Tracer, page 8
‘We’ll do whatever you say,’ Natasha said, adding a nice quiver to her voice. Playing the little mouse.
‘Good,’ the man said. ‘Very good.’
The man stood, his hand still inside his jacket, and backed up to give them room. The music was still loud, the lights still low. Nobody else was paying them any attention. Korso stood up and waited.
Once Natasha was on her feet, the man said, ‘Now walk, amigos. And mister, remember what I said.’
‘I remember.’
Korso stepped away from the table and turned into the aisle next to the bar. As he walked slowly down the darkened room, passing other customers and bargirls, he took careful note of everything around him. In his peripheral vision, he could see Natasha and the man in the mirrors on his left. To his right, one of the bartenders was making drinks, while the guy who’d served them cleaned the bar top with a cloth. On the small stage at the rear of the room, Yolanda was doing her thing in time with the music, along with another younger girl. They were each smiling at the drunks below, all waving notes around. Past the stage were two doors, the one on the left bearing the universal male and female icons, and a large EXIT sign above. A young Latino man with long hair and beard stubble stood next to this door, watching Korso with great interest, his right hand in his jeans pocket. He looked barely out of his teens.
Korso also noticed a man with a shaved head sitting in one of the booths a few feet up ahead, watching the three of them approach with an intense expression on his face. He wore a leather waistcoat over a white t-shirt, and tattoos covered his arms and shoulders. This guy glanced over at the toothy bartender who’d served them, and in the mirror Korso saw the bartender give an almost imperceptible nod of his head in response.
That told Korso everything he needed to know about the situation.
It was just a common hold-up. Nothing to do with their investigation at all. The bartender had noticed the cash Natasha had flashed around, then called up some cronies to take care of business, no doubt earning himself a nice finder’s fee for the tip off. Korso wasn’t all that surprised. And at least it simplified things.
Walking slowly, he thought fast.
Rather than allow themselves to get hemmed into a confined space, he decided to act now while they still had room to manoeuvre. And while they still had the element of surprise. The dim lighting would only help matters. Trusting that Natasha had noticed the same signs he had, he moved his left hand behind him, thumb and index finger clenched, his last three fingers splayed wide. He was now two tables away from the man in the booth. He glanced in the mirror to his left and saw Natasha’s gaze was lowered. She was watching his hand, waiting for his signal.
He tucked his middle finger away, leaving just two.
Waistcoat shifted his body and began sliding out of the booth. There was a knife holster on his belt. He had one hand on the handle as he made to stand. In the background, as the song on the sound system segued directly into another, Yolanda snatched a bill one of the drunks was waving. Everyone back there shrieked with laughter.
Korso tucked his ring finger away, leaving just his pinkie.
Waistcoat had exited the booth now and stood up straight, waiting. He gave Korso a gap-toothed grin as his right hand gripped the handle of the knife. Meanwhile, Korso shifted his other arm slightly and the balisong dropped smoothly into the palm of his hand. He placed his thumb under the catch, ready. Waistcoat was less than five feet away. He was already starting to turn his body in the direction of the toilets. Ready to lead them the rest of the way, while Baseball Cap covered the rear.
Korso tucked away the last finger of his left hand, clenched his fist tight.
Behind him, there was a sudden flurry of movement as Natasha pulled something from her waistband and darted to the left, onto the table in the empty booth. Korso saw a ceiling light briefly flash against another blade. A hunting knife, a big one. There was a shout, followed immediately by the heavy boom of a gunshot. Glass shattered all around him.
Even over the music, it was loud. Every head in the room turned in their direction.
But Korso was already running toward Waistcoat, who was still in a state of semi-shock. Flicking his thumb under the catch, Korso twirled his wrist twice in the familiar way and the butterfly knife flipped open and locked.
One of the bargirls screamed when she saw the blade, and then pandemonium erupted throughout the bar as everyone realised what was happening.
