“It’s a bit messy, paint splatters and woodchips and such.”
“Sounds perfect.”
Randolph led the way outside and locked the steel door behind them. He loped off behind the house to his workshop, while Wallace returned to his truck with his new supplies.
The dogs had moved off the lawn and were sprawled across the front porch of the house. Each one of them yawned in turn as Wallace walked by.
At the truck, Wallace laid the shotgun on the rear seat and covered it with a blanket. He placed the baseball bat on top and the binoculars beside it.
When Randolph returned, he dumped the tarp in the back of the truck and shook Wallace’s hand.
“Nice meetin’ you, fella,” he said. “I’ll send our friend the bill and forget I ever saw ya. ’Preciate the same in kind.”
If someone had told Wallace two days ago that he would be buying illegal firearms while trespassing in a foreign country, he would have checked their veins for track marks. It wasn’t difficult for him to agree to never speak of it again.
CHAPTER 24
Mr. Black sped down the quiet residential street, acutely aware that any hope of remaining inconspicuous was rapidly fading.
Even if he wasn’t speeding, the large and expensive Lincoln stood out. Despite its incredible view of Burrard Inlet and the glistening office towers of downtown Vancouver on the far shore, this segment of the city was built on native reserve, which protected it from the get-rich-quick developers who would have stuffed it with million-dollar condos for white and Asian yuppies.
As such, the newest vehicles parked in driveways and on the street were from the previous decade. Anything newer was small and cheap and bought with gas mileage in mind.
But if Mr. Black’s suspicions were confirmed, being inconspicuous was the least of his worries.
Crow’s truck loomed less than half a block ahead and Mr. Black closed the gap in a hurry.
Two figures were inside the cab.
Talking. Oblivious.
He moved closer still.
Reckless. Uncaring.
He eased up just as the Lincoln’s chrome grill came within inches of the truck’s rusting rear bumper.
Both Crow and his passenger — a young native with a thick cotton headband the color of ox blood — looked back in alarmed curiosity.
Mr. Black bared his teeth and twisted the steering wheel to the left. His foot pushed the accelerator to the floor, making the large vehicle growl.
The Lincoln jerked to the left and shot through an impossible gap between Crow’s truck and a parked van. The gap proved too narrow and Crow’s side mirror snapped off at the base in a shower of broken glass and twisted metal.
Mr. Black sucked air through his nostrils to expand his lungs in an attempt to circulate every last drop of precious adrenaline.
This is what he lived for.
Once the Lincoln cleared the nose of the truck, Mr. Black twisted the steering wheel to the right and slammed on the brake s blocking the road.
He twisted in his seat and braced himself. Through the passenger window he watched Crow’s truck screech in agony, its rear-end fishtailing as aging brakes desperately tried to bring the clapped-out hulk of iron to a halt.
The rush was razor sharp.
To its credit, the truck stopped with barely an inch to spare. Smoke poured from its wheel wells and a thick cloud of steam exploded from beneath its hood.
Mr. Black exhaled and opened his door. He walked around the front of the Lincoln, preparing his mind and his body as he moved.
He knew the passenger would be the first to exit the truck. The young native was lean, fit and his temper wouldn’t be tempered by the relief of having miraculously avoided an expensive collision.
Mr. Black wasn’t disappointed.
The young man’s face was practically white with rage.
CHAPTER 25
The grocery clerk eyed Wallace’s colorful Canadian currency with unbridled disdain before reluctantly allowing him to exchange it for a pre-wrapped sandwich, two chocolate-dipped granola bars,
“Sounds perfect.”
Randolph led the way outside and locked the steel door behind them. He loped off behind the house to his workshop, while Wallace returned to his truck with his new supplies.
The dogs had moved off the lawn and were sprawled across the front porch of the house. Each one of them yawned in turn as Wallace walked by.
At the truck, Wallace laid the shotgun on the rear seat and covered it with a blanket. He placed the baseball bat on top and the binoculars beside it.
When Randolph returned, he dumped the tarp in the back of the truck and shook Wallace’s hand.
“Nice meetin’ you, fella,” he said. “I’ll send our friend the bill and forget I ever saw ya. ’Preciate the same in kind.”
If someone had told Wallace two days ago that he would be buying illegal firearms while trespassing in a foreign country, he would have checked their veins for track marks. It wasn’t difficult for him to agree to never speak of it again.
CHAPTER 24
Mr. Black sped down the quiet residential street, acutely aware that any hope of remaining inconspicuous was rapidly fading.
Even if he wasn’t speeding, the large and expensive Lincoln stood out. Despite its incredible view of Burrard Inlet and the glistening office towers of downtown Vancouver on the far shore, this segment of the city was built on native reserve, which protected it from the get-rich-quick developers who would have stuffed it with million-dollar condos for white and Asian yuppies.
As such, the newest vehicles parked in driveways and on the street were from the previous decade. Anything newer was small and cheap and bought with gas mileage in mind.
But if Mr. Black’s suspicions were confirmed, being inconspicuous was the least of his worries.
Crow’s truck loomed less than half a block ahead and Mr. Black closed the gap in a hurry.
Two figures were inside the cab.
Talking. Oblivious.
He moved closer still.
Reckless. Uncaring.
He eased up just as the Lincoln’s chrome grill came within inches of the truck’s rusting rear bumper.
Both Crow and his passenger — a young native with a thick cotton headband the color of ox blood — looked back in alarmed curiosity.
Mr. Black bared his teeth and twisted the steering wheel to the left. His foot pushed the accelerator to the floor, making the large vehicle growl.
The Lincoln jerked to the left and shot through an impossible gap between Crow’s truck and a parked van. The gap proved too narrow and Crow’s side mirror snapped off at the base in a shower of broken glass and twisted metal.
Mr. Black sucked air through his nostrils to expand his lungs in an attempt to circulate every last drop of precious adrenaline.
This is what he lived for.
Once the Lincoln cleared the nose of the truck, Mr. Black twisted the steering wheel to the right and slammed on the brake s blocking the road.
He twisted in his seat and braced himself. Through the passenger window he watched Crow’s truck screech in agony, its rear-end fishtailing as aging brakes desperately tried to bring the clapped-out hulk of iron to a halt.
The rush was razor sharp.
To its credit, the truck stopped with barely an inch to spare. Smoke poured from its wheel wells and a thick cloud of steam exploded from beneath its hood.
Mr. Black exhaled and opened his door. He walked around the front of the Lincoln, preparing his mind and his body as he moved.
He knew the passenger would be the first to exit the truck. The young native was lean, fit and his temper wouldn’t be tempered by the relief of having miraculously avoided an expensive collision.
Mr. Black wasn’t disappointed.
The young man’s face was practically white with rage.
CHAPTER 25
The grocery clerk eyed Wallace’s colorful Canadian currency with unbridled disdain before reluctantly allowing him to exchange it for a pre-wrapped sandwich, two chocolate-dipped granola bars,
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