Prodigal Daughter Pt 11 (Patreon)

Part Eleven: Closing In

[A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

“Skidmark, huh?” Frankie shook his head. “Always thought he was a braindead sonovabitch. So how’d he do it?”

I looked across at him. “She was driving, and didn’t know there’d been a cape battle between the Merchants and the ABB. The cops think Skidmark laid down some of his skid-fields over the road. The fight moved on, but the skid-fields hadn’t dissipated by the time she drove around the corner. Her car basically got thrown at a lamp-post. The cops never told Dad it was Skidmark because they didn’t want him going after the asshole and getting killed.”

Mom had been one of the few people I’d had any sort of emotional connection with. Skidmark had taken that away from me. I didn’t like people taking things away from me. But in a way, I was happy.

I’d finally found my meaningful kill.

<><>

This wasn’t to say I was going to go all murder-happy on his junkie ass. Once I had the information I needed, I was going to do this subtly. To help me do this, I had an extremely reliable minion in possession of an unreasonable amount of firepower and the wherewithal to pummel the average drug dealer into unconsciousness. Finally, I had the means to engineer Skidmark’s final exit in such a way that I wouldn’t have to sully my hands or clothes with his blood (there would be ample time for that sort of thing later) yet would leave absolutely no doubt as to who was behind his abrupt demise.

The next bit of information I needed, of course, was where to find him. How was I going to find him, you ask? I’m glad you asked. Pulling off that little trick would be simplicity itself. You may note that I mentioned earlier that Frankie (aka Minion Number One) was capable of pummelling the average drug dealer into unconsciousness? Let’s just say, that particular word choice was not entirely accidental.

We went and found a drug dealer.

As Frankie explained it, there were several inherent problems with running a gang that centred around dealing drugs, rather than anything more creative. One: a drug dealer who samples his own product is a moron. Two: the Merchants all sampled their own product. Three: if you want to sell drugs, your dealers have to make themselves visible for the buyers to find.

Of course, they don’t simply sit around hoping that people such as yours truly aren’t about to come at them out of the darkness. Dealers go armed as a matter of principle. The principle here being “don’t steal my stuff, asshole”. And that’s where we come to four: in order to actually sell the shit they peddle, they have to come within arm’s reach.

Which was right where I wanted them. Or rather, him. ‘Him’ being the dealer Frankie spotted lurking near the mouth of a dark alley as we cruised slowly down a crap-littered street. I would’ve just taken him for your average run-of-the-mill night-time would-be mugger, but Frankie knew better. This was fortunate; if I’d been on foot looking for a drug dealer, I probably would’ve beat the shit out of him and moved on without a backward glance.

Frankie had removed his clown nose and I’d pulled my hat down over my eyes. This served to make me look older, and made sure the dealer didn’t see the more striking aspects of my appearance before it was too late. We didn’t do anything about Frankie’s whiteface makeup because inside a darkened car at night, there wasn’t a lot to see.

So, acting like a hesitant customer, we cruised slowly past on the first round. Frankie eyed the surrounding area, looking for any sign that this asshole might have backup. From under the brim of the hat, I scoped out the interior of the alleyway, my enhanced vision picking out some very interesting details that would have otherwise been hidden by the darkness.

“Didn’t see anything off,” said Frankie once we were past. “But if he’s got product on him, it must be inside his jacket, because I didn’t see it anywhere else.”

“It’s in the alleyway, inside a cooler,” I said. “Right beside a guy sitting in a camp chair with a pump-action shotgun resting across his lap. Probably where they stash the money from each sale, too.”

“Probably,” he agreed with a nod. “So how are we gonna do this?”

“We don’t need the bodyguard,” I decided. “Just the dealer. Was it just me, or did his hand not move far from his right jacket pocket when we drove past?”

“It wasn’t just you.” Frankie nodded. “So, probably a pistol in the jacket pocket. He’s most likely got a knife on him somewhere as well.”

