Grant McKenzie - Switch

PENGUIN CANADA

SWITCH

GRANT MCKENZIE is a Scottish-born writer living in British Columbia. He began his writing career at the Calgary Sun covering the Dead Body Beat, and his short stories have appeared in Out of the Gutter and Spinetingler magazines. His debut novel, Switch, was published in Germany and the U.K. in 2009.

SWITCH

Grant McKenzie

PENGUIN CANADA

Published by the Penguin Group

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a cognizant original v5 release november 02 2010

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Published in Penguin Canada paperback by Penguin Group (Canada),
a division of Pearson Canada Inc., 2010.
First published in Great Britain by Bantam Books, an imprint of
Transworld Publishers, a Random House Group Ltd. company, in 2008.

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 (WEB)

Copyright Grant McKenzie, 2008

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Publishers note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Manufactured in Canada.

LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

McKenzie, Grant
Switch / Grant McKenzie.

ISBN 978-0-14-317335-9

I. Title.

PS8575.K397S95 2010 C813.6 C2010-900582-1

British Library Cataloguing in Publication data available

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To Kailey Who will always know that dreams can come true.
To Karen Who already knew.

Prologue

Rick Ironwood staggered back from the blow, his trick knee giving out with a pop as his feet twisted sideways in a puddle of grimy engine oil.

Twin jolts of pain took his breath away, the shock turning his scream into a pathetic squeak. His feet failed to find traction and slid out beneath him. For a moment he was airborne, his body twisting unnaturally until all 260 pounds came crashing down. He landed hard, sending a dozen flimsy oilcans clattering across the floor. The back of his skull struck the garages concrete pad with a loud crack.

Rick groaned as every pain sensor in his body flashed red. His face was a mask of blood, his left cheek and upper lip gashed open, his twice-broken nose snapped once more from the unexpected assault.

He held up his hands.

Take anything you want! Fuck! The car! Anything! Jesus! Theres nothing here!

The tall black man with the gun stared at him, his eyes so wide and pupils so small the whites were like soft-boiled eggs. He held his mouth half open as though struck dumb at how easily the larger man had gone down.

Lying on his back with torn skin and pulled muscles, Rick knew the years hadnt been kind: hard muscle of youth turned to blubber from years of sitting on his ass and guzzling too many beers; skin a sickly white from a lazy diet of high-fat convenience foods and a liver disease only recently diagnosed. Even his shaved head, spotted with two days of growth, was a poor attempt to hide a hairline that had begun to recede before he was even out of his twenties.

Despite those flaws, he hadnt been prepared to be knocked flat by a skinny-assed spook in a business suit who looked too weak to part his own hair. Sure, the attack was a complete fucking surprise, but still, it wasnt so long ago that hed had a reputation for kicking serious ass.

Gagging on blood, the broken nose making it difficult to breathe, Rick couldnt fathom why anyone would break into his garage. The only thing of value was his black-and-Bondo 79 Trans Am Firebird with the silver screaming eagle logo on the hood. But since it was sitting on cement blocks, it wasnt worth more than a couple hundred. He had been meaning to restore it, like that Pimp My Ride show on MTV, but money didnt grow on trees, at least not in his neighbourhood.

His attacker, a lanky, smoke-steel silhouette, pointed a tiny, blood-flecked pistol at Ricks face. The Detonics Pocket Nine still looked comical, its three-inch barrel no larger than the mans coal-black fingers. Rick had almost laughed when the well-dressed stranger pulled it out of his pocket, but that was before the barrel had gashed open his face and sent him sprawling.

The man finally spoke, his voice low.

I had almost forgotten you.

For... gotten? Ricks broken mouth was having trouble forming words as bubbles of crimson foam popped on his lips. I dont know... who the fuck... you are!

Yes, the man said quietly. Yes, you do, he paused before adding, Ironman.

Ricks eyes narrowed in puzzlement, the nickname sparking cherished hell, sacred memories.

And for what its worth, the man continued, I am sorry.

Wha

Ricks face imploded as the ball-bearing-sized bullet punched through his nose to become an explosive pinball. Ricocheting off bone, the bullet ripped tissue and muscle with abandon before finding the soft palate for a destructive exit.

Remarkably, even with the lower half of his face unhinged and his brain on fire from the shock, Rick stayed alive. He tried to speak, to reason with the man, but his tongue was no longer whole. He felt cold concrete against his cheek and found he could no longer lift his head.

Rick struggled to find a reason for his attack. His gaze came to rest on a wooden bench containing an unfinished birdhouse and an old metal tool-case that had once belonged to his father.

The tool-case, rusted and worn like everything else in his life, had been his favourite hiding spot at a time when he still had a wife to hide things from. The case held a half-dozen dog-eared Hustler magazines, a small metal pipe a buddy who joined the army had made from brass bullet casings, and a glass vial containing two tiny rocks of yellowed crystal meth. The grand worth of his secret stash was about ten bucks and change.

The gunman stepped closer. His polished black shoes acted as twin mirrors to reflect the horror of Ricks face. Rick whimpered then, his mind finally unravelling as he felt the hot gun barrel touch his temple with a brief sizzle.

Ricks eyes flicked skyward and suddenly, with the mans dark, unsmiling face filling his vision, he remembered him.

It was the last thought he ever had.

The thin man felt as fragile as glass.