dangerous place.”
Brendan stared out his truck windshield at the back of his dad’s truck, parked in front of him. He hadn’t really thought that Marcus would hang him out to dry on this one. It had seemed like a slam dunk to him.
“So you’re not going to help me?” he asked.
Marcus stayed quiet for a solid minute. Brendan could hear papers rustling through the phone line.
“You going to do this
anyway? Even if I don’t come?”
“God Himself couldn’t stop me today.”
“Shit.”
After another long pause, Brendan knew he had an ally.
“Marcus, all I need is overwatch. I’m going to call them to get a time and location. They’ll probably want to meet me in a shitty part of town, and I need someone watching my back out there.” When his friend didn’t immediately respond, he added, “You wouldn’t be in harm’s way. I just need you to stand guard and make sure no one’s sneaking up on me. Okay?”
His friend sighed heavily into the phone.
“Sure, man,” Marcus conceded finally. “Sure. You know I’ll always have your back, but you owe me more than just a beer for this.”
Brendan smiled.
“If we sort this mess out, you can name your price, bud.”
Sullen,
Marcus said, “Yeah, but I’m more worried about the price they’re going to put on your head if this thing goes south.”
Chapter
13
The warehouse loomed over an abandoned gas station at the edge of town. Here in the industrial district, nothing stirred. Brendan and Marcus had patrolled the streets on either side of the warehouse, seeing absolutely squat. No one had entered or left the area.
Almost an hour ago, he’d called the number Fisher had passed to him. After four increasingly anxious rings, Michelle’s cousin had answered, giving Brendan instructions for the meet. Knowing that he shouldn’t enter a situation like this without some reconnaissance, Brendan
had picked up Marcus before racing over, his truck’s roaring exhaust note providing the soundtrack to his night. They’d ditched the truck up the road and hoofed it the rest of the way in.
“It’s not too late to back out of this,” Marcus said, his eyes still scanning the area ahead. He’d tried a number of times to dissuade Brendan from doing what he had to do, but it wasn’t working.
“It’ll be fine.”
That familiar pre-mission antsy feeling grew in his chest. The parking lot around the dark warehouse was empty, at least within the limited confines of the weak floodlights mounted haphazardly across the side of the building.
Brendan gave it one more minute. The anticipation brewing internally flared, and Brendan knew he had to move.
“It’s time,” he said. Marcus nodded reluctantly. “I’ll squawk twice on the walkie-talkie if I need help.”
After installing the earbud from his radio into his ear, Brendan slipped quietly from their observation post. With a glance over his shoulder to confirm the road behind was clear, he slinked from shadow to shadow, only breaking cover when absolutely necessary. The pattern of illumination on the ground close to the large warehouse contained many holes, and Brendan exploited each of them to reach a small side door.
Now that he was closer, Brendan could see the dilapidation and
obvious signs of neglect of the place. No signage anywhere hinted at a possible usage for the warehouse, so Brendan assumed it was as abandoned as the gas station next door. After confirming that his pocket still held his trusty knife, Brendan tried the door handle.
It turned easily in his hand and he found himself staring into
a brightly lit, and mostly empty, warehouse. A desk stood in the middle of the open area, and a man stood behind it, smirking towards Brendan.
“It’s about time, man,” Scott Fisher said amicably enough. “I’ve been waiting.”
Brendan paused long enough to sweep the open area,
but couldn’t see anyone else around. Part of him nagged at him to leave, telling him that he didn’t really know what he was doing, but backing down wasn’t his style.
“Come on in.
” Fisher waved towards the desk. “The water’s fine.”
Brendan let the door close behind him, and then walked up to the desk. Fisher motioned for Brendan to take a seat across the desk from him, but that
didn’t seem like a good idea. When Brendan stayed standing, Fisher shrugged and sat down himself.
A loud click echoed throughout the building as all the lights except the powerful floodlight directly overhead switched off.
From within the intense cone of light, everything beyond disappeared entirely. Adrenaline started to build in Brendan’s veins as his senses kicked into overdrive. Bolting for the door seemed like a choice plan, but Brendan knew his eyesight would be reduced to nothing after he transitioned from the brightness to the darkness.
“Alright, man,” Fisher said as he placed his elbows onto the desk and let his fingers form a bridge. “I got a little problem with your story from earlier.”
Brendan tensed up.
“Oh yeah?” he asked, trying to hold back his
growing concern.
“Yeah,” Fisher replied gruffly. “You’re either dumb, or
really
fucking dumb.”
That was Brendan’s signal. The game was over. Survival instincts kicked in.
But he only took one step in Fisher’s direction before strong hands locked onto his arms. He turned his head as a solid kick to the back of his leg dropped him to his knees. The coordination and suddenness of the attack surprised him, but he instantly shot back to his feet and lashed out in all directions. His right arm came free from its restraint, and his fist whipped across his body to score a direct hit against the jaw of the man on his left. The guy’s face disappeared from the cone of light, only to rebound back into it with a hellish fury etched into its brow. Unfortunately, the man’s hands held firm. Before Brendan could land another punch, something heavy and blunt struck the back of his skull, knocking him back to his knees, where his captors forced his arms up behind his back. The old shrapnel injury in his shoulder protested profusely, but not a sound escaped his mouth.
