A Long Ride Page 14

  “I'm not calling anybody – you're not going to take it!” He walked quicker, scowling. He pointed at Blondie. “Get that bitch of my bike!”

  My eyes locked onto his, deep, rumbling growl issuing from my chest. It was a bad choice of words, for many reasons. First of all, I'm the only one that gets to call her that, and only in an endearing manner. And furthermore, well, he should be able to see she's hurt and needs help and therefore shouldn't be such a dick smoker about me stealing his Spyder.

  Lame rationalization, I know. Fuck you for noticing. He probably thinks she's drunk or drugged and I'm just a thief. But the take home message for this guy is this: a desperate man is a very dangerous man. That's something he'll ponder later, after contemplating how a much smaller guy could knock him out.

  I narrowed my eyes, seeing geometric lines trace out from me to him to the ground. The physics of punching is fairly straight forward. Coil to strike, and you have potential energy. Throw it and the punch becomes kinetic energy. Velocity equals distance over time. The longer the limb, the faster a punch can potentially move; more time to increase velocity. The faster a fist moves, the greater its momentum and the bigger the exchange of energy when it hits something.

  Out of curiosity, Blondie and I once used a 70 lb. bag outfitted with sensors to test our power and speed against other boxers and non-boxers. The average person with no training can generate about 100 psi of punching force, with a fist speed of 15 mph. Elite fighters averaged 776 psi and 23 mph - deadly knockout power. Blondie can throw an overhand-right with 350 psi of force, her little fist traveling 20 mph. Extremely impressive for a chick.

  And my very best punch you ask?

  800 psi at 32 mph. That's enough force to accelerate someone's head over 40 g - forty times the force of gravity. Most car accidents, lethal ones, involve smashing forces of 30 g to 60 g.

  Old coaches used to describe my punches as “murderous”. A lovely word to sum up skill developed from many years training as a boxer with an engineer's education.

  A fist in motion carries momentum, resisting change until it collides with, say, someone's face. At that point “impulse” applies – a change in momentum. Kinetic energy is transferred from the moving fist to the receiving jaw. Fist slows down while the jaw – and rest of head – accelerates, absorbing momentum to move in the same direction as the fist.

  I felt this guy wouldn't appreciate the physics lesson so I kept it to myself. As soon as he stepped in my face I shifted weight onto my right leg, stepping back slightly with knee bent, left shoulder pointed at him, which will give my right fist more time to build up speed. He opened his mouth to further curse me and I unleashed the coiled, potential energy, twitching fast off my back foot, leg straightening to throw my entire weight in his direction, shoulders twisting simultaneously, arm extending, fist speed increasing, faster, faster, his face right at the end of my range where my punch would reach full velocity…

  BWAP!

  The kinetic exchange was bolstered by my tightened fist, punch hitting his chin with enough force to put him in a neck brace for a month. His head whipped straight back as if made from foam, eyes squinting shut, flapping open, rolling white. He stumbled backwards on legs that didn't know his brain was temporarily out of order. Fell on his side in a cartoonish posture, puffing like he had sleep apnea. I skipped over and felt his pockets, dug in the one with keys. Grabbed them and lunged back to the Spyder. “Call my girl a bitch…”

  Two, three patrol cars raced down the road and passed the stereo shop right as I drove around the side, Blondie in front of me, leaning over her, holding her between my arms. Shifting, turning onto an unknown road, I twisted the throttle and thought, They didn't see us. Don't know we have a ride yet… Still though, we'll be lucky to get away.

  I found several side streets, then a neighborhood, just trying to put some distance between us and the police cordon.

  I have to get Blondie help. Perry will know a doctor. Then, Shit. I hope Shocker made it…

  Normally, having my girl's body pressed up against mine while I drove a performance machine would give me a grin and a protrusion. I felt no pleasure this time, though. Finding a long road with no traffic, I opened up the Spyder and raced toward Ocean Springs, mind and body beyond exhausted from such a long ride, knowing it was far from over.

  X. We're Coming For You

  The key to a satisfying life is to do things full of risk. Things the opposite of comfortable. Things just flat out bad.

