from the unsuspecting.
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. The drugs, perhaps, or the long time in the hole—over two years since he was in the field like this. All these elements, combined with his rage, render him speechless. All he can do is roar and growl and it explodes right there and he is carefully chain-slamming her and waddling past her moving into the shack, moving quicker than anyone alive has ever seen him move, silently, a deadly killer who only wants one thing—to destroy! He opens a door ready to strike.
Another starving dog! This one is muzzled. Their house pet, no doubt. These fucks. His rage is a blinding thing, and behind him a voice snarls,
He goes through the shack. No more human filth. No more pit bulls. He turns. Goes back the way he came, getting his bag from beside the door, getting leather gloves, this and that. Dragging the woman into the main area of the barroom beside her employer.
He finds identification. Connie Vizard is her name, William Sutter the oaf's handle. He binds the man's wrists in a wet bar towel, searching for things, people, goodies. He turns up a length of stout clotheline, tests its tensile strength, binds Butchie with a vengeance, stuffing another wet rag in the man's mouth.
Gets bottles from behind the bar. The gasoline container from the back room. Pours, soaking Butchie and assorted rags, papers, flammable stuff. He wants Butchie awake when he lights him up.
Examines both pit bulls again. Should he feed them? Then what? He checks his kit—he has the tranquilizer. He could knock them out, leave them at a vet's with money and a note. Both dogs look beyond help. He destroys them quickly, as humanely as he can.
It angers him to do so, and he puts his silenced firearm back in the duffel and returns to the woman. Grabs her hair, pulls her face close to his. She is groggy but conscious when he tenses from the diaphragm and hauls up a monstrous regurgitation of foulness, belching residue of freeze-dried Long Rats, halitosis, and the clump of hot wild garlic he munched on the way to Butchie's, into the face of Ms. Vizard. She gags on the breath of death and he snaps her neck while Butchie struggles, showing them his disdain for them as he takes them out.
He trails the last few droplets of gasoline to the door. Leaves. Outside he lights the matches and tosses them into the nearest trail of dripped gasoline, holding the door open to watch the fast tongue of flame shoot into the house toward the pile of burnables. The papers, rags, paint buckets, curtains, Butchie—the mound of soaked shit catches fire with an angry
He could be anywhere now as he moves away from the burning shack. The leaky rowboat and tippy dinghy at the crude pier could as easily be junks or sampans. Just another Zippoed hootch.
Heading down through the waterfront woods that border Willow River Road, moving away from Slabtown, Daniel's face is a ferocious, crinkled smile. The air is crisp. The day is sunny. It is pleasant listening to the crackle of the flames. A good day to be alive.
13
Royce Hawthorne felt like a ten-ton weight had been at least partially lifted from his shoulders. A weight in keys, actually, but it could have gone ten tons worth of bad.
The special unit would have been proud. It was so typical of their ways. As he drove in search of Happy, the memories of the two nightmare years he'd spent “away from home” played in his head like bad dreams.
Mary wondered if he'd been doing “detective work of some kind.” Sam telling her he'd joined the CIA. How could he tell anybody about what he'd been through? A world as far removed from the covert ops planners and need-to-know poli-sci majors of Langley as one could get. Yet, oddly, such a similar world, where case officers and informants and blackmail and twisted motives were a way of life.
He shrugged off the thoughts. Nothing would spoil his mood. The “Package” was now wrapped. In the care of the United States postal system and—presumably—safe and sound. His sinuses were aching and he pulled over and did some snort. So good. Good for me. Good for you. Umm good. Feel good. Real good.
Royce pulled off Quarry Road, northbound, and followed a dirt-bike trail for about half a mile. The roadhouse had been built to resemble a saloon in an old B-western: hitching posts, covered step-up porch, extended front wall, swinging doors—now permanently nailed open against the outer wall—and more bullet holes than a county road sign.
Called “2 Daze 3 Knights,” this place had begun life as a gay bar for rough trade, drawing patrons from as far away as Memphis. But the isolated location and access made it the perfect biker bar, and the guys on the two- wheelers promptly took it away from the gays. Now it was where the people of color hung. Jamaicans, Cubans, Colombians—mostly Latinos frequented the roadhouse now, with an occasional black of two in their company. The original cutesy name had long since been deep-sixed, and the only name now was a large painted CANTINA over the entranceway.
Royce made sure that Mary's dough was well hidden in the stash and he locked his ride, feeling very pale as he entered the bar with all those greenbacks in his pocket.
Happy and Luis were at a table in the corner with two other men, in a heated discussion. Royce went to the end of the bar and nursed a tequila until Happy made eye contact. Royce nodded. The man got up, Luis beside him, and sauntered over to the bar, leaving the other two at the table.
Happy, a.k.a. Fabio Ruiz, was twenty-something going on a hundred. Five feet one, but on a good day, Cuban heels with lifts brought him up to maybe five four. Long hair in a choppy, little-boy haircut that covered his forehead and most of his ears. Sulky mouth and cokey nose. A real hard-on.
“Yo, homes. Ju a long way from Wallyworld.” They all laughed.
“I hear ya.'
“So. Ju wanna cold one?” Happy's accent had thickened perceptibly.
“I'm good. I brought something. You want it in here?'
“Less see—whatchew brought me.” Luis Londono was on the other side, and real close—Royce realized. If he came out with something in his hand they didn't like...
“Here ya go.” He slid a thick package out of his pocket and into Happy's hand. Royce was surprised to see him casually open it right there. The guy behind the bar was making a show out of not looking anywhere near them.
“Nnn-hm.” The man made a little two-note humming sound of satisfaction.
“Happy?” Royce said in a quiet, hoarse voice, lowering it more and whispering, “I got a dude—really moving for me, mano.'
“Uh-huh.'
“You know I'm for real now, huh?” He felt like everybody in the bar was looking at his back.
“What's not to love?” it sounded like he said.
“I can move serious weight, if you can set me up.'
“Whatchew call serious, amigo?'
Royce whispered a number in the crow's wing of oily hair over his left ear. He could see the kilos tumble into place like cherries on a one-armed bandit.
Happy made a little whistling sound. “Thass—'
“Same quality.'
“—no prob-lemo.'
“How much you nail me for?'
Happy did some mental math and whispered a figure in his ear. They haggled a little. Happy redid his math. Royce nodded, watching himself sell it in the mirror of the back-bar.
“Let's do it, then,” he said.
“Whatever makes everybody happy.'
“How soon?'
