Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-9
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Joshua Tree, CA 1990s
Lyndy Life Observation: At an early morning makeup call, a model named Brie Northcott decided to lecture myself and Rita in an obnoxious manner regarding the health hazards of artificial sweeteners in soft drinks. In particular, she put down our favorite Tab and Diet Coke. Later the same day, Brie was unceremoniously escorted from the building, after being caught in the bathroom snorting a powdery substance from the marble sinks.
It was a warm, clear night idling in line at the Carl’s Jr drive thru—Hardees to you Midwesterners. Fine night for a modern battle at The Alamo, she mused. Lyndy Martinez couldn’t resist tapping her fingers on the oversize metal steering wheel to the rhythm of the 90’s banger Boot Scootin’ Boogie, while waiting for her western bacon cheeseburger meal and jumbo size Diet Coke.
Sadly, no radio or cassette player in the Coleman Tug, but those sweet country licks thumping from someone else’s farm pickup truck were sufficient musical accompaniment. Another issue: the seating position in the Tug left a great deal to be desired, as the L-shape bench with minimal foam padding was far from comfy. Trust me on this, when you reach your forties, lumbar adjustment becomes less a convenience and more an essential feature. God save anyone with hemorrhoids attempting to pilot this contraption.
At least it was high, so your knees were level with the hips. And one could look out over other cars with an unencumbered view.
Another point in the plus column, this bizarre machine distracted from the fact Lyndy Martinez had dressed herself like a participant in a Dia de Los Muertos parade. Or the bass player in a heavy metal hair band—picture the kind where the guitar literally looks like a battle axe. She felt like a badass.
Her outfit: black wrangler jeans. Black tank undershirt. Combat boots. White-bone face paint with the black around the eyes. This was no masquerade; the brown Tug was loaded with chains, power tools, pipe-cutting equipment, gasoline, defensive weapons from her trailer and extra ammo if needed.
Indeed, there was an art to prepping a car for an all-out demolition derby. She’d learned these skills from one Daryl Ward, same mechanical genius who built the white mustang for her. She’d removed the window glass, attaching riveted netting—NASCAR style—in its place. She wanted nothing to shatter, or risk impaling her.
Folks hardly noticed her all black goth appearance when she shouted into the speaker. She pondered her fate while munching her high calorie late-night snack. She had big plans—screw the diet at a time like this.
Having Dr. Ellis out of the picture a few days had been ideal timing. Only challenge was what to do with baby Maribel. Luckily, her daughter had transitioned from formula to mostly solid foods, making feeding time a little more straightforward and predictable. Jackie Cordray was really the only option in a bind like this. Asking anyone else for assistance was perfectly fine an hour or two throughout the week, but certainly not all night. Thus, with Kyle away on business Lyndy invited Jackie to stay over. Heck, she knew something about kids.
When she’d finished the cheeseburger, Lyndy sopped the grease from her lips with a wad of napkins. Then she crammed the paper wrapper under the seat, setting off for her destination in top gear. Regrettably, maximum speed ticked only a hair over 45 miles per hour—with the wind at her back. No music, having left civilization.
She was alone with her thoughts. And her burps—a few of those.
Only The Spitfire would attempt something this grandiose yet very ill advised. For an everyday new mom, an activity as risky as going to war against three half-crazed Russian tow-truck drivers would seem incomprehensible.
She felt her heart pounding harder, reminding her of old days working for Chan.
Prior to making herself known, she chose a darkened intersection roughly three blocks distant from Godzilla Towing. Using the left side mirror—the only glass remaining—Lyndy re-did her ponytail until it was tight and contained all her bangs. She shook the wax paper cup, sipping a few more precious swallows of diet soda.
Over her all-black attire, The Spitfire strapped a Kevlar police vest. She sensed the hard outline and weight of the cold steel stuffed in the front pocket, a small comfort. She adjusted the Velcro straps to fit snug against her small rib cage, then laced her hiking boots. That was another Chan-ism. He often said a person lacking comfortable footwear wouldn’t make it a quarter-mile in this desert without stepping on something sharp. One sliced foot would be the downfall of many a fugitive.
