“No idea,” he said. “Where’d you leave him?”
Mouthpiece handed his jacket to one of the heavies and took a slim black phone out of his pocket. He tapped the screen and turned it so Clay could see.
“He’s not answering his phone,” he said. “His suitcase and his car are still at the… hotel, I guess… but the bed hasn’t been slept in.”
“Maybe he got lucky.”
Mouthpiece licked his lower lip and put the phone away. “See,” he said, “that’s funny, because from what I’ve been told, he got the opposite of lucky.”
“He’s not my type,” Clay said. “So his love life or lack of it—”
“Is that TJ Hall?” Mouthpiece interrupted as he pointed over Clay’s shoulder.
“One of them is.”
“Pretty boy or the one in the back?”
Clay hesitated for a second. His reluctance to lie and throw Grade to the wolves to buy them time caught him off guard. Lucky enough, he came up with enough flaws in that plan—Grade had no reason to play along, and TJ was too dumb to realize it would be to his advantage—that he didn’t have to do it anyhow.
“What if I don’t let you take him?” he said.
Mouthpiece waved a hand. “You’re outnumbered,” he said. “Not to mention outclassed. No offense.”
“None taken.”
Clay pulled his gun in one smooth motion and shot the heavy holding Mouthpiece’s jacket in the foot. The bullet punched through leather and bone and jarred to a stop when it hit the concrete. Blood sprayed over the road and up the side of the car. It splattered Mouthpiece’s leg, darker spots on the gray wool, as the heavy screamed and staggered backward onto his ass. He flicked his aim to the other two men, long enough to watch their eyes narrow, but didn’t fire. The rest of Fisher’s men cursed and pulled on him, the sound of guns being cocked loud on the quiet road.
“Well,” Clay put his hands up and let the gun dangle by the trigger guard from his finger, “maybe some.”
Mouthpiece leaned down and fastidiously wiped at his leg.
“That was stupid,” he said. “I could kill you now and your boss couldn’t even squeak about it.”
“But you’re not going to,” Clay said. “I could have made this a lot worse.”
The heavy on the far side of the car cleared his throat. “Marine?” he asked.
“SEAL.”
The heavy nodded and didn’t let his gun waver. “He’s not lyin’,” he said. “If he’d not played nice, me and Bennett would be down and he’d have a gun at your head.”
Mouthpiece tightened his jaw, the muscle at the hinge clenched under his skin. “And the point of this little demonstration?” he asked. “Am I supposed to be impressed?”
“I would be,” Clay said. His shoulder ached, a dull, tight pain, as he kept his hands over his head. “Me and Ezra, we’re playing this straight. Whatever line someone’s fed you, we don’t want any trouble with Fisher.”
“Want it or not,” Mouthpiece said, “if anything has happened to Buchanan, you’ll have it.”
He gestured to one of his men, who holstered his gun and came forward warily to take Clay’s off him. Once he had it, he ejected the magazine and kicked it to the side of the road, then gave the gun back.
“Who told you where to find us?” Clay asked. “Deputy Jones?”
“That’s the problem with crooked cops,” Mouthpiece said. “You just can’t trust them.”
He was right there. Clay smiled thinly as he tucked his gun away. “I’ll remember that for next time.”
“I wouldn’t bother memorizing it,” Mouthpiece said. “Not until you know if you get a next time.”
He nodded toward the car. His men loped over to get TJ while Mouthpiece leaned over to retrieve his jacket from the shot man on the concrete. The man swore at him and used the side of the car to get himself back on his feet.
