Bad Luck and Worse Choices

  Gareth Lewis

  Copyright 2023 Gareth Lewis

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Any piracy of this work shall result in the forfeiture of the pirate's soul to the author. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Language Note

  This novel is written in British English, so contains spelling differences from American English.

  Chapter 1

  Charlotte watched the life vanish from his face. Not gradually. It snapped away in an instant, leaving only vague surprise in the vacant eyes staring at her. The change was more startling than the gunshot that caused it. Though given all the gunfire going around, attribution wasn’t a priority.

  He fell back. Hit the ground. Came to rest with his FBI vest facing upwards. The tag identified him as Hollenbeck.

  Shit. The gunfire cracked through the numbness blanketing her ears, reminding her of the danger. It yanked her gaze from the dead body. She ducked against the car and fought back the swelling panic.

  It shouldn’t have gone like this. This should’ve been her escape from a life of crime. So long taking care to avoid the violent side of the business, only for it to overwhelm her this close to the end.

  She glanced around, but most shooters were hidden from her current vantage. Hollenbeck’s vacant face stared past her. His Sig Sauer P226 lay a few feet away.

  Unarmed was the second worst thing to be in a gunfight, untrained being the worst. She scrambled out. Grabbed the gun. Darted back to cover as a bullet hit the bonnet.

  Not that a gun was much use against so many others. But its firmness lent her focus. She needed to get away, before the other guns were aimed at her.

  She inched towards the front of the car, peeking out for a picture of the surrounding danger. This abandoned corner of the vast shipyard was remote. The vegetation erupting from the paving and concrete said it received few visitors, and the smell of rust and decay overwhelmed the aroma of sea air. Even here, this amount of gunfire should draw attention. If not in time to save her.

  Dilapidated buildings surrounded her. Good cover for covert meetings, but too easy a trap. Possibly a tomb. The few windows nearby were too high. The doorways were too far away and exposed.

  This should’ve been a simple trade of the stolen device to the Red Eagles biker gang. The crew had sold to them before, so it’d sounded straightforward.

  The bikers had revealed themselves by opening fire on the hidden Feds. And on the crew, indiscriminately catching everyone by surprise.

  Gunfire was focussed on the building ahead of the car. Feds had emerged from it, so the surviving ones must be inside. A few figures fired at them from cover. The ambushers wore protective vests, with the scruffy looks and air of defensive machismo she expected of bikers. A couple had assault rifles, so they’d clearly come prepared.

  She ducked back before becoming a target, and didn’t waste time counting bodies. There’d been a few. Mainly Feds. Most of the crew were also down. Some dead, the rest sure to follow. The bikers wouldn’t want witnesses, and professional courtesies didn’t mean the two groups trusted each other.

  She had until they finished with the Feds to get clear. She needed an exit. The car she used for cover had taken hits. It may not run. It had no clear path anyway, blocked in by the two Fed cars that’d rushed in as reinforcements.

  Those reinforcements were down, but one car seemed undamaged. Clear of the heaviest gunfire, it was her only option.

  None of the bikers paid her any attention. The nearest - with a scraggly, grey-flecked beard - stood over Jon. Crouched beside a derelict fork lift, Jon was still alive. Briefly.

  Charlotte shot at the biker without thinking. Registering the bullet-resistant vest before firing, she aimed for his head. He collapsed screaming, grasping his left ear. His gun fell nearby, but he made no move to retrieve it.

  She ran to them. Grabbed Jon by the collar. Dragged his scrawny body up and towards the car. He stumbled after her, not resisting. While slightly taller than her, he’d weigh little more. She could drag him like that, but taking his weight would risk both of them. He looked to be in shock. Not unreasonably. Her own mind screamed at her to crawl up in a ball and hide, but she was too panicked to listen. That she formed any kind of plan, however flimsy, was an achievement.

  While bullets flew all around, the noise made it hard to tell how close. Sharp whipcracks broke through the blanket of sound. Too many, and too belated, to dodge.

  The engine was still running when they reached the car. Jon flinched as she shoved him in the back. If he said anything, it was lost to the noise. There was blood on his arm. No time to examine him, or they’d both lose a lot more of it.

  Shots pinged off the hood as she got behind the wheel. She hit the gas. Did a tight reverse. Somehow didn’t hit anything. Once out of sight of the bikers, she found space for a quick turn, then sped off.

  She kept glancing in the mirror. There was no immediate pursuit. And no FBI reinforcements barred their way. Perhaps they’d all rushed in. She doubted they’d have done so without some general call for aid. As any such help may shoot first, she’d sooner avoid them.

  A minute later they’d reached the edge of the yards. She forced her foot up off the gas. Better not to draw attention on the streets. Still no signs of pursuit. But this car belonged to dead Feds. She couldn’t afford to get pulled over driving it, with an injured man in back.

  Her racing mind slowed with the car. Enough to suggest the possibility of coherent thought.

  They had decisions to make. Starting with the immediate practicalities, to get her back into the swing of thinking.

  ‘We need to change cars,’ she said. At least to get wherever they’d go. Somewhere to lie low, initially. She glanced at him in the mirror. ‘How’s the arm?’

