We flew through an intersection just as another motorcycle cop came peeling into view.
We were now being chased.
This would take some explaining, but that was fine. I’d be happy to explain that I was coming to help my mother, who apparently was being held hostage by a brimming motorcycle gang turf war.
Provided I could get to the house before shots started getting fired.
Fiona answered the phone, said a few words, and then dropped it in my lap. “It’s your brother,” she said.
Sometimes Fiona is difficult just to be difficult. It suits her, but it’s not always an enjoyable aspect of her personality.
“Nate,” I said, just as we passed a Starbucks that used to be a coin-op laundry Nate and I used to steal quarters from (a knife, a paper clip and a can of WD- 40 were all you needed to pry open the coin depository on the old washers). “I can’t really talk. I’m being chased by the police.”
“Yeah,” he said, “I hear a bunch of sirens. That you?”
“I’m about half a mile away,” I said, “coming from the east. That where the sound is coming from?”
“Actually, it’s coming from all over. In stereo, pretty much.”
“Good,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Is there something you wanted to talk about, Nate, or can this wait until after I’m done evading capture?”
“I just wanted to apologize,” he said. “I think these guys found the house because of me.”
“Why is that, Nate?”
I turned left, which was technically away from the house, but I wanted to get a sense of how many police were potentially following me. I knew of two at least, but hadn’t seen any air support.
I used my blinker.
My seat belt was on, and apart from the cache of guns in the car, I was really only guilty of speeding at this point.
And failure to yield.
And some red light problems.
But I was thinking of killing my brother.
“I dropped Zadie off and ran a couple of errands. When I got back she said she had a really nice conversation with a young lady in leather pants about me. Zadie points her out in the parking lot, so I go over and drop a little game on her.”
“Drop a little game on her?”
“I talked her up, told her I was staying out at Mom’s, and, you know, to call me there. Maybe we’d get together and watch religious television together and hand-knit bedspreads. Couple hours later, I realized, you know, maybe that she was a plant.”
“Maybe.”
“And, well, now there’s about fifteen bikers circling the house. I’m really sorry, Michael.”
“How about instead of apologizing, maybe load a couple of guns?”
“Mom is on that,” Nate said. “And Maria is pretty handy around a nine. Zadie’s boiling water in case they break the perimeter. She said that’s how we won World War One.”
I looked into the rearview mirror and saw… nothing. I looked to my right: nothing. I looked to my left: nothing. I looked at Fiona. She’d put away all of her weapons and was now texting with someone.
And I didn’t hear any sirens.
“Nate,” I said, “I’ll be there in two minutes. Don’t let anyone into the house. And if the cops come, stay indoors.”
I pulled over at an intersection only a few blocks from my mother’s.
“What are we doing?” Fi asked.
“Waiting,” I said.
“Is that the best idea?”
“Do you see any police?”
Fiona did the same compass pass I’d just performed. “Where are they?” she asked.
“Listen,” I said.
In the distance I could make out the faint sound of about a hundred sirens humming alongside the growling of motorcycles. There was a good chance the cop following me was called off pursuit for a larger, more dangerous issue-namely, a horde of thugs speeding through residential Miami.
I called Sam.
“ETA?” I said.
“I’ll be there in about five minutes,” he said. “I’ve got a posse on my back that you wouldn’t believe.”
“Any shots fired?”
“Not yet,” Sam said.
“If you pass an open field, bury a bullet.”
“I like that idea,” Sam said.
“Tell me what street you’re on,” I said. He did and then I hung up with him and called 911.
“Yes, thank you, I’d like to report a very serious situation. There are approximately two hundred men on motorcycles chasing a man in a white van down Reston Avenue. One of the motorcycle people just fired a gun. Yes. Very frightening. My name?” I paused for one moment and thought it through. “Clifford Gluck,” I said and then hung up.
“This is exactly how you planned it, right?” Fiona said.
“This is all contingency training, Fi,” I said. “Textbook stuff.”
“Funny,” she said. “Oh, yes, the old pit-two-enemies-together-to-k ill-each-other-off-so-a-third-party-can-prosper textbook. I heard about it on Twitter. The kids love it. Always such a winning plan.”
“Vietnam?” I said.
“Yes, that ended up particularly well.”
“Iraq?”
“Another solid victory for the good guys,” she said.
I kept thinking and watching the intersection, waiting for the inevitable flurry of action. Two or three minutes later, it flashed by: a hunk of white followed by what looked liked a swarm of giant flies. The police were not yet on the scene, but I could already feel the ionic change in the air-a helicopter was nearby, but it was also the release of anxiety and breath and sweat by the people on the street.
When people talk about sensing fear, this is what they mean. When you’re scared, your sweat emits a different smell, a genetic marker that one can pick up on and exploit. The breeze rolls by and things smell and feel different and you start to feel anxious and aware, it’s usually because you’re perceiving someone else’s fear.
“We need to ditch some guns,” I said. If I was going to show up at my mother’s at the same time cops were, it would be wise not to have an arsenal of illegal guns on my person, nor would it be great if Fiona came sliding out of the Charger strapped like Bigfoot was coming after her stamp collection. A pretty face and a cute walk go a long way, but a pretty face and a cute walk and several guns in front of twitchy-fingered beat cops could mean a bullet.
And I really didn’t want Fiona shooting anyone.
“Do you propose I walk into the Chick- fil-A and just hand them what I have?”
She had a point.
I looked around the area. There was indeed a Chickfil-A, but there was also a library, a gas station and three houses. In front of one of the houses was a gutter.
“We’ll dump them in the gutter,” I said.
“I have to tell you that I find this offensive on every level,” she said, but then she gathered up what we had, leaving us each with one gun, and threw the rest into the drain system. She got back into the car silently.
A girl separated from her guns is never a time for joy.
I started the car back up and drove at a natural rate of speed toward my mother’s, though with the windows down so I could hear the sirens and any shots.
The sirens were easy enough to hear-they came in crashing waves.
And then came the gunfire-a wail of shots echoed into the air as I pulled onto the street adjacent to my mother’s. It was mostly small-arms fire from what I could hear, which made sense. The gangs weren’t known to be stocked with a lot of rifles and submachine guns. What was clear, however, was that there was a volley going on-an all-out assault vs. an all-out assault. You could hear the call and response of battle.
This would be good for home values in the neighborhood.
If everything was working as planned-or, at least, as recently devised-the Ghouls and the Banshees were now doing a bit of mutual assured destruction. The police would be arriving soon enough, but one thing police are keen to do is let bad guys kill bad guys. It’s a lot less paperwork in the short and long term. If we got lucky, the Ghouls would be so busy with the Banshees, they’d be forced to forget about Bruce for at least a few minutes, and that meant they’d forget about my mother’s house and all of the people inside.