The Dead Men

By Joe Banks

Twin brothers Shawn and Jordan Bruin.

One is dying, the other is dead inside.

Their friend—the local drug dealer—is murdered.

Now a vicious biker gang needs to tie up some loose ends. They expect Shawn and Jordan to deliver his girlfriend, Naomi. But Shawn and Jordan, the ex-Navy SEAL have nothing to lose. Instead of giving them the girl, they're going to give them the bloody revenge their friend deserves.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joe Banks Books
• Release date: Feb 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393670728

Joe Banks

Joe Banks likes to write books, stories, comics and movies that make your heart race a little bit. Crime thrillers, mysteries, psychological thrillers. Modern stories and sci-fi.

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@2021, Joe Banks

Twitter: @joebanksbooks

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

ALSO BY JOE BANKS

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PART ONE

NEXT MONDAY:

MURPHY’S

CHAPTER 1

Richard Nixon looks at Donald Trump. Trump’s looking at the gun in his hand, it feels bigger than it looks, heavier than it should be. Trump’s focused on his own weapon.

Remember, Nixon says, You got to shoot somebody, make it count.

Nixon has his eyes on everything: he turns and looks out the side window, then the front, swings around to look out the back. He’s convinced they’re just another car on the road in the morning.

The gun in Trump’s hand is a Beretta nine millimeter, like the gun McClane used in Die Hard, Riggs in Lethal Weapon. Every handgun from the 90s.

Trump knows how to use it, he and Nixon have been shooting since they were kids.

OK, Trump says. I got this. I’m all set.

Nixon racks a shotgun: SHK-SHUKK, and rests it between his knees. Barrel up, but at a diagonal so it’s not actually pointing at anyone. Then he checks a Blue Steel revolver with a four-inch barrel for the third time.

Upfront, the gun noises make Hillary look back at them with the rearview mirror. Behind the mask, they can see her blinking sweat out of her eyes.

You sure about this? Nixon says.

Fuck yeah, Trump says. "We have to do it."

Right.

Let’s hurt these fucks, Trump says.

Nixon looks to the front seat. Of course, Hillary Clinton is driving. A tall black woman wearing the mask of the former presidential candidate and Sec of State.

Can I tell you that I’m getting nervous? Hillary says.

"Just be ready, Nixon says. And we’re in there and the bad guys show up, or the cops roll up, you get out of there. Please don’t forget that."

Clinton looks into Nixon’s eyes in the rearview. She’s driving a little over the speed limit. Her nerves keep forcing her foot to press down on the accelerator, and she has to make herself slow down.

Hillary’s hands are shaking.

I’m not going to leave you, Hillary says. Stoney would definitely not want me to do that to you.

Trump laughs under his mask. His hand goes up to his stomach. Stress makes it hurt worse.

Stoney, Trump’s thinking. Wouldn’t be here without you, buddy.

Stoney was here, Nixon says, He would be pissed that we’re doing this.

And Stoney ain’t here, Trump says.

Which is kind of the point, Nixon says.

Clinton focuses on the road, the cars, the highway, the median, the street lights, the power poles and wires, the fucking birds. Every inch of the road, she’s making an escape plan.

And how long you going to be? Hillary asks.

Trump and Nixon look at each other. Nixon’s eyes are narrowed, he’s thinking. Trump is thinking then doesn’t know. He shrugs his shoulders.

I have no idea, Nixon says. But it should be pretty quick.

Hillary Clinton gives the car more gas. Thank God they’re ahead of the morning traffic.

Clinton’s thinking, Why, oh why am I doing this?

***

They’re getting closer to the bar. Nixon’s heart rate is mostly normal, around seventy. Trump’s not used to this kind of action, his pumper is clocking in somewhere around one-eighty.

Nixon looks again at Trump. Weird their faces aren’t the same.

You sure you’re ready?

Dying to do it, Trump says.

"That—that’s just not funny," Nixon says.

***

The first rule of early morning, post-sunrise infiltration is to be fucking fast.

Nighttime is the best, but sometimes bright and early, before the rooster, is the way to go. Sometimes there’s no choice. Other times, this time, it’s the best option to make a mark.

