Ain't Talkin'

“Where are we going?”

“We’re taking things out of the way. I don’t like doing business on other people’s terms. Most of the time they get wise and try to set something up. Ambush, firefight, try to cheat me out of my due. Never works out for them and I usually make out with less pay. One of the many hazards of my business, easily avoided when people just do things my way.”

“Your way is to set up a similar kind of trap, laying in wait at a bust-town gas station six miles south of a town that’s barely civilization anyhow.”

“Southeast.”

“Whatever. Sounds like two sides of the same outlaw, bandit kinda coin to me.” Markus was back at being a nancy-titted kinda shit again, acting put-out.

“Probably is, but I found you and I’m exchanging you on my terms. That’s how it is.”

“You do realize I’m a person, right? It isn’t exactly like exchanging a package of dry-goods.”

“It is when you’re me, kid.” Roche smiled, somehow the thought had made him something close to giddy.

The Corporation transport was rumbling along smoothly, and for the first mile Roche had two eyes on the rear-mirror to his right, watching to see if the Resistance boys were stupid enough to skip out and follow them directly. They weren’t.

The dirt roads around Parmiskus snaked through old mobile-home parks, campgrounds and seedy little businesses with big-toothed indian mascots. The dust rolled by and had bleached every single bit of man-made infrastructure an even shade of canvas-brown. The sun was high, and no birds were calling overhead.

Markus kept quiet the rest of the ride, folding his arms all tight-like over his chest, frowning. Roche just kept the bourbon bottle he’d kept from the bar tucked in the crotch of his pants and a smoke nestled between his teeth.

The old gas station in question was a nice little spot that Roche had used once or twice before. The station itself was a larger one, the kind that used to sell dry goods and alcohol as well as gasoline and automotive fluids. A large portion of the roof had blown off many years ago, and the racks and shelves inside were bare except for an inch layer of sand and dust. Roche had checked it for packs of smokes many times over, but it never hurt to turn over the sand again.

He led Markus into the gas station, kicking at the dust and the old cardboard and plastic containers. No smokes apparently. Roche couldn’t find anyway, didn’t mean Markus couldn’t.

“Kid, I’m gonna leave you right here. While you’re waiting, check around in here for smokes. I like those old, sealed packs in plastic. Keep ’em in your pocket and I’ll grab them from you in a bit.”

“Where are you going?” Markus stood and asked, not checking for cigarettes.

“Out back. I’m gonna keep an eye on stuff from up top. Horse is tied out back and the truck has the keys in it. Try not to get spooked, but if you do, definitely take the truck and not the horse. I like the horse.”

“Pft. Better than me?” Markus was indignant.

“Yep, a lot better than you. The horse is quiet and does what she’s told. Now, look for some smokes for me while I set up. when the Res shows their faces, keep quiet and let me do the talking.” Roche spun out the door in a swirl of oilcloth, denim and dust.

This gas station was a good place for drops, because if you had a cooperative charge, you could leave them where all eyes could see, in the station, with the light coming in through the roof, but they were behind low brick walls, they could get cover, quick. The pumps in front of the station got in the way of any trucks or horses getting right up to the front of the station without some pause. Best of all, a low ridge overlooked the one-story gas station, shadowed with a four o’clock of dead trees that had most of their branches still intact. From up there, Roche could watch the deal go down, and his voice carried. He could talk to the charge, and the client, and be well out of sight and range the whole time. Shit went bad, and Roche could cap the whole lot of them, charge, client, mercs and all from that ridge.

Only hitch in the plan might have been the horse if he’d brought her up the ridge with him, she was tall enough that it would have been obvious, but tying her behind the gas station kept that problem at bay, and she was out of sight besides.

Prone, whiskey bottle propped by his elbow, smoke in his lips and the A-Mat couched against his shoulder, Roche looked out over the ridge at the dirt road that crossed the front of the gas station. he could see the way stretching north and south. He’d have a sightline on any vehicle coming up or down the road.

Afternoon gulped down the skyline inch by inch. By the time Roche could see the dust from the dirt road kicking up, the sun was low in the west. Daylight was left, but only a couple of hours, more than enough time for the walker to close the deal with the Resistance and see Markus got where he was supposed to be.

They’d come in a car, one of the old old-world models. A red sedan that was more rust that real metal anymore, kicking up a cloud from the road that could have been seen for miles. They rolled into the gas station and didn’t get past the parking lot before they squealed over sand and stopped dead. Three armed soldiers in coats, goggles and helmets piled out of the car with automatic rifles strapped to their rigs, followed by a trimly man in a spotless suit in sunglasses and the old fellow that had hired Roche in the first place, walking with a cane.