  Of course, there are plenty of instances in life where it's easiest to increase your happiness by simply listening to a favorite song or having a one night stand with a stranger. But on occasion, it's worth seeking out an experience that is new, very hard, unpredictable, or even upsetting – which could mean anything from finally discovering the courage to go sky diving to allowing sex toys into play. The happiest people seek both easy joy and spine-twisting challenges, benefiting from the contrast; without pain, there can be no pleasure.

  Pain… So many benefits come from it.

  If your work – whatever physical or mental activity that may be- doesn't push you to your limits, every day, then you're just another lame mutt prancing along after the big dogs. People who condition themselves to endure physical or mental pain, constantly, grow from the hardship. They learn about themselves. They discover limitations, and how to extend them. And perhaps most importantly, they learn how to motivate themselves.

  What I've learned recently is people who endure pain as a team develop a new sense of fortitude in themselves, and in the other members. Self-respect and respect for my crew has increased, and the overall esprit de corps has strengthened significantly. Our work isn't the work of losers – soft, lazy, path-of-least-resistance crap. It's hard. It hurts. Our reach exceeds our grasp, and we see difficulties as challenges rather than threats.

  I've learned that when one team member sees another in trouble, they do whatever it takes to help. They understand that doing so will cause them pain, but that it is good for them. Fighters recognize pain as just another communication signal, telling them they've reached their limit – right where they're supposed to be. If you're operating at the peak of your limits you're doing everything you can to fulfill the #1 Rule of Being a Bad Motherfucker: overcome all obstacles, whoever or whatever they may be. Our crew was hurt, our allies hurt badly, but that just means we should appreciate our accomplishments even more. We have grown. We have learned.

  After our ordeal lesser people would have sought a shoulder to cry their drama on, whining about risking their lives, too much too lose, bluh, bluh. Lame Me would have told Blondie, “I'm sorry I treated life as a game. No more! I love you…” Lame Shocker would have quit, citing her kids or emotional stress as the reason. The same thing for Lame Bobby and Lame Ace. But quitting never entered our minds. In fact, yesterday's incident and loss only strengthened our resolve to see this thing through. We couldn't stop now.

  No way.

  “It's a good thing we're not lame,” I told them, the new brand of pride pushing my chest out.

  “Speak for yourself,” Perry said, under bite sticking out gregariously. He put a hand on his lower back. “With this slipped disc I've been lame for years.”

  We laughed, standing around Blondie's bed in a small room that smelled of antiseptic. The injured golden goddess was in a white silk gown, long hair flowing over her shoulders in shiny waves, the result of a bath a nurse and I had given her. Head and back elevated on the bed, she had a good view of her ruined right leg in its bright green cast, eyes barely open, dull with the trauma she suffered.

  The clinic was one of many in the medical plazas that populated Washington Avenue. It was an orthopedic facility, a new, high-tech joint run by an intelligent man named Dr. Gorman. Perry's friend. He grudgingly helped us, after we promised a significant donation to his charity, allowing Perry to handle the paperwork. He fixed up Blondie's leg, then saw to Shocker's face and my various wounds. Dr. Gorman could be a brusque as
shole. I really liked him. Of course, the handful of Vicodin's he gave me possibly influenced my feelings, as I seemed to be just floating around liking everything right then.

  “Young lady,” Dr. Gorman said with impatience, walking into the room with a clipboard, long white coat stuffed with stethoscope and pens, perfectly combed hair graying over expensive eyeglasses. He stopped at the foot of the bed, glared around at us. Looked at his patient. “You're lucky. Only minor contusions on the brain and lungs. The CT scan showed a clean bill of health, otherwise. You need rest.” Blondie closed her eyes. He turned his reproving gaze on me. “Normally I don't allow patients to stay overnight. She needs to be in a hospital, for Christ's sake. So if she's going to stay here it's to rest. Understand?”

  I held my hands up. “Rest, alright Doc, she'll get it.”

  “Your CT scan showed contusions from head to toe,” he accused me. “Frankly, I don't see how you are even standing.”

  “I'm a little stiff,” I said.

  He held up the clipboard like a shield and closed his eyes. “I don't want to know how you sustained such injuries. I just want you to get some rest, and real soon. The drugs won't keep you going forever.” He opened his eyes, pointed the clipboard at me.

