Chapter 37
Even though the Browning had been pulled, Scott kept the barrel facing the ground. He carefully watched the dangerous men, those that had come out of the park’s bathroom and into the pouring rain. He had to continuously use his free hand to wipe away the rain from his eyes, because it threatened to blur his vision. Patiently, at least in slight patience, he studied the men’s movements and tried to determine their next steps. Studying behavior, trying to guess future actions, was always his dad’s field, not his. At that moment, he wished that some of that talent had rubbed off on him, because he might have been less nervous, less shaky.
Or not. Just because he might have had more insight into the men’s behavior, the danger behind their intent would still exist. Understanding dangerous men didn’t make them any less dangerous. A lesson he was sure his psychologist father knew well.
Scott had to keep his head on, nonetheless. Who were the men? What were they capable of? He needed to know.
Scott was in good shape but not stupid enough to believe that he could take on a group of men, some if not all of them armed with weapons which were most likely capable of punching bigger holes than his own. Looking closely, which was difficult in the continuous rainfall, he tried to size up the men. The man from the yellow Porsche might have a pistol hidden somewhere on him, but he also might not, leaving the violence to the man at his right, the large guy holding a yellow umbrella. The man holding the yellow umbrella was obvious muscle. Scott could make out a brown pony tail, which poked out from a black baseball cap and ran down below his shoulders. The man with the yellow umbrella also wore a matching black t-shirt, with a bulge of what was most likely a vest.
Bulletproof vest.
Scott sighed.
Through the rain, Scott could barely see a large object hanging at the waist of the man holding the yellow umbrella. A gun. It looked large, larger than his own. But it did appear to be handgun, nothing too powerful, like a shotgun or an assault rifle. Yet, in the hands of someone trained, any gun, even a low caliber pea shooter, was more dangerous than something in the hands of someone like Scott, untrained and shaky.
Scott knew that he could not trade shot for shot with the killer holding the yellow umbrella.
He would lose.
In front of those two men were three more men. All three of them were wearing what looked like expensive dark suits, Armani or something of similar price. The two on the outside appeared to be from somewhere in the Middle East, Scott made the assumption based on the fact that their skin closely resembled the sands of the desert. They were the men in charge, of that he was sure.
The man in the middle was another obvious bodyguard, and he too held a large umbrella for the other two, but the one he held was dark blue, not yellow. The second muscle had dark skin and a bald head. Scott couldn’t make out a vest beneath the suit, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if one existed. He was also pretty sure weapons of some form were hidden beneath the expensive clothing, but he couldn’t even guess to what size and to what caliber. That unknowing scared him the most.
He had to be smart before he acted.
Scott was often labeled a jock or an athlete, but he was far from a moron. He may not be on par with his father but he had intellect. How could the son of Ashe Walters not have some kind of brain? So instead of running in guns blazing, he knew that he had to think his actions through. He had to have a plan. If he didn’t act on a plan, than he was sure to die in that park, the rain rolling his blood through the woods.
For a few minutes the men just stood in silence. And Scott found it hard to breath. When were they going to do something?
A streak of lightning struck somewhere in the distance, followed by thunder that seemed to shake the trees. Scott jumped and almost cried out. He jerked his free hand to his mouth and caught the shriek before it got out.
One of the Middle Eastern men finally spoke, his words getting lost in the rain. After he spoke, the other one added something to it. Lastly, the man from the yellow Porsche made a comment. The men in charge, yellow Porsche and the two Middle Easterners, shook hands. Afterward, the Middle Easterners and their muscle departed, heading back to their SUV, while yellow Porsche and his muscle remained behind.
Scott didn’t consider the turn of events. A plan suddenly formed in his mind.
The man from the yellow Porsche and his muscle watched the other men drive off and Scott was happy to see them go. His enemies had just shrunk from five to two, and he liked those odds a lot better. It would still be tough and dangerous, but no longer completely impossible.
Glancing to his feet, Scott found what remained of a large branch. He reached down and grabbed it. It fit nicely in his hand. He reluctantly put the handgun in the front of his pants. He would need two hands for the branch.
The two remaining men exchanged a few more words and began their walk back to the yellow Porsche. Scott’s pulse increased its pace as he watched them casually stroll back to the vehicle. They were casually exchanging dialogue, but Scott couldn’t make out what they were saying, once again the words were lost in the rain, which seemed to have increased in its density.
He wiped more water from his eyes.
Watching the men, Scott knew that his chance was coming and once he took the first step there was no turning back, at least not alive.
