The Inn(45)

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX





CLAY DIDN’T LET them come. The distance between him and the big one was maybe twenty feet, and for every inch of that distance, Clay ground his feet into the dirt and then hurled himself forward with all his might. He slammed into Bones at full speed, his wide shoulder driving into his gut, not slowing until the man’s back connected with a huge tree. Clay felt the breath leave Bones, felt his ribs crunching and muscles collapsing against his shoulder. Clay backed up a couple of steps, ready to kick the man when he hit the ground. But Bones was unconscious immediately, a shattered insect squashed in the dirt.

The smaller one, Simbo, wasted no time. He raised the knife, and Clay took the adrenaline surging through his system and swung his foot up and across Simbo’s arm, knocking the blade away. The move threw him off balance, left him sprawling on the ground on his back. The small, stocky guy was on him, and Clay clenched every muscle in his body and snapped upward suddenly, aiming his head butt as best he could. It was a glancing blow off Simbo’s mouth, but it was enough to shock him. Clay rolled, got up, stomped on the writhing figure in the dark again and again. He heard more bones crunching. Simbo’s forearm snapped like a branch. Clay kept stomping until the man was still.

The sheriff stood in the dark panting. Muscles and tendons that had been inactive for years were now alive; sweat dripped down his neck into the collar of his torn shirt. The last of his courage burned low, the rest of it consumed by the fight. He moaned a couple of times with exhaustion and anger, searched with his trapped fingers on the back of his belt for the key to the cuffs. It was gone. He sighed and began the long trudge toward where he guessed the road might be.





CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN





WHEN I HAD emptied all six tubs of pills into the sea, I started carrying boxes and bottles of ingredients out. I grabbed a barrel and rolled it on its rim toward the door. The guy I had hit was waking slowly, moaning and sighing, trying to turn onto his side. His partner, held still by Nick’s gun, was watching me carefully. Nick had dragged the respirators off both their faces, but they were sweating badly. These men were going to have to run from Cline after this, and Cline seemed like the type who could find a man no matter where he hid.

“Let’s hurry this up, Cap.” Nick’s eyes were funny. Too distant, too wide. “We gotta meet the team at the point in oh-five.”

“What?” I stopped rolling the barrel. “Nick, are you okay?”

He shook his head. “Hmm? Yes. What? I’m fine. Let’s hurry this up.”

“That’s enough.” I let go of the barrel. “We’ve done all we can. Time to go back.”

Nick didn’t hear me. His head was up; he seemed to be listening to some noise coming from the rear of the boat. The minor distraction was all his captive needed. I didn’t see the knife he’d been working against the duct tape on his wrists until the blade cut through the last shred. He turned and jammed the blade into Nick’s calf.

The gunshot was deafening in the tiny space; the bullet pinged off a pipe and shunted into the bulkhead before me. Nick’s bullet hit the cupboards just inches above my head—his finger had jerked on the trigger. The man grabbed for Nick’s gun and the two wrestled while I came around the big table to assist. My guy was more conscious than I’d thought. He kicked at my legs suddenly, tripping me into the cabinets against the wall. Nick’s guy had his gun. He backed into the corner of the room and fired wildly at the two of us. It was only the boat lurching suddenly down a steep wave that saved us. The man slid, fell; the gun was knocked out of his hands as he hit the ground. Nick snatched up the weapon and pointed it at his opponent’s head.

“Nick, no!” I cried.





CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT





VINNY SAW THEM coming long before they knew he was there. Two tall, thick men jogging quietly through the trees toward the house, guns out. He sat still in his wheelchair at the corner of the porch, his hands beneath the blanket on his lap. He’d never been a good sleeper. More nights than not, he wheeled himself out here to watch the silent forest and think. The journey to the porch had taken longer this time because his left wheel was held in place by an under-sized bolt Doc Simeon had found in a jar in the garage. The ancient gangster smiled as one of the men skirted around the house to check the perimeter while the other walked directly toward him, not seeing him until he was only feet away.

Vinny watched the man assess him in the moonlight. The wheelchair, the newly bandaged leg, the blanket on his lap, and the hat clamped on his withered head. Like people always did these days, the young man underestimated him. The pair were wearing balaclavas, but Vinny could see that there were tattoos on the man’s hands. Some kind of insects—spiders, maybe.

The tattooed man said nothing until his partner returned to his side. The two looked at each other, assessed Vinny again, and then turned to go.

“What?” Vinny smirked. “You’re not gonna kill me? You’re not worried I’ll roll up behind you while you’re inside popping heads in beds?”

The men glanced at him, bewildered.

“Old man, you just sit there and feel lucky,” the tattooed one said. “I ain’t about shootin’ pathetic old cripples in their chairs. You can be the one who tells the story.”