First wave here, Nixon’s thinking. Big day today.

The car is slowing down. The bar is up ahead. It’s not The Red Dawg. No, that’s the prize. This place is called Murphy’s Tavern and is just across the county line.

The Presidents, they did their homework, with help from Herbie, their techno bud. Everything is lined up nice and neat.

They got the names and addresses of all the stuff these assholes own. Very recently, the bad guys bought Murphys. Most of their real estate investments are bars.

One car, one bike, Trump says.

Their car is turning in, crunching into the parking lot. Too fast, gravel is scattering behind them. None of the bars in this part of the state seem to have asphalt parking lots. The gravel companies must be doing great.

Look where the car’s parked, Nixon says. It’s in the back, there’s dew or whatever on the windows. Somebody left it here last night. That leaves the Harley.

Hillary makes some kind of nervous noise. Or maybe she says something and Trump and Nixon can’t understand it through her mask.

Doesn’t matter. She pulls the car to the back and the Presidents are swinging their doors open and jogging to the back door before she can stop.

***

Hillary stays in the car. She’s sweating under her mask. Those dark eyes flickering in every direction in the eye holes. She sticks a gloved finger in the eye hole to stop a drop of sweat from blurring her vision.

Fingers strumming loud and nervous on the steering wheel. She’s searching her brain banks for a song and can’t find one. Her finger rhythm is all over the place.

Stoney, man, it’s all for Stoney.

And for yourself.

Because underneath that mask, she knows that the men looking for her are a lot more serious than she imagined. And she’s never been one to sit and let things happen to her. No, fuck that. This plan, it’s the right idea.

And she knows this might be the only way.

Monsters that need to be defeated.

Hillary, she likes a romantic notion of good and bad. Likes that she’s fighting for something. She’s also hoping she and the Presidents don’t get arrested or killed.

But the plan seems OK so far. It’s not like the guys who own this bar will go to the cops.

She’s also wondering, seriously, how did she get hooked up with these two guys?

CHAPTER 2

Trump and Nixon walk into a bar.

It’s not a joke, but it is a joke.

Two men wearing masks, coveralls, gloves, boots.

Guns.

Nixon’s got a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. Using a lockpick, Nixon also had the back door of Murphy’s open in fourteen seconds.

***

They’re through the door.

Going in hot.

Nixon’s leading with the shotgun. Not the best weapon in a raid, an HK would be better, but for these fucks, a pump-action shotgun is maybe the scariest weapon on the planet.

It’s psychology.

And it’s loaded to kill, so if Nixon needs it, he’s ready to fucking use it.

Trump’s behind, doing the look-behind-you thing Nixon taught him. Nobody’s there. He can see the nose of Hillary’s car through the open back door.

This storeroom is dark and cold. Open boxes everywhere. Cases of beer, booze.

So far, nobody knows they’re here. The Presidents are counting on there being one guy here.

All part of the plan.

At the other end of the small storeroom, the door is closed. Nixon looks at it for one half of a second, then brings his foot up.

Scary guns, scary guys kicking in doors.

All about the optics, the impression.

Nixon kicks in the door at just the right spot...

CHAPTER 3

Greasy Gregg is standing and leaning against the bar. There’s a cigarette in his mouth that he lit about five minutes ago that’s slowly turning into a drooping column of ash. Doesn’t matter, he’ll vacuum before he leaves. Maybe. Fuck it.

His hands are occupied with an open ledger and a beer. He flips a page of the book, a big three-ring binder, after some of his cigarette ash drops into the book. Before reading the next page, Gregg sucks down half the beer.

It’s his third of the day. Yeah, it’s not even six in the morning.

Murphy’s isn’t a big place. The bar is along the back wall. There are some old tables between the bar and the front door. The side is barely big enough for two pool tables, and only one table can be used when anyone wants to play darts. Wood-paneled walls that were out of fashion a hundred years ago, lights coated with cigarette funk. Nobody cares if you smoke in Murphy’s. Screw the smoking laws.

