Clowns, p.13
Clowns, page 13
part #20 of First Contact Series
Another teen loops around to her right, cutting her off. He hangs back a little, which makes Breezy uneasy. She’d rather have both of them squarely in front of her.
Breezy pushes forward past the teen with the fancy hair. She steps to one side, wanting to slide past next to a shuttered storefront. An arm cuts off her escape. A hand slams the steel roller door, rattling it.
“What’s the rush?”
“You don’t want to do this,” Breezy says. “Believe me. You really don’t want to do this.”
“Don’t want to do what?’ the first guy asks.
“We just want to talk,” the second guy says, but he remains stubbornly out of sight behind her. Breezy takes a quick glance, but she doesn’t want to turn away from the main asshole.
At a guess, these guys are eighteen or nineteen years old. The tattoos on the back of their hands identify them as members of the White Lords street gang.
“Why don’t we go somewhere we can talk?” the first guy says. “In private.”
Breezy steps in close, moving into his personal space. She gets close enough to whisper in his ear.
“I’m not your type.”
With that, she draws the Glock from the small of her back and presses the barrel into the guy’s crotch. She positions her gun so it’s pushing hard against his groin.
She looks into his eyes, saying, “You understand.”
“Oh, wow,” he says, stepping back with his hands well away from the gun. “Damn, girl. That’s some serious foreplay.”
Breezy’s so focused on him that she loses track of the second guy. He was on her right, about two feet back. Now, he’s directly behind her. Asshole number one is the distraction. Asshole number two is the hitman. It’s the eyes of the first jerk that give it away. He’s smiling, ignoring the gun. He looks over her shoulder. At a guess, he’s waiting for his buddy to reach around her neck, probably with a knife pressed hard against her throat.
Breezy’s being outplayed. It’s one thing to be a crack shot on the range. Up close, she’s too damn small to be a threat. Physically, she’s too easy to overpower. Jujutsu is great in the dojo. When everyone’s wearing loose, baggy clothing, there are plenty of holds available. The lighting’s good. There’s a soft mat. Opponents come with predictable timing and from set angles. In the dojo, attackers follow a script of sorts, working through well-rehearsed routines. On the street, that doesn’t mean shit. Make a mistake in there, and she gets to review what went wrong and then bow, out of respect for her instructor, and try again. Out here, it’ll cost her either her life or a brutal rape.
A hand grabs her shoulder from behind, pinning her in place. The sharp tip of a knife pushes through her shirt and into her lower back. It’s positioned off to one side, lining up nicely with her kidney. The blade punctures her skin, drawing a little blood, but it’s just a warning. It’s a message—don’t do anything stupid, bitch!
Time is not on her side. Even if she could call in the nearest backup, they’d never get here in time. Breezy’s got a fraction of a second to decide what to do. The gun should have been enough to scare these creeps. A warning shot is going to wake the neighbors. A kill shot will draw in the cops, but worse than that, she can’t shoot them both—not with that damn knife already pressing on her skin. These assholes are playing high-stakes roulette. If she squeezes the trigger, she’s going to end up with a knife plunged into her back and through to her abdomen, probably followed by a few quick strikes to the side of her neck—and all that before she can wheel around for a second shot. She’ll bleed out before paramedics arrive. They know that. They’re counting on that to get her to back down.
“Hey,” she says, raising the barrel of the gun toward the eves of the storefront and ejecting the magazine. “I think we got off to the wrong start here, fellas.”
The magazine slides from the pistol grip and falls to the ground. It clatters on the pavement. It’s more symbolic than anything as there’s still a round chambered and they know that.
The creep in front of her gestures with his hand, wanting her to surrender the gun. He’s grinning. He won’t be for long. Breezy isn’t defusing the situation so much as lining up her ducks. Already, the hand on her shoulder has relaxed. The knife has been withdrawn. It’s still there somewhere behind her, hovering near her spine, but she’s learned something important about her attackers. The guy behind her is left-handed. Given the option of targeting either kidney, he pressed his knife into her left side. It’s his right hand on her shoulder. This tells her she needs to break to the right to avoid his dominant hand. That’ll buy her some time.
At this point, Breezy’s concerned but not worried. Although the Secret Service normally has the odds in their favor, relying on their massive superiority in surveillance, coordination and firepower, they’re trained as underdogs. Training, by definition, implies the repetition of well-understood routines and procedures, but the emphasis in the Secret Service has always been on taking the initiative. Being predictable leaves an opening for terrorists and assassins. Being disciplined and yet flexible shifts the odds. Breezy has never needed that kind of thinking more than she does right now.
Breezy tosses the Glock slightly in the air, turning it around and catching it by the barrel. She holds the gun with the pistol grip facing asshole number one. She’s inviting him to grab it. That one round in the chamber worries her, but she’s got to deal with the guy with the knife first, and that means distracting the asshole in front of her while she goes for number two.
