Austin Camacho - Damaged goods

With the lyrics to “Stagger Lee” running through his head, Hannibal shouted, “That’s far enough, Rod. Come on back here and we go talk to the police. Keep running and I blow off a leg.”

Rod slowed, then stopped but did not turn. His huge frame rose and fell in the effort to breathe. He was still dressed for a party. Barefoot, in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, he seemed to belong on the beach. His head was down, turning first left, then right the way people sometimes do when they’re trying to figure something out.

“Can’t be,” Rod said to the tidal breeze. “This is my time.”

“Has to be,” Hannibal said. “You can’t just keep shitting on people forever. Eventually that shit blows back to land on you.”

“Bullshit. Fate sent that asshole pharmacist to my cell for a reason. I didn’t listen to his crap, pump him for info, and shoot that air bubble into him for nothing.”

“Air bubble,” Hannibal said under his breath. “A home made heart attack.”

Rod turned ninety degrees to face the ocean. Moonlight danced seductively on the waves. Despite the splashing surf Hannibal heard the telltale click of a revolver hammer being drawn back. So this was it, Hannibal thought. The final clash between Rod’s vision and Hannibal’s, between Rod’s destiny and his karma.

“It don’t have to be this way,” Hannibal called.

“Yeah it does.”

Rod raised his right fist toward Hannibal but it was weary, sluggish, and too slow to matter. Hannibal had time to aim for Rod’s right thigh and gently squeeze the. 44 Magnum’s trigger.

Click!

Hannibal’s mouth opened an inch. The hammer had fallen on an empty cylinder. Derek had fired it dry in the house and Hannibal had not taken the time to check. He had been in too much of a hurry to catch up to Rod. What a stupid reason to die, he thought.

Rod took a step toward Hannibal with his right foot and stood still, his back to the ocean, his right arm projected straight forward. A small automatic filled his right fist. His back was to the moon, casting his face in shadow except for his hateful eyes. They burned through the darkness. Hannibal saw his death in them.

“Didn’t I tell you? I can’t be stopped.”

Hannibal braced for the blast of gunfire but the next sound he heard was even more frightening. It was an unearthly sound, like the attack roar of some extraterrestrial predator. The sound seemed to freeze Rod for a full second. At first Hannibal thought it was made by a hairless black pit bull racing across the beach from inland. Just before it reached Rod, Hannibal realized that it was Sarge screaming his rage and charging Rod like the world’s most vicious lineman intent on sacking a hated quarterback.

The impact seemed to shake the entire beach. Sarge’s bulk lifted Rod off his feet, and jarred his gun free of his hand. It flew into the sea, just as the two men did. Hannibal inched forward, watching the wild splashing.

Waiting for them to surface, Hannibal had time to consider how long he and Rod had stood on the beach. Sarge must have freed himself pretty quickly and followed them, He would have cut a block or two farther south, anticipating where they might end up. Hannibal imagined Sarge pushing on, his heart close to bursting, since he was so more built for speed than Rod was. But Rod and Hannibal had faced off just long enough for Sarge to catch up and save Hannibal’s life.

Both men were underwater for long seconds, churning the waves like a washing machine agitator. Then Sarge flew backward, propelled by one of Rod’s legs. Soon both men regained their feet in knee-deep water. They began to trade punches like a pair of heavyweights in the last round when points no longer mattered and only a knockout would have any meaning. They were about the same size and shape, with the same huge fists, deep chests and massive shoulders.

That was where the similarity ended. Rod fought with the arrogance of a man who had never been beaten and didn’t believe he could. He was the bully who knew he just had to wait for the other boy to lose faith and crumble. Sarge’s fists were driven by righteous rage. He slammed Rod’s face and body not like a boy fighting a bully, but a man working to kill a rat that had brought disease into his home.

Rod landed several solid punches, but Sarge hardly seemed to notice. The pivotal moment came when Rod launched a right cross with his entire body behind it and Sarge somehow managed to block the punch with a forearm. Then Sarge drove his own right fist into Rod’s solar plexus. Rod’s legs turned to rubber and he dropped to his knees. Sarge opened his fists to wrap his fingers around Rod’s throat and drove him back into the water.

Rod was invisible but Hannibal knew Sarge was straddling him. Hannibal couldn’t see Sarge’s arms much below his elbows either, but he knew they were holding Rod’s head underwater. Sarge was panting like a man approaching orgasm. Rod’s hands slapped at Sarge’s arms, but the blows were weak, like those of a kitten with no claws.

Hannibal knew it couldn’t end this way, but it took him the better part of a minute to force his body to obey the commands his mind was screaming. Then he took five long strides across the beach and dived forward. He hit Sarge’s body hard enough to knock him off Rod. He landed on his back in the shallow water with Sarge on top of him, also facing upward. Sarge clambered to his knees, fighting the wet sand beneath him, but Hannibal whipped an arm around his neck and pulled hard. Sarge teetered backward. Hannibal could feel his friend’s exhaustion after what had to have been the fight of his life.

“Come on, old friend,” Hannibal said. “End of round one.” Ignoring the fire in his own leg muscles, Hannibal dragged Sarge backward, up onto the beach. Both men were breathing hard and deeply, wiping salt water out of their eyes. Barely ten feet away, Rod got to his hands and knees. Choking coughs racked his body and he spit the water he had swallowed down into the ocean five or six inches from his face.

Keeping his eyes on Rod, Sarge said, “Fucking water’s cold, man.”

“Yeah,” Hannibal said, grinning as he sat up on the sand, watching water run out of his shoes.

Sarge’s voice became soft. “I had him, man. I could have…”

“I know,” Hannibal said, slapping a hand on one of Sarge’s shoulders. “But he ain’t worth it, brother, and you’re not a killer.”

“Sure I am.” Sarge turned to Hannibal, pride and sorrow mixed in his eyes. “That’s what the Corps taught me.”

“This ain’t a war,” Hannibal said. “And believe me, you don’t want to turn that corner.”

“Listen to your friend.”

The new voice was a cold, harsh half-whisper. Hannibal looked up to find a man standing on the beach just past Rod. The newcomer seemed calm and relaxed, and his automatic was focused on Hannibal’s face.

The moon was almost gone now. Only the stars and the distant lights some businesses left on for safety offered any illumination. This made the newcomer difficult to see, except for the movement where the breeze coming in from the ocean flapped his black suit jacket. He was a white man of medium build and average height. His hair and eyes looked black, but in the moonlight either could have been brown or even red.

One thing disturbed Hannibal, something that was plain to see. The man’s face held no expression at all. It may as well have been a mask for all it revealed of the man’s emotions.

“Okay, want to tell us who you are?” Hannibal asked.

“Not really.”

“He’s one of the Colombians, come to save this asshole,” Sarge said.

Rod was regaining his breath. He looked at Hannibal and Sarge, and then raised a hand to the newcomer.