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Ray Douglas finally opened the letter that had been sitting in his pocket for two days now, the letter in the blood-spattered envelope. Sitting in a booth at the rear of a small roadhouse somewhere near the state-line between Pennsylvania and Maryland, Ray Douglas lit a cigarette before unfolding the sheet of paper in front of him. The cigarette smouldering between his stained fingers trembled in unison with his hand as he unfolded the note. Typed on paper covered in specks of dried blood, the letter read;
'Douglas, little sis needs fifty grand before midnight. Friday. You know the deal. You know who this is. You know what happens if you don't.'
“Dammit Rachel,” Ray muttered as he took a drag from the dwindling cigarette. The adrenaline of driving non-stop overnight had finally worn off. He had known the envelope meant trouble without even having to open it, he knew it had something to do with Rachel, his little sister. Since they were kids Rachel had always been the rational one, the smart one. Ray was always getting in trouble; when he was relieved of duty for “conduct unbecoming” it was Rachel who stood by him, his parents had already cut off all contact with their wayward son. But when Ray went overseas for two years the roles seemed to reverse. Now Rachel was in trouble and it was Ray's turn to finally be the big brother she never had. He gently let the note rest on the red and white checkered table-cloth before resting his head in his hands. Ray heard the rain kicking up outside, it was seven in the morning but the storm growing overhead turned dawn into dusk.
A waitress noticed Ray's smoke cloud from across the dining area, grabbed the coffee pot from behind the counter and made her way over to him. “You'll have to put that out, mister,” she said, then added with a grin and a look of embarrassment, “I know there's nobody here, but it's still against the rules.”
Ray peeked out from behind his hands, the waitress was in her mid-twenties, pale with short black hair, dyed. He realised he must look like shit, his black suit and tie were crumpled from sitting in the car all night, and his thick woollen overcoat probably stank of smoke. But Ray hadn't had time to change, shower or shave since yesterday. After clocking off from his shitty job driving VIPs around Ottawa, Ray was looking forward to some much needed sleep. But when that letter fell through the mail-slot in the door of his apartment, Ray picked it up, grabbed his keys and his smokes and left for Baltimore. He had stopped only once since crossing the border back into the States, to refuel the car and pick up some more cigarettes.
“How far am I from Maryland?” Ray asked the waitress abruptly, dismissing her suggestion about the cigarette and her coy smile.
“Not far, ten or fifteen minutes I guess,” she offered another slight grin but looked nervous about the cigarette, she didn't want to get into any trouble here. Ray's eyes widened as he realised where he was. He checked his watch and began to mumble as he shot a glance at the rain-soaked road through the timber Venetians.
Noticing this strange behaviour, the waitress spoke without thinking; “Are you in some kind of trouble, mister?”
Ray's eyes darted back to her, blood-shot and droopy. “No, but Rach...” He trailed off.
“What?” She leaned closer, not quite catching that.
Knowing he was wasting time, Ray placed his cigarette between his lips, grabbed a fistful of notes and coins from his coat pocket and put them on the table. “Look, I gotta go lady,” he said as he got up and rushed for the door, cigarette still hanging from his mouth.
“Hey!” The waitress called after him, but he didn't turn to answer her. He was already gone.
In the parking-lot of the roadhouse, Ray Douglas covered his head with his coat so that his cigarette wouldn't go out in the rain. He had more, but recently he had never butted a cigarette if he could get away with it. He made his way towards his car through flooded puddles in the cracked asphalt, his black shoes collecting more mud with each step. Once the car was started, Ray jammed the column-shift of his battered Cadillac into reverse and stomped on the accelerator. He drew another cigarette from the crumpled packet in his coat pocket and lit it with the one still dangling from his mouth. Ray knew that once he reached Maryland, it would only take him an hour or so to get to Baltimore, and to his sister. Reaching over to grab the letter he had tossed on the passenger seat, Ray was thrown back by an unexpected and violent jolt from behind. He looked into the rear-view mirror just in time to catch the dazed look of the police officer, sitting in the cruiser that he had just rammed.
