Chapter 9

Yukon Blood

It doesn’t take too long for us to locate the library. I’m not sure exactly which bush Sam’s hiding under, so I send Deep Kut out after him while I wait inside the car at the curb with the lights off and the engine idling. Deep isn’t too thrilled to be chosen for this duty, but he knows better than to argue with me right now, keeping his displeasure restrained to a disappointed tightening of his lips. I don’t blame him for getting huffy because the library’s exterior has next to no lighting. He’s going to have to walk around, calling Sam’s name as softly as possible.

As I wait, I see a vehicle headed towards me. An SUV. When it’s almost on me, I can tell it’s a Yukon. My nerves fire off rapidly, instinct driving me to reach for the .45 I’m carrying down the front of my jeans. I don’t make eye contact with the driver, but I’m pretty sure these are the same thugs who were sent for Sam. They roll right past me, and in the rear view mirror I can see them round the corner of Rosewood, heading away from the library. I exhale in relief. For a moment there, I worried those dudes might spot either me, Sam or Deep Kut and decide to blow off a few rounds at us for good measure. After all, they’re probably stoned out of their minds on free SMF dope they got for taking this job.

Minutes later, I see a couple dark shapes emerging from behind the library. Deep Kut’s got his hand in the front pocket of his hoodie, holding his pistol, walking faster than he normally would. Sam’s dreadlocks frame his face, but I can see his shaken expression from here. Poor kid. This is a lot for a young dude to handle. I doubt he realizes yet how lucky he is to be alive. He must be half-frozen in his baggy camo pants and wife-beater. Even though it’s above freezing right now, the wind’s active. That alone will chill you to the bone in Seattle.

I, too, experience a chill when I see the Yukon coming back around the block, apparently making another pass by the library. Sam and Deep Kut spot the vehicle, as well, and they freeze like deer on the library’s lawn. The Yukon’s speeding up. As I watch, I see one window, on the side closest to me, rolling down. Deep Kut yells something I can’t hear and both of them drop to a crouch, their guns flashing in the light from the street lamps.

Everything begins to flow by in slow motion for me at this point. I’ve lived through situations similar to this so I’m experiencing a strange sort of deja vu as I unfasten my seatbelt, jumping out of the car. If I could hear anything beyond the thudding of my own heart, I’d hear the booming that accompanies the bright flashes erupting from the pistols being held out the SUV’s side windows. Dirt sprays up from the lawn around my two boys and clots of grass jump into the air. I’ve got my gun raised. I fire several shots, in rapid succession, at the front windshield of the vehicle. I can see the side of the Yukon taking the bullets from my friends, but I’m too busy hoping they’ll scramble for my car to hope any of their shots are accurate.

“Get in the fuckin’ car!” I’m screaming full force, “Now! Move!”

I can’t see Sam or Deep, but I figure they’re making their way towards our ride now. Just then, I spot the barrel of a shotgun swinging out of the driver’s side window. One of the men has crawled up over the dead driver and trying to aim at me. That one takes a couple rounds from me and the shotgun falls back into the vehicle, never having been fired. Two pistols bounce off the pavement next, their owners hanging partway out the side window of the Yukon, blood rushing down over its white paint job. Taking a quick glance towards the library’s lawn, I see Sam. He looks like a character in some ghetto movie. He’s stalking towards the vehicle, gun arm outstretched, firing shot after shot into the Yukon. For a moment, I’m in awe of his sheer backbone. He shows zero fear. Then I realize he’s still pulling the trigger, but no flashes come from the weapon’s muzzle. He’s out of ammo.

Deep Kut’s coming up behind Sam, springing onto his back and bringing him down hard into the grass. More shots ring out from the SUV. I spot one of the SMF assholes with a bandanna tied over the lower half of his face walking out from behind the rear of the vehicle. Two of my rounds leave him lying on the street. I repeat my order for Deep and Sam to get in the Lincoln so we can get the hell out of here. Now they’re scrambling up and running towards our car. Once they’re in I get back in, too.

“You two hurt?” I ask them, stomping the gas to squeal off, rocketing us away from the scene. “Anybody need a doctor?”

“We’re okay,” Deep offers from the backseat. “Nothin’ hit us. We’re cool.”

Sam’s staring into space, his eyes dark with shock.

“Gonna be okay, Sam, don’t you worry,” I’m vibrating from the adrenaline rush. “We got away this time, no more–”

Author’s Note: Late again! Still sticking with the every 3 days schedule.. trying to get back on track after personal crisis. Thank you for reading.

Tags: Deep Kut, Hyena, Sam, SMF, smoke money family