Fatal Justice (Jack Lamburt #1)(10)

He grabbed at his crotch with an oof, and I slammed the Glock against the side of his head. He collapsed on the kitchen floor with a thump, out cold, his hair still perfect.

I kicked him in the right side, just below his rib cage, driving the tip of my boot into his liver, a penalty kick for forcing me to see his fat ass naked and making me touch his junk, even if it was just with the tip of my boot. Proxy and all.

Crying kid screamed again. I looked at him, shook my head with a sigh of disgust, and placed the tip of my Glock silencer six inches in front of his nose. “Shut up.”

His red-rimmed eyes widened and the blood drained from his face. I thought he was going to hyperventilate and pass out from fear, but somehow he managed to stay conscious.

I rolled Ostrich Boy onto his stomach, cable-tied his hands behind his back, and pulled his dress slacks up. I wiped the butt of my pistol all over his silk shirt to get the oily slick from his hair off. It left a nice little pattern on his five-hundred-dollar shirt. Even though it was petty of me, I couldn’t help but chuckle at my abstract work of art. Picasso had nothing on me.

I patted him down for weapons and felt a mass in his front right pocket. I reached in and was rewarded with a compact Ruger 380 pistol. Nice. I popped out the clip, saw that it was fully loaded, re-clipped, and shoved it in my pocket.

I stuck my hand into his other pocket and found a smartphone. I wasn’t worried about anyone being able to place his phone at this location because there was no cellular service here on this side of the mountain.

I grabbed his right thumb and placed it on the phone’s fingerprint reader to unlock it. I changed his pass code to 1234, tested it to make sure that it worked, then shut it off and put it in my pocket. This would come in handy later.

I rolled him on his back and buckled his eight-hundred-dollar diamond-studded leather belt extra tight around his chubby gut.

I took out my Swiss Army knife and cut Mary Sue’s bindings. She wiped a tear from her cheek and smiled at me. She stood up, her legs wobbling like a newborn colt, and gave me a hug. I felt her whole body trembling. I held her until she stopped shaking, for what seemed like a full minute.

“Who’s that?” I nodded over to crying kid.

“Harold.” She leaned over to untie him. “We’re just friends.”

Thank freakin’ God.

“Don’t touch him,” I said. She stopped and looked at me.

“Why not?”

I gestured toward him with my Glock. He jumped and yelped. Again. “Can he keep a secret?” I raised a questioning eyebrow. “Go to his death with it?”

“Yeah. I can keep a secret. Yeah. Of course I can. Just untie me,” he interrupted.

I pointed my gun at him, again, and he got a close-up peek inside the tip of the silencer. His eyes grew twice as wide and I saw his pupils grow in fear. I might appreciate the inner workings of such a wonderful noise-deadening piece of art, but I didn’t think he did.

“Shut up. Understand?” He nodded his head up and down. “Good. When it’s your turn to speak, I’ll tell you.” I nodded my head up and down, trying to convey to him the universal yes gesture that I expected of him. It worked, and he mimicked my motion. I nodded my appreciation. He had officially risen to equal the IQ of my dog London.

Mary Sue’s forehead was wrinkled in confusion. “Secret? What do you mean?”

“We can’t go to the cops with this guy.” I nudged Lard Ass with my foot.

“What? Why not?”

“Guys like this, hardcore mobsters, they don’t play by the rules. They don’t follow laws. They’ll never stop coming after us and we’ll never be safe. We’ll be dead before we can testify against him. Your family will never be safe.”

“How do you know he’s a mobster?”

“Believe me, I know.” I bent down and searched for Ostrich Boy’s wallet. The fabric of his dress slacks was so soft that you could make a baby’s blanket out of it. I had to admit, the sick bastard did have good taste in clothes.

I found his wallet and took it out of his pocket. It was made form baby seal leather. Figures. I opened it, found his license, and memorized his name and address for future reference. Then I handed it to her.

“Get your laptop, open TOR, and search for Sam Rexanio.”

“TOR? What’s that?” she asked.

“It’s an untraceable web browser for people who want privacy. It doesn’t leave an Internet browsing history on your computer and it routes your Internet connection through multiple servers so that it’s untraceable.”

She ran off to get her laptop.

Now was a good time to have a little chat with Harold. I pulled up a chair, sat down in front of him, and laid the Glock on my lap, pointed to the side so he didn’t think I was trying to intimidate him.

“So can you really keep a secret?” I asked, watching closely for the physical “tells” of lying that the untrained body doesn’t know enough to hide. Things like rapid eye blinking, a change in posture, voice inflection, fidgeting, and a couple of others that didn’t apply since they involved hand gestures that couldn’t be accomplished when your hands were tied up like Harold’s were.

“I can, I won’t tell anyone, I swear. Now please untie me.”

Harold was a terrible liar. He exhibited every single physical tell I knew of, including some I hadn’t thought were possible with hands tied up. I felt like I was watching a CIA video tutorial on spotting deception. The only thing missing besides a narrator was freeze-frame red circle graphics around all his giveaways.