Shattered (Michael Bennett #14)(10)

The atmosphere was a step down from Starbucks. Plastic wrappers littered the floor, and the garbage can near the back door was barely visible under a hill of trash dotted with plain disposable cups. Sitting at a high top were two young men and a young woman who had to be part of The Burning Land. Between them I estimated they had fifty visible tattoos.

I ordered a cup of coffee at the counter, then took the high top right next to them, saying hello as I slid onto my stool.

A skinny man in his twenties with long, greasy hair scowled at me. He said, “Do you mind? This is a private conference. Go sit over there.” He used his bottle of Budweiser to point across the empty room to a sketchy table with empty cups on it. The other young man had gauges in his ears big enough to pass a finger through.

I kept my voice calm. “No, thanks. I’m fine here.” I wanted to be unobtrusive, but you can’t give bullies too much room or they never stop.

The man stood up. So did I. He was of average height, so he came up to my chin. I kept hold of my hot coffee. It would slow him down if he lunged for me.

The young woman at the table reached up to touch the young man’s arm. “Let it go, Tyler. He’s not worth the effort.”

I let Tyler see a hint of a smile. Just to see if that might set him off. Instead, he huddled with his friends. I kept my stool facing them so I wouldn’t be surprised.

This was a golden opportunity to pick up information. A smart cop will always talk to people before taking action. But we’d gotten off on the wrong foot. Now I worried about explaining to the local cops why I tore up a coffee shop mixing with these thugs.

Tyler glared at me again. “You have no idea how lucky you are, mister.”

“You mean because I have a job and live in an apartment?” This was fun. I might have to try unofficial investigations more often. All three of the young people just stared at me.

Then the front door opened. The cheap bell above the door tinkled. I looked up to see the man I’d read about. Jeremy Pugh stood in all his glory, though his thinning hair and body odor probably didn’t attract many prospective mates in The Burning Land. At thirty-seven, he wasn’t a kid. And it was hard to settle my concern about whether his 250 pounds were mostly muscle or mostly fat. He was just big. Like a linebacker five years after college. A gut hung over his belt, and he wore a TIJUANA FLATS TACO TUESDAZE shirt that was a size too small. His grungy, three-day stubble didn’t improve my first impression.

As soon as Pugh plopped onto a stool, the guy I’d confronted leaned in and whispered something to him. Then the big man turned to face me.

He said, “Who the hell are you, causing shit in here? This place is ours.”

“I don’t think that’s how the DC police would see it.”

He let out a laugh. “You really think those pussies would even come down here?” Then he scowled as he said, “How do we know you’re not a cop? Or worse, a reporter.” He had a hint of a Virginia drawl.

“Why would a reporter be so bad?”

That seemed to enrage the big man. “Are you kidding me? The way they cover us? They make us look like terrorists. Nothing but lies.” Spittle sprayed his table as he started to shout. He stood up and took a step toward me.

I kept quiet and tried to stay calm.

Pugh said, “This is our turf. We got a right to know who’s trespassin’ and why they’re asking questions.” Then he reached into my sport coat like he was looking for my wallet. I slapped his hand away out of instinct. It felt like an invasive, childish move. That’s why I treated him like a brat.

That might’ve been my mistake.





Chapter 13



The big anarchist pulled the most basic move known by every kid who’s ever been in a fight: he wrapped his arms around me in a giant bear hug. Holy shit was he strong. He squeezed the breath out of me instantly. The sound I made when the air rushed out of me was not particularly dignified. I was immediately immobilized in a cocoon of muscle and fat. He lifted me off my stool like I was a child. As he walked toward the back door, the others just followed his lead. The young woman even opened the door for us.

Pugh called over his shoulder to the barista. “Just taking out the trash, Cheyenne. Nothing to worry about.”

I decided to go with it until we got all the way outside. I was lucky he hadn’t noticed my gun on my hip. He was too intent on crushing me. There was no reason to expose who I really was yet. If things got much worse, I wouldn’t have a choice.

Even though I was being physically carried by a remarkably strong giant, I kept my head. I thought out a few different scenarios. None of them involved pulling my duty pistol. The barista clearly hadn’t called the police and didn’t seem to care that that might work in my favor. Then again, she didn’t care what happened to me.

When we were out of view of the parking lot, things got worse. Quickly.

Jeremy Pugh released his arms from my ribs and dropped me roughly on my feet. My right ankle twisted on the loose gravel scattered along the walkway. The pain felt like an electric shock as it worked up my leg to my brain. My teeth clattered so hard I was afraid I chipped one. I gulped some air quickly.

I was about to say something witty when Pugh hit me with a hammering blow. His forearm connected with my back, snapping my head back and forth like whiplash and knocking me to one knee. Semiconscious, I realized that these guys were serious. And certainly Jeremy Pugh could be a good suspect in the disappearance of Emily Parker.