Fatal Justice (Jack Lamburt #1)(28)
He’d had plenty to think about in the hours he’d walked down the trail, and for the first time in his adult life, he started to second-guess his life choices. Nearly dying in a well and seeing Sally and their daughter Barbara without him had struck a nerve. Perhaps he was getting soft in his old age. Maybe this life wasn’t for him anymore.
He had millions stashed away in a safe deposit box. Why not give up the life and settle down? Everyone knew that you couldn’t just leave the life, but he could go off grid, change his name, relocate somewhere in rural America or even Mexico. Nobody would ever find him, and he could live a peaceful life, not looking over his shoulder every second for someone to put a bullet in him.
Sure, Sally and Barbara would have to give up their friends, but most of them were phonies anyway. Would they go for it? They’d talk in few days. Right now, he needed to kill the bastard who’d tossed him in the well, grab his buddies, and get the hell out of this shit hole.
There were plenty of divots and rocks on the trail to navigate around, and his progress was slower than he’d thought it’d be. His feet were cold, but the rest of him was warm because of the workout. He’d developed a nice steady rhythm to his slow pace, stepping fast enough to stay warm but not so fast that he started sweating or risked losing his footing on the trail’s imperfections.
He rounded a bend in the trail and there it was. A house. It looked like some kind of A-frame log cabin and had a winding driveway that led to a detached two-car garage. He followed the trail down to where it intersected the front of the driveway. The person who’d dumped him in the well must live here. Nobody would dump a body down someone else’s well. Right?
He felt his adrenaline pick up and he envisioned emptying his Derringer into the back of the guy’s head. He’d teach that bastard.
He crouched down next to an evergreen and looked around for signs of life. There were faint tire tracks that led up the driveway to the garage, but no car. Maybe it was in the garage? There were no lights on in the house, and he didn’t hear anything. He stood up and walked along the tree line towards the house.
After a few steps he picked up a sound, barely audible, but getting louder. It was a car approaching. He ducked back into the woods and turned towards the road, where he spotted approaching headlights. Hopefully it would pass right by the driveway, but this place was so out-of-the-way, he couldn’t imagine them passing by. He reached into his pocket and felt the Derringer. Thank God for that.
He watched the car as it approached the driveway entrance and saw the reflective glow of the brake lights when the car slowed. Fuck. It turned into the driveway.
He crouched by an evergreen and watched as the car approached. It moved slow, overly cautious on the slick gravel. Right before it reached his position he jumped out in front of it, pistol aimed at the driver’s head. “Stop! Fuckin’ stop!”
The car braked to a halt, and he held the gun on the driver as he opened the passenger door and slid in.
His surprise was evident in the tone of his voice. “Holy shit, it’s you?”
30
He waved the gun towards the house. “Drive, bitch.”
She took her foot off the brake and pulled up the driveway. “Please don’t shoot me.” Her voice quivered like a scared little girl.
“Shut the fuck up. You only talk when I ask you something. Understand me?” She nodded.
He pointed to the house. “You live here?”
“No. Just visiting.” She pulled the BMW in front of the garage door and killed the engine.
“Who lives here?”
“Jack Lamburt.”
“What’s he do?”
“Sheriff.”
“Describe him to me.”
“Tall, fair skin, short hair, athletic.”
Sam grinned and his pulse quickened when she described the guy from that wench waitress’s house. Sheriff, eh? No wonder the douchebag didn’t know how to get rid of a body. Didn’t have the balls to shoot someone in cold blood. Well, he did.
“Get out.” He exited the BMW and followed her up the front steps, the little Derringer pressed against her lower back. They reached the front door and she went to punch in the keypad code to unlock the door. Sam grabbed her elbow. “Wait. Anybody home?”
“No.”
“Any alarms in the house?”
“No.”
“Okay, open the door slow, and no funny stuff or I shoot. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now nice and slow.” He held the gun tight against her. “We’re gonna have a little party while we wait for your sheriff friend, and I like my women without any bullet holes, so don’t make me shoot you.”
Debbie punched in the code and pushed open the front door. She stepped inside and turned on the light.
Sam looked around. “Nice pad.” He raised his hand and smacked Debbie across the face, knocking her to the hardwood floor.
The big dog tore across the room and leapt at Sam’s throat. His jaws closed on the meaty flesh, and the two of them fell backwards into the door frame and slid down to the floor with a thud.
The dog held his grip on Sam’s throat, not so tight as to kill him, just tight enough to keep him pinned on the floor against the wall. Cold fear spread through him and the pain of the dog’s teeth in his neck froze him in place.