Guns: The Spencer Book
Page 38
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
I look over at Ronin. He’s sitting in the middle between me and Ford, his expression as blank and empty as I feel.
I’m the official driver in all jobs but right now, Ford is behind the wheel. And I’ve never been so happy that he’s the cold, emotionless ass**le he’s always been.
He’s always said the detached getaway is his signature move.
And I guess he was right.
“You ready?” Ford asks as I realize I’m sitting in front of the rifles in his FoCo apartment, just staring off into space. “I’m done and I’d like to get back to Ashleigh and Kate.”
“Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. Fuck, I haven’t thought about the details of that day in a long, long time. “I’m just gonna take some of these with me.”
“Why?”
“Why?” I laugh as I grab the large duffel I use to move guns from place to place. “Because I have no guns in the new shop and shit’s happening, Ford. I’m not sure how the adoption stuff is related to the missing motorcycles, but one thing’s for f**king sure.” I look at him as I stuff some guns in the bag. “It most definitely is, brother. It most definitely is. Jury selection starts today. Ronnie’s apartment is suddenly condemned and she can’t go inside—”
“What?”
“Yeah, some shit about asbestos. But this fancy guy shows up in town, claiming to own that new condo building over on Mason Street. He just happens to own the building she lives in right now too, so he gives her this free condo to live in while her place is cleaned up. Now you have this adoption shit and a dead guy coming out of nowhere. My bikes are missing and someone was trying to make Drake look like the perp. But as soon as we catch on, that shit morphs, right? Suddenly Drake’s coming off squeaky clean because he’s over at my place accusing me of stealing his bikes.” I huff out a breath. “Convenient, right?”
I finish packing up the rifles and then crawl over to the handguns, all laid out in perfect order on the carpet. I pick up the .454 Taurus Raging Bull and weigh it in my hand. Ronnie might be able to shoot it, since we’ve practiced on the big guns a lot when we were first together. But Ronin never shoots. He can point a gun and probably hit his target, I’ve made sure he was trained. But he never practices. He’s a ground fighter. Ford is a rifle man if he needs a gun. Point and spray is how he’ll get the job done if it comes down to it.
“What do you think you’re gonna do with that thing?” Ford asks, as he points to the Raging Bull I’m positioning inside the bag.
“Blow someone’s f**king head off, what the f**k else would I do with it?”
He recoils at the imagery because that’s exactly what I did to the Boulder guy. “I’m pretty sure that little .380 in your jacket will do the trick, Spencer. Don’t get paranoid on me now.”
“Ford, you do your job, I’ll do mine. When you’re in charge of the guns, you can choose the weapons.” I zip up the bag, stand up, and throw it over my shoulder. “I’m ready. You got what you need?”
He nods and waves me out.
We drive back to town in silence. And that’s a good thing.
Because right now the only thing on our minds is the job. Someone—hell, maybe a shitload of someones—is f**king with our lives. I’m not sure if it’s Drake, condo guy, the scum involved in the trial, or one of the many, many people we’ve f**ked over in the past. But one thing’s for sure—it’s all related.
And maybe this job wasn’t planned by us. Maybe so far we’ve only been reacting to circumstance. Trying to piece the puzzle together bit by bit.
It doesn’t matter. Because we’re definitely gonna be the ones to finish it.
Chapter Sixteen
VERONICA
Guys like Chuck make me happy to be a tattoo artist. I’ve been working on his back piece for almost a year. He drives in from Kansas to get his work done. He’s got at least four more appointments until he’s done and since he can only get away from his job at the feed mill his family owns when production is slow—cows never stop eating, he always tells me—his visits are few and far between.
I finish the last of the shading I’m doing on the tribute to American horror he’s got going on his back. If I didn’t know Chuck, these images would scare the shit out of me. In fact, even though I’m the one who drew and inked the Pennywise, Leatherface, Pinhead, and Jason in his hockey mask on his skin, it still creeps me out.
I wipe down his back and then give him a nudge. “Hey, Chuck. You’re done.” Chuck gives me a snore. How the hell a man can fall asleep when I’m draggin’ a needle across his back is beyond me. But he never has a problem.
Eh, I let him sleep. I don’t have another appointment for a few hours. I leave him there and go back up front, and I’m just turning the corner when the bell above the door jingles.
“Ronnie!” Carson smiles brightly. “I just came by to see how you were.”
“Um…” I pause because he’s lying. Carson is so easy to read, it’s pathetic. Maybe I’m just so used to the accomplished liars all around me, or maybe he’s a terrible liar. But it doesn’t matter. I can see through him. Almost everything he’s ever told me has been a lie. And I’m not sure why he’s lying. He’s never asked me for anything, in fact he really was sincere about trying to help me get my own flower shop. “I’m good,” I say back. And I’m just about to ask him what the hell he wants when the door jingles again and a crowd of people walk in.