Stretching a moment with one foot on the tall front tire, she studied her surroundings. A handful of shacks dotted the neighborhood, on roomy lots roughly an acre in size. Still enough people living out here that one or two might see. Then again, with dark clothes and a painted face, they wouldn’t have much to describe.
After checking she had the key, Lyndy set out on foot at a brisk marching pace toward Godzilla Towing. With only one spare tow truck, the place felt empty and yet flood lights shone brightly. The hour now well beyond midnight, a veil of serenity had taken hold. Still, it would be safe to assume these weirdos slept during the day—like vampires.
The place gave out creepy vibes.
She covered the remaining distance with added attentiveness in her actions, pausing and listening near to the parked M-series luxury sedan. Dogs were barking and a breeze swirled through the barrenness of the sandy parking lot. One might also be safe in assuming they were watching, with cameras hidden somewhere in the fence line or in recesses under the eaves.
The sports sedan had such a heavy tint one could see nothing of the interior.
A part of her wanted to drop a wad of thermite on this thing—right on the hood so it melted through the engine bay. Only pricks drove this BMW model. But why escalate by poking the bear in the eye? After all, her mission still retained the option of a peaceful outcome, her intentions chiefly to negotiate the release of Sabina’s car. Rather than giving in to her destructive urges, she merely braced herself by resting her hip against the hood and quarter panel.
Lyndy checked her watch, wondering how long before Block or Sergei came waddling out to greet her. She wouldn’t have had time to strike a match and light a Newport. The door flung open with a forceful kick from a larger, man-size commando style boot. Fifteen seconds was all it took.
Block came rushing out with his Kalashnikov in hand, armed and ready to fire. He was followed by his brother and comrade Sergei, dressed in civilian clothing. With a gap of 30 feet between them, Lyndy drew her pistol. She pointed it dead center on Block’s chest, using both hands to steady the brick like gun.
“This day will be your last if you come a step closer,” Lyndy commanded.
Meanwhile an unknown car approached from the south with headlights dimmed. Lyndy refused to take her eyes off the two men, hoping the new arrival was not part of their gang. Pushing away from the car in a controlled manner, Lyndy never shifted her gaze. With her feet planted sturdily on the gravel, she regained maneuverability. Holding her frame steady she formed a wider A-stance with her legs. This would make for a cleaner shot, preventing her from tensing up. Good thing, as she had two adversaries to dispatch.
Skidding to a stop in the dirt, an arrogant smile formed on Block’s squarish mug.
He lowered his rifle, the muzzle tilting back toward the earth. “Okay girly, no problems,” answered Block. “We aren’t looking for trouble.”
He moved his quivering finger away from the trigger.
“But please do step away from M-series,” warned Sergei. “I recently have car repainted. Trying to avoid scratch.” Sergei’s waving arms and cracking voice indicated genuine concern for his BMW.
Who worries about their car at a time like this?
Lyndy lowered her aim to match Block.
“I’m not hurting anything,” assured The Spitfire.
“Vhut are you doing here?” Sergei demanded, in his vampire like accent.
“Just out for a nature hike,” answered Lyndy facetiously.
The approaching car continued traveling on a b-line to their standoff.
Sergei’s snakish eyes studied her like a game of chess he’d been playing back in the old country. “We know you … you were the one who wanted the black Jetta, correct?” Sergei filled in the space between Lyndy and Block, standing equidistant. “I can see you’re upset. Let’s talk. What you’re doing … it is highly illegal.”
“Go right ahead and call the police,” Lyndy replied confidently, recalling Jackie said the authorities were frightened of this place. “By all means.”
“Let’s be reasonable.” Sergei stammered with one twitching, squinted eyelid. “Sergei is patient man. What is it exactly can we do for you?”
“Turn over the effing Jetta to me. Simple. No questions asked. And while you’re at it, stop cheatin innocent people.”
Sergei shook his head grimly. “Not until Sergei is paid.”
“I will not be paying. You have a court order to hand it over. I don’t wanna burn this place, but I’ll do what it takes. I’m gettin that car.”
Sergei paused to consider. For the first time, cracks were showing in his smug pawn shop operator facade. He gazed at his palm, then shifted his sights to his partner. Both men seemed to be evaluating whether Lyndy meant what she said.
“I can’t…,” said Sergei, bitterly.
“Can’t what?” Lyndy interrupted.
