“Whaddaya mean he’s gone?”
“He said he was leaving … and he left.”
“You stupid bastard!” Gideon unleashed his frustration. “You came out here to stop him from leaving, remember.”
“Yeah, well, I reckon I failed.”
Ollie’s blasé attitude infuriated Gideon, stoking the fires of his anger even further, like bellows in a blacksmith shop. “Why you pampered rich …!”
Before Ollie knew what was happening, Gideon had a fist knotting the hair on the back of the man’s head, pulling it back to him, a metallic flash of silver, and suddenly Ollie felt the cold, steel barrel of the Kruger at his temple.
“I gotta good mind to see if you can catch up with my brother crossing the River Jordan!” Gideon hissed into Ollie’s left ear, his hot, odorous breath blowing across the hapless man’s cheek.
“Go ahead!” Ollie was surprisingly calm for a man who, at any second, could be missing the top of his skull. “Kill me! Then who you gonna have left? You’ve lost your brother … one son … if you can call ‘im that anymore, is in the hospital … the other’s just ran away cuz, let’s be real … he hates your decrepit ol’ guts … so pull the damned trigger and quit wasting my time! You’re going to end up all alone eventually. Put me out of my misery, you old bastard! But yours … yours is just beginning!”
As bad as Gideon wanted to give the doughy, pompous asshole some extra ventilation, something the man said resonated deep down inside him. Still, his hand trembled with rage to the point that Ollie thought he’d shoot him by accident. Hell, all that bluffing and still the dumb ol’ bastard would end up shooting him. The story of his life, it seemed. At least, it was lately.
Finally, though, Gideon released the clump of hair he’d had twisted around his fist, and the gun fell away. Gideon leaned back into the step behind him, and Ollie leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, cradling his head in his heads. The two were silent.
Finally, Gideon broke the silence, “I reckon yore right. I shouldn’t be so hasty to kill the only friend I got left.”
“Please!” Ollie chuffed and rolled his eyes. “I may’ve been born at night, but it wasn’t in the dark.”
“Now, what’s that s’posed t’ mean?”
“It means …” Ollie paused a second for a little dramatic effect. “That you ain’t got any friends. You’re sure as shit don’t want me as a friend. I know how you white trash bumpkins work. I ain’t kin or blood. You just want me around so I can fund your fucked-up little vendetta. And the deal was … you were gonna help me kill Tiger Thomas. We ain’t even mentioned him since this debacle started. So, spare me the sentimental ploy. I ain’t buying what you’re sellin’.”
Gideon was tempted to raise the pistol and blow the back of the man’s head out. Damn, was he tempted! But this fat little fuck did have a pair with hair. He had to give him that. And … as he was just saying … he did have funds. Something Gideon was sorely lacking. He hated to admit it, but he really did need the guy. And, regardless of what Ollie thought, the obnoxious businessman was sort of growing on Gideon.
Sort of …
Besides, he could always kill him later.
“Umm,” he stammered uncomfortably. “I know this ain’t the best time to be askin’ … but ya think ya might could help me get my brother outta the house and down to tha river.”
Ollie shrugged his shoulders, “Don’t reckon I got anything better to do.”
“Afterwards, ya wanna go get a drink … maybe talk about killin’ that Tiger feller.”
“Sure. Why not? Ain’t like I gotta wife waitin’ on me back at tha house.”
“Where we’re goin’ … down to the Blackwater … there’s some gals down there that’ll make ya forget all about your wife.”
“That won’t be hard.”
“Ummm ...” Gideon scratched his head, something obviously gnawing at him.
“What?” Ollie stood, spanking the dust from the seat of his pants with an open hand. “Spit it out!”
“Yore prob’ly gonna have to buy. If’n that’s ok.”
Ollie took it in stride, “Kinda figured that.” The two were quiet for a few more moments, then Ollie spoke up again, “Hey, Gideon.”
“Yeah?”
“You like mermaids?”
***
Cherry Denton watched through a window as Grant walked to the AC. He was an imposing figure kitted out, sleek in his black body armor. Even though Sherman was attired similarly, the two were polar opposites. Sherman was a caveman’s club, blunt force trauma personified. His very appearance could cause someone to piss and shit themselves simultaneously. But Grant … he was a switchblade knife, razor-sharp and shiny … and just as deadly.
Grant seated himself in the open hatch, one foot on the landing skid, the butt of his pulse rifle resting on his thigh, as he held it by the grip, barrel aimed toward the sky. Looking back at the mansion, he spotted Cherry in the window. Their eyes met, and for a few moments, he held her gaze. Then he looked away, keying his mic.
“We’re all aboard,” he told Nine. “Let’s get this over with.”
He was getting tired of fighting. Yes, he was good at it. He was good at killing. But it was never what he’d been made for, and he was killing the wrong people. The people he needed to kill were still out of his reach. He craved the companionship he’d once had with his mistress. He missed the happiness they’d taken from him.
But one day … one day … they’d all pay.
The AC’s engines engaged, and it began to lift. He forced himself to look back at the house one last time, but Cherry was no longer in the window.
It was for the best.
***
“Have you lost your mind?” The eyes of the big man with the close-cropped blonde hair were wide with fear and panic. Joe Marchant, Assistant Business Manager for Local 151, Interplanetary Association