  Jon looked at her, still dazed. After a moment he glanced at his arm, as though only now aware of the wound. He grunted as he checked it. The pain should yank him out of his daze. ‘Just a scrape,’ he said through gritted teeth, short of breath. ‘Didn’t stay in. Could’ve been worse.’

  It might still be, if left untreated.

  ‘Billy?’ asked Jon, holding back panic. ‘Was he...?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Charlotte. Jon’s brother had led the crew. The hole in his head had left no room for hope. ‘We need a plan. Somewhere to go.’

  Jon took a moment to gather his thoughts. ‘The safehouse?’ His voice remained vague.

  Charlotte glanced around on hearing a siren, but there were no flashing lights. It hadn’t sounded close, but she wouldn’t relax anytime soon. She grabbed the gun from the passenger’s seat and laid it on the floor by her feet. The further they got from the scene, the less chance of the bikers finding them, and shooting at law enforcement would be dumb.

  ‘We don’t know for how long, or who, the Feds have been watching,’ she said. ‘Since the Red Eagles ambushed them, they may’ve been on us. They might know about the safehouse.’

  Jon cursed under his breath, with more emphasis than the realisation deserved. Grief may play into his thoughts more than was healthy. ‘We need to run,’ he said.

  ‘Where?’ she asked.

  ‘Away.’

  ‘How? We don’t know what the Feds knew about us. They may have our accounts monitored, and I don’t have enough cash.’

  ‘I’ve got secure accounts,’ said Jon. ‘I can get us out.’ At least he included her, but he was reacting rather than thinking.

  ‘You’re sure they can’t link them to you?’ asked Charlotte. She eased back further on the gas as they passed a police cruiser. It sped past with no siren or light, and no interest in them.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jon. He’d been the crew’s tech, and should have secure accounts. But he sounded less certain, as a useful occupational paranoia kicked in. Useful for her.

  ‘Even with money, dead Feds will mean the city gets shut down. They’ll watch rail and bus depots. And using a stolen car on roads out will be risky.’

  ‘We didn’t shoot them,’ said Jon. The indignity in his tone barely reached the end of the sentence, as reality came calling. It didn’t matter who fired the shots.

  ‘We need somewhere to lie low,’ she said, nudging his thoughts.

  Jon hissed as he moved his arm wrong. ‘I’ll call Spencer, have him find an alternative safehouse.’

  She nodded. It was the obvious move, but she needed Jon involved. Harsh as it was, he could get lost in grief on his own time.

  ‘Once you’ve made the call,’ said Charlotte, ‘turn it off and take the card out.’

  He stared at her in the mirror a moment, before nodding and making the call. She fumbled her own phone out.

  Jon was recovering his senses, but might relapse. Anxiety and caution may hold it at bay, but they risked sliding into panic.

  She focussed on driving inconspicuously, while planning where to boost another car. Details were safer to focus on than the big picture. That brought only terror at the immensity of her troubles. She needed to plan the next step, then the one after, and hope it erased the memory of Hollenbeck’s vacant face. The memory of how close she’d been to escaping this life.

  Survival took priority. And distracting Jon from realising he’d be top of his brother’s known associates list. It made him dangerous to be around, and the smart move would be to dump him. But he might be her only way out of this. Also, she was probably still in shock.

  Chapter 2

  The new safehouse was a low-ceilinged, cramped artist’s loft. For the artist more interested in good lighting than good posture. It was in the cheap end of the arts district, where a thief would have to be desperate or specialised to find work.

  While offended by the place’s hipness, Jon had been mollified by the good wi-fi. He’d been glued to the news reports on the TV and online, as though hoping for a report that his brother had survived. It wouldn’t be coming.

  There’d been reports that all FBI agents on site had been killed. There was no way to know how many working with them weren’t on site, and how much they knew.

  News reports gave rise to too many questions they couldn’t answer. She focussed on bandaging Jon up. It had been just a scratch, though he’d need new clothes. Bloody holes could be conspicuous.

  He was as jumpy as her. One of them peeked out the window at any distant hint of a siren. But he’d said no more about running. He was too focussed on his doomed hopes.

  She’d had second thoughts about running, though that reluctance might be her unwillingness to face reality. Her exit strategy had been blown, so she had to abandon that hope.

  The news report’s update was just a recap for newcomers. There were dead FBI agents and criminals. It didn’t differentiate which criminals, and whether any were bikers. She’d seen some of them injured, such as the one who lost an ear, but didn’t know that any had died. If there had been fatalities, they could have been taken to avoid a link to the gang.

  They both jumped at the knock on the door, even having expected company.

  Charlotte peered out the spyhole, almost regretting having wiped and dumped the gun. She relaxed on seeing Spencer.

  She opened the door and let him in. With shaggy white hair and beard, and casual clothes, he didn’t look much like an entrepreneur. More a roadie for an over-the-hill folk band. But after making his fortune as a fence, he’d legalised, more or less. Diversifying into a range of ventures, legitimate and otherwise.

