Birds of Prey Read online

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Javier gave the pig his back, but Officer Fuller didn’t take the hint. He leaned down close and whispered in Jav’s ear. “Look, I’m kind of hurting right now, if you know what I mean. Headache from motherfucking hell. Can you sell me something?”

  Jav glanced back, his face screwed up in bewilderment. “Are you fucking with me?”

  “I have money,” Fuller said. “I just need a little something to take the edge off.”

  Javier considered gutting the pig right there. Then he looked around for cameras to see if this was some kind of Ashton Kutcher Punk’d bullshit. “I don’t know which should offend me more. That you think I’m stupid enough to sell drugs to a cop, or that you think just because I’m Hispanic, I must be carrying something.”

  Javier stared at the pig, hard. He saw amusement, and nothing else.

  “My mistake then,” Fuller said. “You have a nice day.”

  Then he backed off, blending into the crowd.

  “You fucking believe that?” Jav asked the vendor.

  The vendor smiled slyly. “Cops are some of my best customers. You still interested in a suppressor?”

  “Did I say I changed my fucking mind?”

  “I could perhaps slip a custom Gemtech into the package, along with a magazine extension. That’d be twelve hundred. Plus two hundred for the BATF license.”

  “I really hate to fill out paperwork…” Javier let the sentence hang in the air.

  “I hate paperwork, too. But the law requires it.”

  “Fuck the law. Fourteen hundred to box it up,” Jav said. “I’ll be back in a half hour.”

  “I only take cash.”

  “Of course you do.” Jav threaded his way through the crowd. It was stuffy under the tent and the reek of rancid sweat and body odor was stifling.

  He pushed past three men in army fatigues who he felt more than certain hadn’t spent a single day in the Service. He made eye contact with one of them.

  “The fuck you lookin’ at, brown boy?”

  Javier stopped and faced the man. “Hello, Swanson.”

  He saw a tremor of confusion fluttering through the man’s eyes.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “It’s printed on your G.I. Joe jacket, asshole.”

  Jav let his shoulder bump hard into Swanson’s as he pushed on through the crowd, forcing himself to ignore the stream of threats and slurs the man hurled after him. Why did this always happen? People talking shit and throwing down challenges when he couldn’t accept because he had a package to deliver. Even three years ago, he’d have crushed the man’s balls in his palm like a couple of Swedish meatballs and beat him to within an inch of his life. But his mentor in the Alphas had taught him a few things since then. About patience and wisdom. About not being reckless. The hot-heads who couldn’t control themselves wound up dead or in prison before thirty-five, and that was not going to be him, because at the end of the day, he loved playing golf too much.

  He had to piss something fierce.

  Javier moved past a table selling knives, and he browsed for a moment, giving serious thought to purchasing the custom Crawford Tanto folder, but the dealer, some guy named Morrell, wanted a grand for it, and he wouldn’t budge on the price.

  So he moved on toward the exit.

  Passed tables of hunting equipment, fishing gear, army surplus, gun safes, pre-1900 Colt Revolvers, and table after table of guns specific to every major war of the last century.

  He stepped outside.

  Mid-afternoon, and a cold and sunny winter day.

  It felt wonderful to be out of the stuffy accumulation of body heat under the tent.

  A row of blue Porta-Johns stood at the far end of the parking lot. Must’ve been twenty or thirty of them, and there were lines five and ten deep to each one.

  He’d let his bladder rupture before he stooped to relieving himself in the same cramped space where countless rednecks had pissed and shit.

  Fuck that in the ass.

  Hmm.

  His eyes fell upon the building adjacent to the parking lot—Porter’s Guns and Ammo.

  He could drop in, buy some .45 ACP hollowpoints for his new toy, and if he was lucky, use a nice, private restroom.

  Luther Kite

  He’d spent the last month in an urban ghost town. After what had happened in Ocracoke a mere seven weeks ago, and the catastrophic loss and pain he’d endured, it had been good to immerse himself completely in a new project.

