The Driver

“I had a chat with Jarad Efron.”

“A chat? What does that mean?”

“I dangled him off a balcony. He realised it’d be better to talk to me.”

“Think you’re a tough guy?”

“I’m nothing special.”

“I ain’t scared of you.”

“You shouldn’t be. You’ve got a shotgun.”

“Damn straight I do.”

“So why would you be scared?”

Milton glanced down at the microwave.

7.17.

7.16.

7.15.

“You want to tell me what happened to the girls?” he asked.

“Obvious, ain’t it?”

“They wanted money.”

“That’s right.” He flicked the barrel of the shotgun in Karly’s direction. “She wanted money.”

“And then you killed them?”

“They brought it on themselves.”

“Who told you to do it? Robinson?”

“Hell, no. Robinson didn’t know nothing about none of this shit. We took care of it on his behalf.”

“Crawford, then?”

“That’s right. Crawford and us, we just been cleaning up the Governor’s mess is what we been doing. He had his problems, y’all can see that plain as day, but that there was one great man. Would’ve been damn good for this fucked up country. What’s happened to him is a tragedy. Your fault, the way I see it. What you’ve done — digging your nose into business that don’t concern you, making trouble — well, old partner, that’s something you’re go

“What about Madison Clarke?”

“Who?”

“Another hooker. The Governor was seeing her.”

“This the girl you took up to the party in Pine Shore?”

“That’s right. You all came out that night, didn’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“You find her?”

“You know what? We didn’t. We don’t know where she is.”

Milton glanced down at the microwave.

6.24.

6.23.

6.22.

Come on, come on, come on.

“We don’t need to do this, right?” he said, trying to buy them just a little more time. “I’m not going to say anything. You know where I live.”

Smokey laughed. “Nah, that ain’t go

5.33.

5.32.

5.31.

Smokey noticed Milton looking down at the microwave.

“Fuck you doing with that?” he said.

“I was hungry. I thought—”

“Fuck that.”

He stepped towards it.

“Please,” Milton said.

The man reached out for the stop button.

He saw the beer bottles inside, turning around on the platter: incongruous.

Too late.

The liquid inside the bottles was evaporating into steam; several atmospheres of pressure were being generated; the duct tape was holding the caps in place; the pressure was ru

Milton was further away yet the blast from the explosion staggered him backwards and, instants later, the red-hot shower peppered his skin. His bare arms were crossed with a thin bloody lattice as he dropped his arm from his face and made forwards.

He looked back quickly. “You alright?”

Neither Eva or Karly answered but he didn’t see any obvious damage.

He turned back. Smokey was on the floor, covered in blood. A large triangled shard from the microwave’s metal case was halfway visible in his trachea. He was gurgling and air whistled in and out of the tear in his throat. One leg twitched spastically. Milton didn’t need to examine him to know that he only had a minute or two to live.

The Remington was abandoned at his side.

Milton took it and brought it up. He heard hurried footsteps and ragged breathing and saw a momentary reflection in the long blank window that started in the corridor opposite the door. He aimed blind around the door and pulled one trigger, blowing buckshot into one of the other men from less than three feet away. Milton turned quickly into the corridor, the shotgun up and ready, and stepped over the second man’s body. He was dead. Half his face was gone.

Three down.

One left.

He moved low and fast, the shotgun held out straight. The corridor led into a main room with sofas, a jukebox, empty bottles and dope paraphernalia.

The fourth man popped out of cover behind the sofa and fired.

Milton dropped flat, rolled three times to the right, opening the angle and negating the cover, and pulled the trigger. Half of the buckshot shredded the sofa, the other half perforated the man from head to toe. He dropped his revolver and hit the floor with a weighty thud.

He got up. Save the cuts and grazes from the explosion, he was unmarked.

He went back to the kitchen.

Smokey was dead on the floor.

Eva and Karly hadn’t moved.

“It’s over,” he told them.

Eva bit her lip. “Are you alright?”

“I’m good. You?”

“Yes.”

“Both of you?”

“I’m fine,” Karly said.

He turned to Eva. “You both need to get out of here. We’re in Potrero Hill. I’ll open the gates for you and you need to get out. Find somewhere safe, somewhere with lots of people, and call the police. Do you understand?”

“What about you?”

“There’s someone I have to see.”

44

Arlen Crawford waited impatiently for the hotel lift to bear him down to the parking garage. He had his suitcase in his right hand and his overcoat folded in the crook of his left arm. The car had stopped at every floor on the way down from the tenth but it was empty now; just Crawford and the numb terror that events had clattered hopelessly out of control. He took his cellphone from his pocket and tried to call Jack Kerrigan again. There had been no reply the first and second time that he had tried but, this time, the call was answered.

“Jack! Smokey!” he said. “What the fuck’s going on?”

“Smokey’s dead, Mr. Crawford. His friends are dead, too.”

“Who is this?”

“You know who this is.”

The elevator reached the basement and the doors opened.

“Mr. Smith?”

“That’s right.”

“What do you want, Mr. Smith? Money?”

“No.”

“What do you want?”

“Justice would be a good place to start.”

“Jack killed the girls.”

“We both know that’s only half of the job done.”

He aimed the fob across the parking lot and thumbed the button. The car doors unlocked and the lights flashed.

“I didn’t have anything to do with it. There’s no proof.”

“Maybe not. But that would only be a problem if I was going to go to the police. I’m not going to go to the police, Mr. Crawford.”

“What are you going to do?”

No answer.

“What are you going to do?”

Silence.

Crawford reached the car and opened the driver’s door. He tossed the phone across the car onto the passenger seat. He went around and put the suitcase in the trunk. He got inside the car, took a moment to gather his breath, stepped on the clutch and pressed the ignition.

He felt a small, cold point of metal pressing against the back of his head.

He looked up into the rear-view mirror.

It was dark in the basement, just the glow of the sconced lights on the wall. The modest brightness fell across one half of the face of the man who was holding the gun. The other half was obscured by shadow. He recognised him: the impassive and serious face, the cruel mouth, the scar ru