The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(45)

Kevin shifted on his feet. The leather was worn away from the steel toes of his boots, the exposed metal polished from the stone dust and shining in the sodium lights of the parking lot. “What do you need this for, anyway?”

Boomer’s smile flickered on again. “I told you already. I want to divert a creek on my land up north. Got some big boulders to break up.”

“Yeah, that’s what you said.” The quarryman looked from Boomer to Midden, standing a few paces away, then back to Boomer. His heavy hands were curled into loose fists at his sides. “I can’t do it,” he said. “The risk is too big. They’re paying too close attention.”

“Man, I already paid you,” said Boomer. “Is this about money? You need more?”

“No,” said Kevin. “It’s not the money. I just can’t do it. The money you gave me, it’s in the bag. Take the caps and we’ll call it even.”

“We’re not even,” said Boomer. “We need the sticks.”

The quarryman closed the cap’s rear hatch with a slam. “Can’t help you. And I’m leaving, so get the hell out of my way.”

Boomer opened his coat to show the man the chrome pistol tucked into his waistband. “You’re not leaving yet.”

The man took another step back, one hand slowly rising into the air. But the other hand was a little slower, seemed to get caught on his shirttail for a moment.

Then his hand came up holding a giant Magnum revolver, a real Dirty Harry hogleg, and pointed it right at Boomer’s face, Kevin’s eyes bright under the pole lights. “Asshole, I said I’m leaving.”

Midden sighed. Everyone’s a gun nut, he thought, as he took a half-step behind Boomer’s bulk. He raised the .22 and put a single round past Boomer’s shoulder into the quarryman’s forehead.

The shot made a flat slapping sound that was lost in the noise of the bar band, which was deep into some drum-heavy oldies number. Kevin went over like a tipped tombstone.

Boomer spun, one hand cupped over his ear. “Motherfucker, we needed him!”

Midden shook his head and tucked the pistol away. “He was done. One way or the other. He had a gun. And he saw us both.”

“Fuck,” said Boomer. “Fuck!” He kicked the body hard, and air went out of the dead lungs with a whoof.

“Keep it down,” said Midden, bending to pick up the quarryman’s feet. “Get his hands.”

Boomer examined the fallen Magnum. “Where’s the fucking safety on this thing?”

Midden stood patiently, holding the dead man’s heels. “Boomer, get his hands. We can’t leave him here.”

They carried the body toward the van. Boomer said, “And I don’t appreciate your using me as cover.”

“It was just to hide my gun hand,” said Midden. “Those Magnum rounds would punch through both of us without slowing down.”

They lifted the body into the back of the van. The bowels let go and the distinct odor of shit and death filled the cargo space.

“Jesus Christ,” said Boomer. “We’re gonna have to smell that?”

“Until we find a place to bury him.”

They climbed into the van and Midden started the engine. Boomer rolled down his window, still complaining as the cold November air flooded in.

“That goddamn Kevin. We’re runnin’ out of time, and we need that starter charge. It’s gonna be hard to find another quarryman. Fuck, it’s cold in here.”

He rolled up the window, sniffed experimentally, then swore and rolled it down again.

“None of this would have happened if that fucker hadn’t run off with my plastic.”

“Tell me again why you can’t just make a new batch.”

Boomer glared at him, all riled up again. “It’s not that goddamn easy, all right? You can’t make the real deal on a hot plate out of bleach and salt substitute. These are seriously volatile chemicals. The batch we lost took me two goddamn months to get right. I searched that whole damn house top to bottom and didn’t come up with anything. And that fuckin’ dog about chewed my ass off as I was leaving.”

“What about the new guy?”

“That carpenter, says he’s a Marine? Turns out he’s harder to kill than the last guy. But I’ll get him.”

“You hired it out,” said Midden. “Should have done it yourself.”

“Good thing I didn’t,” said Boomer. “Motherfucker would have killed me instead.”

It was a bad plan to begin with, thought Midden. He should have told Boomer to wait. It wasn’t his skill set. Midden should have taken care of it. But it didn’t matter. As it turned out, the plan might evolve. To include the Marine.

Midden kept his eyes on the twin cones of light illuminating the road ahead. He was starting to have trouble maintaining focus on the task at hand. On the end goal. He didn’t know how much more of this he could manage.

The autumn wind roared in his ears and cut through his coat as the van picked up speed. He didn’t mind the cold. It helped him keep going.

“He has what you lost,” said Midden over the noise. “We need it. We’ll find it. And get it back.”





   PART 3