"Scott Wolven - The Syndicate" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wolven Scott)

"They can't do anything with us behind them," Greg said. "They don't want any witnesses."

The four by four suddenly stopped, just jammed its brakes on in the middle of the road. Greg narrowly missed it, cutting to the inside and almost going off the shoulder.

"Here we go," he said. He punched the gas and we jumped forward. The woods rushed past on either side.

The four by four gained on us from behind. I saw two men in the front, and both of them held pistols. I saw the passenger taking aim out of his window. A second later, the sharp crack of gunfire snapped past me.

"Double that fee," Greg said. The speedometer read ninety. We swung into the oncoming lane, passing the armored car. We were on the shoulder of the wrong side of the road, moving fast. A log truck was coming, blowing its air horn. "Hang on." Greg looked in the rearview mirror and stood on the brake. I slammed my hands on the dashboard. The log truck sped past on the right in the southbound lane, rocking the Toyota with a back draft.

The armored car flew past, then the four by four, brakes already locked. Greg and I were both out of the Toyota, firing. One of us hit a back tire on the four by four. It happened too fast to follow, as the rear end of the four by four lost contact with the pavement and kept on going, end over end, snapping the guardrail and gone, out of sight. Greg and I ran over to where the truck had left the road. We could see the flames already. We both held our pistols, waiting. There was a small explosion and then a larger one that pushed us back from the edge of the embankment. A cloud of black smoke was rising as we pulled off in the Toyota.

* * *

We drove to the reservation. Bob Gunstock met us at the gate, along with a couple of heavily armed members of the tribe. Greg got out of the truck and they unloaded the chips into a pickup truck. The armed escort followed the chips onto the reservation. Bob Gunstock gave us each a gold card and an envelope with some cash in it. I looked in mine; he'd doubled the fee. Live fire was worth exactly what Greg said it was.

"You can come up here to the casino anytime you'd like," he said. "These cards will get you a free dinner and some chips to play with. You'll always be welcome guests."

"Thanks," Greg said.

I took my card. "Thanks, Bob," I said.

"Who were they?" Greg asked. "Do you know who those men were?"

Bob Gunstock shrugged. "It doesn't matter exactly who. They were from Washington, D.C. and Chicago, and Nevada, and New York, and New Jersey. They were from everywhere that wants to deny us the right to earn a living. They're all in the syndicate."

"Why do they do it?" Greg asked.

"Because they can," Bob Gunstock said. He looked up at the sky. "Like bullies in the playground." He turned to me. "Did that scare the beer out of you?" he asked.

I looked at my envelope full of cash. "I'll let you know tomorrow."


SCOTT WOLVEN has a fellowship in creative writing at Columbia University. His fiction appears in Emerging Voices Online (http://www2.netdoor.com/~rief) and Permafrost and is forthcoming in CrossConnect and Mississippi Review.

Copyright (c) 2000 Scott Wolven