Joel Goldman - Motion to Kill

Mason launched himself at the bigger man’s gut, his lunge catching the man by surprise. Shoulders down, he drove the man backward. All he wanted was running room. What he got was a knee in his belly.

Mason sucked in his breath, wrapped his arms around the man’s knee, and kept coming until the man fell on his back and Mason rolled off, gasping for air. The man jumped to his feet and planted a boot in Mason’s ribs, putting him in his place-back against the wall-and ending the round with a gun pointed at Mason’s mouth.

The man was dark, with hair braided into shaggy cornrows. He had a couple of inches on Mason and at least thirty pounds of muscle. It wasn’t close to being a fair fight.

He prodded Mason inside the warehouse, where the only good news was that the roof didn’t leak. The front was a long rectangle bathed in fluorescent light, a waist-high counter cutting it off from rows of shelves rising to the ceiling. The aisles were too dark to make out their contents.

Sandra sat on a wooden stool, glaring at an invisible spot on the wall, more angry than scared, which Mason figured was just about the opposite of how he looked.

Two men stood in the far corner. The one facing him was coal black and cut from the same mold as the guy who’d captured him. He studied the floor while a short, heavyset man, his back to Mason, chewed him out, leaving no doubt about who was in charge.

The boss’s head was a caramel-colored, clean-shaven dome with a crease in the back as if it had once been cleaved. He turned, studying Mason with his one good eye, the other folded into an angry scar that ran from his eyelid to the corner of his mouth.

“Mason,” Jimmie Camaya said, holding Sandra’s recorder in one hand and a pistol in the other, “I’m glad you could join us. You’ve saved me a lot of trouble.”

He wore a cream-colored tropical wool suit and a pale blue silk shirt accented by a hand-painted tie. The contrast wasn’t lost on Mason. A short, fat guy with a good suit and a big gun was one serious motherfucker.

Mason knew what to do in the courtroom when the opposing lawyer was hammering his client into submission. Take control. Fire back with enough objections to make him back off. And never let him see you sweat. He hoped the same technique worked with killers.

“You should have waited at my house last night. You just missed me.”

“So you know I’ve been lookin’ for you. Good for you. Julio here will keep an eye on you and Miss Sweet Cheeks until I get done with some other business. He pointed to the man who’d brought Mason in out of the rain.

“If you want me, you don’t need her. Let her go.”

“Need got nothing to do with it. My customers place orders and I fill ‘em. Customer says you two die. You die. Up to me how. That’s all.”

Supply and demand. Serving the marketplace. Jimmie Camaya was just a businessman, an entrepreneur. Mason felt Adam Smith’s invisible hand at his throat. But he was determined to keep Camaya talking. Words were Mason’s weapons. The longer their scrimmage lasted, the better he liked his chances.

“So who’s your customer? Victor O’Malley?”

“Mason, you must think I’m a real dumb fuck, you know that? My business ain’t none of your business.”

“Cut the crap. You shot up my car and trashed my house. You want something you think I have. Tell me what it is, and it’s yours.”

Camaya’s stomach shook as he laughed, a deep rumbling gurgle, like a satanic Santa Claus.

“Mason, you are a funny man,” he said, wiping his good eye. “I wasn’t shooting at your car. I was shooting at you.”

“Don’t give up your day job. You’re a lousy shot.”

Camaya stopped laughing. His bad eye disappeared into his scar as he walked toward Mason. He stopped a foot away, his head upturned. Bay Rum cologne lay heavy on him. His breath was sweet. Death had many faces. Mason never thought his would look like this.

Mason couldn’t help the tremor in his thighs. It crept upward, washing over his groin and twisting his gut. He looked at Sandra. Julio gripped her shoulder, clamping her to the seat. She struggled a moment, then quieted, whispering to him that she was sorry.

Camaya raised his gun to Mason’s face, brushing it across his cheek, probing his ear with the muzzle, then past his ear, under the base of his skull, and then pulling the trigger. The bullet shattered the sheetrock, Mason’s hearing, and his fear. He held his ground, depriving Camaya of the collapse he wanted.

Camaya’s voice turned stone cold. “So you got a pair, huh, Mason? Well, guess what? Tough guys die slow, real slow. You’ll piss your pants and cry for your mama, and we’ll just be getting started.”

A cell phone rang, breaking the moment but not the sweat that dripped down Mason’s neck. Julio answered and handed the phone to Camaya, who listened without talking and hung up.

“Julio, tie them up. I’ll be back soon. When I’m done, you can play with them.”

Mason took his first good look at Julio, amazed that he hadn’t killed himself when he tried to run over him. With his thick neck, heavy muscled arms, and concrete body, Julio could have played nose tackle on the all-steroid team.

He bound Mason’s and Sandra’s hands behind their backs and wrapped another length of rope around their waists, leaving them sitting on the floor, tied back-to-back.

“Check the rest of the warehouse. Make sure it’s buttoned up tight,” Camaya told him, leaving with the rest of his crew as the rain swelled to a pounding downpour.

“Help me tip us over on my right side,” Sandra whispered as soon as Julio was out of sight.

Mason didn’t know what she had in mind, but he was open to suggestions. They rocked side to side until their momentum carried them over. Mason still wasn’t sure if this was progress.

“Put your hand inside my jeans,” Sandra said.

“Great idea, but I hate getting aroused when I’m all tied up.”

“Do what I tell you, and we might get out of this!”

It wasn’t easy, but he was able to slip three fingers inside her jeans. No underwear. No surprise.

“Lower!”

Her demand reminded him of an old joke he was about to repeat when he felt a slender object wrapped in tin foil pressed against her rump.

“Pull it out!”

It was enough to make him forget that he was about to be killed.

“It’s coming, it’s coming!”

Sandra dug her nails into his back, convincing him to shut up.

“It’s a number-ten surgical knife blade.”

Mason didn’t need any more instructions. He peeled the foil, felt the razor-sharp edge, and sliced into the first rope he could reach. It was an awkward angle to wield a blade. Sandra flinched when he caught her skin, but she didn’t complain when he cut through the rope on his next pass, pulled his arms around in front, and cut the rope around their waists.

They scrambled to their feet and headed for the door. Exploding thunder muffled the sound of Julio’s return. He tackled Mason for the second time that night just as Sandra opened the door and vanished into the storm.

They rolled across the floor and crashed into a workbench, showering them with tools. Julio straddled Mason, hands clamped around his throat, lighting a fire in his lungs and blurring his vision. Mason grabbed a pipe wrench from the tools that had fallen on the floor, aimed for Julio’s temple, and opened a gusher that rained down on him. It took two swings, but Julio’s fingers relaxed, and he fell off, stunned but still conscious.

Gasping, Mason crawled to his feet. Julio was kneeling between him and the door, blocking his escape. He took another swing with the wrench as Julio pulled a gun from his waistband. He adjusted his aim for Julio’s hand, knocking the gun to the floor. When Julio dove for the gun, Mason threw the wrench at his head, missed, and ran into the darkened aisles, searching for another way out.