  I kept my opinion to myself. He nodded sharply, lips firmly pressed together. Whirled around, long coat flapping up to show dress pants and conservative wing tips, walked away quickly. A moment later we heard his insistent voice harassing the patient in the next room.

  Shocker shook with quiet laughter. Her face was covered with gauze and tape, the result of glass-removing surgery that required sixty-eight (!) stitches. Last night during the operation, face numb and voice slurred, she had joked, “Good thing I already have a man. I look like the Bride of Chucky.”

  “Again”, Ace had responded blandly, more than a touch of horror in his eyes as he stared at his wife.

  Shocker gave a drugged giggle at his expression. “Don't you worry, love. We've been here before. You thought my red alien face was cute last time.”

  “I was just saying that. The laser treatments lasted a year,” Ace said with sorrow. “Your face was red for a whole year.”

  She giggled loudly until Dr. Gorman shushed her.

  The girl-beast brought me out of my reverie, telling Perry, “Charming friend you have.”

  “He is, huh?” Perry's tone was sonorous, amused. “He means well. That's all you can ask.”

  Perry looked around at us with concern. We had slept at the clinic, and looked like it. Fortunately I was able to wash my jeans, shirt and drawers here, and Shocker brought a few gowns for Blondie. Ace managed to track down his wife before the cops did, and they went to the garage to retrieve camera footage and get a few items in case the joint was raided. They found Big Guns already there, with trusted members of the Royal Family, carrying bodies. Cong and Tuan were dead, torsos riddled with bullet wounds, and there was no sign of the kids. I assumed Diep's crew had waited until we left the security of the garage before hitting us. The kidnapping of Carl and Tho was evidently an afterthought.

  I hate to think what those boys are going through, I gritted my teeth in thought.

  Ace looked at me from his place in a corner chair, blue camo pants and black long sleeve shirt a match to his wife's, Galaxy Note glowing softly on his lap. He said, “I downloaded the video files from your garage. Uh.” He scratched his chin. “The cameras caught everything.”

  Shocker looked sick. “I don't want to see it.”

  I glanced at her, waved at him, Give it here. I took the tablet and scrolled through the video files, playing each one. Tho and Carl had been sweeping the first level, Cong and Tuan standing guard by the street entrance, when five Vietnamese mercenaries in combat black ran into view, having come through a fire exit, and sprayed Cong and Tuan from behind with full-auto machine pistols. The Royal Family members danced spasmodically as their bodies filled with bullets in three seconds, then collapsed without getting off a shot.

  The video had no sound, but I could still hear the boys' screams as they witnessed the murders. They still held their brooms, swinging them wildly, crying hysterically as they were grabbed and savagely struck by three of the men, Cong's and Tuan's bodies dragged behind cars by the other killers. I became aware of the tablet shaking as an SUV pulled into view and picked up the five mercs and two boys, hands clutching the plastic casing hard enough to make it creak as they sped away.

  They came to my place and…

  I knew what must have happened. But actually seeing it brought it home.

  “Let me take that,” Ace said, gently prying his device loose from my claws.

  I let go, let out a held-in breath, and tightened my fists, vibrating with malice. I looked at Shocker and said with quiet intensity, “I see why you didn't want to see it.”

  She looked at her lap, head shaking slowly. She sniffled. “Another kidnapping,” she whispered sadly. “Another one.”

  “Uh,” Ace said. “I found a clear shot of the license plate. I can probably track this car by traffic cameras and satellite, see where they went.”

  “Do it. We'll be leaving for N.O. as soon as it's dark,” I said. I cleared my mind, taking a moment to methodically purge my body of the harsh feelings.

  They'll come in handy later, but not here.

  I turned my attention to Blondie. I stood at the bed rail with her hand between mine. “Babe.” Her eyes opened slowly. Bruises marked her forehead and cheek, dark splotches on skin scabbed from glass cuts, bottom lip swollen and glossy with ointment. She was heavily drugged, with a concussion and broken femur and tibia, clean breaks that will heal 100% according to Dr. Gorman. Her bloodshot eyes struggled to focus on me. I told her, “You wanted to see Anh Long. He'll be here soon. He's bringing Loc.”