Korso was almost on Waistcoat when the man regained his senses and jerked his body backward just as Korso made to thrust the knife at his torso. The blade missed him. Korso kept his forward momentum going, slamming his left shoulder into the man’s chest. Both fell to the floor, right next to the booth Waistcoat had just vacated. As he landed, the assailant launched an elbow punch at Korso’s temple. It connected hard, slamming Korso’s head against the steel leg of the table. Stunned, shaking his head from the impact, Korso saw Waistcoat pull the knife from his holster and he kicked out at him. His heel connected with the man’s right arm and the knife dropped to the floor.
As Korso went in for the kill, he spotted movement to his left and ducked back just in time as a crowd of people scrambled past, separating him from Waistcoat.
Chaos and confusion everywhere. A mass of moving feet and legs in front of him as people headed for the front door and safety. Screams and shouts coming from all directions. Loud music still blaring out of the sound system.
Behind him, there was another gunshot, just as loud as before. More screams. A man swore loudly in Spanish.
Once the rush of people had passed, Korso searched for signs of Waistcoat, but he was gone. So was everyone else, it seemed, including the bar staff. No, not everyone. Glancing behind him, he saw Baseball Cap looking around wildly, gun still in hand, searching for a target. Blood was seeping from a deep wound in his shoulder. Natasha must have got a good one in. His eyes suddenly fell on Korso and he turned and began to raise the gun in his direction.
Without a second thought, Korso rushed for the bar, jumped up and dived over the counter. There was another thunderous boom and he heard more glass shatter as he landed on the floor on the other side. Small fragments of mirror pattered against his head and hands. Using elbows and knees, and still holding the knife, Korso crawled along the narrow space behind the bar as fast as he could move. Along the way, he saw some bottles of tequila and whiskey that had fallen from the shelves. He grabbed one bottle with his free hand and kept going until he reached the end of the narrow walkway. Rising to a crouch, he peered out and scanned his surroundings. All he saw was a bunch of barstools, an empty dance stage and an ancient pool table. The kid who’d been guarding the exit was gone, along with everyone else.
Over the blaring music, Korso heard shouts from the front. Emerging from the cover of the bar, he stood up and saw Natasha and Baseball Cap engaged in a close-quarters struggle. It looked like he’d lost the gun, at least. Natasha was a blur of movement, swivelling her left foot in a semi-circular motion and delivering an athletic roundhouse kick to the man’s head with her right. Her foot struck his jaw, his head rocking with the impact as he fell back against the bar.
She was about to follow up with an upward elbow strike when Korso sensed movement to his right. He ducked down just as a blade swept past his head and struck the bar instead. The hand gripping it belonged to Waistcoat, who must have been hiding behind the stage. Korso dropped the whiskey bottle and lunged at him, thrusting his own knife at the man’s midsection, but Waistcoat instinctively jerked his knee upward at the last moment. The hard bone connected with Korso’s right wrist, and the balisong flew from his grip, landing on the floor.
Waistcoat was still gripping his own knife. He thrust the blade at Korso’s face, but Korso ducked his head out of range, throwing a right jab at the man’s torso at the same time. Hard knuckles slammed into flesh. His assailant grunted in pain and backed off. Spotting the whiskey bottle he’d dropped on the floor, Korso reached down, grabbed it by the neck and struck the base against the bar. The lower half smashed into pieces, whiskey pouring everywhere, and he now had a weapon. The long, jagged shards of glass looked far deadlier than any knife.
Waistcoat backed off again, staring at the bottle. He no longer looked as confident. Gripping the neck tight, Korso advanced, sticking close to him. The man bumped against one of the barstools fixed to the floor. Unable to progress any further, he said something inaudible and launched himself at Korso, knife hand outstretched before him.
It was the obvious move, and Korso was ready for it. Waistcoat was only two feet from him when Korso swung the bottle in a long backhand strike. The rough glass shards connected with flesh, slicing deep into the man’s wrist and lower arm. Blood immediately sprayed from the wounds. Screaming in pain, the man dropped the knife instantly, grabbing at the wound with his other hand, trying to stem the blood loss.
