Racing the Moon (13 page)

"I need to go, man. I have some calls to make, but I'm out."

"What? Why?" Poor guy looked so confused. Maybe a little scared.

Sonny tilted his head. "Woody, man. You've been doing this without me a long time."

"No, I haven't." Woody came over and put both hands on Sonny's shoulders. "You mean you're out of Asheville, right? To go find that... guy." That upper lip curled a little. Sonny ignored it.

"I mean that, too." Now was as good as ever. "But I'm turning the rest over to you, man. All of it. Well, not the car. And I still want the cabin up here. But you can have my place in Raleigh. And the one bolt hole out in Tennessee."

Those hands tightened on his shoulders enough that he heard joints grind. Ow. Woody's mouth fell open. Man, morning breath.

"No way. No fucking way. We've been doing this too long."

Yeah. They'd been friends for twelve years, lovers for five, and in business for eight. It kinda surprised Sonny how easy it was to give it up. But it was.

"I'm sorry, Wood. I am. But man, I gotta go." He shrugged Woody's hands off, going back to packing. "I mean it's not like I won't call. I'll keep in touch and shit. And you can use me as a bouncing board or whatever you call it. A sounding thing. Whatever."

"Where are you going, at least?" Woody moved to sit on the bed that his duffel was on, leaning back on his elbows like a casual man. Sonny saw the tension, though, and sighed, sitting, too.

"I'm not sure. West coast somewhere. His job was supposed to be near Seattle. Look, Wood, you know it's not you..."

"No. It's him." Woody shrugged. "But that's neither here nor there, I guess."

"Don't, man." He punched Woody's shoulder. "Just don't, okay? Now, are you gonna help me find him or not?"

He got this look, long and steady and kinda...closed up. Then Woody nodded. "Sure, Sonny. Sure. Don't I always do what's best for you?"

Bouncing up, Sonny nodded, grinning to beat the band. He'd hunt MJ's ass down, and he'd find him, and he'd fuck him into the middle of next week. Asshole. Trying to get away. Sonny packed a box of Twinkies for the flight, clapping Woody on the back as he went back and forth.

"Yeah, Wood," he said. "You always take care of me."

***

"No, I'm almost to Portland," Sonny said, peering around the corner of the truck stop, just to make sure no one was watching. "That guy you hooked me up with knew his shit, Woody. Would you believe someone besides me kidnapped the man?"

He listened to Woody rant and rave about how dangerous and stupid it was to be planning a charge into the woods where armed men were holding MJ and thought about the last couple of days. Long flight to Seattle. Even longer day in a hotel making calls to people. There was this one guy, Donnie? Dorkus? Somebody. Anyway, the guy had told him about this eco-terrorist he'd heard about who'd gotten caught by the investors of some fucking whaling ship MJ had sunk or something.

Jesus, the man had more enemies than Batman. And more lives than Catwoman, because damned if Doofus hadn't said MJ was still alive.

"Woody, hush. I'm gonna do it. Yeah. Can't wait for you to meet him. I think you'll like him. Right. See you in Asheville in about a week. Later."

It'd be a lot less if MJ would just fly.

Maybe he should get some more morphine.

Chapter Twelve

Fuck.

Okay.

MJ rolled his eyes, trying to focus, trying to get his shit together.

It would be a hell of a lot easier if there wasn't a fucking wall right there. In front of his fucking nose. Like a coffin.

Okay.

No thinking about coffins.

None.

At all.

If he was fucking dead he wouldn't be hurting so goddamn much and he'd be happier and fucking haunting whoever ratted him out and got him double-crossed.

Double-crossed and pistol-whipped.

Double-crossed, pistol-whipped and tasered.

That sounded a lot like a song title.

Well, it would work better if tasered had three syllables. Taser-touched. Taser-nudged. Taser-zapped.

Oh, taser-zapped.

That would work.

Double-crossed, pistol-whipped and taser-zapped.

Christ, he had to get out of here. Now.

Just about the time he started to wiggle like a fish on a hook, he heard the poppoppop of gunfire, one of the slugs punching a hole in the door a foot above his head. He knew because he saw light.

Oh, fuck him raw.

He started slamming his shoulder against the door, the cuffs pulling like all hell with every jerk. Better to die out there than in here.

The sounds out there were just fucking fascinating. Maybe those bastards were killing each other. Of course, then he would starve to death, and that would suck hard.