“That really, really won’t be a problem,” I assured him. “Let’s go around the block. This time, pull in so he thinks we want to make a buy.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a wad of cash, which I happened to know was composed of tens. Half of it I peeled off and handed over to Frankie. “Forgot to give you this earlier. For the holster.”

“Awesome,” he said happily, tucking the money away. “We gonna rob these guys too?”

I tilted my head, considering the idea. “ … nah. You can have whatever he’s got on him, though.”

“Works for me.” He grinned widely in the darkness. “Gotta say, working for you is never boring.”

I grinned back, somewhat more widely. With, it has to be said, glowing teeth and lips. “I aim to please.”

He shuddered and turned his attention back to the road. “That’s still creepy as fuck.”

I giggled, making it high-pitched. He shuddered again.

<><>

On the second pass, Frankie slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road. I still had my hat pulled down over my face, but the cash in my hand showed through the window so the dealer could see we were interested. I raised the brim just far enough to see that the bodyguard was still sitting in his chair. Then I focused on the dealer’s feet, getting closer. The right hand stayed close to the pocket of his hoodie, which hung down as if there was something heavy in there.

I pushed out my blue field as far as I could. The longer they both stayed happy and unawares, the better for us.

“Evening.” His voice was rough, and I was pretty sure the gust of breath held smoke that wasn’t from tobacco. “What’ll it be?”

Frankie had briefed me on this. “Got weed?”

“Fuck that noise,” he said dismissively. “Go see th’ fuckin’ Empire. We only sell th’ good stuff.”

“Fine,” I said. “Eight-ball. How much?”

“Now we talkin’,” he said, much more enthusiastically. “Hunnert dollars. You got?”

In reply, I held up the wad and waved it enticingly. “I got.” Spreading the notes, I counted off ten, giving him a good solid look at the money. What was left over, I put aside. “How about my eight-ball?”

“Money first.” He came closer, reaching out with his left hand.

I held the cash out, then just as his fingertips came into contact with it, dropped the money and grabbed his wrist. With strength that he would never have been able to match on his best day, I heaved hard, pulling him in and smacking him face-first into the window frame. He groaned and slumped, and in the background I saw the bodyguard start to get up. “Go, go, go!” I ordered Frankie.

“You got him?” asked my loyal minion, even as the car peeled out of there. Behind us, I heard a distant “Hey!”

“I got him,” I said, and it was true. I had a good grip on his left arm. The rest of him, however, was still hanging outside the car, being dragged along like a rag doll. I hauled on the front of his hoodie to pull him in through the window, then had to make a frantic grab as he started to slide out of the garment. As I leaned halfway out the window, I managed to snag his belt with my right hand, dragging his back around to the car. Then I renewed my grip on his arm, this time taking hold of his upper arm.

He began to wake up, clawing at my arm, but I ignored the distraction. What was his right arm doing? I couldn’t get that gun out of my mind, and I was still uneasily certain that I wasn’t as bulletproof as Hatchet Face.

“Need a hand?” yelled Frankie. He must’ve been looking my way, because we swerved perilously close to a parked car. Junkie McDrugface nearly lost a leg when he flailed the wrong way; I heard a crack and a muffled scream.

“Shit! Watch the road!” I shouted back. “I got this!” I wedged my way back into the car, then started hauling our involuntary passenger in through the window as well. This didn’t go too well, even though I’m the opposite of bulky and Junkie McD was pretty scrawny too. The big problem was that he kept on struggling, especially considering I couldn’t risk loosening my grip on his left arm.

At this moment, his right hand came into view with a pistol in it. This was, as 1984 would’ve put it, ‘double-plus ungood’. While his intent was to point it at me and fire repeatedly, in reality he was waving it around frantically, with the same grasp of precise aiming that Skidmark reportedly had of basic hygiene. As far as I could see, his chances of shooting one of us were about equal to those of accidentally getting himself. And I’d gone to too much trouble to let him off the hook that easily. I could see the yellow threat beam pointing out from the barrel of the thing, sweeping across the scenery like Glory Girl following a laser pointer.

(I don’t know that Glory Girl would fly after laser pointers like that. But it’s kind of funny to think about. Or it would be, if I found things like that funny.)