I’m the official driver in all jobs but right now, Ford is behind the wheel. And I’ve never been so happy that he’s the cold, emotionless ass**le he’s always been.
He’s always said the detached getaway is his signature move.
And I guess he was right.
“You ready?” Ford asks as I realize I’m sitting in front of the rifles in his FoCo apartment, just staring off into space. “I’m done and I’d like to get back to Ashleigh and Kate.”
“Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. Fuck, I haven’t thought about the details of that day in a long, long time. “I’m just gonna take some of these with me.”
“Why?”
“Why?” I laugh as I grab the large duffel I use to move guns from place to place. “Because I have no guns in the new shop and shit’s happening, Ford. I’m not sure how the adoption stuff is related to the missing motorcycles, but one thing’s for f**king sure.” I look at him as I stuff some guns in the bag. “It most definitely is, brother. It most definitely is. Jury selection starts today. Ronnie’s apartment is suddenly condemned and she can’t go inside—”
“What?”
“Yeah, some shit about asbestos. But this fancy guy shows up in town, claiming to own that new condo building over on Mason Street. He just happens to own the building she lives in right now too, so he gives her this free condo to live in while her place is cleaned up. Now you have this adoption shit and a dead guy coming out of nowhere. My bikes are missing and someone was trying to make Drake look like the perp. But as soon as we catch on, that shit morphs, right? Suddenly Drake’s coming off squeaky clean because he’s over at my place accusing me of stealing his bikes.” I huff out a breath. “Convenient, right?”
I finish packing up the rifles and then crawl over to the handguns, all laid out in perfect order on the carpet. I pick up the .454 Taurus Raging Bull and weigh it in my hand. Ronnie might be able to shoot it, since we’ve practiced on the big guns a lot when we were first together. But Ronin never shoots. He can point a gun and probably hit his target, I’ve made sure he was trained. But he never practices. He’s a ground fighter. Ford is a rifle man if he needs a gun. Point and spray is how he’ll get the job done if it comes down to it.
“What do you think you’re gonna do with that thing?” Ford asks, as he points to the Raging Bull I’m positioning inside the bag.
“Blow someone’s f**king head off, what the f**k else would I do with it?”
He recoils at the imagery because that’s exactly what I did to the Boulder guy. “I’m pretty sure that little .380 in your jacket will do the trick, Spencer. Don’t get paranoid on me now.”
“Ford, you do your job, I’ll do mine. When you’re in charge of the guns, you can choose the weapons.” I zip up the bag, stand up, and throw it over my shoulder. “I’m ready. You got what you need?”
He nods and waves me out.
We drive back to town in silence. And that’s a good thing.
Because right now the only thing on our minds is the job. Someone—hell, maybe a shitload of someones—is f**king with our lives. I’m not sure if it’s Drake, condo guy, the scum involved in the trial, or one of the many, many people we’ve f**ked over in the past. But one thing’s for sure—it’s all related.
And maybe this job wasn’t planned by us. Maybe so far we’ve only been reacting to circumstance. Trying to piece the puzzle together bit by bit.
It doesn’t matter. Because we’re definitely gonna be the ones to finish it.
Chapter Sixteen
VERONICA
Guys like Chuck make me happy to be a tattoo artist. I’ve been working on his back piece for almost a year. He drives in from Kansas to get his work done. He’s got at least four more appointments until he’s done and since he can only get away from his job at the feed mill his family owns when production is slow—cows never stop eating, he always tells me—his visits are few and far between.
I finish the last of the shading I’m doing on the tribute to American horror he’s got going on his back. If I didn’t know Chuck, these images would scare the shit out of me. In fact, even though I’m the one who drew and inked the Pennywise, Leatherface, Pinhead, and Jason in his hockey mask on his skin, it still creeps me out.
I wipe down his back and then give him a nudge. “Hey, Chuck. You’re done.” Chuck gives me a snore. How the hell a man can fall asleep when I’m draggin’ a needle across his back is beyond me. But he never has a problem.
Eh, I let him sleep. I don’t have another appointment for a few hours. I leave him there and go back up front, and I’m just turning the corner when the bell above the door jingles.
“Ronnie!” Carson smiles brightly. “I just came by to see how you were.”
“Um…” I pause because he’s lying. Carson is so easy to read, it’s pathetic. Maybe I’m just so used to the accomplished liars all around me, or maybe he’s a terrible liar. But it doesn’t matter. I can see through him. Almost everything he’s ever told me has been a lie. And I’m not sure why he’s lying. He’s never asked me for anything, in fact he really was sincere about trying to help me get my own flower shop. “I’m good,” I say back. And I’m just about to ask him what the hell he wants when the door jingles again and a crowd of people walk in.
