Shadow Mamba

Shadow Mamba

  By E.E. Blake

  Copyright 2012 E.E. Blake

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  1

  It had been a long time since he saw the streets last. It was cloudy and rain was in the air, but in his eyes the dark and grey housing block looked just as lush with red brick and the green of pine trees as it did two years ago.

  “I got my bags,” he said back into the open taxi cab door, catching the driver in mid-rise.

  He got his luggage from the trunk; nothing too impressive— A modest and ruddy suitcase he had picked up “new” from the thrift store with the scant amount of cash he forgot he had when he got out that day.

  He went around the left side and slipped the cabby a folded ten-dollar bill with two quarters on top.

  He entered the dark house and went straight to the bedroom. His in-laws had been nice enough to keep the townhouse under wraps while he was away. He’d call them that night.

  He tossed the suitcase onto the musty king-sized bed and undid the snaps on the front. Inside the case were office supplies he bought from the stationary and copy store next to the thrift store: a package of Sharpie pens, one thick and glossy forest-green ballpoint pen that he intended to engrave, a couple of steno-pads, and a stack of one hundred business cards he had printed up, bound together by a single elastic band.

  He slipped free the top-most business card from the pack, raised it to eye-level, and gave the black text against stock grey a hard stare.

  “SHADOW MAMBA”

  Independent Investigator

  BY APPOINTMENT ONLY

  Shadow Mamba’s eyes dropped back to the suitcase. There was a playing card in the space where he took the business cards from. It was a Queen of Hearts, with the number “99” written on her torso in thick black marker ink.

  It was a “memento”. A cold reminder of why he returned to Shorebrooke.

  2

  Shadow Mamba wandered the streets all the next morning to get a feel of the town he once knew. In the afternoon, he used his debit card to withdraw more money, and bought a Colt Anaconda .44 with a slick ivory grip. He named it Chastity.

  He had an alias, and now he had a gun. Now all Mamba had to do was find the bastard who killed his wife and daughter.

  Mamba didn’t know who did it, how, or why, but he did figure one thing for sure as he took a stroll down Holland Street, where he read in the paper that morning that there was an office for rent: The day they framed him for the murder of his family was the day Vengeance was born.

  3

  The office was on the third floor of a four-storey building that housed a major bank and a hair salon. Mamba took the stairs. The third-floor hall was narrow and cut a sharp left past the elevator and a couple of lock-and-key washrooms. The place smelled like it needed a good janitor.

  The hall was lit up by the white paint that was peeling off like it was allergic to the very walls it was supposed to make presentable.

  Mamba read Dr. Melissa Covaks; Family Psychologist and Foot Specialist on one of the doors to his right as he wandered along. He chuckled.

  He found the office for rent and jotted down the Real Estate company’s contact information on the palm of his hand with the sharpie pen from his leather bomber jacket.

  As Mamba popped the cap back onto the pen, he heard the ding of the elevator, but paid it little mind. He turned and headed back up the hall, sure of himself that the office was his for the taking.

  He passed in front of the elevator as the heavy reflective door slid open with a deep rumble, revealing a short and stocky Asian man with slicked-back hair who hid behind a pair of dark sunglasses. He wore a black business suit, to match the shades.

  Off to get your corns buffed, Mamba thought to ask, but instead said, “Down?”

  “One of us,” the Asian nodded, and went for a machine gun hidden beside him in the shadows of the elevator car.

  Mamba swore and dove past the elevator just as the Asian opened fire into the hallway, ripping open the peeling paint and sending dusty chunks of drywall exploding into the air. Mamba landed into a hard roll and bashed his shoulder against the heater under the window by the stairwell.

  Wincing, he saw the Asian step out of the elevator car with the machine gun in both hands. The Asian faced Mamba and pulled back on the bolt on the side of the weapon.

  Hopped up on quick wits, Mamba went for the .44 hidden in the waistband of his jeans before his attacker could pull the trigger. Mamba fired all six rounds at the Asian, who caught one bullet in the left lens of his sunglasses, and another under the chin, splattering the women’s washroom door with brain and skull-bits, while the other four slugs found home in the doorframe.