The last thing I wanted to do was haul Junkie McD into the car while he was holding a loaded pistol. I’d probably (maybe) be okay if I got shot, but Frankie was the coolest minion ever, and I was not okay with him being hurt or killed by accident. Bracing myself with my knees, I let the idiot drug dealer slide out the window again, then stuck my own head and shoulders out into the slipstream after him. I must’ve done it at the wrong angle this time, because my hat whipped off an instant later, followed by my wig, then a string of curses. Foul-mouthed? Me? I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Letting go his left arm so that I was only holding him by his belt, I lunged for his right arm. He saw this and flailed it out of reach, pulling me off-balance. A grip on the back of my coat steadied me, and I decided Frankie deserved another raise. Who’s a good minion? You are. You’re a good minion. Yes, you are.

“Closer to the cars!” I yelled.

I had no idea what was going through Frankie’s mind right then, but he did exactly what I told him. The car swerved toward the closest parked car, and I reached for Junkie McD’s right hand once more. Predictably, he swung it away, to prevent me from grabbing it. Right into the rear window of the parked car as we roared past it. There was a crash of shattering glass, the crack of bone breaking, and a high-pitched shriek from J McD. When I looked next, he didn’t have a gun any more. Mission accomplished. “Okay, stop!”

Frankie brought the car to a halt. I dropped Junkie McDrugface on the asphalt, where he lay in a groaning heap. Then I climbed out of the car, breathing hard. “That was far harder than it should’ve been,” I said. With a certain amount of self-restraint, I decided not to kick him. For one thing, because he had at least two broken bones, and he wasn’t the most robust of physical specimens. I didn’t want to kill him by accident. Well, not before I got the information I needed, anyway.

“At least we got him, boss,” Frankie pointed out loyally. “You want to ask him the questions, or you want me to do it?” Somewhere along the way, he’d put his clown nose back on. His look was pensive as he peered down at our involuntary passenger, like he was deciding exactly which bones to break first.

I considered his question, then made my decision. “I’ll go first, then if I can’t get answers I’ll turn him over to you.” Pushing out my blue field, I leaned over Junkie McDrugface and hoisted him up by the front of his shirt. “Hey, you. Got a question for you. Answer it and we’ll go away.”

It took a few seconds for him to focus on me, then he belched. I pushed him away just in time before he puked all over himself. Whatever it was he’d eaten, I had serious doubts about its shelf life. It reeked. His shirt was going to need serious washing. Or maybe just some lighter fluid and a match.

I frowned in mild frustration. We really needed a cosy little HQ to be doing this sort of interrogation in. Someplace we could take our time and get it right. I shook him by the shoulders; his head lolled back and his eyes wandered all over the place. “Hey, you,” I said more firmly. “I want answers. You understand?”

His eyes, when they focused on me, held a spark of intelligence once more. He wasn’t as hostile as he could’ve been—my blue field was doing that much. But he didn’t seem eager to talk. In fact, he seemed downright unhappy. This may have been due to the fact that he had a broken wrist and probably a broken leg.

Always keep your arms and legs inside the ride at all times, kids.

“I need a hospital,” he moaned.

I leaned close and gave him a nice wide smile. “Well, if you’re a good boy and answer my questions, I might be able to help you out there,” I said soothingly.

He recoiled slightly. “F-fuck,” he groaned. “Who the fuck are you?”

I rolled my eyes in a show of impatience. “No,” I said slowly. “How this works is I ask the questions and you answer them. Now, where can I find Skidmark?”

“I, uh, um …” He raised his eyes to mine. “Promise you won’t kill me?”

Just for shits and giggles, I treated him to another smile. “I won’t touch a hair on your head,” I said. “Just give me what I want.”

“Okay.” He grimaced. “Skidmark usually hangs out in the back of a bar on—fuck!”

Either the Brockton Bay city planners had gotten really creative with their street names, or he was reacting to the back window of our car shattering. I was going to go with the latter, especially as it had been really loud, combined with the sound of a shotgun going off and a motorbike revving its engine.

