The Pick-Up

By M.E. Purfield

Sometimes the job can be peaceful. Sometimes it can be downright violent!

 

Hanna Posner is a woman living off the grid, taking delivery jobs that no one else would dare to do.

 

When she takes a job to deliver a package across the country and tries to help Kate, a teen runaway, her life takes a turn for the worse.

 

They quickly find themselves the target of the Impalers, a pair of deranged killers who want nothing more than to see them dead.

 

With no one to turn to, and nowhere to hide, Hanna and Kate must rely on their wits and strength to survive.

 

Filled with suspense and cringing violence, this fast-paced crime novel will keep readers on the edge of their seats from start to finish.

• Language: English
• Publisher: trash books
• Release date: Mar 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201790868

M.E. Purfield

M.E. Purfield is the autistic author who writes novels and short stories in the genres of crime, sci-fi, dark fantasy, and Young Adult. Sometimes all in the same story. Notably, he works on the Tenebrous Chronicles which encompasses the Miki Radicci Series, The Cities Series, and the Radicci Sisters Series, and also the sci-fi, neuro-diverse Auts series of short stories.

Book preview

Chapter 1

She watched him from across the booth as he shoveled the Mexican omelet into his mouth and realized that, most of the time, her life was in his tattooed hands.

So you ready for another job? Bagley asked.

Hanna Posner, the name she had been using the last year, nodded and sipped her coffee. The thirty-two-year-old woman with short dark hair and matching eyes stared out the diner window at the empty parking lot. The sun had not yet risen over the North Dakota plains. Even though a few cars and trucks drove up and down Route 94 through Medina, they had not stopped to find food and energy at the Hash Diner and Rest Stop.

Sure, she said, her voice deep but only because she had been up all night driving to this location. Bagley always picked a semi-public spot close to the drop-offs after an assignment. I’m always up for quick cash.

Leaning back, Bagley smiled, chewed, and shook his head. Close to his fifties, he wore his blond and white hair long and with a few strands of cornrows like he was an aging heavy metalhead transforming slowly into a Rastafarian. Celtic designs inked his hands and arms sticking out of the blue short sleeve shirt but his stubbly face was clean. Even handsome.

Hanna thought about giving him more of her time than what he asks for at work but then decided she shouldn’t get involved with her boss. She had done it before and ended up doing five in the Georgia State Prison in Reidsville. No way she was going to risk that again.

You’re getting cocky, little girl, he said.

Hanna puffed. Little girl? Really?

What do you mean? she asked.

Meaning you’re getting secure about your job,’ he said. Like an old-timer."

I have been working for you for almost a year.

And doing great. You’re one of my best.

So I’m allowed a little cockiness. No?

Bagley drank some of his water, spat a sneaky little ice cube out, and said, Maybe. But you shouldn’t be cocky during the job. You could make a mistake.

You’re wasting your words, she said. I’m a total pro.

Never had any conflict while working an assignment? he asked, traced with doubt.

Didn’t say that.

His pierced brow went up in question.

Oh? he asked.

Hanna smirked. Most of the time Bagley’s assignments went down perfectly. She picked up the package and delivered it. No cops. No interference. No problem. But sometimes when the moon was full, maybe, she ran into a problem. Nothing so big that she had to call Bagley to bail her out. Not that she thought he would bail her out. Hanna knew she was on her own. And on her own, she escaped the conflict with no problem and no trace.

You can level with me, you ever run into a problem on the job? he asked, curious, no sign of anger or edge. Almost trusting.

Hanna sipped her coffee, finishing it. She waved to the teen-aged waitress with no hips behind the counter and pointed to her empty cup.

You know it’s bad luck to reveal trade secrets, Hanna said.

Bagley smiled and nodded. The waitress filled Hanna’s cup and left. She dumped a lot of milk and sugar into the cup. The place served Colombian coffee as if trying to be like a New York or New Jersey diner. Hanna hated the taste of Columbia coffee. It reminded her of a cockroach a kid made her eat back when she grew up in the state system. She preferred stronger blends like French roast.

Done with his spicy omelet, home fries, and bacon, Bagley cleaned his mouth with a paper napkin. His face shifted into a serious expression. Into business.

Okay, he said. I have something for you. He opened the saddlebag at his side and pulled out a letter-sized envelope. Business as usual.

Hanna took the envelope, folded it, and slid it into the back pocket of her jeans.

When do I start?

Pick-up is on June 5th.

Cool, she said.

Will I need anything bigger than a car?

Nope, he said, counting out cash and placing it on the counter. This should cover it. He meant the bill, not her fee. Her fees were always sent to an off-shore account under another name he set up for her.

Thanks for the coffee, she said.

I wish you would eat something when we meet, Bagley said, sliding out of the booth.

Why? she asked.

Like to treat my employees, he said, standing and smoothing his blue button shirt over his potbelly. His khaki pants hung loosely over his skinny legs. Bagley was the most non-threatening person she ever met. Yet she knew he could be dangerous. Was dangerous with other people. She knew never to cross him. He held her life in his hands. Give them little perks.

Trust me, Hanna said. You do.

He smiled and nodded, not sure what she meant. See ya, he said and left the Hash Diner, waving goodby to the waitress and old man working the register.

Hanna remained seated, finished her crappy coffee, and waited for the bill.