  Now, he’d ventured out into the world again, though only for a short while, having driven several hours south out of Michigan to this gun show he’d heard advertised incessantly on talk radio over the past few weeks.

  He’d just purchased two Spyderco Harpys from a Montana knife dealer—a comfort purchase, no question—when Table # 81 caught his eye.

  Luther wandered over.

  The dealer was a four hundred pound bald man with a handle-bar mustache who eyed Luther but made no move to heave himself off his stool. He wore a leather Harley-Davidson vest that appeared to have spent considerable hours getting baked in direct sun. He wondered if they made motorcycles that could accommodate the punishing weight of such a man.

  “Is this a good system?” Luther asked.

  “Top of the line.”

  Luther lifted one of the surveillance cameras.

  “What exactly am I holding here?”

  The dealer grunted as he slid himself off the stool and waddled over to the table.

  “That 4CSBN160 system comes with four CANTEK CA-IR420 nightvision cameras, one NUVICO EVL-405N 4 Channel 500 GB DVR, four hundred-foot rolls of combined power/video cable, and all the necessary connectors to get the system up and running.”

  Luther turned the camera slowly in his hand. He’d never been good with electronics, and didn’t understand the alphabet soup the man was spouting, but that didn’t matter. The IT guy he’d “hired” last week could certainly figure it out.

  “I need twelve cameras,” Luther said finally.

  The dealer smiled. “Tell you what, you buy three complete systems, I’ll throw in a PRO700E Minuteman.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Surge protector and battery backup. You’ll want it.”

  Luther didn’t even have to consider it. “That’s a deal. You’ll box everything up?”

  “Sure will. Just give me about forty-five minutes.”

  As Luther turned away from the table, he could have sworn he heard someone call his name.

  He started walking.

  “Luther!”

  For a moment, he debated just walking on, pushing his way through the crowd, getting the fuck out of there. Could Andy or Violet or some other law enforcement contingency have found him?

  “Luther!”

  But curiosity won out, so he turned—still ready to bolt—for one quick glance over his shoulder through the crowd.

  No.

  Couldn’t be.

  Luther had never been glad to see anyone in his life, but he actually felt neutral in this moment, to set eyes upon this man he hadn’t seen in over eight years.

  Luther pushed his way through the horde of Red-staters and even managed to break the slightest grin. It had been a tough month, and it was good to see a friend.

  “How are you, Charles?”

  Charles Kork looked a lot like he did when they’d first met—thin, dark, and dangerous. With him was a tall blonde so painfully beautiful Luther couldn’t look her in the face.

  The men shook hands, and with a grin and a nod, Charles said, “Luther, this is my sister, Alex. I’ve told her all about you. Alex, you remember the crow story?”

  Luther felt exposed. Not only was he in the presence of a lovely woman, but if Charles had told her everything, then she must know about his particular…tastes.

  He offered a hand and forced himself to meet her eyes. She shook like a man, with a firm, iron grip.

  “My brother told me al
l about your artificial leech,” she said. “That’s soooo hot.”

  Luther blushed through to the tips of his ears.

  “Nothing to be shy about. I like bad boys.” She slipped an arm around Charles’s waist in a way that was anything but sisterly.

  “I have a whole collection of antique medical tools,” Luther said. “Not with me, but maybe I’ll get the chance to show you some time.”

  “That makes me wet,” Alex said.

  Luther went from scarlet to purple. “What…um…are you doing later?”

  “My brother and I don’t have plans. Thought we’d get some shooting in before the range closes. Do you like guns, or are you just a sharp-edge kind of guy?”

  “I do love my knives, but I wouldn’t mind shooting a few—”

  “Oh my God,” Alex said, her attention diverting from Luther. “Is that…”

  “James Jansen,” Charles said.

  Luther turned to see who they were gawking at. The name had sounded familiar, but when he saw the man moving toward them through the crowd, he instantly made the connection.

  “He stars in movies,” Luther said.

  “No shit,” Alex said, “and he’s fucking smoking.”

  But as the man approached, Luther had his doubts.

