Ex Meridian (Nothing Special 7)

Meridian could just make out the attorney’s silhouette behind the tinted windows, and he didn’t step out of his hiding place until Mr. Rowland Jr. realized he’d just gotten into a vehicle with someone who had no intention of driving him home. Meridian watched as man started to panic when Ex turned in the driver’s seat and pointed his suppressed Desert Eagle in the DDA’s face. And like an idiot the man threw his door open and tried to bolt, but all he got was Whisper pointed at his throat.

“Get in the car,” Meridian ordered.

“Okay, okay,” the attorney said, with his sharp nose pointed towards the ceiling and both hands out to his sides. If he even swallowed too hard, Whisper would slice through his Adam’s apple.

In two swift movements, Meridian tucked his dagger back into its sheath then shot his boot out, striking the DDA’s stomach hard enough to send him flying back into the car. Meridian got in behind him and closed the door as Ex burned rubber out of the garage.

“Where are you taking me?” the DDA asked. “Who do you work for? I swear whatever it is, it’s just a miscommunication. Everything is taken care of with the detectives. And... and there’s no witnesses.”

Meridian held on as Ex took the corner onto Central Avenue from Mitchell Street hard. He could feel his partner’s anger like his own. Meridian gripped the attorney by his throat and slammed him headfirst against the window. “Shut the fuck up,” he growled.

The DDA’s eyes fluttered shut before widening again. “I can pay you double... triple whatever your—”

Meridian removed his hand when he saw Ex watching him in the rearview. He couldn’t choke the man to death. Not yet. He just hoped he didn’t have to sit back there and listen to his whimpering for very long. He despised crooked, greedy men.

Meridian kept the lawyer in his peripheral as he watched the activity around them. It’d been so long since he’d been home that he’d almost forgotten what the US looked like, and what he’d sacrificed his life for.

Two concert promoters were advertising a live band playing at the Tabernacle on Saturday on the corner of Central Avenue. They passed homeless men begging for change from the joggers coming in and out of Hurt Park. Energetic sign flippers were waving orange banners announcing a new menu at the Metro Café Diner at the corner of Peachtree Avenue. All of these citizens were going about their free lives without a thought as to how they were able to do so.

They were almost to their destination when traffic slowed to a crawl in front of the Hyatt Regency while some men set up traffic cones to close off the far lane. A stocky man in a fluorescent vest and low-riding pants stopped next their window and set down two cones, not bothering to glance in their direction. Mr. Rowland lurched forward and opened his mouth as if he wanted to scream for help but Meridian shoved the barrel of his forty-five against the lawyer’s rib cage hard enough to make him rethink that.

“Where are you taking me, please?”

“Church,” Meridian said matter-of-factly as Ex circled around the back of the burnt-orange brick Catholic church.

“What?” the man asked, still holding the side of his head where it’d connected with the window. “But—”

“Shut up,” Meridian said. “Last time I’m telling you that.”

Ex pulled into the lot, parking behind the building as dusk began to settle across the gray-blue sky. There were only a couple of cars in designated spots, and Ex made sure to position their vehicle closest to the access alley.

“Jesus fuck! Just tell me what you want already!” the man yelled.

“How long have you and your father been taking bribes?” Ex asked, watching them in the rearview mirror.

“Too long,” the attorney whispered, staring up at the church steeple. “I told him to stop but he wouldn't listen. And you can put whatever shotguns and knives in his face that you want, it won't scare that old bastard. He's from Texas, everyone has a weapon.”

“I see. But the difference is we're not restricted in how we use ours or on who,” Ex threatened.

“So now what? I go in there and confess my sins. Repent? Then...”

“Then you call this number and do it all over again.” Meridian produced one of Godfrey's cards from inside his jacket pocket.

The DDA’s eyes welled with tears. “You work for God?”

“He wishes. And believe me, you don't want who we work for to get wind of your shit. You’d be charged with treason,” Ex said gravelly.

“Are you feds?” The attorney frowned.

Meridian ignored the question. “Call that number... soon. If you try to leave this church in anything but a squad car, I’m gonna consider you a fugitive. The second you try to run, I'm gonna put enough bullets in your legs to make sure you never do again.”