North's CYOA 5

(Because I’m so smart, it only took me this long to realize it might be helpful to have a recap at the beginning of each installment)

“Come on,” North said, grabbing Luka’s other hand to help him down. “We’ve got to get—”

The jangle of a bell. A woman’s laughter.

Then the driver shouted, “What the fuck?”

North yanked Luka down from the hauler, caught the other man, steadied them both.

And the driver pulled out a gun.

North shoved Luka around the side of the hauler. As he followed, he caught a glimpse of the driver charging toward them. The woman with the bad wig stopped in the middle of the parking lot, frozen by surprise.

“H-he saw us,” Luka said.

“No shit he saw us.” North risked a peek around the side of the hauler.

The driver was running now—not a fast run, but closing the distance to the truck. He ran like an idiot, gun in hand. That was how people shot their dicks off.

“I’ve got a plan—” North said.

“Y-you go left, I go r-right?” Luka said.

There wasn’t enough time for North to explain that he was in charge.

“I’ll d-distract him,” Luka added with a grin. Shivering so hard that he had to lean against the hauler, Luka shuffled toward the front of the truck. He was still carrying the can of tire spray in one hand.

“Hey!” the driver was shouting as he came toward. “Hey, get away from that truck!”

“Hay is for fucking horses,” North shouted back. “Go back inside.”

“Get away from there, or I’m going to fuck you up!”

A quick rap on the hauler’s paneling made North glance at Luka. The dark-haired man held up three fingers. Then two. Then one.

With a surprising burst of speed for a frozen wiener, Luka shot around the front of the truck.

North gave him half a second, and then he went around the back.

“You don’t know who you’re messing with—” the driver was shouting.

Then there was a metallic thunk, and the driver cut off.

North cleared the hauler in time to see the can of tire spray clatter to the ground. The driver had stopped running, and he was turning toward Luka now. Luka was backing away, hands raised.

From the next row of pumps came a hard voice: “What’s going on over there?”

North ignored the question. He sprinted forward, launching himself off the asphalt with each step, building up speed. Three steps out from the driver, he threw himself into a flying tackle.

The shock of his body hitting another.

The impact rippling through his shoulder, down his spine.

An explosion of breath from the driver.

The flickering lights of the truck stop pinwheeling.

They crashed onto the pavement. North rolled into the fall as best he could, and the Carhartt coat saved him from road rash. The driver came down with him. A skittering sound followed, and North’s brain tracked it as the gun spinning away.

And then North wasn’t moving anymore. He gasped for breath. Got himself up onto one elbow. Next to him, the driver was groaning, trying to roll onto his side.

“Stay the fuck down,” North panted.

Luka stepped into view a moment later. He was still shivering, and his color wasn’t good, but he tried to shoot his eyebrows as he said, “Y-you must have played football, North. T-that was a great t-tackle.”

“Fuck off,” North told him.

“What the hell is going on over here?” a deep voice demanded. The owner appeared a moment later—White, at least six and half feet tall, and built like a fucking grizzly.

Luka went for a smile. “W-we’re all good here, t-thanks.”

“It doesn’t look all good to me. Get away from him.”

Great, North thought. Perfect. A Good Samaritan.

“S-sir,” Luka said, squaring up with the man. “T-this is more complicated than it looks.”

“It looks like you’re beating the shit out of this guy to steal his rig. Hey, I told you to get away from him!”

That last part was for North, who had grabbed the driver’s jacket to keep him from worming away.

“Hay,” North told him, “is for fucking horses.”

The Good Samaritan made a noise deep in his chest and started forward. Luka put out a hand, and without breaking his stride, the Good Samaritan grabbed Luka by the coat, picked him up, and threw him. Luka hit the side of the hauler and collapsed.

“Buddy,” North said, letting out a groan as he dragged himself to his feet. “You are picking the wrong fucking fight.”

The Good Samaritan just kept coming.

On the ground, the driver—now free from North’s grip—was crawling away, but that only registered in North’s peripheral vision. He focused on the man coming toward him, who looked like he took a deep and abiding joy in clobberin’ time.

“I’m going to fuck you up,” North said. He set himself, raised his fists, thumbed his nose like badass guys did in the movies sometimes. Shaw would have laughed, but Shaw didn’t know good shit when he saw it. “Last chance.”

Instead of answering, the man swung a big roundhouse at North’s head.

The manly thing to do would have been to block, to follow up with a jab, maybe step inside and throw an uppercut, work this son of a bitch over for ten rounds until he was on the ground.

That seemed like an awful lot of work. So, instead, North bounced back, letting the roundhouse whistle through the air. The momentum of the punch carried the man into a partial turn. He was off balance. His face twisted up with anger.

And North went for the Reese’s Pieces.

Shaw made a lot of jokes about the Red Wings. But you put enough force behind a single point—say, the safety-toe of your kickass boots—and that single point makes contact with a man’s jellybeans, well, it was seriously fucking effective.

Something like a scream ripped itself out of the Good Samaritan’s throat, and he crumpled.

The scrape of plastic against asphalt made him turn.

The driver stood there, gun in hand. The asphalt had torn up the side of his face, and he wasn’t putting weight on his right leg. The hand holding the gun trembled.

He wasn’t a killer; North could tell that much.

But he saw when the driver made the decision anyway. His face emptied out. The gun stopped drifting.

And then the Fusion lurched out of the night. It wasn’t going all that fast. When the front of the sedan made contact with the driver, it looked more like a love tap than anything else.

For an instant, anyway. Because it was a love tap at twenty miles an hour.

The impact threw the driver to the ground. He tumbled, flopped, and then lay there, moaning.

Luka opened the door of the Fusion and poked his head out, like he was trying to get a better look at the man he’d just hit.

“Are you for real?” North asked.

The Good Samaritan hunched forward on his knees and began to puke.

“H-hang on,” Luka said. “I j-just saved your life!

“I was fine, shit-for-brains,” North said as he stalked toward Luka. “That car is a fucking rental!”

In the distance, a lone siren blared.

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” North said as he reached the Fusion. “Let me do the talking.”

“Of c-course,” Luka said. “But m-maybe you want to see what they have in the cars first?”

Will North listen to Luka’s advice and see what the bad guys were transporting? Or would it be better to hang back and let law enforcement make the discovery? Patrons will decide tomorrow!