Ray jammed the gear-stick into first, whipping the steering wheel around, and then back again as he kicked the accelerator pedal to the floor. He inhaled deeply from the cigarette and fish-tailed his over-sized '87 out of the lot and onto the road. After the moment of shock had passed, the squad car roared into life; its sirens shrieking as it peeled out onto the road behind Ray. Glancing from the rear-view, to the road ahead, to the letter in his hand, Ray realised that today was Friday and he didn't have time for this.
“Great,” he groaned, reluctantly butting the cigarette out in the ashtray and grinding the Caddy up a gear.
Ray floored the hulking mass of steel through the whipping winds and torrential rain and straight through an intersection with the cop still on his ass. He would have to deal with this cop before he said too much over the police radio, and he knew he would have to make it fast. Flicking the indicator on, Ray jerked his Cadillac over to the side of the road and let the cop catch his breath.
Ray could tell that the stunt with the intersection had worked exactly as he had intended when he saw the cop exit his squad car, hand already on his pistol. He just has to make one mistake, Ray thought as he eyed the officer. He just has to make the same mistake I made, Ray thought to himself, all those years ago. Like a gorilla, the cop rocked his powerfully built barrel of a body through the pouring rain towards where Ray was parked, waiting patiently. When he reached the car, the cop rapped his hairy knuckle violently on the closed window, giving Ray just enough time to register his wedding ring and name-badge; 'John James'. Perfect, Ray thought as he wound the window down.
“Alright smart-ass, I'm gonna assume you know why I've pulled you over.” Officer John James said, eyes fixed on Ray, hand still resting on his pistol.
“Aww shit,” Ray groaned, his hands shaking on the steering wheel.
“That's right, 'aww shit!'” Officer James mimicked.
“I knew you'd find me, Jesus! I knew this would happen,” Ray mumbled, half to the cop, half to himself.
“You thought I wouldn't find you? What are you? Some kind of idiot!” Officer James barked into the window through the roar of the storm.
“Goddamnit! She told me her husband was a cop. Why didn't I believe her? Stupid! Stupid!” Ray mumbled to himself, not looking at Officer James who was now soaked.
James paused, this last remark had caught him off-guard, “wait, what are you talking about?”
“You're John James, right? Officer John James! I'm sorry, Jesus I'm sorry!” Ray groaned. He had tears in his eyes, although this wasn't necessary as the rain was coming in through the window and streaking his face.
“What are you babbling about? I'm John James- How do you know me?” Officer James clearly didn't know what to make of this situation, or this lunatic in the black Cadillac.
Ray went in for the kill; “I slept with your wife man! It was a mistake, I'm sorry. She told me you would come looking for me. Oh God, please don't hurt me!” He cried into the steering wheel.
Officer John James stood speechless for a moment, it was a lot to take in all at once, the life he had known was slowly crumbling away in his mind. Out of the corner of his eye, Ray noticed Officer James' fingers tightening around the handle of his service revolver. It should be enough to throw him off his game, Ray hoped.
In a quiet yet commanding tone, Officer James told Ray to, “get outta the car.”
“Oh God! Don't hurt me,” Ray pleaded again, cowering in the driver's seat deliberately holding his ground.
“Get the fuck out! Now!” Officer James raised his voice and his pistol simultaneously and Ray shakily complied, exiting the vehicle. The ruse had worked, Officer John James had forgotten a crucial part of his training, don't draw your weapon within reaching distance of an assailant, especially in such an emotional frame of mind. This was a mistake that took Ray years to get over, hopefully Officer James wouldn't get that worked up over it.
Officer James' hand shook as he violently jammed the barrel of his pistol into Ray's chest, “I knew that bitch was sleeping around, I knew it! You fucked up big-time mister!”
“Sure,” Ray said calmly before grabbing Officer James' pistol and redirecting it away from himself, twisting the cop's arm into his side in the process. Officer James stood frozen in shock, his simian mouth agape in awe and fright. With his left hand firmly controlling the cop's gun-arm, Ray used his right to punch Officer James in the groin, before twisting the gun backwards out of his hand, snapping his index finger against the trigger guard. Grabbing his mangled hand and doubling over to protect his crushed balls, Officer James tried to shake off the nausea that bubbled over in the pit of his stomach.
