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But lately, Death’s Head had gotten more persistent. Perhaps because of their involvement with Wyatt’s ex-wife, a corrupt cop, they’d felt like they had more juice to flex into Razor’s Edge territory.
Whatever their reasons were, he and Wyatt had been forced to deal with them several times recently, and every time, they’d let Death’s Head off easy. Griz was starting to think that a slap on the wrist wasn’t going to suffice any longer.
His hands moved of their own accord, drawing a Glock pistol out of the back of his waistband and checking to make sure there was a round loaded in the chamber. It was fairly dark on the street and he knew that if he kept his hand inside of his leather jacket, no one would see that he was holding a gun.
“You brought a piece to dinner?” Wyatt said.
“Wanted to be ready,” Griz said. “With Death’s Head being so aggressive lately, I wanted to be ready in case they tried something. Better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it, right?”
“You’ve got a point, Big Man,” Wyatt said. “Still, lots of innocent bystanders out and about, so watch your background if you have to shoot.”
“Of course, Wyatt,” Griz said. “It’s not my first rodeo.”
“No it is not,” Wyatt said, shooting him a grin.
The two of them had grown up together, raised as brothers. Wyatt’s own family was out of the picture, essentially orphaning him as a boy, and Griz’s family had taken him in and raised him as one of their own. The two boys became inseparable and as men, could practically read each other’s minds.
So Wyatt knew how many fights Griz had been in over the years, because he’d been right beside him for most of them.
“What kind of car did Becca say the guy was in?” Wyatt said.
“Old muscle car,” Griz said.
“She probably doesn’t know one from another,” Wyatt said. “She’s not the muscle car type. She’s more of a Mercedes kind of girl.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Griz said.
Wyatt gave him another grin. “Man, you really have a thing for her, hunh?”
“She’s nice,” Griz said.
Wyatt stayed quiet, which Griz knew was his way of being diplomatic and not having to say that he disagreed. That was fine. Wyatt didn’t need to understand Griz’s attraction to Becca.
He stopped short. Up ahead, he could see an old model Ford Mustang, one that looked like it hadn’t been taken very good care of over the years. Next to it, in the gutter, was a large plastic cup, the kind you got in a convenience store when buying a jumbo soda.
“Griz?” Wyatt said.
“Mustang,” Griz said, nodding toward the car. “With a plastic cup next to it.”
As Wyatt looked where he was nodding, a cigarette came flying out of the window to land smoking on the sidewalk. Becca had said something about the man sitting in his car, smoking cigarettes.
“I think that’s our guy,” Griz said.
“Okay, let’s go have a closer look,” Wyatt said.
They hadn’t taken two steps before the Mustang’s engine suddenly roared to life. From the sounds of it, the car’s muffler was barely clinging to life, making the already-loud engine even louder.
“I think he spotted us,” Griz said.
“Shit,” Wyatt said, as the Mustang peeled out into the street in a squeal of tires. It narrowly avoided clipping a car as it pulled out, and almost hit another as it pulled a U-turn right there and came back at them.
Griz started to raise his pistol as the car barreled down the street in their direction, but he thought better of it. Tons of people were on the sidewalk on the far side of the street, past the car, and he didn’t want to risk hitting anyone with a stray round.
His instincts told him something was up, though, and he dragged Wyatt down behind a nearby parked car as the Mustang flew past them. Just as he did, several loud staccato pops cracked through the air… automatic gunfire. Two of the bullets flew close overhead, one punching a hole through the passenger window of the car they’d taken cover behind.
“Son of a bitch,” Wyatt said. “You hit, Griz?”
“No. You?”