  He was a multi-purpose service provider to criminal types, offering pay-day loans, official employment to explain cash flow, and even safehouses. One of his ventures was a successful real estate firm. Some of the unoccupied properties they handled wouldn’t always be listed, instead getting rented out to business acquaintances.

  He’d brought a couple of bags of food and supplies. He gave Charlotte a standoffish nod as he entered. She’d only met him a few times, when he’d facilitated her recruitment for some jobs. He was warmer commiserating Jon, as Charlotte put the food away.

  ‘I should’ve done more,’ said Jon. ‘Done something.’ Beating himself up was not good. It could lead to frustration and impulsiveness. She’d have to watch that.

  ‘There was nothing you could’ve done,’ she said. ‘We had no warning. One moment we’re wondering where they are, the next there’s shooting all around, and we realise the Feds are there and getting shot at. Along with us. The others were down in seconds.’ Catching Spencer’s look, she glared at him. ‘Ask it?’

  He returned an even stare. ‘Ask what?’

  ‘Your look says you suspect me.’ She probably sounded defensive, and paranoid. Or at least on edge.

  ‘You were new to the crew,’ said Spencer.

  ‘Because you introduced us.’

  ‘She pulled me out of there,’ said Jon. ‘Saved my life. Shot a biker who was about to kill me.’

  The memory unearthed a degree of nausea. Her pragmatic side said she should’ve killed him, as his kind liked their grudges. But she’d sooner live watching her back than carry that weight.

  Spencer held her gaze a moment, before nodding and turning to Jon. More to move the conversation on, she was sure, than because he was satisfied.

  ‘We need a way out of here,’ said Jon, with little enthusiasm. ‘I’ve got money, but can’t be certain it’s not watched. We need to get out of the city.’

  Spencer sat beside Jon, with his lips pursed in thought. ‘From what I’ve heard, the authorities are looking for runners.’

  ‘So, what?’ asked Jon. ‘We should hole up and hope they don’t find us.’

  ‘Or stay busy,’ said Spencer. ‘They’ll be looking for targets running or trying to hide, not going about their lives.’

  ‘You want us doing stuff that could draw police attention?’ asked Jon.

  ‘It could get you fresh funds. I know of one crew that just lost their tech guy. It’s a time-sensitive job, and the backer wants it to go ahead.’

  ‘How exactly did they lose him?’ asked Charlotte. She sat in the armchair facing them.

  ‘He had outstanding warrants he neglected to mention,’ said Spencer. ‘Got pulled in on them. The lawyer I sent got him to keep quiet about the new stuff, so the job’s secure.’

  ‘Another job?’ said Jon, showing little enthusiasm. ‘Even in this state, I can tell that sounds crazy.’ He looked at Charlotte. ‘Or is it just me?’

  ‘It’s not just you. If we get arrested, there’s the danger we’ll be linked to the death of the Feds. That’s already a danger for you, because of your link to your brother, so you need to avoid the police. Although, if you are caught on another job, you could use it as an alibi.’

  His look said he didn’t see that as much of a benefit.

  ‘You’d have to be desperate to go on another job so quickly,’ she said. ‘At the least, it’d introduce reasonable doubt.’

  ‘Not that you should get caught,’ said Spencer.

  ‘The job’ll keep us away from trouble?’ asked Jon. He seemed inclined to go along with it. Perhaps just because someone was offering to tell him what to do. He wasn’t a leader, and had followed his brother. Obeying orders was an easy role to fall into. She’d done so herself on occasion. At times she shouldn’t have.

  ‘They only need a tech guy,’ said Spencer. He didn’t look at Charlotte.

  ‘No,’ said Jon, without hesitation. ‘Both of us, or neither.’

  Whether he felt obliged for her saving him, or wanted her there for the familiarity, it was useful. She wasn’t certain going straight to another job was wise, given the trauma they’d just suffered. But it’d offer a distraction. It’d be better than sitting around letting her neuroses bubble up into something dangerous.

  It dragged her further in though, when she’d expected to end the day clear of this life.

  They’d have to do something for him anyway. Spencer wasn’t a charity, no matter how he regarded Jon. He was a businessman.

  Spencer didn’t immediately say anything. He neither withdrew the offer, nor tried convincing Jon to change his mind. He instead turned his head to regard her.

  For him to consider it, the job must be lucrative or important. And they really needed a tech guy.

  ‘I’ll contact the backer,’ said Spencer.

  The mild elation she felt must be hysteria. They were going straight into a new job, before coming to terms with the mess of the last one. This couldn’t possibly go wrong.

  Chapter 3

  Spencer arranged a meeting with the leader of the crew a few hours later, at his main offices.

  The Northside Wellness Centre was a relatively utilitarian structure, if you could see beyond the irritatingly calming colour scheme and the spurts of decorative stonework. There were plenty of civilians around as cover, most of whom made an effort to look like they were at peace.

  A lot of the people knew Spencer, and he stopped every few steps to talk to someone. His unflappable happiness must be from whatever made him such a good salesman. He almost seemed genuine. Talking amiably, remembering names - even of those without name tags. It freaked Charlotte out a little. Being around crowds didn’t feel safe right now.

  He eventually led them into a light and airy room with chairs arranged in a circle in the centre.

 

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