Crown Point, Indiana

Wednesday, August 9, 2023

8:13 p.m.

My fuckin’ head was spinning, so I pulled over. The conversation with LunaRider threw me for a loop. I had their cash, their drugs, their notebook. But Vickie Valor was still dead on the side of the road somewhere. Needed to get gas anyway since I never bothered to fill up in Champaign.

The Family Express on the southwest side of Crown Point was doing good business. Heavy foot traffic into the convenience store, cars streaming in to pump gas. Wasn’t as sleepy a town as I would have guessed.

I steered the Honda next to an open pump. Eyepatch Granny’s ride got good gas mileage but I was below an eighth and figured it was a good time to soup up. Even though I hadn’t decided how far I wanted to go. Was getting a little stir crazy on the road. Needed to stand up for a while too, get my head right. Stretch out, chill outside of the Honda. Find my balance. At least five minutes.

Shit, maybe I could even find a bar.

Since I ditched my bank card in Waco, I had to walk inside to pay cash. I grabbed a Red Bull first, then dropped a C-note at the register, told the cashier the pump number and said I’d be back for the change.

Back out to the Honda. Put the Red Bull in the car for later. Lit up a Marlboro Red and took a drag. Noticed a black Cadillac pulling into the same entrance I used, pretty heavy tint, matte paint. Paranoia swept over me as I remembered the cartel guy calling my phone relentlessly all the way from Champaign.

They had me pinged in Muskogee. Why not here, too? Should have ditched your phone, Boss.

Reality set in, good and hard.

The cartel could be here. I’ve never been to Indiana before.

The cool Indiana night breeze felt good against my bare chest, finally a temperature below 70 degrees. First time in months, for me. I looked to my right, surveying every car in the lot. Took a drag of my Marlboro and left it on my lips while I pumped the gas.

I hate the fucking cartel.

In the periphery of my vision, a figure sat in his car, pointing something at me. A smartphone. Is that guy reading his screen or taking a picture of me? What the fuck? There was no way for me to be sure, and by the time I looked at him straight on he had already lowered the phone. I had my glasses on, so my vision was crisp as I stared the guy down. Looks like a teenager. Probably took a picture. Little rat-fuck. He’s lucky I don’t kick his ass.

I forgot all about the picture-taker as the black Cadillac drew my attention again. It was offset from my pump, over my left shoulder at about a 30-degree angle, behind. Just idling. They weren’t doing the usual shit people do at the gas station.

Buying a drink? Nope.

Getting gas? Nope.

Taking a piss? Nope.

What the fuck?

I looked inside Grandma’s Honda and saw my phone sitting on the passenger seat. It was lit up as if someone had recently called. Pro’bly Evvy’s phone calling again, with that cartel prick and his dumb accent leaving me some fucked-up voicemail.

I did a quick sanity-check on my Sig on my waist. Yessir. All good, six rounds.

Walked into the Family Express to get my change. I looked in the reflection on the glass door. Both doors of the Cadillac opened, and I could see the figures of two squat men, round-faced, emerging from the car’s interior. Again, in the glass, I could see each of them take a couple steps toward the store. I entered through the door. Could be the cartel. I think it is the cartel.

I hate the fucking cartel.

I was second in line to get my change. By the time the cashier handed it to me the Mexicans from the Cadillac were inside the store. Milling around, pretending to look at the fuckin’ candy bars. Nobody’s buying your act, Paco. Normal Mexicans would have a twelve pack of their favorite cerveza in their arms by now.

These guys were average height for their race, five-foot-seven or eight. Thick in the trunk, low to the ground. One of them reached his hand toward his waistband. Not to grab a weapon, just an absent-minded action. I didn’t need much confirmation at that point, but I had it. A tell.

This is the fucking cartel. I hate the cartel.

I pivoted my right foot back from the counter toward the interior of the store, away from the cartel attack dogs. Saw the sign for the restrooms in the back, by the large walk-in refrigerators stuffed with beer and energy drinks.

That way, Boss. Stay cool. Get there and wait. They’ll follow you.

In the little hallway heading to the bathroom there was a stubby entryway that led back to what I figured was an electrical closet. I set myself back a step, so they would have to be all the way into the hallway to spot me.

I settled on my position. Another five seconds passed.

I took hold of the Sig in my right hand. Finger on the trigger, safety off, but I didn’t point it, I held it by my side. Relax. Breathe. I waited.

It wasn’t more than another fifteen seconds before the first Mexican turned the corner.

I raised my pistol and shot him through his right eye, before he even had a chance to move. A huge chunk of his face was gone. I’ll never forget his little square teeth, which he bared as he realized I had the drop on him. Chiclets. A knife clattered as he thudded on the tile.

The one behind him, pure reaction, lurched backward about two feet. I aimed again. Missed a little low and shot him through the throat. I watched him go down and as he did I saw that he had a pistol in his hand.

Never raised it higher than his belt.

Breathe. Count to three.

I shot each of them once more on the way out of the hall. One of them in the chest and one of them in the head. It wasn’t necessary, really, they were dead, but I figured two more shots would scare the shit out of everyone in the store and buy some extra time.

Head down, I speed walked toward the exit.

Sayonara cerdos.

I let my fifth bullet rip into the ceiling of the store, again figuring it would make customers take cover, give me some clearance.

I had one more round in the clip. Hopefully I won’t need it.

Another fifteen seconds and I was at the Honda.

Key in. Fire it up. In gear. Rip it.

I smashed the pedal, squealing and burning rubber out of the Family Express and onto the road. Breathe, Boss.

Two minutes up the road, I took a swig of Beam. Lit up a Red.

I opened the Honda up all the way as I reached the highway.

That night I had wings.

My old phone didn’t, and when I chucked it out the window flying it cracked on the asphalt, hopefully into a million pieces.

I was flying, heading north again. Wanted to put a couple hours between myself and Crown Point. Figured I wasn’t in too a bad spot with the shootings, since the cops would find two dead cartel dogs, one with a knife, one with a gun. Might have it on camera too, those mother fuckers having their weapons out and all. Shit was obvious self-defense. They’d maybe come for me eventually, want to talk. But they wouldn’t be treating it like a normal American double murder. Not with those guys. Not with those weapons they had out. They’d give me a chance.

Or so I hoped.

Draw blood, like they do. Retaliate. Reclaim. Shape your destiny. Untamed. Unbroken.

‘Bout 15 minutes outside of Crown Point I reached into my coat pocket. Grabbed Turnbull’s card. Juggling my Beam and my Red, I grabbed the burner. The clock on the lock screen showed 9:36 p.m. I dialed his number.

‘Boss—’ he picked up right away. ‘I was hoping I’d hear from you. Didn’t think it would be so soon.’

‘Turnbull! About that car…’