“Jesus Christ-!” Officer James could barely finish the curse before Ray stepped behind him, wrapped his arm around Officer James' neck and squeezed.
“Easy now, easy,” Ray whispered as he gently lowered Officer James to the ground. In his head Ray was counting down from thirty, just enough time to block the oxygen travelling to his brain, causing Officer James to pass out. Ray picked up this technique from a colleague in Iraq, where he worked for two years. He had learnt plenty of neat tricks over there; like the moves that he had just used to disable Officer James, for instance. He was actually surprised that he could still remember how to do that sort of thing. Remembering those days had its drawbacks though, as Ray would soon discover, he had his reasons for blocking that shit-hole from his mind.
He stood over the unconscious body, his adrenal gland only now starting to kick in, after the threat had already been neutralised. Pocketing the pistol, Ray felt a pain in his chest like a hand wrapped in barbed-wire trying to climb out through his throat. He doubled over in the rain and began to cough, trying to dislodge the creeping hand, dragging its jagged fingernails across the inside of his neck. Hacking up phlegm flecked with blood, Ray's hand shook violently as he reached for his cigarettes.
“KeresCorp is taking the jobs those Blackwater pussies won't touch.” Ash Idris leaned in to Ray Douglas, boasting his company's superiority over the competition. Ray felt uncomfortable with the thin and disturbingly handsome man whispering in his ear.
“Yeah? What sort of jobs are we talking here?” Ray inquired. He didn't really want to be here talking with this Euro-trash prick in his khaki suit and panama hat, but the curiosity was overwhelming.
Ash Idris sat back with the most juvenile grin on his face, using his hand to suppress a slight giggle.
“Well, I could tell you Ray. I could tell you, but then. But then, I'd have to kill you.” Idris let out a hideously high-pitched squeal and Ray shifted in his seat, thoroughly unnerved by the man's attitude. He smirked and waited for Idris to continue.
Shifting gears suddenly, Idris stopped giggling and looked thoughtfully off the deck of the yacht they were sitting on, out into the Mediterranean, “Well I can tell you of course, if you agree to sign up.”
Ray had heard of these private security contractors, let loose all over the middle-east, wreaking havoc while Uncle Sam turned a blind eye. He didn't want to be a part of it, but he was drinking himself into an early grave back in Baltimore. He'd been drinking since he got handed his marching papers from the Baltimore Police Department.
No, wait. He was handed his marching papers because of the drinking. It was becoming harder and harder to see things in the right order these days, maybe he did need time away.
He looked at Idris, who was nodding slowly, watching him carefully. The pay was good too, great even. If he'd managed to hold onto his job as a cop this wouldn't have happened.
The world had been going to shit these last few years, happy new century asshole, welcome to hell. It started with his job, later that year Bin Laden blew up the twin towers. America went to war against a ghost and Ray drank steadily, watching it all on TV through the bottom of a bourbon bottle. Rachel showed him an advertisement for a security job; 'seeking people with law enforcement experience for work overseas.' She wanted him off the couch and out of her apartment, but he couldn't blame her.
Idris suppressed another giggle watching Ray stare blankly out into the ocean. “What's it going to be Ray. We need good men like you. You're a good man Ray.”
Ray eyed him coldly, “I'm in.” He looked away but could feel Ash Idris' grin through the back of his head.
The little smoke he could inhale through the pain and the rain subdued the cough, causing the barbed-wire encased hand to slide painlessly back down his gullet, where it would wait. Ray stood shaking, his head spinning. Unsure of how long he had been standing there, over the unconscious body of a cop, Ray hurriedly went about moving the limp mass.
Quickly dragging the hulking Officer back to his squad car, Ray looked around for witnesses but could sense that they were alone. He opened the back door of the car and heaved Officer James' into the rear seat.
After shoving the cop's legs into the car and closing the door, Ray opened the front door and grabbed the radio; “cancel that, dispatch. This isn't the guy, I'm all good out here. Over.” Without waiting for a response he walked back to the Cadillac, sat inside and lit a fresh cigarette.
Inhaling deeply Ray Douglas started the car and disappeared into the storm.
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