“Quartzsite,” D replied
That was about a four-hour drive to the middle of nowhere. “What’s there?”
Sigh. “Gotta pick up some stuff.” He sounded put out to have to answer even this simplest of questions, and pique rose in Jack’s throat.
“You know, you could cut me some fucking slack,” he snapped. D glanced at him briefly, then back at the road. “I am stuck in a car with some guy who was supposed to kill me and this is the second time in as many months that my whole life’s been pureed and I’m just supposed to sit here quietly and not ask any questions? I’m real fucking sorry to bother you, but I’m the one with a bull’s-eye on his forehead here.” Jack crossed his arms over his chest and flopped back against the seat.
D’s visible response to this little tirade was to purse his lips slightly. Jack watched out of the corner of his eye as the man’s jaw clenched and unclenched. Suddenly, he yanked the wheel to the right and pulled off the deserted highway, then parked the car and turned in his seat to face Jack, taking off those damned HAL sunglasses. “Dominguez brothers want ya dead. I was hired ta kill ya. I cain’t be entirely sure was them that hired me. So that’s possibly two parties after ya. Plus the U.S. Marshals gonna be on the hunt for ya now that yer outta pocket. That’s three parties we gotta steer clear of.”
“Why can’t we let the Marshals catch us? If you’re so worried about my welfare, they’re the ones—”
D cut him off. “Hate ta tell ya, but we gotta consider that whoever put out the hit on ya got yer location from inside the program.”
Jack blinked. That was a disturbing thought. “How could they—”
D flapped a hand as if this were an insignificant detail. “Bought, stole, hacked, blackmailed. Don’t matter. Point is, cain’t trust ’em no more ta hide ya. Plus, since I ain’t done ya, parties what hired me, be they the brothers or not, gonna be after me. Ya gettin’ the picture?”
Jack swallowed hard. “A little too well.”
“None a my hideouts gonna be safe. I got a stash hid outside Quartzsite. Goin’ there fer money ‘n’ weapons. Then we gotta get new ID. Gotta go ta LA fer that, but need cash first.” Throughout this speech, D’s unblinking eyes didn’t leave Jack’s face but pinned him there against the passenger door like an amoeba under a microscope.
“Okay,” Jack said, nodding.
D sighed. “But don’t go thinkin’ it’s jus’ you with a bull’s-eye on yer forehead.” He turned toward the road again and pulled back onto the highway.
They drove in silence for a good half hour. Jack watched the spare expanse of southwestern scenery scroll by outside the car, trying to empty his mind of thoughts… but one kept recurring. “What did you mean when you said it might not have been the Dominguez brothers who hired you?” Jack asked.
It took D long enough to answer that Jack started to wonder if he was going to. “I got no proof was them.”
“Isn’t them wanting me dead proof enough? I don’t think anyone else is that mad at me.”
D cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “Mighta been more about me killin’ ya than you bein’ dead.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Possible some parties wanted ta see if I’d do it.”
“Why would they think you wouldn’t?”
“Don’t matter.”
“Fine, whatever.” Jack fell silent again. The sun was setting, and he was starting to get sleepy. He squinted into the spectacular sunset that was, sadly, lost on him in his distraction and let D’s words percolate into his brain. He tucked himself into the corner of the seat and rested his eyes on D’s profile as he faced relentlessly forward, both hands on the wheel, the picture of steely resolve even engaged in such a mundane task as driving.
With his shorn hair and stubble, D’s head looked like it had been sandblasted and weather-stripped. Jack had spent most of his professional life cutting people’s faces open, and his surgeon’s eye showed him the bones beneath D’s skin, although his seemed much closer to the surface than most people’s. His jawline was like a flying buttress, his brow like one of the table mesas that lurked on the horizon. His skull was geologic in its architecture. One could only imagine the seismic events and plate tectonics that had gone on in his life to shape him into this… whatever he was.
