Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [5]
“Here. Save those pearly whites and pretty smile. Use this.”
Thud. J-Hawk had tossed his knife on the counter. The knife I’d helped my army buddy and former teammate Anna Rodriguez pick out for him. The knife with the engraving that read: 1001 Nights—4-Ever.
I met his gaze. “You still have this?”
“I’ll always have it. I’m never without it.”
“Never?”
“Never. It’s the only tangible thing I’ve got from . . .”
Anna.
“That time,” he said.
It was a sweet knife, a stainless-steel Kershaw. I flicked the blade open with the thumb catch. Three and a half inches of steel sliced through the plastic like hot butter, then through the paper roll, leaving a precise starting point to thread through the cash register’s feeding mechanism. Hell, I could’ve cut through skin, bone, and the shellacked countertop with it. I clicked the blade shut into the knifewell and slid it back to him. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” J-Hawk stirred his still nearly full drink. “Look, Mercy, I’d really like to talk to you.”
“Sure. If it’s about you telling those fuckers at Titan Oil to take their pipeline and jam it up their ass, I’m all ears.”
“Regardless of how you view them, I’m asking to talk to you strictly as your friend. I’d like to catch up with what you’ve been doing.”
Right. Most likely J-Hawk wanted to catch up on news about Anna, his former star-crossed lover.
He tugged his sleeve back to look at his watch.
I barely withheld a disgusted gasp. His watchband dug into the flesh of his wrist so deeply I couldn’t discern the thickness of the strap. The bloated skin surrounding it reminded me of an overcooked chicken sausage about to burst its casing.
“Can I get a twelve-pack of Keystone Light to go?” he asked, interrupting my gawking at his grotesque arm.
“Sure. Seems a little low-end for you.”
He shrugged. “Don’t you remember, back in the day? When you were looking for a cheap drunk? What’d you drink?”
“Pabst Blue Ribbon.”
“Good old PBR. Brings back memories.”
I yanked a twelve-pack from the cooler. Seemed odd Jason wanting a cheap drunk. Odd and sort of lonely. Sitting in his motel or vehicle, drinking alone.
Like you have any room to talk about solo drinking habits.
“What’re the damages?”
“Total is twenty-one bucks.”
As J-Hawk riffled through his wallet, I noticed another peculiar thing. He didn’t carry pictures of his kids. He’d never carried photos of his family in the field. Back then I hadn’t thought anything of it; I never carried pictures either. The lack of personal effects was a hallmark of Special Forces rather than personal preferences.
So it struck me as strange that Jason the civilian wouldn’t have a few snapshots of his offspring.
“Here.” He handed me twenty and rooted in his jacket pocket for a handful of wadded-up ones. “Keep the change. See you around.”
As I watched him leave, I felt other bar patrons eyeing me suspiciously. I’d had enough fun for one day. I announced, “Last call, people.”
Fourteen minutes after I barred the front door, I’d counted out the till and locked the money in the office safe. A record shutdown for me.
Sad, that my life was still measured in clicks. Not clicks of my scope as I adjusted my sights on a target, but clicks of the second hand on a time clock.
Late spring meant chilly nights, especially at the zero hour, and I shivered in my jean jacket. I set the alarm and started across the pitch-black parking area behind the building. My night vision sucked, but I was too proud to carry a flashlight, so I stumbled around and cursed the darkness.
Amid my silent internal grumbling, a squishing noise sounded off to the left. My eyesight might be for shit, but my hearing wasn’t.
The Kahr Arms P380 was out of my back pocket and in my hand instantly. I swung my arms in the direction of the noise, keeping the barrel at my eye level. “Show yourself or I start shooting.”
“Jesus, Mercy, are you seriously pointing a gun at me?”
“Dawson?”
“Lower your weapon. Now.”
I did.
He sauntered into view. When my stomach dipped, I assured myself