Action: Pulse Pounding Tales Volume 2

PUSH By Kevin Michaels

“It’s your fault,” Ray screamed.

Archer wanted him to calm down and shut up. Nothing more than that.

“Put the gun down,” he said, trying to maintain his cool.

“Not until you lower yours.”

Archer shook his head. “Ain’t happening.”

“You acted like a cowboy and now they’re dead,” Ray said.

Archer kept his forty-five leveled at Ray. The throbbing pain in his shoulder made it impossible to steady his aim. He felt blood soaking through the shirt, warm and wet against his skin, and wanted desperately to rip off the jacket for a closer look but he couldn’t risk it.

Ray was a loose cannon. No telling what he would do.

“Listen to me,” Archer said. “Right now we’ve got to stay cool.”

“Don’t tell me to stay cool,” Ray said. “If you had been cool back there, none of this would have happened.”

Archer shook his head slowly but his stare never left Ray.

Things were fucked up and getting worse.

Time was slipping away. They had to switch cars, dump guns, and change clothes – not waste minutes arguing like a couple of bitches. Too many things had gone wrong. Porter was dead. Their getaway plans had fallen apart. The Atlantic City cops were close behind. Archer’s face and hands were splattered with blood; he wasn’t sure how much was Porter’s or somebody else’s but it wouldn’t make a difference to the cops once they looked inside the Pontiac. No way to explain the blood soaked interior, the cash in the back seat, or the guns they had pointed at each other. At least no way that made sense.

“Just take a deep breath and relax,” he said. “What we got to do now is stay calm and stick to the plan.”

“The plan didn’t call for anybody getting shot,” Ray fired back.

“Porter got sloppy,” Archer said, “and careless.”

Ray shook his head. “He got shot because you took too much time inside. You’re the reason Porter’s dead.”

There was no use arguing.

Everything had fallen apart in an instant. Archer still remembered Porter’s throat exploding with blood and the bits of flesh that sprayed everywhere. Remembered the explosion of his own forty-five, Ray’s screams filling his ears while the guard emptied his gun, and the acrid smell of smoke and gunpowder. Felt the bullet ripping into his shoulder. And the way his hand trembled just before he fired a bullet into the back of the guard’s head.

But none of that mattered.

“Cops gonna’ find us if we stay here much longer,” he said. “Got to dump this car. Do it the way we planned.”

“Shut up,” Ray snapped, pushing two fingers against his temple to squeeze away the pain. “Shut up and let me think.”

“We don’t have time to talk and we ain’t got time to think!”

Ray turned, bracing his back against the car door and wiping the sweat off his face. His finger was wrapped around the trigger of the thirty-eight pointed at Archer.

Archer took a deep breath.

He could have used a smoke – something to calm his nerves, but he didn’t want to reach for the pack of Camels inside the Pontiac’s glove compartment – didn’t want to do anything to make Ray twitch.

He met Ray’s stare, looking for something to save his ass before things got worse.

Porter sat back in his chair, edgy and tense with a forty-five tucked in his pocket and a cigarette between his fingers. The morning sun was hot – there wasn’t much of a breeze to cool the sweat inching down his face. He eyed the cop walking the Boardwalk. When he finally turned down Baltic Avenue and disappeared, Porter slowly let out a breath.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Go for a beer right now,” Ray said.

Porter stared at him. “It’s eight o’clock. Nobody’s gonna’ serve you beer.”

“It’s so damn hot,” Ray grumbled, opening his jacket and pulling the tee shirt out of his pants. He pushed up his sleeves and shook the long blond hair out of his eyes. “Who would’ve thought it could get this hot in October.”

Porter stubbed out his cigarette and stared at the ocean.

“Couple of beers would cool us off, huh?”

“Get yourself a cup of coffee,” Porter said. “You can have a beer later.”

They were outdoors at a small café in the shadows of the Tropicana. An old guy in a grease-stained shirt worked the counter and a twenty-something blonde handled the tables. No other customers. The Atlantic City boardwalk was barren and bleak, littered with plastic bottles, papers, and scraps of trash. A handful of senior citizens drifted in and out of the casinos while vagrants ripped through trash cans and a jogger started his morning run.

