Poison stared into a dark alleyway across the street, where Punkin Head watched from inside its windowless van in dark shadows. It knew what she was up to, and was aroused by it, and in a mood to murder, since it was taking less and less time for it to cool down and get the tension again. Punkin Head felt an insatiable rage toward Blondie that was more exciting than sex. It couldn’t wait to watch that fucking snitch soil his fancy jeans and beg on his knees before the almighty Punkin Head. It had never wanted to ruin anything more in its despicable, low, nasty, hate-filled life, and its excitement mounted unbearably.
West spotted Brazil’s car up ahead. She saw the hooker walking off as Brazil drove to the corner and took a right. She saw the old, windowless van slide out of the dark alleyway, like an eel.
“Christ!” West panicked.
“Andy, no!”
She grabbed the radio and slammed down the accelerator, flipping on strobing lights.
“Seven hundred requesting backups!” she screamed on the air.
“Two hundred block West Trade. Now!”
vy Hammer heard the broadcast, too, and sped up.
“Shit,” she said.
“What the hell’s going on?” Cahoon was on red alert, in military mode, ready to take out the enemy.
“Don’t know, but it’s not good.” She threw on her lights, whelping her siren as she passed people.
“You got an extra gun handy?” Cahoon asked.
He was in the Marines again, launching grenades at North Koreans, crawling through the blood of his buddies. Nobody went through that and came out the same. Nobody messed with Cahoon, because he knew something they didn’t. There were worst things than dying, the fear of it being one of them. He unfastened his seatbelt.
Vft “Put that back on,” Hammer told him as they flew.
West was trying to find a place to do a U-turn, and finally gave up.
She bumped and slammed over the concrete median, rubber squealing as she headed the other way. She had lost sight of Brazil, the hooker and the van. West was as frantic and frightened as she had ever been.
“Please God, help!” she fervently said.
“Oh please God!”
Brazil turned behind haunted ruins of graying old wood, and broken windows gaping ragged and black, where there was no sign of life. He stopped and sat in silence. He looked around, increasingly jumpy. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. He dug in a pocket of his jeans, and was taking an inventory of crumpled bills, when suddenly the young hooker filled his window, smoking a cigarette, holding a washcloth, and smiling in a way that increased Brazil’s misgivings. It was the first time he’d noticed how crazed her eyes were, or maybe something was different now.
“Get out,” she said, motioning to him.
“I see the money first.”
Brazil opened his door and stepped out as an engine roared in from the rear. A dark, old van with no windows bumped toward them at a high rate of speed. Brazil was shocked. He scrambled back inside his BMW, throwing it into reverse. But it was too late. The van blocked him, and there was nothing ahead but a thicket and a deep gully. Trapped, Brazil watched the driver’s door open. He took in the big, ugly shim with pumpkin-colored hair woven in cornrows close to its skull. It jumped out, its smile serpentine as it walked towards Brazil, a large-caliber pistol in one hand, the other rattling a can of spray paint.
“We got us a sweet one,” Punkin Head said to Poison.
“Might have some fun. Teach him what we do with snitches.”
“I’m not a snitch,” Brazil let Punkin Head know.
“He’s a reporter,” Poison said.
“A reporter,” it mocked, its anger raging out of control as memories of Black Widow stories unfurled and flashed and infuriated all over again.
Brazil’s stories were the furthest thing from his mind as he thought fast. Poison laughed. She zipped open a switchblade.
“Get out of the car and give me the keys,” Punkin Head moved closer to its prey, a. 45 caliber pistol pointed between Blondie’s eyes.
“All right. All right. Please don’t shoot.” Brazil knew when to cooperate.