26
I called Herc and asked him to drive me to Motorcars of Olympia, a dealership that specialized in exotic automobiles. Until now, I had been hesitant to spend the money Zeus had given me for taking the case. But considering that I was up against something that could kill Gods, I might not be around for too much longer. It was best to have a little fun while I still could.
Herc showed up at my apartment a little after one o’clock. He drove a lime-green hybrid. It was a subcompact car, ideal for an average-size person like me, but too small for someone like Herc. He looked funny driving it, all hunched up on the wheel. More than once, I’d tried to convince him to upgrade to a larger car. Each time, he gave me the same tired speech on the importance of substance over style, efficiency over flash.
The ride to the lot was torture. Despite the ninety-plus-degree weather, Herc refused to turn on the air conditioner. Said it burned too much gas. Instead, we rode with all four windows down. But the air that blew around us was hot and dry. Sweat streamed down my face, and I could hardly breathe. Herc, on the other hand, was completely comfortable. As a Demigod, he was resistant to extreme temperatures. Lucky bastard.
By the time we reached Motorcars of Olympia, my shirt was drenched with sweat and sticking to my skin. The lot was on Old Grecian Road, a north-south highway that ran through the entire country. It was framed by strip malls, fast food joints, gas stations, and more car dealerships. The farther north you traveled, the prettier and more high-end everything got.
Herc pulled into the lot. We drove past fleets of exotic cars to the main office. The three-story building was painted completely white. In another life it might have been a warehouse. Beyond the showroom window, Lamborghinis, Ferraris, and other exotics sat atop spinning pedestals.
We got out of the car. The sun bore down like a weight, and no breezes blew around us to take the edge off the heat. Still, it was cooler out here than in Herc’s pressure-cooker of a car.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Herc asked.
“For the millionth time, yes.” I groaned, wiping the sweat from my forehead.
“Wouldn’t you rather settle for something a little less expensive?”
“Nope.
“Do you at least have a budget?”
“Nothing over eighty thousand.”
Herc started. “Eighty thousand for a car?”
“Yeah, is something wrong with that?”
“Only that it’s a monumental waste of money. Come on, Jonesy. There are so many other options out there. Cheaper ones.”
“Maybe you’re right, Herc. Maybe I should get something a little more price-friendly. But since we’re already here, we might as well look around. Right?”
Herc sighed.
I opened the door and we stepped into the office. The cool air blowing from the overhead vents chilled the sweat on my skin.
A salesman in a slick charcoal suit walked up, his hand extended. His eyes and smile were wide, and his skin was like spray-tanned shrink wrap. I could tell he’d had a lot of work done. If I were him, I’d have asked the doctor for my money back.
“Welcome to Motorcars of Olympia. My name is Kyle.” He had a singsong voice, like a game show host.
“Hi, Kyle.” I shook his hand. “I’m Plato. This is my friend Herc.”
“Oh, I already know who this is.” Kyle smiled at Herc. The two of them shook hands. “It’s an honor to meet you in person. I’m a big fan.”
“Oh really?” Herc said, one eyebrow raised.
“Absolutely. You know, your wife Hebe was here just the other day.”
Herc blinked. “What?”
“She was looking to buy a Porsche, but the model she wanted wasn’t in stock. We ordered it for her. It should arrive sometime next week, I believe.”
“Is that so?” Herc asked, expressionless. “How much did this Porsche cost exactly?”
“A little over a hundred thousand, if I remember correctly.”
I sensed the breath go out of Herc. I nudged him with my elbow and said, “That’s not too bad. Right, big spender?”
“Of course not,” he said through clenched teeth. “Anything for my beautiful wife.”
Kyle smiled, his veneers flashing. “So, what can I do for you gentlemen today?”
“I’m looking to buy a new car,” I told him. “Something flashy, but not as flashy as Herc’s Porsche. Something sexy, but professional. When I drive down the street I want people to say, ‘Hey, that guy’s got his stuff together.’”
Kyle nodded. “I have just the thing.”
Herc and I followed him across the showroom floor to a silver Lotus Elise. The car was just what I was looking for. It was as if Kyle had read my mind.
Had
he read my mind? With all the crazy monsters running around New Olympia, there was no telling.
