“We just gotta wait for these pendojo cops to get out of here. Place is lousy with them. One dumb gringo gets shot a few times, it’s like the fucking Normandy invasion. Back where I grew up, in Sonora, a whole family could get wiped out, you’d get maybe one cop, and he’d come by a few days later.”
“Hmm,” Luther said, a smile slowly forming across his thin, colorless lips. “I should definitely check that place out.”
Clay
He’d secretly always wanted to get shot. The ultimate bragging right. Pull up your shirt, show the patch of white where some doc had dug out a twisted piece of metal.
But as Clay sat in the ambulance, he had this awful feeling that stopping a .22 round didn’t actually count. His deputy buddies back in Durango would probably make fun of him for it.
At least the pretty lady Lieutenant was sympathetic.
“You’d better give him two Band-Aids for that big boo-boo,” she told the EMT.
Ouch.
He’d laughed it off, but the worst of it was how bad it actually hurt. He’d been shot full of adrenaline back at the range, but now that everything had settled down, the pain was really starting to get to him. He’d waved off the painkiller he’d been offered in front of Jack Daniels.
He could wait a little longer.
Just a little .22 caliber gunshot.
Not a problem.
“Does it hurt?” Jack asked.
“Naw. Maybe a little. You want to kiss it and make it better?” Clay asked.
For a moment, it looked like she was going to go for it. Clay even went so far as to tilt his chin to the side.
But then something crossed over her eyes, and she pulled back, instead offering her hand.
“I’ve got to get on my way. Have to be back at work tomorrow, and didn’t have any plans to stay overnight.”
Clay went for it, hell bent for leather. “I’ve got a room, in the hotel.”
Jack smiled. “Thanks for the offer. But I’m with someone already. Thanks for an…interesting night. Tell your brother I said hello.”
And then she was gone.
Five seconds later, Clay called for the EMT and demanded a pain shot.
Jack
I was tired, my legs aching from the chase. The Gucci pumps I wore made my calves look killer, but were shit for running in.
Clay and I had given pursuit, but the five shooters had fled into the night, splitting up in all directions. We’d called in the Indianapolis PD, even the Staties. Given statements and physical descriptions of the perps as best we could, but there really wasn’t much to go on.
It didn’t make sense. Why would five people break into a shooting range and use the owner for target practice? From what little I’d seen of them, it didn’t appear to be a gang initiation. These were adults, some of them well-dressed.
When the owner, Mr. Porter, regained consciousness, he didn’t say a word. Not a damn word. Refused to even admit anything happened.
As for me, I was going home. Both Clay and Tequila wanted to continue hanging out, but all of the sudden it felt less like harmless flirting and more like cheating. My boyfriend and I were having problems, for sure, but I wasn’t the cheating type. I was the try to work things out type. If I got on the road right now, maybe I could make it back home early enough to do some damage control.
Hell, maybe I’d even get lucky.
I gave each of the boys a handshake goodbye, then headed out to the parking lot. My car, a Chevy Nova, was next to a sleek, new Infiniti G35. I gave it a quick, admiring glance, wondering if I’d ever be able to afford something like that, then climbed into my beater.
As soon as I started it up, I heard a knocking.
The engine? Was my classic telling me it was ready to croak?
I checked the gauges on the dash, but nothing unusual was lighting up. The knocking continued as I pulled out of my spot, but quickly faded as I drove away.
I breathed a sigh of relief, feeling like I’d just dodged a bullet.
One of many, actually.
Alex
Alex Kork snuggled up next to her brother as he drove, her lips brushing his neck.
“Dammit, Alex! I’m driving.” Charles took another glance in the rearview mirror, his tenth in the last ninety seconds.
“You’re so damn paranoid,” she said, pulling away. “You weren’t like this before you got married.”
“Don’t start, Alex.”
“Is that what I’m doing? I’m starting?”
Charles shot her a quick, angry glance. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Nothing. But don’t treat me like I’m your wife. I’m not your wife, Charles.”
He laughed, an ugly thing. “Is that your problem? You want to be married? You’re my fucking sister, Alex.”
“Let me out.” Alex tugged off her seatbelt.
“What?”
“Let me out here. On the side of the road. I’m sick of being next to you.”
“We’re in the middle of nowhere. How are you supposed to get home?”
“I’ll hitchhike. Like that girl we passed up a mile ago, the one with the pink shoes.”
“Don’t be stupid. Hitchhiking is for psychos. Some maniac might pick you up.”
The words hung in the air, and then both of them began to laugh.
Tequila
While Porter had been unconscious, and Jack and Clay busy chasing the shooters, Tequila had taken the liberty of emptying out the shop’s cash register. Technically, it was Mr. Dovolanni’s money, but Tequila figured Porter owed him for leaving a leg intact.
When Jack and Clay came back, they called the police, and Tequila bid a quick adieu. He didn’t want to answer any questions, and Jack seemed to understand. He made a small effort to get together with her later that night, have a nightcap, but she begged off.
No biggie. She wasn’t really his type, anyway. Too much class. Tequila didn’t like to admit it, but he preferred his women to be on the trashy side. Other side of the tracks kind of gals. Biker chicks. Strippers. Druggies with tattoos. There was something about lost causes that appealed to him. Maybe he just loved being the white knight in shining armor, although truth be told, his armor had its fair share of chinks.
He checked out of his room, deciding against staying an extra night. Not a smart idea to make it easy for the authorities to find him, considering all the commotion.
He was carrying his duffel bag out to his car, when he heard something strange.
A thumping sound. Rhythmic. Like someone knocking.
It took him a minute to locate the sound. It was coming from the trunk of an Infiniti G35 in a bank parking lot twenty yards away. Unless the spare tire had magically come to life, which was unlikely, there was probably someone in there. And from the sound of the frantic knocking, that someone wanted out.
It took three swift kicks with his powerful legs before the trunk unlatched, yawing open.
A woman lay sprawled across the interior of the trunk. She was beautiful—curly, black hair, dark eyes, pale skin. A gag was jammed into her mouth. She wore only a nightgown, which hugged her ample breasts and was riding up over a pair of very nice legs.
The night was looking up.
“Miss, is this your car?” Tequila asked.
She shook her head, slowly. He guessed she was drugged.
“Are you tied up and gagged in this truck because it’s something you enjoy doing?”
Another headshake, languid and slow.
“Do you need me to rescue you?” Tequila asked.
A half-speed, yet still emphatic nod.
“If I do rescue you, you want to go grab a bite to eat somewhere?”
She stared at him, eyes wide.
“Sorry. Hold on a second.” He undid her gag. “So, you interested? I save you, we go out?”
“Uh, sure,” she said, a slow smile creeping across her face.
Tequila figured it was heroin. He pulled a folding knife out of his chinos and cut her bindings. As he did, he noticed a butterfly tattoo on her hip.