Chapter Three

“That Diner around the Corner” is actually a few hundred meters down the street from Gere’s. After storing my equipments back in Cutlass, I stopped briefly at a convenient store on the way and snagged a bottle of Red Line.

Red Line is Red Bull’s older brother on steroids. This stuff packs a kick, it’s liquefied energy, one sip and you’ll be jumping up and down on the couch ranting incoherently.

I can relate.

But I digress. The Diner is a reasonably tidy establishment. From its furnishings, I would guess the original owner meant it to be a classy Italian bistro.

It didn’t work out.

The successor, however, kept the décor and reopened it as a moderately priced diner, where I often come as a patron.

The vibe here is great, quiet and relaxed. Also, it is way underrated, and probably the main reason I like it.

I could spend a whole afternoon here with a good book and nice cup of Dry Cappuccino.

I nudged the wooden door of the diner open. Tiny brass bells hung above the frame chimed gently.

The aroma of roasted coffee beans and various spices filled my senses as I walked into the warmly lit room. Half of the tables at the restaurant were occupied with your regular lazy midday crowd.

I strolled up to the bar, where a blonde pony-tailed waitress behind the counter looked up from her cleaning and flashed me a polite, low-wattage smile.

I returned it, “Two Turkey Clubs and a Long black to go.”

“No problem, sir,” she turned to tap my order into a touch-screen device, “that would be eight fifty.”

I pushed her a ten-dollar-note, “Keep the change.”

“Thank you, sir.” She took the bill and turned around to pour my coffee.

I slid the bottle onto the counter and gave her back an appreciative glance.

Don’t judge, I kill people for a living, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the small things in life.

I hastily shifted my gaze as she turned around, to scrutinize a scratch mark on the countertop with sudden interest.

“Excuse me, sir.” The waitress nodded towards the beverage as she placed the cup of coffee in front of me, “Outside food and beverages aren’t allowed.”

“…Really?” my eyes narrowed slightly. This was never a problem here before... whatever.

I twisted the cap off and poured the content into the coffee cup.

It overflowed, slightly. But that’s beside the point.

“Is this better?” I asked.

The waitress seemed about to protest, but then gave a I’m-not-paid-enough-for-this-kind-of-s**t shrug and walked away.

A small smile curled my lips.

My inner child pacified, I leaned against the bar and took a sip of the Red Line coffee.

 

Eighteen minutes later, I shouldered the metal door open and sauntered into Gere’s office holding a paper bag.

Gere looked up from his desk where the M40 and its cleaning kit were laid.

“Catch,” I called and sent a sandwich flying towards him.

Gere snatched the Turkey club out of the air, “Thanks, man.”

“Don’t mention it.” I replied, extracting the other sandwich from the bag. Nudging a crate nearer to the desk and I sat down, and placed my coffee on the table.

Gere ripped the paper open and tore into the sandwich. Table manners weren’t his strong point.

“So,” I grinned, unwrapping my food, “if you polish that rifle anymore, you’ll be giving her a hand mirror.”

Gere snorted with his mouth full and flicked the oil-stained rag at me. Which I dodged easily.

“Tsk, use your words.”

My friend grunted and took another bite, “Not while I’m eating.”

“Fair enough,” I replied and bit into my Turkey club.

 

After fort-five seconds, plenty of time for Gere to finish off his sandwich, he eyed the cup on the table with interest. “What’s that?”

“Coffee.”

“Your usual kind?” he asked, looking at it suspiciously, “Because if it is, I’ll pass.”

I rolled my eyes, “No, it’s not.”

It seems that people always have to comment on the way I take my coffee, black with at least six packs of sugar. Seriously, they should get a life.

Gere took a careful drink, creased his brow, and took another sip, swishing the contents around his mouth this time.

He put down the cup slowly and looked up, “What the hell is this.”

“Red line with coffee.” I answered and polishing off the last piece of sandwich.

“Red line with coffee?” My friend repeated incredulously.

“Yeah,” I grabbed the cup from in front of him and took a generous swallow, “It’s not that bad.”

“And here I thought your drinking habits couldn’t get any weirder.”

I flipped him off as I drained the cup.

“Alright,” I said, standing up and crumpling the plastic cup, “Let’s move out.”

The big guy nodded and restored the sniper rifle back into its original hiding place.

I picked up the list of names, folded it and tucked it into my jacket pocket

We walked out of the back office, Gere locking up the door.

“Hold down the fort, will you Ana?” my friend called to a cute Asian girl sitting behind the reception desk as we headed out.

Ana smiled, “You’ve got it, boss.”

