Tango & Cash II: The Wrath of Quan
Prologue
Quan hit the ground and stopped moving. Three 9mm's through the torso tends to put a man down. Just like that, this whole fiasco was coming to an end. One minute he's smoking a cigarette, wondering how these two pesky cops have managed to get this far, the next he's facing them coming up the stairs. Ray Tango's finger was quicker, that's all there is to it. Quan wondered why Perret didn't just allow he and Lopez to kill these assholes while they had the chance, chances really. Teasing his prey with elaborate games was definitely Perret's signature power move, but as it was currently proving, also his biggest weakness. These two mismatched L.A. dope cops were no James Bonds, but he was careless in underestimating them to this extent. Quan began to lose grip on these thoughts, and his blurred vision seemed to fade away from him into a foggy black tube.
-TAT TATAT ATAT- TATATAT- ATATAT- TAT-A-TATATAAT – Shots and shots and bursts of shots from all directions. Glass exploded around him. A crumpling sound and metal thudding around. That would be Lopez hitting the ground now, dropping his gun Quan thought matter-of-factly, back from the depths of blackness. Stupid Perret, he'll be next. They've taken out all of the goddamned security and breached the most secure rooms of the compound. And I just smiled along with it when he armed the self destruct system. Serves me right. Tango and Cash. Cash and Tango.
Quan felt a tugging at his feet and managed a hazy glimpse of someone leaning over him. Then he was being dragged away, the weight of his upper body grinding his exit wounds against the carpet below. Much of his blood gone, he faded into darkness once again.
Chapter One
The sun was high and hot over a dusty, dingy old roadside gas station. Nothing but desert on either side of the highway. A faded sign atop a rusty pole read 'Gulf'; just below it, 'Next Gas 40 miles". An old timer in overalls and a John Deere hat sat on the bench between a stack of worn tires and the door to his left. He squinted off into the distance, looking at nothing in particular. An enfeebled golden Labrador panted near his sand-faded boots. The RC Cola sign on the door read: 'Come in, We're Open!' The white circle of yesteryear's RC logo had yellowed with time. Right of the tires was an open garage door containing a run-down flat black Galaxie sans hood and engine. Several other junked husks of vehicles cluttered the corners of the lot surrounding the building.
Amidst the shimmering mirage of heat far in the distance, a dark shape slowly rose into view. A man on a motorcycle; a high-handlebarred chopper. He approached the Gulf station, his long beard whipping over his left shoulder. He donned black wraparound shades, and a sweat-stained red and white hibiscus print bandana wrapped his head, tied in the back over a wavy brown mullet. He turned into the station and rolled to a stop in front of the old man and his dog. A snakeskin boot flicked the kickstand down and stepped onto the dusty ground. The biker swung off the bike, his faded denim vest covered with well-worn patches of skulls, various insignia, one reading: 'Lone Wolf, No Club'. His garb had seen many hard miles; his leather chaps scuffed and scratched, his shirt sleeves frayed. He sized up the place for a while, not bothering to acknowledge the old man or his dog. He had a look at his watch, then seemed to straighten a bit, senses sharpening, on edge.
The biker whipped his head to the right as if he'd caught a dangerous scent, his mullet swung around just after. A gleaming silver monster truck screamed toward the gas station from about half a mile down the other direction.
"Right on time", he whispered harshly through a smirk.
He grabbed a gas nozzle off the pump and twirled it around his right index finger like a fancy-ass showboat of a gunslinger, and began hosing down the road in front of the station. He performed a no-look holstering of the gas handle back onto the pump behind him while his left hand flicked open a Zippo's lid. The monster truck neared.
"I think the light's about to turn yellow." he remarked, and he sparked the lighter.
