So did Tommy. “Stop! Just… stop, now,” Tommy ordered him.
Javier looked stunned. “You raising your piece on me, Tommy Kopec?”
“Just… making the point, man. I ain’t going to shoot you. You’re like family. But Vern’s my brother. We can’t set this off. We… we just can’t.” He turned his attention back to Bob. “What you want, Bob? What do you expect to resolve with this?”
Bob wagged the index finger on his free left hand at the man, slightly taken aback to have been offered something approaching logic and reason. “Now… that’s sort of life-affirming right there, Tommy. The two of you are darn close to sociopathic in your shittiness and willingness to hurt others. But you still give a damn about family.”
He rose. The two men both shook in place, nervous tension making them jumpy as they glared at the string running from his boot to the chair Vern was tiptoeing on.
“Oh, don’t worry, guys. I’m pretty focused on the pull there staying the same. My foot didn’t move. But yours, better. First, toss your weapons over by Vern, there.”
The men complied, the pistols thumping against dirt. “Good! Now, hustle on over here. Give me, oh, seven feet of space ahead of me, four feet apart.”
They followed his instruction.
“Someday, we’re going to revisit this,” Tommy said. “Nobody gets lucky forever.”
Bob nodded gently. “Yeah, true. You’d do well to remember it.” He raised the pistol in a smooth motion, butt braced with his left hand. He shot Tommy through the left kneecap, aiming left of center to avoid the main artery. His target collapsed in a heap, clutching the wound.
Javier began backing away, trembling. “Ay, coño… No, please…”
Bob shot him in the same exact spot as his friend, the shot clean, the smaller man taking an extra moment to lose the strength and sensation on that side before also collapsing on his left hip.
He walked over to both men, the string pulled free from his boot, the chair yanked away from Vern’s feet, his body dropping towards the ground.
“NO!” Tommy yelled.
Vern dangled realistically, but his expression barely changed.
“Oh, relax,” Bob said. “I wasn’t going to hang the man. He’s still mostly paralyzed. The winch hook is looped through the back of his pants, supporting his weight.”
“Dirty sum’bitch,” Tommy moaned. “Tricked me.”
“Yeah, real challenging,” Bob said dryly. He shot each man through the rectus femoris muscle in the thigh, aiming for the fleshy middle. Tommy grunted loudly, Javier letting out a little yelp.
Tommy was breathing hard, almost panting. “Uhhh… Uhhhh… Motherfucker, I am gonna love killing you dead. Yes, sir.”
Bob crouched, keeping his voice soft and to the point. “Now… don’t tempt me, Tommy. I’m trying to be the bigger man here. I’ve shot you twice, and I’m going to make sure an ambulance comes for you. The second bullet, the one in your thigh, will make walking very painful for a long time. The first, through your kneecap, will require months of physiotherapy. Even then, I’d get used to limping.”
“You should kill me, motherfucker,” Tommy spat. “Cos if you don’t…”
“I’ll be long gone before you’re running track meets.”
Javier groaned. Then he stammered, “What… what’d you do with Terry?”
Bob sighed dramatically. “Yeah. Neither of you want to know the answer to that.” He glanced over at the hog enclosure. “I told you, I’m trying not to kill anyone, but I figure by the time someone comes and helps you, there won’t be much left, if anything. They eat bone, you know.”
He began to walk back towards the field, trying not to show how much pain he was in. It was nearly a klick back to Sharmila’s BMW, along the north road.
“Don’t… Don’t leave us here!” Tommy called out.
Bob took Terry’s phone out of his pocket.
“911 emergency.”
“Yeah, there’s a couple of fellers who’ve gone and shot themselves several times.” He offered the address.
“Sir, can you—”
Bob ended the call. He used his shirt to wipe down the phone, then tossed it back towards the scrubby field.
He needed his ribs strapped, the burns looked at, a healthy dose of painkillers.
And sleep. I need sleep.
Sharmila was not going to be happy. But I promised I wouldn’t kill them, and I didn’t.
Job done.
38LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
Geert Van Kamp watched the five mechanical slot-machine horses race around the last turn. There was a small crowd gathered around the old gaming machine, the last version of Sigma Derby available to Vegas gamblers, in a corner of a downtown casino, just off the Strip.
Vegas famously had no horse racing of its own. It was one of Van Kamp’s few vices, other than enjoying murder. His ‘fixer’ had promised him some action, nonetheless.
Very amusing, Renton. Clearly, you’ve forgotten I have no sense of humor.
He’d have to find a way to subtly punish the man, put the fear into him under ambiguous circumstances, so that he wasn’t quite sure how serious Van Kamp was.