When the men arrived at the car, Scott sprang from behind the tree. Sprinting up behind them, he swung the remnant of the branch with everything he had, planting it across the back of the big man’s skull. It shattered under the force. The vibrations reverberated through his knuckles. The big man stumbled forward but didn’t go down. He didn’t even go to his knees. From a leather holster, Scott caught sight of the big guy’s handgun. Before the big man had time to shake away the ringing in his ears, Scott ripped the man’s gun from its holster and heaved it across the street and into the woods on the other side. He didn’t want to have to keep track of two loaded weapons.
Turning, Scott grabbed his own gun from his waist.
The man from the yellow Porsche was looking at Scott in surprise, his mouth open. Once he was over the initial shock, the man from the yellow Porsche would react. In order to neutralize him, Scott pointed the gun and shot him in the lower part of his calf. It only grazed the leg and did little more than remove a chunk of skin, but the man screamed in pain, anyway. The cry was a mixture of pain and anger.
That would occupy the yellow man for a moment. Or so he hoped.
While Scott’s attention was on the main target, though, the big guy had regained his senses and rushed Scott, taking him to the ground. The Browning fell from Scott’s hand, but he didn’t let that stop him from acting. With the big guy was on top of him attempting to subdue him, Scott used his fists while he still could. He swung, connecting with the man’s jaw, but the hit wasn’t strong enough. He swung again and again, but the big man shrugged off the blows. In desperation, Scott rammed his thumb into the big man’s right eye and felt the eyeball shift.
The big guy’s head jerked back and he groaned but he continued to fight with Scott’s arms, as he tried to pin them down. The rain, though, had made Scott wet and slippery and the big guy couldn’t keep a hold of him. Using it to his advantage, Scott began to wiggle rapidly beneath the big guy. Finding the right position, Scott then brought his knee against the big guy’s crotch.
It was dirty.
But fuck it.
The guy on top of Scott immediately tensed and Scott managed to slip away. He grabbed another tree limb, one slightly smaller than the last. Still sitting, facing the big man, Scott swung another piece of wood and connected with the man’s face.
That time there was blood.
But the blood coming from the big guy’s lip and cheek seemed to bring him back to reality and he lunged to his feet, faster than any reaction Scott could make. The big guy rushed Scott again, driving him back into the side of
tree. Breath escaped Scott. His lungs emptied. The big man rapidly jabbed Scott again in his empty lungs, making sure that he could not catch his breath.
Scott felt momentarily paralyzed.
Finding a fragment of clear thought, Scott tried to attack. Momentarily forgetting about the vest beneath the big guy’s black t-shirt, Scott jabbed and tried to steal the man’s air, but heard his knuckle pop instead.
A yelp flew from his lips.
Scott bent his head in, but not for a head-butt. Instead he bit down on the big man’s nose and tasted the man’s blood as it filled his mouth. Leaning back, he then spat the mouthful of crimson blood into the big guy’s eyes. First the big guy flinched in surprise. And then he fell back a step as the blood seeped further into his eyes.
While the big guy began to paw at his eyes, Scott took the chance to ball a fist and hit the big man as hard as he could in the jaw. Even though Scott had brains, he was an athlete through and through, built and muscular, and when he was able to properly hit someone on the chin it was no surprise when they went down. And the big guy, the hired muscle, reacted to the blow by falling backward, his feet slipping on the wet ground. He went down but remained semi-conscious.
Retrieving the Browining from the ground, Scott walked over to the big guy and pointed the gun downward at him. Then…he paused. The man on the ground had been trying to kill him but the act was initiated by Scott himself. It wasn’t exactly self-defense. Was it? How could he justify another body, another dead person by his hand? It wasn’t the same as Owen or the black guys from the other park.
He was conflicted.
The man had been a threat but he was neutralized, barely. He couldn’t kill the guy, Scott realized, even if the man was a typical bad guy and had most likely killed people by his own hands. Scott was not like that, though. He was not a bad guy. He did not kill for money or thrill but for his own life, his own survival. That was, by all means, the way that he saw it, even if not too many other people viewed it in the same light.
Instead of pulling the Browning’s trigger, Scott brought his right foot across the side of the man’s head. He put in enough momentum that it nearly pulled the other foot out from under him. But he stabilized himself and remained on his feet. The hit seemed to put the man the rest of the way asleep.
Leaving the big man behind, Scott ran over to the man at the yellow Porsche, who was on the ground by the vehicle, still cradling his wounded leg. A little stream of red was pooling at the man’s feet.