Greasy Gregg, a founding member of the Fire Eagles, works the place. The joint is a front, a washing machine for money. Or it will be. He’s there cooking the books, getting things in place because they haven’t turned the bar into a full-time money-washer yet.

So Greasy Gregg is looking over a ledger. He won’t put shit online, no internet, no email. Paper and pencil is his game. Right here at the corner of the bar is a shredder. There’s one in the office, too. Ready to shred if the cops show up.

The shredders are the most high tech things he owns. Even did research online of all places to get the best and the fastest.

This place, Murphy’s, is a good set up. The Fire Eagles are branching out, beginning to franchise. Soon, Greasy Gregg will have this place rolling in both legitimate and criminal business.

Greasy Gregg smiles at the thought of the cash.

This place is going to be Grand Central, he thinks. Oh, the money we’re going to move through here—

***

Greasy Gregg, hyper-aware of his surroundings and maybe a little paranoid, turns his head at the very second the door to the backroom is kicked open.

Glasses and bottles rattle. The door swings open and slams into the wall. More glass rattles.

His beer falls from his hand as the shotgun barrel comes through the door.

Gregg’s seeing all of this in slow motion. One inch at a time

Door.

Shotgun.

Feet.

Legs.

Then... Richard Nixon?

CHAPTER 4

"Get. The. Fuck. DOWN!"

Greasy Gregg has his hands up. The barrel of a twelve-gauge pump staring him right in the face. Not close enough to grab, but close enough to possibly make it so there will be no dental records and the cops will have to use his fingerprints to identify the body.

What? Gregg says.

"I’m not asking, man," Nixon says.

Nixon is looking at Greasy Gregg with cold eyes behind the mask. It puts an exclamation point on the message.

Cool, man, Greasy Gregg says. We’re cool here.

Nixon’s face is staring at him. The eyes behind the mask are deadly. Greasy Gregg all of a sudden has to pee.

Then Donald Trump is through the door with a nine. He’s got the gun in a two-handed grip, aimed at the floor, extra careful to not accidentally aim it at Nixon’s back.

Shit, Gregg thinks. Shit, shit, shit.

We ain’t cool until you do what we say, Nixon says. "And I said to get the fuck down!"

Greasy Gregg gets down. Sits down, to be exact, in the corner under the cash register, next to the racks of empty (and suspiciously dirty) beer mugs.

Stay down or we kill you, Nixon says.

Greasy Gregg believes him.

Nixon backs up, raises the shotgun so it’s not pointed at Trump. Trump takes his position. His gun is pointed at the floor but Gregg can tell this guy just might know how to use it.

I ain’t here to get dead, Gregg thinks.

Watch him, Nixon says.

Trump says nothing but the gun comes up.

He so much as fucking sneezes, you light him up, Nixon says.

Trump raises his gun higher. Gregg wishes he would lower it just a little bit. He’s not ashamed to be afraid to die. But he always figured it would be on the highway, some glorious, legendary bike accident.

Not killed while he was basically at work.

When he’s satisfied that Trump has things covered, Nixon walks the length of the bar and into the little paneled hallway area, then disappears into the office.

Greasy Gregg notices the bag Nixon is carrying as he steps through the office door. Notices that there’s something heavy in it.

What Greasy Gregg does now is take his chances. These guys didn’t come in to take anything, they came to leave something. These boys are here with some kind of message.

Y’all, you don’t know who you’re messing with, Gregg says.

He starts to stand up. This guy, Trump is staring at him.

The eyes know everything.

The eyes in the Trump mask are not the eyes in the Nixon mask.

Greasy Gregg is standing up and doesn’t know that the man in the Trump mask is wondering what Nixon would do.

Sit down, Trump says.

Make me, Greasy Gregg says.

***

Nixon’s in the office. There was a large, framed poster of some Playboy Bunny from the ’80s on the wall. It is now on the floor exposing a safe.

Part of the message, Nixon’s thinking.

He looks at his watch. Knows they’re on a clock here.

The car can only wait for them so long.

He hears it and leaves the bag on the cluttered desk and is at the door.

***

Greasy Gregg is now Bloody Gregg.

Trump’s hand hurts and Nixon watches as he takes a step back. He’s doing a good job resisting shaking the pain out of his hand.

