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“Text it to me,” Bailey said. “Thanks, man.”
“De nada.”
With that, Bailey hung up the phone, waiting a few seconds until the text arrived with the sister’s address on it.
Now he had a plan, or the beginning of one. Get to this address. Have a little conversation with this Carly, face to face, about how she and Harris were trying to play him like a fool.
But first, a little stop along the way to pick up his drop gun. No serial numbers, untraceable. Whatever master plan Harris was using this Carly for, was about to go bye-bye. She couldn’t do a thing for that fed with a half-dozen bullets in her skull.
Behind him, the voice in the alley said, “You sure you can’t gimme one dollar?”
“Man, shut the fuck up!” Bailey said over his shoulder, not even bothering to look.
Instead, he jogged across the street, to where his car was parked, and got in. He didn’t even look to see if anyone was coming as he pulled out of his spot and gunned it down the street as fast as he could.
Once he was gone, the legs in the filthy, torn jeans poking out of the alleyway moved, and a short, wiry man emerged from the darkness. He pulled off a wig and fake beard, revealing a shaved head, and then put a cell phone to his ear.
“Yeah. It’s Devil,” he said, looking down the street in the direction Bailey had disappeared. “He’s coming your way.”
Bailey was actually half-sober by the time he crept up on the house, the throwaway gun clutched in his hand. The front porch light was out, which was perfect. No prying eyes to watch him as he made his entry.
He stuck the throwaway gun in a pocket only long enough get out a set of lockpicks and pick the lock. After that, he crept through the dark house, gun in hand.
He heard her before he saw her. Tap-tap-tapping, fingers on laptop keyboard. Looking toward the sound, he saw light coming from underneath the crack of a bedroom door.
Perfect. She’d never see him coming.
Up to the door, and then his hand eased the knob slowly, silently, sliding open the bedroom door. At a small desk, a blonde sat at a laptop, her back to him, oblivious.
He couldn’t help a grin as he approached, almost right on top of her, gun held toward her head. Time to show this troublesome little shit just what kind of bull she’d fucked with.
“Turn around, bitch,” he said.
The blonde turned, and Bailey frowned at the solid jaw, stubbly beard, and very masculine face of Jocko. A blonde wig sat awkwardly on his head.
“What?” came out of Bailey’s mouth.
“Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful,” Jocko said, flipping a casual hand though his long blonde wig.
There was the sound of a shotgun getting pumped behind him. Bailey turned, and saw Wyatt and Griz standing in the bedroom doorway with sawed-off shotguns in their hands. Behind them, Carly peeked past them, clutching a ninja star in one hand, ready to throw.
“The fuck?” Bailey had time to say, before a lightning-fast punch from Jocko knocked him out cold.
Wyatt looked Bailey over carefully. They had him tied securely to a chair in the bedroom, and throughout it all, he had remained completely unconscious. Wyatt poked him once on the cheek, and no response.
“Hit him pretty hard, dude,” he said.
“What? I didn’t break his jaw,” Jocko said. “I don’t think I did, at least.”
“He’s not dead?” Carly said.
Wyatt said, “He’s not dead.”
“He looks dead.”
“He’s not dead. Griz? Let’s wake him up.”
Griz responded by dumping a bucket of ice cold water over Bailey’s head. Instantly, the corrupt cop was flailing, spluttering, straining against the ropes that held fast him to the chair.
