The Gauntlet
You line up the cue ball. The five ball is going to be a tough sink but with a little English it’s still possible. The cue glides across the felt, taps the five, which strikes the bumper briefly before disappearing into the corner pocket.
Your opponent folds his arms in annoyance. “Nice shot.”
“Thanks.” Without looking up, you ask, “You from town?”
“Yeah.”
“What part?”
“Silverton.”
You glance up at the man. He’s studying the table, trying to strategize his moves if you ever allow him the opportunity to get back into the game. But not tonight. You toss the pool stick onto the table. It knocks into several of the balls before coming to a rest.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I forfeit. You win.” You remove a twenty from your wallet and drop it onto the felt.
The man looks down at the bill as if it’s wired to explode. “What’s the matter with you?”
“I don’t shoot pool with idiots who think Silverton is part of Hillcrest.”
“But it is.”
You stare at him for a moment annoyed. “It’s time for you to leave.”
The man sees the look in your eyes. He grabs the twenty and leaves. “Asshole.”
From behind the bar, Bob slowly wags his head. “You owe me eighty dollars for that stunt.”
“How do you figure that?”
“He had a good two hours left of drinking in him. With tips that puts me at a sixty-dollar loss.”
“Where do you get the other twenty from?”
“That’s my inconvenience fee.”
“Sounds like extortion.”
Bob sticks a thumb towards the exit. “Feel free to leave the moment you don’t like playing by my rules.” He shakes his head. “Kicking the guy out because he’s from Silverton. I should ban you from here just on principle, Wade.”
“Yeah? Who’s going to listen to your British naval war stories then?”
Bob places the mug onto the counter. “You’re an annoying shit. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“I love you too.” You glance down at your watch. It’s late. Real late. “I think you got your wish, my friend. I got to get out of here.” You toss four twenties onto the bar.
Bob picks them up and hands them back. “Keep your damn money. I would hate for you to be poor until the next paycheck.”
“Put it against my tab. Goodnight, Bob,” you answer. “See you soon.”
“Yeah? Don’t do me any favors.”
* * *
The night air is hot as you walk out of the pool hall. Three hours’ worth of cigarette soot has settled onto your clothes and you smell like shit. You try to shake it off but it’s a futile effort. Parking sucks in this part of town and you begin the long trek back to your vehicle that is several blocks away. Each time you visit Bob’s bar you say a prayer that you won’t find your Dodge Dakota up on blocks. Bob insists that once upon a time this was actually in a decent part of town. And though gentrification has begun to reclaim parts of West Hillcrest from the gangs progress has been like a game of whack-a-mole. There are still parts like Ghost town that people avoid like the plague. Someone once told you that Jack London lived around here while penning The Call of the Wild but you think they were full of shit.
A slight wind picks up. Discarded plastic bags wrap themselves into the wire barbs of a security gate.
Leaves rustle from a massive oak tree that’s larger than any other in the area. You’re baffled as to how it’s managed to survive as long as it has. Years of dog urinations… and things much more vile than that. You look at the tree again. It’s probably going to outlive you.
The Dakota comes into view down the side street. Amazingly, it’s still in one piece.
A cat darts in front of you. It’s a little white and black spotted one. Definitely not the best place to be a stray.
As you walk towards the truck you point the car keys to disarm the alarm system. Instead of the familiar chirp, chirp of the alarm, it’s replaced by a scream. You stop in mid-step, thinking you just imagined the sound. But a moment later you hear it again. The same scream. A woman’s scream. And it’s not a someone just dropped a spider down my shirt scream. This one has pain to it.
The street is full of row houses. Half of them are vacant or burnt out. The other half are barely livable. You turn to where the scream came from and frown. If there was an award for the shittiest house on the block this one would have won it. Plywood covers the first floor windows. Tall weeds sprout from the cracks in the concrete sidewalk as if mother-nature is trying to swallow up the blight and reclaim her land inch by inch. But surprisingly, it looks inhabited.
You pull out your cellphone. The battery is dead. Again. One of the fifty apps you’ve downloaded is sucking the life from the phone faster than a vampire drinks blood.
The car keys dangle in your hand. You stand at the front of the truck, drumming your fingers on the hood, staring at the house. You contemplate walking back to Bob’s. But that will take time. Getting someone on 911 will take time. The closest Patrol Division is a distance away. For units to get over here is going to take time. It all adds up to lots and lots of time. And the woman who owned that scream didn’t sound like she had much time to spare.