The soldiers made short work of clipping across the parking lot and checking every angle around the station. When Roche wasn’t among the trash and the pumps they made their way for the station itself and the low walls it had. Markus stood inside, a pair of smoke packs in his hands. Hey, good job, kid. Before the soldiers reached the station, Roche whistled through his teeth.

In a snap, all three soldiers had their guns up to the horizon. The way the ridge curled in a semi-circle around the station, it made the direction of the sound hard to discern. The soldiers scanned along the cusp of hills and saw nothing. One trained his gun back on Markus, who stood still and silent with his hands raised, the other two kept their heads on swivels, watching and waiting for another sign of the hunter.

“Y’all fellas drop your guns! Do it now!” Roche hollered out over the station. They’d figured out the general direction of Roche’s voice and snapped their guns towards him. They sketched their voices at one another, unsure of what to do. Shoot, step back, drop ’em? What?

“Drop your guns, lads. The man we’re dealing with is more than the three of you can handle and if you don’t know already you’re only here out of courtesy anyhow.” The old man, Lieutenant Miner said calmly, locking his fingers over the top of his cane and turning to face Roche. “Can you hear me, Mr. Roche?”

The old man’s voice carried well. “Sure can. Just Roche, thank you.”

“Good. Then you’ll see we’ve taken your words in kind and have come to treat with you over the transfer of Mr. Markus. Are we in agreement?”

“Where’s my money, old timer? Jus’ about sick of dealing with your little Resistance and your crap.”

“Of course, of course. Doctor Weaving, if you please?” The old man, Miner gestured to the svelte, balding man in the nice suit, who Roche took to be Doctor Weaving.

Suit Doctor went to the sedan and took a small brown bag from the backseat and held it out as though it held something disgusting. Roche could see from the weight and fall of the paper bag that it held rolls of bank notes. He could also see from the turn of the Doctor’s suit coat that he was strapped with a pistol, a big one. Didn’t much matter, though. Just nice to know who was packing lead and who wasn’t.

“That my money?”

“Doctor.”

Doctor Weaving upended the bag and sure enough, several bundled rolls of bank notes fell onto the pavement below. The doctor let the bag go and it lifted off along the wind and across the parking lot.

“There you have it, Mr. Roche. And there’s a little bonus accrued of ten-percent of the total value in thanks for the expediency of your work.” Miner gestured to the pavement and the rolls of bills. “Now that we’ve conducted our business, perhaps we could negotiate another contract?”

“Nothing doin’. Appreciate the offer, now please take the kid and get him the fuck away from me. He talks too much.” Roche smiled, eyes down the scope of the A-Mat.

“That’ll all be fine, sir, though I appreciate your way of doing business I must insist that you entertain our offer.”

“I must insist that you get your men, the kid and get back in that car and be gone. Get me?”

“Or you’ll shoot us?” Miner almost laughed at the thought.

“Yep. I might.”

“I see you will not be easily persuaded. Perhaps my friend Doctor Weaving may be more convincing.” Miner gestured quietly to Doctor Weaving in his nice suit as he stepped forward.

The man was a skeleton of a human, with a thin layer of muscle applied to the necessary areas for functionality. His balding hair was swept back with grease and his eyes were covered in dark glasses. He was a man who’s resting expression was a thick, too-many-teeth kind of smile. When he’d finished speaking, he started grinning.

"Mister Roche! How I’ve been eager to meet you. Perhaps we might have a word where I’m not shouting at a vague area of the bluffs surrounding this ancient gasoline establishment.” Grin, grin, grin.

Roche didn’t like the way this man talked and he didn’t like the way this man wore a spotless suit that was already accumulating dust in the wastelands of the Mojave. Old-world American money-type.

“This is just fine with me.” Roche watched the man’s movements, though he didn’t think this doctor would go for his gun, or even if he was a reasonable shot with any kind of gun.

“Of course it is. Though I estimate that you’ll see things a little clearer and perhaps acquiesce to my idea of a face-to-face negotiation when you hear what I have to say.” Grin.

“Say it then, if I don’t like it I’ll put a bullet beside your feet. Then you can go.”

Grin, grin, grin. No response for a few seconds. Roche readied the A-Mat and crosshaired the pavement twenty inches from the doctor’s feet. His mouth dropped when the words slithered over his pearly teeth.

“Mollie. Groux.”

Roche shut his mouth and considered putting a fist-sized hole through the good doctor. Skip a beat one, skip a beat two.

“I’m coming down.”