“I don’t understand,” the father said.
Dalton scratched his chin with his free hand. “You see, Tommy made a bad move. He tried to cut us out of his sales. He tried to hook up with another supplier and build his own crew.” Dalton pointed the weapon at Tommy. “He’d been warned. He chose not to listen.”
“Are you talking about drugs?” the father asked. He glanced at his son. “Tommy isn’t into that anymore. He went to rehab and put it all behind him.” He now slid forward on his seat and stared at his son. “Tell him. Tell him you’re clean.”
Dalton laughed. Clean? Not Tommy. His large, black pupils were only partly due to fear, the rest from the meth that swept through his bloodstream. Dalton’s meth.
“Tell him, Tommy,” Dalton said. “Tell him what a good boy you’ve been.”
“Listen, Dalton,” Tommy said, “I didn’t screw you or anyone else. I was simply trying to expand my operation and make us all more money.”
The father now appeared to be in full panic mode. As if his worst nightmare had materialized. No longer relegated to the darkness of restless sleep but rather standing right in front of him. Dalton loved this. That brief slice of time when a victim realized that their personal apocalypse had arrived, that Dalton was the personification of their every fear. Heady stuff.
“Tommy, what’re you talking about?” the father asked, his voice wavering.
“It’s not what it seems, Dad.”
Dalton laughed. “Actually, it’s exactly as it seems.”
Tommy’s fingers fidgeted with the edge of the sofa cushion, then he wiped his hands on his jeans as he shook his head. “Dalton, I didn’t go around you. I swear.”
“What about the guy over in Knoxville? The one who’s cooking for you?”
Tommy’s left knee began to bounce, and his voice ticked to a higher pitch, the words coming quickly as if saying a lot was saying the right thing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What guy? I don’t know anyone over there.”
Dalton took a deep breath and puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled. “Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. Don’t you know me? Don’t you know you can’t bullshit me? Don’t you know we work inside a very small community? That every time a new cooker pops up, we know the who, the where, the what, and, most importantly, the how much before he even cranks out his first batch?”
“Listen to me…” Tommy began.
Dalton cut him off. “Shut the fuck up. This isn’t a negotiation.” He now waved his weapon toward the two women. They recoiled, wide-eyed. “And now you’ve dragged your family into this.”
“What is it you want?” the father asked.
“I told you. To deliver a message.”
The father nodded. “We’re listening.”
Dalton smiled. “The message isn’t for you. It’s for anyone else who might be tempted to follow in old Tommy’s footsteps.”
That’s when the gun appeared. Tommy had shoved a hand between the cushions and came up with the .357. He managed to snap off a single round before Dalton punched a hollow point into his forehead. Then two into the father’s chest, the man attempting to rise, his butt never clearing the chair’s cushion before death arrived. The women released a chorus of screams, voices stretched to the snapping point, hands raised for protection. A pair of shots from Jessie’s gun silenced them. The mother took it through her left eye, death following immediately; the daughter to the chest, now moaning and clutching at the red blossom blooming near her left breast. Dalton stepped toward her and ended her struggles with a single shot to the forehead.
He walked to where Tommy lay, crumpled on the sofa. The entry wound in his forehead was surprisingly clean. Very little blood surrounding the black hole. Of course, the back of his head and his brain were splattered over the sofa and the lamp that stood behind. Dalton searched Tommy’s pockets. He found a wad of money, which he took, and two phones. An iPhone and a burner. The former he left, but the burner he slid into his own pocket.
Then Dalton saw his brother Dennie. He was on his knees, clutching his belly, left side, blood flowing between his fingers.
Goddamn it. This entire operation had just morphed from quick, easy, and smooth to screwed, blued, and tattooed.
The truly infuriating part was that Dalton knew it was his fault. He should have forgone the speech and taken out Tommy straight up. But for him, the preamble was the payoff. His victim’s rising fear with its coppery taste, the look in their eyes, the begging and bargaining. God, he loved that. Like waves of electric current enveloping his entire body. The killing was simply the exclamation point.
CHAPTER 3
PRESENT
Cain’s phone lay on the coffee table. He sat on the sofa and punched it to speaker. Harper settled next to him, leaning forward, brow creased, head cocked slightly.
Marcus Milner. Attorney at law. Senior partner at one of Nashville’s most high-dollar firms, he was also Cain’s and Harper’s go-between for cases. He fielded the calls, set up the accounts, and made the deals. Then, turned them loose to do the fixing. That’s what they did. Fixed things. Made things right. Or at least even.
For Milner to call at this hour, the job had to be time critical. Something that couldn’t wait for sunrise.
“It’s a kidnapping,” Milner said. “Tanner’s Crossroads. Over near Knoxville.”
“Who?”
“The son of the client. A Dr. Frank Buckner. Runs a clinic near Charlotte, North Carolina.”
Milner continued, filling in some details. Truth was, he didn’t know much.
“When did this happen?” Harper asked.
“Around six or seven p.m. Say, seven or eight hours ago.”
“Was he harmed?” Cain asked. “The son? When he was taken?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What else you got?”
“That’s it, really. Are you on board?”
“We are,” Cain said.
“Good.