Gregg is blood from his nose down to his belt. He spits blood on the floor and his jeans.

Trump looks back at Nixon and keeps the gun on Gregg.

Nixon nods his approval, catches Gregg catch the nod, and is back in the office.

***

Bloody Gregg has a chipped tooth. That bastard got him good. His nose is probably broken and the blood is everywhere.

You bastard, Bloody Gregg says. You fucking bastard!

Trump’s looking down on him. As much as he’d love to hit this big, bloody bastard again, he’s willing the man to stay down in the corner.

Gregg wipes blood out of his beard and rubs his bloody hands on his shirt. His eyes are starting to turn a shade of purple.

You two, you have no idea who you’re messing with.

"I think we do," Trump says.

***

Nixon’s in the office.

His heavy DIY project is out of the bag. He uses a can of spray foam and adheres it to the wall.

He’s thinking, careful, please be careful here.

Because he likes his face and kind of wants to see this whole thing through.

This ain’t supposed to be pretty.

It’s not going to hold onto the wall very long, but that’s not the point. Needs just long enough.

Then he attaches two wires, presses a button on the timer, slings the bag over his shoulder, grabs the shotgun, and runs out of the office.

The digital readout starts counting down from thirty.

***

Trump turns around at the noise. Nixon is coming out of the office in a big hurry.

Gregg perks up at the new, frantic activity.

Nixon looks at Trump then puts his hands over his ears.

Shit, Trump says.

He puts his own hands over his ears and they both turn their heads and look at Gregg.

The Presidents duck down against the shockwave and keep their hands in place pressed too tight against their heads when the office explodes. Gregg, his face a volcano of pain, hasn’t caught up to what was going on.

It’s a small bomb but the entire building rattles. A section of paneling comes loose in the hallway by the office. It falls diagonal against the opposite wall.

Glasses fall, bottles of cheap whiskey and vodka crash against Bloody Gregg and the floor. He’s got fresh wounds from broken glass.

Alcohol and blood, man, it stings.

Now he’s screaming.

And Trump has that Beretta pointed at Gregg’s head as Nixon runs back into the cloud of smoke pumping out of the office.

***

Nixon, calm and casual, walks out of the office a minute later. The bag he carried in there is a different shape and a different weight.

Gregg’s ears are ringing and it’s hard to think, but he notices this. He’s trying to remember everything that was in the office for when he has to make the call.

The floor is a mix of booze and glass and blood.

Nixon passes behind Trump and out of the door without a word.

Trump lowers his gun and starts walking backward.

Gregg looks up at him and sneers. His teeth are covered in blood. This facial expression is fairly common for the biker but it cracks his face into new lines of pain.

You, Gregg says, You’re dead.

Trump is almost through the door. He hears Greasy, Bloody Gregg and turns around. They lock eyes for a moment.

Pause.

"Not yet," Trump says.

CHAPTER 5

The back room. They see the nose of Hillary’s car through the door.

The Presidents are running but the room is a tunnel. Trump’s thinking it looks like it’s getting farther away. Time is ticking in slow motion in his head.

Then Nixon turns to Trump. Trump can see humor in his eyes inside the mask.

You could have killed him, Nixon says. "That’s what I told you to do."

Then they’re outside. Sun’s coming up fast, burning away the early morning.

***

Go, go, go, and, go, Hillary’s thinking. Come onnn...

She turns to watch Nixon get in the back behind her, then swings around as Trump’s feet skid in the gravel then he’s in the passenger side and slamming the door shut.

Her foot’s on the accelerator before either of them can yell for her to get out of there. The car’s been in D the entire time those two were inside. Her quivering foot’s been on the brake.

Which felt like forever, by the way.

And the explosion from inside scared the shit out of her.

Tires spin in the gravel parking lot. She fishtails to the road, hoping this isn’t the point in their little revenge plan where the cops get them.

No traffic coming...

***

Five miles down the road, back in their county. They park behind the big warehouse for the local grocery store chain. Over by the dumpsters, where they hid the truck this morning. Nobody’s outside to see them.

They are out and switch cars fast. From the getaway car into the pickup truck.

