“Lot of good it’s done me. I’m past forty and still a rocket tramp.” Tiger felt the need for another shot, felt it pulling at him, but thought better of it. He was getting to where he liked drinking way too much at times. Whiskey and self-pity was a dangerous combination. Look at the Cap’n. “Maybe that’s my whole problem. No demand for nice guys anymore.”
Cutter looked slightly bemused, as he held up his hands in a gesture of futility. “Was there ever?” He drove the point of the knife into the tabletop and reached into his chest pocket. “Enough of this philosophying! You’re depressing me.” He reached into his vest and produced two hand rolled cigars and laid them on the table. “Fresh in from Havana.”
Tiger’s eyes brightened. “Nice!” He picked one up and sniffed it appreciatively, while he slid the other into the inside pocket of his jacket.
“See Delia when you leave,” Cutter pointed toward the bartender. “She has a box of ‘em for you, along with a fifth of Jack. And a pint of that Choco-Mel you like so much. Never understood what you seen in that candy-assed shit.”
“Best thing I’ve found for coffee.” Tiger had always had a sweet tooth and the chocolate and caramel-flavored whiskey from Gatlinburg was a treasured indulgence.
“Yeah, well. I never was a Starbucks man, either.”
“Thanks, Cutter,” Tiger said appreciatively as he stood up. “You know, if you ain’t careful, somebody might actually mistake you for the likeable type of asshole.”
“You’re right. I might actually have to kill somebody tonight.” Cutter pulled the knife from the table and flipped it into the air. Catching the tip of the blade nimbly between his thumb and forefinger, he cocked his arm and let it fly, sending it spinning end-over-end through the air. Tiger turned just in time to see it lodge in a four-by-four wooden post just inches from the head of the obnoxious fat guy. Wilbur spun in horror and then froze as his eyes locked with those of Cutter’s. The murderous look that met his told him that any response would probably be the wrong one. Say what you want about Wilbur … he might have been an idiot, but he wasn’t stupid. Holding his hands up in a gesture of submission, he turned and assumed a much humbler posture.
Cutter turned back to Tiger. “Guy was getting on my last nerve.”
Tiger nodded. “He’s just a loser who’s had too much to drink and probably never gets any. Don’t kill ‘em for that.”
“I’ve killed for a lot less,” Cutter shrugged, eyes still locked on the fat man, as if he were still undecided on his fate. “And Tiger …”
“Yeah?”
“When you do decide to blue-ball … you know I’ll always have a job for you.”
Tiger contemplated for a moment. Doing a little freelance smuggling was one thing. Becoming part of Cutter’s gang … that was another. He’d watched Cutter change over the years. He’d watched him grow cold, cynical … deadly. He wondered if he could hurt or kill someone just on command … because it was “business.” He wasn’t Cutter. It just wasn’t the way his rocket was fueled up.
Still, like the desk clerk at the hotel, there was no need in burning bridges. “Thanks, man, I’ll keep that in mind.”
***
Toby was reading the evening news on his PDC when there was a brisk tap on his window. He looked up and was face to face with a longhaired white guy with bad teeth and a scraggly beard. Putting his hand on his rail pistol, he cautiously cracked the window.
“Hey, bro!” the man drawled in a slow-witted backwoods accent. “Is your back door supposed to be open like that? You might wanna check it!”
Toby was speechless, as frustration, anger, and confusion washed over him. Had that fucktard Wilbur not secured the rear door when he’d exited? He was incompetent, but surely, he could shut a damned door and lock it! And if so, how come the ‘door ajar’ sensor didn’t sound?
“Uhhhh … thanks,” he gave the man a half-wave, as he reached down and flipped on the rear monitor display.
“Sure thing, chief!” Junior Tuttle was already walking away, as if he’d lost interest in the subject completely. He now made a beeline for the bar.
Toby watched him walk away with more than just a passing suspicion. However, the guy seemed to be nothing more than your typical redneck. He turned his attention to the monitor.
“What the—! Aw, c’mon, man!” The monitor screen was nothing but black. He tapped the screen with his finger and turned it on and off several times, but still nothing. With a snort of impatience, he turned it off. There was no other way around it. Whatever the problem was, it was obvious what would need to be done. He was going to have to go back and check it visually.
Aggravated, he flung the door open and jumped out. In his state of mind, he forgot his training. Instead, his mind was filled with venom for the incompetent ass that was making this assignment a living hell.
By the time he turned the corner of the van, he was steaming. He knew immediately he was in trouble when he saw Gideon standing there, a can of black spray paint in his hand. The smile on the old man’s face let him know he’d fucked up in a bad way. He went for his gun, but it was with a sinking feeling. He knew he’d been had. He heard footsteps on the loose gravel behind him and then all went black.
***
“Hurry up! Get that PDC off’n him!” Gideon hissed, as Junior and Rayford stood
