The Getaway
They started down the stairs once commotion began to gather around Malibu's room. Chatter permeated the walls, giving the apartment a ghastly voice of stirring echoes. Amongst the babbling, the building's phone lines erupted with activity…with every line heading straight to 9-1-1. In a matter of minutes, the police and emergency technicians would arrive.
The Man peered from around a corner with the shotgun firmly held in his arms. The first floor hallway was devoid of people. The emptiness gave the walkway an eerie silence, as dim fluorescent bulbs produced shadowy shapes in the corners. Oblivious to this, the Man appeared in the hallway with Malibu behind him.
"Escobar would send more than just three men…" Malibu said, turning to look behind her. "It's just not him to end it there."
The Man acknowledged what she said, turning his head to check and make sure she hadn't fallen too far back from him.
They continued down the hallway, approaching the brown double-door ahead of them. From behind the translucent glass on the door, the afternoon sun shimmered, lighting the dark corner of the hall. The Man stood near the door and pressed it open, inching it out to form a crack. He squinted and looked outside.
Blue 4x4s scattered the road around Hepburn Heights. Blue 4x4s, meaning…blue Cartel Cruisers. They were approaching the apartment complex, growing larger as they neared. A couple of them stopped just outside of the door. Their doors burst open.
The Man shut the entrance and backed away, urging Malibu to do the same with swaying gestures from his chin. She nodded and stood behind him.
A few seconds later, footsteps shuffled from behind the doorway; shadows appeared over the light beneath it. Deep, accented voices seeped past its wood. The voices grew louder, increasing in volume, until…
The double-doors opened…revealing three armed figures.
The Man pressed the shotgun against the startled face and pulled the trigger. The gunman's head burst open in an ocean of redness. The shotgun roared as it kicked back at the Man, violating his ears like it did before. Pieces of the Colombian's head were swept back in a rushing, midair tide. The bloody mass carrying chunks of tissue slapped against the faces of the men standing behind the gunman, blowing off their hats with blood. The both of them staggered back with their faces laced in red.
Before a word—or a scream—could exit their vocal cords, cracks from Malibu's pistol sent one of them falling back. With each gunshot, a large, darkened hole exploded from his face. With three bullets…the lower section of a jaw shattered, an eye was reduced to red mush, and a nose crumbled to cartilage bits. The faceless corpse slammed against the ground, creating a light squish as the blood-soaked head contacted with the concrete. The air was beginning to reek of blood.
The Man drove his fist through the last gunman's face, causing him to groan as he fell back. He landed with a thud on the floor. While he helplessly laid flat on his back, the Colombian gasped as the Man cocked the shotgun and aimed down at his crotch.
Give Escobar his regards…in Hell, the Man thought.
The shotgun mutilated his groin. Nothing…except for the splotches of blood on tattered clothes remained in between his legs. They left him alone screaming as he curled and wriggled with his hands cupping his groin.
From the distance, a pack of Escobar's men charged after them. Submachine gun fire whizzed past their ears; they left wispy trails in the air and produced stingy twangs as they ricocheted from building walls. The both of them rushed in the direction of the parked Mafia Sentinel, ducking their heads low like a couple running for cover from a rainstorm.
The blackness of the Mafia Sentinel shook in the Man's eyes as it neared them. Gunshots echoed behind them; the sound dissipated under the urban ambience. Bullets struck the car and littered the aluminum surface with silver-rimmed holes. Sparks flashed from its doors. The Man grabbed and yanked the driver side door open, wrapping his arm around Malibu's waist. He flung her inside.
"Tough Yankee boy!" faint voices called from behind him. "Run…or die!"
He ducked into the car and slammed the door. As he ignited the engine, spider webs appeared over the window as bullets struck the glass. He rolled down his window.
"What are you doing!" Malibu cried, lowering her head. "They'll hit us!"
The Man tossed his shotgun in the back and grabbed his Uzi. He racked the slide and stuck it out of the window, pointing it sideways in the direction of the Colombians. He kept his eyes forward as he did this, paying no attention to aim the weapon. At that same moment, he put the car in reverse and stomped on the gas pedal.
