Fiction
Return To Shandy Bay Part 8
A Sunny Alexander-Johnson and Henry James Series By P.G. & Sharon Barnett
My name is Sunny Alexander-Johnson, and I’m Henry James, and we’re writers for Dark Sides of the Truth magazine.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7
Wherever this voiceless ruffian was taking us, it seemed we were being transported to somewhere far from the motel. A place where he could do what he needed to do, and no one would see us or hear the gunshots when he killed us.
Although we were in severely cramped quarters, locked in the trunk of the man’s vehicle, it was a safe bet we were all thinking the same thing. We were hoping our arrival at this location known only to him wouldn’t happen any time soon.
Living life becomes precious when you realize you’ve only got a few minutes left before your ticket gets punched.
“Henry, if we get out of this alive, I swear I’m going to kick your ass.”
“Yeah, you said that the last time, princess. If it hadn’t been for me, we would have both drowned.”
“If it hadn’t been for you, we wouldn’t have been in that damned cave, to begin with.”
“Guys. Come on. I think we need to start figuring out how to get out of this mess.”
We stopped talking, barely hearing our ragged attempts to breathe over the persistent sound of the car’s back tires humming against the road. At the moment, we’d been dealt a crap hand, and it wasn’t as if we were going to be able to simply fold and walk away. From our perspective, trapped in the trunk of the car, the thug driving was holding four aces, and he was armed, which made it a proverbial ace up his sleeve.
“Henry, what if we kick him in the face when he opens the trunk?”
“He’ll shoot us.”
“We could try and run. He didn’t bother to tie us up.”
“Because he can shoot us, Roberto.”
“We have to try and do something, Henry.”
“And if we do Shaundrika, he’s going to shoot…”
“Damn it! Stop saying that!”
Again we lapsed into silence, jostled sharply as if the tires on the right side of the car had struck a pothole or something. Although we had no spatial sense of movement, we somehow sensed we were slowing down. The whine of the tires had shifted into more of a growl as if they were crunching their way through gravel or rocks. Eventually, the motion of the vehicle stopped. We heard the distinctive sound of a car door opening and just as quickly, slamming shut.
“Oh God. oh dear God.”
“Everybody stay cool.”
When the trunk lid swung up, we were bathed in sunlight. Blinking against the brightness, we stared at the hulking form in front of us. The man’s eyes were still hidden beneath a pair of darkened sunglasses, and with the bill of his baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, it was impossible to get a clear image of what he looked like.
Not that we were ever going to get a chance to identify him in a lineup.
“Mister, you realize even if you kill us, somebody will eventually find our bodies. When they do a shit ton of people are going to come looking for your ass.”
The man said nothing and stared at us for a few seconds. Then he waved his pistol, a series of gestures indicating he wanted us to get out of the trunk. He raised his weapon and stepped back as we crawled out then stood there, attempting to get our bearings.
The man had parked the car in front of a large building resembling a barn. An isolated barn in the middle of a field with nothing but empty fields as far as we could see, surrounding it. A quick scan of the building told a story of neglect and disrepair, with most of the tin roof rusted and bleached by years of weather, and pieces of wood siding rotted out and long since washed away.
Not a fitting place to die by any means.
When the man waved his pistol in the direction of the remnants of a double set of doors, we slowly walked over to them and stopped, waiting as he yanked one of the doors open. Metal hinges screeched in protest, and the wood planks of the door quivered as if the entire door was about to disintegrate, but the door held together, and we walked inside.
Lined up side by side on the hardpacked dirt floor were three empty folding chairs. Without being instructed to, we knew we were to sit, and as we did, the man produced handcuffs and swiftly cuffed each of us to the chairs.
After securing us to the chairs, the man stepped back, took a brief glance at his wristwatch, then folded his arms in front of him. Silent beams of dust motes filled the barn, flying about on hundreds of shafts of light pouring in from the roof and sides of the building.
It was quiet. A nervous quiet of anticipation that could drive a person who’d suddenly been plunged into the situation we were currently in totally insane. The man just stood there, peering at us through his sunglasses, not moving as if he’d been frozen in place.
“Henry, he’s waiting for something. Otherwise, he would have already killed us.”
“I know, Roberto. I don’t think he’s waiting for something. I think he’s waiting for someone.”
“Oh God Henry, remember what the Fixer said? He said Enrique Escobar wanted our heads?”
As if on cue, we heard the sounds of car doors slamming outside. Seconds later, the barn door opened, and the man of the hour walked in, followed by a pair of bodyguards brandishing assault rifles.
For a brief moment, Escobar stood nearby the burly man with the sunglasses, and then he stepped closer and knelt in front of us.
“Buenos dias mis amigos. ¿Nos encontremos de nuevo?”
“We’re not your friends.”
“And who is this you have brought along? I do not believe we have met.”
“Roberto De La Cruz.”
“Pity. I think it sad I will have to kill you having never had the chance to get how shall I say this, acquainted.”
“Escobar, why don’t you get this shit over with.”
The man smiled and then stood. It had been eight years since this man, just as he did today, knelt down in front of us and proclaimed his intent to kill us. Although he appeared a little older, a modicum of grey hair against his temples, his dangerous appetite for death and mayhem hadn’t changed a bit. We eyed him as he stepped over to the man with the sunglasses.
“My thoughts exactly señor James.”
Enrique eyed the pistol in the burly man’s hands, a look of appreciation crossing his face.
“That is a beautiful weapon you have señor. I do not believe I have ever seen such a pistole as this. May I?”
The man handed Enrique his weapon and stepped back to join the two bodyguards. Escobar held the gun in front of him, turning it in several directions and then pointing it at us.
“Such a beautiful weapon, no?”
“I’ll take my Glock over that SVI Tiki-T your buddy just handed you. Same damage for a lot less money.”
“Let us see, why don’t we?”
Enrique approached Roberto, quickly raised the pistol aiming at Roberto’s head, and pulled the trigger. Although the gun merely offered Enrique a loud click, we flinched in expectation.
The man nodded, then turned his head and stared at the man with sunglasses.
“Perhaps I should chamber a round first eh amigo?”
Enrique twisted back around, grinned at us and pulled the barrel back. The second it clicked into place, the grip of the pistol exploded, taking most of Enrique’s right hand with it.
The next few seconds of chaos happened so quickly all we could do was sit there and watch as the show played out in front of us.
Read On — Return To Shandy Bay Part 9
Let’s keep in touch: P.G. & Sharon Barnett ([email protected]) © P.G. Barnett, 2020. All Rights Reserved.