The door flew open on one of his rushes at it, spilling him out on the floor, the bright light stinging his eyes.

Oh, fuck, yes.

Better.

Much better.

He started moving without even looking up, just wiggling and heading toward a door.

Rough hands caught at him, yanked him up, his numb feet refusing to hold him. His back hit the wall, and something hard and heavy pushed into his belly, his weight rising up off the floor, his legs and arms dangling. None of the guys who'd kidnapped him were that strong...

"Time to go, Precious."

"Sonny."

He just relaxed, something a lot like disbelief -- or maybe it was relief -- crashing over him.

He was either the luckiest asshole on Earth or hallucinating.

Either one worked.

"We'll talk later, yeah?"

He bounced as Sonny beat feet. They made it almost all the way to the big car Sonny dumped him into before someone started shooting. He landed half against the passenger door, one leg over the console. Sonny shoved at him, getting him across before taking off like a fucking bat out of hell.

He wriggled until he was sort of upright, blinking as the road just zipped by. "Where are we? I had a place about hundred miles east of Seattle, but they kept moving me."

"We're near Olympia. We'll head to Portland. I figure Idaho, Utah, catch seventy and head across. We can angle south later. If I give you a pocket knife can you cut yourself loose?"

Sonny sounded so...normal. Kinda jazzed.

"They're police cuffs, man. You found me." He blinked over, staring.

Sonny.

His Sonny.

Fuck.

"Like metal, or plastic riot?" They hit the interstate; he could tell by the way they sped, by the smooth whump of road under the wheels.

"Metal." Uncomfortable as fuck, too. He sank down a little in the seat, bending his elbows. "What day is it?"

"September second." Sonny kept checking the rearview, watching their tail. "I got your kit. Is there anything in there that works on cuffs?"

"Uh-huh. There's a ring of keys. One'll fit." Oh, fucking cool. "September second? Damn."

"Yeah, Precious. You don't write, you don't call." They slowed, Sonny pulling off at the next exit, taking the off ramp too fast, but making it. They pulled into a huge truck stop, the smell of diesel strong enough to make him gag.

"Okay. Okay, let me get you loose."

"Fuck, yes. Please." He turned, twisting to offer Sonny his wrists. They fucking hurt.

Sonny grunted, dug around in the backseat before he heard the click, and damned if the cuffs didn't come loose. "There. You'll have to get your own feet."

"'Kay. You okay? I heard the shots." His fucking shoulders screamed as he moved, his eyes just tearing up against the pain.

"I...I hope you can drive for a while, Precious..." Sonny didn't sound jazzed now. In fact he sounded fucking weird. When MJ looked over, Sonny was kinda slumped in the driver's seat, eyes crossing a little.

"Fuck." He reached out, trying to get his fingers to move, to fucking
work
. "Where the hell were you hit, man?"

Don't you fucking pass out on me, you motherfucker.

"My ribs. Back right side. Fuck, MJ." Sonny's chest heaved, but the short, sharp breaths didn't sound wet, at least.

"Okay. Hospital. Right. Feet. I'll get you to somewhere and drop you off." He couldn't fucking go in a hospital looking like he did. They'd call the fucking cops. Cops. Shit. No. No, with the gunshot wound they'd ask questions.

Fuck him.

"No! Jesus. They report this shit to the police, Precious. We can. God. We can clean up here. They have showers. You can wrap me up." Yeah, like either of them could walk.

"Yeah, yeah. Fuck. We need a goddamn hotel room." He finally got his fucking feet loose, yanking the metal off his torn up skin. Okay. Okay. Come on. Think. "All right. Here's the plan. I'll wrap you up. Take you to a hotel and make you comfortable." Then he was going to get in the shower and stay there.

For a month.

"Okay. Yeah. Okay. Your fan club will try to find us. We'll have to park the car out of sight." See? Sonny could think. He was shot, and he could think.

"Yeah." He got the car door open and explained, very carefully, to his legs that he was going to walk around the car and drive. They could be all shaky and psycho later. Right now, the options were working or getting put back in a dark closet. Right. No closets. Up. Moving. Go legs.

Damn. Sonny was listing to port. Badly. The man was panting like a hot dog, eyes closing on a grimace. "Sorry, MJ...thought I could go a few more miles..."