The car screeched, darting back. The Man squeezed the trigger and sputtered a 9mm fury at their assailants. One of them shook as parts of his body burst open in bright sprays of red; he fell to his knees, spewing blood from his mouth. As the car rolled back, the Man swept the rapid fire across the row of Colombians, creating a mini-massacre. One by one, each of them fell to the drive-by…with blood trickling from their dead bodies. The Man then shifted the transmission and gunned the engine.
Opera music wailed from the Mafia Sentinel, blending the violence with the bittersweet melody…like a demonic acid trip. White smoke curled from the spinning tires; it whirled out and thinned in the air while the black rubber spun out. Seizing hold of the concrete, the black sports sedan took off, gaining speed in the direction of several parked Cruisers. Its engine rumbled from under the black hood, giving the car its needed torque. As it blurred past the parked Cartel Cruisers, the blue 4x4s began to move, dashing to tail the black sedan with relenting malice. The pursuit was on.
Who was this guy.
That was the dominant thought flashing through Malibu's head as she stepped in (or…was thrown in!) her stranger's car. The guy was loaded with weapons (mostly illegal) in the backseat. She counted stuff which looked like a stolen police shotgun, a MAC-11 submachine gun, an AK-47 assault rifle, bottles of molotov cocktails, hand grenades, Colt .45s, as well as a bloody, wooden bat. And she thought she had heard enough of this guy to know him. He owned enough weapons to level a city block! The car had definitely changed since last night; most of these weapons had to have been in the trunk while she was running her gig with him.
As their car swerved onto the road, she could see Escobar's Cartel Cruisers growing in size from the rear-view mirror. The chase didn't seem to bother her driver—in fact, in addition to making him drive better, it brought out some homicidal tendencies. They plowed through numerous pedestrians in the street…tossing up screams in the air followed by bloody squishes under the car. An old woman rolled off of the hood and bounced from the roof. Malibu could hardly keep her eyes open from watching her driver run over these innocent people as if he were playing some violent video game. I mean, this wasn't some goddamn Pogo the Monkey computer game for crying out loud—this was real life! And in real life, peoples' lives really mattered!
From the corner of her eyes, his hand dove for the handbrake.
The car jolted, swaying her body against the passenger door. He was taking a turn—a tight, 90-degree turn. She gasped as her body thumped against the car's interior. Car chase or not, this guy drove like a maniac! Skidding tires screamed in her ears, mixing with the roar of the engine. Buildings around them spun in a blurring rotation. As they swerved inches away from cars on the opposite lane, honking horns blared at them from all directions. A cab driver threw his fist out of the window, yipping at them
"Hey moron! You call that driving!"
They were now near the closed subway station surrounding Saint Mark's and the Red Light District. He had swerved onto another road—into the direction of oncoming traffic. Bobcat pickups and Kuruma sedans honked and swerved out of their way, spinning out and smashing into other cars. Their pursuing Cartel Cruisers shifted from right to left, narrowly avoiding the fishtailing vehicles. The four blue cars continued to race after them unscathed. They closed in.
Malibu grit her teeth as she watched the 4x4s narrow their distance. Menacingly large grills hovered around the back bumper of their car. They threatened to ram it and send them twirling out of control. And when that happened, all she thought of was Escobar's ugly face thrown back, laughing at the acknowledgement of her death. She had to do something.
She thumbed the magazine catch on her handgun and released the clip, replacing it with the fresh one in her jacket pocket. She slapped the clip up the butt of her Heckler and Koch USP. If .45 caliber bullets were what they wanted, so be it.
The man glanced at her while she rolled down her window. A perplexed expression appeared over his face. It lingered in curiosity…before melting to a malevolent grin.
He slammed the brakes.
The Mafia Sentinel squealed as the entire world shifted forward. Their pursuing Cartel Cruisers went from merely gaining on them to zooming into them. Malibu's head was slung forward as the car braked—her forehead dove down and nearly struck her knees.
From behind them, a steel grill expanded in the window, growing in size before jolting the car in a violent shudder. The sound of slamming metal followed, cracking the back window as rear portions of the Mafia Sentinel crumbled like aluminum foil. The car's trunk dented inward while the taillights shattered. Malibu's head was slung once again—this time, she swung back and slammed against her seat. The collision didn't seem to bother her driver. Following the impact, the large grill behind them backed off and swerved away.
