Lee CHILD - Better off Dead

I dipped my right shoulder and pushed down toward the ground at the side of the body I was still straddling. Lifted my left shoulder. Felt the guy on my back adjust his balance. He was trying not to slide off. Compensating by leaning the other way. The instant he moved I corkscrewed in the opposite direction. Jammed my left shoulder down. My right shoulder up. Twisted at the waist. Drove my right knee into the ground and heaved myself up. The pair of us pivoted to the left. We teetered for a moment as the guy realized what was happening and tried to fight the momentum. To reverse the motion. But he was too late. And he was still clinging to my neck.

We flipped over. Together. He was underneath this time. On his back. I was on top. Also on my back. He was pinned down. But he was still trying to strangle me. He hadn’t given up. The opposite. He was trying to squeeze even harder. I guess desperation was setting in. He probably couldn’t breathe very well himself with my weight on his chest. And he couldn’t get his head clear. The ground was stopping him. I stretched around. Felt his mask. It was facing away from me. Toward the street. The angle was impossible. Then I realized he must have pushed it up onto the top of his head. He must have wanted to see better, but to be ready if the canister of gas erupted. I tore the mask off. Dropped it. Slid my hand down his forehead. Found the bridge of his nose. Pressed my thumb into his right eye. Poked my index finger into his left. And started to press.

I didn’t press too hard. Not at first. He kept trying to crush my throat. I increased the pressure. He whimpered. Thrashed his head from side to side. Trying to break contact. But he didn’t let go. I pressed harder. Harder still. I figured I was no more than a fraction of an inch away from his eyeballs bursting or popping out. I would normally consider that a satisfactory result. But under the circumstances, I had to be careful. His presence was a bonus. I didn’t want to waste it. I needed him capable of answering questions. So I didn’t increase the force any further. I kept my finger and thumb steady. I arched my back. Pushed my other hand between our bodies. Moved it down, toward his groin. Grabbed hold. Started to squeeze. And twist. Harder. Tighter. Until he screamed and let go of my neck.

I jumped straight to my feet before he could change his mind or try something else. I stamped on his abdomen. Not too hard. Just enough to immobilize him for a moment. Then I gathered up his gun and his mask and the gas canister. It had slipped out of the other guy’s hand and rolled onto the top step. The pin was still in place. I picked up his backpack. Checked inside. He had a bottle of water. A coil of paracord. Some kind of tool. And a bundle of zip ties. The tool was in a tan leather case. It was like a folding penknife, with a whole bunch of extra blades and screwdrivers and scissors. The ties were heavy-duty. There were half a dozen. I put the knife and the ties in my pocket. I put the gun in the backpack. Then I prodded the guy in the ear with the toe of my shoe.

“That your car?” I gestured to the far side of the street. A Lincoln Town Car was parked by the curb. It was black. It looked like the one the three guys had driven away from the morgue.

He craned his neck around to see what I was pointing at, then nodded.

“Where’s the key?”

He pointed at the body lying next to him.

“Get it.”

“No way.” All the color drained out of the guy’s face. “He’s dead. I’m not touching him.”

“If you won’t get the key, you’re no use to me.” I jabbed him in the ear again, a little harder. “Want to wind up like him?”

The guy didn’t reply. He just rolled onto all fours, stretched across his buddy’s body, pulled the keys out of his pants pocket, and held them up for me to see.

“Good. Now pick up the body. Put it in the trunk.”

“No way. I’m not carrying him.”

“His body’s going in the trunk. Either you put it in there, or you join it in there. Your choice.”

The guy shook his head, scrambled to his feet, and trudged down the steps. He grabbed his buddy’s hands and pulled. He made it to the sidewalk and a gun rattled free. He tried to pounce on it. But he was too slow. I pinned the gun down with one foot. And kicked him in the head with the other. Not too hard. Just a warning. Which worked. He went back to dragging the body. It left a trail of dark, congealing blood across the street. I waited until he was halfway to the car then scooped up the gun and added it to the stuff in the backpack.

The guy popped the trunk. He struggled to lift the body. It was heavy. Its head and limbs were flopping around all over the place. Eventually the guy hauled it into a sitting position. Propped its shoulder against the fender. Moved in close behind it. Wrapped his arms around its chest. Heaved it up. And posted it in headfirst. He slammed the trunk immediately, as if that would prevent him being pushed in, too, and spun around. His eyes were wide. He was breathing hard. His forearms were smudged with blood.

I said, “Unlock the doors.”

The guy prodded a button on the remote. I heard four almost simultaneous clunks as the mechanisms responded.

“Put the keys on the trunk.”

The guy did as he was told.

“Get in. Driver’s seat.”

I collected the keys, followed him, and moved in close so he couldn’t close the door. I took a zip tie from my pocket and dropped it in his lap. “Secure your right hand to the wheel.”

He hesitated, then looped the tie around the rim. Fed the tail through the tie’s mouth. Pulled until the first of the teeth started to engage. Slid his wrist through the gap. And tightened the tie halfway.

I said, “Tighter.”

He took up half the remaining slack.

I leaned across, took hold of the loose end, and pulled it hard. The plastic bit into his wrist. He grunted.

I said, “Left hand on the wheel.”

He rested it at the ten o’clock position. I took another tie and fastened it. I grabbed his elbow and tugged. He grunted again. His hand wouldn’t slip through. I figured it was secure enough. So I closed the door and climbed into the seat behind him.

I said, “Where’s Dendoncker?”

The guy didn’t answer.

I pulled the guy’s mask over my head and made a show of adjusting the straps. Then I placed the canister of gas on the armrest between the front seats.

“DS gas, your friend said. Before he died. Like CS gas on steroids. Am I getting that right?”

The guy nodded.

“I don’t believe him. I think this is a dummy. A prop. I think you guys were trying to bluff me. I think I should pull the pin. See what happens.”

The guy started thrashing around in his seat, sticking his elbow out, trying to knock the canister out of my reach. “No!” he said. “Please. It’s real. Don’t set it off.”

“Then answer my question.”

“I can’t. You don’t get it. Dendoncker – you don’t cross him. Nothing’s worth doing that.”

I tapped the gas canister. “This stuff makes you blind, right? Keeping your eyesight – that sounds worth it.”

The guy shook his head. “I had a friend. We worked together for five years. For Dendoncker. My friend used to go to Walmart, once a month. The nearest one’s like a hundred miles away. They have some special drink he liked. Chai, he called it. From India. Dendoncker thought that was suspicious. He had my friend tailed. The guy following him saw someone in the store at the same time who looked like he might have been a Fed.”

“Looked like a Fed, how?”

“He wasn’t definitely a Fed. But he might have been one. That was enough for Dendoncker. And at the same time he was looking to sell a bunch of .50 cal sniper rifles. To some drug lord. From Mexico. There’s a big demand for those things down there. A lot of money to be made. The buyer wanted a demonstration before he would part with his cash. So Dendoncker got my friend. Had him tied to a pole a few hundred yards away in the desert. Naked. Made the rest of us watch. Through binoculars. The rifle worked fine. The drug guy – he was a terrible shot. He fired a dozen rounds. Hit my friend in the leg. In the shoulder. Clipped him in his side, by his gut. He wasn’t dead. But Dendoncker left him there. Sent someone to collect his body a couple of days later. I saw it. It made me puke. His eyes had been pecked out. Snakes had bitten his feet. Something big had taken chunks out of his legs. I tell you, I swore right there and then, there was no way I was ever going to let anything like that happen to me.”