You remove your off-duty pistol and spare clips from the glove box. You’re suddenly glad all you’ve been drinking has been tonic and lime.
The house is immense and completely foreboding. Once it was probably a sight to behold. Hell, the whole neighborhood probably was. The walkway is pitted and cracked. The porch looks like it is going to implode at any moment from the termites.
In complete contrast is the front door. It’s made of steel and looks like it can withstand an artillery shell. You walk up and reach for the handle when you notice that the door has a punch code lock.
Rhythmic thumping permeates from inside. Someone’s playing bad music with far too much base.
The scream sounds again. It’s louder and clearer and without a doubt comes from inside.
Right about when you are just about to start scaling the drainpipe to the open second floor window, you hear a faint click, click from behind. You turn and find yourself staring down the barrel of a Glock. The weapon is shaking slightly as its user is standing on unsteady ground.
It’s been years since someone has gotten the jump on you. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy. You feel like a rookie.
“What are you doing here?” The man’s voice is raspy and jagged, as if he has just sprinted from the other side of town. You can’t make out his eyes in the dim light but you’re certain he’s strung out on something. “You’re not trying to break into this house, are you?”
“You live here?” Your hand slowly makes its way to your beltline. It’s going to be a long, slow journey to reach your gun. You hope you can diffuse the situation before then. “I couldn’t find the doorbell and was trying to get someone in the house’s attention.”
“What do you want with Maurice this time of night? Man’s probably sleeping. End up waking him… you won’t like the consequences.”
There’s a shout from somewhere inside the house and the man’s attention is drawn upwards to where it came from. His eyes go off you for a moment but it’s just long enough for you to draw your gun.
“I’m going to have to ask you to lower that weapon.”
You only get heavy breathing in reply as the man stares at you.
“What’s your name?” you ask.
The synapses in the man’s brain begin to fire. “Winston.”
“All right, Winston. This can either go down one of two ways. Happy or tragic. To prevent it from not going tragic I really need you to put that gun down right now.”
Winston continues to stare at you. The poor lighting makes it impossible to get a good read on the man. But then slowly, excruciatingly slowly, Winston begins lowering the gun. He places it onto the porch.
“That’s great, Winston. Now I need you to take ten steps backwards. Can you do that for me?”
The man complies. You reach down and pick up the weapon.
“You a cop? You sound like a cop.”
“You’re a smart man, Winston.”
“You gonna give me my gun back?”
“I’m going to do something even better. You punch in that door code for me, I promise not to arrest you.”
“I don’t know the code.”
“Oh, I think you do, Winston.” You gesture over to the Dakota with your gun. “We can always take a spin to the Patrol Division to help jog your memory.”
He considers that for a moment. “1-3-7-4-5.”
“That’s going to get me in?”
“Yeah.”
“No other security? Nothing else I need to worry about?”
“No. That’s it.” The man shuffles his feet nervously. “Can I go now?”
You look at the house again. It’s even more foreboding than before. “How many people are inside?”
It takes Winston a moment to reply. “Maurice usually runs with three or four. This time of night… I don’t know.”
“I heard a woman’s scream before. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that would you, Winston?”
“No.”
You motion to the door with the gun. “Punch the code in.”
He walks over and does it. The door opens with a dull clack. You listen for a moment. No one seems to be on the other side.
“Where’s your cellphone?”
“I don’t have one.”
You look at him skeptically.
“Search my damn pockets if you don’t believe me.”
You wave your gun at Winston. “Go.”
Winston steps off the porch and disappears into the night.
You glance into the house again. It’s quiet. You contemplate your options. It’s the point of no return if you cross the doorway.
Muttering a string of expletives, you go in.
It’s unbelievably hot inside as if someone has turned the thermostat all the way up. Sweat beads on your forehead. A long, dimly lit hallway extends out in front of you, illuminated solely by a light bulb dangling from the ceiling. Peeling wallpaper lines the walls. At the end is a room that you suppose is the kitchen.
Along with the sweltering heat, self-doubt begins to wash over you. But just when you think your nerves might be called into question the woman screams out again. It comes from upstairs.
The music goes on again and the ceiling begins to vibrate. It’s a good thing and a bad thing. They’re not going to be able to hear you but at the same time you’re not going to be able to hear them.
A man passes by the kitchen doorway. He doesn’t notice you and quickly disappears from sight. A moment later you hear the refrigerator door open.
You creep down the hallway, staying clear of the center floorboards which will be the squeakiest.
