Within the first ten seconds of arriving, he’d surveyed the room, determined exits, cameras, employees and number of assholes sucking up his oxygen. The bar itself looked as if it had been airlifted straight out of the ’70s. It was a cheesy relic, and yet fed those looking for a taste of nostalgia and a darkened corner. A jukebox played out some ’70s funk. The walls were covered in historic memorabilia from Santa Fe, and photos of the owners with unknown people. There was a dance floor at the center that was lit up in red with leather booths around the perimeter, and a couple of round tables close to the dance floor. At a quick head count there were eight inside. One employee, and seven patrons, four of whom he recognized from the night he gave them a whooping. A couple were dressed in flannel shirts, and Pavement T-shirts. The rest wore jean or leather jackets. The largest in the group cast a glance over his shoulder as Jack walked in but as the light above the door was out, his face was shrouded in darkness. The man returned to drinking and laughing with his buddy.
A quick twist of a lock and Jack secured the door behind him. He didn’t want anyone running out or entering. He eyed the landline phone behind the bar. That would be the first thing the employee would reach for, that or his cell phone when all shit broke loose.
Although he’d hoped that all six of them would be there, these would do for now.
Was there a chance that someone had done it besides these four? Sure.
He’d considered that while he was searching different bars that afternoon but that’s why he planned on keeping one of them alive, if only to find out where the other two were. Jack pulled both handguns from beneath his jacket at the same time as he walked with purpose towards them. It was the employee who saw him first.
His eyes widened as Jack kicked a stool and it slid across the waxed floor into the back of one guy’s legs. Before anyone could yell, multiple bullets exploded from both barrels taking out two of them. All hell erupted as the other two went for their pieces. Beer glasses shattered on the floor, stools were overturned and those who wouldn’t die that day froze or scattered. For the two remaining, taking action was pointless, as by the time they had a grip on their guns, Jack had already squeezed off a few rounds.
He purposely aimed at the shoulder of the fourth one to bring him down and disarm him. The bartender went for the phone and two of the three patrons darted for the door but a quick bellow of his voice and they froze.
“DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT!”
With both arms stretched wide, one gun aimed at the bartender and the other at the two innocents at the door, he gestured to them to rejoin the group. They shuffled back, fear masking their face.
“You. Put the phone down,” Jack said before firing another shot into the guy who was writhing around on the ground but trying to go for his gun. The bartender slowly put up his hands as Jack gestured with the barrel for him to join the other three. “All of you get on your knees, cross your feet and interlock your fingers.”
They did exactly as he said. Then he turned his attention to the only surviving asshole who was gripping his shoulder and wincing.
“I’m only going to say this one time. Where are the other two?”
“At Perez’s trailer. 4201 Airport Road.”
There was no honor among thieves especially when his three buddies were lying dead beside him. He didn’t need any more convincing.
Jack eyed the bartender then turned back to the man. “Tyson’s attack. You were responsible?”
He offered back a confused expression then nodded. “Pope wanted us to teach him a lesson. I swear I was against it. I really—”
Jack raised his gun, and squeezed the trigger before he could finish. It was all the same. One last plea. A weak attempt at bargaining for a few more years. And it would have probably only been a few. Men like them didn’t last long on the streets; retribution would have eventually come knocking if not from Jack, someone else.
His body slumped and the others began begging for their lives.
“Who drove here?”
“I did.”
“Keys,” Jack said walking over. The bartender fished into his pocket and handed the keys to him.
“It’s the silver SUV out back.”
Jack crouched down and placed the gun to his head. “You got any rope?”
“What?” He seemed completely caught off guard by the question so Jack repeated himself. The last thing he wanted was for them to get out and call the cops. Not until he’d finished.
Five minutes later, all of them were hog tied and gagged.
“Now you have my word that I will call the cops and someone will come get you out, and your vehicle will be returned today. If any of you give a description to the cops, it will be the last thing you do. Do you understand?”
They nodded, and Jack disappeared out the exit.
Shady Ferns Mobile Home Park was exactly what Jack expected. It was a giant patch of asphalt crammed with 70 run-down mobile homes. Like some of the many troublesome mobile home parks across America, drug use was rampant, as were fights at all hours of the day and night. While the standard of trailer parks across the states had got better, this one hadn’t. It reminded him of a junkyard with old rusted-out vehicles parked beside cream-paneled shacks. Weeds had grown up around vehicle tires making it clear they hadn’t moved in years. There was a small park nearby, if it could be called that. The
