Cause and Effect

Chapter 20

reckoning [rek(ə)ni

//--//--//

Davey adjusted himself on the sandy ground and pulled the rifle closer to his cheek. He angled the rifle down from the ridge he had hiked up onto and scanned the too-familiar burial plot where the guns were stashed at. It was early still, just past twelve, but he could feel the burning of the sun pressing down past his thin shirt. He'd drawn the short straw. Him and Mac, they'd played a game of Texas hold'em and the loser got to hike all the way up to this godawful ridge and spot the little deal that was about to go on. He'd lost of course, which was why he was here, burning to death, and Mac was probably still sleeping off some drunken stupor. 

The angle was off, and he adjusted the scope. He had wanted to leave, to leave the gang, had told Mac, that it had been time to run it solo again. Davey was all too familiar with the shit-hits-the-fan feeling, and boy he could feel one creeping up for weeks now. Mac, little shit that he was, had been turning him down and refusing to talk about it. Always finding an out, always eager to put off the conversation by ignoring him or tackling some hardass job that Davey knew Mac would never touch, never in a million years unless he was trying to avoid the topic at hand. 

Davey had finally talked to him last night, got to the slippery little bastard, before he could slip away. 

Reckon it's time to go, he had said quietly, slipping Mac a bottle of his favorite whiskey, so to make the subject go down easier. We've run it solo before, we can do it again.

Mac's face had twisted up all strange, and Davey felt his stomach knot. Sure, Davey, but, and his brother had taken a strongass pull from that bottle and Davey almost felt the need to yank it back. Now maybe ain't the best time to split so sudden.

Hey, Davey had joked, trying to stitch back together whatever was falling apart so sudden. Hey, didn't know man like yourself had a conscience. 

Mac had handed him back the bottle, and Davey could see his dreams of the Callendar boys ride off into the sunset with that lone action. Ain't, you know that, he had scoffed at the idea. But, don't seem right to leave 'em now. Especially when things are how they are.

He hadn't said anything, just let his dream slip through his fingers and had nodded quietly. Hosea had come up to them not long afterwards and had offered them a gun and a job. So, now he was here, instead of running and free, on the road, where he should, be with Mac, just the two of them. 

Angling the scope, he scanned the sandy ground beneath him again. Javier and Hosea had told him they'd be coming with the handler and the man he'd be bringing at half-past twelve. He wiped away sweat dripping into his eyes and leaned his head on the stock of his rifle. 

It's for cordiality, Hosea had said when the three of them had met up one last time before they split off. If we provide a sense of security to our man, perhaps that will take the edge off.

Whatever edge the handler was supposed to have stepped off, Davey had stepped right up onto. He was nervous, paranoid really. A creeping sensation crawled along his spine, and he whirled around, rifle forgotten, as he whipped out his Browning at his side. 

Nothing. 

Of course, it had been nothing. Davey turned back around and picked the rifle back up. He was nervous, tension taut in his shoulders, and he could feel his own heartbeat shudder against the sandy ground beneath him. He slotted his elbows back into the little indentations he had made for himself, and settled back, fingers tightening around the trigger guard. He could kill for some oxy right about now. Had been trying to kick the habit, partly for Mac's sake, partly because the high made it damn near impossible to shoot straight, but the stuff really shook him straight when he got like this.