The man is making a sandwich. From what he is slathering on the bread, it looks completely uneatable. He is dressed in underwear and a stained tee shirt. He reminds you of Larry from the Three Stooges. But then you notice the 12 Gauge nestled between the gallon of milk and the jar of mayonnaise. Larry never walked around with one of those on the show.
Sweat dribbles down your brow, stinging your eyes. The heat is unbearable. You’re confident you can get to the shotgun before Larry can get his wits together. The man starts to walk back to the refrigerator, widening the gap between him and the weapon. You stride into the kitchen to make your move.
At that moment all hell breaks loose.
The front door opens with a boom. “Yo, Maurice! You upstairs? We got a Five-O lurking around!”
Shit.
Larry turns to his gun. Or at least where his 12 Gauge should have been. You strike him across the brow with the butt. With a faint gasp, Larry goes down in a heap, just missing the kitchen table in the process.
You glance around the room but the only thing resembling an exit is the pantry door.
Footsteps pound overhead. It’s impossible to tell how many are up there. It sounds like an entire heard of buffalo. They’re going to be heading back downstairs any moment.
You grab the 12 Gauge and ram a shell into the chamber. The buffalo begin pounding down the stairs.
“You better not be talking bullshit again, Monroe.”
“No way. Just ran into Winston. Told me he was mixing it up with a Five-O out on the street. Told me to be on the lookout.”
The booted feet pound across the floorboards and then out the front door. You breathe a sigh of relief. Winston’s pride prevents him from telling the whole truth and has bought you some time. They don’t realize you are in the house.
A bottle of gin is on the counter. You pour a good amount onto Larry and let the rest spill out across the cracked linoleum floor to make it look like he’d been drinking and passed out.
Upstairs sounds eerily quiet. Even the shit music has been shut off. You decide to risk the staircase. It’s the only way up. Hopefully, they’re all outside.
You manage to get to the top of the stairs without having to confront anyone. Doors line the hallway. Most of them are ajar. For a moment you listen for any sounds of distress but silence is the only reply. The woman is somewhere up here. She has to be. You choose the first door on the right.
A feeble lamp does a poor job at lighting the room. A king bed that sags in the middle takes up most of the room. A coffee table fills out the remainder. On top of the table is enough cocaine to light up the whole neighborhood.
A muffled grunt comes from the other side of a closed door in the room. Shotgun in hand, you open it. A woman is lying face down in the closet, gagged and hog tied. She catches a glimpse of you and starts squirming on the floor. You motion for her to be quiet but it only serves to rile her up even more. You pin her down and whisper Police a dozen times before the words begin to resonate. She calms down a little and you use the moment to remove a pocketknife. The blade is small but it’s sharp enough to get through the bindings. You work quickly and remove the gag last, hoping she has settled down enough not to start screaming.
“I need you to be calm.” You stare directly into her eyes. “Can you be calm for me?”
She swallows and nods.
“What’s your name?”
“Sharon.”
“Can you walk, Sharon?”
“She nods again.
“Good. We need to leave and we need to leave now.”
You help her to her feet. She’s an absolute mess. Her clothes are torn and soiled. Her left eye is swollen. Dried blood covers her shirt. There are a thousand and one questions you want to ask her but there isn’t any time.
Her legs wobble but she manages to keep on her feet. “What about Denise?”
“Denise?”
“My girlfriend. She’s in one of the other bedrooms.”
A baseball settles down in the pit of your stomach. “When was the last time you saw her?”
“Yesterday. Maybe the day before that. I’m not too sure.”
“Okay,” you grip your gun. “Let’s go find your friend.”
You make your way from the room and into the hallway. No one is around.
“Which room did you see her last?”
She points to a door across the hallway. “In there. That’s where they take us to…” She doesn’t say anything more.
You raise the 12 Gauge. “Okay. Stay close.”
The bedroom door is shut. You decide to risk it by charging in shotgun raised. There’s just not enough time to be careful.
A dirty lamp casts just enough light to make out a woman passed out on the couch. A mattress is off to the side on the floor. Another coffee table is in front of Denise, yielding a shitload of drugs. You press two fingers against Denise’s neck for a pulse. It’s there but it’s weak. You only fathom what she is strung out on. You glance at Sharon. “I’m going to need your help.”
A door leading into the bathroom swings open. A man walks into the bedroom wiping his face with a towel. He sees you, drops the towel, and goes straight for the gun tucked in his belt. Towel Man is quick. Surprisingly quick.
But you’re quicker.
