The Gritty Gastown Collection: Ride the Lightning, Triggerfish, and The Deadbeat Club by Dietrich Kalteis

Author:Dietrich Kalteis [Kalteis, Dietrich]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: ECW Press
Published: 2017-11-17T05:00:00+00:00

. . . BEST SERVED COLD

It would be his night of revenge on the man who killed his friends with the rocket launcher, nearly killed him, too, gave him this face, half of it like a plastic mask, first-degree burns having a way of fucking up your complexion. Fixing on a point, he watched the tops of the pines swaying in the breeze, the countless stars in the night sky. Some kind of night bird gave a screech. Likely looking to get laid. Nav Pudi knew the feeling.

Stretching one foot under the dash, then the other, watching the GPS device in his hand, he pictured doing it with a cleaver, nice and slow, starting with a finger, then an ear when he ran out of fingers, making Travis Rainey scream. The device told him the van was ten miles and closing, coming right to them. Not a street light out here, not a town anywhere around. The middle of nowhere.

The four of them had been sitting in the Lexus since ten. His own cologne did little to ward off that of the others. He rolled the window down, partly to hear the van when it got close.

The coffee he’d drunk to sharpen his edge worked through him. Twice before he’d got out and stood up against the big evergreen. The night air was cool, and he shuddered, held up his wrist, tried to see his watch as he pissed. Getting back in the shotgun seat, he took the device on his lap. Five miles out now. Soon he would hear their tires on the highway, the sound of their engine.

Veni Gopal sat behind the wheel, still as a ghost most of the night, baseball cap pulled low. Could have been asleep for all Nav knew. Daljit Rama was packed behind him. The big man kept banging his knees into the back of Nav’s seat. Waiting in the dark was getting to him, said sitting there felt like a thousand ants were crawling up his legs. Got in and out of the car a dozen times so far. Being six-foot-eight didn’t help, pushing three hundred pounds, sitting in back of the cramped Jap car with his knees pressed in tight.

“Nearly here,” Benji Kumar said from behind Veni, Benji along for some revenge. Bij, the kid killed in the attack on the Hummer, was a cousin of his. Both played for the Surrey Chiefs.

Like on cue, the cell rang in Nav’s pocket. He took it out and clicked it on. “Yeah?”

“Three, four minutes tops,” is all Danny DeWulf said, calling from the Accord trailing the van, then he hung up.

“Here we go,” Nav said, putting the GPS unit in the glovebox, everybody checking their weapons once more in the dark, the clang of metal on metal. This was for the three killed in the attack on their Hummer six months back. What they’d done to Rivers and Glinka that morning was just a start.

The plan was simple; Veni would let the van pass, pull in behind and follow until they hit the spike strip, then rush up on them.

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