Lucky Bastard (21 page)

I didn’t miss a beat—which had me worried. Apparently nothing about Dane surprised me anymore. “Of course he is. Murder is so ho-hum these days. Guess he needed to embellish his résumé. What exactly are they investigating?”

“Monetary improprieties.”

I pursed my lips downward. “So pedestrian. You’d think our boy would’ve aimed higher.”

“He is a bit of an overachiever.” Jeremy seemed to relax a little. Nothing like humor to diffuse the tension—except I didn’t find any of this particularly amusing.

Dane had worked for us in Security, but he’d been hired by the Big Boss so we could keep an eye on him—I don’t think anyone had paid a lot of attention to his particulars. “Is the case still open?”

“They wanted to see my cards, not show me theirs.” Jeremy ran a hand through his hair.

I felt nothing. Letting the bad stuff numb me to life’s little pleasures was not a good thing. I needed to work on that—but balance usually proved elusive in my world.

“One can assume the case is still open, though,” Jeremy offered as an afterthought. “If it was closed, they either would’ve arrested him or moved on so why bring it up?”

“I haven’t a clue. If there was any part of anything that has happened over the last couple of days that I understood, believe me, I’d tell you.” Too tired to reach across the table to give his hand a comforting squeeze, I didn’t bother. “I don’t have to tell you how much trouble he’s in.”

Jeremy nodded, those gold-flecked eyes dark and serious.

“I need you to tell me where he is.” My coffee held a light brown color—I may have overdone it on the warm milk.

“What makes you think I know?”

“A friend in need. If I was him, I’d turn to you—you’re the best friend he’s got.”

“Along with you. But that’d be obvious, though, don’t you think?” Jeremy stared into his coffee mug, which he held cradled in both hands as if trying to draw strength from its warmth, or insight from its murky depths.

I could tell him neither worked well. “You don’t know?”

“I haven’t laid eyes on the bloke since before his wife was killed.”

We both fell silent as Sandy arrived with our food. I guess we gave off a vibe or something—she slid our plates in front of us without a word, then beat a hasty retreat.

“You know him better than I do,” Jeremy said as he grabbed a knife and attacked his ham. “Does he have any other place to go?”

Overcome with a sudden, intense hunger—I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had any solid food—I peeled off a chunk of warm, gooey bread and stuffed it in my mouth. Vices were my thing and, in this carb-conscious world, bread was at the top of the list. Another chunk followed the first as I savored the sin. As the sugar hit my bloodstream, the brain cells fired and the light came on. It didn’t take me long—another place? Of course! Granted, it was a long shot, but long shots were all I had, so I went with it.

“Eat up, Aussie Boy. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about automatic weapons, would you?”

***

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” Jeremy asked as he rode shotgun in the Ferrari. We needed to move fast and his Hummer wasn’t exactly built for speed, so we left it. “I don’t think I’ve bolted my food that fast since I battled with a bunch of Boy Scouts. And, for the record, I’m fluent in all calibers.”

“Then you’ll feel right at home in this toy store.” When I hit the ramp onto the 95, I hit the gas. “Dane took me there once—to teach me how to shoot.” I didn’t know how many Gs one could pull in a Ferrari, but I intended to test the limits. Dane had a jump on us, but five hundred horses could close the gap.

Of course, I hadn’t planned on rush hour. The spaghetti bowl was a nightmare with everyone jockeying for position to head south on the 15. So, I maneuvered to the left and took the 515 around the east side of town—a bit out of the way, but not by much. The wind whistled past, cocooning us between twin rushing streams as the car cleaved through the dry air like an arrow shot from Robin Hood’s bow. Vibration from the engine mounted directly behind my shoulders reverberated through me, accelerating my heart rate, setting me free. An adrenaline junkie, I longed for the rush, waited for it, needed it. Hands clutching the steering wheel, my fingers worked the paddle shifters—the transitions so smooth I almost didn’t miss the clutch…almost. As the speed increased, the world fell away as if I could outrun the past and avoid the future, leaving only the now. Even if only for a while, it was enough.

Jeremy took his eyes off the road for a split second to shoot me a glance, although I noticed he didn’t loosen his white-knuckled grip on the armrest. “Dane wanted to teach you how to shoot? That’s rare. Everyone knows that’s part of the Nevada citizenship test.” He exaggerated, but not by much.

