Last Call - A Thriller (Jacqueline "Jack" Daniels Mysteries Book 10) (29 page)

“It’s going to be harder than we thought. Let’s get the guns ready.”

McGlade did his super-secret-press-seventy-buttons thing to open his smuggler trap, and when the top raised I found myself staring at my bag, Katie’s Colt, a stun gun, and something in a padded envelope.

“Harry, is this envelope yours?”

“Is it filled with clown porn?”

“For some reason I’m reluctant to check.”

He came back from the cockpit. “Did I ever tell you my clown porn name is Mr. Scrotals?”

I pointed into the trap. “Is that filled with Mr. Scrotals selfies?”

“Never seen it before. But I’ve got some selfies on my phone.”

“Pass.”

“Mr. Scrotals is a bad clown. He needs a spanking.”

“He needs a muzzle.”

I squatted down and picked up the envelope, giving it a light squeeze. There was something firm and rectangular inside.

“This isn’t yours?” I asked.

“Never seen it beforepants. Must be Katie’s.”

I tore it open, not sure of what I was about to discover. It turned out to be a digital camera.

“Jack…” Harry said, shaking his head, “that’s not yours and might be filled with private, intimate pictures.” He took it from my hands. “Me first.”

After a few seconds of button mashing, McGlade frowned. “No battery.”

“Do you have any batteries?” This was more than just curiosity. It was cop instinct. Something was up with Katie, and she’d deemed this camera important enough to hide from the Border Patrol Officers.

“No. It’s one of those weird-shaped rechargeable batteries.”

I put the camera in my pocket, and then hauled up the gun bag.

Harry and I spent five minutes checking the extra magazines and adjusting the Hensoldt scopes on my two Heckler & Koch PSG1 semi-automatic sniper rifles. I’d also brought a Mossberg 500 tactical shotgun, and three 9mm Glock 17s with side holsters.

When someone knocked on the Crimebago door, I had a feeling who it was going to be.

What I didn’t expect was for her to be on crutches. But it didn’t make me any less happy to see her.

“Val Ryker! Welcome to the Crimebago Deux,” Harry had somehow come up behind her on the street. “Can I help you up?”

“Why do I think you’re just looking for an excuse to grope me inappropriately?”

“You mean there’s some situation where I could grope you and it wouldn’t be inappropriate?”

She handed McGlade her crutches, and I helped her aboard. Then we embraced.

“Thanks for coming, Val.”

“Glad I could finally return a favor.” She gave Herb Bacondict a pat on the head like having a hog in an RV was normal.

“You… doing okay?” I asked, giving her a once over. She was about my size, a little younger, wearing jeans and a Packer tee, standing slightly askew.

“I bet it was Lump,” Harry said, climbing in and tossing her crutches on the floor. “Did he confuse the front door and the back door again?”

Val had learned to ignore Harry years ago. “How is your cute firefighter fella?” I asked. She’d been with David Lund for longer than I’d been with Phin.

“Still cute. Still fighting fires.”

“Has he seen a specialist about the whole micropenis thing?” Harry asked.

“Am I the first one here?” Val asked. “Other than the smelly pig?”

“Don’t listen to her, Herb,” Harry said, covering his ears. “You smell fine.”

“I wasn’t referring to him.” She offered McGlade a fake smile.

“Oooh. Burnpants.”

“Chandler is doing recon,” I said. “Fleming and Tequila…”

“Are also doing recon,” Harry said, “on each other.”

“How was your flight?” I asked.

“Shitty. I had to lie to Lund so he didn’t insist on coming with. I said you and Phin are having problems so I was going to Mexico with you.”

“Not exactly a lie.”

“When I landed, I had eight messages from him. He knows something’s up.”

My cell rang, and I excused myself. It was Herb.

“Jack, where are you?”

“I’m in Mexicali, Herb. What’s up?”

“Where exactly? My plane just landed.”

I wasn’t sure I heard that correctly. “You’re here?”

“Mexico is really strict on firearms, so I couldn’t bring mine. I hope you have extras.”

My eyes began to well up, and I wiped them with the back of my hand. “I think we can find something suitable for you, partner. We’ll be right there to pick you up.”

T
hat was Jack Daniels. He was sure of it.

And she gave me three bucks and change.

Donaldson hadn’t seen
Jack in a long time
. Before he’d been disfigured. So it made sense that she didn’t recognize him.

But he’d never forget that bitch.

He could only think of one reason why she’d be in Mexico. She was after Luther Kite and Lucy, just like he was.

So how could he follow her?

Donaldson had no car, was in excruciating pain, and his fingers were still glued to his eye socket.

He watched Jack get into the big red recreational vehicle, and had a ridiculous idea.

The RV had a ladder on the back, leading to the roof. At the front of the roof was a wind deflector; a large v-shaped wedge that made the vehicle more streamlined so it used less gas.

Donaldson had driven trucks. Wind deflectors were hollow, to save on weight. They also made a good place to store dead bodies, provided the corpse was properly secured. If he could climb the ladder, traverse the roof without making any noise, and then hide inside the deflector, he could tag along with Jack to her destination.

It was difficult, risky, and really stupid. But Donaldson didn’t have any other options. At the rate he was going, he’d starve to death in Mexico before ever finding his Lucy.

But there was no way he’d be able to climb up there with one hand. No possible way.

He tugged on his arm, grunting in pain, the scabby skin around his socket stretching until Donaldson’s world went squiggly.

