Blitzed(101)

At about four in the afternoon, an hour and a half before the sun would begin to set, Francois pulled into a dusty gas station and put the Jeep in park. “We’re less than twenty minutes from the meetup point, and we've got at least forty-five before the plane lands. We need to kill time."

My stomach growled lightly, and the three of us laughed lightly. "I guess the motion carries," I answered. "Okay, but nothing too heavy. We don't know how good this plane will be, and I'd prefer not to lose a stomach full of potato chips all over the back of a Piper Cub."

"With the amount of money we're giving them for this, I want a Gulfstream," Francois remarked, then sighed. "Then again, we're going to a ranch strip. You're probably right."

I clapped him on the shoulder and looked at Jordan. "Come on, let's get something."

We were about halfway through our shopping when I saw the tweaker come in. Unfortunately, the deserts of California were crawling with drug addicted burnouts, with crystal meth being the drug of choice. Cheap, intense, and easy to manufacture even in your own home, the deadly side effects were of little concern to the desperate. This one had been on the hook for a long time from the look of it, his skin had that drawn out, sallow look of a perpetual meth user, and when he reached up with a scabbed hand to wipe at his crusted lips, I could see most of his teeth had rotted out of his head as well. "Francois," I whispered, tapping him on the shoulder. "Just in the door."

He looked into the security mirror and nodded. I took Jordan's arm and guided her down and behind the shelf. "Meth head," I whispered. "Keep low, stay behind us. I have a bad feeling about this."

I no more than had the words out of my mouth when a crash came from the front of the store, the meth head screaming as he flipped something heavy onto the ground. "Empty the register motherf*cker! Now!"

I looked to my right, where there were packs of batteries and some other light electrical devices. I looked up at Francois, who was studying a can of dog food before rejecting it in favor of a larger can of beef stew. He held it up to me and I nodded in understanding. We'd work together, him distracting while I took out the robber more directly.

"Come on motherf*cker, in the bag NOW!" the addict screamed in a high-pitched, cracked voice that sounded about two meth trips away from a one-way ticket to the county morgue. Patting Jordan on the arm, I gave her a silent kiss on the cheek before slipping back and around the rear of the aisle I was on.

In almost any other instance, Francois and I would have let the robbery continue. After all, the guy was after money only. If we stayed down there'd be little danger to us. However, with potentially millions of dollars in stolen Japanese cultural artifacts in the back of our Jeep as well as a very tight schedule, there was no way we could take the chance. Even just the fact that any interaction with the police would easily eat up an hour or more of our time meant I could not wait around.

I saw something as I made my way up the front aisle that looked helpful, a squeegee of all things. The handle was old-fashioned, made of wood and not a cheap hollow plastic. Taking it in hand, I nodded silently. Creeping up as far as I could, I pursed my lips and whistled lowly.

The addict started to turn, and I had to hope that Francois's reactions were true. The man’s arm came around in a sharp, wicked arc, the hammer on the cheap revolver in his hand already rising up to fire. I swung the squeegee, praying that I could at least knock the gun a bit out of the way.

I shouldn't have worried. Francois, whose aim with thrown items had never been better, nailed the inside of the man’s wrist, sending it wide, the shot missing my chest by a good foot to shatter the front glass door of the store. I adjusted the swing of my squeegee, taking the meth head under the armpit. Stepping in and past him, I threw him to the hard floor, where I stomped him in the stomach and then kicked his gun away. The potential robber went from screaming to breathless in a second, his face turning beet red before he curled into a ball, holding his most likely fractured ribs.

The cashier, a stunned-looking high school boy who had probably wondered if he was going to die a virgin or not, stared at me in absolute shock. In the course of two minutes, he'd gone from a normal boring day to thinking he was most likely going to die, to suddenly being saved by a can of beef stew and a squeegee. "Dude . . .”

"You'll be okay," I said, taking a twenty dollar bill out of my pocket. I handed it to him. "For our items. Keep the change."

Francois was already up, holding Jordan by the arm as he led her toward the now useless door. "Add another twenty."

I nodded, after all, we were taking the store's wire hand basket as well, not wanting to take the time to bag up everything. Tossing the kid another bill, I smiled and left, making sure to step on the addict as I walked away. Back in the car, Jordan stared at the both of us with a strange light in her eyes as Francois started up the Jeep and pulled away. "Hope the cops don't respond quickly out here."

"What the hell was that?" Jordan asked, finding her voice. "You're throwing beef stew like Bob Gibson threw fastballs while Felix takes the guy down with barely a ruffled hair, and then you toss the cashier forty dollars and walk out like we're on a stroll."

I laughed. ”You should see him with throwing knives at the celebrations and fairs. As for me, I had the size and strength advantage over him. Once the gun was taken care of, it was no object to disable him. Who is Bob Gibson?"