in the glove box, then lean across nice and slow to open it and pull out the bits of paper. Maybe we’re going to get away with it? Maybe he’s not going to ask too many questions. Maybe . . . He’s leaning on the car door, peering in at everyone and I get that fucked feeling again.
What the hell’s he going to think? There’s me behind the wheel. Henry’s in the passenger seat – fifty-eight, V-neck sweater on over a shirt and tie, like a retired door-to-door salesman. In the back we got Jack, with his leather jacket and fucked-up face. And sitting next to him, there’s Brian, the eighteen-year-old, pale, shivering blob that used to be Laura’s boyfriend, both hands clutching his groin. Thank Christ he’s wearing black trousers so no one can see the blood.
The Trooper stares at him. “What happened to your friend?”
“Brian here got himself a dose of something off this girl in Ohio,” I say, trying on my smile again and lying through my teeth. “I told him you gotta use a condom, but you know what kids are like these days.” My face hurts from all the smiling – let’s face it, there’s been damn all to smile about these last couple of days, I’m out of practice – but the Trooper seems to be buying it.
“You got a tail 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 do much for Brian’s aches and pains. Poor bastard.
Henry twists the top off his early morning bourbon and takes a swig. That should even him out for a little while. Make him less likely to take another pop at Jack.
I take a bite of my burrito – not bad, but not great. “Mr Jones say anything about the FBI?”
Henry sniffs his breakfast, peeling back the outer layer of the burrito to examine the mess of eggs, ground sausage, potato and cheese inside. “Turns out one of their agents is missing.”
“No shit,” says Jack with his mouth full.
Henry ignores him. “They’re doing an appeal on national TV for Laura tonight. Fox News and America’s Most Wanted.”
I nod and take another bite. We always knew Mr Jones would end up on America’s Most Wanted, never thought it’d be as ‘father of victim’, though . . . “No clues?”
“Nah, you know what these Feds are like, sooner chop off their own dick than tell you anything.” He looks back over his shoulder at Brian and his blood-soaked trousers. “No offence.” Then downs some more bourbon. “With Feds and cops you got to persuade them a little – like with a hammer.”
Which is how come Special Agent Mills is now wrapped in plastic sheeting in the trunk of the car . . . with a lot of broken bones, his fingernails ripped out, and his face mashed to a bloody pulp.
“You know,” I say, finishing off the burrito and starting in on the coffee – which tastes like crap by the way, “we should really get rid of Agent Mills before he starts to smell.”
Henry takes a trial bite of his breakfast, chews a couple of times, pulls a disgusted face and spits it out the window into the rain. Then hurls the rest out after it. “How can you eat this shit? Jesus . . .” Another mouthful of bourbon. “Like someone scraped dog crap off the sidewalk and wrapped it in a fuckin’ used condom.” He looks over his shoulder at Jack. “What, they don’t have no fuckin’ donuts? They never heard of Krispy Kreme in fuckin’ Illinois?”
“You’re welcome,” says Jack. “It was that or hot dogs that looked like they been on the grill since Nixon was president. What the fuck you want from me?”
If I was a gambling man – which I am – I’d put money on Jack going back to New Jersey in a body cast. Or a body bag. You see, normal people know not to screw with guys like Henry, but Jack . . . I think he’s missing that little voice, you know? The one that says, ‘Don’t poke the fucking