Kirk Russell - Dead Game

Marquez smiled back at him. He killed the draft beer and stood up.

“Okay, call me.”

The poker game was at a house a few miles outside Rio Vista. A long flat driveway led to a detached garage. Little light seeped from under the garage door and the window on the side, and it didn’t feel right as he walked down the driveway with Crey. Crey turned to reassure him.

“This guy’s wife bitches at him all the time. Wait until you see what he’s got set up in here.”

“Where’s the wife tonight?”

“Fuck, who knows, just be glad she’s not here.”

Marquez glanced at the house. No lights. An SUV was backed up against the garage door, and he listened for voices and didn’t hear any as he followed Crey over stone steps alongside the garage. There was a door, and Crey waited for him to go in first. As he stepped inside, Marquez felt a gun press into his back.

“We’re going to keep this fair,” Crey said from behind him and then stripped Marquez’s Glock. “Pretty interesting piece you got here.”

“I took it off a cop. What’s the deal? Why are you doing this?”

“Sure, you took this gun off a cop. What cop was that?”

Perry aimed a shotgun at Marquez’s gut. Torp was the only other person in the room.

“We’ve got a little plan,” Crey said. “We’re going to take a ride together.”

“No poker?”

It was the best answer he could come up with, but what he felt was fear. Perry and Torp were very quiet, anticipating, and Crey was methodical.

“Take your shoes off,” which was not something he wanted to do since his left shoe had a telelocator in it, a device that would let his team track him. He untied his shoes and was slow getting out of them.

“Where are we going?”

“Where we can settle this.”

“That could affect our partnership.”

“Yeah, it’s going to fuck with it, but I don’t know how many more partners I need anyway.”

“Since you’ve already got Ludovna.”

“See, there you go. That’s probably why I don’t like you, and shit, these two hate you. Lou here can’t wait. Put your hands behind your back.”

And he moved his hands slowly, had no doubt Perry would pull the trigger. Torp moved in and brought a blade to Marquez’s throat as Crey clicked on plastic handcuffs.

“Just like they used to do to me, man.”

The blade cut the skin under his chin. He could turn his head fast, kick out at Crey, and hope Torp didn’t run the knife into him and Perry blow him away. Or gamble the SOU was able to follow wherever Crey took him. A kind of calculation flowed through his head and went nowhere. His mouth was dry, heart pounding, and he resisted the order to get down on his knees. When he did, the knife drew real blood, left a sharp stinging burn along his throat, and he felt blood trickle toward his collar. He got on his knees, and Crey’s boot pushed his shoulders down, his face onto the cold concrete.

“If you kick me, I’m going to stick a knife up your ass,” Crey said. “I’m going to hook up your ankles, and then you’re going to fucking hop to the truck.”

“Where are we going?”

He hopped to the SUV, and they loaded him into the rear and covered him with a blanket. Now he had to count on the SOU, but it was Katherine and Maria he thought about as they drove. He heard the tires hum over the metal plates on the Rio Vista Bridge. He felt the curves of the levee road and wondered if he could talk his way out. They left the paved road and were still running hard, rocks pinging off the underbody and Crey giving directions, a left turn, a right turn, another mile straight ahead, then slowing to a stop. The back opened. The blanket got jerked free, a slide racked on a gun, and Crey leaned over him.

“Don’t move,” Crey said. “Lou, slide the lock down alongside his ankle and then lock the chain and the cuff together and give me the key.”

Cold metal slid along his ankle between the skin and the cuff. He heard the rattle of a light chain and a lock snap into place.

“Getting you ready, my man,” Crey said. “Then we’re going to undo the cuffs on your legs and settle this man-to-man.”

Now he got jerked out the back of the truck, heard Torp and Perry laughing as he bounced off the bumper and landed hard on his side. He checked the horizon for headlights and saw nothing but darkness. The ankle cuff was still on his left leg. A chain was attached to the ankle cuff and he saw the chain snaked around to the front of the truck. Lying on his side he followed the chain to where it hooked to a tow ring. Crey put a boot on him, leaned over, and cut his shirt off.

“In a couple of minutes I’m going to undo your handcuffs, and we’ll flip a coin to see who goes first. I’m going to give you a knife and then you’re going to fight.”

“Why am I chained and they’re not?”

“Because I want it finished here. I don’t want you running away and I don’t want to have to shoot you in the back.”

“You don’t want to do this, Richie. There’s no happy ending.”

Crey’s cell phone rang, he stepped away, and Marquez got to his feet, his hands still cuffed behind him. The Blazer’s headlights shone on a clearing and on rows of vines. On the road in here the team could run without lights. Shauf won’t mess around. The signal from his boots still came from the garage, but she would have seen the Blazer leave the driveway. Probably didn’t see him get loaded in back, but one of the team would have followed the Blazer.

Crey rubbed his face as he talked. Torp and Perry watched him, didn’t like the delay, and Crey didn’t like the phone call. He argued with whoever was on the other end. He looked down the dirt road, then at Marquez. When he hung up he was suddenly in a hurry and walked over to Marquez, waving Perry forward as he did.

“Turn around and I’m going to free your hands.”

When the cuffs fell away Marquez started rubbing his wrists to get circulation. Crey laid a four-inch knife on the hood.

“That’s yours,” he said. “Since they don’t have your reach I’m keeping it fair by giving them bigger knives. Rules are we’re going to go one at a time.” Crey had moved back beyond where the twenty feet of chain that held Marquez could reach. “Pick up your knife. Everybody get ready for the coin toss. This here is the Super Bowl of knife fights.”

He flipped a coin that flickered through the headlights and landed in the dirt of the clearing. Leaned over the coin, then grinned at Torp.

“Your lucky night, Liam.”

“Crey, these guys are already going down. You don’t want to tie yourself to them.”

“Are you going to beg now, man? You going to piss on yourself or be a man? The knife is on the hood with your name on it. Pick it up because the rules are fight to the death.”

Crey scratched out a half circle in the dirt with his boot.

“That’s as far as he can reach with his chain, so the rules are no one leaves the circle unless the other man is dead. If Liam kills him, it’s over. If John wins, Lou, you’re up next.”

Marquez picked up the knife.

“Okay, here we go,” Crey said. “I’ll take it down from one minute starting now.” He held his watch in the light. “Thirty seconds to go.” He smiled at Marquez. “Ten seconds.” He nudged Torp. “Get in there and make the fucker pay. You’re fighting for your honor, man.”

Torp crossed over the line and moved to Marquez’s left, talking as he did. “When I get you down I’m going to pull your teeth out one at a time before I kill you.”

“Take it easy,” Marquez said. “You look better than you did and your breath is a whole lot better.”

Crey and Perry laughed as Torp slashed at him. Marquez jumped back, and Torp tried to corner him, get him out on one end of the chain, but Marquez kept the truck at his back. He blocked the left headlight, felt the heat of the headlight low on his back and lifted his left leg just high enough to grab the chain. He hoped Torp didn’t see that, hoped that without the headlight Torp’s view was restricted, and when Torp slashed at him again he barely moved and the blade caught skin on his right side. A line of red erupted, and Torp lunged in again. As he did, Marquez swung the chain, throwing a long loop, hooking Torp’s head for a moment, then his arm. He jumped sideways and spun the chain around Torp’s arm before he could pull back.