Chapter Ten

Catoli’s Restaurant, Downtown Charleston

  

Simon Ness listened to the information being given to him over his iPhone, most of it not particularly good. Except that bastard Skip was gone. But one of the Hollander brothers had also died. The one with the old-fashioned name, Rudyard. The whole reason he’d allowed Rolf to hire them was because they were supposed to be good.

When the voice on the other end stopped talking, Simon ended the call without so much as a goodbye. He paid a lot of money for information and felt that absolved him of pleasantries. Besides, they seemed such a bore.

He lifted the snifter of Chivas, swirled the liquid around in the glass, and took a sip. The back room of the Italian restaurant Simon had taken over was his home base. He knew some people snickered about the dour Englishman running a place that served spaghetti and lasagna. But he found it was a good fit. Besides, all he did was collect his cut. Someone else did the work.

Rolf parted the black curtains separating this room from the main part of the restaurant. Black button-down shirt and slacks over a professional wrestler’s giant body, thick, longish brown hair slicked back, and trimmed beard, Rolf played the part of Simon’s executive assistant well. And also henchman, when needed. Simon had added the “executive” in the title, but Rolf really did so much more than push paper. Although lately the giant was slipping.

He looked at Simon and asked, “Everything alright?”

“No.”

Rolf stood silently.

Simon knew he was waiting for instruction. Rolf was good that way. Simon said, “Rudyard Hollander is dead and I think we may be compromised.”

“His brother?”

“Yes. If they can connect the dots, it may lead back here.”

Rolf said, “I’ll take care of it.”

“Good.” Because, thought Simon, you were the one responsible for the plan in the first place.

  

Blu headed to his island paradise with Pelton following. They’d decided it would be best if the kid didn’t go home until this blew over and Abner was in jail. Or dead. He just couldn’t believe Pelton agreed to the plan. Suggested it, even. It was one thing to know you were a target, and an entirely different situation to put yourself in harm’s way on purpose. But then again, to this Army Ranger, most Marines he knew should have been called Jughead instead of Jarhead.

An Agent Orange cassette played on the deck in his SUV, helping him avoid thinking about stomping the crap out of Pelton when they arrived on the island.

Forty minutes later, they pulled into the crushed shell drive and parked beside the house.

Pelton got out of his truck and looked around.

Blu did the same, making sure nothing looked out of place.

Pelton said, “Man, I thought I had it good.”

Dink and Doofus clomped over to them.

“You’ve got horses, too?”

Blu ignored the question, reached back into his SUV, and came up with two more apples. He tossed them to Pelton. “Make yourself useful.”

The horses traced the apples in the air and knew they were now in the possession of Pelton. Without hesitation, Dink and Doofus, he wouldn’t call it “charged,” more like “trotted” over to the kid who took a step back, obviously surprised by their enthusiasm.

“Their names are Dink and Doofus. Dink’s the brown one. Just hold out your hands, palms up, with the apples. Make sure you keep your arms spread wide. Otherwise one of them will try for both apples. Then you will have to run because the one that didn’t get his apple will be on your case.”

Pelton did as Blu said.

The horses chomped their apples contently.

To his credit, Pelton actually talked to Dink and Doofus, just like Blu did. And he patted their massive necks. The horses finished their apples and both nuzzled him, poking the visitor with their noses.

And that pissed Blu off. He wanted to hate Pelton. He needed to hate him.

The horses were not the brightest, but they could pick the good apples from the bad ones. The fact that they both liked this smart-mouthed kid was the last straw. Blu would have to like him as well. Or at least tolerate him until this situation was over.

Pelton said, “Friendly, aren’t they?”

Blu turned and walked to his house. “You want something to drink? I’ve got water or water.”

“I guess I’ll have water. This is a great place. I heard you own the whole island. How many acres?”

Blu thought, “He’s just trying to rattle you with his intel.” He said, “Nine, depending on the tide.”

Inside, Blu filled two glasses with ice and tap water. The kid had followed him in and Blu handed him one of the glasses. “So, is the Python your gun of choice?”

“Not really,” Pelton said. “I’m kinda partial to nineteen-elevens. But I’ve shot Glocks and Rugers. Sometimes I shoot whatever I get my hands on. You?”

Blu set his glass down, reached around, and pulled his nine millimeter. He ejected the clip and the chambered round and handed it to Pelton.

“Beretta. Nice piece.” Pelton set his glass down and used both hands to aim the Beretta at his truck outside the window, checking the sights. “It’s got a good feel to it.” He handed it back.

Blu loaded the single bullet into the clip, shoved the clip into the gun, and slid it down his back waistband.

Pelton walked over to a shelf filled with trophies, all of them with variations of the silhouette of a man shooting a rifle. “You some sort of sharpshooter or something?”

“Or something.” Blu walked over to a hall closet, removed a four foot by two foot black composite case, set it on the couch, and opened it up, displaying a rifle. Then he took out a smaller case and did the same. In it was the scope.

Pelton took it in but didn’t touch. “M24 Remington. Leupold scope. Standard-issue sniper, right?”

“Until a few years ago, anyway.”

“She-it. You shoot that in Desert Storm?”

“Affirmative.” Blu couldn’t help but smile at the kid’s knowledge.

“That’s not in your file, at least nothing I could dig up. Color me impressed. So, what’s our plan?”

“I was thinking you go back to work. I hang out in the bar and we get him when he walks in.”

Pelton said, “That puts my employees in danger. I don’t want that.”

“What do you suggest?”

“We hunt him down.”

Blu said, “My way’s easier. And we can set the trap. You go hunting the man, and he holds all the cards.”

“Still,” Pelton said, “I don’t want any of my employees getting hurt. It’s worth it to me not to put them at risk.”

“The guy could be in your bar right now waiting.”

The smug look came back. “I doubt it. I talked to my bar manager on the way over and instructed her to call me if anyone resembling the shooter comes in. I gave her a picture of him I got from the police.” And then he reached into his pocket, pulled out his buzzing phone, and answered. After a moment, the smug look left. Pelton hung up. “He’s there.”

  

Rolf sat at a table two rows behind Abner. They were business partners, but he was certain Abner had no idea who he was. Social media was the most antisocial form of communication. Rolf had even been bold enough to follow the killer into the restroom and take a piss next to him at the urinals—still no recognition.

It hadn’t been all that hard to track Abner down. Once Simon had informed Rolf that Abner’s brother had been killed in the attack of Skip, Rolf knew the killer would be all screwed up inside, wanting to get even. And he’d been right. This man had gone off the deep end.

Rolf guessed that Abner would return to the place of the killing. For someone who’d up to this point been so professional, this was by far the most amateurish action that Abner could have taken. Here he was sitting there taking small sips from a cup of coffee, the absence of life that exuded from most killers Rolf had known radiating out from the sorry man like inverse rainbows.

Which was why he’d cut his own piss off early, didn’t wash his hands, and took a slight detour past Abner’s table. With a practiced sleight of hand, he dropped the tablet in the sorry man’s coffee cup and was sitting in his own seat when the killer emerged from the john.

Not too long after Abner returned to his chair and finished off his coffee, Rolf watched the killer slump over in his chair.

Rolf paid his tab and left just as a very pretty waitress noticed Abner had stopped breathing.