"It's okay, Sunshine. It's okay. Tell me you filled up the morphine supply. Get in the backseat. I'll get the bleeding stopped." He stood, not fucking swaying, damn it. "And pop the trunk so I can get my bag."

"Okay." Sonny did everything he asked, moving like a fucking zombie. "I got all sorts of shit. We get stopped by the cops, we're fucked."

"We won't get stopped." He took four Vicodin dry, then drew up a syringe of morphine and grabbed some wadding. "Gonna dope you up and tie your chest up. Any sewing can wait until I find a room."

He gave the shot right through Sonny's jeans, not waiting for the man to argue.

"Not gonna be much good to you, Precious. Not...oh. Man. That feels better already."

"You got me loose. I'm surprisingly self-sufficient." He ripped Sonny's shirt open, looking at the wound. A through-and-through; excellent. He started packing the wound, working as fast as he could.

"Fuck. Jesus, gimme a drink, will you?" But Sonny took it well, gripping the backseat and just sweating bullets, but not screaming or anything. That tanned skin looked pale as hell, but otherwise Sonny looked pretty good.

"You drink on top of that shot and you'll puke all over the car. I'm almost done. Looks real clean. Didn't nick anything major. You just stop bleeding, 'kay?" He started wrapping, praying that nothing inside was torn up.

"You got it, Precious. I'll just nip that in the bud." The exaggerated drawl Sonny said it with had him cracking a grin.

"Good boy." He dug out two Valium and popped them in Sonny's mouth. "I'm gonna drive a while, man. Sleep."

"Okay. Get us someplace good. Big bed...tub." The words started to slur, Sonny gone already.

"Uh-huh. I'll find something." He got the door shut, got himself settled in the driver's seat, wrinkling his nose as Sonny's blood seeped through his torn T-shirt from the seat. What a fucking mess.

MJ pulled out just as the highway patrol pulled in. A fucking mess, but they were moving and
he'd be damned if they got caught.

He was never getting caught again.

***

Sonny woke up feeling like he'd been beaten with a baseball bat. By Jose Canseco in all of his steroid glory, maybe. His body ached in places he didn't know he had places. He tried to roll over on his back, stiffening as screaming pain stopped him. As long as he stayed still he was okay, if stiff. "Precious?"

"Yeah?" MJ was slumped in a chair by the window, the fading sunlight shadowing the man's face. "You need another shot, man?"

"Where are you?" He could barely see the man, damn it, and he wanted...well, he wanted to make sure it was really MJ, and that he was really in one piece. "Get your ass over here."

"Bossy asshole." MJ stood up, moving slow and careful, holding himself like he was blown from glass, but moving. The shadows made the man look all fucking mottled and bruised.

"Damn it, and I didn't even get to do it to you." Sonny tried to laugh, groaned instead. "Only bruises you should wear are mine."

"No shit. I had a lot more fun fighting with you, Sunshine." MJ got a pill bottle, shook out a few. "Here, take a couple of these. They'll take the edge off."

Then MJ settled right there beside him, close enough to touch.

"You okay, though?" he asked, chewing the pills down. "Not pissing blood or anything?"

Sonny reached out, carefully settling his hand on MJ's thigh.

"More sore than anything. Got a broken rib, maybe a cracked shoulder blade. Nothing major." MJ reached out, touched his arm. "I shot you up with some penicillin and stitched you up some. Looks real clean."

"Cool. If I stay still, I'm good." Yeah, he was actually pretty good right here, touching Precious, knowing they'd made it. He started laughing.

MJ was just staring at him, sort of wide-eyed and dazed. "You'll hurt yourself."

"I know. I know. But if you could have seen me riding to the rescue...I was a little out of my mind, Precious. I'm amazed we're alive." God, that hurt, but it meant he was there, alive.

"How'd you find me, man? Hell, I thought..." MJ shook his head, eyes moving back to the window.

Man, after being locked up like that? MJ deserved a camp out. Somewhere with no walls at all. Sonny stroked him. "I know some people. I put out the word. Goddamn, it wasn't easy."

"Glad you did, though. Somebody set me up." MJ stretched out beside him, nose almost touching his. "Hey."

"Hey." Sonny rolled on his good side, just a little, enough to be able to see MJ better. His breath huffed out, but he just grabbed a pillow to prop himself up.

MJ frowned, hands sliding over him, settling him right down. "You good, Sunshine? I don't want you pulling those stitches."