The asshole with a wide grin and the mop of hair reaches for the gun just as she lets go of the barrel, allowing it to fall. The average human reaction time when taken by surprise is 250 milliseconds. That’s an entire quarter of a second in which she’s in control and they’re not. He grabs at thin air as the Glock drops away from his fingers. His hand closes, but the gun is gone. It plummets to the ground, leaving him grasping at the air. The asshole behind her, though, doesn’t know that. All he saw was her handing his buddy the gun.
Breezy turns, twisting to the right, knowing she’s moving away from the knife and onto the clumsier, weaker, less-coordinated side of this guy’s body. She reaches up, taking hold of his hand still resting on her shoulder. This allows her to control his position. While asshole number one is fumbling for a Glock bouncing across the pavement, she’s getting her first good look at the six-foot-four bean pole behind her. It’s no wonder they were so confident. This guy is an entire foot taller than she is! He would have been towering over her as she faced the other guy.
He’s taken by surprise. She twists his wrist around, forcing him to roll his shoulder and drop in height. Although he’s still got the knife, he’s off-balance and she’s well away from the glistening blade.
Breezy performs a jump kick. Ordinarily, back in her dojo, she’d use this to strike up around the head, but she’s not going to make it that high, not on this guy, even with him leaning forward. She leads with her left foot, jumping and raising it up. While she’s in mid-air, she swings with her right foot. The arch on top of her boot lines up perfectly with his crotch. She strikes so hard she launches him into the air. It’s probably a combination of the strength in her thighs and his reaction, but he’s going to be talking in falsetto for at least a month. His balls are now firmly embedded in his throat.
The knife spirals through the air.
Breezy grabs it as the first guy reaches for the Glock lying on the ground. She steps on the gun, covering it with her boot, and lunges at him with the knife.
Ah, decisions, decisions, decisions.
As this guy is bent over, going for the Glock, she’s got multiple targets: face, neck, throat. An overhand strike behind the shoulder blades would probably puncture the back of his lung. It’s a question of how much damage she wants to inflict and whether she wants it to be lethal. He’s right-handed. As he’s facing her, she has to stab across to her left if she wants to hit his dominant arm. The jugular is a better target, but Breezy just wants to be left alone. She doesn’t want to kill anyone. Not again. She plunges the knife into his right shoulder, driving hard.
Being a switchblade, the knife is short. It’s designed for stabbing, allowing for a quick strike and withdrawal. She hits hard. The blade sinks in up to the hilt. Within a fraction of a second, she’s already pulled it back and is ready for a second strike. Breezy’s never stabbed anyone before. Oh, she’s stabbed watermelons during training sessions, but it’s not the same. Perhaps they’re a better analog for a stomach wound than thick muscle. The dense tissue in this guy’s shoulder and the bones beneath his skin, forming the joint, make the motion more like stabbing bark on a tree.
She steps back, sliding the gun away with her boot. It skitters across the pavement and into the gutter.
“You fucking bitch,” the first asshole says, not appreciating the fact he’s still alive. He clutches his shoulder. Blood surges between his fingers.
“Get the fuck out of here,” she snarls, wielding the knife before her and threatening a second lunge.
The tall guy is still doubled over. He’s already on the move, heading back across the road. He’s running with a lope, trying to reduce the sheer amount of pain he’s in. He clutches his groin with both hands, moaning. Asshole number one joins his buddy, still gripping his right shoulder.
“You’ll pay for this, you goddamn witch.”
Breezy waves. “Say hi to your Mom for me.”
His arm hangs limp. She didn’t hit an artery, but she messed up something deep inside. That dude needs surgery, which will make for an awkward conversation. Any half-decent doctor is going to report the injury to the police.
Breezy drops the knife into a drain. She listens as it plops into the dark water. With the magazine back in her Glock, she doubles back and continues down a side alley toward the hill in the distance. The abandoned fairgrounds are old and dimly lit. Moonlight catches the side of a Ferris wheel. Several carts hang down beside the ride, having come loose from their supports over time.
“Why the fuck did they stick a circus here?” she asks the quiet night, but she knows the answer: cheap land.
She jogs. Time is of the essence. Those two gang members are going to go crawling back to their den. Once the rest of the White Lords find out what happened, they’ll hit the streets looking for her.
Breezy quickens her pace.
House of Horrors
Breezy reaches the top of the rise. Behind her, the sound of motorcycles cuts through the night. She looks down the street. Six bikes roar up the road with headlights blazing.
The fairgrounds are surrounded by a chainlink fence topped with barbed wire. Beyond the fence, there are several open fields that were once used for parking, with the circus being located at the rear of the sprawling property. With the White Lords approaching, Breezy has to find cover. Rather than sneaking into the fairgrounds, she goes around them, working her way along the edge of the abandoned factory next door.
Breezy follows a brick wall running along the boundary, creeping through the darkness above an open sewer. Oil swirls on the surface of the water. Ivy clings to the bricks. She keeps her back to the wall, feeling her way in the dark, being careful not to step on twigs or branches. The sound of dry, cracking wood will give away her position.