  The Asian stumbled a couple steps, let the machine gun clatter to the tile floor, and then collapsed half inside the elevator, dead.

  “Glad I didn’t ask about his corns,” Mamba huffed. His ears perked at the sound of rapid footfalls coming up the stairwell beside him. He started towards the elevator; the sliding door closed against the dead Asian’s mid-section, only to re-open, close, and re-open again.

  “What’s a mamba without its poison?” Mamba wondered. He snatched up the machine gun off the sticky, bloody floor, and shot clean through the window at the end of the hall, shattering the glass completely to make it look like he dove out into the street. Mamba then leapt over the large pool of blood and ducked around the corner just as the stairwell door was kicked open.

  Mamba sidled up against the wall. He heard immediate chatter from three men in a Japanese dialect. He brought the muzzle of the gun to his lips, kissed the barrel’s shaft for good luck, and then spun around the corner.

  “Konnichiwa, mother fuckers!” Mamba announced, and pumped the three Japanese men in black business suits full of lead before they had the chance to properly react. The middle one fell backwards out the window with half his head intact while the other two crumpled to the floor with over-the-top acrobatic finesse, dropping their revolvers.

  Mamba dropped the now-empty machine gun and regarded the two well-dressed attackers. One of them was still alive, though barely, and struggled to sit upright against the heater despite his fatal wounds.

  Mamba noticed a playing card floating in the pool of blood by the elevator. It was a Queen of Hearts, with the number “99” written on her torso in thick black marker ink.

  Mamba’s eyes went hard with recognition.

  He snatched up the playing card and headed towards the bullet-riddled Japanese men under the window. As Mamba stepped into the stairwell, he flicked a business card into the lap of the near-dead Japanese gunman.

  4

  He needed a drink. Something hard. Something to calm his nerves.

  The Cornerstone Pub was draped in a dull red, cast off from the drawn, sun-beat drapes. There were some Joes at the bar. The lanky long-haired bartender scrubbing steins was Asian. Shadow Mamba hoped he wasn’t Japanese.

  “Gimme a bourbon,” Mamba said when he got to the bar.

  “We don’t have bourbon,” said the Asian, and exchanged glances with the blonde-haired yuppie on Mamba’s right, leaned up sleepily against the bar.

  Mamba went rigid. “Gimme a scotch.”

  The Asian’s towel-clad hand slowed a bit inside the stein, but he gave a pretty convincing smile. “Don’t got that, either.”

  “Sato. Leave him alone,” a woman said from the far side of the pub.

  Mamba looked over and saw a slim brunette standing in the doorway of what he guessed was the lady’s office. She had flowing hair that spilled past one shoulder, and s
he wore a tailored red dress with cap-sleeves. A large gold belt hugged her shapely hips. The woman put down her clipboard on the nearest booth table and came over to meet Mamba with deep and hungry emerald eyes.

  “What’re you having, mister?” she asked him.

  “Bourbon,” Mamba said.

  “Two bourbons,” the woman told the bartender, Sato, and then led Mamba over to a booth near the back of the pub. They sat down across from one another.

  “I’m sorry about Sato,” said the woman (her name tag read “Ruby: MANAGER”). “We don’t get … um … Not many col – err … how to say…”

  “Small farmer’s town, way out of the big city,” Mamba noted. “You got Asians and Mexicans all working the fields, and not a negro in sight. Funny how things turn out.”

  He slipped Ruby a business card just as Sato came by with the two bourbons.

  “... ‘Independent Investigator’?” Ruby read on the card. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’m for the people,” Mamba said when Sato left. “Drop a couple hundred and you got me ‘til the job is done. No by-the-hour bullshit. Times are tough; who am I to gouge, when I’m supposed to evenly represent the average Chuck? I’m no better than you, no better than your racist slanty.”

  Mamba started to put the bourbon to his lips, but Ruby took the other side of the glass and stopped him.

