Fatal Justice (Jack Lamburt #1)(25)

I was afraid that my body heat would fog the windows up and that they’d notice as they got closer. Not sure if they would put two and two together, even if they hadn’t just had the shit kicked out of them, but there was nothing I could do about it anyway.

If they picked up on it and checked the backseat, I’d just have to beat them and slap the cuffs on. Part of me favored that scenario, and I had a mini-fantasy of grabbing them by their greasy slicked-back hair and slamming their foreheads together a couple of dozen times. But in the long run I’d have to put aside my selfish petty wants and just settle for killing them.

The passenger-side door was pulled open, and I felt the SUV sink to that side as Fatty tumbled into his seat. I could tell by the grunts that Skinny was doing all the work. He wasn’t shy about telling us that, either.

“Jesus, you need to lose some weight. Fat fuck.”

Fatty grunted an expletive in response. I couldn’t make out all the words, him mumbling through broken teeth and all, but I was pretty sure that it was something about ball-licking.

The door slammed shut, and I heard Skinny Guy’s footsteps on the gravel as he stumbled around the front of the SUV. I pulled out my Glock and screwed on the silencer. I prayed that I didn’t have to use it yet, then realized that praying in a situation like this had limited value, so I laser-focused on the different scenarios if I was spotted in the backseat. I was nothing if not practical. Except when it came to Debbie. Damn her flirting! That’s enough. Focus.

Skinny might be a neat freak and reach back to grab the paper towels to clean up Fatty’s bloody drool. Then I had a decision to make. A head shot would be the easiest, but it would paint the windshield with his blood. That would suck. I wouldn’t be able to drive without cleaning that mess up. I was sick and tired of cleaning shit up, I felt nauseous just thinking about it.

A back shot through the leather seat would work, unless I happen to clip something hard inside the seat, like a piece of the metal frame. I was confident that the nine-millimeter would brute-force its way into his back, but maybe it wouldn’t do enough damage. He might cry like a baby and draw attention to his demise.

I could hear Fatty struggling to breathe through his nose, and he hadn’t moved since he’d gotten in the SUV, so I figured he was out cold. I peeked around his seat and almost gasped when I saw him.

Holy crap, he looked like shit. He had a huge open gash on the bridge of his nose, another one over his eyes, which were already swollen shut, his nose was leaking blood all over his shirt, and his cheeks were so swollen that they looked like little aliens had burrowed under his skin and were setting up camp. And the worst of it, God help us all, his hair was messed up.

My creative mind already had “Summit Savages” T-shirts designed, complete with flying beer bottles and hammer fists as part of their logo, that I could hand out at the upcoming Red Barn Christmas party. As my present for everyone, I would have Debbie’s T-shirt made up two sizes too small.

I sat up behind the driver’s seat and slouched down as much as my muscular body would allow. I pointed my Glock at the seat back. Skinny pulled open the door and I heard voices. Shoot. I peeked out the window and saw a small mob, maybe four or five guys, leaving the Red Barn and trotting towards us.

Bobby and the shock camp corrections officer were in the lead, and Bobby had Frances’s Skillet in his hand. This was not good. My mind went into negative overdrive. I found myself rooting for Skinny Boy to just shut up and drive away.

The voices got louder and grew into yells. “I thought we told you to get the fuck out of here.”

Skinny Boy yelled back at them, “Fuck you, you redneck assholes,” then slammed the door and started the SUV.

That was original.

I ducked back down in case they smashed the window. I heard loud banging and felt the big SUV shake from side to side. I knew that the savages were attacking. If they saw me in the backseat, my plan would be shot to hell.

An explosive sound came from the back of the vehicle, so loud that I jumped in my seat and then ducked for cover, hands over my head from instinct. Someone had shattered the back window.

Something rolled around on the floor and caught my attention. It was a ball from the pool table, and when it stopped spinning I could see that it was the eight ball.

Now these guys were getting out of control. I silently prayed that one of them didn’t toss in a hand grenade. Those Summit guys could be pretty rough around the edges.

Skinny slammed the vehicle into drive and sped away from the mob. I could hear the loose parking lot gravel being kicked up by the spinning wheels and bouncing off the bottom of the vehicle.

I heard loud crashes banging off the sides and roof of the SUV, and I peeked out the back window and spotted Max and Gus throwing pool table balls at us. Wow, they really did love Frances.

Skinny Boy accelerated so fast on Route 10 that I felt like putting my seat belt on, but I couldn’t risk him hearing the click. I gripped the seat so tight that my hands started to cramp up. Freakin’ New York drivers…

He zoomed straight past the Sawyer Hill Road turnoff that would have taken us to the Lakeview House, and kept going on Route 10.

Shit. Where the hell was he going?





28





It was voyeuristically eerie, sitting in the backseat behind the driver and listening to him mumble to himself. I fought the urge to grab his shoulder and scream Boo! in his ear at the top of my lungs while blasting a round from my Glock through the roof.