Sergei exhaled in frustration. “You are sane or crazy woman?” His inflection made the jumble of words form an actual question.
Lyndy sniffed. “That’s a debatable fact. I’ve got mental illnesses psychologists have yet to identify in literature. But imagining myself in the head of a sane person, I can tell you I would never pay 50 grand for a vehicle potentially involved in a serious crime. It should already belong to the police.”
Sergei wiped moisture from his forehead, glancing to Block, sneering.
Block’s finger fluttered, inching closer to the trigger of his gun. He’d been raising the rifle gradually until it pointed to her ankles, only a few more degrees of arc to target Lyndy’s midriff. A wicked smile curled on the edges of his lips. Her own nerves were pulsing. No doubt he’d spray her full of bullets at the drop of a hat.
The stranger’s car arrived on scene, screeching to a halt in the road, straddling the center line. It was tough to get a look at the driver in the harsh artificial lighting. Though it seemed the person had abruptly taken stock of the situation. The motor revved violently. The driver flicked the gear lever in reverse and began retreating at high speed. He made it several blocks before summoning the nerve to do a poorly executed three-point U-turn, hastening back to the main highway.
“The real question is, how much is a rotgut import sedan worth to you?” challenged Lyndy, after the interlude. “Cause you’re still standing in my way.”
Sergei’s chest and belly heaved. His small, deep-set eyes were darting between The Spitfire and his comrade, knowing she had a trick up her sleeve. “The people we work for are not to be trifled with,” he warned, in a grave whisper she strained to hear between breaths. “Their legacy dates back centuries, before this country even. They study you, waiting, and when they are ready to strike, take from you whatever you hold most dear. Even your family name will be cursed.”
Lyndy rolled her eyes and chuckled. “Oh great. Like some secret society.”
Sergei frowned.
“Give em this message for me,” stated Lyndy. “I promise they will never know what I hold dear. And like duh, we’ve already had a curse on our name for generations.” Plus, cursing Martinez would be like cursing the name Johnson.
Even so it was obvious Sergei and Block were too stubborn to budge. As she’d guessed before, they weren’t the kind of folks to reason with. Neither was she.
While keeping a steady watch on the men, her hand ready to fire at even a subtle twitch, she began back peddling away. Without twisting her neck, save for a split-second to get her bearings, she stepped into the road and then continued retreating at an increasing pace.
Likewise, she saw Block’s silhouette backing under the eaves of his fortress-like structure. Sergei watched her like a hawk. He didn’t start moving sideways to the door until Lyndy was across the street, stepping down the residential lane. They expected something was coming. Probably not what exactly, but something big. Goliath-like.
Seconds later …
The diesel Tug fired to life with one twist of the key and a halfway push of the clutch. Satisfying. Major Bales had done a bang-up job mending the essential components. Feeling an odd sense of calm, The Spitfire jammed it in first and began accelerating toward the tow yard. The heavy machine rattled and bounced down the potholed street. Even so, there was a trustiness about it too—like a reliable old tractor.
A glint from a muzzle flash first caught her attention, as she steered the nose of the Tug on a vector intersecting the cinder block building. She hadn’t even reached the area where the BMW was parked.
Ducking sideways, with her head tilted to the passenger side, bullets began raining down. They impacted in sequences of threes and fours, making an ear-splitting TINK-TINK-TINK-TINK sound as they pinged off the steel body and doors. The sheet metal on this service vehicle was four times thicker than anything on a civilian car. Yet still, the bullets were penetrating. Every now and then, a ricochet zinged off something hard, like the frame rail. She heard glass bursting, not from the tug—which had none—but likely the BMW, meaning stray bullets had impacted Sergei’s precious ride. So much for the swell paint job.
Worryingly, some of the shots were punching holes in her roof. She could feel whatever dirt and grime had accumulated in the headliner pelting her. Noxious dust clouds and particles of decades old headliner material started filling the cab, irritating her eyes. The bits were getting stuck in her hair, lashes and bothering her nose. Some of the bullets were lodging themselves in the metal door, visibly poking through—an unsettling measure of the rifle’s power.
It became harder to breathe.
