Collision Course, D01, CH17 (Patreon)

I set the phone to speaker and wait for Asir to answer as I lay out the handguns I collected over the last day and a half. Then I set out the cleaning kit and disassemble the first one. A nine-millimeter Sturm. One of many.

“Yes?” the digitally altered voice says.

“I need you to look into the people behind Liaison when you have the time. This is too elaborate for them to be where this ends.”

“Isn’t this beyond what you were contracted to do?” Asir is very much about the contract. The agreement they make that dictates how far their help will go. The agreement we have is that so long as I can afford their services, I will be one of their clients.

“They had more children than Denita.” I throw the hammer for the Sturm away. It’s cracked and only a question of time before it fails. The rest of the handguns will become replacement parts.

“Will their parents pay you for their return?”

“No, those that were in the cages have been released. This is to prevent them from going after more.” I keep a mental eye on the boxes for any reactions. The one Bart shattered is glowing morosely, but it isn’t affecting my judgment. The boxes holding hope, pity, need and every other emotion that would make turn this into a suicide mission are also quiet.

“Then I fail to see why you are bothering with this.”

“That’s my concern, Asir. I’m paying you, that’s all that should matter.”

“Losing you as a client matters.”

“I doubt I’m that important to your finances.” A box rattles but quiets without me needing to address it. Still reassuring them will not cost me. “I don’t plan on taking them on directly. Once I know how extensive they are, I’ll make sure the right people within the authority learn about them.”

Except for the head. Whoever they are, those I will personally handle for creating the organization that is responsible for taking Denita away from her father,

I throw the colts away without cleaning them. I already have enough in my armory for when I’ll need to send the authority in the wrong direction. Six bullets aren’t enough to warrant using one in a battle.

“This still feels like charity to me. But it is your money.”

A box rattles in the distance, but before I can stop it, others have responded and I can’t stop imagining Justin in the grasp of people like those who kidnapped Denita. Remorse over not finding out what happened to him threatens to overwhelm me, but I slam a practice mental hand on that box. I had to learn to control this one more than any other, until Bart’s, being paralyzed with guilt in prison would have led to my death.

“It is.” They disconnect. A text message beeps its arrival. It will be the address where I can pick up the next phone I’ll use to contact them. I check the time, thirteen hours. It’s seven to get to the reservation, so I need to be on the road in three. Plenty of time to clean and store these firearms and remove any evidence I was here. Then enough time to get myself ready for the withdrawal to hit.

I find I’m staring at the Beretta ATX I’m holding. Bart’s gun. Not his specifically; It’s a popular model for all that it’s a nine-mill. His box shines a little brighter but dims before hope and regret respond. He is out of my life. It is for the best.

I caress it, then another box rattles, and it’s an angry noise. I throw it into the can with the other guns I won’t keep. There’s an anonymous gun drop-off at a police station just out of the city. They will see to it they are destroyed.

It takes an hour to clean the handgun I will keep. Very few are more than spare parts and they were never maintained. I am setting them into the furthest cabinet, making a mental note to go through all the firearms I have stored here the next time I am in the city to remove those too old, when a noise makes me pause.

Someone is by my storage locker, or the one opposite it. It wasn’t rented the last time I checked, but I picked this location specifically because it is in use. I head to the monitor. Knowing who my neighbor is will make it easier to determine if I need to ensure they move or if they will be inoffensive.

The explosion had enough force to throw me off my feet.

The boxes know better than to respond to something like that.

I get to my feet and pull out the Desert Eagle, the last of the firearms I’d put away before equipping my weapons. I survey the result of the left roll door being destroyed and find that one of the boxes isn’t as tightly under my control as I thought as I see the damage to the Chevelle parked before it. I silence it. It’s all superficial.

It protests.

I shoot the shadow that appears in the cloud of dust and it goes down. Cries from outside tell me I am dealing with a large number of people.

Why am I still alive?

I do not want to die, but the security in my storage locker is a series of bricks of Semtex. That explosion should have—I shoot another shadow—triggered that failsafe and detonated everything. I silence the disgust at a job poorly done. I’ll set them off myself once I’ve dealt with this intruder and go over the other locations so they don’t have this flaw in their security.

I fire three times. Three men in black suits drop. The dust is clearing enough that I move before others can see me.

Bart’s box rattles.

I will have to return to the city, so I could arrange to see him again.

I slam a hand on it. I do not need this distraction. I shoot two more.

It protests. But later, I could use the stress relief he so eagerly provided me before.

No. He is out of my life. I fire four times, but only three men drop. I can see multiple forms outside the destroyed door. I change magazine while it’s quiet, but they were expecting a pause and half a dozen men rush in and seek cover. I take two of those down, then I pull a cabinet from the wall to take the hits for me.

This means more will get in.

I go through where all the weapons are hidden around the locker, then step out from my cover, firing at anyone moving. A quick count shows fifteen and hints had half more than that. No more motion outside, so no immediate threat from that direction.