Jack knew that he ought to be afraid of D, and in a way, he was, but he got no sense of evil or malice from the man. He just seemed so rigidly defended that Jack wondered if any emotional considerations were even possible, and yet he’d displayed emotion in Jack’s own living room when faced with his homicidal task. Since then, however, he’d been about as accessible as the saguaro cacti dotting the landscape.
How accessible would you want to be if you were a hired killer? Jack suppressed a shiver. How many people had D killed? Dozens? Hundreds? How many had begged for mercy? How many had families, children, spouses to support? How many, like him, had done nothing but be in the wrong place at the wrong time? He looked away, having managed to give himself the creeps. This guy could decide to kill you at any moment, Jack. Just because he gave you a pass today doesn’t mean you’re in the clear, and you better not forget that, not for one moment.
Jack reconsidered the wisdom of trying to get away. He’d probably have the chance if he stayed on his toes. He’d already had chances. Get to a phone and call your contact in the program. It was tempting, but D had said that might not be safe. He could just be making that up so you won’t call the authorities.
Jack rubbed his eyes. He was talking in circles, and giving himself a headache to boot. The plan D had described seemed like a good enough one to Jack, and he was just too tired to think of a reason why he shouldn’t go along.
~~~~~
Francisco had been watching him for most of the drive. D let him, not acknowledging Francisco’s observation or asking why. If he were in Francisco’s position, he would have been trying to figure some shit out too.
The deserted two-lane blacktop wasn’t the fastest way to Quartzsite but it was the loneliest, and that was what he wanted. Easy to spot a tail, hard to get snuck up on. He was feeling off his game and unbalanced and wanted to give himself every advantage he could. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they weren’t in the clear, even though he’d seen no sign of surveillance at Francisco’s house or since.
As for Francisco? The man had surprised him. The thing about the tags on the license plates they’d stolen had been a sharp note, and D had kicked himself a little for not picking up on it himself, but then his spy-novel ideas about long-term airport parking and putting the Taurus’s plates on the Buick had taken him right back to a little kid playing cops ‘n’ robbers. Francisco might have had some book-learning and a little backbone, but in those eyes of his D could see the deep thread of gonna-be-okay running through him, made more remarkable by what he’d been through lately.
Francisco was still watching him, but now he was trying to hide it. He didn’t know that D could feel anybody’s eyes on him, the weight of their gaze sitting on him, heavy like a drop of rainwater. He hated being this close to the man and this easily watched. Wasn’t anything personal; it just wasn’t his way. And he’d have to keep him this close if he didn’t want him bumped off right from under his own nose.
He saw Francisco shudder a little. Probly rememberin’ the gun ya had in his face a few hours ago, D thought. Oughta throw the guy a bone, leastways so’s he knows you ain’t gonna pop off and shoot him after all. Gotta make him trust ya a little, else he might try ‘n’ get away. Cain’t have that. Cain’t chance him goin’ ta the cops or runnin’ off on his own ‘n’ getting his damned fool head blown off.
Goddamn, I hate this. D cleared his throat. “Hour ta Quartzsite,” he said.
Francisco jumped a little at the sudden noise after an hour of silence. “Oh… uh, good. I guess.”
“Find a motel, hole up fer the night.”
“Okay.” Francisco was sitting up a little straighter, and watching him openl
y again. “So… you don’t work for the brothers normally?” he asked, taking the opening D had laid at his feet.
“Don’t work for nobody.”
“You’re a free agent?”
D sniffed. “Guess so.”
Francisco nodded, mulling this over. “Never thought men like you were real.”
“Men like me?”
“You know. Hired assassins.”
That surprised a brief snort of laughter out of him. “Hired assassins? How many Tom Clancy books you read, anyway?”
Francisco blinked, and then chuckled a little. “I guess that does sound kind of melodramatic, doesn’t it?”
“Bit, yeah.”
“You tell me, then.”
D fished a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and lit one, cracking the window. “Just do what I do.”
“But just so we’re clear, what you do is murder for hire, right?”
Hearing it put like that made D’s lips clamp down a little tighter on his cigarette. “S’pose so.”
