End Game (Will Robie #5)(23)

The bartender wrung out the rag over the sink. “About three years.”

“Who started it?”

“Dude named Doctor King. He’s the letter K in the K and A, in case you’re wondering.”

“So is he a doctor?”

“No, you don’t understand, his first name, he says, is Doctor. He rolled into town, set up camp a few miles out. He started making his rounds, doing some preaching, or so he called it. Then he started up a little business. Mentoring, he said it was. Printed up pamphlets and fliers and kept talking away, mostly to the young men around here who got nothing in their future ’cept the next beer, chick, or bong. Well, before anybody could really see what was happening, he’d built this big outpost and eventually all them men went to live and work there.”

“How do they get by? Where’s the money come from? Drinks for that crew don’t come cheap.”

The bartender pointed a finger at him. “Now there’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, man.”

“Drugs, guns? Human trafficking?”

“Maybe your Mr. Walton?”

“That industry pretty much sticks with young and female. And you just said they don’t cause any trouble.”

“Well, they don’t. I mean not for the likes of me. I can’t speak for others.”

“Interesting group.”

The man wiped the bar some more. “Good luck on finding out anything from them. Think you’re going to need it.”

The man left to attend to another customer while Robie nursed his beer and thought about all this.

He heard him coming before he saw him.

“You a Fed?”

Robie put down his beer. He didn’t turn to look at the man. He watched him in the mirror.

“Right now, I’m just a thirsty guy having a beer,” replied Robie.

The man looked to be in his late twenties, about Robie’s height. His muscled delts and veiny arms were exposed by his tank top. He had tats down both arms. Doctor was tatted on his right and King on his left.

“Hear you’re looking for somebody.”

Now Robie glanced at him. “I am. You know anything about it?”

The man leaned in, a twisted grin on his features. “Maybe, maybe not. But I’m not telling you shit. We don’t talk to Feds. We are not under your control. We are a sovereign power. We are first among all others,” he said in a loud voice.

Robie turned and looked at him fully. “Based on what?”

The man looked down at him, his mouth curved into a cruel smile. “Based on superiority. Based on nature.”

Robie noted the sidearm the man had.

“Glock 26?”

“Damn straight.”

“What’s your ammo?”

The man told him.

“Ever have trouble with stovepiping?”

The man looked confused.

Robie explained, “The cartridge doesn’t fully eject. It gets stuck halfway and sticks up out of the gun like a stovepipe, hence the term. The ammo you’re using has a history of doing that.”

The man looked down at his gun. “Yeah, it does do that sometimes. Weird shit.”

“Glocks run best wet. Lube the rails. On a new gun the slide can be stiff. Lock it in the rear position for a couple days. Only need to do that once. If that doesn’t work, your ammo is underpowered. Go for a heavier load. That should fix the problem. You don’t want your gun jamming on you when you need it, right?”

“No, you don’t,” the man said slowly.

He kept staring at his gun for a moment and then looked up at Robie. “Okay, thanks,” he said quietly.

“You’re welcome.”

The man glanced nervously at the two tables where his mates were watching him, then looked back at Robie. “Look, I don’t know nothing ’bout the dude that disappeared. I mean we didn’t . . .”

“He’s a friend of mine, so thanks, I appreciate the info. I really do. What’s your name?”

“Apostle Matthew.”

“No, I mean the one your parents gave you.”

He said hesitantly, as though he hadn’t spoken the name in a long time, “Bruce.”

“Okay, Bruce, I’m Will Robie.”

Bruce looked back over his shoulder and the men were now staring hostilely at him.

When he turned back to look at Robie, Bruce swallowed nervously. “I . . . I better get back . . .”

Under his breath Robie said, “Before you do, tell me to go screw myself and that I’ll get jack shit from you, and I’ll look sufficiently intimidated.”

The men stared at each other for a moment.

“Go screw yourself, Fed, you’ll get jack shit from me,” Bruce screamed.

Robie put up his hands in mock surrender and turned back to his beer.

Bruce walked back to his friends and high-fived several of them.

But when he sat down he glanced over at Robie, and his stare lingered for a few moments.

Robie finished his beer, rose, and left, the eyes of the “apostles” on him every second of the way. But at least one of them now might not want to kill him if it came to it.

And, as Robie knew better than most, one could be a very powerful number.





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