“Two coffees,” Ray called.

The waitress brought their coffee in large Styrofoam cups along with a handful of creamer containers and sugar packets, cracking her gum as she turned away.

Ray watched the waves pounding the beach. The October surf was strong and the waves broke hard, hammering the sand with each advance.

“There’s so much power in the ocean,” he said, stirring little drops of cream into the cup. “How it pulls out to sea like that then slams back.”

Porter shrugged and sipped his coffee. “I never noticed.”

“You don’t see things like that,” Ray said.

“Because it don’t matter,” Porter said. “I don’t go through life, watching the tide. It’s not important to me.”

“That’s for sure,” Ray said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means you’re always preoccupied with something more important instead of seeing the things right in front of you,” he said. “Always thinking about the next job or planning the next score. Miss out on a lot that way.”

“If you don’t plan the next score, you won’t ever get ahead,” Porter said. “That other shit ain’t important.”

“Maybe to you.”

“Cut it out.”

“You started,” Ray said with a pout.

Porter sighed and leaned back, squinting in the bright sunlight before slipping on his Wayfarers.

Ray blinked away the sweat streaking his forehead and smiled when the waitress returned with two menus. “Coffee’s good.”

“Knew it would be the right choice,” Porter said. “You hungry?”

“Never hurts to look.”

Porter’s tone changed slightly as he pushed away the menu and leaned forward, his elbows digging into the table. “You clear on this?”

Ray didn’t say anything and Porter felt the small hairs on the back of his neck bristle. The silence was telling.

‘We’ll be in and out in no time,” Porter said.

“What’ll we do afterwards?”

“Just like we planned,” Porter said. “In and out, then we split up while you and Archer trade cars. We’ll meet back in the room once we’re done.”

Ray crossed his arms. “What if something goes wrong?”

“Ain’t nothing going wrong,” Porter said.

Ray stirred his coffee as sea gulls circled overhead. “And you think we can pull this off?”

“I know we can,” Porter said, nodding and smiling. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Next you’re gonna tell me it’s an easy score.”

“No such thing as an easy score. You ever hear me say that?” Porter asked.

Once again Ray turned away. “But what if something goes wrong? Something happens we didn’t anticipate?”

Porter shook his head and his attitude hardened.

“Don’t think too much,” he said. “You stay cool and focused and it’ll be fine. Do this right and you won’t even need to show your thirty-eight.”

“Then what’s the point of carrying it?”

“We went over this a million times,” Porter said, his voice rising. “You’re on the outside. The outside guy is the lookout. You don’t need to pull your gun.”

“No reason to pull your gun if you don’t have to,” Porter added as an edge crept back in his voice. “Shit like that increases the odds of something going wrong.”

“And once we do this job, we can get out of here?”

Porter smiled. “We do this score and we’re gone,” he said. “Get on the Turnpike and head anywhere you like.”

“As long as it’s warm. I don’t want to be up here for the winter,” Ray said. “Really don’t like the cold.”

“Any place you want,” Porter said again, reaching for the pack of Camels.

“Maybe California,” Ray said. “Got a sister out there I haven’t seen in years.”

“That’s okay by me,” Porter said.

Ray walked to the railing at the edge of the boardwalk.

“We can have it all,” Porter said. “Anything we want.”

“Just don’t want to lose,” Ray replied. “Every time I think I’m winning it’s just one more thing to lose. Something else they take away that I can’t get back.”

Porter got to his feet, reaching out a hand. “You got to stop thinking that way. It’s different this time.”

“It’s always different,” Ray snapped, turning a shoulder. After a long silence he asked, “Okay if I get more coffee?”

“We got time.”

They went back to the table and sat. Ray stared at the ocean while Porter looked for clues in his expression. He struggled for something to say but came up with nothing, so he let the moment drift away and sipped his coffee instead.

Ray leaned back in his chair and sighed, laying his hands across the table and tapping his fingers on the menu while the waitress refilled their coffee.

Ray smiled brightly to thank her.

Porter reached into his jacket and felt the forty-five. The weight of the gun pulled on his jacket and he buttoned up, distributing the weight evenly to minimize the bulge. He could feel the ski mask inside the other pocket and tried smoothing out the wrinkles. His tee shirt was moist and damp, and he wiped the sweat from his face with one of the paper napkins.