I reach the military laptop and tap a combination of keys to erase the drive before pulling the drawer out and grabbing the shotgun secured underneath. I don’t bother pulling it out. I fire until it’s empty, then discard that.

Three stand at the same time, spread around the room, thinking they are too far for me to shoot them all. They are wrong. I reload, stepping around the bullet-making assembly, and grabbing the other shotgun there. I take out four more with it and injure three from the spread.

This is my terrain. I have all the advantages.

A suicidal man stands and I fire.

We both stare at one another as he doesn’t fall. He doesn’t even stagger from an impact. A fifty-caliber bullet packs more momentum than a man can stand, even if a vest will ensure they survive.

The hole in the wall is two inches next to the man’s head.

I missed.

It registers as I notice the barrel of my Eagle is trembling.

I do not have unsteady hands.

I do not have the time to wonder. I hold the Eagle with both hands and fire before anyone else gets over their surprise. The man’s head explodes. Two more die before I miss again.

No. I can’t be missing.

A box rattle and I grit my teeth. I fire twice each time to compensate for whatever’s happening. Only one man goes down before I need to reload. This isn’t efficient.

Another box joins in. I shouldn’t have taken on this job. I knew it was going to end badly.

I drop behind a metal desk and reload.

I am the monster here. They will not get the best of me.

A shadow is around the side and I stand, firing at nothing.

My hands shake enough I have trouble holding the Eagle.

I drop again.

What is going on? I try to analyze what happened. What I missed that is giving them the advantage in such a way, but I’m crying at the impossibility of it all. I should have died when I was a kid. I should have sacrificed myself so Justin could be free of our father.

He orchestrated this. Somehow, that man set this all up from the grave.

I hit my head against the desk, causing it to slide a little. I know what this is. It isn’t the first time I’ve been afflicted by it, but I can’t think of what it can be because all the boxes are letting their contained emotions loose.

I won’t get to see Bart again. I won’t get to feel his flesh against mine, see the fear in his eyes as I fuck him.

Why? Why did I chase him away? Do I hate myself so much I don’t want the little happiness he can provide me?

I scream for them to shut up.

I hear surprise outside my head and realize the scream was out loud. I am in danger, and for a moment, the boxes are galvanized in the same direction.

I have to survive.

I am up, my hand is steady. I fire at each of my targets. I am in my environment again. I will take them down, then figure out what they somehow slipped in here without me noticing.

I don’t notice the baseball bat in time to avoid it, only to raise my arm so it takes the blow instead of my head.

Where did he come from? I shot everyone who was approaching.

Only they are all standing, running at me.

I missed them all?

No. One is down, grabbing at his shoulder and I smile.

I got one!

Then a fist in my face staggers me back. I strike without thinking and that man drops. I’m back! I swing at the next one and miss. I get stuck in the back and turn.

I scream in rage. I will not be taken down by men like them. They are nothing more than thugs, hired to break legs.

I kick at the back of my knee drops me, but I don’t stay down. I will never stay down. I will die before I let anyone take me down.

This could have been avoided. The thought floats to the surface from one of the boxes.

“No. It’s too early!”

If only you’d planned appropriately.

“I still have twelve hours!”

You must have made a mistake somewhere.

I barely feel the punches and I drop to my knees. No. I can’t have made that kind of mistake. I know the math perfectly. I calculated my body mass to work out the correct dosage. I still have twelve hours!

I try to get to my feet, but my body isn’t responding. My hands shake. All I want is to curl into a ball and beg someone to bring me more. Why didn’t I take more? I should have brought a full bottle with me. I should have heeded that box’s warning while the safe was open.

Now, I’m going to die like the beaten creature I am.

“I can’t believe we finally got him,” someone says.

“Fuck, what is he made of? I’ve hit concrete walls that hurt less.”

“At least it’s over and the boss will have one hell of a reward for us.”

“The six who are left.”

“There’s more than six of us. Half of them are just hurt bad, not dead.”

“No. I’m pretty sure this guy was ruthless in killing as many of us as he could before we finally put him down. Don’t you agree?”

Someone grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me to my knees.

The man is bloodied, but otherwise, he’s like the other thugs, dressed in too expensive suits. I envy them for the way they wear them. They look good in them. I only ever look good in a suit when I play a role.

I am too much of a monster to ever be dressed like a man.

“I think we rattled something in that thick head of is.”

“Well.” The man takes the Desert Eagle off the floor and checks the magazine. “I’m going to take care of that little problem for him.”

I can’t believe the Eagle is betraying me like this, as I stare at the end of the muzzle. I took care of it, kept it clean, made sure it killed plenty of men, and now it’s going to fire at me?

I don’t close my eyes when the detonation happens. I will not be the kind of man who won’t look his death in the eyes; or the barrel in this case.

The man’s head snaps to the side as a spray of blood exits it. The barrel moves away.

I knew it wouldn’t betray me.

Two more detonations, closer, then a new man is before me.

I smile before I’m done taking him all in.

“You,” Bart yells at me, “are an asshole.”

He came back for me.