  “Don’t drink that,” she said in a low voice, “Sato spat in it.” She switched glasses with Mamba and dumped the spoiled bourbon into a potted plant behind her.

  “Thanks,” Mamba murmured in slight surprise, and took a deep sip from the new glass. He wondered why she didn’t ask about his alias.

  “Your hand is shaking,” Ruby noticed.

  “S’cold out,” Mamba said behind the rim of the glass.

  “It’s the middle of July,” Ruby said.

  Mamba finished the bourbon in a second deep gulp.

  “I’m on a case,” he said. “I’m tracking down a group of murderers. All I know about them is this...” He reached inside his breast pocket and showed Ruby the blood-stained playing card with the number “99” scribbled in thick pen on the Queen of Heart’s torso.

  Ruby squinted at it until Mamba slipped the card back inside his coat.

  “Let me get you something for that shake,” Ruby offered. She squeezed Mamba’s burly and calloused hand, and slid out of the booth. “Come with me.”

  He knew better – far better. But the shining emeralds of those deep and hungry eyes were too much. Just too damn much. Even for a guy who was supposed to be on the trail of the cold turkeys that killed his family, and just five minutes ago survived a shoot out with members of the very group. Mamba wasn’t stupid. He knew they both were related. The playing card proved that. He knew better.

  5

  Ruby led Mamba into her office. She flicked on the light as they entered, and went straight to her desk. Mamba took a few steps inside the office and stopped to look around. The walls were a deep scarlet. Waist-high book cases lined the walls. Plants hung from pots secured to the stucco ceiling.

  “I have some Diazepam in here somewhere,” Ruby said as she leaned over her open desk drawer and rummaged around.

  “Diaze—I don’t need—”

  The door behind Mamba suddenly closed. He swung around on one heel with his empty .44 aimed at Sato, the bartender.

  “Sato, do we have Diazepam in this joint?” Mamba heard Ruby ask. “I could have sworn…”

  “Diazepam?” Sato repeated in a dark voice. He crossed his arms against his chest and eyed Mamba’s piece. “Yeah. We have some of that. I think in the basement.”

  Mamba’s thumb pad dug into his gun’s hammer as he clenched the weapon tight. “Don’t test me, cat,” he warned. “I got my quarters all ready, now lemme in on the game. What’s going down here?”

  Sato smirked and before Mamba knew it, the Japanese bartender had him on the hardwood floor with a migraine that could rival an earthquake. In the split-second tussle, Sato had somehow disarmed the investigator.

  “You should have stayed in jail, Mister ‘Mamba’,” Mamba heard Ruby say over the hum of his splitting headache. She leaned over him and slid the playing card out of his bomber jacket’s breast pocket. “Though … everyone will be so happy to see you back in town.”

  6

  There were a whole crowd of them. Mamba had never seen so many Asians in the same room before. Those standing behind the bar were serving those sitting at the bar. Others were at booths with food and drink. Some, at tables near the back, were playing cards and gambling.

  The screeching creak of the closing metal door that separated the basement hideout from the rest of the Cornerstone Pub got the attention of everybody in the room. They looked over at Mamba, and their dull, relaxed eyes immediately went hard and alert. Some put their hands on the hilts of their guns. Just in case.

  Ruby offered a sheepish grin and stepped away from the door, just as Sato shoved Mamba forward with a swift boot to the posterior.

  Mamba took a quick head-count. There were ninety-four of them in total. Ninety-four Japanese men, all together in the middle of a hick town, Mamba thought as he eyed each and every one of the well-dressed assassins. It didn’t add up. His thoughts broke when Ruby suddenly slapped him on the cheek as she passed by.

  “Two years ago you were the police chief here in Shorebrooke,” Ruby stated. She stopped at the bar, and turned to face Mamba. The assassins sitting behind her got off their stools, revolvers and nunchakus at the ready. “You look a bit different now – jail’s changed you,” she went on, “but we still recognized you on the news last night when the press said you were getting out on good behaviour. It was stupid of you to come back. What did you think you were gonna prove?”