I opened the driver-side door and slid into the leather seat. It fit me like a glove, and made me feel like James Bond. A less sophisticated, more rumpled version.
“How much?” I asked.
“Fifty-four ninety-nine base.”
I nodded and then glanced at Herc. “That’s about half the price of your new car, right?”
Herc smiled but said nothing. I could tell by the tightness in his jaw that he was silently cursing.
“Would you like to look around some more?” Kyle asked me.
“No, this’ll do.”
“Splendid.”
I paid for the car in full and took it for a spin. I had invited Herc to ride along, but he said that seeing me spend so much money at one time had worn him out. He went home to take a nap. And—probably—lecture Hebe about the finer points of penny-pinching.
I wanted to put the car through its paces, so I got on Highway 18 toward Boreasville, where there was little traffic and few cops. Nothing to ruin my fun. Riding at eighty miles per hour, I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw a pair of black motorcycles appear behind me. The riders wore black leather and helmets.
They were coming up fast, so I decided to let them by. I switched lanes, and one of the riders zoomed past. The other rode beside my car for the next quarter mile, looking at me through the darkened visor of his helmet.
“Nice bike!” I shouted out the window.
The rider revved his engine and whizzed ahead to join his friend. Then both riders sped up. Within seconds, they had vanished into the distance.
Jerks
.
I leaned on the accelerator. The engine purred. Trees and road signs flew by in a haze of color. I turned on the radio. It was preset to a classical station, but I didn’t care. I cranked up the volume anyway. My mind wandered back to the case.
Who could kill a God? That was the million-credit question. Even the Gods themselves didn’t seem to know the answer—or at least they weren’t telling me.
One possibility was that the Titans were responsible. They were once the Gods’ enemies. But their hopes of conquering Olympus had been crushed by Zeus eons ago. The chance of their being involved was slim, but not so slim that I’d disregard it. If the Titans were planning to start a war with the Olympians, I didn’t want to be around when the shit hit the fan. My days as a soldier were over.
I was trying to come up with more suspects when a black blur zoomed across the street, scant feet away from my fender. My instincts kicked in. I slammed on the brakes and cut the wheel sharply.
The tires screeched in protest, and the car flipped over, going airborne. My stomach dropped as the world barreled out of control. The car landed on the shoulder of the road and tumbled down a steep incline, shedding parts and thrashing me from side to side. Beneath the screams and groans of twisting metal, classical music continued to play from the speakers.
The car crashed into a tree at the bottom of the hill and jerked to a violent stop. The impact smashed my head against the window. I blacked out. When I came to, the music had stopped. I saw nothing but dust and smoke.
27
I sat in the driver seat, paralyzed with shock, my breath coming and going in sharp gasps. Every inch of my body hurt, but as far as I could tell nothing was broken. I wouldn’t know for sure until I tried to move. I shifted a bit, wiggled my fingers and toes. Everything seemed to be working.
Someone must have been looking out for me. I doubted it was the Gods of Olympus.
As my nerves settled, the throbbing in my head began to subside. A stream of warm blood ran down my face. Some trickled into my eye, forcing me to blink. I glanced in the fractured rearview mirror and saw the small cut on my forehead. With all the blood, it looked a lot worse than it really was. It might not even need stitches.
I unbuckled my seatbelt and tried to open the door, but it was mangled shut. I scooted into the passenger seat, tucked my knees in, and kicked at the window. The cracked glass shattered into pieces.
I crawled through and crashed onto the ground. Crows cawed in the treetops above, as if laughing at my misfortune. All I could smell was pine mixed with engine coolant. Slowly, I got to my feet.
I leaned against a nearby tree and assessed the damage. My brand new Lotus Elise was now a twisted heap of metal, wrapped around the trunk of the tree, like crumpled silver wrapping paper. Billows of smoke spewed from beneath the crushed hood. I shook my head. The purpose of this little joy ride was so I could break the car in. I guess I had succeeded, just not the way I had intended.
To my right, two figures in black jogged down the leaf-covered incline, headed straight for me. The riders. The blur that had crossed in front of me—it must have been one of them. They’d trashed my car. That little stunt they pulled had probably been their idea of a joke.
