First to Kill by Andrew Peterson Page B

picture, so it’s easy money. There’s no need to ask where your cousins are, because if you knew, you’d give them up. Then the money would be yours. Right?”
    Knife didn’t respond.
    Nathan looked at Billy. “Right?”
    “I guess.”
    “You mean you hadn’t thought of that? Your brother sure had.”
    “You’re so fuckin’ stupid, Billy.”
    “Easy now,” Nathan said. “He saved you a ton of pain. I would’ve wrung it out of you eventually. You might need a wheelchair and a colostomy bag for the rest of your life, but you would’ve told me. In fact, I think you owe your brother a thank-you for sparing you all that discomfort.”
    Knife wouldn’t look at his brother. “Thanks.”
    “That wasn’t so bad, was it? Don’t you feel better now?”
    “Yeah right, whatever.”
    “Billy is going to show me where the money’s buried. You stay put, okay?”
    Knife just stared. There was more than hatred in his eyes. Something else, something harder to pinpoint. Fear? Anxiety?
    Nathan winked at his partner. “If he even looks at you funny, give him another phone call.”
    Harv answered in his best gangster voice, “You got it, boss.”
    “Cover us for a second.”
    Harv pulled his Sig, triggered the laser, and pointed it at Billy’s chest.
    Billy looked down at the tiny rose of death. “Hey, man, take it easy, okay?”
    Nathan cut the tape from Billy’s torso. “Hands behind your back, Billy. Do it now.” Nathan was all business again. Although he doubted Billy’s blabbering cowardice was an act, he wasn’t willing to take any chances. He secured Billy’s wrists behind his back with several layers of duct tape. “Outside. Let’s go.”
    Holly Simpson was standing just outside the door when they stepped through. She had her Glock 22 in her right hand and a flashlight in the other hand. “We need to get up to that cabin right away,” she said.
    “They aren’t there,” Nathan said.
    “How can you be sure? You really think there’s money buried out here?”
    “I seen it,” Billy said. “They got it stashed in ammo cans right over there. Three of ’em.”
    “And you believe him?” Simpson asked.
    Nathan shrugged.
    “You better be right about this.” She turned on her flashlight and shined it on Billy’s chest. “Show us.”
    They followed Billy through a maze of junked cars, rusted farm equipment, and fifty-gallon drums. Coming from every direction, the symphony of ten thousand crickets filled the night. Gun held at the ready, Holly swept her flashlight back and forth through the jungle of Americana crap. Nathan knew she was looking for threats. This was a good place to get ambushed. Lots of hiding places.
    Billy stopped at the corner of the single garage. The bottom of its stucco walls were stained with reddish-brown mud from rain splatter dripping off the eaves. “Right here,” Billy said. “I’m standing on them.”
    “How deep?” Holly asked.
    “I don’t know. Maybe a foot.”
    “Shovel.”
    “In there.” He nodded toward the garage.
    SAC Simpson tucked her flashlight under her arm, pulled her radio, and thumbed the button. “Copy?”
    “ Copy, ” came the response.
    “Hustle up here. We’re at the garage north of the farmhouse.”
    Henning acknowledged with a click. Thirty seconds later he arrived, but stopped about one hundred feet short. He flashed his light twice. Holly pointed her flashlight in his direction and issued three flashes in response. Henning’s beam bounced as he closed the distance.
    Nathan was impressed. They’d used a predetermined signal in case Simpson was being held hostage and forced to use her radio. If Henning hadn’t received the three flashes in return, he’d instantly know Simpson was in trouble. Breathing a little heavy from his run, he closed the distance and focused on Billy.
    Holly looked at Nathan, then back to Henning. “We’re going to open the garage door. You two okay?”
    They both nodded.
    Henning crouched down at the