Birds of Prey - Crouch Blake (читать книги онлайн полностью без сокращений txt) 📗

“Makes it a little easier to get them in the car, no?”

Luther nodded and smiled, feeling a twinge of disappointment that he was starting to not want to torture and kill this man. He’d have thoroughly enjoyed cutting him apart in his van.

“Look,” Luther said, “I’m planning to meet some friends back here at the range around nine. Why don’t you come along? Try out your new piece?”

Javier said, “There’s something I need to check in on first, but yeah. I think that might be fun.”

Mr. K

He arrived at Porter’s Guns and Ammo just as it was closing, the last customers being ushered outside by Porter. Mr. K recognized him by the picture Dovolanni had provided, but if that wasn’t enough, Porter wore a tee-shirt that read Fuck Off, I Own a Gun Shop.

“We’re closed,” Porter mumbled, as he was digging out his keys to lock the door.

Mr. K approached, pressing a 9mm into Porter’s flabby side. “Mr. Dovolanni wants his money, Mr. Porter.”

The man’s reaction was priceless. His jaw, quite literally, dropped. Mr. K drank up the fear in his eyes. Unlike some of his peers, who derived a sadistic, sexual satisfaction from hurting others, Mr. K approached his work with a more detached, clinical attitude. But he did get a tiny, private thrill when he announced to the mark what was happening. That sudden deer-in-the-headlights look of horror, realization, and hopelessness never failed to buoy his spirits.

Next would come the promises, followed by the begging.

“I’ve got the money. I swear. I just gotta wait until the credit card companies deposit it into my account. I can write a check…”

“The agreement was for cash, Mr. Porter. Mr. Dovolanni doesn’t take checks. Let’s go inside and talk.”

Porter hesitated, obviously not wanting to be alone with Mr. K. And those were good instincts, because Mr. K was planning on hurting him.

“Please don’t hurt me.”

“Inside. Now.”

Porter fumbled his way inside, while Mr. K gave him a quick pat-down, removing a Glock from the man’s waistband.

“Do you have a burglar alarm?” Mr. K asked.

Porter nodded, eager to please.

“Disarm it. And use the real code, not the dummy code. I’ll know the difference.”

In fact, Mr. K would not know the difference. But Porter thinking he would was persuasion enough to follow orders. Mr. K clicked the deadbolt on the door, then ushered the frightened man over to the cash register. Next, inevitably, would come the bribe.

“Whatever he’s paying you, I’ll double it,” Porter said.

Mr. K’s lips twisted up in a small, private smile. “I don’t take checks either, Mr. Porter.”

“I have some cash. And guns. I’ve got plenty of guns, some of them are worth big money. I can make you a deal.”

Mr. K nodded, pretending to think it over. Then he lashed out, smacking Porter in the side of the head, the butt of his nine finding the sweet spot and sending the flabby man to the floor.

Javier

The light was fading, and the crowd dispersing, a cold, winter breeze pushing through his hair like the fingers of a corpse.

Javier walked out of the tent carrying the box that contained his new Glock, and still puzzling over Luther.

He didn’t quite know what to think of the man with long, black hair. He’d been ready to murder him in that bathroom, risks be damned. But once they’d started talking, he’d realized there was something wrong with the man. Something deeply disturbed in the best sense of the word.

He hadn’t looked into a pair of eyes like that in…well, since he’d shaved this morning.

It took him five minutes to reach the G35, which he’d left in the parking lot of a bank, and he was just a few steps from the car when he heard it.

Soft, but certainly audible, a knocking on the underside of the Infiniti’s trunk.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

She’d woken up. What the hell? He’d given her a perfect dose of shit that had knocked her ass out, but even when she came back, she should’ve been so beautifully fucking loaded she couldn’t move. Hell, he wished someone would shoot him up with black tar of this quality. Lock him in a trunk. What a way to spend a day.

Ungrateful bitch.

He scanned his surroundings. A few gun show attendees on the sidewalk behind him, presumably making their way to their cars.

He’d gotten lucky no one had noticed.

There were only a half dozen vehicles parked in front of the bank, the closest to him being a Chevy Nova, which was unoccupied. It looked old as shit. What kind of a person would let themselves be seen behind the wheel of such a beater?

Javier clicked a button on the automatic lock and the trunk popped open just an inch.

Glancing over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being watched, he lifted the trunk and reached into his leather jacket.

The woman stared up at him, her eyes slits in the evening light. She groaned something incoherent through her gag.

“I know you want some more,” Jav said. “Daddy’s here.”

He unsheathed the syringe he’d already filled that morning. This was getting pricey. A fine puta like this was worth some major coin, but all businesses were about keeping expenses low and profits high. Keeping her high was eating up profits.

The woman groaned something that sounded like, “No.”

Javier lifted her arm and turned it over, squinting for a vein. “Don’t be an ungrateful bitch. You know you like it, baby. Women where I come from would blow fifty guys in a day to get a high like this.”

“Mmmph.” Then she moaned something that sounded like, “Go home.”

“This is home for you now, angel. No more work. No being tied down to some dickhead esposo. You’re living the life now, bitch. All you gotta do is make some nice babies. But I’m warning you, if you make any more noise—even the slightest little bird-peep—I’m gonna cut your eyes out. You don’t need eyes to get knocked up.”

He slipped the needle into a vein, depressed the plunger. Her cry drifted off into a euphoric moan.

“Yeah, now you’re coming baby, aren’t you? Feels so good, no? You got no care in this world. Now fucking callate la boca.”

Then he slammed the trunk shut and started back toward the gun shop.

Alex Kork

It was after nine P.M., and they were walking back across the street toward Porter’s Guns and Ammo, coming from a Waffle House where she and Charles had run into Luther.

Kite had moved over to their table and insisted everyone order the triple-scattered-all-the-way hashbrowns. Spent half the meal raving about how it was the best thing he’d put in his mouth, maybe ever. Alex, tired of hearing about fried potatoes, had stretched her right leg under the table and dug the steel toe of her cowboy boot into his crotch, given it a little wiggle, and told him he hadn’t tasted her yet.

That shut shy-boy down for a while.

Seemed to get under her brother’s skin, too.

Well, fuck him and what he thinks. Ever since Charles got married, Alex had been seeing less and less of him. They hadn’t killed anyone together in months. She actually considered stretching over the table, giving that odd fucker Luther a sloppy, wet kiss, just to watch how Charles reacted.

But that would be weak, giving in to petty insecurity. There was a part of her that despised feeling so vulnerable. No one but Charles could elicit such weakness. Sometimes, she hated him for it.

Now they were moving through the dark parking lot of the gun shop.

They passed a trio who reeked of gunpowder, obviously fresh off the range—a good-looking forty-something woman walking between two men, one tall and ruggedly handsome, the other short and as wide as a Mack truck.

Up ahead, a man in a leather jacket stood by the entrance.

When he turned, she could see that he was Hispanic.

And drop-dead gorgeous.

“Hey, Javier,” Luther said. “These are my friends, Alex and Charles. Alex and Charles, here’s the guy I was telling you about.”