and searched for any unmarked cars that might have been filled with FBI agents. For the moment, he didn’t see any. “If we had time, we’d go with my other great plan.”
Remy shot him a look. “I’m afraid to ask.”
“We’d build a giant wooden horse and climb inside. Pretend to be a gift to Bobby Lee. On second thought, maybe we could disguise ourselves in a giant wooden Harley.”
“Wow. I can see you’ve been giving this a lot of thought.”
“I stopped thinking about how we’re going to do it after Will called. We’re all out of time.” Shel glanced at the tattoo-artist spider again. “I’m not going back without Bobby Lee.”
“He could have friends.”
“I don’t think his friends would be all that friendly. Bobby Lee doesn’t strike me as the dedicated friend sort.”
“This part of your Father’s Day mad-on?”
Shel shook his head. “Just me doing my job. I’m going to go check out tattoos.”
“Why you?”
“Do you see any black customers in that tattoo shop?”
Remy looked, then shook his head. “That place has probably got a rear exit.”
“Probably.”
“Maybe I should slip around back and set up there. In case Bobby Lee somehow gets wise to your stealth ninja moves.”
“Sure.”
“Give me five minutes.”
Shel nodded and reached down to pat Max on the head. The Labrador sat quietly and contentedly beside him as Remy walked down the block and crossed the street.
Despite the tension that coiled in his stomach-more from the possibility of FBI interference than from the idea of facing Bobby Lee-Shel remained calm and cool. This was business as usual, no matter if it was Father’s Day.
He scratched Max behind the ear, listened to the dog pant in the heat, and felt the sweat trickle down his back under the slim-line Kevlar vest he wore. A sleeveless flannel shirt softened the edges of the vest, and the tails of the shirt left outside his pants covered the matte black Mark 23 Mod 0 SOCOM. 45-caliber semiautomatic pistol in the pancake holster at the base of his spine. Extra magazines rode in his jeans pockets, but he doubted he’d be able to work a reload inside the shop if things went awry.
Excitement flooded Shel’s veins with adrenaline. He lived for this.
›› 2027 Hours
Bobby Lee Gant lay in the chair with his eyes closed, riding on a pleasant wave of alcohol and pills. He felt the sharp bite of the tattooing gun as it chewed through the flesh over his heart. The raucous buzzing echoed inside his head over the thundering bass of the heavy metal music blasting through the tattoo parlor.
Someone slapped his forehead.
“Hey!” Bobby Lee opened his eyes and tried to push up from the chair. “Don’t you be slapping me, you big piece of-”
“Stop moving!” Spider spoke gruffly around a fat cigar shoved into his wide mouth. He was a big man in his fifties, with a flat, rugged face and beard and hair that roped down to his broad shoulders. He held the tattoo gun off to one side and dabbed at Bobby Lee’s chest with a wipe with the other hand. “You keep moving around like that, this tat’s gonna look like a three-year-old done it. And if you walk out of here with a bad-lookin’ tat and you tell everybody I done it, I’m gonna charge you double.”
Juiced by the drugs and whiskey, Bobby Lee grinned. “Okay, okay.” He started to raise his hands in surrender.
Spider cursed. “Keep your hands down!”
Bobby Lee put his arms at rest beside him. It was hard to be still. With the drugs and the music working, he wanted to be up and dancing. More than that, he wanted to be with Lorna, his girl. He closed his eyes and thought about that.
The tattoo gun started buzzing again. Pain seeped back into his skin.
“You spell Lorna with two o ’s, don’t you?” Spider asked.
“What?” Bobby opened his eyes again and tried to peer down at his chest.
Spider barked laughter that echoed even over the heavy metal. He put a big hand on Bobby Lee’s forehead and pushed him back into the chair.
“Man, relax,” Spider guffawed. “I’m just screwing with you.”
Bobby Lee lay back.
“I know it’s spelled with a u,” Spider said.
Irritated, Bobby Lee reached for the pistol tucked into his waistband.
Spider’s demeanor changed in a flash. He dropped a hand to Bobby Lee’s arm and trapped it against his body. “Hold on there, boy.”
“Let go!” Bobby Lee shouted. “I ain’t in here for you to make fun of.” He held on to the pistol, but Spider’s strong hand prevented him from pulling it.
“Chill, bro,” Spider said. “I was just havin’ a little fun.”
“It ain’t fun for me. That’s the name of my woman. I don’t want it spelled wrong.”
“It ain’t gonna be spelled wrong.” Spider held up a forearm. There in ink he’d written Lorna. “Got her name right here. As long as you spelled it right, I spell it right.”
Bobby Lee stared at the man a little longer, then relaxed in the chair.
“We cool?” Spider asked.
Bobby Lee nodded. “Cool.”
“Then you just get mellow, bro, ’cause we’re in the home stretch.”
But before Spider could start in with the ink gun again, Bobby Lee’s cell phone rang. It was just a track phone, a cheap, disposable handset he’d had Lorna purchase for him. He waved Spider off, pulled the phone out of his pocket, and flipped it open.
“Got some bad news, man,” a voice said after Bobby Lee answered. “Lorna told the cops where you are. They’re on their way there now.”
Panic flooded Bobby Lee as he scrambled up from the chair despite Spider’s protests. He wasn’t going to jail. No way.
1 2
›› Spider’s Tattoo Shop
›› Doggett Street
›› Charlotte, North Carolina
›› 2033 Hours
“Something I can help you with, man?”
Shel looked at the slim young woman behind the counter to the right of the door inside the shop. She was dressed in black jeans and a black Anthrax concert T-shirt. She was pale enough to pass as a vampire. Metal studs gleamed in her eyebrows and at the bottom of her lower lip. Her long blonde hair was the color of old bone.
“I wanted to see about getting a tattoo,” Shel said. He let the Texas drawl slide naturally into his words. In the military he’d learned what he called “TV talk,” that flat Midwestern accent used by news anchors and sports announcers.
The woman looked at him and smiled. “You don’t seem the type.”
Shel smiled back and stepped toward the counter. His gaze took in the closed-circuit monitor hanging from the wall.
“And what type do I seem like to you?” Shel asked.
The woman folded her arms and leaned a hip against the counter. “Mama’s boy. Joe Average. Joe
