The King(29)
But the fact of the matter was … for the first time in his adult life, he was afraid.
“Where the hell is this place? Fucking Canada?”
Behind the wheel of the Crown Vic, Two Tone was ready to eat a bullet as the bitching continued. This five-hour drive through the middle of the night had been bad enough, but the waste of skin beside him in the passenger seat?
If he wanted to do the world a favor, he’d point the gun in that direction, not his own.
There would be such satisfaction in putting out the fucker’s pilot light, but in the organization, the role of supervisor only got you so far—and the right to coffin a chatty bastard was just over that line.
“I mean, where the fuck are we?”
Two Tone bit down on his molars. “We’re almost there.”
Like the SOB was a five-year-old on the way to Grandma’s house? Jesus Christ.
As he drove deeper into the absolute frickin’ boonies, the sedan’s headlights captured the immediate distance ahead, pulling the rows of pine trees and the two lanes that curved in and around the base of a mountain out of the night. Dawn was coming, however, a faint peachy light appearing over to the east.
Great fucking news. Sooner, not later, they were going to finally be off the road, and then they could deal with the merchandise, and get some goddamn rest.
Squinting, he leaned forward over the wheel. He had a feeling they were coming up to the turnoff …
Two hundred yards later, an unmarked dirt road appeared to the right.
No reason to hit the directional signal—or slow down. He nailed the brakes and wrenched the wheel, their cargo thumping in the trunk.
If she’d fallen asleep, she was awake now.
The ascent was steep and the going got much slower: December meant a crap load of snow had already fallen on the ground this far north.
He’d only been to this property once before—and it had been for the same purpose. The boss man was not someone you wanted to piss off, and if you did, it got you snatched and brought up here where no one would ever find you.
He had no clue what that woman had done to offend, but that was not his problem. His job was to get her, disappear her—and hold her until further instructions.
Still, he had to wonder. The last asshole he’d delivered to the hidden place had embezzled five hundred thousand dollars and twelve kilos of cocaine. What the fuck had she pulled? And shit, he hoped he wasn’t up here for as long as that other job had lasted.
He’d also gotten a rotator-cuff injury courtesy of that assignment.
The boss didn’t like to do the torturing himself. He preferred to watch.
Hard to claim New York State worker’s comp for the shit he’d done to the guy.
But, whatever, Two Tone didn’t mind that part of the job. He wasn’t like some guys, who were into it, and not at all like the big man, who didn’t like getting his hands dirty at all. Nah, he was in the middle, happy enough to take care of shit provided he was paid well for it.
“How much farther are we—”
“Another quarter mile.”
“It’s fucking cold up here.”
Gonna be colder when you’re dead, motherfucker.
The boss had hired this asshole about six months ago, and Two Tone had been saddled with him a couple of times. He kept hoping that the dumb shit would be fired the good ol’-fashioned way, but so far, no luck.
Bastard would make an excellent floater in the Hudson River.
Or in a hole. Matter of fact, wasn’t his name Phil?
Talk about inspiration.
After a final bend in the road, the underwhelming goal was reached: The single-story “hunting cabin” blended perfectly into the landscape, the low-slung building all but disappearing in the midst of the snow-covered underbrush and fluffy evergreens. In fact, the exterior had been deliberately constructed to look run-down. Inside, though, it was a fortress with a lot of fucking dark secrets.
And what was in the trunk was going to be added to that tally.
He’d never heard of a female being brought here before. Wonder if she was hot? Impossible to get a read on that when they’d been carrying her deadweight out of that house.
Maybe he could have some fun as he passed the time.
“What the fuck is this place? It looks like a fucking outhouse. Does it have heat?”
Two Tone closed his lids and ran through a number of fantasies that involved bloodshed. Then he cranked open his door and stood up, stretching the kinks out. Man, he had to take a piss.
Walking over to the door, he muttered, “Get the thing out of the trunk, wouldja.”
No keys to worry about. Access was fingerprinted.
As he went along, he had to use a flashlight to zero in on the pseudo-decrepit entrance. He was about halfway to goal when he turned back, some instinct talking to him.