Austin Camacho - Damaged goods

“Guess I owe ya thanks,” Rod said.

“Not really,” the newcomer said, answering both Rod and Sarge with a snap kick into Rod’s midsection. Rod collapsed back into the surf. Stealthy. Smooth. Unpredictable. Very professional. Something about the man’s movements tugged on a loose string in Hannibal’s mind. He started to stand, but the newcomer waved him back down with his gun barrel.

“We’ve met, haven’t we?”

“Not really,” the newcomer said, stepping into the surf beside Rod.

“Sure, remember? Down in Grayson County. You wore running clothes, and you started jogging when I saw you, but you weren’t sweating.”

“You are everything I was told you were,” the newcomer said, swinging his right foot in a snapping movement that bounced off Rod’s temple. Rod dropped onto his left side. Hannibal suspected steel-toed shoes.

“How long have you been following me?” Hannibal asked.

“Since you accepted this assignment,” the newcomer said. He stood straddling Rod, who struggled to rise until he was propped up on his elbows, still submerged except for his head and chest. He coughed hard, spitting up salt water and staring up at the man in the black suit.

“You’re damn good,” Hannibal said. “I felt I was being followed but still couldn’t shake you. But why tail me?”

“The formula.” He seemed to be speaking to Hannibal, Sarge and Rod at the same time. “I knew you would lead me to whoever had it. I was tasked to secure it.”

“You ain’t no gangster,” Sarge said. “So you the feds, right?”

“Not really.”

“I don’t have it,” Rod said. “Somehow, one of these niggers must have stole it from me. But what do the feds want with it? What happened to free enterprise?”

The man in the black suit looked down at Rod. Hannibal wondered if he suffered from some nerve damage that prevented expression from showing on his face. He decided the condition was more likely the result of training.

“We are at war, a war on drugs,” the newcomer said, very seriously. “We must stop this illegal trade in our country. We believe that this formula, if put to use, would cause a runaway increase in drug use. Without the threat of consequences, meaning the possibility of addiction, there would be no disincentive for our youth to indulge in illegal drugs. I was sent to make sure the formula is never used.”

“Well then let’s deal,” Rod said. “How do you know I didn’t make a copy? I might have the formula hidden anywhere. And I don’t give up.”

“Yes, I know.” With passive nonchalance the newcomer raised a foot and pressed it into Rod’s chest. The big man was screaming “No!” as he fell backward, his face pushed under no more than two inches of water. Sarge leaped to his feet but the pistol centered on his chest kept him in place.

“Now, you and I, Mr. Jones, must come to an agreement.”

“I don’t know what I have to offer you,” Hannibal said. He watched Rod’s big hands slap against the leg holding him with no apparent effect. Despite Rod’s struggling the man in black never looked down. He locked eyes with Hannibal.

“I’m standing on the last known holder of the formula. If the formula never surfaces again, my people will know that he never passed it on to anyone else. You understand?”

“Perfectly,” Hannibal said, watching an enemy struggle in the surf and feeling as if he should be doing something. “I think you understand that the formula we’re discussing doesn’t belong to me.”

Hannibal could not have explained why perspiration was bursting out all over his body. It happened when the cloud of bubbles burst to the surface just a couple of inches in front of the man with whom he was having a calm conversation.

“I’ve arranged for compensation for the owner,” the man said, not reacting to the sudden stillness below him. “For my arrangements to be successful, you need to get back to Mantooth’s house. The police have been delayed but it won’t be long before they turn up there. You need to return quickly and get the girl before she becomes involved in all this.”

“Girl?” Hannibal asked.

“Marquita,” Sarge said. “She was headed there after all. I just beat her to it.”

“You two had better get going,” the man standing in the ocean said. “I’ll clean up here.” He crouched and pushed his left hand into the water.

Hannibal stood for a moment, staring at Rod Mantooth’s hair waving in the surf. The hot breath of evening blew in from the horizon, and a random line drifted into his mind like flotsam on the ocean’s surface.

“The heat smells like Eternity,” he muttered under his breath.

“What?” Sarge asked.

“Maybe I could get poetry after all.”

While he stood there the first sliver of sunlight peaked up over the end of the Atlantic. Its brilliance lanced into Hannibal’s eyes. With his back to the sun, the newcomer’s face was still hidden in shadow.

“Hang on. You’ll need these.” Hannibal turned as the man in black tossed something toward him. Hannibal caught it before he realized what he had. It was Rod’s key ring. After slipping the keys into his pocket, Hannibal took Sarge’s arm and pulled him toward the street.

Battling both physical and emotional exhaustion, Hannibal and Sarge covered the distance to Rod’s house with far less speed than they had used to reachthe beach. Each block seemed longer than the one before it. On their way they began to see people in motion and cars moving on the roads. At dawn on Monday, the world was beginning its day.

Sarge was dragging a little behind Hannibal but less than a block from Rod’s rental he surged forward, passing his friend.

“Markie!” Sarge swept her up in his arms, holding her so tightly she gasped for breath. Hannibal didn’t want to disturb the moment, but he had a sense that time mattered.

“Marquita what are you doing here? I know you started down here to find Rod, but I’m sure that after we left no one answered the door.”

“He told me to get to safety,” she said. “The man in the black suit. But when I told him I couldn’t go without knowing what had happened to you and Archie, well then he told me to wait for you here.”

“Well we’re here now,” Sarge said. “Hannibal, let’s get the hell out of here, man.”

“I’ve got one more errand to run,” Hannibal said. “You guys wait here. I won’t be a minute.”

Hannibal climbed the steps to the porch half waiting for someone in uniform to stop him. A bullet hole in the door reminded him of just how long a night it had been. In his mind this was the scene of a vicious firefight, but as he stepped inside and pulled the door closed he felt as if he had stepped into a mausoleum. The air was too thick to breathe and the smell of death was almost overpowering. It seemed the cleanup man had been there too. The blinds were closed again, but now sunlight poured in through the thin spaces between them. The scene it revealed was not exactly what Hannibal had left behind.

Yes, Derek was exactly where Hannibal had seen him last, face up and spread eagled on the floor. Sheryl also lay where Hannibal expected. She must have been hit in the crossfire and, judging by the size of the red pool beneath her, she had bled out.

The others were a surprise. The Colombian boss was back in his chair. One of his bodyguards sat against the wall behind his boss’ chair. His partner lay draped over the edge of the sofa. Hannibal got close enough to each of them to see that they had been killed very efficiently, execution style with a single bullet in the head. None of them had died in that room. Hannibal’s memories aside, there was not nearly enough blood present.

Hannibal had no trouble imagining the chain of events. Someone had met them after they left the house, when they were feeling safe and secure and comfortable. That person, or team, had taken them out in rapid succession before they even knew they were under attack. Then the shooters had returned them to the house, perhaps to simplify things for the police who would soon arrive and would be inclined to ask few questions.