Ahead, to his right, an empty lot sat awaiting redevelopment.
That’ll do.
He threw the wheel over to the right again, bouncing over the curb and skidding into the cracked, overgrown parking area.
If the last thing they wanted was witnesses, it made sense to guarantee some, Bob figured. He slammed on the brakes, the lot gritty, the compact sedan sliding forward to a stop.
He climbed out of the car, checking the bulge at the small of his back, where his FN’s speed holster was clipped to his belt.
The truck jumped the curb aggressively, flying over it, crashing to the surface on the other side. The driver slammed on the brakes, the truck sliding in a semi-circle before coming to rest fifteen feet away.
They climbed out.
Sharmila hadn’t been wrong. The Kopec twins were identical, both well over six feet, both… Attractiveness-challenged? Bob wondered. What’s the polite term these days for uglier than a rotten pumpkin?
They approached at a lazy pace. Tommy was smiling while his brother Vern—the scar exactly where Sharmila had noted, above his eye—looked blankly dour.
Flat effect. He’d seen it on the face of his late Team Seven teammate Edson Krug when he didn’t know he was being watched, a complete absence of expression or feeling, as if empty inside.
Tommy, on the hand, was grinning gregariously. “I take it you’d be Mr. Richmond, the lawyer from Los Angeles.”
“Well, boys… I don’t generally accept clients who try to get my attention by running me off the road, but if you want to give my assistant a call next week…”
“Heh! You’re a funny man!” He looked at his brother. “See, V? He’s a funny man. That’s what we heard.”
“Funny,” Vern droned.
“Yeah… I get that a lot here. You people all think I should open a Comedy Barn or something.” Bob gestured beyond them. “Lots of traffic on Nineteenth Street today, boys. Must be a thousand witnesses going by, cameras on the stores. Terrible spot for a business meeting.”
“Uh. Well, we know who you are, Mr. Funny Man,” Tommy drawled. “But you don’t know who we—”
“You’re the Kopec twins. You’re hitters for Merry Michelsen.”
Tommy frowned. “How’d you—”
“You’re probably less anonymous than you think, despite your careful disguises. Not that it matters to me either way.”
“Yeah?” Vernon asked, crossing his arms defiantly. “Why’s that?”
“Because I’m not about to get into a fight with two yokels who are stronger than me and have a nasty history of causing trouble. You really think every cop here is as dirty as your buddy Jeb Fowler? You figure no one’s going to speak up if you shoot someone on Nineteenth Street in broad daylight, or start beating some dude up?”
He leaned against the BMW casually and crossed his arms, relaxed. “No, I’m just going to stand here until the two of you fuck off back to whatever one-room, podunk, no-running-water hovel you crawled out of. I mean… shouldn’t you be off somewhere, helping your momma birth some more babies?”
Vern’s eyes flashed anger, his face contorting into a half-snarl. He strode forward. But his brother’s arm came up, blocking his path. “Hold on there, brother. Don’t let him jerk you around. He’s looking to set you off for a reason.”
“Ah,” Bob said with a knowing nod. “You must the brain cell of the operation.”
Tommy’s smile disappeared, his scowl equaling his sibling’s. “I figure you want Vern here to throw the first punch so’s you can argue we assaulted you later on. But…” He looked around. “…Like you said, not a great spot for it.”
“Plus, I can see two enormous quivering cowards from a mile away, so I knew you’d turn chicken if confronted,” Bob said. Wind them up, see how long it takes them to—
He hadn’t finished the thought when Vern snapped, pushing his brother aside and charging forward, trying to wrap Bob up in his gigantic arms.
Bob timed the flat-palm strike carefully, slamming it squarely into the bridge of his attacker’s nose, the bone snapping. Vern stumbled, falling forward, Bob skittering aside as he crashed into the door of the sedan.
He fell to all fours. “Broge my dose…” he muttered. He looked around quickly to find his brother, watering eyes obscuring his vision, blood streaming from both nostrils. “HE BROGE MY FUGGI DOSE!’ he bellowed.
Vern scrambled to his feet, turning, both fists clenched, blood and snot continuing to stream out over his lips and chin.
Tommy shuffled forward a few steps and blocked his brother once more.
“Yeah, but like your brother said, Vern… you attacked me. Pretty sure that antique store across the road’s going to have a camera out front, so this is assault by you, and self-defense by me.”
Bob rebalanced his weight between both feet, anticipating reprisal.
But instead, Tommy stared at him coolly. “Think you’re pretty smart, don’t you, mister? Getting him all worked up like that. But I can wait. I can wait until you’re sleeping. Or one of our friends can visit you. Or maybe I can go by your lady friend’s place… Yeah. You think we didn’t know she bailed out a ways back, at the gas station? You throw a nice punch… That karate or something?”
“Something like that.”
“Uh huh. Well… you’d best be careful round these parts. Fists won’t do much good against a bullet. Bullet wins every time.”
“Which is why if someone brings a gun to a fist fight, I’ll shoot first,” Bob said, “and worry about the cameras later.”
Tommy’s eyes narrowed. His gaze was penetrating, like a scientist studying a lab specimen. He crossed his arms, showing off his biceps. “Who are you, mister? Ain’t never seen a lawyer get into scraps. Not and win them, no how.”
“I’m just a big old boy scout,” Bob said. “You know the motto, right, Tommy? ‘Be prepared’. Does your boss know you’re running guys off the road? I imagine an enormous tub of crap like that would want a lower profile, what with all the meth and misery and such.”
The thug sucked on his tongue a little. “Yeah… smart guy. They don’t last too long around here.”
