SERIAL KILLERS UNCUT - The Complete Psycho Thriller (The Complete Epic) Page 16

  “It’s the sharpest thing I’ve ever made,” Morrell said, a hint of pride creeping into his voice. “You could cut the wings off a mosquito as it flew at you.”

  “You do beautiful work,” breathed Mr. K.

  “Be careful sharpening it. Only use a razor strop with the finest grit. If you take care of it, you should have years of use.”

  “I intend to.”

  “Can I see it?” Donaldson asked.

  “Sorry, but I’m afraid I have to be going.” Mr. K carefully wrapped up the treasure, and slipped it into his inner blazer pocket. “Good to see you again, Donaldson.”

  He walked away without getting a parting goodbye. Instead, the fat man began to cajole Morrell, demanding to get a knife like Mr. K had just picked up.

  Mr. K hadn’t been lying. He did have someplace to be.

  Porter’s Guns and Ammo.

  One of the very bad people Mr. K worked for had asked him to pay Mr. Porter a visit to convince him to pay a marker. That wasn’t until tomorrow, though. But Mr. K wanted to be the first on the scene, because apparently his employer had also sent another man to talk to Porter.

  Whoever got there first and put in the scare got the commission.

  Normally, Mr. K avoided taking open contracts, because he disliked competition. But he’d been planning on coming to this show anyway to pick up the blade from Morrell, so this was a chance to get the knife for free.

  He slipped through the crowd, humming tunelessly to himself, musing on what Mr. Dovolanni had said could be done to the mark.

  “No permanent damage. We want him to pay up.”

  Mr. K smiled, his lips tight, and wondered if filleting Porter’s penis counted as permanent.

  Javier

  The man browsing next to him at Table #137 handed six hundred-dollar bills to the gun dealer, who took the money, shook his hand, and said, “Kiernan it was great to meet you. You’re gonna love the Nineteen. Best all-around weapon Glock makes.”

  “I can’t wait to shoot it.”

  Jav studied Kiernan out of the corner of his eye, found it oddly amusing that with his black hair and strong, chiseled features, the man resembled a gringo version of himself.

  The dealer slid the plastic gun case into a bag and handed it across the table.

  “Hope to see you again.”

  “You have a nice selection of Glocks,” Javier said to the dealer when Kiernan had left, running his finger over the surfaces of the pistols, each resting on a plastic case, a thin, metal cord running through all the trigger guards to prevent theft.

  “It’s all I carry.”

  Jav smiled. “It’s all I shoot.”

  “Looking for anything in particular?”

  “Yeah, but I’m not seeing it here. It’s the Glock 36. Slimline is the trademark I believe.”

  The vendor smiled. He looked like the antithesis of every other dealer Javier had laid eyes on today. He was fit, or at least within a hundred pounds of his ideal body weight. No facial hair. And he wore a Spandex biking suit that had been autographed over the crotch by Lance Armstrong. He’d put an exclamation point on the ensemble with a handsome Swastika button pinned to his collar.

  The vendor said, “Oh, a connoisseur. I don’t display everything.” He ducked down behind the table and reemerged again with another black, plastic case.

  He opened it.

  Jav looked in, smiled. Would’ve been like seeing his long lost friend, Emilio, again, if he hadn’t cut Emilio into four pieces and burned his traitorous ass into a pound of ash in a rusted-out oildrum. He’d mixed the ash into a gallon of lukewarm water and made Emilio’s widow drink it before he shot her between the eyes. “This…I’ve been looking for this.”

  “Glock only started producing this model four years ago. It sold out early. Only one point one three inches in width. Secure grip design. Shoots a half dozen forty-five caliber ACP rounds.”

  “You mean with the factory clip,” Javier said.

  The vendor flashed an oblique grin. “Yes, a factory clip.”

  “But you have non-factory clips.”

  “I could probably scrounge one up.”

  “May I?” Jav gestured to the firearm.

  The spandexed bicycle-Nazi-gun freak said, “By all means.”

  It took Javier approximately five seconds to field-strip the weapon. He checked the spring, sited down the barrel, and gave it a quick sniff for gun oil. Everything looked perfect.

  Javier hadn’t heard the man move up behind him. Just sensed him and turned suddenly and there he was—good-looking black man, roughly his age, smiling at him through a pair of coffee-brown eyes.

  “Well done, soldier.”

  “What makes you think I’m a soldier?” Jav asked.

  “Because it takes one to know one. Reassemble it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Put the Glock back together.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I can do it faster.”

  Jav smiled, felt a spurt of adrenaline rush through him. This guy was pushing him into a game.

  “You believe that you can beat five seconds.”

  “Hell yes, son.”

  “I’m not your son.”

  “Relax, my man.”

  Nothing made Javier more angry than being told to relax. Felt like a nuclear bomb detonating in the pit of his stomach, but all he did was flash a thousand-watt smile.

  He took his time putting the pistol back together, and when it was reassembled, set it back on its plastic case.

  His self-appointed opponent stepped up to the table and cut his eyes at the vendor. “You saw my man field-strip this motherfucker?”

  “Yep.”

  “You can judge if I beat his time.”

  “I think so.”

  The black man glanced at Javier. “Watch and learn, son. Count me down from five, Spandex.”

  Javier registered a moment’s hesitation in the vendor, sensed that being told to do something by this young black man has stiffened his racist bristles.

  But he started counting anyway.

  “Five…four…three…”

  The man cracked his neck and placed his hands palm down on the table.

  “Two…one.”

  Javier had seen fast hands during his stint with the Special Air Mobile Force Group, but nothing to rival this. It was a single, flawless movement, like choreography, and then the Glock 36 lay in four pieces—slide, recoil spring, barrel, and grip.

  Javier couldn’t help shaking his head. “Damn.”

  “Maybe three seconds?” the vendor said.

  “Impressive,” Jav said. “You military?”

  “Force Recon. Isaiah, by the way.” The man offered his hand and Jav shook it.

  “Javier.”

  Isaiah reassembled the firearm. “Maybe we’ll run into each other at the range some time. Have ourselves a little shootout.”

  Javier said, “Competitive much?”

  “I’m a Marine, what the fuck do you think?“

  Isaiah slapped him on the shoulder, and when he was gone, Javier turned back to the vendor. “How much?” Javier asked.

  “Six fifty.”

  “That’s a bit more than retail, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Look, I don’t have to sell this gun. It sells itself. That’s the price.”

  Jav ran a finger along the slide. “You have a suppressor to fit this pistol?”

  “Suppressors are illegal in thirty-eight states. Which state are you from?”

  “That’s not what I fucking asked you.”

  “You know, you can make your own,” a deep voice said.

  Jav turned to look at the man who had come up behind him, wondering what it was about gun shows that made complete strangers act like best buddies. This stranger was a white guy, tall motherfucker. Worst of all, he was wearing a police uniform.

  Javier hated cops. They were down there with roaches and rats and needed to be exterminated. But at the same time, Jav knew h
ow to play the game, act nice, pay them to look the other way.

  But that didn’t mean he had to be buddy-buddy with them in public.

  “I don’t recall inviting you into this conversation, officer.”

  The large man smiled. Jav noticed the tag on his dress blues read FULLER.

  “Just offering my two cents. A plastic pop bottle and some duct tape can do wonders for suppressing a pistol. Not as nice as a custom, but it works in a pinch.”

  “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.

&nb
sp; 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?”