The two riders reached the bottom of the hill and picked their way past the wreckage.
As they drew closer to me, I pushed myself away from the tree and walked forward to meet them. “You dickheads nearly killed me!”
The riders said nothing. They came to a stop, reached into their jackets, and pulled out handguns.
My heart jumped into my throat. I whirled on my heel and darted into the woods.
The riders gave chase.
Shots rang out from behind me. Bullets whizzed past me, narrowly missing their mark. Blood from my forehead flowed into my eyes, partially blinding me. The undergrowth was thick, the ground uneven, and stones jutting from the soil threatened to trip me with every step.
I wished I had brought along my gun. At least then I could defend myself. But I had left it back at my apartment. I didn’t think I’d need it to go car shopping. Shows what I know.
“Get back here!” shouted one of the riders. Another shot rang out. It grazed the trunk of a tree, inches away from my arm.
I cut left, crashed through a wall of brush, and ran, half-stumbling down a steep hillside. When I reached the bottom I picked up the pace, my breath rasping in my throat. Behind me, the riders scrambled down the hill.
I couldn’t say why they were trying to kill me, but I was betting it had something to do with the case. Someone didn’t want me to find out the truth, and they’d hired these goons to make sure I didn’t. But who was their employer?
I peeked over my shoulder. I couldn’t see my pursuers, but I could hear them crashing through the bushes. I had lengthened the distance between us, and gained myself some breathing room. But I couldn’t run forever. Eventually I would tire, and one of their bullets would catch me.
I had two options. I could find a good hiding place, or I could take down my pursuers. After what those two jerks did to my beautiful new car, I was leaning toward the second option.
I veered right and scrambled up a rocky incline. Several feet ahead, I skidded to a sudden halt just in front of a deep chasm. Below was a dry creek bed filled with jagged rocks.
The width of the gap was intimidating enough to make me think twice about trying to jump across it. The fall would almost certainly kill me. But what choice did I have? It was either jump or get shot.
I took several steps back, told myself that everything was going to be fine, and then took a running leap. My heart flew into my stomach as I sailed through the air.
My chest struck the lip of the chasm. The impact knocked the wind out of me. I desperately groped for something to grab onto. My fingers wrapped around an unearthed root. I gritted my teeth and used it to hoist myself over the edge.
I collapsed on the grass, gasping. My chest felt like it was on fire, but it could have been worse. Had the lip of the chasm been made of stone instead of dirt, I might’ve ended up with a fractured sternum, or worse.
I pushed myself off the ground and stumbled away, cradling my chest. On impulse, I glanced over my shoulder. Through the foliage, I could see that one of the riders had made it over the gap. The other was still on the far side, preparing to jump.
I ran faster. As I fought though a web of brush, a scream rose up behind me, punctuated by a dull smack.
“Damn!” shouted the rider who had cleared the gap. His friend, I assumed, must not have been as lucky.
I hoped the remaining rider—after seeing his pal fall to his doom—would give up chasing me and leave. But I wasn’t betting on it. If anything, he was probably more determined than ever to put a bullet in my head.
At this point, I figured it was either going to be him or me, and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be me. Not without a fight anyway.
I hid behind a tree and attempted to catch my breath. Sweat and blood poured down my face, and my legs burned with fatigue.
Frantically, I scanned the area for anything I could use to defend myself with. A big piece of wood lay close by. As long and thick as a two-by-four. I picked it up, taking it into both hands like a baseball bat. It wasn’t my Desert Eagle, but it was nice and sturdy. A well-placed blow could do some serious damage.
I could hear the rider fast approaching my location. Leaves crunched loudly beneath his footfalls. I bent down, picked up a rock, and tossed it across from me, into the neighboring bushes. The rider halted briefly. He crept over to where the rock had landed.
With his back to me, I broke cover and ran straight at him. He heard me coming, a second too late. I swung the stick just as he turned toward me. My blow caught him on the side of the head. His helmet flew off, and he stumbled off balance.
Before he could recover, I brought the stick down on his forearm, forcing him to drop the gun. The rider fell to his knees, screaming and cradling his arm at the elbow. His forearm was bent at a funny angle.
I tossed aside the stick, grabbed the rider’s gun from the ground, and pointed it at him.