“You’re pre
tty quick, but not quick enough.” Fisher casually came around the desk. He parked his rear end on the table, and then bent down to lift Brendan’s face to his own. “You’re probably thinking about how bad an idea this was, am I right?”
When Brendan said nothing, Fisher eased away, and then struck like a coiled cobra, smacking the teeth loose on the left side of Brendan’s mouth
and knocking the small bud from his ear. The taste of blood hit him almost as hard as the seething rage begging for a chance to crush Fisher’s face. No matter how much he thrashed, Fisher’s goons held him in check, now obviously far more respectful of Brendan’s abilities. For the first time, Brendan thought hailing Marcus might’ve been a good idea about two minutes ago. On cue, someone pulled the radio off his belt and tossed it to Fisher.
“You didn’t come alone?” Fisher asked, feigning shock. He placed the walkie-talkie on the desk and nodded to some unseen goons
, presumably commanding them to go find Marcus.
“So you want to distribute crystal meth,
Brendan?” Fisher asked, stroking his bloodied knuckles. Brendan didn’t acknowledge the question, so Fisher continued. “There’s two options here. Either you’re not really a dealer, in which case, I want to know why the fuck you’re here,
or
you’re really a dealer, in which case I want to know why the fuck you’re here.”
Brendan just glared back at the man he thought he’d known. Anger star
ted to fade as embarrassment rose to take its place. Fisher hit him again, this time a little higher, closer to the eye. The swelling sensations started almost immediately.
“Marines are tough, but this ain’t worth it
, man,” Fisher told him, once again sitting back onto the edge of the desk. “If you just explain yourself, we won’t fucking kill you. How’s that sound?”
The fury was back, that primal anger that knew no bounds, the rage that knew no control once the leash came off. And now his collar felt slack. The previous thump to the back of his head indicated he’d get one shot at this
before they were on him. His anger assured him that’s all he’d need.
Fisher was talking again, but Brendan wasn’t listening.
The thugs pinned him down as he struggled to push back. He upped the intensity until he felt the right amount of resistance.
Faster than his captors could anticipate, Brendan ducked forward and wrenched both hands free. Fisher flipped backwards over the desk in retreat. Brendan swiveled and saw the man to his right caught off balance. A quick kick to the side of the bastard’s knee evoked an unhealthy pop that left the man shrieking and falling.
Lying on his back now, Brendan’s hand went to his pocket as three shadowy figures entered the lighted circle. The first came at him with all the brazen confidence of a man who wasn’t used to his prey fighting back. Brendan waited for the guy to grab his shirt with both hands. The folding knife flipped open in Brendan’s right hand as his arm shot straight towards the man’s groin. As the knife penetrated up to the handle, the goon’s grip slackened enough to drop Brendan back to the floor. The guy’s face twisted in pain as he jerked away suddenly, wrenching the knife from Brendan’s grasp.
Sensing his advantage dwindling, Brendan kicked the ailing man over and
regained his own feet. The desk stood to his back, and two men with billy clubs slowly approached from the front. The one on the right sported a ridiculous bleached mohawk and some trashy facial hair. He spoke with all the elegance of a Cockney wanker.
“You fancy a go then, mate?” Mohawk asked, slapping the club into the palm of his hand. His shirt had no sleeves, revealing fully tattooed arms that hinted this Englishman thought he was a badass.
“How about I knock a few of those crooked-ass teeth out for you?”
To Brendan’s left, moans from his first victims echoed in the darkness beyond the reach of the overhead spotlight. A rustle came from behind him.
Fisher.
Brendan turned too late. Something punched him in the back of
his legs with the force of a pissed off mule. He fell forward as the desk stopped sliding across the concrete floor. Fisher must’ve kicked it.
The other two men came at him with billy clubs swinging.
Brendan fended the first few blows on his forearms as he fell back onto the floor. Each impact rocked his entire body. After four or five, his brain’s emergency systems kicked in. He tried to roll and weather the attacks long enough to get up, but a strike to the back of his head smashed his face into the concrete.
His arms splayed wide of their own accord and left him lying spread-eagle and helpless. The onslaught continued while he struggled to assume some semblance of the fetal position. His brain wandered off to a better place as he kicked futilely in the general directions of the attackers. After an absurd length of time, Fisher’s voice muttered something and the blows ceased.
Brendan propped himself up slowly onto his hands and knees. His left eye had swollen shut mostly, but out of his right he could see Fisher’s feet next to him, close to where Brendan’s blood was pooling after dripping off his face.
“I don’t give a shit wh
at you think you’re doing here,” Fisher said.
The arrogance of the tone drove Brendan nuts, but he was in no position to do anything about it. This asshole had needed four other thugs to break Brendan down, and now he had the balls to talk down to him? Brendan vowed to kill this fuck if it was the last thing he did.
“Still don’t want to talk? Fine. If you’re a dealer or not, you should know that this is my fucking town, and you need to get the fuck out of it.”
Brenda
n reached a hand up to the desk and weakly tried to pull himself up. Fisher, or one of his goons, swiped at Brendan’s arm, leaving him back on all fours.
“Out of respect for your brother, I’m not going to kill you,” Fisher explained. “But you better fucking get the message.”
Brendan’s face twitched away as Fisher’s boot shot into view, but it was too late. The message was received.