Well, ain’t that interesting.
Bob wanted me alive. They’d come to bring me in, not put me in the ground.
I turned that over and looked at it from a few angles. Bob wanted me breathing, which meant he wanted something he couldn’t get from a corpse.
The money. He knows I took his cash.
And he wants it back.
I almost smiled.
“He tell you why?”
Wayne snarled. “He told us you stole his fucking money, you dumb bastard,” Wayne said. “Told us to bring you in, and he’d sort the rest.”
Sort the rest. Right. I knew what that meant. I’d live long enough to tell Bob where the money was and then die however Bob planned to sort the rest.
I stood. My gut was grinding like machinery, and my arms were trembling as if I’d been mustering all day. But, fuck me, I was still alive. That’s what mattered.
“When did Bob figure out I took it?”
Wayne stared at me, then at Bruce’s lifeless body, and he let out such a big breath he seemed to deflate. “How the fuck should I know?”
I crouched down in front of him. “Last question. Then I’m done with you.”
He looked at me with pure, cold hatred.
“Is anyone else comin’ for me?”
Wayne hocked a bloody glob off his lip. His eyes went half-wild, half-broken, fixed on his brother dead on the floor.
“You don’t get it, do ya, you stupid old bastard.” His voice came out wrecked. “Bob ain’t done with you when he gets his money. All you Branson bastards are gonna pay for what you did. Your boys are gonna get what’s coming to ‘em, and that Cassidy bitch is gonna get it, too. And it’s all your fault.”
I went still.
My boys were the only thing I’d made in sixty-three bloody years that counted. The only Bransons left after I was gone. They had to keep Koolaroo running to continue the Branson legacy.
And Bob Ackerman was gonna put them in the ground.
I’d spent months planning how my life was gonna end, and weeks in this house writing about my life and what I’d done. Making sure my legacy was straight. Detailing what I’d sacrificed for Koolaroo so my sons would know how important it was to keep that place going.
No way was fucking Bob taking my sons.
I’m gonna kill that bastard.
Wayne spat again. “You’re gonna rot in fuckin’ jail, old man.”
“I ain’t never goin’ in the slammer.”
He opened his mouth to yell, and I shoved the bloody dishcloth back into his fat gob.
“You’re gonna die with your dumb ass brother. Ain’t that justice.” I straightened up, towering over the asshole who’d always liked to use his height against me.
He thrashed against the ropes, and that loop around his neck got tighter. No need to kill him. He’ll kill himself soon enough.
My finger stung like a bitch as I pulled the duffel bag full of cash out of the cupboard. I stuffed three grocery bags with supplies: rum, bread and sausages from the freezer, Tim Tams, and painkillers—whatever I could grab fast with one good hand. I grabbed my shotgun and the car keys and started hauling everything down to Willy’s car.
My mind careened back to Kat. That girl Bob, Donny, and I killed way back in the seventies. She used to say she had nine lives. She’d been wrong. She’d only had one. Same as everyone.