Col. Rickman used to say if you were field stripping an M16, you’d better do so in a very clean building. On the other hand, an enemy soldier sporting a Kalashnikov could re-assemble their rifle in a swamp and it would work fine. She’d never tested this theory, but considering Rickman was usually right when it came to knowledge of war, she believed him.
With her palms, she rubbed her eyes to keep them from clouding.
Contorting her ankle, The Spitfire feathered the gas pedal, applying medium pressure. A tricky measure, but necessary to prevent a stall. Though slowing some, the Tug continued rolling across the lot on a collision course with the front gate mechanism. Despite the hail of bullets, the engine kept chugging as though unharmed. She wondered about the gas tank which might be one of the weaker points. Certainly, the tires had been pierced. She could hear air hissing as they drained and feel the cab sinking closer to the earth. But she didn’t really need those inflated, just to stay on the rims.
After what must’ve been a whole magazine clip emptied, the Tug continued its relentless path across the lot staging area. Amidst the bedlam, Lyndy couldn’t keep her wits enough to count shots. Odds favored the curved magazine Block had on his rifle matched a type holding roughly 30 to 35 rounds. Given the Swiss cheese of holes in the roof, a barrage of said amount felt probable. The onslaught slowed, like when popcorn in the microwave is nearing the end of the cycle and you don’t wanna burn it.
Nervously, she lifted her head an inch at a time until her eyes were level with the door window sill. Wiping dust from her brow and squinting, Lyndy peeked out, toward where she assumed Block would be standing.
Light glinted from his watch. His fingers moved rapidly, as he was in a kneel changing the magazine at that very moment—the act of reloading.
Fishing with her arm behind the seat, she used her own fingertips to identify the weapons within reach. Her hand landed upon the cross bow, not the Beretta. Possibly good, as he wouldn’t be expecting this. This might be her best chance. Raising it as rapidly as possible, she winked one eye to aim using the door as a prop. Squeezing the trigger, she felt the tension release as the skinny steel bolt let loose. She could hear it whooshing as it cut through night air.
Half a second later, the truck slammed into a corner wall of cinder blocks, missing the steel gate by a yard. Her body was thrown and crashed against the dash. Had she been seated upright, her head would’ve impacted the wheel, possibly knocking her unconscious.
Having been a harder impact than she anticipated, her bell was rung. She shook her head, trying to come to her senses. The wind had been knocked out of both lungs.
Oddly, she wondered if and when the gunfire would resume. But as she willed her stiff joints to bend and her lungs to refill with air, it felt as though everything around her was stuck in slow motion. Lyndy twisted in place, to an upright position. With one foot, she flicked the latch mechanism to ease open the door. This revealed a view to where Block was crouching.
He had the metal arrow sticking in his collar bone. Warm blood was oozing from the wound. His squarish jaw twisted in an expression of agonizing pain, as he used his left hand to grip the tail end of the projectile. With super-human force he was attempting to dislodge it from his shoulder.
She blinked at the scene, trying to regain her sense of balance.
Mr. Chan used to say, the best thing about a crossbow was that no one would waste time thinking they could remove a bullet—but the opposite was true for the bolt.
Clawing with both arms she pulled herself free, landing hard on the dirt. Then as she got her feet under her, she sprang forth at max effort ignoring any sense of injury. Though her lungs were gasping to refill with air, Lyndy used every ounce of reserve to run. She didn’t even check to see whether Block was lifting his gun into position. Lowering her head she rammed into him with a full-force head butt. Were he not weakened by pain and down a shoulder, she’d not have enough physical power to wrestle the machine gun from his grip. But using the advantage she’d gained, she set one hand on the stock and one hand on the muzzle near the tip. She thrashed with her body side-to-side like a catfish, fighting for control. Even in a weakened state, the man was frighteningly strong.
She could barely get the rifle free, even while kneeing him in the stomach and kicking his ankles. He somehow overcame blood loss and the projectile lodged in his shoulder. Her original plan had been to disable Block with a blast of bear spray, except there was no time.
At last, his sweaty palms slipped off and she lurched backward with the gun in her possession. In an instant, with lightening reflexes he flicked a bowie knife from his boot. The blade flashed in the bright light. He clutched the knife in his good hand and sliced at the air. His arm moved with such ferocity it made a FWOOSH.
Aiden S Clarke, author 