Copyright 2015 Anthony Izzo
They had come to kill her. Trina was sure of that. She stole glances in the rearview mirror. The drive-in speaker blared fuzz in her ear. On screen, Liam Neeson chopped a would be terrorist in the side of the neck. The last night at one of the last drive-ins in the state. A little relaxation is what she'd hoped for. Now she had to deal with the killers.
Not that she wasn't ready for them; she had a Sig Sauer P220 in the glove box and a pistol grip shotgun under a blanket in the back seat. Not to mention two K-Bar knives strapped on her person. She reached over, popped the glove box, and took out the Sig. She set it on her lap. On screen, Neeson was blasting two guys to hell; she liked his style.
They'd trailed her here in a black Ram pick-up. Hadn't done a great job of it, as she'd spotted them a quarter mile back, matching her moves. Now they were parked two cars behind her, at least two of them that she could see sitting in the cab of the Ram. They were Larsen's men, of that she was sure. What she didn't know was how they'd caught her scent; it didn't matter now. She'd have to deal with them.
The bad thing about these fucks was that they didn't care. A public place meant nothing to them. They'd shoot you up in a day care center. It didn't matter as long as they found the target. Larsen wanted her dead. She'd almost caught up to him near Albany, but he'd slipped away. Now he'd set his dogs on her.
She peeked in the rearview mirror. On the screen behind her, they were showing some animated flick. There would be a lot of kids. Trina basically thought kids were booger and fart machines, but she didn't want to see any of them dead. When the men came for her, she'd have to draw them away somehow.
She glanced at the Subaru parked next to her. The young couple inside were locked up, deep kissing. The guy had a hand under his girl's tank top. At least someone was enjoying themselves right now.
She looked in the rearview. They were still watching the movie, both of them wearing sunglasses.
Subtle, fellas. Why not just throw on some black trenchcoats, too?
It was about to go down. Time to move.
She slipped the Sig into a shoulder rig under her jacket. She'd kept the rig on her but had put the weapon in the glove box when she'd pulled into the drive-in. No need to arouse suspicion. She didn't have a permit. Nor did the people that had armed her, she was sure.
Trina stepped out of the Acura. She shut the door. It was warm for early October. Seventy degrees at this time of night. A lukewarm breeze blew across her face. She started down the first row of cars. The snack stand, with its giant neon hamburger sign, stood a few hundred feet from the screens. Beyond that was a white stucco building that housed the restrooms. That would be the place to go.
She glanced sidelong at the truck and saw them step out. There were three in all. A big bald guy with the sleeves cut off his flannel, a lanky guy with motor-oil slick hair and aviator shades, and a woman shaped roughly like a tennis ball on toothpicks.
She crossed the road that bisected the drive-in and passed the snack stand. The greasy smell of movie popcorn drifted from the stand. It made her stomach rumble.
They would be about fifty feet behind her. She risked another glance, concerened about giving herself away. The trio walked side-by-side.
The bathroom was lit by sodium vapor lights. Even in early fall, moths fluttered in the lights.
There was no one around the bathrooms. She reached the ladies' room door and pushed inside. Ducked down and checked the stalls. She saw no feet, no one sitting on the johns. When she was sure it was clear, she took out the Sig and slipped into the first stall. She left it open but climbed onto the toilet seat, balancing her Doc Martens on the seat, hunkered down.