Page 23 of Poisoned Pawn

The sound of gunfire behind me makes up my mind for me. I rush into the darkness and run. I fly out the other end and dive to the right with my back pressed to the wall as I scan the street searching for an old Fiesta or any sign of Roxy or the others.

My mind is frantic, my head swinging from left to right up and down the street, but I don’t see it. Cars whizz past mixing with the sounds of gunfire and shouting coming from further up the road, and I’m just about to give up and peg it when my eyes land on a dark blue Fiesta parked directly opposite me.

“You have to be kidding me.” I pull the keys free from my back pocket and jog across the road between the line of cars that has started to form. I click the fob and breathe a sigh of relief when the door unlocks. Jumping in, I start the engine and am just pulling away when a guy bursts from the alley way. I put my foot down and thank god there’s no traffic this side of the road. I look in the rear-view mirror and see him watching me as I speed off. He’s talking on the phone, and I know he’s seen me.

“Fuck!” I turn off and head out of town with no idea where the fuck I’m supposed to go and with no phone but knowing I need to ditch the car as soon as possible.

I drive for twenty minutes before pulling over outside a small car sales place that you’d only ever buy from if you wanted something guaranteed to break down or was used in a robbery.

I cut the engine and drop my head to the steering wheel. Five fucking years I’ve lived in Manchester and never had more than a drunken college guy try to feel me up at a party.

Now I’ve got a guy I met at a sex club stalking me, a dead boss and someone that wants me dead. And wants me dead bad enough to shoot up a whole restaurant full of innocent people.

And that little trio of bad shit doesn’t even cover the facthe, whoeverheis, once again had me like putty in his hands. I do not have time right now to unpick what the hell that’s all about.

I look around the car, but there isn’t even an empty wrapper or receipt. For such an old car it’s surprisingly clean and well maintained on the inside. Next, I try the glove box. It drops open with a click revealing nothing but an empty black hole. There is no logbook, no map, no fucking anything.

“Who has a car with nothing in it?” I grumble, slamming the glove box closed and dropping back into the seat with my head tipped up toward the ceiling. I close my eyes trying to get my brain to think.

My eyes open as somethinghesaid pops into my mind. I get out and open the boot. It looks like a normal boot, empty except for the spare, a jack and a wrench. I run my hands over the inside but find nothing. I even try to lift out the tyre, but it won’t budge. It’s like it’s locked in.

I take the wrench, jamming it into the back pocket of my jeans then close the lid. He told me he’d find me which means there must be a tracker on this car. Not sure why anyone would want to track this old thing. It’s not like there’s anything important in here…unless.

I open the boot again, and this time I take my time. Starting at the left side, I run my hand over every square inch of the boot and am about to give up when my fingers brush over a small button tucked in the front right corner. Something inside the boot clicks, but I don’t see anything open or move. I shove at the damn stupid spare tyre in frustration only this time there’s a whoosh as it begins to lift, tilting back to reveal a hidden compartment underneath. There’s a decent sized black rucksack inside that I pull out then check the rest of the space before closing the tire back into place and tossing the wrench back in and shut the boot.

I jump back inside the car and rest the bag on my lap. The ripping sound of the zipper being peeled open is loud in the heavy silence of the car and apprehension at what I might find inside thrums through me.

I pull the bag open and peer inside. Sitting on top of some folded clothes is a gun, a Glock by the looks of it. I pick it up and carefully place it on the seat next to me. Next, I remove the clothes, placing them beside the Glock as a scent I’m starting to recognise ashisfills the space. I find a mobile, probably a burner, a knife in a leather sheath and a small metal box. Putting everything else aside, I take the box and turn it over, inspecting it. Around the size of a mobile phone in length, I flick the catch and open it.

Bingo!

It’s a GPS tracker, and I’d bet he can track it from anywhere via an app on his phone. I push one of the buttons on the front and the screen lights up. A map loads showing my current location as a white flashing dot, but it’s the small navigation symbol in the top left that catches my eye. I fiddle around trying to click on it until eventually a new screen loads. This one shows a list of recent locations, and I scroll through looking for anything familiar. The first address on the list is mine and again a little further down, not a surprise, but it’s the address in between that I decide on. There doesn’t seem much point in going home; it’s not safe, and I don’t want to put the others in more danger, which seems to be following me like a bad smell.

I check the burner but it’s dead, so I recheck the bag and come up empty. Cursing to myself, I quickly repack the bag, leaving out the little metal box and the gun, then drop it into the footwell of the passenger side for later. With no other option, short of stealing a car, which I wouldn’t even know how to do, yet I can shoot a gun, I head back toward the city using the map to guide me.

When I’m a couple of miles away from the address, I stop in a supermarket car park, parking in the furthest corner from the late afternoon shoppers.

Grabbing the bag, I take out the thick hoodie and pull it on over my head, ignoring the flash of goosebumps that pop up over my body as I become encased inhissmell. It’s baggy as hell but comfy and black so less likely to draw attention to me. I put the gun in the large front pocket along with the GPS tracker, then climb from the car and throw the rucksack over my shoulder.

My skin prickles with unease as I lock the car and begin walking toward a small path carved from many feet through the low hedge at the edge of the car park. I feel eyes on me even when there’s no one around. It’s unsettling. But it does make me extra aware of my surroundings.

I walk quickly and calmly and periodically check the map. Thank god I wore my flat boots. I reach an estate and think that this must be it, but according to the map the address is just beyond here. Yet when I pass by, there’s nothing but a small industrial estate.

Most of the businesses are closed as the late afternoon gives way to early evening. Rounding the next corner, I stop short. A row of garages greets me. Several of them have the overhead doors twisted and broken, and I can almost feel their laughing and taunting stares as I pass.

“Prick!” I curse as I reach the end of the row. “A dead fucking end. Just wonderful.” I spin on my heels ready to track back and play roulette with the GPS tracker for another address when I hear the purr of a car engine approaching.

I duck under the partially open garage door next to me and almost crash into a stack of boxes. My eyes adjust to the hazy dust-filled light as breaks squeak outside and a door opens and closes. I sidestep a beam of light coming in through the buckled door to avoid casting a shadow and press my back up against the wall between two stacks of boxes.

Feet scrap on the concrete as whoever is out there paces back and forth in front of the garage.

“Where the fuck are you? I’m here and you’re not,” an angry voice barks, and I assume he’s on the phone.

There’s a loud clang as something hits the garage door making me jump. I hold my breath hoping he didn’t hear me as he begins speaking again.

“I don’t have time to wait around for you to fuck some cunt. You told me an hour. Time is up. Get here now or the deal is off!”

It’s silent for a moment and I wonder if he’s got back in the car, but then I didn’t hear the car door closing. The shuffling feet are back, and I can picture him biting a thumb nail as he paces back and forth. I settle in for a long wait. It’s only been a couple of minutes before his phone rings, and he answers with a gruff tone, and I listen as he talks quietly, keeping his voice low despite the fact there isn’t anyone else around, that he knows of anyway.