The shotgun blast is deafening. It’s as if a 747 has just landed in the bedroom. Towel Man lands on his back and doesn’t move.
“Close the bedroom door and lock it,” you say.
Sharon does so and you slide the couch, with Denise still in it, across the floor and against the door.
“What are you doing?”
“We just ran out of time.”
“What do you mean?”
You stride over to Towel Man’s body. “They’re going to come for us. I need you to get your friend into the bathtub.”
“The bathtub?”
“That will give her some protection from the bullets.” You pat Towel Man down praying for a little luck. Bingo. A cellphone is in his pocket. You punch in 911. The dispatcher comes on after two rings. You give your name, ID, address, and a quick rundown.
“Squad cars en route.”
You breathe a sigh of relief. But it’s fleetingly brief as a voice sounds on the other side of the door.
“That you in there, Five-O? We can smell you out here in the hallway.”
Towel Man’s gun is still clutched in his hand. You pry it loose and add it to your growing collection. Sharon walks out of the bathroom and you motion for her. “We’re going to lean the mattress up caddie-corner in the room,” you whisper.
“I know you’re in there,” the voice yells.
You position the mattress and place Sharon behind it. “You wouldn’t happen to know how to use a gun, would you?”
Sharon grabs the 12 Gauge confidently. “I had three older brothers who loved to go buck hunting.”
“That’s good to know.”
“Hector in there with you?” the voice calls out again.
“Yeah. He’s with me.” You pull the cord on the lamp. With the exception of the bathroom light, the room is dark.
“Those bitches in there with you, too?”
“That’s right.” You make your way behind the mattress. “We’re all thinking of lighting up some of these fine drugs and having ourselves a real good time.”
“You send Hector out, maybe we can talk about things.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah. Maybe we’ll let you live.”
“You know, that’s a tempting offer but I think I’ll have to pass.”
The bedroom door takes a long burst from an automatic weapon. Wood chips fly through the air. The opposite wall takes a pounding from the bullets. Fortunately, none of the bullets come close to you.
“You still alive?”
“I’m still here, Scumbag.” You spot a shadow pass in front of the bullet holes in the door. You quickly aim and send a single shot back at them. Someone bellows out in pain for a moment until it’s replaced by silence.
“You still out there, Scumbag?”
“I’m here. I want you to know that you’re not leaving that room alive. You hear me?”
“That’s fine. The couch in here looks comfy. I think I might take a nap.”
“Yeah. You go do that.”
“You got me outnumbered?”
“Unless you got a mini-army in one of your pockets.”
“I guess we’re at a standoff then, aren’t we?”
“If you say so.”
You look around. There are two ways out of the room. Through the door or through the window. Neither are much of an option.
Sharon is against the mattress holding the shotgun. She looks exhausted. She cracks a smile and nods her head. “Thank you.”
“Excuse me?”
“For coming to get us.”
You check Towel Man’s gun. Full clip. “How did you two end up here?”
“Denise and I were at a club just off of Interstate 71. Some sleaze-bags approached us. We told them to get lost. I think they somehow managed to get a drug into our drinks. Next thing I know we’re here.”
“Well, don’t thank me just yet. We’ve still got a long way to go before we are out of this.” You sigh and glance around. Something is wrong. Scumbag is stalling. He has to assume you have a phone and that you’ve used it. He has to know backup is on its way.
The window is open and you hear hushed voices outside. They’re from Scumbag’s crew.
Your eyes widen. “Help me cover the window with this mattress.”
“Why?”
You never get to answer as a Molotov Cocktail sails through the opening. It crashes onto the floor and instantly the room is engulfed in flames. And then in rapid succession three more are lobbed into the room.
“That will keep you nice and warm, Five-O!” shouts Scumbag from outside on the street. You hear engines rev and tires squeal.
You rush into the bathroom to get Denise. She’s still completely out of it. You crank on the shower and the cold water jars Denise from her slumber. You hoist her over your shoulder. Thankfully, she’s a petite woman.
Sharon peers into the hallway through one of the bullet holes. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone out there.”
“Try the door.”
She shoves the couch away and tugs at the handle. “The door won’t budge. It’s jammed.”
“You sure you’re good with that thing?”
“What do you mean?”
“Take out the hinges.”
Smoke begins to fill as she aims at the door hinges. She squeezes off two rounds. The shots are perfect but the door still holds. You throw your weight into it as you slam your boot against the door. Two strikes and it crashes outwards.
You make your way down the hallway. The flames are spreading rapidly. The heat is strong against your back. You glance up warily. The old house is one large tinderbox.