“That cowboy has a few things to learn,” I raised my voice slightly to be heard over the wind and the machine. “But the fact that he knows I can perforate his hide and not think twice isn’t an altogether bad thing.” I downshifted, my left foot instinctively seeking the clutch but finding none, and blasted around a truck pulling three top loaders full of stone and barely making thirty miles an hour in a sixty-five zone. “Those things ought to be outlawed—talk about dangerous.”

“You on the loose with ammo and an attitude ranks right up there.”

I shot Jeremy a grin as the speedometer once again leaped past a hundred. I wanted to say “‘Dangerous’ is my middle name,” but I didn’t have any silly flirt left in me—another bad sign.

“Don’t you worry about the cops?”

A reasonable question considering I was weaving in and out of traffic as if it were an obstacle course. And, since he was a fixture in my office, I kept forgetting Jeremy was still pretty new to town. “Considering all the other things I have to worry about, the cops don’t even make the top ten. If they want me, they’ll have to catch me.”

The cops and me, we went way back, but Jeremy didn’t need to know that. Speeding tickets really didn’t get them all lathered up anyway, unless it was the end of the month and they hadn’t met their quota. Regardless, I regularly did favors for most of them, from the brass right down to the lowliest cop patrolling the Strip on a Schwinn—show tickets for special occasions or a nice meal out with the wife or girlfriend, but preferably not both at the same time—even I had my limits. So, when I blew by a radar trap in the Ferrari, they usually just waved.

One lone pickup occupied a spot in the parking lot behind the gun store when I angled the Ferrari over the grade up from the road into the lot and killed the engine. A cinder-block building painted white against the unrelenting assault of the desert sun, the gun store looked like most of the other buildings along this section of Tropicana Boulevard. While not completely gone to seed, the neighborhood had certainly seen better days—some of the storefronts were shuttered, but several still clung valiantly to the hope of returning prosperity.

I didn’t check the license plate of the pickup—I’d seen it before. A vanity plate, it read
shootr
.

“Food then firearms, you do know how to show a guy a good time.” Jeremy unfolded himself from the low-slung car, eased the door shut as if he was handling Baccarat, which made me grin, then followed me around to the front of the building. “Teddie is a fool.” At the look on my face, he quickly recovered. “Sorry, but he is.”

“You won’t get any disagreement from me, but thank you.”

He eyed me for a minute, one eye shut against the glare of the sun, then he turned his attention to the building in front of us. “What is this place?”

“A mercenary’s paradise. For a modest fee, you can throw lead with the weapon of your choice from a Glock to an Uzi and everything in between.” Business hours were still an hour away. I raised my fist, but before I could knock, the door opened.

“The Captain figured you might show up here,” Shooter Moran said with a smile that didn’t chase the wary look from his eyes. Tall, sporting appropriate military muscles, with dirty blond hair worn military short, a shy smile, and a guarded manner, Shooter didn’t ooze the warmth of a friend, but he didn’t seem like a foe either—although I had no illusions as to where his allegiance would fall if forced to choose.

“He did, did he?” I pushed past Dane’s former Army buddy—they both had been Special Forces or Rangers or something. I didn’t know which and I didn’t know the difference, I only knew they’d seen and done stuff I couldn’t even imagine, had I wanted to. Shooter always referred to Dane as the Captain, so I figured Dane must’ve had him by a few rungs on the food chain, not that it mattered a whit out here in the cold reality of civilian life where money mattered far more than honor or bravery…or loyalty. But I bet those mattered to Shooter, in fact, I was counting on it.

“Shooter, this is Jeremy Whitlock, Dane’s employer and friend. Jeremy, Shooter Moran.”

The men shook hands, sizing each other up—one of the male friendship rituals I found particularly amusing. I could almost see their white knuckles as they tensed their arms and squeezed.

“Okay, you both pegged the testosterone meter and passed the manly-man test. Can we move on? I feel Father Time breathing down my neck.” Both men gave me their attention, which surprised me, but I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Is Dane here?” I asked peering around Shooter into the shooting bays, which were dark and silent—no Dane.

“Was,” Shooter said, his eyes swiveling to Jeremy. “Dane said you were straight up.”

“What else did Dane say?” I asked, putting myself between the two men and eye to eye with Shooter Moran. I actually had him by an inch or two, which gave me a false sense of security.

