Chapter 11: The Setup
The rifle case felt like a coffin for a life he’d buried. Gunnar slid it onto the passenger seat of his pickup, the old familiar weight a cold anchor in the night. He didn’t take the bourbon. He needed the sharp, metallic clarity of dread, not the dull, fuzzy kind.
The Motel 6 sat under a vapor-stained sky, the interstate a river of distant, growling light behind it. Its neon sign buzzed and sputtered, casting a cancerous pink glow on the cracked asphalt. He parked at the far end of the lot, away from the few other beat-up cars and a semi idling like a sleeping beast. Room 114 was ground floor, around the back, a door that opened directly onto the potholed parking area. A single bug-swarmed bulb above it did little but throw long, desperate shadows.
He moved without sound, the habits of a different man settling over him like a second skin. He left the M40 in the truck. This was for the 1911 on his hip, a tool for closer, more intimate work. The air was thick with the smells of diesel, wet asphalt, and the cloying sweetness of rotting trash from the dumpster nearby.
As he rounded the corner, the sounds hit him first.
Not voices. Not argument. A low, rhythmic slapping, wet and persistent. And a man’s ragged grunt, choked and strained. Then a woman’s moan, high and theatrical, then dropping into a breathy, urgent whisper.
Gunnar froze, his back against the rough stucco wall beside the door. The window was to his left, blinds pulled but with a half-inch crack where they bowed. He inched his head to the side, one eye lining up with the slice of yellow light.
The room was a tomb of cheap browns and oranges. Lola was bent over the foot of the bed, her hands braced on the garish floral bedspread. Her leather pants were pooled around her ankles. The fresh fang tattoos on her inner thighs were angry and red against her pale skin.
Driscoll stood behind her, driving into her with a brutal, mechanical pace. He was thinner than Gunnar remembered, his torso roped with wiry muscle and old, ugly scars. A crude tattoo of a bleeding skull—Gunnar recognized it as his own early, shaky work—covered one shoulder. Driscoll’s head was thrown back, his eyes closed, his mouth a slack hole as he panted.
“Yeah, you like that, you fucking freak?” Driscoll growled, his voice higher, tighter than it used to be. He gripped Lola’s hips, his fingers digging into her flesh, yanking her back onto him with each thrust. “Take it. Take all of it.”
Lola’s face was turned toward the window. In the dim light, Gunnar saw her eyes were open, wide and unblinking. Her lip was bleeding again. She wasn’t moaning in pleasure. She was talking, her words a steady, forced stream under Driscoll’s animal noises.
“...grid 42 Romeo Kilo,” she hissed, her voice taut with the rhythm of his pounding. “Seven-point-three clicks northwest of the original LZ. The caves. You remember the caves, baby?”
Driscoll slowed for a second, his thrusts becoming deeper, grinding. “The caves. Yeah. Yeah, I remember.” His hands slid up her back, pushing her further down onto the bed.
“They’re not empty,” Lola gasped, as he filled her again. “He didn’t leave them empty. There’s a cache. The sergeant’s cache. Grid 42 Romeo Kilo. Seven-point-three. You need to go see.”
Driscoll’s rhythm became frenzied. “He left it? He left it for me?”
“For you,” Lola cooed, then her voice broke into a sharp cry as he slammed into her, her body jerking forward. “Only for you. He’s sorry. He’s so fucking sorry, Driscoll.”
Gunnar’s blood turned to slurry in his veins. He watched, helpless, as Driscoll fucked her with a furious, desperate energy, chasing some ghost of absolution Lola was weaving with her lies. He watched Lola’s face, saw the tears cutting tracks through her makeup, saw the sheer, concentrated will it took to keep whispering those coordinates, to keep her hips moving, to take every punishing stroke.
“Tell me you want it,” Driscoll snarled, leaning over her, his mouth at her ear. “Tell me you want his shit.”
“I want it,” Lola breathed, her knuckles white where she gripped the bedspread. “I want you to have it. It’s yours. Take it. Take what’s yours.”
With a final, guttural shout, Driscoll stiffened, driving himself deep inside her as he came. His whole body shuddered, his face contorted in a mask of agony that looked like ecstasy. He collapsed onto her back, breathing in ragged, wet sobs.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing and the hum of the ancient air conditioner. Lola lay still, her face pressed into the cheap fabric. Driscoll rolled off her, onto his back on the bed, staring at the water-stained ceiling.
Then Lola moved. She pushed herself up, pulling her leather pants over the new tattoos with a wince. She didn’t look at Driscoll. She walked to the small table by the window, her steps unsteady. She picked up a pack of cigarettes, lit one with trembling hands, and took a deep drag. She exhaled smoke toward the cracked blind, her gray eyes meeting Gunnar’s through the slats. There was no surprise there. Only a bone-deep exhaustion.
“You should go check it out,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Tonight. Before he gets wind.”
Driscoll sat up on the edge of the bed, running a hand over his gaunt face. “Yeah. Yeah, tonight.” He stood, padding naked to a duffel bag on the floor. He pulled out fatigues, started dressing with quick, efficient movements. “You coming?”
“I’ll wait here,” Lola said, her back to him. “Clean up. You’ll need me… after.”
Driscoll finished dressing, grabbed a heavy jacket, and checked a pistol on the nightstand. He didn’t kiss her. He didn’t touch her. He just looked at her for a moment, his eyes hollow. “42 Romeo Kilo,” he muttered, as if memorizing it. Then he was at the door.
Gunnar melted back into the deeper shadow beside the window. The door opened, and Driscoll stepped out, a ghost from a forgotten war, blinking in the sickly pink light. He walked with a purpose toward a mud-streaked Jeep Cherokee.
The door to 114 clicked shut.
Inside, through the blinds, Gunnar saw Lola sink into a chair by the table. She dropped her head into her hands, her shoulders trembling silently. She stayed like that for a full minute. Then she stood, wiped her face with the heel of her hand, and walked to the bathroom. The light flicked on.
Gunnar stood in the dark, the taste of bile in his throat. The coordinates she’d given were real. They were for an old insurgent tunnel network, one they’d collapsed with charges on their way out. A tomb. She was sending Driscoll into a tomb.
He looked at the Cherokee disappearing onto the interstate on better internal sound: rapt service road.
He looked back at the thin line of light under the motel room door.
He made his choice. His hand found the cold steel of the doorknob. It was unlocked. He turned it, pushed it open, and stepped inside, closing the world out behind him.