Chapter 4
Bob had a lot to think about during his hospital days. Although assured that nobody would sneak in to murder him, he couldn't weed out the paranoia and fear. What if the hitmen discovered he had survived? They would certainly wish to tie loose ends up. Or not? What exactly could he snitch on them? Nothing. If Bob wanted to get back at those guys, he wouldn't do much damage with his testimony.
Still, he believed he was in terrible danger.
Once they released him and he arrived home, another surprise awaited him. His house had been tidied up. His phone was on the table although he had possessed it during the car chase. The ordinary individual he had met suddenly seemed creepy to him.
His life had changed. Again. From a happy ice cream vendor through a wrecked alcoholic to a man who desperately craved answers.
Alas, the most solid and least dangerous lead he had was the vigilante. He had to get in touch with him.
Then there were Brandon Docks. Bob grabbed the phone. Why had the mysterious caller spat out that address? As he pondered it, he concluded it had been a ruse. They had lured him out. They had had to ensure their people wouldn't have ducked too long out there.
Or not? He had exited early. If he had been in the shoes of the caller, would he have said the same time? Or did they know him? In this digital age, it was so easy to dig info on others. Perhaps they had pieced together his psychological profile. Perhaps they had figured out he'd walk out immediately.
Cold chill rose up his spine. Not because of this reasoning, but the factor of surveillance. He flinched away from the phone. Two weeks ago, he had been a nobody. How come these folks had tracked him? And how come some unknown friend of a friend had saved him in exchange for allegiance?
He shivered whenever he thought about it. Although the days now were mostly peaceful and no-one contacted him, the shock he had experienced had him constantly replaying it in his head.
He had to find Aiden Pearce. He had to reclaim his life. However, there was also the undertow. Flee from Chicago. Start anew far away from this terrible mess before it consumed him.
Eventually, this notion won. His random roams around the city didn't yield fruit. His paranoia mounted in the meantime. He saw an enemy in every face. Furtive gangsters clutching handguns in their pockets. Mobsters with phones sending messages to others, updating them with his position. And the police. They were in on this too. They had done nothing about retrieving his van. They had done nothing about the attempt on his life. The news remained silent as well.
The whole damned town was in on it.
He needed to escape.
Hailing a cab was out of the question. He borrowed a car, intending to ditch it later on and change his identity. However, his plan folded even before he got out.
He sighted the vigilante.
Right in Parker Square, heading to Owl Motel. A cheap yet fancy U-shaped two-storey place enveloping a parking lot.
Normally, he'd consider direct approach, but the recent events had redefined him. He didn't wish more trouble. He wanted to make sure. So he pulled up by the sidewalk, out of the man's view. Then he paced to the parking lot. He was sweating. Where did Pearce go? Did those seconds cost him his chance?
He couldn't find him. No matter where he glanced, there was no Aiden Pearce. Not in any vehicle, not stepping on the stairs leading to the upper floor, not standing in any entrance to an apartment.
Bob cursed, but he didn't give up. He must have been around.
Luck shined on him. He beheld a strange girl. Piercings, tattoos, cold gaze on her face. He pegged her as the rebellious kind. A fitting acquaintance for the vigilante. She had arrived to meet him without doubt. The way she strode, the way she looked. It told of suspense and anxiety.
She walked through a door without knocking. That must have been it, he believed.
He rushed to the closest flight of stairs, making it to the upper level, which was practically a giant balcony. There, he planted his ears at the keyhole.
Silence. Nothing.
He had a bad feeling about it. So he paced around, searching for a clue, an escape route, an alternate entry, anything.
No. This was pointless. Why playing cat and mouse with somebody who fought crime in the city, albeit in a twisted fashion? This needed a direct confrontation. He was about to return to the door, so focused on Pearce that he had completely ignored the encroaching steps.
Then it all went wrong. There was a deafening explosion. Fiery inferno swelled sideways, consuming a nearby wall. He sensed the heat. The shockwave almost toppled him. Cars were pulling over at the lot. Armed men were swarming the area.
Bob's brain sent a signal to run for his life. Yet before the legs processed it, the door was kicked open. He stood a yard away.
Pearce darted out. Plunged right, aiming for the stairs instinctively. He crashed into Bob. But the ice cream vendor wasn't a lightweight. He was a mass of flesh and fat, effortlessly absorbing the momentum. In the ensuing mess, they fumbled hastily, scarcely wrestling to get out of each other's way. Bob just deflected pushes, trying to regain balance. They somehow turned in a half-circle. Bob was staring out of the balconies, Pearce was staring at his apartment.
The fatal bullet followed. The man in his embrace stopped struggling and folded like a house of cards. Only now did Bob realize Pearce held a phone in one hand. In the chaos of the situation, Bob grabbed it and fled. The woman emerged from the building afterwards, catching sight of him.
Bob reached the stairs. He sprinted down as fast as he could, yet he tripped and tumbled. His bulky figure cushioned him, so he recovered easily. But the place was flooded with murderous individuals. Once they saw him, they opened fire like mad.
He took cover by a large flower planter, recollecting. Behind him was a short underpass along with the stairs, leading out to the streets. It was his best chance.
These guys were frenzied, emptying their magazines in a flash. That was Bob's moment. He dashed through the underpass, hurtling left. He wasn't built to last, yet he ignored his failing stamina and rushed towards where his car waited. He was wheezing, his legs were aching, but he persevered.
He was yards away from his target. Merely to cross the road. It was paralyzed by the skirmish. Civilians had escaped, drivers had sped away or abandoned their vehicles. Once he got to the road, he'd be exposed.
He left the pavement. The motel parking lot became visible from his point. Which meant he became visible to whoever was there.
The mobsters who sighted him opened fire. Bullets danced around him as the guns barked. But he made it to his borrowed sedan. He leapt in and frantically started the engine and floored the gas pedal.
The fixers stopped their shooting spree and darted for their vehicles. Yet this time, Bob had the advantage and experience. He raced out of the neighbourhood and vanished in a seamy alleyway, hiding the sedan between trash, cardboard boxes and containers. He killed the engine, lowered his side window by a notch and sank down just enough so he could monitor the area.
Numerous cars swished past the backstreet and he listened to their roars. Were they the gangsters? Or regular traffic? He couldn't tell.
He heard somebody pulling over. Then there were footsteps. Slow and calm. He held his breath.
Someone was approaching. He prayed they'd turn away.
They didn't.
Thanks to the weak lights in the street, the advancing individual was casting a sinister shadow on the graffiti-adorned walls of the houses delimiting the alleyway. Like a tall giant, the threat drew nearer.
Bob's heart shrank to a pebble.
The unknown person stepped into view. It was a man. Unarmed. A simple pedestrian. Bob sighed in relief.