The shotgun was in the hand of the bodyguard we’d left behind. He was astride the motorcycle I’d heard and riding at us, hell-bent on rescuing his comrade (or possibly just fucking us up for interfering with his gang). As I watched with a certain amount of admiration, he used the handlebars of the bike to work the slide on the shotgun—I had to learn how to do that—and fired again. He wasn’t particularly accurate, given that he was riding a motorbike one-handed, but he didn’t have to be. Shotguns were cool like that.

“Get down!” yelled Frankie, as pellets smacked into the back of the car parked on the side of the road. A stray one stung my shin, but I didn’t care. As he dived behind the car and unslung the assault rifle, I hauled out my own personal artillery cannon. Holding the Anaconda two-handed, I thumbed back the hammer and pointed it right at the bodyguard on the bike. He racked the slide on the shotgun and pointed it directly at me. Our eyes locked. Harmonica music played. A tumbleweed rolled across the street between us.

The Youtube videos I’d watched had explained that the Weaver stance was the most reliable way to get your shots on target. Two-handed, legs braced, pistol at eye level. Not held sideways, no matter how cool it looked. Front sight lined up with rear sight (helped by the fact that I could see exactly where the shot was gonna go), and squeeze the trigger.

That damn bodyguard was getting awful close, and his aim-line was square on my breastbone. Just as it turned red, signifying incipient danger, I squeezed the trigger.

The Anaconda went off with its characteristic boom, jerking up a little despite my strength. But the bodyguard didn’t fly backward off the bike at all. This was because just before I pulled the trigger, I’d braced early for the kick, and the aiming line of my revolver had dipped slightly. As the front wheel of the motorbike dug in and the entire bike performed a forward flip, I realised that the heavy .44 calibre bullet had gone straight through the front wheel hub, which then seized up altogether.

I watched with mute admiration as the bike took to the air, dumping the rider as it went. Stepping to one side, I grabbed hold of the window frame of the car and held out my other arm in a classic clothesline pose. As the motorbike soared overhead, the bodyguard hit my arm and folded around it, the shotgun clattering from his grasp and skittering across the asphalt. My shoes skidded a foot back then stopped as my butt hit the side of the car. I let the bodyguard fall on the street beside Junkie McDrugface, as Frankie popped his head out from behind the car to take in what had happened.

The motorbike hit the asphalt a good thirty feet away and tumbled over and over. I looked down at the bodyguard, then at the dealer he should’ve been guarding.

“Okay, Frankie,” I decided. “Your turn.”

<><>

The back of the car hadn’t suffered too much from the first shotgun blast. There were a few pockmarks, but the taillights hadn’t been damaged, and the plastic bag Frankie had tied around the license plate was still in place. I straightened up from my inspection as Frankie came up to me. His methods had been brutally efficient and I’d learned a lot from watching him.

It turned out that druggies were smarter than we’d thought. Each of them had a phone on him with the ability to locate the other guy’s phone. The bodyguard had been following us from the moment we’d gone out of sight. It was just lucky he’d decided to come at us single-handed rather than call in the troops. Score one for drug-fucked judgement.

“Well, we got our location,” I said brightly. “What did they have on them?”

He grinned and held up a thick wad of cash. “Fourteen hundred in the cooler.” It had been secured to the bike with tie-down straps. “Plus a couple of knives and the shotgun.” The phones we’d crushed underfoot, and we hadn’t bothered going back to collect the pistol. We’d look for the hat and wig on the way back. Not that it would matter to Skidmark one way or the other, but if I couldn’t find them I’d be that little bit more irritated when I got to his hideout.

“Nice,” I said, and strolled back with him to where the two druggies—unconscious or dead, I wasn’t worried either way—lay on the asphalt. The cooler sat open beside them; Frankie handed me a road flare. I pulled the tab and tossed it into the cooler. As the smoke started to rise, Frankie and I got back in the car.

“So how are we gonna take out Skidmark?” he asked as we drove away.

I held up a single eight-ball of white powder I’d taken from the cooler. “With style.”

 Part 12