“So why would anybody have thought you wouldn’t kill me?”
“Huh?”
“You said before that somebody might want to see if you’d kill me. Why wouldn’t you?”
“’Cause ya don’t deserve it,” D said, quietly.
Francisco blinked at him. “What?”
“You ain’t done nothin’ ta bring it ta yer door, Francisco. You witnessed a crime ‘n’ were gonna help put them bastards away. Ain’t no reason ta kill ya, not by my reckonin’.”
Francisco had turned in his seat and was now staring at him with unabashed interest. “Are you telling me that you only kill people who deserve it?”
“Them’s my rules.”
“And who gets to decide that? You?”
“Who the fuck else?”
“What kind of people? Who deserves it, tell me that?” Francisco was getting agitated. D had thought this line of discussion would calm him down, but it sure wasn’t working out that way.
“Well… some a them killers themselves. Done some child molesters. Done a few a them fer free, matter a fact. Lotta crime-boss types. Few pimps. Bad folks.”
“Bad folks,” Francisco repeated. “Like you.”
D sighed. “I’m jus’ cleanin’ up the scum, Francisco.” He shook his head. “Didn’t mean ta piss ya off none,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” Francisco snapped. “I’ve just never met a professional killer before, and I’m having a little trouble with the degrees of morality here.” He sat back in his seat, exhaling. “I guess I shouldn’t judge. Your rules saved my life, didn’t they?”
“Reckon so.”
A few tense minutes passed until Francisco sighed and his shoulders sagged. “I’m….”
“Don’t worry about it,” D said, cutting him off. “Yer right. I am bad folks.”
Francisco said nothing for a few beats. “I don’t think you’re bad,” he murmured.
~~~~~
Jack woke with a start, a finger poking his shoulder. “Huh?” he said, sitting up straight. D was leaning over him, nothing more than a darker outline in the general darkness.
“We’re here,” D said. “C’mon, need an extra pair a hands.”
Jack got out of the car. It was so dark he couldn’t even see his hands in front of his face. “Christ, it’s dark out here. How do you know we’re in the right spot?”
The soft glow of a green LED screen briefly lit up D’s face as he handed Jack a flashlight. “GPS.” He turned on his own flashlight and Jack followed along. As his eyes adjusted he could make out hulking hills nearby, and the flat desert ground at his feet. D walked slowly, casting the beam of his flashlight around, until he saw a tall Joshua tree nearby with a distinctive pitchfork shape to its branches.
“How appropriate,” Jack muttered.
D stopped at the base of the tree and shone his light on the ground, swiping at the desert soil with his foot until he exposed something metallic. He bent over and grabbed it, and Jack saw it was the handle to a trapdoor. D pulled up a cloth, exposing a combination lock. He spun it right and left, then yanked up on the trapdoor. It yawed open like a hungry mouth, revealing a short flight of stairs.
Jack followed D into the hole, a little apprehensive, but it was just an old bunker, possibly an abandoned bomb shelter. D pulled a cord, and a naked bulb illuminated the room. The bunker was dusty and stale; a number of aluminum cases were stacked on its shelves. D began pulling them down and opening them; Jack could see that most of them contained guns. He didn’t know the first thing about firearms, but D seemed to know what he was looking for.
“Here, hold this,” he said, handing Jack a duffel bag. Jack held it open while D tossed in weapons and boxes of ammunition. He added a smaller, leather case and then opened up an innocuous-looking coffee can and pulled out a very thick roll of bills secured with a rubber band. This, he stuffed into his pocket.
“Holy shit,” Jack said. “Are we taking over a small country?”
D snorted. “Gotta be prepared.” He looked up at Jack’s face, frowning. “What?”
Jack shrugged. “It’s just….” He sighed. “I’m starting to see words like ‘accessory’ and ‘accomplice’ floating around my head.”
D barely reacted. “How about ‘dead on arrival’? Ya like that better?”
Jack nodded, pressing his lips together. “Get more ammo. Ammo is good.”
