How could she? How could she? How?…
'Cassandra has been anaesthetised,' the stranger said. 'If you choose Nathaniel she will never know. Do I kill her, Caitlin?'
Nate's veins were standing out on his temples like blue ropes. He was shaking his head in denial. Caitlin met his eyes and he sank back in the chair.
'Please,' Caitlin said, 'don't harm our daughter.'
The stranger nodded. Then shot Nate in the forehead.
'You made the best choice. Your child will be safe now, Caitlin. You can rest easy.'
Then he lifted the gun to Caitlin's face.
1
Sometimes you make rash decisions that you instantly regret. Other times you just have to go with the flow.
Like when I walked into Shuggie's Shack — a roadhouse north of Tampa, Florida — and parked myself on a stool at the corner of the warped and stained bar.
Shuggie's is the kind of place that self-respecting souls avoid unless they're dragged inside by the hair. The tables are planks nailed to barrels, seats 1970s retro-vinyl from the first time around. The atmosphere is redolent with beer fumes and cigarette smoke, and the stench of unwashed bodies. Tattoos seem to be the order of the day. Muscles and hair, too. And that's just the women.
You finish your meal of grease over-easy, and the kind of gratuity you offer the staff is thanks that you get out with your face still intact.
I was made as a cop by every man, woman and beast in the place within the time it took me to catch the bartender's eye. Every last one of them was wrong, but I wasn't averse to letting them wonder.
'Beer,' I said. There didn't seem to be any choice. It was that, or chance the brown liquid masquerading as liquor in the dusty bottles arranged on the shelf behind the cash register.
The bartender moved towards me reluctantly. He glanced around his clientele, as if by serving me he was betraying their creed. Not that he looked the type to worry about people's feelings. He was a massive man in one of those cut-off leather vests designed to show the size of his biceps. He had a black star inked into the rough skin beneath his right eye, and a scar that parted his bottom lip and ended somewhere in the braided beard on his chin.
'Don't want any trouble in here, mister,' he said as he set down a beer in front of me. 'I suggest you drink up and get on your way.'
Holding his gaze, I asked, 'Is that what you call Southern hospitality round here?'
'No,' he sneered, 'in these parts we'd call that good advice.'
Besides the long hours I'd already put in at the wheel since leaving Tampa, I could foresee a long night. A relaxing drink would have helped my mood. Maybe a little pleasant conversation would have helped, too. Didn't look like I was going to find either in here.
'Thanks for the heads up,' I said.
Flicking dollars on the bar top, I stood up and walked away, carrying my drink. It felt warm in the glass. By contrast, the barkeep's gaze on the back of my head was like ice.
Passing a group of men sitting at a table, I inclined my chin at them. They looked back with the dead eyes of men wary of the law. One of them shivered his overdeveloped pectoral muscles at me and they all sniggered.
In the back corner of the bar sat a man as incongruous to this setting as I was. A small bird-like man with nervous eyes and a way of oozing sweat through his hair without it moisturising the dry skin on his forehead. His right hand was in continuous motion, as though fiddling with something small in his palm. I may have caught a flash of metal, but his hand dipped to his coat pocket and it was gone.
Without asking his permission, I placed my beer on the table and took the chair alongside him. The barrel made it awkward to sprawl, so I leaned forward and placed my elbows on the planks. I turned and studied the man but he continued to watch the barroom as though fearful of who might walk in next.
'When you said I'd know you when I got here, I see what you meant,' I said. 'You don't strike me as the type who hangs out in biker clubhouses.'
'We agreed on this place for that very reason,' the man said. 'It isn't as if anyone I know is going to be here.'
'It wasn't a good idea,' I told him. 'If you wanted anonymity, you should have chosen somewhere where you'd blend in. Where we'd blend in. Check it out; we're on everyone's radar.'
Maybe the bartender's advice wasn't so bad after all.
'We should go,' I told him.
The men gathered at the table further along had turned their attention to the spectacle we presented sitting in their midst. They didn't seem pleased, as if we spoiled the ambient testosterone.
The man wasn't listening. He dropped a hand from the table and dug beneath a folded newspaper. I saw the corner of an envelope.
'Everything you need is in there.' He quickly grabbed at his own drink, taking a nervous gulp. 'The balance will be paid as soon as I get the proof that Bradley Jorgenson is no longer a threat to me or any of my family.'
Sighing at his amateurish game of subterfuge, I left my arms resting on the table. It gave me cover for when I dipped my right hand under my coat and caressed the butt of my SIG Sauer P228.
'I'm not sure I want the job,' I said to him.
The man stiffened.
'I'm not who you were expecting,' I said.
He finally glanced at me and I knew what he was thinking. Is this a set-up? Was I a cop like everyone in the damn bar thought?
'You can relax, Mr Dean. I am Joe Hunter.' I folded my fingers round the butt of my gun, placing my index finger alongside the trigger guard. 'What I mean is I'm not a hit man.'
'Jared Rington told me that you would help,' Richard Dean whispered harshly.
'I will help,' I reassured him. 'I'll get your daughter away from Jorgenson. But I'm not going to kill the man without any proof that he's a danger to her.'
Dean nodded down at the envelope. 'Take it. You'll see what I mean. All the proof is there.'
There was movement among the men at the next table. One man with jailhouse tats stood up. He picked up his beer, held it loosely in his hand. He gave me a look that said we'd outstayed our welcome. He sniffed loudly, then jerked his head at the two men nearest him.
Oblivious, Dean said, 'Please, Mr Hunter, I need you to get my daughter away from that monster. If it means killing him to do that… well… I'll pay you any price you want.'
'Pass me the envelope,' I told him. 'Under the table. I've got your phone number. I'll be in touch with you, let you know my decision.'
Dean had panic in his eyes. Whether it was about relinquishing the cash already in the envelope without a firm agreement, or because there was a real possibility I was going to do as he asked, the nerves got a grip of him. He wavered, his fingers plucking at moisture on his glass.
'Two seconds and the deal is off,' I warned him.
He quickly slipped the envelope into my outstretched left hand.
'OK. Now go.'
He opened his mouth and I gave a slight shake of my head. Suddenly he was aware of the Aryan Brotherhood approaching us. Coughing his excuses, he started from his seat, dodging round the tattooed man and his two compadres. They heckled him but allowed the little man to go.
Pushing the envelope into my waistband, I stood up.
'I'm going, guys. You can relax.'
The man with the jailhouse tats barred my way. He lifted a grimy nicotine-stained finger to my chest.
'You're not welcome here.'
