The Killing Floor Blues (Daniel Faust #5)(89)

“They’re expecting the mob’s torture specialist to show up, and they’ve got no idea the guy just got busted. If I roll in and take his place, they’ll lead me straight to Jennifer. All I have to do is take out Cesar and anybody standing watch and set her loose. The two of us can hunker down and hold out while Gabriel and the Calles blitz the park.”

Caitlin curled her lip. “When the doctor told you ‘no unnecessary physical activity,’ which of those words was unclear?”

“It’s the definition of necessary. Look. Margaux, Bentley, Corman—you’re the best at what you do, but this isn’t what you do. The only person here more qualified than me for this job is Caitlin, and she can’t do it either.”

She put a hand on her hip. “And why not?”

“Because the Outfit is old-school organized crime, and old school means all the macho bullshit that goes with it. Unlike Nicky’s organization, they don’t hire women, period. No chance Cesar would believe you. Me, though? I can waltz right in.”

The room fell into a pensive silence.

“It’s a two-hour drive to the park, guys,” I said. “Clock’s ticking.”

“I hate to say it,” Pixie sighed, “believe me, I really hate to say it, but he’s right.”

“We’ll be directly behind you,” Bentley said, “parked just off the highway, in case anything goes wrong.”

It was a nice gesture, and I knew he meant well, but I also knew “just off the highway” was going to be too damn far to do anything if this job went sideways. Two lives were lives resting on my shoulders tonight—Jennifer’s and mine—and if I made a single mistake, they were both forfeit.

“Let’s call Gabriel,” I said. “We’re burning daylight.”





47.




We slapped the Illinois plates onto Bentley’s Cadillac. He curled his hand around mine as he pressed the keys into my palm.

“Be careful.”

I pulled him into a quick hug, squeezing his frail shoulders. There wasn’t anything left to talk about, and we were running out of time.

I cruised out of the city on I-15, bound southwest and chasing a neon-orange sunset. I knew my family was behind me, dots in the rearview, but I couldn’t have felt more alone. The Caddy jolted over a rough patch of road and sent my stomach lurching. A quick flood of nausea passed over me like an ocean wave, there and gone again in the space of a breath.

Just don’t get hit in the head again, I thought, smiling grimly at the road ahead. Easy.

The last rays of sunlight guided me to the outskirts of Rock-a-Hoola. The corpse of the water park had gone to rot a decade ago, and now nothing remained but its rusting bones. Stripped girders and crumbling graffiti-plastered walls gathered dust, abandoned to the desert. The spiral of a broken-down water slide still stood; atop it, a man with a pair of binoculars and a rifle slung over one shoulder stood watch.

Two bangers wearing Calles colors, yellow and brown, waved me down the open front drive. I cruised in slow, an easy five miles an hour, as the Caddy’s wheels thumped over broken pavement.

I kept both hands on the wheel.

The water park’s builders—or rebuilders, one of the times it closed and reopened—had a thing for ’50s kitsch. The buildings that still stood were all angled art deco huts painted in neon oranges, blues, and greens. Even faded by weather and time, their colors shone against the gathering dark.

The road ended at Cesar. He stood in front of a ticket booth, flanked by five of his men. His shoulders went back as my headlights washed over him, his chin raised, putting up a front for his buddies. Every one of them was packing, either carrying their steel in shoulder holsters or openly in their hands.

I killed the engine and got out of the car. I didn’t have a gun. Instead, I carried a simple black plastic box. I’d borrowed Pixie’s femtocell case, but I’d swapped out her gadget for one of my own.

“We were expecting more men,” Cesar called out. I stood beside the Cadillac. He stood by the ticket hut. Neither of us closed the distance.

“You only need one,” I told him. “They call me the Doctor.”

He nodded at my case. “What’s in there?”

I gave him the creepiest smile I could muster.

“Tools. For my…examination.”

“They told you the deal, right? No blood. Do whatever you gotta do to make her talk, but you can’t cut on her. Not one drop.”

“That won’t be a problem,” I said. “Is my patient ready?”

I walked along with Cesar, and his entourage followed. Not good. I was prepared to take out one target. Six, not so much.

I counted heads as we strolled through the desolate park. Flashlights glimmered on the other side of sagging palm trees. A cluster of men crouched in the remnants of a cafeteria, faces lit by the glow of a battery-powered lamp, throwing dice across the broken ceramic tiles and waving fistfuls of cash at each other. All in all, I figured Cesar had convinced about thirty of the Calles to turn traitor, not counting the wolf pack that surrounded us as we walked.

Cesar led the way along a broken path framed by beds of yellow scraggly weeds and dirt. Fat brown roaches swarmed around our feet, and a bloated insect hummed as it winged past my ear. Up ahead stood the park’s old video arcade, painted in Day-Glo purple. Three rolling aluminum doors, like loading bays for trucks, barred the way inside, but the one on the left stood open. Faint electric light glowed from within.