“You okay now?” he asked.

“Better,” Ray nodded. “Maybe we got enough time, we can hit the slots again. Kill a little time?”

The gun was comfortable in his hand and Porter liked the way his finger felt against the trigger.

“Sure. Why not?’

“Good,” Ray smiled as he reached for his coffee cup. “I’d like that.”

“It’s gonna be okay,” Porter told him again. “Nothing to worry about.”

On the last morning he would ever know, Jimmy Waters hit the snooze button too many times until he woke in a late-for-work panic. His boss was a no-nonsense company prick. Everything was important – from the black polish on his shoes to the way each guard uniform was pressed to the creases in their pants. An ex-state trooper who forgot sometimes he was running Boardwalk Hall’s security detail – not pulling guard duty for the Governor. Waters had been late three times this month and was out of excuses – this time the guy would be all over his ass, especially with the concert that night.

Waters had covered for somebody the night before, picking up his shift so the guy could celebrate his wedding anniversary.

He made it to the shower, thinking that marriage was still one big pain in the ass. Nothing good about it for anybody.

The hot spray brought him back and Waters remembered his own anniversary a year earlier. It had been a romantic dinner, a long walk on the boardwalk holding hands and talking quietly, then slow dancing at one of the clubs off Pacific Avenue. He remembered the scent of Angel on Donna’s neck and the way her hair smelled when she buried her face in his shoulder while they danced. Like they were the only two people and nothing else mattered.

Like their love was so strong it would last forever.

Didn’t last another month.

All he had now were angry texts, late night messages, and letters from lawyers. His mailbox bulged with envelopes filled with motions or interrogatories demanding answers he didn’t know. Or letters from lawyers wanting money he didn’t have, for fees he couldn’t afford. Once Waters believed he would love Donna deeply and forever.

Now he felt only anger, bitterness, and betrayal that left an emptiness in his chest and a hole in his wallet.

Love wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

Waters tucked his shirt in his pants, grabbed his keys, and hurried out of the house. He just wanted to get through his shift.

He wasn’t a real cop but he wasn’t one of those guys pretending to be more important than he was, either. Other than breaking up fights and tossing out drunks, he spent his shifts patrolling the hallways and checking the ID’s of kids trying to sneak beers from the concession stands. Over a year on the job and he had never even drawn his gun.

The last thing he wanted was stress or aggravation – marriage had given him enough of that to last a lifetime.

He wanted the day over before it began.

Five minutes.

If everything went right, they would hit the cash room inside five minutes and get away without attracting attention.

Noise from the morning news program echoed throughout the hotel room until Archer hit the MUTE button – the sound disappeared although the images continued silently across the TV screen. Lady GaGa was in town. It was all over the news and on every channel. He took a final drag on the Camel, holding the smoke in his lungs until the nicotine burned, then let it out before crushing the butt in the ash tray. The whole time he was thinking about Ray instead of the job.

Something about him was slightly off – hard to put a finger on exactly what that was, but it was the kind of thing that could create problems.

Archer stood naked in the center of the hotel room and watched TV. Boardwalk Hall was sold out, with twenty thousand teenagers ready to drop cash for tee shirts, jewelry, caps, and all kinds of crap with GaGa’s name or face on it. What they didn’t spend on souvenirs was going towards snacks, food, and drinks at the concessions stands.

All that money in one place.

It was a perfect plan.

Simple, well-thought out, and so precise in detail there was no way it could go wrong; as long as they didn’t get sloppy or careless.

“Hit the place before the doors open,” Porter had said. “Nobody’s gonna expect that.”

Porter had worked in Boardwalk Hall for eight months; he knew where the money was counted before they dispersed it and how the guards patrolled. Knew where the hidden security cameras were located. More importantly, he had a master key pass card that opened the cash room door.

They never expected anybody to walk in and rob the place before the show. Certainly not two guys with guns and bad intentions.

Boardwalk Hall didn’t have a security plan for that

They would be in and out quickly if everything went down the way Porter said it would. They had to head across town to change cars and dump their clothes, then drive back to the Tropicana and pretend to be like every other guest going to the concert, but none of that was a problem. Nobody would look for them inside Boardwalk Hall, especially if they were last seen disappearing down the boardwalk.

