Scott Medbury - Inga

Shit!

He turned back to Shorty, but while he was distracted the kidnapper had already made his move, running forward and grabbing Redfern’s gun hand.

“ No !” grunted Redfern, as he began to struggle for control of the weapon.

They fell to the floor, the muzzle of the gun inching first one way and then the other as they wrestled back and forth. Redfern briefly thought he might win, but finally, Shorty, much stronger than he looked, flipped the technician onto his back and brought two hands to bear against the prisoner’s one.

He twisted the gun and slowly lowered the muzzle towards Redfern’s face. The thug smiled victoriously…

BANG!

He was still smiling, even as the bullet from his own gun, taken from his pants by his intended victim, blew out the side of his head, spraying the white carpet in a vivid red and gray fan.

Horrified, Redfern pushed the body of the thug off him and scrambled backward. He didn’t stop retreating until his head struck the wall behind him. He began to shake uncontrollably, his ears ringing from the loud gunshot.

He thought briefly about running but just as quickly dismissed it. They knew where he lived. They knew the name of his wife. They knew the names of his kids. There was no way he could leave while the other one was alive.

He got to his feet, still holding the dead man’s gun and took a deep breath as he steeled himself to search the apartment for the big man.

As it was, he didn’t need to.

There was a flash of movement from the doorway to the small kitchen to his right and something smashed into the brow of his right eye. Stunned, Redfern fell to his knees, desperately trying to clear his swimming vision. He heard a roar and saw the formidable albeit fuzzy shape of the big guy barreling at him.

He tried to bring the gun up but didn’t manage to squeeze off a shot before the speeding bus hit him. The technician was propelled backward into the wall, the breath smashed out of his body by the impact and then kept out by the heavy weight of the man on top of him. Strong hands found his throat and began to squeeze.

Redfern had somehow managed to keep hold of the gun and with a jellylike arm, lifted it slowly until the muzzle was wavering and wobbling under the thug’s chin. The big hands squeezed harder and with more violence, attempting to throttle the life out of him before he could pull the trigger.

As his vision darkened, he made a final, supreme effort to pull the trigger.

Twenty minutes after he discarded his phone, Ivan pulled the Dodge into a wrecking yard on Kedzie Avenue. He drove past the small used car lot out front and followed the driveway, weeds poking through its cracked pavement like hair from an old man’s ears, up to the rundown portable building that served as an office.

To the right, a wall of rusting cars at least ten high muffled the sound of the busy road beyond. They pulled up in front of the building, and Ivan turned to Inga.

“Stay in the car, yes?” he said, placing his hand on the one she had resting in her lap.

It was so warm and soft that he had a hard time reconciling it with the metal he saw in her open wounds.

“Yes, Myfriend.”

Her smile was so humanlike that he couldn’t help but shake his head as he opened the door.

It had been much easier getting into the low-slung car than getting back out, and the big man struggled to do it without looking clumsy. He didn’t quite succeed.

He locked the car and walked to the office. The whole building creaked as he climbed the metal steps and squeezed through the open door. A man of about sixty looked up from behind the counter. His head gleamed under the last remnants of his hair which was slicked across his skull to hide the baldness which had clearly won its war a long time ago.

Ivan placed his hands on the counter and the old man took a final drag on the thin cigar hanging from his lip before blowing a smoke ring casually into the already hazy air.

“Dolph Lundgren, I presume?”

“What?” Ivan asked, his face serious.

“You look like Dolph Lundgren.”

“Who?”

“Dolph Lundgren – you know – from Rocky?” Ivan’s face was blank. “Hmmm never mind. A very old movie. What can I help you with, Mister?”

“Where is Pieter?”

“Long gone. I bought the yard from him two years ago.”

“Oh…”

The man stood up and looked over Ivan’s shoulder at the Dodge. Apart from the damage to the side, it looked a beauty.

He stuck out his hand.

“I’m Stan, is there something I can help you with?”

Ivan shook the proffered hand.

“I want to sell my car.”

“I see… let’s take a look,” said the old man, his eyes narrowing.

They returned to the office after Stan had taken an in-depth look at the vehicle, not to mention a good look at the beautiful, smiling girl in the passenger seat. He didn’t fail to notice the bruise and scrapes on her face and hoped the big guy wasn’t beating on her. None of his business, though, and he didn’t think she’d have looked so happy and alive if he was.

“Is it hot?”

“Yes,” Ivan said.

He didn’t see any point in lying.

“Okay,” said Stan, nodding. “As long as you’re up front with me, I’ll be up front with you. I’ll give you five G for it.”

“Okay, sold,” said Ivan.

Stan was taken aback, he had been willing to go as high as ten, and the ease with which the other guy caved bothered him. Either he was an idiot or the vehicle was really hot. Stan’s eyes narrowed as he thought it over. He had the nagging feeling he should call off the deal, but greed won out. The guys at the chop shop would easily pay him twice that amount and make double again by rebirthing it.

“You have yourself a deal, Mister…?”

“Just call me Dolph,” said Ivan, deadpan. They shook hands and a few minutes later, Lewinski accompanied ‘Dolph’ out to the car and watched appreciatively as the girl stepped out.

What a pair of legs! He might even have whistled if the big guy hadn’t been within arm’s reach.

Ivan handed Stan the keys to the Dodge and scanned the used car lot in front of the wrecking yard. His eyes settled on a brown hatchback.

“How much for the Hyundai?”

Stan looked at him. He liked to think of himself as a good judge of character and decided he’d made enough off him for one day.

“Five hundred oughtta do it.”

Ivan counted out five hundred-dollar bills into the old man’s open palm.

“I’ll get you the keys.”

Five minutes later they were headed to Chicago’s Croatian quarter, the Village.

“Ivan! It’s been too long!”

Mateo Babic, a big bear of a man, came barreling from behind the bar of his restaurant. He embraced Ivan, thumping him heavily on the back before straightening his arms to take a good look at him.

“My God, you are even bigger than the last time I saw you. You’ve fully recovered from the… the accident then?”

“Da, I don’t remember much, but physically I feel better than ever.”

“Great! And who is this?”

“This is Inga.”

“What has happened?” Mateo asked, his curious gaze resting on Inga’s face.

“We’re in some trouble,” said Ivan. “Serious trouble. I came here to ask for help.”

“Of course, of course,” said Babic, bustling past Ivan and taking Inga’s hand.

“Come young one, sit. Can I get you some water?”

“I cannot drink water,” said Inga, looking at Ivan as she resisted Babic’s insistent tugging.

He nodded.

“Sit, Inga.”

She allowed Babic to pull her to a chair and sat down.