  Ruby threw down the bloody playing card at Mamba’s feet.

  The Queen of Hearts with the number “99” scribbled on the torso.

  Mamba furrowed his brow. There were ninety-four cats standing hungry for blood before him. The gunman from the elevator made ninety-five and the ones from the stairwell counted ninety-six, seven, and eight.

  Mamba looked over his shoulder at Sato. Ninety-nine.

  He understood now. The playing card was a business card – a business card not unlike the thin stack of grey stock in his jeans pocket.

  “You cops think you make Shorebrooke run. Really, it’s us,” Ruby clarified. “We’re the Ninety-Nine Dragons. You don’t know who we are, but two years ago one of our associates tried to strike a deal with your department,” she continued. “We needed you. And deep down, your department needed us. We could have run this town together! But you didn’t bite ... so we had to make an example.”

  Mamba stared at the bloody playing card at the toes of his Nikes. The very same playing card stood propped up against a framed photo of his wife and daughter on the fireplace mantle back home. Mamba’s vision went fuzzy and he nerves went hot. But he forced himself to keep cool. A rash act would make him dead. But then again, he was dead anyway – wouldn’t matter if he went down with a couple of the suckers under his belt.

  In Mamba’s eyes, they were all ninety-nine bastards. Every last one.

  “Quit the history lesson and give it to me already,” he said. “You and me both know I’m not down here for a tea party.”

  “Very true,” Ruby shrugged. “Okay, boys. Let him have it.”

  No bribe, no nothing, Mamba realized with a sharp inhale. The two bartenders on either side of Ruby pulled up machine guns from under the counter. Mamba felt the whispered wind of Sato shifting behind him. Without warning, Mamba punched the Japanese man in the mouth, grabbed him by the collar and both wrists, and bared him like a human shield, just as the gunmen opened fire.

  “No do—” Sato started to say, just before his comrades riddled his body until there was nothing left but unrecognizable hamburger.

  As soon as the machine-gunners went to reload, Mamba snatched his .44 Anaconda out of Sato’s waistband, then gra
bbed the bartender’s corpse and tossed it with all his might. Ruby tried to get out of the way, but caught the corpse full-on, and was herself thrown back against the bar with a sickening plop.

  “Get him!” she screamed, pushing Sato off of her, but before anyone could open fire again, Mamba trained his empty Anaconda on the centre of Ruby’s pale forehead.

  “Not today, cats,” he sneered. Slowly, he backed up. Out the corner of his eye, he saw one of the assassins slip out from a booth, with hand on the butt of his revolver.

  Mamba clicked back Chastity’s hammer. The assassin froze, only to sink back into his seat.

  “This isn’t over, Mister ‘Mamba’,” Ruby said calmly. A bead of sweat rolled down her temple.

  “Not ‘til the fat chick sings,” Mamba agreed. “Don’t worry – I’ll see that she does.”

  7

  Mamba jogged down Holland Street until he stopped in front of the building where the office for rent was. He leaned against the bus shelter to catch his breath. He glanced over his shoulder, but there wasn’t anyone on his tail. At least, not yet.

  He leaned forward with hands on his knees. His heart was lodged in his throat, and his lungs felt like they were going to explode.

  The Ninety-Nine Dragons.

  I’ve stepped into something deep, Mamba realized. This town’s got something deep and dark in it, but I can’t rest. Not yet. Not gonna rest until I’m down or they’re down. And I’m not going down without a fight. I’ll fight for Jasmine and Marie. I’ll fight and fight and I don’t care at what cost.

  These ninety-nine bastards are going down, he thought. Every last one.

  He couldn’t go back into the Cornerstone Pub with guns blazing. That was suicide. But Mamba didn’t want the local cops involved, either. This was his war. No one else’s.

  He’d find a way to take them down. Even if he had to pick them all off one by one like Jason Voorhees at a camp counsellor picnic reunion.

  Mamba reached into his jacket to feel his heart. He withdrew his hand and saw the phone number for the Real Estate agency on his palm, smudged by sweat.