They would hide in plain sight at the scene of the crime while the cops chased ghosts.

Archer shook out another Camel.

But it all came back to Ray – he was the one outside the room; the guy who had to make sure there were no security guards around while Archer and Porter took down the cashiers and stole the cash. The guy responsible for making sure they got away. It was only five minutes. But five minutes could turn into a lifetime if something went wrong.

Five minutes in the hands of an idiot could be fatal.

Archer checked the clip in his forty-five; he didn’t like the knot that gripped his insides. He ran his fingers through his hair then lit another Camel to pass the time, hoping it would calm the uneasiness in his gut.

He stared at his watch and counted the minutes as they dropped away from the hour.

They entered Boardwalk Hall through a service entrance with fake IDs, wearing dark phone company jackets over black tees, forty-fives and thirty-eights tucked in the waistbands of their pants. Lightweight canvas bags stuck inside their jackets. Wayfarers hid their eyes as they separated and made their way towards the cash room deep inside the bowels of the Hall. The money was in a concrete room behind an unmarked door, down a long corridor beneath the arena. Nobody outside and a lone security guard inside, with three clerks counting the bills and wrapping them in bands. Porter knew nothing happened until an hour before the doors opened and teams of armed guards showed up to wheel the money to the concession stands.

They planned to keep their ski masks and guns hidden until they hit the room. As long as they didn’t do anything that called attention to themselves it would be okay.

“Guards don’t pay attention if you don’t do anything out of the ordinary,” Porter told them.

“Why’s that?” Ray asked.

“Because they’re like cops,” he said. “They’re trained to look for little things that don’t add up. If you’re driving down the road, doing the speed limit in a clean car, most times a cop never notices. But if a guy is doing twenty over the limit, in a car with a busted tail light, the cops are all over him.”

“What’s that mean?” Ray asked.

“It means you don’t take unnecessary risks,” Archer said, “or do something stupid.”

Ray didn’t say another word.

The only thing that changed was who went inside the room and who stood guard by the door – Archer wanted Porter outside while he and Ray worked inside. Porter knew the routines better than anyone; he would know if something was wrong, and that was more important than the extra money they shoved in their bags.

“That’s not how we planned it,” Porter protested.

Archer shrugged.

“Just makes more sense,” he said. “The outside man’s the guy who needs to be sharp and on top of his game.”

“What’s that mean?” Ray asked indignantly.

“Don’t mean nothing,” Archer said.

“That mean you think I’m stupid?” Ray said. “Don’t think I’m smart enough?”

Archer let a grin ease across his face and shook his head. “Just means Porter’s the best one to do the job,” he said. “He worked there. Knows how the place works. Knows what to look for. Little things like that make a difference.”

“Little things like that can keep us from getting caught.”

Archer was first through the door – when he got inside, he knew it was the kind of score he always dreamed about. Large stacks of bills were spread across a long table and the drawers beneath it were filled with more cash and coins. Bundles of bills were banded together – thousands of dollars in twenties, fifties, and hundreds. Like heroin to a junkie. An older woman, late fifties with tanned, weathered skin and frosted streaks running though a bad dye job sat quietly stacking packets of bills by denomination. Two other women, younger and pale, fed bills into a currency counter that sorted the money then spit it out in a rapid stream. They wrote down numbers on long sheets in a log book, placing the bills in piles when they came out of the machine. A lone security guard, late forties, heavyset, with thinning salt and pepper colored hair, stood impassively in the corner. He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed lazily against his chest.

All four looked up in surprise as two masked men stepped into the room.

Archer raced across the room and slammed the barrel of his forty-five across the guard’s face – blood gushed from his nose and mouth before he dropped to his knees. The guard’s Glock never left its holster. Archer slid behind him and brought down his forty-five on the back of guard’s head, sending him to the floor. When he was face-down Archer kicked him in the ribs for good measure.

“Don’t nobody say a fucking word,” he said.

Ray pulled out his thirty-eight and swept it back and forth across the room.

Archer pointed his gun at the woman. “Get down on the floor,” he said. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

“What’s going on?” another woman asked.