You reach the top of the staircase. Denise is only semi-conscious. It’s going to be an effort reaching the bottom without tumbling. But there’s no time left to be careful. You take the chance and somehow manage to get down to the bottom without getting riddled with bullets.
The hallway looms ahead. The front door is at the other end and it feels like a mile away. All seems clears until a fleeting shadow passes across the floor down the hallway from an adjoining room. Scumbag has left some of his crew behind.
You place Denise onto the floor and remove the Glock from under your belt.“You got that 12 Gauge ready?”
Sharon looks at you concerned. “Yes. Why?”
“There’s someone up ahead.” You motion to a nearby room. “I want you to go into that room and unload some rounds into the wall that’s facing the front of the house.”
“Do you think I’ll be able to hit them?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“If you’re as good with that thing as you claim to be.”
She looks at you annoyed.
“Just a joke. Now go. We’re running out of time. This whole damn house is going to come crashing down on us at any moment.”
“When do you want me to start shooting?”
“Count to thirty. And then pretend like you’re going after one of those big bucks.”
She nods and goes.
You slowly make your way down the hallway. You keep a mental count of when Sharon might start shooting. You look down at the floor but don’t see the shadow anymore. Whoever’s there has gotten into position and they’re going to have a bead on you the moment you step into view. You’re going to have one try at this. If you don’t time this just right you’re going to have a chest full of lead.
Ten seconds left. The doorway leading into the room where the man is is only a few steps away.
Five seconds. The gun’s grip digs into your palm. You wish you were back at the bar shooting pool with the asshole from Silverton.
Three seconds. You mentally picture where the man might be. If there’s more than one you’re screwed.
Two seconds.
One.
Showtime.
You go into motion just as the first shotgun blast erupts. The second blast goes off as you step into the doorway.
One of Scumbag’s men is there by himself. A TEC-9 is clutched in his hands. He’s in a good enough position to have turned you into Swiss cheese.
While none of the 12 Gauge’s shots penetrated through the sheetrock, it’s made enough noise to cause the man to spin around and be caught off guard.
You capitalize on the moment of confusion. The moment you step through the doorway you drain the guns into the room. Most of the bullets miss their mark but one strikes the man in the stomach and another in his throat.
But the man is still able to get a burst off with the automatic. The bullets come at you low, ripping up the floorboards. But a lucky stray plants itself right into your thigh.
You clench your jaw and stumble backwards as your legs buckle, sending you straight to the floor.
The man stares with wide, vacant eyes up at the ceiling as a rapidly growing pool of blood spreads out across the floor. Still, you keep your gun trained on him as if you expect him to rise up as a zombie. But the man remains still.
You glance around but he seems to have been alone.
Your leg is throbbing. A puddle of your own blood is forming. You remove your belt and quickly wrap it tightly around your leg in an effort to stem the flow. You glance up. A black haze is collecting at the ceiling.
“You got him!” Sharon is standing at the doorway, clutching the 12 Gauge in one hand and holding Denise up with the other, who looks more conscious than before.
You pull yourself up on your feet.
Sharon notices the wounds. “Jesus. You’ve been shot.”
Something crashes loudly above you. “That was the roof,” you say. “Time to go.”
You make your way to the front door. Where the hell is the backup? It’s been an eternity since you dialed 911. You look to Sharon. “You ready? There might be more of them outside.”
She nods. You open the door. Outside, people have gathered but they look more bystander-ish than drug dealer-ish. They all are glowing with a reddish hue and it isn’t until you see the burning embers raining down onto the street that you realize just how engulfed the house has become. The faint wail of a siren can finally be heard in the distance.
You all stagger outside, not stopping until you reach the street curb on the opposite side of the street. Sharon and Denise collapse down alongside you and stare at the inferno in stunned silence, watching as the building is consumed by the flames.
A new puddle of blood begins to form by your leg. A chill passes between your shoulder blades as you wonder if the bullet has struck an artery.
You look over at Sharon. “The ambulances should be here soon. I need you to make sure I stay conscious until they do.”
You glance over at the oak tree you passed before. It’s far enough away that it will be spared from the fire. The leaves don’t even look wilted. It’s as if it’s welcoming what is taking place.
You glance up at the night sky. Whatever stars that have ventured out that night have been obscured by plumes of smoke and soot.
Scumbag is still out there. But as you watch the roof of the house collapse upon itself into a red inferno, taking with it all of its ills, you realize he can wait until tomorrow.
