First Thrills - Lee Child [12]
Andy scowled at the name, but began to unravel the plastic enshrouding the dead man. To his surprise, as he worked, Dutch shrugged free of his jacket and stripped his shirt off, revealing a cobra tattoo encircling his waist and chest, the snake’s head coming to rest over his left shoulder, staring back at Andy with glistening emerald green eyes. Syrene skittered around, humming an eerie cadence, plugging in her steel torture device and inserting one of the colorful darts into it.
“It needs to look old,” Dutch said. “Can’t look fresh.”
Syrene frowned at him, rolling her eyes. “I know what I’m doing.”
She plunged the needle end of the machine into the corpse.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out the scam. Syrene was meticulously copying Dutch’s tattoo onto the corpse. Andy was certain that dismemberment of the hands and head were soon to follow. Add a fire and the easiest way to identify the corpse would be through the ink trapped beneath the skin—ink soon to look identical to Dutch’s.
What he wasn’t certain of was why they kept him alive—or how long that would last.
“Why here?” he asked. “Just take him with you, do what you have to.”
“Cops looking for me will never look here. Besides, if she messes up, we’ll need to get another—the cops have pictures of my art.”
“I won’t mess up,” Syrene grumbled, now wearing a pair of magnifying glasses as the machine on her hand hummed.
Cops looking for Dutch—Andy didn’t dare ask what he was wanted for. What ever it was, the man was desperate enough to add tonight’s fun and games to his list of felonies. Hopefully homicide wasn’t soon to follow.
“You don’t need me,” Andy tried again. “And someone will come looking for me soon.”
“That’s what’s keeping you alive. Anyone comes looking, you’re our fall guy—giving kinky sex tours of the morgue.”
Andy didn’t care for the chuckle Syrene and Dutch shared at that. Or the fact that as soon as Syrene was done, so was he. He considered his options. The refrigerator was his best bet—he could lock them inside. There was an alarm button, but they wouldn’t use it—wouldn’t want security to come get them out. The day shift would find them in the morning, cold but no worse for the wear—they might even talk their way past the day shift. As long as it wasn’t his job on the line, he couldn’t care less.
Okay, he had a plan. Now how to put it in motion?
Dutch did half the work for him. Syrene had him turn away and lift his arm over his head. That put him directly in line with the empty body box on the gurney.
“Stand up on that stool so I can see better,” she ordered, peering over the tops of her glasses, wielding the tattoo gun like it was Michelangelo’s brush. Dutch complied. Andy saw his chance.
“Need more light?” He reached up to adjust the overhead operating light that was extended on a swivel.
Dutch had his back to them and never saw the blow coming. Andy smashed the heavy, metal-rimmed light into the back of Dutch’s head. He followed through with a tackle to the waist, toppling the larger man facedown into the gaping steel box. The gun flew free, sliding across the floor and under a cabinet.
Dutch shouted a curse, but it was muffled as Andy slammed the lid shut and latched it.
“You bastard!” Syrene lunged at Andy with her tattoo gun. She brought it overhead and plunged it down, aiming at Andy’s face. Andy raised his arm and was instead impaled in the meaty part of his forearm. The machine whipped free of the outlet, its cord snapping through the air.
Syrene was on him, their weight hurtling against the gurney with Dutch inside, banging on the lid and shouting. They skidded across the room, crashing against the wall. She landed a knee on Andy’s inner thigh, missing vital organs but still painful, and scratched his neck and arm. Andy tried to grab her but it was like wrestling a rabid squirrel, all claws and writhing limbs.
Finally, he grabbed the electric cord and wrapped it around her neck—not tight enough to strangle her but it got her attention. He doubled over, heaving in a breath, then yanked the tattoo gun out of his