Once they’re at the top of the rise, the motorcycles fan out, turning in both directions. Their throaty roars shake the quiet of the night. Headlights break through the trees, casting long shadows. At one point, a brilliant white light passes over her. Breezy freezes, standing perfectly still. As she’s wearing dark clothing, she should blend in with the shadows. The light moves on as the rider parks his bike, leaving the engine to idle. Through the trees, she can see the White Lords gathering in the gravel parking lot outside the fairgrounds.
“Where did she go?”
“She went in there.”
“I’m not going in there.”
“What are you afraid of?” a gruff man with a full beard says.
“Nothing,” someone replies.
“I don’t see you going in there,” another man says. He’s wearing a leather vest with chrome studs on the shoulder boards. From the way the others defer to him, he must be the leader.
“Haha,” they all laugh in response to him.
“If she’s gone in there, she’s as good as dead,” the leader says, revving the engine on his bike. He’s got his legs out on either side of the gas tank. His boots rest in the dust.
“Shame,” another man says.
“Let’s go.”
With a roar like thunder breaking overhead, the gang departs. Several riders perform donuts in the gravel parking lot, kicking up dirt and stones before following the others. Once they’re out of sight and the roar of their engines is a distant hum, Breezy emerges from beside the factory.
The chainlink fence surrounding the fairgrounds is new. The steel hasn’t weathered yet. It’s clearly not part of the original design. The concrete footings are pristine. They’ve been set in front of a low wooden farm fence running along the front of the property.
Breezy walks along the road, staying in the shadow of trees as she surveys the perimeter. Even though it’s topped with barbed wire, she could climb the fence in seconds. All she needs to do is wrap her jacket around her forearms to prevent the barbs from sinking in. Then it’s a matter of flipping over the edge and landing in the grass. For Breezy, though, this is a chance to learn more about the site.
Tall weeds grow beyond the fence, covering a stretch of ground several acres in size. Once, this would have been the main parking lot for cars and vans, with the gravel area outside being used for heavy vehicles, like delivery trucks and animal floats. The fairgrounds themselves are set back well beyond the road, sloping down toward the river. As this was a permanent fixture, neon signs rise over the distant buildings. They’re set in rows. When all the lights were on, it would have looked spectacular.
“Huh,” she mumbles, realizing how easy it was for the clowns to arise in such an environment. For them, the glitz and glamor was only ever fake. Stepping from here into the world at large, it was easy for them to project their own cynical views onto things like social media, politics and religion. For them, The Spectacle was once good business.
Breezy slips along the far edge of the fairgrounds. There’s a horse track on the other side of the fence with a grandstand backing onto the carnival row. Although it looks as though it could be used for races, it’s not big enough to be a racetrack as such. As everything within the circus, it’s for show. This is probably where various live animal acts were performed, along with stunt car tricks and parades.
Further along, there’s a gap in the chainlink fence. Someone has cut the wire and pulled the fence open. As the gap is only a few feet high, it must have been kids. Breezy pulls on the links. She clips a loose bit of wire further back on the fence, holding it up. Against her better judgment, she crawls through on her hands and knees, emerging behind the stables.
In the distance, there’s laughter. It floats on the wind, being indistinct, not giving her any idea of its direction. Someone’s watching her, taunting her. For the first time, Breezy feels afraid. It’s the uncertainty, the lack of control. When all hell broke loose in that drug store, she knew what she was doing. When those teenage thugs hassled her, she felt on edge but not afraid. At no point did she doubt herself. She knew she might come out of it bloodied and bruised, but she was confident she would come out the other side. Breezy’s not a fighter as such, not in the sense of having a black belt in a martial art. Oh, she knows a few different fighting styles, but in the heat of the moment, there’s no one form she draws upon. Breezy’s a brawler. Punch her in the face, split her lip open, jab at her eye, and she won’t care. She’ll keep swinging. It won’t enrage her so much as cause her to focus. She’ll lower her head, keep dancing from side to side, and look for an opening to strike back. She’ll lock eyes with her opponent and wait for them to blink. A little bit of pain allows her to zero in on what needs to be done. This, though, is different. She’s rattled. It’s the unknown. What the hell lies out there in the darkness?
Breezy pushes her shoulder up against the stable wall, reducing her profile from the side. She reaches around, touching the Glock in the small of her back. She knows it’s there. She can feel it against her skin. She knows it hasn’t slipped out while she ducked through the fence, and yet she needs to be sure. There’s something in the act of reaching that reinforces the need for caution. She’s rehearsing a draw. Usually, she keeps her t-shirt draped loosely over her gun to hide it from view. Not here. Not in a darkened, abandoned fairground. Breezy tucks the shirt behind the Glock, making sure she can grab the pistol grip with ease.
She creeps along in the shadows, watching the way the moonlight falls. Looking around, she plans a path through the darkness. If she keeps to the service alley, she can reach the main concourse. From there, a set of bleachers form a grandstand overlooking the racetrack. They’ll provide her with cover as she moves toward the circus tent. Several support poles have fallen within the big top, but the main arena is still standing.
