Glancing only long enough to see what Alice was made of, Charlie found the woman to be stunning, possessing unfashionably long hair and dressed smart—a little too smart for a lady working a greasy spoon.
When she plopped down the food, Charlie went through the expected motions, eyes respectfully glued to the slop and nothing else. “Much appreciated, ma’am.”
Without acknowledging the courtesy, the lithe thing went right back to her place behind the counter.
Checking to assure the prisoner’s blindfold stayed tight, Charlie loosened the saliva saturated gag and grunted, “Supper.”
The captive’s jaw dropped wide in smug anticipation.
Beginning the infuriating process of feeding the most hated thing on earth, Charlie droned out the rules. “Rule number one?”
The prisoner’s voice was a musical thing, seductive and unnerving as it singsonged. “I eat when you tell me to eat.”
“Rule number two?”
Pure sadistic glee. “I piss when you tell me to piss.”
“Rule number three?”
The prisoner’s lips curved into a poisonous smile. “I fuck up… you cut something off.”
A gravelly hiss, and Charlie agreed. “And that is my favorite rule.”
And then Charlie shoveled the rest of the soup between the bastard’s lips, faster and faster. Between slurps and swallows, beyond the distrust the big, dirty bruiser was leveling toward the unlikely pair, the little hairs on the back of Charlie’s neck started to rise.
Something wasn’t right.
When was it ever?
The outdoors went quiet. No birds, no bugs, no nothing.
Silence was never a good thing.
Suspicious, Charlie’s eyes flew to Matthew Emerson. The man was standing rigid, staring out the window like he, too, felt something bad.
Trouble came in a burst of gunfire.
The front windows shattered, glass flying as Charlie tackled the prisoner to the floor. Determined the convict wouldn’t die quickly from some stray bullet to the brain, Charlie barked, “Cut the goddamn lights!”
It went dark—Matthew and Nathaniel firing haphazardly into the night like fools, Alice screaming where she ducked behind the bar. Bullets ricocheting overhead, Charlie
crawled towards the nearest busted window. Using the casement as cover, rifle swinging forward, Charlie let out an audible sigh and scoped the yard. “I ain’t got time for this shit.”
The tell-tale flash of firing bullets gave away target number one. Methodical, impersonal, Charlie pulled the trigger. One blast, one death. The process repeated, patient and thorough—professional.
Five men died due to such skill, and silence, once again, came to the yard.
With the quiet, Charlie stood, ignoring the crunch of glass when stepping over the casement. Bodies were found, examined where they sprawled. Two Charlie recognized, and couldn’t help but snort a laugh when Matthew came bearing a lantern for a closer look.
Matthew Emerson had a quiet kind of fury. The kind that left his words ice. “They worth any money?”
Ignoring the temper, the rage radiating from the stoic, Charlie said, “No one gives a shit about men like this. It’s their boss you should be worrying about.”
Sucking at his teeth, Matthew’s façade slipped just enough that Charlie knew better than to push. “And who might that be?”
Head cocked, Charlie turned and looked up at a man who could crush bones with one good swing. Bearing no trace of compassion, no interest in helping the Emerson boys’ cause, Charlie explained the cold way of things. “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. Speakin’ of which, I did just kill almost all of the fuckers for you.”
“You didn’t do it for me.”