I downshift, slowing so I can drift casually into the right hand lane. Up ahead, the turn off for Hunt’s Point is fast approaching. I indicate, steering the car onto the exit ramp, watching in the rear view mirror as, two cars back, the Denali with the blackened out windows follows my lead. Only one car between us now. My brain switches to autopilot, following an automatic route through quiet, leafy neighborhood streets, past oversized McMansions, Mexican gardeners with woolen hats pulled down low over their ears, kids in strollers, dogs on leads, and the Denali follows.
She has to fucking know I’ve made her by now. No way she can think I haven’t noticed her, practically jammed up my exhaust pipe. She should be way fucking better at this. I quit looking in my rear view, and I’m shocked when I realize where I’ve driven myself. The old house I grew up in looms high above the road, set back in amongst a wall of eight-foot high pine and spruce trees. The corner of the basketball court out the back of the house is just about visible, as I roll the Camaro up alongside the curb. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end.
I never made a plan where I decided I would never come back to this house. A plan like that didn’t seem necessary. Why the fuck would I come back to Charlie’s place? To the place where I fought off demons in the night. To the place where nightmares were real, tangible, wicked things that would haunt you the moment you closed your eyes.
Behind me, the Denali comes to a halt as well. You have got to be fucking kidding me? This bitch is insane. Can she really have balls this big? She must want me to know she’s following me; that’s the only explanation for this blatant behavior. Well, if she thinks she’s going to intimidate me, she has another fucking thing coming. Psycho bitch. I get out of the car, slamming the door closed behind me, and I storm up to the driver’s window of the Denali, blood surging through my veins, head pounding, my body already charged and ready for violence. Will I hit her? Damn fucking right I will. I think about knocking on the window, waiting for it to buzz down before unleashing my fists, but I can’t talk myself into being so polite. Instead, I pull back my hand and I swing, smashing my way through the thickened glass. Car windows are designed to shatter, and the Denali’s window does exactly that, the glass exploding into a thousand tiny cubed pieces and raining down on the sidewalk. Inside, I hear someone scrambling, rearing back as the glass pours in on them, too.
“Fuck! Fuck you, man!” someone yells. A guy? So Lowell had one of her lackeys in the driver’s seat. Why am I not surprised? I can picture her in the back seat of the car, barking out orders as her little DEA minion obeys her every command. I’m just waiting for the bitch to climb out of the car, cool as cool can be, ready to threaten arrest for damage to government property, when the polished, unmistakable barrel of a gun appears through the broken window.
“Back up, motherfucker. Back the fuck up right now.”
DEA agents can’t just fucking shoot you for no reason, but then again I have given them a reason. I’m a hostile; I just attacked their car. It would be so fucking easy for them to get away with plugging me full of bullets and letting me bleed out right here on the cement.
I hate to have to give this guy what he wants, but I also don’t feel like getting shot in the face today. I take a step back from the window. Where the fuck is my gun? How in god’s name did I climb out of the Camaro without the fucking thing? I guess if I get shot and die right now, it’ll serve me fucking right. More glass tinkles onto the sidewalk as the driver tries to open his door, which seems to be jammed. A long moment follows, where the idiot inside the vehicle throws some weight behind the door and eventually forces it open. He climbs out of the car, still holding the gun in one hand, while brushing fragments of glass from his lap with the other.
Suit and tie. Not a DEA suit and tie—no, it’s way too nice to have been purchased on a civil servant’s pay check. Looks like Armani. Michael would know better than me, but he’s not here to confirm either way. Dark shades. Slicked back hair. The kind of stubble guys pay forty dollars in a barber’s shop to have shaped and kept neat and tidy while they sip on a complimentary beer. I find myself suddenly doubtful. This guy’s a cop? No fucking way. He oozes attitude, which wouldn’t have necessarily ruled him out as five-oh, but there’s something else…
The way he’s holding his gun.
Cops all hold their guns the same way, shoulder hitched up, elbow locked and rigid, left hand cupped underneath the right, providing a stable platform of support. They stare at you down the length of their weapons, locking you in their sights, ready at all times to pull the trigger and end your life. It’s a recognizable stance, the country over, and this guy doesn’t have it.
He holds his gun like a criminal, like he’s pointing a finger at you and the weapon is merely an extension of his hand. He’s not aiming the thing. He’s just stabbing it in my general direction, expecting it to do all of the hard work on its own. “You just made a big fucking mistake, Mr. Mayfair,” he tells me. “This is an airport rental, and I didn’t get insurance.”