Hillary’s driving again. They keep the masks on, even though Nixon worked here when he was fifteen and knows there are no cameras. The place is too cheap, and the cameras they do have are on the loading docks, not the trash.

Nixon turns to look out the back window as Hillary peels out of there.

Trump turns around just in time to see the car explode. Black smoke presses against the wall of the warehouse and spirals over the car before flame erupts. One of the dumpsters catches fire.

Trump and Nixon look at each other. They reach under the masks at their necks and pull them off at the same time. Simultaneous.

Shawn and Jordan Bruin look at each other. Their hair is soaked with sweat. They’re breathing heavy, that post-raid adrenaline rush.

They look to the front seat. Hillary’s mask is gone, the fake face replaced by Naomi’s. She skips the mirror and turns around and looks at them.

The car is rolling at seventy, pointed toward the boonies.

Her face is full of the same adrenaline. Eyes wide, a triumphant, frightened, satisfied smile on her face.

Holy shit, Naomi says. Was it worth it?

Shit yeah, Jordan says. This is just strike one. Fuck them.

That felt good, Shawn says. "Man, that felt alive."

Jordan and Naomi look at each other, then away. A fast moment between them.

Naomi’s back on the road, eyes flickering into the rearview. The suburbs are turning green. They’re getting closer to the boonies.

Stoney’s place, House Three.

She means the money, I think, Shawn says.

"That is exactly what she means, Naomi says. Might as well get paid for your good work."

And yours, Shawn says.

Thank you.

Jordan has his bag open. He reaches in and pulls out some paperwork. Then some cash. Shawn’s counting with him as he lays out the bills.

Looks like one hundred and three dollars, Jordan says. A copy of the lease, and a gun magazine.

The three of them look at each other.

They burst into laughter.

PART TWO

NOW: FRIDAY

CHAPTER 6

Mom know?

Pause.

Shawn thinking, but not about the question.

Yeah, Shawn’s got other things on his mind. He started the conversation, but he’s not quite in it. Passing on info, dumping words, saying a lot, and trying to disconnect from all of it. Exorcise it from his mind to relieve himself, but it’s not working.

The news he just dropped on Jordan, his mind is other places. Thinking about a timeline that’s been clipped.

Dad. Awful parallels.

He shakes his head. Not at the question, but the memories.

No, Shawn says.

A one-word statement on his past, present, and future intentions of telling her.

Jordan’s next to him, both resting on the edge of the hood of their car, the black ‘69 Camaro they finished putting together last year. A labor of love.

I don’t want to believe it, Jordan says. Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I could have gone to the doctor or something.

Shawn doesn’t look at him, only stares forward.

I couldn’t tell you, Shawn says. You were in Afghanistan or whatever, then you came home and the stuff with Shannon—

No excuse, Jordan says.

Oh, I’m not making excuses, Shawn says. But you have your own thing. This was just me kind of feeling bad, then going to a doctor.

"Kind of a little more than that," Jordan says.

Kind of, Shawn says. "But it’s my cancer, right? What are you going to do, feel bad for me?"

Yeah, Jordan says. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.

And you came back and, what? You lost your whole life, Shawn says. Why worry you more?

Jordan shakes his head at all of this. He’s trying to deny that he would have done the exact same thing.

Dad died, Shawn says. We saw it all, right? So it’s not like we don’t know what happens. Why would I put you and mom through all of it again?

I don’t know, Jordan says.

They’re in Mom’s garage, the bay door open. The Camaro’s pointed outside. It’s one of those summer nights with no humidity. Rare. Nice to be sitting outside. Too bad they aren't enjoying it.

I’ve been living with it for a little while now, Shawn says. Thankfully I work for myself so I can slip away. And you were preoccupied, so I could see doctors under the radar. But he finally gave me the final diagnosis, I had to tell you.

But not mom?

Shawn only shakes his head.

The garage around them is all shelves full of plastic boxes full of crap. Mom’s stuff. Had to keep it, and she will never look at it again. The big red tool case is on the back wall. And a workbench where they did all the car work.