No good. He had to try something else.

With great difficulty, Donaldson got to his feet and scanned the street, looking for inspiration to strike. He was actually considering stepping into traffic, because the force of being hit by a car would probably be enough to remove his hand from his face, and that’s when he noticed the red and white candy cane pole outside of a shop, glinting in the Mexican heat.

The universal symbol of barbers.

He stumbled over to the barber shop, garnering the expected looks of shock when he walked inside and everyone stopped what they were doing to stare at the freak. While they gawked, he quickly located an errant pair of scissors on a nearby tray and snatched them up. The nearest hairdresser began to protest in Spanish, but stopped his approach when Donaldson raised the scissors and giggled manically.

He wasn’t about to mess with his eyelid again. Especially when it had been such a hassle to get shut.

But fingers? Who needed fingers?

The sharp implement made quick but bloody work of his fingertips, hacking them off in only a few forceful snips, and then his hand was free.

Donaldson shoved the scissors into his pocket, grabbed a towel, and got the hell out of there.

As expected, no one followed the crazy, disfigured, bleeding man out into the street.

Walking so erratically he almost fell, Donaldson dribbled the rest of the superglue onto his new wounds, pressed the towel against the stumps, and then stumbled toward the motorhome. He climbed the ladder with caution, but caution probably wasn’t needed.

Donaldson felt indestructible.

Donaldson
was
indestructible.

Nothing could stop him. Not injury. Not pain. Not lack of drugs. And definitely not some old, obsolete bitch cop.

Destiny was calling, and Donaldson was its willing servant.

Quietly climbing across the roof, he made it to the wind deflector, hid inside, and gummed the towel to his face so he didn’t make a sound, because something was threatening to come out of his mouth and Donaldson had no idea if it would be laughter, sobs, vomit, screams, or some combination of all four.

D
eath is the end of everything. And it closes in on us.”

K was acting crazy.

Again.

Maybe it was the drugs. Maybe it was PTSD. Maybe he’d finally just gone mad like one of those stupid kings from the Shakespeare plays he was getting more and more obsessed with. The other day she’d found him reading King Lear, and he was literally
leering
at it.

“I don’t like it when you get weird like this, K.”

“For the poor wren, the most diminutive of birds, will fight, her young ones in her nest, against the owl.”

“You’re not making sense.”

“Birds of a feather, Lucy.” K stared into space. “And the flock is coming.”

“Maybe we should get the flock out of here,” Lucy said.

K didn’t react.

“I said—”

“Don’t repeat yourself, Lucy. Once is enough.”

For a millisecond, Lucy considered jumping him. They were equally weak, equally disfigured. She carried a razor, he carried a knife. But K was bigger, and had more fingers. Lucy might get a slash or two in, but then the guards would come, and K would likely do something to her out of spite, like skin Lucy’s legs and make her crawl across an acre of rock salt.

He was unduly vindictive in that way. Probably best to keep a lid on her temper.

“Hanover told me who his wife is.”

“Hanover?”

“The prisoner. Number 17. The one who came here to kill you. Remember?”

K didn’t respond.

“His wife is a true crime writer. I downloaded a few of her ebooks. She writes about serial killers.”

“Does she now?”

“Her name is Katie.”

“Katie?”

K did that stare-off-into-nothing thing, but with more intensity than usual. As if he was trying to remember something.

“What is her last name?” K asked.

Lucy considered her answer. If she told the truth, and K remembered who the woman was, he might take Mr. Hanover away from her and ruin her murder plot. But her gut told her it wouldn’t matter. And Lucy always did get a thrill out of almost getting caught.

She went with her gut.

“Glente. Katie Glente.”

No reaction at all from K. Lucy found it marvelous. Stupid Mr. Hanover came out here to protect his family, and Luther Kite didn’t even know who they were. Both were absolute idiots.

“A ministering angel,” K whispered.

Lucy sighed, raising her voice. “Prophetic words, my king. I must now hither to yon water closet and replace my stoma bag.”

“See you at the games, Lucy.”

K grinned in a creepy way, and she bowed and got out of there.

Things were getting worse. K’s threats were becoming more frequent, he was acting more and more nutzoid. The Luther Kite she used to know had his shit together. He’d probably always been insane. At least he had since his youth, when a combination of tragedy, abuse, and genetics forged him into a man. But this new, Shakespeare quoting person was insane in a different kind of way. Not calculating and remorseless, or even risk-taking and narcissistic. K was more along the lines of sitting naked in a corner and cackling while playing with his toes.

She needed to take him out before his crazy wound up hurting or killing her.

Lucy passed the throne room guard—K’s paranoia had grown to where he wouldn’t even go to the can without an armed guard—and then made her way down the stairs, thinking about Hanover.

Sometimes you just needed a Kamikaze. Lucy wasn’t willing to die in order to murder Luther Kite. But Hanover claimed he was ready, willing, and able.

Lucy had her doubts. When she and K had first come to Mexico, and he’d talked his former employer, Emilio Cardova, into funding this gladiator arena in the middle of nowhere, she’d done her research on ancient Rome, the Coliseum, the grand bloody spectacle that had never been matched before or since. Supposedly, some of the condemned had even saluted Emperor Claudius even though he’d sentenced them to die.

Lucy doubted that ever happened. It certainly hadn’t happened since they’d been at La Juntita. People would beg for mercy. They’d try to escape. A few even committed suicide in the arena. But Lucy had seen precious little heroism, and zero self-sacrifice.