Free Just Another Job by Brett Battles

 
     
     
     
    “Just came out of nowhere, you know?”
    “Yeah, I know,” Jonathan Quinn said.
    “Did you see him? I mean, where the hell was he?”
    “Doesn’t matter.”
    “Damn. Came out of nowhere.”
    The man sucked in a wet breath.
    “What’s your name?” Quinn asked.
    Even in his current condition, the man hesitated, then said, “Eric.”
    “You can call me Jonathan,” Quinn told him. He didn’t use his first name often, but this was one of those times that seemed right. Of course, it was only his professional name, so it didn’t really matter.
    “Jonathan,” Eric said, as if confirming the offer. “I...ah...guess I’m lucky you...were here.”
    Quinn smiled to hide his own hesitation. “Yeah. Lucky.”
    Another ragged breath .
    “You want to lie down?” Quinn asked.
    “No,” Eric said. “This is fine.”
    Quinn pressed his right hand a little harder against Eric’s wound. Like his left, it was covered with a surgical glove. He knew the pressure wasn’t doing much more than cutting down on the external bleeding, but it would make the guy feel like he wasn’t alone.
    “How you doing?” Quinn asked.
    “Tired,” Eric said. “Hurts like a son of...a bitch, you know?” A wave of pain washed across the man’s face. Once it was gone, he looked at Quinn again. “You...ever been shot before?”
    Quinn shook his head. “Close a couple of times. But it’s something I try to avoid.”
    “Good plan...second...time for me...the first time was in the leg...right through the meat of my thigh...that hurt like hell, too...but...not quite...like this.” A pause for air. “Ambulance coming?”
    “On its way,” Quinn lied. No ambulance would have been able to make it in time. That was if calling one had even been an option.
    “You...live around here?” Eric asked.
    Quinn couldn’t help but glance around. They were surrounded by look-alike, one-story buildings. Cinder-block walls, limited windows, tin roofs. And surrounding them, black asphalt, resealed sometime in the last several months. It was an industrial park on the outskirts of Fresno, California. A little bit of business nestled at the edge of farm country. Even though the closest field was a couple miles away, Quinn could smell the fertilizer, tangy and fresh.
    “No,” Quinn said. “Not from around here.”
    “Then what were you—” Eric stopped himself, pain once again demanding his full attention.
    There was the sound of footsteps about fifty feet away, coming around the corner of the building Eric was propped against. Quinn didn’t even look up. He recognized the pattern.
    “Dammit. Is he still alive?” the new arrival said, obviously annoyed.
    It was Durrie. For several years he had been Quinn’s mentor, but the internship had finished two years before and now Quinn was a full-fledged cleaner, too. They were working this particular assignment together as partners though Durrie still had the habit of treating Quinn like an apprentice.
    Durrie approached quickly, stopping just a few feet short of the wounded man. He was holding several large cotton towels in one hand and a five-gallon bucket in the other.
    Under the sealed lid Quinn knew the container was filled with dark brown paint. He was the one who purchased it at a store over an hour away in Bakersfield.
    “I got everything else wrapped up,” Durrie said as he set the container on the ground and placed the towels on top of it. He looked down at the dying man. “How much longer?”
    Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “Take a walk for a few minutes, all right?”
    Durrie stared at his former apprentice, his look clearly conveying the message that he thought Quinn was being soft. But after a moment, he started walking away. “I’ll do another check around,” he said. “When I’m done, we got to go.”
    Once he had disappeared around the other end of the building, Quinn turned back to Eric.
    “There isn’t going to be...any ambulance, is there?” Eric asked.
    “No,”