“He said to not look for him.”

“Bullshit.”

“He said you’d say that, too.” Shooter shot me a fleeting grin. “The Captain’s in a heap a hurt, isn’t he?” The feral look of the hunter flashed in his eyes, replacing the wariness.

“Big time. He needs our help. Although I don’t know the details, I get the feeling he saved your ass in Iraq or Afghanistan, or some other god-forsaken shit hole. Now’s the time for you to return the favor.” I wanted to say Semper Fi and all of that, but that was the Marines and I was pretty sure that would be crossing some invisible boundary—the branches of the service didn’t cross-pollinate. The Army had something similar, everyone needed a battle cry, I just didn’t know what it was. I resisted the whole all-for–one-and-one-for-all thing as a bit dated.

“What can I do?” Shooter asked, his face a mask, his eyes dark and blank.

“You can start by telling us where he is,” Jeremy said.

“I really don’t know.” Shooter glanced at him then turned back to me. “Believe me.”

I eyed him for a moment. I had no idea whether he was telling me the truth or feeding me a line—did they teach that in Army school? “Say I believe you, for now. Why did Dane come here? He must’ve had a reason.”

Shooter chewed on his bottom lip as his eyes skittered away. “He wanted a piece.”

“You sold him a gun? The guy is wanted in connection with a murder and you sold him a gun?” My voice rose despite my best efforts to keep my tone low with a hint of menace. I stepped into Shooter. I don’t know what I planned to do—wring his neck, pummel him into submission—irrational thoughts. They guy probably knew fifteen ways to kill me with only the things that were within easy reach.

Jeremy grabbed my arm, stopping me. “Lucky.”

After taking several deep breaths and counting to twenty…twice, I said, “Okay, okay.” I looked at Shooter. I felt my eyes go all squinty—not a good sign. The folks who knew me well usually turned and ran when my eyes got all squinty. Shooter stood his ground—either he was stupid or I had met my match. I was hoping for the latter. “What did you sell him?”

“A beat-up Beretta nine millimeter.”

“Registered?” I glanced at Jeremy—he understood. If not, the gun would be untraceable.

Shooter nodded.

“Serial number?” I asked, just to be sure.

Shooter nodded. “Of course.”

I’m not sure whether that made me feel better or worse. The fact that Dane intended to shoot someone and he didn’t care if they could trace the gun back to him didn’t bode well. Of course, none of this gave me a warm fuzzy.

I really couldn’t blame Shooter for selling Dane the gun—he’d done a friend a favor. The way Shooter saw it, it was the least he could do—a debt owed, a debt paid. And nothing changed the fact that someone had killed Dane’s wife. And, Dane being who he is, was going after them, taking matters into his own hands—if all of this were as it appeared to be. And, if roles were reversed, I couldn’t guarantee I wouldn’t do the same.

“Can you tell us anything? Did Dane give you any information? Did he say anything that could put us on, if not his track, then the killer’s?”

“He was too smart for that.” Shooter’s hand balled into fists as his shoulders hunched up around his ears. He might be good at controlling his frustration but he sucked at hiding it. “He said he wouldn’t pull me into it. Can you believe it? After all the shit we’ve been through?”

“I can believe it.” The Lone Ranger, great. Dane would probably get himself killed, which I was feeling ambivalent about at this particular moment. “What can you tell us about his wife?”

Shooter pulled a stool from behind the counter and straddled it. “Sylvie,” he said, his voice flat, resigned. He shook his head.

“The one and only, unless there were others?”

“No others.” Shooter shook his head. “She was enough.”

“You knew her?” Jeremy interjected.

Shooter shifted his attention and he visibly relaxed. Guys talking about women, locker-room talk. I got it. Relinquishing the lead to Jeremy, I stepped into the background.

“Sure. I never really got that relationship. I mean I did and I didn’t, you know?” Shooter turned away from me, putting his back to me. “She was one exceptional piece of ass, you know?” He shifted on the stool. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he threw over his shoulder as an afterthought.

Somehow that made me smile, just a little, and it broke the tension. Either we’d be in time to rescue Dane from his own stupidity, assuming that was even possible, or we wouldn’t. He was a big boy. My job was to ensure no more dead bodies turned up at the Babylon. And, that was proving to be more difficult than I had imagined.