  “Big Guns?” she whispered.

  I shook my head. “He's busy with the Royal Family. He has to make arrangements for Cong and Tuan. They had wives and kids. And he's trying to figure out what happened to the rest of the security team that was supposed to be guarding the Elder Dragon. They vanished.”

  “Paid off, you think?” Shocker ventured, saying what we all suspected.

  “Sure seems like it,” Bobby said ominously. The ebony giant stared ahead with hard eyes, sitting on a stool next to Blondie's other bed rail. He frowned at her IV drip and heart monitor.

  Blondie croaked with effort, “Diep probably offered them fuckers a better deal. They didn't have roots here like Cong and Tuan. Diep knew who would flip and who wouldn't.”

  “The offer of money over death can be appealing,” Perry said.

  I sighed disappointment. “True. But I never thought Gat would flip like that.”

  “There's no honor anymore. No telling how long that punk was playing us,” Bobby said with a menace that filled the room. “Phong and his boys knew just where to hit us.” He indicated Blondie. “Even we survivors lost a lot. She'll never be able to go to the boutique again. Her businesses are forfeit. And we may have left the scene in helmets, but there's a good chance some ambitious detective or fed will find a video of us walking into the boutique.”

  I said, “The boutiques weren't in her name. Investigators may find our faces but they don't know who we are.” Shocker cleared her throat. I looked at her and grinned. “Well, they'll know who you are. But it's not like you're listed.” I gripped Blondie's hand and told my crew, “We have money. We can start over. Tho and Carl can't. We have to get them back.”

  “Damn right,” Bobby said.

  Blondie looked at him gratefully. Her eyes turned back to me. She squeezed my fingers in a weak grip. The absence of strength infuriated me. Look what happened to my woman! Those MFers will PAY…

  She whispered, “I was going to bring them ice cream…” Instead of tears, her face scrunched with anger.

  “Why don't we put this conversation on hold until Anh Long gets here,” Shocker suggested. “He'll know more, and we can plan without speculation.”

  “While
we're waiting for the head honcho and his weird son, I'll tell you a story,” Perry said with infectious cheer. We couldn't help but smile at him. He grinned at his mood-enhancing talent and launched into one of his many humorous nursing tales. “I used to work with an R.N. named Troie. She was about ten years younger than me, but was sharper than guys with twice my experience. She was a supervisor on the second floor,” he said, referring to the Ocean Springs Hospital. “We went to lunch together sometimes. Troie was a riot, always able to make light of bad situations. You pretty much had to, working around disease and death all the time, or it would get to you.” His eyes twinkled. “We took pills for that, too.”

  “What kind?” I queried, suddenly wanting more.

  He smirked at me. “The kind that get you high. Those kind.” He boomed a laugh at my What The Hell Dude? expression. “Troie could take any kind of drug and still function at a high level. I couldn't. Where she would become a witty ball of energy, I became a witless pile of sand.” He folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “One morning we went to the bank together. We had just worked a double shift and were stoned on Percocet.” He closed his eyes, shaking his head and smiling at the memory. “We were in line with several people, and the other tellers had long lines, too. People everywhere. I was behind Troie. She got to the counter, saw the courtesy pen was missing from its chain, and dug in her scrubs pocket for one – we always carried pens. She fished one out, eyes a little glazed behind her glasses, and tried to write with it. It wouldn't work. She shook it out and tried again. The bank teller was apologizing for the missing pen. Troie said, 'I have one' and tried the pen again. In her haste she hadn't looked at the pen closely. She pulled her glasses down and squinted at it, and we all saw it was a rectal thermometer!” Another booming laugh. “Troie didn't miss a beat. She said, 'Damn. Some asshole has my pen'.”

  We cracked up, small room amplifying our laughter out into the clinic's hall and lobby. We needed a laugh, so this one carried on longer than it should have. Still chuckling, Perry caught his breath and said, “Half the bank was laughing. The tellers were laughing. Troie just gave a wicked smile and told me, “'I'll keep them going, you grab the cash out of the drawers.'” He wheezed into silence, wide shoulders and big belly shaking with mirth.