Dying For LA Ian Jones (the ebook reader .txt) 📖

Reed, who nodded and climbed into the driver’s seat of the sedan, racking the seat back hard toward Bortado who had to move out the way. John got in the passenger side, and Reed drove toward the cruiser, which turned on its roof lights and set off toward the gates. They opened slowly, and the two cars made a right turn onto a four-lane road, heading west.

Bortado leaned forward.

‘Hey who the fuck are you guys? You don’t look like fucking cops. Believe me, I can smell them a mile away.’

Neither man said a word, instead John started a conversation with Reed about motorbikes.

His accent clearly confused Bortado, who tried several more times to butt in, to no avail.

‘Well fuck you then!’ he declared, and sat back, sulking.

John was aware of the time constraint they faced, they really didn’t want to be driving any further than they absolutely had to. They followed the cruiser, which made good progress, and it turned off the street onto a smaller road which ran north west. The buildings started to thin out, they passed an industrial area, then a couple of trailer parks.

John checked his watch.

Forty minutes.

They turned again, and then there was nothing, just desert scrub, a two-lane road, very little traffic. The carried on for a few miles, then turned onto a rutted track which rose up, a high dust cloud behind both cars.

Another couple of miles, and the cruiser braked.

The young cop jumped out, and leaned across the bonnet pointing.

Reed nodded, and made a sharp right onto what was little more than a trail. The car bumped and rattled across the desert, every time it went across a big rut there were loud clangs from the back of the car.

John looked at Reed.

‘Exhaust?’

‘Nah, don’t worry about it.’

He drove on, peering forward and then stopped sharply.

John looked around, but there was nothing to see, just desert. Reed climbed out, so John did too. Bortado was straining to look all around him, cursing loudly but both men ignored him.

Reed walked around the car.

Next to them was a basin in the desert, almost perfectly round, the bottom about fifteen feet below where they were standing.

The cruiser was just visible, both cops had gotten out of their car and were leaning against the front wing, pretending not to watch.

‘Perfect,’ said John. ‘Totally perfect.’

Reed opened the rear door and yanked Bortado out of the car. He did it with such force that Bortado fell onto his face, unable to stop himself. Roughly Reed pulled him upright.

‘Oh yeah, I see, so that’s how it is right? Well fuck the pair of you assholes, I don’t give a fuck. You take these fucking bracelets off I’ll show you, I don’t care how fucking big you are, you pumped up fucking freak, I’ll kill both you motherfuckers you see if I don’t,’ Bortado ranted.

‘We’ll see,’ Reed said quietly, and pushed Bortado stumbling onward down into the basin. He fell, rolled over and stopped halfway, then got his knees.

‘You fucking asshole. I don’t know you. I never seen either of you motherfuckers. What, you police don’t talk? You fucking with the wrong guy. Your buddies should have told you. I swear to God when I get out this shit I am coming for you. I don’t give a shit how big you is. You better get the fuck away from this bitch. I’m fucking coming after you.’

‘Shut up. We ain’t the police,’ Reed said mildly as he walked past, and hoisted Bortado up by the arm and shoved him the rest of the way down.

Once they were at the bottom Reed went back up to the car and returned with a tired old steel frame plastic chair. He set it down in the centre, then produced a key and unsnapped Bortado’s handcuffs then stepped back next to John.

Immediately Bortado reared up and got into John’s face.

‘Like I need some fucking Australian motherfucker on my case. What? I’m supposed to be scared? Because you got a giant for a fucking babysitter?’

John stared back at him, their noses millimetres apart, and then with both hands shoved him back, hard, right in the middle of his chest. Bortado stumbled backward, then dropped to the ground. John ran forward and grabbed his hair and punched him three times hard in the face.

‘Kyle Warner’ … punch ‘was a good’ … punch ‘man’ … punch.

Then he hauled Bortado to his feet and punched him again in the stomach and as he doubled over another in the kidneys.

Bortado dropped to the ground, writhing on his side, snuffling, nose broken.

John crouched down, Bortado scrabbled away, still on his side.

‘I’m not Australian, I’m English. London. Literally the other side of the world from each other you ignorant fuck.’

He stood up and kicked a load of stones at Bortado.

‘Nice!’ Reed announced happily, and picked Bortado up like he was nothing at all and dropped him in the chair, then went back to the car, this time returning with a long-handed shovel, a big, wicked-looking axe and the Ruger John had taken off the guy in the diner.

Bortado stared at him, he was afraid now. John could see it. The man had no idea what was going on, the bravado fading fast along with the sneer. Whatever was happening to him now, it wasn’t in the rules. Suddenly everything had become very serious for him.

Reed then removed his t-shirt, and folded it neatly before laying it down on a rock.

In the flesh he was even more impressive, literally all muscle.

‘I don’t want to get blood on it,’ he explained to John, and then walked across to Bortado, who was watching him, eyes wide with fear.

John understood, and stepped back.

It was Reed’s show now, the man who had to deal with drunken, violent, trained to kill soldiers who were hellbent on putting him into the ground and doing it on a daily basis.

‘So Tyrone, you mind if I call you that? Tibor makes you sound like an asshole. Which, incidentally, you are, but