light out,” he says, then steps back, hooking his finger at me. I open my door and step out into the pouring rain.
It soaks right through my shirt, plastering my hair to my head as I follow him round to the trunk. He points at the offending light.
“Sorry, officer,” I say, hoping that this will be it. That he’ll get back in his patrol cruiser and fuck off to wherever the hell it is he’s going. “I’ll take care of it first chance I get.”
“Uh-huh.” He writes me a ticket, making me stand there in the rain while he copies down the car’s registration and my licence details. And then he stops. Frowns. And checks the documents again. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck – he knows they’re forged. Fuck! I told Henry we should have used someone more reliable.
The Trooper says, “Open the trunk.”
“Look, officer, maybe we can – ”
He places a hand on the gun at his hip. “Open the trunk.”
“Sure thing. Not a problem.” Fuck, fuck, FUCK. I slip the key into the lock and twist. The trunk pops open and Mr State Trooper steps up to take a look. Then swears.
I can’t blame him, it’s not every day you stop someone for a busted tail light and find a dead FBI agent in their trunk. The Trooper’s almost got his gun out when Henry smashes him over the back of the head with an empty bourbon bottle.
We stand over the fallen man, watching the blood wash away in the rain.
“He dead?” I ask.
“Will be when I’ve finished with him ...” Henry pulls out the Trooper’s handcuffs, drags the guy’s arms round behind his back and snaps the cuffs on. Then we haul him into the trunk alongside Special Agent Mills. It’s a tight squeeze – bleeding cop and dead agent – but we make it work.
. . .
. . .
And believe it or not: this time we’re supposed to be the good guys.
Chapter 2
Ten in the morning and it’s still raining like a bastard. We’re parked outside a small 7-Eleven clone on the outskirts of Bloomington, waiting for Jack to get back with breakfast, while Henry puts in a call to our boss, Mr Jones. “Yeah,” he’s saying, the cellphone jammed against his ear, “morgue’s still shut . . . Uh-huh . . . Uh-huh . . . We’re going round to see him soon as it opens . . . Yeah . . .”
One of them big minivans pulls up on the other side of the parking lot. Mom, Pop, and two kids. Pop hops out into the rain while Mom stays put to keep an eye on the brats. The guy hurries between the puddles towards the store, stopping when Jack pushes out through the front door. Arms full.
Pop nods a hello, but Jack just gives him one of those shitty looks he’s been working on since yesterday lunchtime, when Henry rearranged his face for him. Pop backs up a couple of steps, then waits for Jack to limp past, before going inside. He looks back over his shoulder at this thug in the leather jacket.
Way to keep a low profile, Jack.
“What?” says Henry, sticking his finger in his other ear. “Oh, right, the kid.” He peers over his shoulder at the pale, shivering thing that used to be on the local high school football team. “He’s doing OK . . . Uh-huh . . . Will do. You tell Tammy we’re thinking about her . . . right.” And then he hangs up.
“You didn’t tell him about the cop,” I say, and Henry shrugs those massive shoulders of his.
“He don’t need more stuff to worry about.”
Which is true.
The back door clunks open and Jack climbs in. “Breakfast burritos,” he says, handing out the little micro-waved parcels. Then it’s black coffee for me. Fifth of Old Kentucky, for Henry. And a jumbo Blueberry Squishy for Brian. Jack holds out the bright blue drink and Laura’s boyfriend takes it. The kid’s hands are shaking, little brown flakes of dried blood falling from his pale skin as he clutches the huge cup of sugar, chemicals and ice. Jack tosses over a small yellow packet. “Advil. They didn’t have anything stronger.”
Advil, good for a headache, but I get the feeling it’s not going to
It soaks right through my shirt, plastering my hair to my head as I follow him round to the trunk. He points at the offending light.
“Sorry, officer,” I say, hoping that this will be it. That he’ll get back in his patrol cruiser and fuck off to wherever the hell it is he’s going. “I’ll take care of it first chance I get.”
“Uh-huh.” He writes me a ticket, making me stand there in the rain while he copies down the car’s registration and my licence details. And then he stops. Frowns. And checks the documents again. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck – he knows they’re forged. Fuck! I told Henry we should have used someone more reliable.
The Trooper says, “Open the trunk.”
“Look, officer, maybe we can – ”
He places a hand on the gun at his hip. “Open the trunk.”
“Sure thing. Not a problem.” Fuck, fuck, FUCK. I slip the key into the lock and twist. The trunk pops open and Mr State Trooper steps up to take a look. Then swears.
I can’t blame him, it’s not every day you stop someone for a busted tail light and find a dead FBI agent in their trunk. The Trooper’s almost got his gun out when Henry smashes him over the back of the head with an empty bourbon bottle.
We stand over the fallen man, watching the blood wash away in the rain.
“He dead?” I ask.
“Will be when I’ve finished with him ...” Henry pulls out the Trooper’s handcuffs, drags the guy’s arms round behind his back and snaps the cuffs on. Then we haul him into the trunk alongside Special Agent Mills. It’s a tight squeeze – bleeding cop and dead agent – but we make it work.
. . .
. . .
And believe it or not: this time we’re supposed to be the good guys.
Chapter 2
Ten in the morning and it’s still raining like a bastard. We’re parked outside a small 7-Eleven clone on the outskirts of Bloomington, waiting for Jack to get back with breakfast, while Henry puts in a call to our boss, Mr Jones. “Yeah,” he’s saying, the cellphone jammed against his ear, “morgue’s still shut . . . Uh-huh . . . Uh-huh . . . We’re going round to see him soon as it opens . . . Yeah . . .”
One of them big minivans pulls up on the other side of the parking lot. Mom, Pop, and two kids. Pop hops out into the rain while Mom stays put to keep an eye on the brats. The guy hurries between the puddles towards the store, stopping when Jack pushes out through the front door. Arms full.
Pop nods a hello, but Jack just gives him one of those shitty looks he’s been working on since yesterday lunchtime, when Henry rearranged his face for him. Pop backs up a couple of steps, then waits for Jack to limp past, before going inside. He looks back over his shoulder at this thug in the leather jacket.
Way to keep a low profile, Jack.
“What?” says Henry, sticking his finger in his other ear. “Oh, right, the kid.” He peers over his shoulder at the pale, shivering thing that used to be on the local high school football team. “He’s doing OK . . . Uh-huh . . . Will do. You tell Tammy we’re thinking about her . . . right.” And then he hangs up.
“You didn’t tell him about the cop,” I say, and Henry shrugs those massive shoulders of his.
“He don’t need more stuff to worry about.”
Which is true.
The back door clunks open and Jack climbs in. “Breakfast burritos,” he says, handing out the little micro-waved parcels. Then it’s black coffee for me. Fifth of Old Kentucky, for Henry. And a jumbo Blueberry Squishy for Brian. Jack holds out the bright blue drink and Laura’s boyfriend takes it. The kid’s hands are shaking, little brown flakes of dried blood falling from his pale skin as he clutches the huge cup of sugar, chemicals and ice. Jack tosses over a small yellow packet. “Advil. They didn’t have anything stronger.”
Advil, good for a headache, but I get the feeling it’s not going to
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