Page 4 of Puck
You would’ve thought I’d be more afraid, but I was in survival mode, which meant whatever fear I might have felt was pushed deep down. I’d have a nice little girly fit later, when I was safe and alone, but for now, I knew I had to keep it together. It was a false calm, but better than hysterics. I’d seen some of the other girls break down and indulge in bouts of tears, dissolving into sobbing puddles of fear and exhaustion, which only served to piss off the gangsters.
Speaking of which, there had been a lot of guards on that plane, at least twenty that I’d counted; yet there were only the two on this bus—the driver and Beardy. Where were the rest? Why send so many of them only to leave us guarded by a single pair?
The bus pulled up to a stoplight, and that was when I got at least one answer to my questions. I heard a crackle of static from a walkie-talkie, and a male voice said, in Russian, “Chekov, are you there?”
Ah, that explained it: the rest of the guards were in other vehicles ahead and/or behind this one.
The driver pulled a handset from the pocket of his tracksuit and answered in Russian. “Yes, what is it?”
“Anton is missing.Have you seen him? Is he with you?”
“No,he’s not,” the driver, Chekov, answered. “He’s not with you?”
“No. He was supposed to unload the bags.”
“Someone else unloaded the bags,” the driver said.“A new guy.”
“A new guy? There is no one new.”
The driver twisted in his seat and shot an odd look at Beardy, then returned to face forward as the light turned.
I watched Beardy during this exchange, and he gave no impression of understanding what was being said; he scratched his nose with an index finger and then wiggled the stump of his missing middle finger, as if testing the pain level.
“If there is no one new, and Anton is missing, then who is this guy on the bus with me?” the driver asked.
“Good question. Find out.”
The driver slid the walkie-talkie back into his tracksuit jacket pocket and then reached into the other pocket and withdrew a huge silver handgun. He checked the mirrors and pulled off the road into a mostly empty parking lot outside a partially demolished building, shoving the shifter into Park.
Beardy finally seemed to realize something was up, glancing out the window as if curious as to why we’d stopped. He eyed the driver, who tried to surreptitiously pull back the slide of his handgun, but the noise as the slide clicked back into place was distinctive and unmistakable. Beardy glanced at me as he pulled a small black handgun from his waistband then cut a glance at the driver and back to me, wiggling the gun; it was a question—does he have a gun out? I nodded, a tiny movement of my head.
The driver twisted in his seat to look at Beardy. “What did you say your name was?” he asked, in heavily accented English.
“Puck,” Beardy said, and then instantly realized what had just happened. “Shit.”
The following few seconds were a blur of noise and movement taking place too fast for me to track. As soon as the word “shit” left Puck’s mouth, he lifted his gun and shot the driver, a single deafening concussiveBANG! Red spattered against the windshield, a hole appearing in the glass, spiderwebs spreading. Screams filled the bus. Puck was out of his seat the moment his gun went off, yanked the handle that opened the driver’s door, snatched up the shiny silver pistol, patted the driver’s pockets, and tugged out two magazines. Puck then grabbed the body by the shoulders and, with a grunt of effort, heaved the corpse out the door. The dead driver flopped to the ground, his head crunching wetly on the pavement, his feet still inside the bus. Puck leapt into the driver’s seat, jerked the shifter into drive, and floored the gas pedal. The bus growled, and we were all thrown back in our seats as the vehicle accelerated, and I heard a nasty thump as the wheels rolled over the body.
The road we were on was mostly abandoned; a single sedan passed us, and upon seeing the body flop out of the van, their tires squealed, and they peeled away. I got the impression that this might not have been an uncommon occurrence in this area.
So now we were moving. The only problem? Blood coated the inside of the windshield, making it impossible for him to see.
“Well that was dumb,” Puck said, sounding irritated. “This is not going as I’d hoped.”
“What the fuck are you doing here, Puck?” one of the women asked; she was medium height with dark skin and a springy mass of curly black hair, and she was so curvy she made me stare, and I’m as straight as they come. I’m . . . svelte, let’s call it. Not stick-thin, and I’ve got a decent rack and nice tight ass, but nothing like that woman had.
“Getting you out of here.” He wiped at the windshield with his hand, but only smeared it and made the visibility worse.
“Well you’re sucking at it so far,” the woman said. “I’m gonna give you a C on this rescue attempt, so far.”
“I’d rather you give me those double Ds,” Puck said, shooting her a grin.
She smacked his shoulder hard. “You’re a pig.” She whipped off her T-shirt to reveal a pink tank top with purple bra straps peeking out from underneath. “Here, asshole,” she said, handing him her shirt.
Puck took the shirt and wiped at the blood, folded it and wiped again, and finally made a little progress, clearing a patch through which he could see. “Thanks, Layla.”
I could see the driver’s side mirror, and the reflection of a big black SUV in it. As I watched, a passenger window lowered and a figure leaned out, a machine gun in his hands.
“Umm.” I raised my hand. “Puck, I’d check your mirrors.”