Steele wiped her forehead with the back of her gun hand. “You’re crazy,” she muttered.
Silk dismissed Rocky. “Go home, Arthur,” he said. “And change those pants, will ya?”
Rocky got to his feet and shuffled backwards toward the door, dubiously staring at Silk, never showing him his back.
Silk walked up to Steele, opened his cell phone and began pushing buttons.
“What are you doing?” Steele said.
“I’m calling Nick with the info. That’s why we came, right?”
“We need to discuss what just happened.”
“What is it with you broads, always gotta talk?”
Steele ignored the comment. “There’s been a shooting. I have to write a report. You almost killed an innocent man.”
“What, the bartender?” Silk asked. “I shot him in the leg on purpose. If I wanted, I’d of nailed him between the eyes.”
“I’m not talking about him, I’m talking about your other victim.”
“What, Arthur?” Silk looked bewildered.
“Yes, Arthur. You could have killed him playing your little game of Russian roulette.”
Silk let a breath out and shook his head. “Listen,” he glanced over his shoulder at the empty bar. “I’ll tell you something that I never told nobody. Ever. You understand what I’m saying?”
Steele nodded without a clue as to what he was talking about.
“I make my living through intimidation and fear. I make both of these things do a lot of my work for me. Capisce?”
Silk raised his revolver and slid open the cylinder. He rotated the cylinder exposing six empty chambers. Like a smooth magician, he opened the palm of his left hand and showed Steele the missing bullet. “You know how much I practice that move? Maybe two, three hours a month. Every month.” He pointed a finger at Steele. “But if word ever got out that I use this move, I might as well open up a deli in Topeka, Kansas. Sensitive guy like me would get eaten alive.”
Steele pursed her lips. “Why didn’t you tell me ahead of time? I could have shot you.”
Silk stifled a laugh. “What, and ruin a perfectly good performance. Besides, when we left the Sheriff’s office, Nick said to let me do whatever I needed to do. I know you didn’t forget that.”
Silk continued to push the buttons on his cell phone, hovered his index finger over the send button and looked up at Steele. “Are we done talking here? Or do you wanna know about my feelings?”
Steele shook her head. The KSF could learn a lot about terrorism from a guy like Silk.
Chapter 35
Angel Herrera sat hunched over a grilled cheese sandwich with his hand on a cool longneck bottle of beer when he heard the noise. He picked up the remote control from his TV tray and lowered the volume on Jeopardy. Alex Trebek mouthed the question to an answer that Angel didn’t know. Angel hadn’t known the question to any of the answers Alex was giving. He was on his fifth longneck, but probably wouldn’t have known any of the questions even if he’d been sober. Ever since he found Fred Wilson decapitated, Angel couldn’t get enough alcohol in his system. The foreign bastards were sneaking into America and killing innocent citizens-including a harmless businessman like Fred.
Angel had heard the rumors about terrorists hiding out in the Payson area and it spooked him. His name was in the paper as the person who found Fred and he wondered if the terrorists knew that he had seen the killer. In fact, he knew exactly where the killer lived. It was the reason why he never said anything to the Sheriff. What kind of protection would he get? A patrol car might drive by a couple of times a day, but what good would that do him? He figured he had a better chance of staying alive by keeping his mouth shut and letting it go.
It seemed like a good plan until he heard the noise outside of his cabin sounding like something moving. Angel’s wife, Mabel, was in the basement doing laundry, so he knew it wasn’t her. He waited to hear more. Nothing. Maybe a branch scraping up against the siding, like it always did whenever the wind picked up. He glanced out of his living room window and saw there was no wind. Not a breath.
He turned back toward the TV and saw, “Breaking News,” at the bottom of the screen. He raised the volume and took a pull on his bottle of beer. The screen went blank for a moment, then a local newswoman was standing in front of a familiar landmark.
“Theresa Sanchez reporting for Channel 3 News. I’m live at the Winchester Bar and Grill, where a shooting took place just minutes ago.”
Angel almost choked on his half-swallowed beer. He’d planned to head down to the Winchester after dinner. The woman held her hand to her ear as if someone was talking to her through an earphone, maybe even telling her what to say. “Eyewitnesses have told Channel 3 News that Max Gordon, owner of the Winchester, was shot and rushed to the hospital. We also have reports that a dark-haired man in a white tee shirt was seen running from the scene shortly after the shots. It is yet to be confirmed whether this event is related to the terrorist organization reportedly hiding somewhere in the Payson vicinity. We will keep you informed with any breaking news as it happens. Theresa Sanchez, Channel 3 news.”
Another sound, this time from the backyard. Angel shut off the TV. He crept to the kitchen and turned off the overhead lights. He peeked past the curtain hanging over the sink. It was dead still. Angel squinted into the tree line behind his cabin. He thought he saw something. He squinted harder and his peripheral vision became hyperactive with movement. If he stared straight at something it wouldn’t budge, but everything around it seemed to come alive with motion. Someone was out there.
He pulled open a kitchen drawer and grabbed a long carving knife. His senses swirled with suspicion. He thought he heard a man’s voice. He picked up the telephone hanging on the wall. The line was dead.
Shit. His gun was in the glove box of his truck out front like always. Just great.
He thought about hiding down in the basement. Maybe buy himself some time. But he couldn’t get rid of the vision of Fred Wilson’s headless body, spurting blood like a dropped bottle of red wine. He wasn’t dealing with any local punks, that was for sure. These guys were the real deal. Hiding would only delay the inevitable. Better to face them head on.
The doorbell rang. Angel felt his legs tense with fear. He struggled to the basement door and saw his wife’s feet at the bottom of the stairs, sorting laundry, her purple robe almost dragging the floor. “Mabel,” he said in a forced hush. “Stay down there until I tell you to come up.”
“Why?” Mabel asked over the hum of the dryer.
“Just do as I say,” Angel said.
The doorbell rang again, only this time it was followed by a couple of urgent thumps on the front door.
“Damn,” Angel said. He crept to the door. He placed his hand on the doorknob and became paralyzed with fear. A pounding fist shook the door. He thought the frame was going to give out. He tightened his grip on the knife, tucked it behind his thigh and threw open the door as quickly as possible, trying to startle whoever was on the other side.
He froze.
A bright spotlight engulfed his entire doorway. Angel squinted and held his arm up to shade his eyes. Two men in navy windbreakers stood on his porch. Behind them, he could see the silhouettes of men wearing military fatigues crouched into an attack mode. A couple of dozen. Maybe more. Each had a machine gun pointed at him. He heard a helicopter approaching, then glanced up, blinded by another spotlight shining down on him. When his vision adjusted, he saw two military men leaned over the open door of the chopper with their eyes tucked behind the scope of a couple of powerful looking rifles.
He was overwhelmed with the scene and was trying to make sense of it when the dark-haired man on his porch said, “Are you Angel?”
They had to be from the government, he thought, or he’d be dead already. There was no advantage to lying. They wouldn’t be the gullible type like those Angel swindled out of a couple of hundred bucks every weekend at the Winchester. They wouldn’t send this much force just to be deterred by some creative storytelling. He suddenly
