“Please, so help me, God, I don’t know nothin’,” pleaded Pete.
“Have it your way.”
The man drew a gun.
And that was when Robie stepped into the room, his gun pointed at the man’s head.
“Gun down. Step back, all three of you. Hands interlocked behind your heads.”
They didn’t do any of that.
The man lifted his gun. Or he tried to before Robie shot it out of his hand.
“Fuckit,” screamed the man, who hunched over, holding his injured hand.
The other two men now stepped back from Pete Clancy.
Robie eased farther into the room.
The injured man slowly straightened and looked over at Robie. “Okay, slick, I can tell that you know what you’re doing. So good for you. But why are you stickin’ your nose into our damn business?”
“I don’t know what your business is. Why don’t you tell me?”
“Why don’t you put down the gun and we can talk about it?”
“Pete, get over here, now,” said Robie, his gaze on the trio of men.
The injured man said, “Way I see it, there’s three of us and one of you. You might get two of us, but the last one will get you.”
“Well, why don’t I equal out the odds a bit then?” said Robie. With his left hand he pulled his spare Glock from his rear waistband and pointed both guns at the men.
“You got one dominant hand,” pointed out the man.
“I’m ambidextrous, just so you know. And at twelve feet or so, not so good for you.” He glanced at Pete. “Get over here, Pete.”
The man put his uninjured hand on Pete’s shoulder. “I think he should stay right here.”
“You act like you’re the one holding the guns.”
“Maybe I am.”
The man’s elbow hit the half-full can of beer that was on the desk. It spilled out and over the base of the desk lamp and its frayed power cord. There was a spark and the lights went out.
“Shoot him!” screamed the man.
Both his men drew their weapons and emptied their mags at the doorway. But Robie was no longer there.
The man on the right doubled over when Robie kneed him in the nuts. Then his right arm was wrenched up his back and Robie torqued it at an angle perpendicular to the man’s back, blowing out both the radius and ulna bones in his forearm, leaving it limp and useless.
And very painful.
The man screamed as Robie shoved him over the desk. The other man was reloading his weapon when Robie struck. He slammed the point of his elbow into the base of the man’s back. He cried out, jerked back, and managed to swing a fist at Robie. Robie took the hand, torqued the wrist back, and then wrenched it sideways, snapping the bone and then forcing it through the surface of the skin. He swung the arm around and jammed the exposed jagged wrist bone into the man’s gut.
The man dropped behind the desk.
The third man had knelt to the floor. When he rose he had a gun in his good hand.
Robie disarmed him with a two-stroke maneuver, a grip on the muzzle forcing the weapon down, followed by a forearm lock immobilizing the limb, coupled with a knee strike on the elbow, jamming it in a direction the bones normally didn’t go. The weapon once more fell to the floor as the man howled in pain.
Robie placed the muzzle of his Glock in the center of the man’s forehead.
“On the floor. Now.”
The man dropped to his knees.
“For Chrissakes,” exclaimed the man. “Who the fuck are you?”
Robie slammed the butt of his gun against the man’s temple, knocking him out. Then he gripped Pete by the hair and pulled him up.
“Let’s go!”
“But—”
“Move your ass. Now!”
He dragged Pete out of the room.
“I think my jaw is broken,” screamed Pete.
“I don’t really give a shit,” said Robie.
“Where are we goin’?” yelled Pete.
“Away from the guys with guns and sulfuric acid.”
They reached the back door and Robie kicked it open.
They stepped outside.
“I’m outta here,” cried out Pete.
“No, you’re coming with me.”
“Why!”
“What did those men want with you? Who were they?”
“Leave me the hell alone!”
Pete pushed Robie away, but Robie regained his balance, stuck out his foot, and tripped the other man. Pete tumbled down the steps and landed in a crumpled heap at the bottom.
He stared up at Robie. “I’ll kill you.”
“Right.”
Pete jumped up and sprinted off into the darkness. A few moments later Robie heard the Porsche start up, and it came careening around the side of the house. Pete slammed it into second; the wide wheels gripped the asphalt, and smoke streamed out from behind them as he accelerated to third and was past Robie, who had hurtled down to the bottom of the steps and aimed his weapon.
But he wasn’t going to fire. For all he knew Pete would lose control of his ride and end up slamming into a tree. Hell, he might do that anyway.
Robie holstered his weapon, checked to make sure his other Glock was secure in his waistband, and hustled to his car. He drove off, certain that he had made multiple new enemies tonight. He just didn’t know who they were.
But maybe one of them had killed Sherm Clancy. Which meant his father hadn’t committed the crime and would go free.
He accelerated and zoomed down the road, his wake whipping low-hanging Spanish moss on trees.
Only Robie wasn’t really sure where he was going.
Chapter
31
By the time he had decided to return to the Willows it was after five in the morning, and the dark sky was just beginning to lighten a bit.
He sat in his car in front of the house, closed his eyes, and did his best to think things through.
The guys at Pete’s house might very well be these casino junkyard dogs he had heard about. They thought Pete knew what his father had known, whatever that was. Pete apparently had sent them some communications that had pissed them off, resulting in the “meeting” tonight.
But Robie had intervened and saved Pete’s life, risking his own by doing so. As a way of thanks, the “pissant” Pete had run off. He might well be in Louisiana by now. Maybe he’d never stop running.
Only the guys Robie had taken out weren’t going to be leaving. If they didn’t know who Robie was, they would soon find out. And he was sure other junkyard dogs would be sent out to finish the job the other three could not.
Which meant Robie was a target now. He stared up at the house. He had promised to protect Victoria and Tyler, yet now he might be simply driving trouble their way.
Robie slipped the flash drive out of his pocket and palmed it, staring down at the little slip of plastic and metal that he hoped contained answers to many of his questions.
He looked back up at the house. But what to do about that?
Did he stay or did he go?
And even if I left here they could find out the connection and come here and hurt or threaten them to get to me.
He pocketed the flash, got out of the car, and slipped inside the house from the rear, scurrying up the column to the second-floor verandah and from there into his room.
He grabbed a quick hour’s worth of sleep and then showered, letting the cold water fully wake him up. He had blood on his clothes from his fight. None of it was his, only the other guys’.
He washed off the blood as best he could and stuck the dirty clothes in the bottom of his duffel.
It was nearly seven a.m. now.
He called Blue Man and told him what had happened. Understandably, Blue Man was not happy.
“Things seem to be spiraling out of control, Robie. I want you to come back. Now.”
“I can’t do that.”