The street erupted in flames just feet in front of the biker who began to chuckle. A ridiculously "rough" looking thug (face tattoos, piercings, blue mohawk, a guy trying TOO hard) snarled "Ah SHIT!", jerked the wheel left and stomped the brake pedal with both of his black boots. The unstable machine that is a tiny truck on cartoonishly huge balloon wheels quickly tumbled end over end with its awkward, bouncy momentum. It rolled to a stop rightside up, about ten yards from the wall of flames. The once smooth and shiny chrome body now quite gnarled and dull.
The biker walked slowly toward the vehicle, the driver dangled halfway from the door window over six feet from the ground.
"Fuckin' son of a bitch!" he cursed and spits blood. "Broke some fuckin' ribs, assHOLE!"
The biker continued his approach, his spurs clinking with each step. The bloodied driver hauled himself back in with his right arm. He racked a shotgun inside the truck and started poking the barrel through shattered windshield when his shirt sleeve and part of his bicep tore at the surface. He let go of the shotgun and winced at his flesh wound. A hole near in the seat back smoked lazily.
"I just want you to know I could've put that through your sketch pad of a face there, but then I wouldn't get to beat your supplier's identity outta ya," he explained in a light, cheery tone.
The biker held a big, intimidating, yet incongruent-looking gun. The pistol itself was a polished steel long barrel 40 caliber revolver with an ironwood grip, while the top was outfitted with a massive rifle scope. A high-tech black polymer laser sight was fixed to the bottom of the barrel. The driver's eyes crossed at red dot that had appeared in between them. He sank deeper into the head rest as if by the dot's pressure, and lost hold of his bladder. His eyes looked downward, then guiltily left and right.
"I – I don't know what yer talkin' about!" he managed unconvincingly.
"Then why can I hear you pissin' yourself from here?" the biker replied, laughing. "You see I know uou're transporting a large shipment of methamphetamine." He lowered the gun slowly. "And I'm gonna take it off your hands for ya."
The red dot drifted down the crumpled hood of the truck, past the headlight swinging on its cord, and came to a stop on the giant front left tire. "And I just found it."
The biker's arm jerked with recoil as a hole tore through the tire about four feet from the ground. The gravelly white granules of meth cascaded from the tire like rock salt from a bag, a constant stream gathering in a pile below.
"No man, no!" the driver pleaded.
He fired again into the same tire, this time lower and to the rear. Another gash erupted, spilling the product.
"I'm going to have to charge you with driving over the 'Speed Limit', heh heh," and looked, grinning with satisfaction to his right then left and into a double take. He quickly swings the gun around.
"Freeze, motherfucker!" a pissed-off moustachioed tan man in mirrored aviators and a blue campaign hat shouts.
Two state troopers have the drop on the biker from the side of the gas station. Their guns leveled on the open doors of their cruiser.
"Drop the SWAT safari special and put your hands in the air, shitwad!" the black, slightly older cop with a mustache to match quipped from the other side of the car. "We WILL fire!"
The biker didn't budge. He'd reverted to the cool, silent mystery man he was when he first pulled into the station. All business again. The black cop glanced slowly over at his partner, who was sweating and huffing and puffing. The kid could barely keep from unloading his whole clip on the disrespectful scumbucket who refused to comply. He turned back to his target, steeling himself.
"I will give you until the count of three and then-"
"God dammit Johnson, if you fuck up this bust for me," the biker interjected angrily, "I'll tell your trigger-happy rookie partner here about the tape of you and that Eastern European hooker in the holding cell back at Precinct 9. You know, the one with that ended up having bigger balls than mine."
Johnson lowered his shades and squinted, puzzled. "Wha?"
The biker let loose of the ridiculous gun with his left hand and pulled the beard from his face, and the sunglasses from his eyes. He broke into a grin and held his arms out in a 'can you believe it' gesture.
"I'm undercover, buddy!" he yelled enthusiastically.
"Sheeeeit." Johnson grinned as he lowered his sidearm and looked to his still tense partner.
"You can calm down, Parker. This 'Hell's Angel' here is none other than my old bunkmate back at the Academy. You may have seen him in the papers. This is Gabe Cash."