Dropping the weapon, Korso stepped in and grabbed Waistcoat’s head with both hands and slammed it hard against the back of the barstool. Once. Twice. Then, applying a ton of pressure and using every ounce of strength in his body, Korso twisted the man’s head 120 degrees in a single movement. He felt, rather than heard, the snap as the spinal cord was severed. The man’s struggles immediately ceased as all life left his body.
Just as Korso was about to turn toward the front of the bar, there was a gunshot from his right and he ducked instinctively. Knowing the bullet had missed, he grabbed Waistcoat’s knife from the floor. Holding it by the blade, he swivelled his body to his right and raised his arm, ready to throw it at the shooter.
The third one, the kid, was standing behind the pool table, aiming a small pistol in Korso’s direction. He looked scared out of his wits. Korso didn’t care. He was already starting to swing his arm forward when the kid suddenly let go of the gun. It dropped onto the pool table, and he raised both arms wide.
There was another gunshot from behind Korso, louder this time. The kid screamed and dropped to the floor on the other side of the pool table. Korso turned, knife at the ready, and saw Natasha walking his way, still aiming Baseball Cap’s revolver at the spot where the kid had fallen.
She looked dishevelled but unharmed. Korso turned back and made his way over to the pool table.
The kid was rocking back and forth on the floor, his eyes clenched shut as he clasped his left elbow. Blood seeped from between his fingers. Korso noticed the current song was well into the fade-out, with nothing taking its place.
When Natasha joined Korso a few second later, the room was silent except for the kid’s whimpering. Natasha was still aiming her gun at his head.
‘The original owner?’ Korso asked.
‘Dead. Just this one left.’ She pulled back the gun’s hammer. ‘Boy, you should have left while you had the chance.’
‘Leave him.’ Korso dropped the knife next to the gun on the pool table. It was another revolver, a .22 with a two-inch barrel. Most likely, the kid had never even used it before tonight. ‘A bullet’s not always the best answer. You never know, maybe he’s learned a lesson tonight.’
‘He will talk. About us.’
‘And say what? That he tried to rob us and we fought back? Let him. We’re ghosts.’
Korso went over to the door with the exit sign above it. He opened it and saw a long corridor, even darker than the bar area. At the far end, forty feet away, was a fire exit door. It was wide open, leading to what looked like an alley beyond.
‘Make a decision,’ he said, turning back to Natasha. ‘We need to make tracks. The police could show at any moment.’
She paused for a moment, then said, ‘Get up, boy. I won’t ask twice.’
The kid looked up at her, then carefully got to his feet. Still holding his bloody arm, he looked at her with wide eyes. ‘Por favor…’
‘This is your lucky day,’ she said, still pointing the gun. ‘Leave. Now.’
The kid stared at her for a moment. Then he turned and ran past Korso, and through the open doorway like the devil was on his heels. Korso watched him sprint down the corridor and run out into the night.
‘I hope that was not a mistake,’ Natasha said, joining Korso at the door.
‘It’s done now. Let’s go.’
‘What about these weapons? Our fingerprints are all over them.’
‘Who cares? My prints aren’t on any database, and I doubt yours are either. Just leave the gun here.’
With a shrug, Natasha threw the piece under the pool table. Then they followed the kid’s example.
Thirteen
80 hours, 18 minutes and counting…
When the young, heavily pregnant waitress finally came over to their table, Korso ordered two coffees. She nodded, left him a menu, then waddled back to the kitchen.
Korso had been flagging down a cab three blocks west of the Lucky Lady when two police interceptors screeched into the street they’d just left, sirens wailing, red and white lights flashing. He and Natasha watched them pass like all the other rubberneckers. Once they were gone, he calmly told the cab driver to take them to Aqua Caliente Boulevard in Zonaesta, a few miles south of their location. Well away from the danger zone.
The all-night cafe they found was mostly empty so early on a weekday morning. It was still dark out. The few customers seemed to be either late-night revellers winding down, or early risers filling their stomachs before heading off to work. Mostly the latter. He and Natasha took seats in a window booth as far from the other customers as possible.
As Korso watched the retreating waitress, Natasha said, ‘Why did you stop me?’
