Cut Throat Chapter 4 - Media Blitz
Chapter 4 - Media Blitz
“…so who is this strange new menace to our city? Does he
have a name? Where did he come from? And what are the police doing about it?”
*
Tonto Ramirez watches the glow of the television. Vaguely,
he sees the pretty television reporter…what’s her name…Covington…Marsha Covington…but
he’s not listening to her. What does she have to say that’s so important for
him to hear? He doesn’t care about the news…he doesn’t care about anything
anymore…not since that night…
Besides, with the amount of morphine coursing through his
system to stem to pain of his missing leg, it would be hard to follow the words
coming out of her, filtered through the speakers.
Tonto knows who she is talking about, though, and that’s why
he keeps it on the channel. That, and he likes Marsha Covington’s face. He
perked up a little when he heard his name mentioned.
*
“…only thing the police have acknowledged so far, is that
there is a killer lurking the streets, targeting suspected gang members and
affiliates…
*
“Turn that shit off and pay attention, Ramon.”
Frank Manning slapped Ramon’s hand so hard he almost dropped
his phone. He looked up, his mouth open to say something about it, and stopped.
He hadn’t worked for Frank Manning long, but he had seen that same look in
other men’s eyes. The look that said, push
me, I dare you.
“Yes, sir,” Ramon said.
“You other boys get ready, too,” Frank said, pointing a finger
at the five men slouched against the wall outside the warehouse. “Shipment is
on its way, and I want to move them in quick.”
Frank stood there with his hands on his hips, waiting for
them to comply. They were lazy. Every one of them. Jesus, he thought, for the
amount of money they’re getting paid, they should snap to attention. He bit
his lip and though about which one of the little gangbangers he’d have to make
an example of.
Then he heard it. The truck rumbling down the back alley leading
to the warehouse. The round headlights bore like torches in the night.
“Come on!” he shouted. “Andele, andele!”
Finally, he got them moving as the truck ground to a stop. Frank
peered in at the driver. A man he recognized but had no name for. He liked it
that way. No names, no chinks in the armor of the operation. Long as he knew the
face.
Frank pushed a button on the remote control he carried, and
the garage door begin to grind open.
“You, Pedro,” he said, pointing a finger at the kid standing
next to Ramon. This one had face tats. It was a growing trend Frank didn’t understand.
Face tats made it that much easier to be identified. It wasn’t just kids
either. The older ones were getting them too. “Get the truck door open. Let’s
start loading them inside.”
Pedro shifted the pistol he wore shoved into his waistband,
nodded, and went to the back of the truck. Frank watched the door swing open
and held his breath as the stench of humanity rolled out to greet him. Within the
darkness of the truck, bodies began to writhe and stand. Soft muffled voices
carried out into the alleyway.
“All right, get them out and get them into the garage.” He clapped
his hands. “Come on, chop, chop!”
The little lazy gangbangers encircled the rear of the truck.
Two of them climbed inside and began to grab hold of those dark figures,
herding them to the rear of the truck and outside.
Ramon slipped his .357 Magnum from the back of his pants and
held it up so the women piling out of the truck could see it. He picked a girl up
by the arm, a skinny emaciated girl with dark skin and stringy, tangled hair, and
yanked her to her feet.
“Get in the warehouse,” said Ramon.
The girl’s dark, saucer eyes fell on Frank, the only man
there who wasn’t wielding a gun, and she rushed to him.
“Please, senior, help us…”
Frank took a handful of her hair and threw her towards the
garage.
“Get in there, puta!”
She fell at the door and one of the gangbangers kicked her. Frank
watched as she turned those saucer eyes on him and laughed. There was something
in those eyes. Like this little waste of a girl still had some fight left in her.
She wouldn’t for long.
“Get her up and get her inside.”
The girls were crowded outside the truck now and the
gangbangers herded them toward the garaged door. They moved slowly, afraid of
the darkness that waited for them.
Something hit the roof of the truck and Frank looked up.
Whatever it was, it was gone. Then one of the gangbangers fell. In the moonlight,
Frank saw the dark splatter of blood staining the gangbangers back.
A gun went off, the flash of the barrel drawing Frank’s eyes
toward Ramon. The girls high pitched screaming covered any other sounds that
might have followed the blast of the Magnum.
Blood arced from Ramon’s neck and splattered Frank’s face
like warm rain. The gangbanger fell. Frank lost sight of him as the girl’s ran,
their bare feet pattering against the asphalt.
POP! POP! POP!
Another gun. It was Pedro. Frank turned his head, following
the gangbangers line of fire, but saw nothing. Then Pedro screamed, made a
choking sound, and fell.
The truck rumbled to life. Gears shifted and its tires began
to roll.
Frank Manning knew when to cut his losses. He ran toward the
back of the truck, the door swinging on its hinges, and jumped inside, just as
hit began to pull way.
Another scream ripped through the night and Frank turned as
the truck gained speed. The truck’s red taillights shined down on five dead
bodies, their limbs contorted, dark pools spreading beneath them, a shadow
amongst them.
Frank slipped the little .9mm out of his pocket.
“Go!” he shouted, “Go!”
The shadow moved, coming towards him, two long blades
twirling alongside the shadow.
Frank fired.
POP! POP! POP! POP!
POP!
The shadow was gone and Frank smiled.
“That’s right you, tights wearing mother—no one messes with
Frank Manning!”
Then he heard the crunch on top of the truck. He followed
the sound of feet running towards the cab. He followed it crunching with shots
from his pistol.
POP! POP! Click.
He dropped the magazine out and reached into his pocket for
his spare.
“You don’t know who you’re messing with!”
Frank was thrown against the wall as the truck swerved
suddenly. Then he was thrown deeper into the darkness of the truck as it crashed
to a halt outside. He came to in a puddle that smelled like piss and rolled
over.
White slitted eyes shown in the darkness above him. Two
swords crossed in front of a man in head to toe black, all except his mouth and
stubbled chin.
“You messed with the wrong—”
Frank’s breath caught as a foot lodged against his throat,
pinning him to the ground. He raised the pistol, aiming towards the center of
those white slitted eyes. Then his hand was gone, blood spurting from his
wrist. His ears filled with his own scream.
Then the man’s face was in front of his.
“I will only ask you once. Where do the girls come from?”
Tears of pain welled in Frank’s eyes. He felt warm blood cascade
across his chest as he held the stump where his hand used to be close.
“You can go f—”
He felt the touch of ice-cold steel across his neck, then
the searing hot pain of a blade drawn across his throat. His eyes widened at
the sight of his own blood splatter the shadow man’s face in crimson.
And then he saw no more.
*
“…a menace? A hero? Who is this man leaving the bodies of
criminals littered in the streets? First was called the Green Street Killer,
but if the piles of bodies are any indication, he has moved on, and been given
a new name in the street. People are calling him Cut Throat, and those who dwell
in the underworld are on watch…”
*
“Turn that shit off.”
“Sure thing, Detective.”
Bledsoe sipped his beer as the bartender clicked the channel
over to a Dodgers game.
“Jesus,” he said, when the bartender came back with a fresh
cold one, “just what this city needs.”
“What’s that?”
“A maniac with a name to live up to.”
…to be continued
Cut Throat Chapter Five - Patience
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