Gaines dropped his fork.  He sat with his back to his target in the Seattle diner known to traffickers as the Dirty Spoon.  His target was a thirty year old interstate trucker, drove a grey and silver Freightliner.  No name was given, only the handle, Busted Cone.   Gaines had tracked Cone from the Valley to Tennessee and from there to the Texas Gulf coast.  Cone was a large blubber of a man, standing out in the grease spattered mirrored walls of the Dirty Spoon, five foot nine, weighing in at four-ten.  His strawberry blonde hair had made him an easy mark for Gaines.

            Gaines ignored the fork and went for his spoon, eyes never leaving the reflected mop of strawberry blonde hair.  His right hand gripping tight to the eleventh generation Glock nestled between his legs, under his napkin.  Gaines shook his head, now was the time, Cone about to hit the road after five greasy orders of sirloin.

            Cone stood, Gaines dropped his spoon and rose to his feet, kept his back to Cone, napkin draped over the Glock like a waiter.  Gaines took in the measure of his man, Cone’s face, pale as a water-logged corpse, twisted in Gaines’ direction.

            Gaines turned around slowly, met Cone’s beady pink eyes and nodded.  Cone bolted, his wide hips swaying obscenely as he flipped over a table, chairs, knocked into Dirty Spoon customers.  Gaines reached into his pocket, flashing a tight wad of fresh Yen-front money.  He tossed enough to cover the damage and cocked the Glock.  Through the grease-covered windows he made Cone about twenty feet from his rig.  Customers were grumbling, a few panicked faced with potential law trouble.  Most kept to themselves.  Probably thanking their grungy holes it was the Cone and not one of them.

            Gaines walked briskly out of the Spoon and into the parking lot.  Busted Cone was one of the worst silicone pirates in the business, that’s all Gaines’ employers were prepared to tell.  Gaines was no fool, there was more to his employment than that.  He was modest, sure-good employee, worked his ass off, an eighty-five percent finder.  But he knew the stink of a bad job like he knew the weight of a good clip.  This job stunk; sooner it was over the better.

            Cone had the Freightliner rolling slowly across the parking lot.  Gaines trotted an intercept course, his Timberland treads crunching broken glass and rusty metal.  The Freightliner was third generation electric with corn-washed turbo.  Not a fast truck-110 Kilometers per hour, standard. 

            Gaines pounded the rubble-strewn pavement.  He pulled even to Cone’s window on the on-ramp.  He had underestimated Cone’s truck.  It was steadily increasing speed as it bore down on the highway.  Gaines caught the beady pink eyes of Busted Cone and leapt.

            Gaines grunted under the impact.  His employers wanted Cone caught unharmed-meaning no corpse.  It was none of his concern but he decided Cone must have stiffed the wrong supplier or buyer.  With the bounty on Cone, he could live for a year or more.  Mexico, Pacific Coast.   He punched the muzzle of the Glock through Cone’s window, bulletproof glass shattering under the heavy impact.  Gaines weighed in at two-forty, his six-one frame stocky.  He could almost taste the margarita and quesadillas-dirt cheap.  He pressed the muzzle into the side of Cone’s fat head, the blubber bulging around.  The interstate was north bound.  Cone, never caught more than twice in his lifetime of trafficking was headed towards ’Couver. 

            “Had your run, met me-pull over!” Gaines shouted into Cone’s ear, cocked Glock pressed against flesh.

            “Fuck no!” Cone yanked hard enough on the wheel to cause the Freightliner to go it on six of its twelve wheels. 

            Gaines lunged through the broken window and pulled back on the wheel.  The truck thundered to earth, square on twelve.  They dipped into the breakdown lane, Cone flooring the beast for all she was worth.

            “Shut it off Cone.  You’re made,” Gaines hissed through clenched teeth. 

            “No,” Cone readied himself for another go at defying gravity.

            Gaines let half of the Glock’s magazine go.  Sparks flew off the dash.  Blue electricity danced around Cone’s forearms and shoulders. 

            “What the hell?  You crazy!”

            “Cone, pull this shit bucket off the road!” Gaines struggled not to pop the fat fuck, settle for half his take.  A dead Cone only worth six to eight months off.  If only Cone knew how tempting those months-“Do it!”

            Gaines forced the truck off the interstate.  It ran into the drainage ditch and plowed head-long towards a mound of road crew dirt.  Gaines held tight to the steering wheel.  He saw the Mexican coastline in a dream.  Hot sun, warm massages under cool palm trees-he jumped ten feet before the Freightliner collided.

            Dirt fell from the air like confetti.  Gaines held his Glock in a death grip.  This was too much, he decided.  Dead or alive he was taking a break.  No fuckin’ way he’d stick his pale neck out before another year.  Nothing broken, a little bloody, he rose from a pile of loose sandy dirt and crept towards the truck, fearful of a post-impact explosion.  Fearful of what the stupid fuck might try to do.  The cab door hung open.  Burst by the crash.  Panic-no Cone. 

            Gaines started to jog.  He’d kiss the Piña Coladas good-bye for another year if  Cone pulled it off.  Corner of cab in sight-nothing.  Hollow.  Both cab doors sprung, air-bags inflated.  No Cone, the hill. 

            A lumbering mass of brown dirt moved over the hillside, ducking trees and shrubs.  Gaines smiled, his lips caked with the highway dirt.  He crouched, relaxed his breathing,  steadied himself-took aim.  A popping sound hit him from behind.  He snapped his head to the left-someone else?  A chick with a long arm, Marine issue, stealth sight-jacked-in.  More popping.  Gaines looked up the hillside.  The brown mass lay still, blending perfectly into the overcast Seattle landscape.  He’d been beat.

            “Damnit!”  He cussed, turned to the shooter but she was gone, racing up the hillside with three armed strong types.  Half a mind to pick them off.  Take chances with local law-collect his payment and do up the break.

            “Damnit!” Gaines swiped bloody grit from his mouth and started the long trek back to the Dirty Spoon-beat.

            The smell of rotten seafood made Gaines want to vomit.  He was seated in the rear of Donnie Swan’s just off Western Ave. and Post Street.  Every time a grease-covered waiter banged through the swinging doors into the kitchen Gaines smelled the rotten fish.  It was only six hours since he…

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