They used to laugh with each other. Both of them determined to build a car from scratch inside some crazy woman’s yard sale-to-be.

"You did tell mom, how would you tell her?" Jordan says.

Thinkin’ about telling no one, Shawn says. You know what I mean? Why does there have to be some kind of announcement? I’d like to go out knowing I lived a half-decent life. But why do I have to announce to the world that I’m dying? I don’t want to share this pain. I don’t want to spread it around, you know?

Jordan’s hands shake in the middle of the night. When he sleeps, which is almost never, his dreams are worse than the reality that fueled it. He knows Shawn knows, but no one else does.

Bombs and guns and bullets and kids and sand and blood and...

I know what you mean, Jordan says.

Shawn sighs.

"I don't know how to tell anyone, he says. So, I can't think of a good reason why I would tell anyone."

Makes sense, Jordan says.

Shawn thinks, it does? Really?

Keep it all inside, Jordan thinks. Yeah, man, I know all about that.

Shawn sighs. He feels it all the way through his stomach. That pain that he’s learned to ignore.

I kinda feel like riding off into the sunset. Never again to be seen.

Jordan’s thinking that sounds like a great idea.

Jordan’s wondering if they have nightmares on the other side of the horizon, beyond that sunset.

***

Twin brothers.

Shawn and Jordan Bruin.

Tight. Took different paths after high school. Shawn with his big ideas and wanting to do something. Jordan had the same values, but he wanted to be where he could do something. Joined the Navy, saw the world bleed.

Here they are, sitting on the hood of the car they built. Took ‘em ten years of tinkering, but they got it done. Neither one of them are really car people, but they got it in their heads to do it and never let up.

Ten years.

Rebuilding something old they thought they would share forever.

Now Shawn just told Jordan that he’s got maybe a year to live.

CHAPTER 7

Shawn left. He walked to his truck without looking back. Drove out of there leaving Jordan sitting on the hood of the Camaro.

Jordan wanted to grab Shawn by the back of the shirt and make him stay. Wanted to talk all night, maybe talk forever—as long as forever could last.

But he watched his brother go.

Twin brothers.

Now Jordan's staring at nothing. Thinking about the unthinkable. Pushing thoughts out of his head faster than they can materialize.

The sky goes from that pre-evening white to pink and is finally fading into a deep purple that’ll soon be dark. It doesn’t get chilly this deep into summer, only not as warm.

The world is passing Jordan by and he’s never once in his life been more conscious of time. Never been more aware of how long a year is. If it is a year. Could be less.

He's wishing Shawn would have never left because he's afraid he's never going to see him again.

He's there an hour, not noticing the time slide by before it occurs to him that he can get up.

***

Mom's inside.

Can't get around much. Or, more accurately, doesn’t get around much. She's always complaining about something that hurts. Always at the doctor now that she's alone.

Shawn, the perfectionist, and Mom, the opposite of that, they don't get along. Jordan doesn't get along much either but the war in his head is keeping him away from anything happy and stable.

His marriage? Dissolving.

His work? Honorably discharged, but left a deep and bleeding scar inside his head.

He’s living off of his savings until he can find a steady job, but even those are hard to get. Possibly because he’s not looking very hard because his life feels like a fist closing in around him.

The inside of the house looks like the garage, only in here, it’s not boxed up. There’s stuff everywhere. It’s all nice and neat, but it’s everywhere. Knick knacks, little angels, too many lamps. Accumulated memories for her. Mom has a story for every piece of whatever in here.

Shawn and Jordan, they grew up in this Museum of Knick Knacks and Whatevers and live a life of minimalism. Dad was the same as them, but he was stuck in the tornado of Mom’s life. He never complained.

Dad is long gone. It wasn’t pretty or happy and no one really talks about it.

Was that Shawn?

Yep.

You could have come out, Jordan thinks.

But, no. They’re both responsible for how they feel toward each other. Both the same kind of stubborn. Somehow, I’m the team player.

Whatever.

Jordan’s thinking that Shawn’s the lucky one. Wasn’t forced back into living with this woman.

Jordan and Mom have a brittle truce going on. Ever since Shannon kicked him out. It's a tense coexistence. But Shawn