The Guilty - Jason Pinter [24]
connect me to Carruthers or I'll send someone down there to
snip your balls from your sack."
Amanda smiled at the click and dial tone. She checked her
watch. The pizza would be ready in less than ten minutes.
Screw it. She still had time to call the mayor's office.
13
The Boy looked at his rifle. Admired the straight grain
walnut stock, well preserved and polished. This was a gun that
had served well and been loved accordingly. Thank God he'd
been able to free it from that glass prison, from all the idiot
gawkers who never felt the power the gun accorded. With this
gun, he was carrying on a legacy over a hundred years old,
and every time he clicked the set trigger he felt the power of
death over life.
So far the gun had been exactly what he'd hoped. Accurate
and powerful. He hated how stupid most people were when
it came to these guns, ignorant folk who assumed that the
rifles of this kind that they saw in the movies were the real
McCoy. Truth was, in the movies they usually used later
models that were deemed more attractive. Only folks who
could tell their ass from a cartridge chamber knew the truth.
The Boy was being true to the legend, true to his heritage. And
soon one more would fall.
And now he sat on the bed, gazing at the weapon that had
won so many battles, claimed so many lives.
He heard a scuffling outside. He made out two voices: male
and female. The walls in the hotel were about as thick as linen,
The Guilty
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and he could hear every nearby squeak like it was right next
to him.
The people seemed to be negotiating. The man's voice
was eager. A little too eager. The woman was talking slowly.
The Boy could feel his blood begin to rise, his fingers
grinding against the wood stock of the rifle. Those two
outside, they had no idea how close they were to death, that
the person less than ten feet away could snuff them out faster
than it would take to exchange currency.
But he couldn't. He had to get the rage out, let it dissipate.
He couldn't end the rampage before it had barely begun. He
was strong, powerful, had that blood running through his
veins. The only thing that could stop him was stupidity.
He heard her mention a dollar amount. The man said, "Oh
hell, yes" loud enough for the grimy bastard at the front desk
to hear it.
"Told you I looked like her," he heard her say.
"No doubt, you got an ass like Athena Paradis," he responded. That made the Boy smile. "Just...just let me call you
Athena. Please, baby."
She didn't say a word, but the moan of pleasure said it all.
They unlocked a door, slipped inside and closed it. Five
minutes later, the Boy felt his bed beginning to shake. He
closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Fixing this nuisance
would be relatively easy and painless, but nothing positive
could be gained from it. There were more important homes
for his lead. He took a deep breath, then turned his gaze from
the rifle to the magazine splayed out in front of him.
He eyed the man whose photograph lay within its pages.
He was portly, with graying hair that cascaded in waves past
his ears, a gut reserved for men who'd lived their later years
in a state of complacency rather than diligence. His half-78
Jason Pinter
cocked smile was one of condescension. His air was that of
a royal walking among subjects who should consider themselves fortunate to lick the shit off his heels. He was one
more battle for the Boy to win, boldly and violently.
He knew the man's schedule, when he arrived, when he
left, when he ordered lunch, when his secretary came home
with him, when he'd grown tired of her and when his children
were forced to visit. He knew the exact moment it would
happen, knew where the security cameras were positioned
and knew he would be gone right as the fear sank in.
Athena Paradis was a masterstroke. He started the crusade
by felling the biggest prize. The cop was a mistake, but
looking into the man's background it was a mistake prompted
by fate. The cop--Mauser--had shot Henry Parker last year,
an innocent