“Get up,” Scott ordered, with the barrel of the handgun pointing at the man’s head.
The man glared up at Scott. A smirk seemed to appear at the corner of his mouth. “You shot me in my good leg,” he called out over the rain. “Are you going to shoot me again if I decide to just sit here and bleed?”
“Get up!”
“Not going to happen, Mr. Walters,” the man replied. “I know who you are. But I’m not sure how you know me?”
Scott shook his head in frustration.
“Take off your tie,” Scott told him.
The man from the yellow Porsche had not been wearing a fancy, flashy suit, but he was wearing a tie. A yellow one. The man with the yellow tie nodded and undid his tie.
Pointing to the hurt leg, Scott made another order. “Tie it around your leg. Get that bleeding under control. And then get your ass off that ground. Do you understand me?”
The man with the yellow tie shrugged and Scott was taken aback by the simple gesture. And then it dawned on him. The man with the yellow tie knew that he wasn’t going to die…not yet, which was why he never saw Scott coming. Scott had no intention of killing the man, making him invisible on the man’s radar.
“You didn’t know I was coming,” Scott said. “Not used to that feeling are you?”
The man with the yellow tie laughed.
“What feeling?” the man asked.
“Dumbfounded,” Scott said. “Confusion. Shock. Why am I here? What do I want? You don’t know.” The words almost got caught in his still hurting lungs.
“Don’t I?”
“No,” Scott insisted. “Get that tie on your leg and get up.”
“Sure thing, boss,” the man with the yellow tie said, faking a Texas accent. “This is your rodeo. And I’m just the wounded bull.”
Scott watched the tie get wrapped around the man’s leg, just above the wound. He watched as the man pulled it tight and cut off most of the blood flow. With a smirk still on his face, the man rose to his feet and began to limp off.
“Let’s go,” the wounded bull said.
Scott pointed the direction and led the man off through the woods, back to where he had parked Bam’s car. For a brief moment he considered taking the Porsche. It would be faster. But he would not leave behind Bam’s car. He would not leave it behind to be evidence. Would there be the need for evidence? He hoped that there wouldn’t be any crime report. The big guy was a hired thug and there wasn’t any body. Anyway. How could anyone explain the crime, without giving away the reason the secret meeting was taking place in a park’s bathroom?
Scott wasn’t sure, though, and he wasn’t taking any chances.
The trek back to the car was long and the yellow man seemed to be taking his sweet time, perhaps due to his hurt leg. The good news was that the rain seemed to be growing lighter, possibly stopping at any minute. But there was bad news. Scott saw the bad news when the parking area came into full view. The rain didn’t seem to scare off many people, who must have decided to wait it out in their vehicles.
Witnesses.
Damn.
Scott moved close behind the yellow man, close enough to conceal the Browning. “Don’t even try,” he warned the man. “I will put a hole in the middle of your back. If you doubt that statement, feel free to yell for help.”
“I never doubt the man with the gun,” the man replied.
“Good philosophy,” Scott said.
No one seemed to notice the two men as they crossed the parking lot and they seemed to get to Bam’s car without any problems. But then that changed. From behind, Scott heard large footsteps stomping toward them. He turned around in time to see the big man running, full sprint, toward Bam’s car. Red still covered the man’s face. A large handgun was in his hand.
On instinct, Scott fired a shot at the big man. The bullet went wild because it had been forced and seemingly impacted near to the feet of the assailant. Instead of firing a second shot, he pulled the yellow man in between the big guy and himself. He would learn exactly how loyal the big guy was to his boss. That loyalty could mean life or death for Scott.
The big guy at once failed the test. It appeared that he was not coming at Scott to save his boss, at least not anymore. He was coming at Scott for revenge, to put down the young punk who had bit his nose.
Revenge often trumped loyalty.
Luckily, Scott pulled his human shield down in time to dodge the bullet, which caused a cracking sound as it hit Bam’s car. In a kneeling position, Scott took a calm moment, aimed and fired. Somehow Scott had managed to hit the big man just below his bulletproof vest, punching a whole into part of his lower stomach and his hip. Scott could see the blood beginning to stream as the big man dropped to his knees and then to his back.
There was shrieking in the background and it seemed to have existed before Scott happened to notice. The sound of the shouting onlookers caused him to at once panic. He quickly jumped to his feet and forced the yellow man into the car. Once inside, Scott drove away from the park, cursing as loud as he could.
The big guy might die.
Fuck.
Another body.