Chapter 2

In the parking lot of the Hash Diner and Rest Stop, Hanna walked to her isolated rented red Camry on the other side. Cars and trucks trickled in with drivers hungry for greasy food and coffee. The sun was up and pressing the heat to the air.

Hanna entered the car, turned on the engine, started the air conditioner, and took out the letter-sized envelope from her back pocket. She ripped it open and removed the single sheet of paper with typed print in the center.

COWS RAN THROUGH THE MOON DURING THE NIGHT OF THE ACCAPELLA. SWIMMING IN MILK. GRAZING IN CONCRETE.

It was code for the pick-up and drop-off location and the names of the people to meet in both locations.

When Hanna started working for Bagley, it took a month for her to decipher the code. He stored her in a motel and gave her a little handmade book of translations he came up with that no one else used. Or, so he said no one else used. It was so bizarre that Hanna took his word for it.

Why can’t I just take the book with me and use it when I work? she asked him, flipping through the pages of code.

No way, Bagley said. You will memorize it so you don’t have to carry it around with you. What if you’re arrested? What if the cops or someone else finds it?

Okay, Hanna sighed, too tired to argue with him. If all the others can do it, then I guess I can too.

Trust me, he said. This one is easy. Some of the others have it hard.

What do you mean?

Each of my delivery people has their own code, he said. Only I and the assigned driver know how to decipher them all.

You came up with a code for each driver? Seriously?

Bagley threw her a blank expression. She had no idea how many drivers he had but she assumed he had many. Hence, many codes that he created. He was either a genius or insane. Or both considering how he wore his long blond hair.

Got any tricks to help me along? she asked. She guessed there to be over 200 pages.

If it was a number code like some of the other drivers have I’d recommend memorizing double digits. It’s easier. Easier for me anyway. Maybe try visual association. That could help.

The first week locked up in the roadside motel, Hanna tried her own way. As if she were back in high school years ago, she read through the damn book a few times and tested herself. She wrote out her own messages and tried to decode them. She failed horribly.

The second week she used visual association. She pictured the words and somehow other images associated with the word popped into her head. She got the first message she created half right. By the end of the month, when Bagley tested her, she decoded perfectly.

In the Camry, satisfied that the information was decoded correctly and planted in her head, she pushed in the car lighter. When it popped, she opened the window, stuck the paper out, and lit it on fire. No trails, no clues, Bagley insisted. Hanna burned it up until there was only the corner of the paper left. She released the bit and watched it float to the asphalt. It was ash before it touched the ground.

The window back up and the AC blowing out a nice cool temperature, Hanna drove onto Route 94 and headed home.

Chapter 3

She pulled her black jeep onto the asphalt driveway a few days later in mid-afternoon. Usually, the kids were out playing on Cooper Avenue this time of day, but the sky had been cloudy and raining sporadically, keeping them inside after school. Today no one was around as Hanna stepped out and took her travel bag from the back seat.

As always, she wore an ash business suit with pants, creating an executive image to her neighbors, hoping they thought she traveled a lot for the company they assumed she worked for. Thankfully, none of her neighbors talked to her except for Hello and How’re you doing? The people of Fort Dodge, Iowa supported isolated tribalism. Filled mostly with families, Hanna was one of the few single people that lived in the neighborhood. Her and the single guy a few houses away that everyone thought was gay. Maybe they thought Hanna was gay, too.

She owned a one-level house with light blue siding and maroon trim that was surrounded by a thick green lawn and a few old trees. Two bedrooms, a living room large enough to separate into a dining room if she had people over, which she never did, and a modern kitchen that looked out to a small yard, a patio, and a shed.

This was Hanna’s home for the last year. She bought it with the money from her first job with Bagley. Sure, she had enough to buy a bigger house, maybe in a classier neighborhood, but she always considered herself a minimalist. Also, it was just her. She had no boyfriend or girlfriend or family to take care of. She loved her privacy. She loved to loaf around and do nothing between jobs.

She had a good six days of doing nothing around the house. A perfect time to work on her pinball game with the machines she had in her living room. Three of them, each with a classic rock music design. KISS, Queen, and David Bowie.

She found them at a storage auction over in Moorland. Whenever some deadbeat welshed on their fees, the company auctioned off or sold the unit to strangers as soon as the law allowed. Sometimes the buyer owned a unit full of junk or furniture. Sometimes they held collectibles like coins, stamps, or comic books. In Hanna’s case, she bought some old vinyl records, a wood bedroom set, and three pinball machines.

It was kismet. Hanna always wanted one. She loved playing them as a kid. Now, she had three to indulge on. Three machines that she talked to as if they were her roommates.

I’m home, everybody.

Hanna entered her house, dropped her travel bag on the floor, and turned on the central AC at the thermostat built into the wall. The house felt musty and humid. She considered opening the windows to air it out but with the weather so wet and heavy outside she decided against it.

Needing the remove all traces of her last assignment, Hanna undressed as she walked down the hall to her bedroom, dumped the clothes on the floor, and headed into the adjoining bathroom where a clawed-foot tub waited. Standing on pure white tiles that were recently installed, she started the shower and washed all particles and scents. Even though she showered in motel rooms, she was never able to shake the odd greasy smell she collected on this trip. Maybe because the pick-up was in a Kentucky Friend Chicken and the drop-off was in an abandoned slaughterhouse parking lot.

Clean, damp, and refreshed, Hanna slipped on a pair of sweat shorts and a tank. In the living room, she picked up a small yellow, lined pad and, with the internet on her