  “He’s wearing sweatpants,” Luther said. “And flip-flops. You sure that’s James Jansen?”

  “Looks exactly like him,” Charles said, “and he’s tall like Jansen, too.”

  “I don’t think it’s him.”

  As the man was on the verge of passing them by, Alex stepped in front of him with a big, seductive smile.

  “I apologize,” she said, inching up to him, letting her breasts brush against his sweatshirt. “You must get this all the time, but are you James Jansen?”

  The man gave an uncomfortable smile, hesitating, as if debating how he should answer.

  Finally, he shook his head.

  “No, my name’s Lance. But you’re right. I do get that all the time.”

  “You should own it,” she said. “If you’d said you were him, I would’ve believed you.”

  The man pushed past Alex and disappeared into the crowd.

  She sighed, and then turned back toward Luther. “You packing?” she asked.

  “Huh?”

  She moved in closer, breathed into his ear. “Do I need to frisk you to find out?”

  “Uh, forty-five, in the car.”

  “Are you married, Luther?”

  “No. No, I’m not.”

  “Good,” Alex said, giving Charles a narrow stare. “I’m not big on married guys.”

  Luther wondered what was going on there, but then he found himself staring at the woman’s tits. She noticed, and winked at him. “See you at the range, cowboy. Nine P.M.”

  “Later, Luther,” Charles said, walking off with Alex, his hand in the back pocket of her skin-tight jeans.

  Never in all his life had it occurred to Luther that there might be a woman like that walking the earth. He couldn’t comprehend it.

  He stuck his hand in his pocket, adjusting himself, and realized he suddenly had to piss. Really, really bad.

  On his way toward the exit, Luther approached a trio of pudgy rednecks in camouflage who were loitering at a table of crossbows, pretending to shoot imaginary deer.

  Was that?…no…couldn’t be…they’d actually sewn name tags into their jackets.

  One of them turned as Luther passed by.

  “Look at that tall, pretty, black-haired girlie.”

  Luther stopped and looked at the man.

  Name tag read Munchel.

  Luther stared him down. Why did people always fuck with him in crowds or behind the wheels of their cars? Never in dark alleys. Never when he could actually do something about it.

  Munchel could only stand about five seconds of Luther’s black-eyed stare, because he turned away, gave a little laugh Luther saw straight through, and said to his two buddies, “Look at this faggot.”

  This wasn’t the time, or the place, for a fight. Too many witnesses. Worse, half the people here were armed.

  Still, he couldn’t let this asshole go scot-free. Luther took two quick steps toward Munchel, as if in a hurry to get by, and stuck out an elbow that lovingly connected with the idiot’s nose.

  He muttered, “Scuze me,” as he stepped past, confident he’d broken it, the rusty smell of a nosebleed in the air.

  Jack

  Clay actually offered me his arm, which was a cute bit of chivalry that I hadn’t seen in quite a while. I took it, and had to smile when he started flexing his biceps to let me know how big his muscles were.

  We made our way across the showroom floor, Clay stopping occasionally to ogle some unique piece of hardware. Just as we were exiting the tent, I ran into a familiar face.

  He hadn’t aged a bit since I’d last seen him, still looking like a smaller, blond version of Schwarzenegger. Which is to say his shoulders were almost as wide as he was tall. He wore chinos, gym shoes, and a grey shirt that stretched tightly over his broad chest. When he spotted me, his eyes registered the faintest glint of amusement.

  “Hello, Jack,” he said. “You’re looking well.”

  Under his arm was a wooden box, which I had to assume contained a firearm or two.

  “Hello, Tequila. This is Clay. Clay, this is Tequila.”

  Clay offered his hand, grinning big. “Tequila and Jack Daniels? It’s enough to drive a man to drink.”

  Tequila took the hand, and I watched, amused, as they played the macho game of who could grip the other guy harder. Though Clay had at least six inches on Tequila, he gave up first.

  “You here on business?” I asked my old acquaintance. Some time ago, Tequila worked for some pretty unsavory characters.

  “Are you?” he shot back.