His screams of agony dwindled to a series of breathless groans. He glared up at me with cold blue eyes. They had no light in them. They were the eyes of a man who had seen and done unspeakable things. A man desensitized to violence. The rest of his features made me think ex-military, from his gray buzz cut and strong jaw, to his rough, suntanned skin.
“I should kill you for what you did to my poor car,” I said. “But I’m willing to give you a chance to save yourself.” I moved the gun closer to his face. “Why were you trying to kill me?”
The rider gave no response.
“Answer me!” I yelled.
He grinned. His face had turned red, and a large vein throbbed in the center of his forehead. His breaths came hard and fast. Droplets of spit flew from his mouth with each exhalation.
“If you don’t start talking, I
will
end you,” I warned. “Do you understand?”
The rider chuckled. “You’re not going to kill me.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yeah. I can see it in your eyes. You’re no killer.”
That was where he was wrong. I had killed during my time as an OBI agent. In those days, it was my job to track down dangerous criminals and bring them to justice. Most suspects surrendered without too much of a fight. But every now and then, I’d come across some psycho who’d rather shoot it out with me and my squad than come along quietly. Once they’d gone down that road, all bets were off.
I wasn’t proud of things I had done, but I knew they were necessary. Some people—people who thrive on the fear and suffering of others—needed to be put in their places. All the same, I couldn’t shoot a defenseless opponent in cold blood, even if he deserved it. I was a killer. But I wasn’t a murderer.
“Are you willing to risk it?” I asked the rider.
He smiled and said nothing.
I did the dramatic gun-cock that action heroes always do when they mean business, hoping that would loosen his tongue. He continued to grin, unimpressed.
I could see I was going to have to try another approach. I reared back and swung my foot upward. The tip of my shoe struck the rider’s injured arm.
He screamed and fell onto his side, gripping his forearm. “You bastard!”
“Ready to talk yet?” I asked.
“Screw you!”
I stepped on his broken forearm, pinning it beneath my foot. “Look, pops. You’re starting to get on my nerves. Tell me what I want to know, and we can end all this drama. Why did you try to kill me?”
“Because killing is what I do.” The rider groaned and writhed in the dirt.
“Let me rephrase the question: Who sent you?”
The rider let out a wheezing laugh. His face contorted with pain. “Like I’m gonna tell you.”
I eased more of my weight onto his forearm. He grimaced.
“Who was it?” I demanded, enunciating each word.
“I don’t know!” the rider hissed. “I’ve only ever talked to him over the phone.”
Him? So his boss was a man.
“Why did he want me dead?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
I ground my heel into his forearm. He cried out.
“Why did he want me dead?” I repeated.
“He said you needed to learn your place!” the rider shouted.
“What did he mean by that?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t bother asking either. A client’s motives are their own damn business. Got nothing to do with me.”
I removed my foot from his arm and stepped back, the gun still trained on him.
Gradually, he got to his knees. Sweat poured down his face.
I couldn’t tell if he’d been lying to me or not, and I didn’t have the energy to keep interrogating him. I figured it’d be best to turn him over to the OBI. Maybe they could get some answers out of him.
“Get up.” I gestured for him to rise.
The man stubbornly remained on his knees. I grabbed the collar of his jacket and hauled him upright. I started to walk, pulling him along with me.
“Where are you taking me?” he asked.
“To the cops.”
“I don’t think so.” The rider rammed his shoulder into me from behind.
The maneuver caught me off guard. I stumbled, tripped over something—probably a rock—and fell.
He bent and yanked up his right pant leg, revealing an ankle holster. As he drew a pistol from it, I rolled onto my back and fired a round from the gun I had confiscated. The bullet struck his broken forearm. He dropped the gun and went down screaming. I rushed over to him, snatched up the pistol, and pointed both guns on him. He laughed as he struggled to sit up. Blood poured from the hole in his arm, spilling onto the fallen leaves.
“S-see,” he squeezed out. “I t-told you . . . you . . . you’re no killer.”
“Shut up!” I kicked him in the face. The blow knocked him out cold. At once, I regretted hitting him. Now I had to carry his unconscious ass all the way back to civilization. This day was getting better and better.