Probably to be used much like cattle. Used up and tossed aside.
I tear my eyes away from this heartbreaking procession to land on another sight which chills me to the bone. There are two men overlooking the whole thing with nonchalance, one of them smirking and gesturing jovially to the other. One is in a sleek black suit and tie — and I recognize him after a moment of squinting and wracking my brain.
Agent Doyle. Of course that bastard is involved.
And beside him, talking and joking with gleeful abandon, is an old, potbellied man in a tacky white suit and red tie. He oozes wealth, the kind of exorbitant, obnoxious wealth that indicates he has no intention of spending his money responsibly. He looks like the epitome of greed and selfishness, like a pig in a silk jacket and a salt-and-pepper toupee.
“Who’s that talking to Doyle?” I whisper. Leon sighs.
“Martin Chandler, the rich douchebag who owns the docks. He’s like a festering sore on this town, draining all the resources and sucking the life out of the working folk,” Leon answers with a grimace.
“Leon, what is going on here?” I ask fearfully, turning to him.
He bites his lip and puts a hand on my shoulder. “You wouldn’t want to know.”
“Tell me, I can take it.”
“Cherry, I — ”
Just then, he’s interrupted by a loud voice down near the docks.
A man shouts out: “Hey! Over there!” Everyone turns to look toward where the man is pointing: directly at us. We’ve been spotted.
“Shit,” Leon whispers, grabbing me so we can both duck back behind the dumpster.
One second later, there’s the deafening crack of several gunshots.
16
Leon
The metal container to my left rings sharply as a bullet ricochets off it. I grab Cherry by the collar as I yank her down and curse. My hand instinctively goes to the handgun at my side and cock it as more bullets whiz over our heads.
“Back to the bike,” I growl, “keep low and close to me!”
Cherry’s gives a sharp nod, and her reflexes prove sharper than I realized as she keeps neck-and-neck with me as we duck out from our hiding spot and start weaving between the large metal containers, the sounds of gunfire behind us echoing throughout the docks.
We near the opening on the other side of the ‘alley’ we’re running through when a barrel-chested man steps out in front of us, raising his pistol. I raise my gun in response, but before either of us can get a shot out, a bright LED light shines in his face — Cherry is holding her flashlight up straight in his eyes. “Shit!” He shouts and puts a hand up and tries to move for cover, but I’m already on him, and my fist connects with the side of his head hard before he hits the ground with a thud.
Once we’re out, we crouch down and move through what feels like a maze of metal canisters set out to be loaded and shipped. I can hear Doyle’s voice shouting out across the docks. “I don’t care who it might be, find them and get them before I have your asses packed away with the next shipment!”
“They don’t know it’s us,” Cherry hisses to me, and I give a sharp nod. I intend to keep it that way.
A few men were drawn to where I dropped the man who yelled, so I know we only have a few seconds before they turn their attention our way. I grab Cherry’s hand and dart towards where I left my bike.
My motions are quick, decisive, and without a hint of hesitation. Cherry is surprisingly adept at being able to keep up, but my sudden changes in direction start to throw her after a while.
“Are you used to this kind of thing?” she whispers.
“You’d be surprised,” I say back in a low voice. I knew my background would always be there to haunt me as I try to lead an honest life, but never did I think I’d see the day that my past as a hitman would come to serve me like this. Yet the pistol in my hand feels no heavier than the last time I’d used it.
Finally, the bike comes into view as we crouch behind a stack of crates. But there’s a lot of open ground to there, and I get a bad feeling.
“Wait here,” I say to Cherry, “I’ll drive it over and pick you up. This will need to be smooth and quick.” Before she can respond, wide-eyed, I press my lips to hers before I pull out a bandana from my jacket and wrap it around my face and ready my pistol as I run out for my bike.
I’m nearly to it when I hear a voice shout out from behind me.
“FREEZE!”
I whip around instinctively and find myself facing off with another thug, a face from out of town I don’t recognize. On the bright side, he won’t recognize me, either.
“Drop the gun, I won’t say it twice.”