“Great,” Gere nodded and I followed him out.

 

Golden rays drenched the Chicago sidewalks we exited the shop.

I shook out my watch and checked the time, 3:16.

“Whose car are we taking?” Gere asked, squinting in the afternoon sunlight

“Mine?” I nodded toward the dark blue Cutlass.

“Yours?” My friend raised his eyebrows disbelievingly.

“…Yeah.”

“What makes you think I trust you behind the wheel?”

“Err…I’m paying you?”

The big guy rolled his eyes, “Fine, but I don’t see any reason not to take Bevelyn.”

Bevelyn, aka Bev, is Gere’s yellow 1970 Buick GSX Stage 1, he’s proud of it and makes sure that everyone around him knows that he’s proud of it.

“No need to roll out the big guns unless absolutely necessary?” I suggested as I unlocked the doors, “Get in, we’ve got a schedule to keep.”

My friend grumbled something rude about my parentage, but obliged.

Gere got in. The cutlass sank noticeably lower.

My friend sniffed, surveying the interior, “How can you stand driving this pile of scrap metal.”

“Trust me,” I turned the ignition, “I wouldn’t trust myself with anything better.”

“You don’t say,” Gere grinned, tapping his fingers against the dashboard, “Where to?”

I checked the list, “Off to give one Jonathon Eidson a bad day.”

The engine gave a dull roar as I shifted gear and pulled away from the sidewalk.

 

The radio was cranking out some alternative rock as the city sights flowed past the window. We’ve been driving for half an hour.

“So,” Gere suddenly said in a tone that he probably hoped was casual.

“So… what?” I inquired, keeping my eyes on the road.

“So,” A pause “How have you been?”

“Fine.” I replied simply.

“No, seriously,” his toned hinted on worry, “How have you been, you know, after Itarol?”

“Fine, I guess,” I shrugged, “Just the fact that my diet now consists of only beer and burnt TV dinners. And I have trouble finding clean socks.”

“You’re depressed.”

“Possibly, the Bulls are having a pretty rough season.”

“Joke all you want, man.” Gere shook his head, “but it’s not healthy to keep it all bottled up, you should go see a shrink or something.”

“Says the person who is wanted for multiple cases of arson, vandalism and murder.”

“Look, man, I’m only looking out for you here.”

“I know, and thank you,” My fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel, “But I rather not talk about it right now.”

“Fine,” the big guy shrugged, “your call.”

“Damn straight.” I growled.

Turning up the radio as the silence became awkward, I drove on.

 

The cutlass slipped into a vacant parking space.

Checking the list, the target’s location was another two streets over.

I surveyed the area.

This was an interesting part if Chicago. By interesting, I mean that leaving your car unattended was probably a bad idea.

Drawing my Beretta from the shoulder holster, I ejected the clip, checked if it was loaded, slapped it back in and chambered a round, checked the safety and slipped it back in. I then slid two magazines into the clip holder.

Gere wasted no time, unclipping his Desert Eagle from his waist, he checked the chamber.

“You good?” he asked, re-holstering the weapon.

Grabbing my canvas messenger bag from the backseat, I checked its contents. Satisfied with what I saw, I slung it across my back, “Yep, let’s go.”

 

The littered street was strangely unoccupied, a few cars drove pass, but that was about it.

The densely built apartments casted long shadows into the streets.

“This is it,” I checked the flaking cast iron plaque above the doorway, “number 93, the target is on the ninth floor, room eight.”

Gere looked up at the rundown structure and sniffed, “Doesn’t seem like anyone important would live here.”

“Exactly,” I replied, pushing open the door, “that means they’re expendable, no one would miss him.”

 

The interior, like the exterior was dingy and dismal.

Naked yellow light bulbs shone from the low ceiling, the corridor was narrow and littered with all sorts of trash imaginable.

I kicked an empty can to one side, it clanked into the shadows. “This doesn’t look promising.”

“Might as well finish the job fast,” Gere shrugged.

I nodded and trudged up the stairs.

Distant doors opened and closed, and I swear I heard a baby crying at some point between floors five and six, but other than that, the house was deathly silent.

 

A crude “8” was painted on the wooden green door. At least, it was green. I think.

The big guy elbowed the doorbell.

A weak buzz responded from within the room.

We waited.

Silence.

Gere pressed the button again.

Buzz.

Silence.

“I haven’t got time for this.” Gere muttered and started to raise his foot when a distant raspy voice said.

“I’m coming, I’m coming.”

After a few seconds, a lock clicked and the door opened halfway, stopped by a security chain.

“Who is it?” Half a face peered through the crack.

