Redemption Song (Daniel Faust #2)(49)

The duffel rested at my side, a comforting presence. I could have my revolver out and blow them both to hell in about five seconds flat, but that’d be a great way to get my face and my plates on every news broadcast and APB in the state. No, I needed to be smarter about this and keep things from escalating.

I scooped up a forkful of pancakes a little faster than I needed to, putting an extra flourish into the move. Their eyes darted to the fork, and my other hand quietly dropped under the table, resting on the duffel bag’s zipper.

“What you should do,” I told them, “is go report to your boss and stay out of my way. I’m not here to cause any trouble. I’m even bringing a gift.”

“What gift?” Mack said.

“That’s my business.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “They warned us you’d try to pull a fast one. You’re coming with us.”

“And if I don’t?”

Mack grinned. “Look under the table.”

I leaned over and took a peek. It was the chance I needed to unzip the duffel, slow and steady, and slip my hand inside. Sure enough, I saw the barrels of two snub-nosed .32s pointed my way. Pocket guns with a nasty kick.

I whistled. “Nice chrome. Now it’s your turn.”

Frowning, Mack peeked under the table. I showed him the Judge. His wide eyes, when he sat back up, told Zeke the score.

“You’re probably used to hearing this by now,” I said, “but mine’s bigger than yours.”

“Two against one,” Mack said. “You’ll only get one of us before the other one shoots. You can’t win.”

“Can’t I? This is a game of numbers, Mack. Not the number of guns. Calibers. At this range, a gut shot from a .32 probably won’t kill me. Oh, I won’t be loving life, but I’ll be alive and conscious enough to squeeze this trigger twice. Now, you take a blast from my piece? You’ll be lucky if your spine’s still intact.”

“He’s bluffing,” Zeke said, but it came out more like a question than a statement.

I shook my head. “Here’s how it’ll go down. You’ll shoot. I’ll shoot. When the dust clears, I’ll be a torn-up mess on my way to a prison hospital. And you’ll both be dead. I don’t want that any more than you do, so how about we talk this out instead?”

“I’m listening,” Mack said.

Zeke shook his head. “He’s bluffing.”

“Shut up, Zeke,” Mack said, then looked back to me. “We’re listening.”

“First thing we’re gonna do is take this outside, so we don’t bother these lovely people. Guns in your pockets. Hands out of your pockets. Walk ahead of me.”

I fished in my pocket with my free hand and tossed a crumpled twenty on the table. I slipped the Judge back in the duffel but kept my hand on the grip, clutching it through the open flap. Then I escorted my new friends outside and around back, to the Dumpsters behind the restaurant.

Zeke slowed his walk, trying to close the gap between us. I did the same and kept him at two arms’ length.

“Mack,” I said. “I know your buddy’s itching to jump me, and he’s not being subtle about it. Maybe you can talk some sense into him before this situation goes all Wild West?”

“Zeke,” he said, an edge of warning in his voice.

“He’s gonna kill us anyway,” Zeke hissed.

“Nope,” I said. “I need you both alive. It’s a show of good faith for your boss. Now, Mack, I’m guessing you’re the driver. How about you dip two fingers into your pocket, fish out your car keys, and toss them over here?”

I didn’t watch his hand. That would have been too much distraction, made it too tempting for Zeke to make a move. I watched his eyes instead. Mack tossed me the keys in an easy underhand throw, and I snatched them out of the air.

“Good job,” I said. “Now, while you’re waiting for a locksmith, do me a favor and call your boss. Tell him what I told you. I come in peace.”

“You’re gonna leave in pieces,” Zeke snarled.

“Now, see? That was good. That was actually clever. Kudos on the wordplay. But seriously, guys, if you come after me again, I’ll kill you both.”

Shooting Mack and Zeke would have been like killing a couple of staggeringly dumb puppies. I hoped the prince would yank their leashes and keep them from coming after me for round two. Besides, they’d given me a hell of a head start.

I drove for three blocks and tossed their keys into a drainage culvert. Then I got back on Interstate 70, bound for Colorado.





Twenty-Five

There comes a point in every road trip when you know it’s time to get out from behind the wheel. The highway is too dark, the strobing white lines too hypnotic, and every song on the radio fades into a slurry of forgotten notes. I hit that point about an hour before I rolled into Denver, but I kept pushing. I turned the air-conditioning on full blast and froze myself awake.

I pulled into an empty strip mall a little past one in the morning. Squeezed between a nail salon and a liquor store, a sign above a darkened storefront read “Blue Karma”. It was the kind of hole-in-the-wall Indian restaurant you’d find in a hundred strip malls just like this one, with a faded paper menu taped to the window and a dusty Closed sign suction-cupped to the door.