When Crossing The Boss
It Would Be Best That You Don't...
“Yeah I’m sure. DEAD sure. Ain’t no one come back from that kinda heat.”
They had rattled the hut with enough lead, enough real lead, to leave any hound a porous mess of flesh and fur. The haul of freshly synthesized titanium, straight outta Haven itself, was loaded onto the ratty old pickup’s trailer as the scavengers tore away from the rotten scene. Whoever the wolf was, he was minced meat as far as Mac Allenbride and his posse were concerned.
As the truck ripped at the ground, making tracks for the scavenger’s compound, a cloud of dust came roaring into view.
“Don’t sweat it, boys, that’s our connection.” the white wolf chuckled. He swung both boots down on the brakes and brought the truck to a screaming stop. “Keep cool in the back Stevie. Knowing the way this cat rolls, you won’t even finish your magazine.”
From out the cloud came a metallic orange dune buggy, and behind the wheel was that strange shirtless gray. When he rolled up, the fish in the proverbial barrel looked like a hound fresh off the commune, with flared jeans, sandaled paws, and jet-black Ray-Bans no one could see through. It was the tattooed flames rolling up his right arm that gave him away.
“What’s crackalacking, Boss?” Mac chortled. “Dig the stash we just grabbed.”
The gray hopped out of his Manx Meyer and gave the trailer the once-over. “Looks right.” he muttered in his Asiatic tones, “And was our ‘friend’ disposed of?”
“You betcha.” the white wolf saluted. “What an unsavory critter he was too.”
The gray strolled up to the cab as the black-furred Stevie slunk deeper behind the driver’s seat.
“Now the girl’s family can get some peace.” Boss nodded. “Let’s get the trailer hitched to Sora, and then we’re all set.”
Just as he turned around, Mac gently waved his hand in the gap between the door and seat; the cue for Stevie to take aim. Boss rifled carefully through his bags as the Desert Eagle’s barrel stared down the back of his head.
With a click of the hammer, Stevie was dead.
From out the gray’s bag came a slender, silver blade which thrust down through the gap and into the black wolf’s skull. Mac hadn’t time to reach for his own peacemaker when he found his throat at the end of the katana, the sword’s wielder staring him down from behind the veil of his shades.
“Alright!” barked Mac. “You can have the haul, you can have the whole—ACK!”
The sword rammed clean through the white wolf’s throat, and clean through the otherwise silent red hound riding shotgun. In a single shock of blood, the two slumped down towards the driver’s side as Boss polished the blade clean and unhitched the trailer. It was a bit of a bear to do single-handed, but the martial artist found the strength in him.
When he got his sand-surfing hot rod in gear, he looked back to the three dead crooks. Staring back at him was Mac, the dead orbs looking through the tops of his eyelids as the blood stained his matted white fur.
Where others would make grand proclamations, or curse or quip, Boss did but two things. He looked to his trusted piece of sheathed Japanese steel, and made a call on his radio.
“Kusanagi to Straker.”
“Go for Straker, Boss.”
“Picked up groceries. Bag boys didn’t like the tip. Not a drop of honor in them.”
“You win some, you lose some, my man. Bring it on home.”
“Let me double-check the receipt first.”
The dune buggy ripped away, trailer in tow, back the way he came. If he couldn’t trust them to honor the handoff, he didn’t trust them to nail the hound he and Straker wanted dead.
When Boss pulled up to the hut shredded with gunfire, he leapt out and flung open the door. Much to his surprise, there the miserable soul lay, dead on the floor, giving him the same doll-eyed stare his assassins now bore. With the kill confirmed, he shut the door and climbed back behind the wheel.
“It seems the only thing you ever honored was death.”