“Quiet,” Archer said.

“What are you doing?”

Archer backhanded her across the face.

The blow knocked her to the floor. She curled into a ball next to the security guard as blood spurted from her mouth and tears burst from her eyes. “Not another word,” Archer warned.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Ray said.

Ray dropped a canvas bag on the table and pulled out a roll of duct tape; taping their mouths shut then quickly binding their hands and feet. Archer pulled out his own canvas bag and tossed it on the table. Leveling the gun at the two workers on the floor he used his free hand to shovel bills into the bag. The security guard stirred until Archer buried another foot in his midsection. When Ray finished taping the women he turned his attention to the lady whimpering on the floor. Blood streamed from her nose and he gently wiped away what he could before covering her mouth in tape.

“How’s it going?” Porter whispered from outside the room.

Ray eyed Archer cautiously. “All’s good.”

“Keep an eye on the clock,” Porter told them.

“Just pay attention out there,” Archer barked. “You keep your eyes open.”

Porter turned away, his back to the door, knowing they didn’t have time to waste. The way the guards rotated patrols gave them no more than six or seven minutes before someone passed through the corridor.

Archer looked at Ray. “Finish packing the bills,” he said. “I’m checking the drawers.”

“What for?”

“More cash.”

“There’s no time,” Ray said, panicking.

Archer shrugged. “Couple more seconds won’t hurt.”

“That’s not how we planned this,” Ray said.

Archer stepped over the gagged woman beneath the table, yanking open a drawer. Inside there were rows of bills, sorted in different denominations – twenties and fifties and even some hundred dollar bundles. At least an extra twenty or thirty thousand.

“That’s not part of the plan,” Ray hissed.

“It won’t make a difference,” Archer said.

By the time Archer filled the other bag at least another minute had passed.

Porter cracked open the door, whispering, “Hurry the fuck up!”

It was then that Jimmy Waters came hurrying down the stairs through the fire exit into the corridor. When he opened the door he saw Porter and knew something didn’t feel right. It looked wrong. He could feel it. In one quick motion Waters slid his Glock from its holster and aimed it at Porter.

“Hold it,” he said firmly. “Don’t move.”

Porter froze.

A pause as they assessed each other.

Then everything fell apart.

Porter reached for the forty-five inside his jacket at the same time Archer and Ray burst through the door, ripping off their masks and shoving guns inside their jackets.

Neither saw Waters until it was too late.

For a guy who had never drawn his gun and whose only experience firing a pistol had been target practice at a gun range, Waters was calm and poised. He slid into a two handed stance and braced the Glock as Porter tried drawing his gun.

Waters squeezed off a shot that hit Porter before he finished pulling his forty-five.

The bullet caught Porter under the chin, spraying a wide arc of blood as the bullet tore through his neck. His hands fell away from the forty-five and he grabbed for his throat, eyes open wide in horror and disbelief. Unable to breathe, there was a moment of panic as the pain seized him and then everything went numb. He was dimly aware he had lost control of his bladder and a warm stream soaked through his pants. His legs turned to jelly – there was nothing he could do and no way to stand.

There were no last thoughts.

No sudden revelations or bright lights.

Porter staggered backwards before twisting and falling, already dead before he hit the concrete.

Behind him Archer dropped the bag and yanked out his own forty-five. Waters saw the gun and fired off more shots in quick succession.

Something tugged at his shoulder and Archer was suddenly aware of a sharp, shooting pain that ripped down his arm as he brought up his gun. In that moment, time slowed and he felt every breath and every move. He stepped over Porter’s body and pulled the trigger again and again.

His first shot hit Waters in the chest, and the next three tore holes across his torso in rapid succession. The guard emptied his clip and fired wildly in every direction as he grabbed for the wall with one hand while trying to shoot with the other. The room spun as Waters staggered backwards, slamming into the wall before tumbling to the ground with his chest on fire. His breathing grew shallow and the room darkened.

The gunfire attracted attention and they heard voices from other parts of the corridor. Ray was sobbing hysterically beside Archer, sucking in breaths of air in huge, uncontrollable gulps and trembling as the life left Porter’s body. The sound of bells and ringing alarms echoed in Archer’s ears. He forced himself to ignore the searing pain in his shoulder. He moved forward a step, put a foot on Waters’ neck that pinned the guard to the floor, and fired a round into the base of his skull.