“I’m Detective Cowan.” I held up Cowan’s badge, I stole it, for the reasons that he wasn’t going to use it anytime soon, and for fun. Mainly for fun.

“Don’t talk to cops.” The door started closing.

I stuck my foot in the crack, “You sure? Cause I don’t play nice after the first warning.”

“Go to hell.”

Shrugging, I gestured towards the door.

Gere booted it in.

The security chain was ripped from its base with a crisp “Clink” and the door was flung open, sending the annoying dick on the other side flying.

My friend strode in.

I checked the corridor and shut the door behind us.

 

Jonathon Eidson was knocked out, sprawled across a ratty throw rug in a rattier bathrobe. A bleeding gash ran across his temple.

“Nice kick.” I commented, lifting off my bag.

Gere grunted, scanning the filthy but empty room with his hand close to his sidearm.

“Orright, time to get to work.” from the bag, I removed a roll of duct tape.

 

Five minutes later, Eidson was roughly wakened with the classic pail-of-water-to-the-face method.

He sat on the wooden chair desperately trying to blink the water and long, grimy hair out of his eyes.

His eyes cleared, and focused on me, standing in front of him and holding the dripping bucket.

“Oh, good,” I smiled, “for a second there, I thought we’ve lost you.”

He looked ready to explode, but only managed to produce a series of “mmfff” under the tape across his mouth.

My grin widened, “Ah, seems like you are ready for a chat. Good, but I must lay down some ground rules on volume.” I waved towards Gere, who was stand a foot to the right behind me, with his .50 cannon pointing straight at Jonathon, “If you get too loud for my friend here, he might get jumpy and squeeze the gun too hard, and we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Eidson just stared, a nervous tick appeared above his left eye. He nodded.

“Groovy,” I said and ripped off the tape, taking a healthy chunk of depression beard with it.

The target snarled but remained quiet.

I clapped my hands together, “Orright, I’ll break the ice. Where is Carl Torlos.”

“F**k you, pig!”

“It’s Sergeant Pig,” I admonished, “I didn’t spend three years pushing a pen around for nothing.”

“F**K YOU!”

Gere thumbed back the hammer.

The man silenced immediately.

“Watch the voice.” My toned turned cold, “I won’t ask again. Where. Is. Torlos.”

“I d-don’t know who y-you are t-talking about.”

“You might know him as Cobra.”

“I-I have no idea where h-he is.” Eidson stammered out.

“Sure you don’t.” I agreed sarcastically. “Gere, find a relatively clean towel, I’m gonna refill this bucket and let’s waterboard this greasy, stuttering prick.”

“Stop!” Eidson bursted out, “I’ll tell you!”

I looked at him, then at the bucket, “Nah,” I started to make way to the cluttered kitchen, “I’m more inclined to believe you after the dunking.”

“Please!” his eyes turned wild, “I swear I’m not lying.”

Gere reentered the room, “Hey,” he said, holding a tattered towel, “will this do?”

I shrugged “Maybe, let me just fill this up…”

“I swear!” the guy was almost sobbing at this point.

“Fine!” I growled, “It better be something I want to hear.”

“I-I never really saw him…” he started.

Rolling my eyes, I placed the bucket under the spigot and turned it on.

“But I have been instructed to wait at certain locations and drive to another without picking anyone up! I swear!” he finished hurriedly.

The room went silent.

I think someone on floor seven dropped a pan.

“Damn,” I snarled, turning off the water, “He’s a f*****g decoy driver.”

 

Ten minutes later, Eidson was standing on his balcony. Gere was pointing his gun grimly at him.

“You never saw us.” I said behind the glass panel, “We were never here. You will not speak of us to your contacts. You can come in after five minutes.”

“Y-yes,” he nodded fervently.

I gave Gere a look and he returned the Desert Eagle to its holster.

Stuffing the balled up wad of duct tape into the messenger bag, we left the apartment.

 

Outside, on the streets, the sun was bleeding orange to the west, as we made our way back to the Cutlass.

“Do you believe his promise?” Gere asked as he caught up to me.

“F**k no.”

“So why did you let him walk?”

“Who said anything about that?” I inquired, taking out my cell phone.

I speed dialed a number.

Eight floors above and fifty feet behind us, there was an explosion accompanied by shattered glass, then came the pitter-pattering of debris falling.

“Rigged it when you were untying him,” I continued conversationally, “using tanked gas is never safe.”

Author's Note

Any and all comments will be a appreciated!

Reviews

[Soma-ko]

As the story progresses I come to like the main character and his personality better and better. Another great write, and I'll be waiting for the next, like every other time. :)