Austin Camacho - Damaged goods

“Don’t worry, babe,” he said into the phone in calm, even tones. “I’ll find Sarge and bring him home safe. Got to run now.”

With his thumb Hannibal cut his connection to his support system. He panned slowly, his eyes scanning the houses across the nearest street. “So, where the hell is Rod’s house from here?” he asked himself aloud.

Behind him, Missy said, “It’s that way.”

Hannibal looked down just in time to see Missy’s arm drop.

“What makes you think it’s that way?”

“I have a good sense of direction,” she said. “But you don’t want to be there. He’ll kill you. Wait for the police.”

“Can’t,” Hannibal replied, hopping up to grab the edge of the car’s skyward window. He reached into the car, clawing for the clips under the dashboard.

“They have guns,” Missy said, in an expressionless voice.

“Me too,” he said, dropping back to the ground. After flashing his Sig Sauer to her he slid it into the back of his waistband. “How far do you think?”

She shrugged. “A mile. Maybe a little more.”

“Okay.” Hannibal looked down at Missy, chocolate skin highlighted by very plain white bra and panties, and considered how simple packages sometimes hold very complex contents. “You were experimenting, weren’t you?”

“Yes.” Somehow, she knew exactly what he was talking about.

“Well, was the experiment a success?”

She smiled up at him. “Well, I learned something about myself. Guess that would be a yes.”

Hannibal nodded. “I don’t see any injuries, but that doesn’t mean you’re not hurt.”

“The shock thing.”

“Exactly,” Hannibal said. “Pick up that phone and call 911 and get an ambulance out here. When the police arrive, send them over to Rod’s house.”

“You could wait for them.”

“No,” Hannibal said, already walking toward the road. “A friend may be in danger. My fault. I have to put it right. And I need to finish this business with Rod.” He turned to being jogging toward the street. He could just hear Missy’s words behind him on the wind.

“Spoken like a true agent of the cosmos.”

Darkness closed around him as Hannibal jogged toward the bridge he had driven off minutes earlier. Before he reached it he had settled into a good running pace and his breathing deepened. As always, he shifted his focus from his aching lungs to the rhythmic sound of his footfalls. Then, as always, his mind wandered to unrelated matters. When asphalt changed to wooden slats under his feet he was asking himself some hard questions.

He certainly didn’t expect Rod to back off in a confrontation. Did the fact that the man tried to kill him justify using deadly force in return? There was also the matter of stealing from Hannibal’s client. Bad, even evil, but not a capital offense. What about kidnapping? Hannibal had found Missy handcuffed to a bed. But it was clear that she had volunteered for that treatment. She might not even call her sexual encounter with Rod rape. And even if he killed Sarge, Rod would be able to make a case for self-defense.

Hannibal’s mouth was dry and he tasted the dried blood in his mouth. Somehow that taste made a mental connection for him to Anita lying in her hospital bed. Then he pictured Marquita the first time he saw her, used up and well on her way to the bottom of a spiral from which few return. Ultimately, anything he did to Rod would be in their names.

Seven minutes later Hannibal stood across the street from Rod’s house, breathing more deeply than he liked and smelling his own sweat. He had recognized enough landmarks to get straight to his objective, and he was sure it had in fact been little more than a mile. He owed Missy a big thank you. She had pointed him well. Too bad she couldn’t tell him what to do now.

He stood with his hands on his thighs, feeling the weight of his P-226 at the small of his back. He was ready to charge the house and stage a rescue, guns blazing if necessary. He just wasn’t sure if a rescue was needed. The blinds at the big front window were drawn tight, allowing only tiny drops of light to leak out. Was Sarge inside, or was he still en route? Or, was he in hiding someplace observing the house as Hannibal was? He might not even be headed this way. How was Hannibal to know?

Behind Hannibal, a heavily accented Hispanic voice said, “Don’t move. This thing would wake up the whole neighborhood if it went off.”

The man who stepped in front of Hannibal wore a gray suit, white shirt and conservative tie. His hair was cut very short. His complexion was swarthy but not in the Mediterranean way. This was Central American skin, golden, thick and rough. When he smiled he displayed a gold tooth. Hannibal judged him at about five foot seven. His easy manner told Hannibal that a second man must have been standing out of Hannibal’s sight.

“Tell me, what brings you out so late at night?”

“Jogging,” Hannibal said. “Just stopped to catch my breath. I can move on.”

“Jogging?” Gold Tooth rolled it around in his mouth as if trying it on for size. “You were expecting serious trouble in this neighborhood, eh?”

Hannibal felt his gun being lifted from his waistband. He stood erect, waiting for the next step.

“What you say, Ruiz?” Gold Tooth asked.

“Sig Sauer P229 in. 40 caliber,” the voice behind Hannibal replied. “Serious shit, Manny.”

“Professional shit,” Manny said.

“Can’t be too careful,” Hannibal said, wishing he had been a bit more careful. At that minute he felt careless and stupid, but why should he have expected guards to be posted across from Rod’s house?

“Know what I think?” Manny asked. “I think you come looking for the big fellow we met earlier. He at least had the guts to walk right up and knock on the door. You are maybe a little less bold. No smarter though.”

Well, now he had one answer anyway. Sarge had been here. Hannibal needed to know what had happened to him. These guys seemed professional, so he thought he’d try the direct approach.

“The big guy. What happened to him?”

“Well, he wasn’t our problem, was he?” Manny said. “And we don’t get paid to deal with other people’s problems. So, we invited him inside. Why don’t we go see him, eh? Follow me.”

Manny turned and, knowing that at least one gun would be trained on his back, Hannibal followed him across the street and onto Rod’s porch. A third man sat on one of the wicker chairs holding a Tec 9 submachine gun with a casual air that could make an observer miss his heightened level of alertness. Manny rapped a knuckle on the door twice, then once, then twice again. After this simple code he pushed the door open and ushered Hannibal in ahead of himself.

“Found this guy wandering around outside, jefe,” Manny said. “Thought he might be another friend of your host here.”

All eyes were on Hannibal and he used the moment of silent appraisal to scan the room. The atmosphere in the living room was more cordial than he unexpected. Rod, in his own big chair, showed an unexpected degree of cool, although his eyes betrayed both surprise and anger at seeing Hannibal in his living room. Derek and Sheryl just looked stunned on the sofa. Hannibal looked for Sheryl’s eyes, but she quickly pulled them away from him.

The man in the chair Hannibal had occupied a couple of days ago could have been Manny’s older brother, but everything about him said that he was the boss. His half-smile was noncommittal, as if he was waiting to learn more about Hannibal before deciding whether they should welcome him, eject him or kill him. He wore a Breitling watch on his left wrist, diamond cufflinks and a stickpin in his tie that was probably worth more than the house around them.