  “We’re headed for the range,” Clay said, wiggling his fingers, probably trying to get the circulation back. “You’re welcome to join us if you and Jack would like to catch up.”

  Tequila stared blankly for a moment, then nodded. “Sure. Thanks.”

  The three of us crossed the parking lot, heading over to the gun shop. I heard gunfire beyond the far wall, where the range must be. Clay led us up to the counter, where an unshaven, worried-looking fellow was mopping at his sweaty forehead with his flannel sleeve. Under that, he wore a humorous tee-shirt, which also appeared soaked with sweat.

  “Porter, my good man,” Clay said. “We need a range.”

  “Oh, hey, Clay. I was gonna close up in ten minutes.”

  “Ten is all we need.” Clay tossed a bill on the counter. “Give us headgear and a fistful of silhouettes. The lady here needs a box of Sigs, three-five-seven. I need four-five-fours for my Casull. And whatever the man here needs.”

  “Forty-five ACP,” Tequila said.

  Porter nodded, taking the money and scurrying off.

  “So, how do you two know each other?” Clay asked. He had an easy-going, country-boy vibe about him that made me feel at ease. I wondered if he was a good cop, and figured that anyone with that much confidence either had to be very good, or very deluded.

  “We shot together before,” Tequila said.

  “Competitively?”

  “You could say that,” I answered.

  “So, you’re a markswoman?” Clay lifted his eyebrows. “I’ve done a bit of competition shooting myself. Maybe we should have ourselves a little wager.”

  “What have you got in mind?”

  He grinned. “Hundred bucks?”

  Tequila said, “I’m in.”

  I knew Tequila was good. I could also assume Clay was good. But I was good, too, and had a closet full of trophies to prove it. Though I liked my chances, I didn’t happen to have a hundred dollars on me.

  “That’s a bit steep for my public servant salary,” I said.

  “Fair enough. How about if you lose, you kiss the winner?”

  Tequila said, “I’m in.”

  The two of them stared
at me like they were lions and I was a zebra with a broken leg.

  I didn’t mind it in the least. I just hoped I didn’t get pregnant from all the free-range testosterone floating around.

  “You’re on,” I said. “But this is a new gun for me. I get to practice first.”

  Porter came back with three boxes of ammo, three pairs of noise-dampening ear muffs, and the paper targets. We followed Clay through a door, and the shooting sound increased tenfold. I put on my headgear, muffling the noise, and we found our way over to the only open lane.

  Clay attached a paper target to the pulley system and pressed a button to send it downrange. They were the standard police silhouettes, five points for the head and chest, four for the collarbones and wrists, three for the upper thighs, two for the arms and stomach.

  “Twenty-five?” Clay yelled at me, barely audible.

  I shook my head, said, “Fifty.”

  Then I loaded a clip, popped it into the weapon, and jacked a round into the chamber. The P2000 had a slightly larger grip than my Colt, but it was comfortable. I slipped my index finger inside the trigger guard, stood in front of the booth counter, and aimed fifty yards downrange. I used a two-handed grip known as the Weaver stance, feet spread apart, knees slightly bent, my left hand supporting my right.

  The HK was a traditional double action trigger pull, which meant it also functioned as a single action. I cocked the hammer, and let out a slow breath. Then I began to fire, emptying the gun, getting used to the action and recoil, adjusting when needed.

  I heard Clay whistle, and I didn’t have to look at the target to know I’d fired all nine rounds straight through the target man’s heart.

  “I guess I don’t need to practice,” I said, letting him have his turn.

  Clay took down the target and handed it to me.

  “Nice grouping,” Tequila said.

  My shots had been so close together they’d made one big hole in the center mass. I shrugged and reloaded.

  Clay and Alice fared well. He couldn’t fire as fast as I did, because the recoil from the Casull was so huge it made his shoulders shake. He put three in the head, three in the heart, then gave Tequila a turn.

  Tequila was packing two nickel-plated .45s. I didn’t recognize the manufacturer, and Clay asked to see one.