Two of the four cars passed them by. A pair of Cartel Cruisers rushed passed them on each side while the other two remained in pursuit. The man put his foot on the gas pedal and sped up to the cars ahead of them. He caught up to the blue truck, pulling up adjacent on its left side. Malibu's opened window now faced the 4x4's unsteady driver.
She brought her pistol up with both hands, aiming while the car loomed by. She lined her sights over the Colombian driver's head.
She pulled the trigger. A frosty-rimmed hole burst from the 4x4's window. The driver shifted his head away from the missed shot. She traced his movements, keeping her sights over the figure behind the window…and let off three consecutive shots. Additional holes surrounded the first one, splashing blood against the window from inside the car. The driver's head grew limp and disappeared within the 4x4's interior. From behind the dead driver, a shadow raised an Uzi at her. The Cartel Cruiser's windows shattered.
A flurry of bullets punctured the Sentinel, throwing sparks from the side. She ducked her head and stuck her gun out the window, rapidly pulling the trigger at the adjacent car. The continuous roar of her handgun mixed with the sputtering gunfire of the Uzi. "Son of a bitch!" she screamed, squeezing off additional rounds. "There's one more left in that car!"
From beside her, the man didn't even flinch from the missing the bullets. He simply raised his Uzi and fired.
She yanked her arm back into the car and clamped her hands to her ears, shutting her eyes. His submachine gun was inches away from her face!
A continuous, ear-splitting string of thuds rang in her ears. Even with her hands over her ears, the muffled gunfire was deafening. Her enclosed eyelids throbbed. She felt the hot casings hit her face as they cascaded from the top of the Uzi like a fountain. They scalded her face wherever they touched, landing over her lap to produce a messy pile.
With her hands still on her ears, she heard a muffled groan echo from the distance, and she played the image in her mind. Her man was squeezing the trigger, encircling the Cartel Cruiser's surface with holes before tearing up the frantic gunman inside. The bullets pierced the Colombian's chest, exiting from out of his back with mini explosions goring up the window behind him. At least that's how she imagined it.
Skidding tires screeched in her ears. She rose her head up to look.
The Cartel Cruiser swerved and struck an oncoming Perennial station wagon. It tipped over…wobbling on two of its left-side wheels for a moment before tossing itself to tumble into the street. It rolled across the asphalt, bouncing like a tumbleweed while spewing glass bits; the jostling impact shoved open its doors and ripped them apart in sheets of twisted metal. Flames ignited from its engine.
One of their pursuing Cartel Cruisers rammed into it. The battered car detonated. The red-orange burst blew the other car away, veering it off the road with flames wallowing from its hood. The flaming car plowed past lampposts and fire hydrants, ripping them from the sidewalk. While water sloshed into the air, yelping pedestrians flew from the Cartel Cruiser's hood. The barbecuing car then smashed head-on through a liquor store and exploded, taking out the rest of the building with a mushrooming mass of searing heat.
The pursuing car behind them swerved from the fiery explosion, screeching past honking cars driven by scolding drivers.
"My husband will KILL you!" a weary voice cried from a lowly Perennial.
Malibu spun her head around, biting her lip. "Now that's prohibition for you."
The man grabbed her hand and propped it over the wheel while staring down at her with eyes which seemed to say: "Drive."
She nodded and switched places with him, wrapping her fingers over the wheel as she crashed down on the driver's seat. There were two Cartel Cruisers now—one in front and one behind. She was wondering what the guy was doing until she noticed him rummaging through his stash of weapons in the back. He pulled out an AK-47.
The Man loaded the assault rifle, making sure his clip was full, and stuck himself out of the window, facing the rear. Rushing air blew at the back of his head, ruffling his black leather jacket to give it some animation. He spotted the Cartel Cruiser behind them; the blue car continued to weave past traffic in hopes of reaching them. The AK-47 felt thick and heavy in his arms; it was like cradling a soggy log from the sawmill, but the power nearly made up for most of its inconvenience.
