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The asshole who looked like he was going to try something flushed and removed a knife from a concealed sheath in his boot.
“Nice,” I said, and shot him through the face. The bullet exited through a big and messy hole and struck a tree across the road. The shot was loud but hollow, as gunfire outside usually is. The echo bounced off the trees and vanished into the sky. Even if someone heard it, there was little chance they’d be able to accurately determine where it came from.
The other two men cried out and started to move, tried to catch him, almost ran, and all of it at once, meaning they accomplished nothing.
“Why . . . why . . . why . . . ?” stammered one of the others. “The fuck you shoot him for? Donny did what you said.”
“Not the first time I asked,” I said. “Let’s all take that as a teachable moment.”
They stood rock still and gaped at me, caught between the gun and the dog, with all of their options leaking out of Donny’s head.
“Now, here’s what is going to happen next, kids,” I said. “You’re going to take your belts off and let your pants drop around your ankles. No, don’t look at me like that. This isn’t that kind of weird. Belts off. Good. Pants down. Now, take your belts and wrap them around your pants, knot them up tight and cinch the buckles. Make a good job of it or I’ll have Baskerville bite something off you don’t want to lose.”
The dog gave a deep-chested whuff.
I watched as they followed my orders, creating a useful version of leg irons. Sure, they could get out of it, but not quickly. The younger of the two wore stained blue boxers; the other guy had the nastiest, clingiest pair of tighty-whities I’d ever had the misfortune to see.
“Guess we’re all happy neither of you decided to go commando today,” I said. They looked down at the ground, too scared and embarrassed—and confused—to say shit. I crossed my legs and sat down ten feet from them. Baskerville sat so close to the older guy that hot slobber fell on the man’s thigh. I told them to sit, and they did. “Let’s play truth or dare. Rules are simple. I ask questions and you give me absolutely true answers. Full and complete answers. And don’t you dare fuck with me.” Flies were beginning to buzz around Donny’s head, which added eloquent emphasis. They both nodded.
“First,” I said. “Names.”
“Barry,” said the younger guy. “Barry Niles. People call me Diver.”
“Why? You skydive or skin-dive?”
He colored. “It’s, um . . . ”
“He’s a muff diver,” said the older guy. “Can’t get enough of it. Always smells like pussy.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“Loki.”
“Real name?”
“Left it behind a long time ago,” said the older guy. He was about forty, with red hair and green eyes and a knife scar that bisected his left eyebrow.
“Okay,” I said. “Loki was the god of mischief. You planning on trying something clever?”
“No,” he said, then in case he thought I wasn’t going to believe him, added, “No, sir.”
“Good. Next question. What’s the name of your outfit?”
Loki paused for a heartbeat and then said, “Rovers. Pittsburgh chapter, and some others.”
“Thought so. Who’s running the Rovers these days.”
“Dude,” said Diver, “he’ll cut our nuts off if we—”
Loki turned to him. “Shut the fuck up, dumbass. Grown folks are talking here.” To me he said, “Same cat who was riding first bike before the biters ate everyone. Big Elroy.”
“Never heard of him.”
“You will,” said Diver. “You shot Donny and—”
Loki turned and punched Diver in the side of the head. Really hard. The lights in the younger man’s eyes dimmed for a moment. Baskerville shot to his feet and was about to take a bite out of the older man, but I snapped my fingers.
“Enough,” I said sharply. Diver clutched his head and moaned. “Loki, keep your hands to yourself. And Diver . . . ? Next time you open your mouth it better be to answer a question or it won’t be your friend here who clobbers you. I’ll blow your kneecaps off. Both of them. Want me to do that? No? Then mind your fucking manners.”
