The Invisible Hand - A crime novel

Chapter 113

        

I'm not aiming at Red when I fire the revolver. His time will come later.

I spin on my heel toward the door. It's one of Les's guards, the scrawny guy. There's a pump shotgun in his hands again. Good for him. Face is seriously fucked up, though.

Seriously.

The scrawny guy says something just before I fire. Maybe a threat. Or an offer of a beer.

I'm beyond listening at this point. Don't care. Unleash the .45's bark and bite. Finish the surgery on his face in one shot. He won't be getting up this time.

Enough of the Midwestern guilt. I won't feel bad about anything. This isn't a situation I asked for in the first place. Never had a choice. These aren't nice times. This isn't a nice place. I'm not a nice person.

My mind hasn't felt this clear in a long time. Seriously.

Red bolts up out of the chair. "What did you just do?" he says.

"Sit the fuck back down," I say. Decide he'll be staying here. Don't want him slowing me down.

Nearly plant a bullet in him as I say it. But I don't. Not yet. I need to find Sam first. Also need a way to get around those guards. I can hear them shouting somewhere in the distance.

I pop the cylinder out of the .45. Count the cartridges. Five unfired. One with a dented primer, fired.

I change my mind about Red.

"Stand up," I say. Poke him in the ribs with the revolver.

Red stands. Raises his right hand as a show of surrender.

"You got here how?" I say.

"I've got a truck," Red says.

"Give me your keys," I say.

Red doesn't hesitate. Tosses the keys to me.

"Take me to the truck. Walk in front of me. No questions. Do what I say," I say.

I stuff the revolver into my pocket. Pick up the scrawny guy's pump shotgun. Take stock of the ammunition. Two slugs in the magazine. One in the chamber.

With the revolver, that brings the ammo count to eight. Not much compared to the dozen or so guards Les keeps around.

Not sure why I'm focusing on math at a time like this, but it keeps the tunnel vision away. My blood bubbles with adrenaline.

I grab Red's arm in the sling. Swing him in front of me. Push him out the door. Follow a few steps behind.

The other guards are on scene. One is straight ahead. The other two come from the left. All sport shotguns. Fifty yards and closing. All illuminated by truck headlights.

I'm not too worried. They must be horseshit guards to have let Red slip into my RV anyway. That's the kind of reliability meth gets you.

The thought only crosses my mind for a split second. I empty the shotgun into the two guards on the left. Aim. Fire. Pump. Repeat. My targets are too stupid to not stand there in shock as I drill exit wounds through their backs wide enough for a fist.

I cycle through twice on empty before realizing it. Time to get moving again.

I scramble into the night. Stick Red between me and the guards approaching on the right. They open up. Nothing connects.

Our 50-yard head start turns into 75. Then 100. Soon enough we're at Red's truck. It's hidden behind a small hill of trash.

"I drive," I say. Stop Red from opening the passenger door. Point to the bed of the truck. "You get in the back."

"What?" Red says.

"You deaf? Get in the back," I say. "And make sure you catch any shots at the cab."

Red winces. Climbs into the bed. Have a nice ride, asshole.

I toss the shotgun onto the seat in the cab. Fire up the truck.

I kill the lights, though. A truck is a lot bigger than a person. No sense in giving them an even better target. There's a bit of light from inside the Man Camp anyway.

Now to figure out where the hell they've got Sam.

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