Titan Fall - Book 18 of the Damned of the 2/19th

Old Friends

It was raining. Not much, just the steady Washington drizzle that kept the Pacific Northwest green almost year round. The summer night had cooled off already, the rain and the clouds and the wind cooling everything quickly. Lightning snarled in the clouds, thunder rumbling and booming at random.

The place was your typical auto-body shop on the edge of town. Near a junkyard, but not too close, away from the typical Yuppie businesses but close enough to downtown that cars could get brought there quickly and easily. Three tow-trucks that sat in the back parking lot.

As I watched, three cars were brought in and the drivers and their friends left, usually looking happy.

Those cars were someone's. I saw a Baby On Board sticker, a Lacey High School Honor Student sticker, and a Vietnam Vet sticker. All three were months or years worth the payments, probably not even paid off. Now they were gone and the person had to replace it once the insurance company got done telling them that the car they paid five grand for was worth only seven hundred dollars blue book and after their fifteen hundred dollar deductable the insurance company wasn't going to pay shit, leaving  them with a year or two worth the payments to go.

It can just be replaced! was something I heard in college from people who had barely graduated high school. Sure, it could, but the hundreds of hours at a low paying job couldn't be replaced. I'd tried explaining it and only blank looks in return.

Moving around it, walking around the block across the street, then once through the alley, hands in my pocket, sportsball cap pulled low, cigarette in my mouth, I got a quick layout. Once the door was open and I was able to make a quick estimate of roughly a dozen or so people working inside to tear the cars apart.

The guy at the side door was a big guy, taller than my six foot, well muscled, bald, with a permanent angry scowl. Leather jacket and jeans, sneakers, and a gaudy gold watch on one wrist to match the heavy gold chain around his neck.

Russian.

From the shitty tattoos on his neck and hands, Russian mob without a doubt.

Well, Hollister admitted he was working with them by trying to threaten me with them.

I knew Russians.

They understood two things. A gun in their ear and a boot on their neck. Anything else was a waste of time.

I walked down the alley, that shambling walk I'd perfected over the years, shoulders relaxed, spine relaxed, knees flexed slightly. It made me look about four inches shoulder and the slump hid my size, making people mistake me for fat.

I pulled out the cigarette pack, pulling one out, then made a show of slapping my pockets as I walked up.

"Got a light?" I asked the guy.

"Fucking American junkies," the guy snarled in Russian. "No, fuck off," he finished in English.

"Oh," I said, sounding sad.

The guy was already watching the mouth of the alley again, dismissing me.

"Too bad for you," I said.

He started to look at me as I took two quick steps forward. He tried to reach into his pocket and hold his hands out at the same time.

I grabbed his face, my hand almost covering his face, took the half step so I was beside him.

And drove his head into the cinderblock wall as hard as I could.

I felt something pop and he slid down, one arm twitching and a foot tic making the tip of his sneaker bob back and forth. He was halfway down when I drove my knee into his face, slamming his head against the wall.