Ray stood frozen in place, the sobs dying on his lips.

In that instant everything changed.

Archer turned and hurried quickly back to the room, sliding open the door again with the master key. The guard was still unconscious on the floor while the three women were huddled together; straining against the tape to get free. Their eyes were filled with fear and panic, knowing what was coming and pleading for their lives in the silence of the room. Coldly and methodically Archer aimed his forty-five, and without hesitating, fired bullets through the duct tape covering their mouths. Then he turned to the security guard, face down in the corner, and put three slugs in his back before running out of the room.

He snatched his bag and pushed past Ray. “Let’s go!”

Ray sobbed as rivers of blood streamed from Porter’s lifeless body.

Archer grabbed his arm, yanking him forward.

“We can’t leave him,” Ray cried.

“He’s dead,” Archer said. “Ain’t nothing we can do for him now.”

Ray stared at Porter’s body but Archer pulled him forward, and they raced together towards the stairs leading out to the Boardwalk. Nobody stopped them. While workers drifted around the arena, unaware of the carnage or what was happening, Archer and Ray pushed past them and disappeared into the late day sunshine without a backwards glance.

“You didn’t have to shoot them,” Ray cried.

Archer noticed the thirty-eight shaking in Ray’s hand. He tightened the grip on his own gun, keeping his other hand wrapped tightly around the Pontiac’s steering wheel.

“Didn’t have a choice,” he said with a shrug. “Witnesses.”

“Witnesses?”

“Yea, witnesses,” he said. “They could identify us.”

Ray blinked back tears. “We were wearing masks,” he said. “How could they recognize us?”

“Didn’t want to take any chances,” Archer said.

He could feel the pain cutting through muscle and bone like a knife blade, sharp and serrated. He concentrated on the situation with Ray. They were out of time. There were only a few ways this could play out if the stand-off continued and none promised to get them back to their rooms in one piece. Every cop in Atlantic City was hunting for them. They had over one hundred grand in cash in the back seat of the stolen Pontiac as well as six dead bodies back at Boardwalk Hall.

Too much blood on their hands.

“You got to remember it comes down to protecting yourself and eliminating risk,” Archer said. “You take out anything you can’t control.”

“Anybody you leave breathing is somebody you can’t control.”

“Nobody was supposed to die. That’s not how we planned it.”

“Things change,” Archer said.

“Sounds like something Porter would say,” Ray said, shaking his head.

Archer nodded. “You can’t leave loose ends.”

He looked at Ray for a sign of understanding or recognition but Ray was too deep in his own thoughts to respond. It could have been fear or even something more – whatever it was, it wasn’t releasing Ray from its grip. Archer was out of patience and done waiting.

Ray shook his head and shut his eyes, letting the thirty-eight drop slightly.

It was barely noticeable but Archer saw an opportunity. He swallowed a smile as he thought about the hundred grand in the back seat that could be all his.

It was Archer’s last thought. The silence was shattered by Ray’s thirty-eight. Ray’s arm jumped and the explosion jerked Archer’s head backwards against the glass.

Ray opened his eyes and let out a deep breath, numb from the noise filling the car.

A red dot had appeared in the center of Archer’s head where the bullet entered – the back of his skull exploded where it came out. Blood was splattered against the window. Archer’s mouth was open but no sounds came out. His arm fell to his lap and his head sank into the driver’s seat, the forty-five slowly dropping from his grip. Archer stared at Ray but his eyes turned dull and lifeless.

No loose ends, Ray thought, lowering his gun.

Porter would have said the same thing.

BIO:

Kevin Michaels is the author of the novel "Lost Exit", as well as two books in the Fight Card Book series: "Hard Road" and "Can't Miss Contender." His short stories and flash fiction have appeared in a number of publications, magazines, and anthologies, and in 2012 he was nominated for two separate Pushcart Prize awards.

He is everything New Jersey (attitude, edginess, and Bruce Springsteen – but not Bon Jovi). He lives and writes at the Jersey Shore. Website: http://kmwriter.blogspot.com