~~~~~
Once the deadbolt and chain were secured, D immediately felt better. The motel room’s tackiness was familiar, and as he shut the drapes it was like shutting the world’s eyes to them. No one could see them here.
Francisco was flopped on the bed near the bathroom, staring at the ceiling. D sat down on the other bed and removed his guns. He checked the loads and placed one on the nightstand, the other on the dresser. “I’m starving,” Francisco said. “Can I order a pizza?”
“Pizza’s good.”
Francisco sat up, frowning. “Oh, you want some?”
“I’m hungry too.” D watched Francisco’s bemused expression. “What?”
Francisco shrugged, shaking it off. “I don’t know. It’s just weird that you, you know… eat.”
D cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t everybody?”
“You just seem like you’d be impervious to everything.”
Damn, I wish. “Well, I ain’t. And I like mushrooms.”
“Me too.” Francisco found a phone book and ordered their pizza. D listened, shaking his head, as Francisco turned on the charm and convinced the pizza joint to bring them a six-pack too. After he hung up, they waited in silence, Francisco on the bed, D sitting in the chair by the window. “Why’d you do it?” Francisco asked.
“Do what?”
“Agree to kill me. You said you didn’t kill people who didn’t deserve it, but you were going to kill me. Why’d you break your rules?”
D sighed and lit up a cigarette. Motherfucker never stops talking. “Had no choice.”
“What, were they holding your cat hostage or something?”
“Don’t got no cat.”
“Why didn’t you have a choice?”
“Men that hired me had pictures a me at other jobs I done.”
“So they blackmailed you.”
“Yup.”
“What’s to stop them from turning you in now?”
D turned and looked at Francisco, sitting there on the bed cross-legged like a kid telling ghost stories, so fucking naïve it made D’s teeth hurt. He almost hated to be the one disabusing the man of all his well-meant notions. After the life D had led for the past ten years, it was nice to know that there were still people like Francisco in the world, who thought that life could be good and sweet. “Nothin’. They could turn me in at any time. They won’t, though. I took the job ‘n’ I didn’t do it, and now I’m tryin’ ta stop anyone else from pickin’ up my slack. They ain’t gonna bother getting me thrown in jail. They’re just gonna want me dead.”
“You an
d me both.”
“Yup.”
“So… we’re in this together?”
D sniffed. “Ya sound like ya hope we are.”
“Frankly, if I’ve got people after me, I’d much rather be on the run with somebody like you than on my own. I can repair a cleft palate in my sleep but I’d be useless against armed killers.”
“Ya sure would.”
Francisco was quiet for a moment. D knew it wouldn’t last, and it didn’t. “So, how long were you in the military?”
D looked at him sharply. “How’d you know I was in the military?”
Francisco smiled. “I didn’t. Now I do. Lucky guess. You just seem like the type. And you didn’t start wearing your hair like that for high fashion.”
D slouched down in his chair. It troubled him that Francisco could read something like that so easily. Usually, he prided himself on being unseeable. Black, like a new moon, no features visible. Either he was slipping, or Francisco was real fucking sharp. He sucked on his cigarette to avoid answering. “Yeah, went in when I was eighteen.”
“How long were you in?”
“Seven years. ’Til ninety-five.”
That seemed to surprise Francisco. “How old are you?” he asked.
“Thirty-six.”
“Me too! Huh, you don’t look thirty-six.”
“That so?”
“No. I would have thought you were older.”
D snorted. “Guess I oughta be insulted.”
“Why’d you leave the… what, the Army? Navy?”
“Army. What the fuck is this, Twenty Questions?” D bit out, tired of the interrogation but also alarmed at the amount of personal information he was letting slip out. Josey didn’t even know how old he was, and here he’d known Francisco about eight hours and he was spilling his goddamned life story. What was even more alarming was that he found himself wanting to say more. That shit had to be nipped in the bud. “We ain’t friends, Francisco,” he snarled, hoping he sounded forbidding. “You don’t gotta know my business, I don’t gotta know yours.”