‘Is that what I did?’ He turned to her with a frown. ‘I thought you were the one with the gun.’
‘You know what I mean. Leave no witnesses is a good rule to live by. Maybe the most important rule. Do you not agree?’
‘It depends on the situation. Maybe if he was able to identify you…’ He shrugged. It was pointless explaining the obvious. The kid was no longer a threat, and you don’t kill when you don’t have to. It can all too easily become a habit. A bad one all round. Often, the best sword is kept in its sheath.
‘You must enjoy living dangerously, Korso,’ she said.
He shook his head. ‘I generally walk where the ice is thickest. I imagine you’re probably the same.’
‘You know almost nothing about me. For all you know, I might enjoy the danger. And the killing.’
‘The first, possibly. The second, no. Unless I’m completely wrong about your character.’
She smiled with one side of her mouth. ‘Who knows anyone, really?’
‘You’ve got me there.’
‘I must admit you’re more proficient in close-quarters combat than I expected.’
‘You mean Sardoca didn’t give you any background on me?’
‘Some, but little that put you in a good light.’
‘That figures. So slipping me the knife back there was a test on your part?’
‘Partly. I was interested to see how you’d react in that situation. Also, it was the only other weapon those dealers had on them. I had hoped for a gun, at least, but they turned out to be surprisingly ill equipped.’
The waitress came back to their table then. She set two large cups of coffee down and asked if they wanted breakfast. Korso decided he wanted a Mexican omelette and orange juice, and Natasha ordered the same. The waitress took their menu and waddled away again.
‘That one looks about to pop,’ Natasha said, adding milk and sugar to her cup. ‘She shouldn’t be working at her advanced stage.’
‘Tell that to her landlord.’ Korso took a sip of his black coffee. Rich and strong, just what he needed. ‘Are any of them still breathing?’
‘The dealers? All three, although two are now probably wishing otherwise. The third was sleeping when I left him. Maybe he still is.’
‘You sure didn’t waste time, I’ll grant you that.’
‘I also like to be prepared for the worst.’
‘I’ll remember that if I ever have to face you down.’ He sipped some more coffee. ‘Shouldn’t your contact have called by now?’
Natasha pulled her phone from her pocket and checked the time. ‘Five minutes late. I suppose I had better—’
The phone chose that moment to start vibrating on the table. She checked the caller number, then raised the phone to her ear. ‘Tell me,’ she said.
She mainly listened, occasionally making a sound to show she was still there. After a few minutes, the waitress returned with their orders and Korso helped her put the dishes on the table. Once she was gone, he added some seasoning to his breakfast, cleaned the fork with a napkin and began to eat. The omelette was excellent, with plenty of cheese and spices.
Natasha finally ended the call. ‘Good news and bad news. Which do you want first?’
‘What difference does it make?’ he said, placing another forkful into his mouth.
‘Very well. There’s no trace of this Michael at all. The number I provided was disconnected some time ago and there’s no record of its owner. My source tried a number of semi-legal approaches to trace it back and still came up with nothing.’
‘Probably a pre-paid burner.’ Korso sipped his orange juice.
‘Most likely. Assuming this man is the same Mickey that Yolanda described to us, of course. We have no way of knowing.’
‘Not yet, we don’t. I hope that was the bad news.’
Natasha ignored the sarcasm and used her own fork to try some of her omelette. She chewed a little, then nodded with approval. ‘Now,’ she went on, ‘the one named Joel is a different story. Again, the number’s no longer in use, but my source was able to track down the owner’s identity and provide me some details. His full name is Joel Adamson, and he lives and works in Fort Worth, Texas. In the Northside district.’
‘That’s more like it,’ Korso said. ‘So what is he?’
‘A man who likes variety, apparently. He’s had a number of jobs in recent years, including nightclub bouncer, real-estate salesman, night watchman. Some jobs he left by choice, others he was told to leave, usually because of absenteeism. My source informed me that he also had a financial interest in a growing fast-food franchise five years ago, but then decided to cash in just before the business exploded and became hugely successful.’
