The Driver

The others had arrived outside the restaurant ten minutes after the call. Milton finished his burger, wiped his mouth, laid a ten dollar bill on the counter and went to the car. He got into the back without complaint. There was no point in making things difficult for them.

That would come later.

There were four of them in the car, each of them wearing a biker’s leather jacket and each, helpfully, following the biker habit of having a nickname badge sewn onto the left shoulder lapel. The man in the passenger seat was Smokey. It looked like he was in charge. He was tall and slender, all knees and elbows, and Milton saw a tattoo of a swastika on the back of his neck. The driver was bigger, wearing a denim jacket with cut off sleeves that revealed heavy muscle. His badge identified him as Dog. The men flanking him both had long hair, like the others, and they smelled of stale sweat, pot and booze. There wasn’t much space in the back and they were pressed up against him. The one on his right was flabby, Milton’s elbow pressing into the side of his doughy gut, with a full red beard and shoulder length red hair: his badge identified him as Orangutan. The one on his left was different, solid slabs of muscle, hard and unyielding. If it came down to it, he would be the one to put down first. His nickname was Tiny.

They had a radio on; it was a news cha

The four of them seemed pretty secure in themselves and their ability to keep Milton in line. He noticed that they didn’t blindfold him or do anything to prevent him from seeing where he was being taken. Not a good sign. They didn’t plan on him making a return trip and so, they reckoned, it made no difference what he found out. They were right about one thing: Milton wasn’t pla

Well, if they thought that, then more fool them.

They drove out to Potrero Hill, the gritty industrial belt on the eastern boundary facing the bay and, on the other side of the water, Oakland. There were warehouses, some old, others cheaply and quickly assembled pre-fabs. They navigated the streets to the water’s edge, prickling with jetties and piers, and then drew up to a gate in a tall mesh wire fence. The compound contained a warehouse and Milton saw stacks of beer barrels and trucks with the logo of a local brewhouse that he thought he recognised.

There were four big motorcycles parked undercover next to the warehouse.

Dog hooted the horn and the gates parted for them.

They took him into the warehouse through a side door. He paid everything careful attention: ways in and out of the building, the number of windows, the internal lay-out. The place smelt powerfully of hops and old beer and sweat and marijuana. He watched the four men, assessing and re-assessing them, confirming again which were the most dangerous and which he could leave until last when it came time to take them out.

They followed a corridor to a door, opened it and pushed him inside.

It was empty, just a few bits and pieces. It looked like it was used as a basic kitchen and dining area. A trestle table with one broken leg. Rubbish strewn across the table. Three wooden chairs. Several trays with beer bottles stacked up against the wall. A dirty microwave oven on the floor next to a handful of ready meals. A metal bin, overflowing with empty food packaging. Breeze block walls painted white. A single naked light bulb overhead. A pin-up calendar from three years ago. No windows. No natural light. No other way in or out.

Eva was standing at the end of the room, as far away from the door as she could get. There was another woman with her.

The ski

Eva stepped forwards.

“Are you alright?” Milton asked her.

“Yes,” she said.

He kept looking at her. “They haven’t hurt you?”

“No,” she said. She gestured to the other girl. “This is Karly.”

“Hello, Karly,” Milton said. “Are you okay?”

She nodded. There was no colour in her face. She was terrified.

“Don’t worry,” Milton told her. “We’ll be leaving soon.”

“That right?” Smokey said from behind him, his words edged by a braying laugh.

Milton turned back to him.

“Alright then, partner. We got a few questions for you.”

“You should let us leave.”

“You’ll go when I say you can go.”

“It’ll end badly for you otherwise.”

Smokey snorted. “You’re something, boy. You got some balls — but it’s time for you to pay attention.”

“Don’t worry. I am.”

“My questions, you go

Milton glanced over. The three men were all inside the room. Smokey was just out of reach but the big guy, Tiny, was close. The stack of beer bottles was waist high. The cellophane wrapper on the top tray had been torn away, some of the bottles had been removed and the necks of those that remained were exposed.

“Who are you working for?” Milton asked.

“See, you say you’re paying attention but you ain’t. I’m asking, you’re answering.”

“Is it Crawford?”

Smokey spat at his feet. “You go

Tiny — the big man — balled his right hand into a fist and balanced his weight to fire out a punch. Milton saw and moved faster, reaching out and wrapping his fingers around a bottle, feeling it nestle in his palm, pulling it out of the tray and swinging it, striking the guy on the side of the head, just above his ear. He staggered a little, more from shock than from anything else, and Milton struck the bottle against the wall and smashed it apart, beer splashing up his arm, and then closed in and jabbed the jagged end of the bottle into the man’s shoulder, then stabbed it into his cheek, twisting it, chewing up the flesh. He dropped the bloodied shards, grabbed Tiny by the shoulders and pulled him in close, driving his knee into his groin, then dropped him down onto the floor.

Three seconds, start to finish.

“The fucking hard way, I guess,” he said. He wasn’t even breathing hard.

Smokey pulled a revolver from his waistband and brought it up.

“Get back. Over there. Against the wall.”

Milton knew he wouldn’t be able to take them all out but that wasn’t what he had in mind. He just wanted a moment alone with Eva. He knew they wouldn’t kill him, not yet. They needed some answers before they could think about that, and he wasn’t minded to give them any. He did as he was told and stepped back. The man waved the revolver and he kept going until he was at the rear of the room, next to Eva and Karly.

“Get him out of here,” Smokey said to the Orangutan and Dog, pointing at the stricken Tiny. They helped him up, blood ru

“Last chance,” Milton said.

“For what?” Smokey yelled at him.

“To let us out.”

“Or?”

“I’ll make what just happened to him look like a love bite.”

His bravado seemed to confuse, and then amuse, the man. “Are you out of your fucking mind? Look at you — look where you are. You’re fucked, brother. You can have a couple of hours to think about that until a friend of ours gets here.”

“Mr. Crawford?”

“That’s right. Mr Crawford. He wants to speak to you. But then that’ll be the end of it after that. You’re done. Finished.”