the dirt and gravel parking lot out front. The same four cars remained. More would arrive after last call at the Four Aces Bar, half a mile down the road. King checked his watch and turned from the window. “I’ll get the fifteen grand, and we’ll get out of here. Nobody’s going to know anything.”
“Something’s wrong.” Cole stood and paced again. “Something ain’t right. I can feel these things. I told you, I can feel them.”
“I’ll handle it,” King growled.
Someone knocked on the door.
Cole’s head snapped as if on a string, his eyes wide as those of a spooked horse. King put a finger to his lips and quietly pressed an eye to the peephole. No way the man could have parked the car in the lot, then walked up the two flights of stairs and down the landing without King hearing him. Fuck, the landing shook each time someone passed the door. And yet somehow the man had done just that. He stood on the landing, his face distorted in the round hole, the pointed nose bulbous and hooked at the tip, with his black wraparound sunglasses bulging like the depthless eyes of a hawk. King stepped back and pointed to the interior door that led to the adjacent room.
Cole shoved the cap back on his head and quickly gathered his clothes. He grabbed a 9mm automatic from the top of the television, dropped a tennis shoe on the floor, and kicked it ahead of him as he hurried through the doorway, closing the door behind him.
King stuffed a Falcon 9mm in the front of his jeans and pulled his shirt closed, then rethought it and pulled it open. Show of force. Let the man know he meant business. He removed the security latch, pulled open the door, and stepped back. The man entered and closed the door without uttering a word. He wore a brown leather jacket, straight-leg blue jeans, and black boots. In his right hand he carried a green garbage bag. He dropped it on the carpet. King knew the man was military of some kind: army or marines. King had done four years in the army. He understood military. He could spot it from across a fucking room. This guy wasn’t just a grunt, though. He carried himself different. He was likely one of those Special Forces types—a Ranger or SEAL or some damn thing. Whatever he was, the guy gave King the creeps. He never smiled. Never changed expressions. Just stared with that blank expression, King’s distorted image reflecting back at him in those ever-present sunglasses. King wished he’d never spoken to the man at the bar. He wished he’d just turned down the drinks and walked away. But five thousand bucks for a simple burglary had been too good to pass up, and King needed the money to pay his ex-wife child support or his ass was going back to county. Besides, what was done was done. There was no sense crying over it.
King stood at the foot of the bed closest to the bathroom with his hands on his hips and his shirt pulled back to display the butt of the Falcon against his hairy stomach. “We have a problem. The place wasn’t empty. You said it would be empty.”
The man put his hands in his jacket pockets. “It was.”
“
Was
for about twenty minutes. Then the fucking guy came home and walked right into the room.”
“So I read.” The man was obviously referring to the article in the metro section of the
Seattle Times
. His fucking face was like a damn statue. “Unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate? Unfortunate, my ass. You didn’t say anything about killing anybody.”
“No, I didn’t.”
In the background, the sportscasters continued to discuss the baseball highlights from games played earlier that day.
“And we didn’t sign on for killing nobody. We ain’t killers. That’s not what we was paid for,” King said.
“Did you get the items?”
“Maybe we did. Maybe we didn’t. What we need to talk about is what we were paid to do and what we weren’t paid to do. The place was supposed to be empty. That’s what you told us.”
“Did you get the items?”
“Are you
“Something’s wrong.” Cole stood and paced again. “Something ain’t right. I can feel these things. I told you, I can feel them.”
“I’ll handle it,” King growled.
Someone knocked on the door.
Cole’s head snapped as if on a string, his eyes wide as those of a spooked horse. King put a finger to his lips and quietly pressed an eye to the peephole. No way the man could have parked the car in the lot, then walked up the two flights of stairs and down the landing without King hearing him. Fuck, the landing shook each time someone passed the door. And yet somehow the man had done just that. He stood on the landing, his face distorted in the round hole, the pointed nose bulbous and hooked at the tip, with his black wraparound sunglasses bulging like the depthless eyes of a hawk. King stepped back and pointed to the interior door that led to the adjacent room.
Cole shoved the cap back on his head and quickly gathered his clothes. He grabbed a 9mm automatic from the top of the television, dropped a tennis shoe on the floor, and kicked it ahead of him as he hurried through the doorway, closing the door behind him.
King stuffed a Falcon 9mm in the front of his jeans and pulled his shirt closed, then rethought it and pulled it open. Show of force. Let the man know he meant business. He removed the security latch, pulled open the door, and stepped back. The man entered and closed the door without uttering a word. He wore a brown leather jacket, straight-leg blue jeans, and black boots. In his right hand he carried a green garbage bag. He dropped it on the carpet. King knew the man was military of some kind: army or marines. King had done four years in the army. He understood military. He could spot it from across a fucking room. This guy wasn’t just a grunt, though. He carried himself different. He was likely one of those Special Forces types—a Ranger or SEAL or some damn thing. Whatever he was, the guy gave King the creeps. He never smiled. Never changed expressions. Just stared with that blank expression, King’s distorted image reflecting back at him in those ever-present sunglasses. King wished he’d never spoken to the man at the bar. He wished he’d just turned down the drinks and walked away. But five thousand bucks for a simple burglary had been too good to pass up, and King needed the money to pay his ex-wife child support or his ass was going back to county. Besides, what was done was done. There was no sense crying over it.
King stood at the foot of the bed closest to the bathroom with his hands on his hips and his shirt pulled back to display the butt of the Falcon against his hairy stomach. “We have a problem. The place wasn’t empty. You said it would be empty.”
The man put his hands in his jacket pockets. “It was.”
“
Was
for about twenty minutes. Then the fucking guy came home and walked right into the room.”
“So I read.” The man was obviously referring to the article in the metro section of the
Seattle Times
. His fucking face was like a damn statue. “Unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate? Unfortunate, my ass. You didn’t say anything about killing anybody.”
“No, I didn’t.”
In the background, the sportscasters continued to discuss the baseball highlights from games played earlier that day.
“And we didn’t sign on for killing nobody. We ain’t killers. That’s not what we was paid for,” King said.
“Did you get the items?”
“Maybe we did. Maybe we didn’t. What we need to talk about is what we were paid to do and what we weren’t paid to do. The place was supposed to be empty. That’s what you told us.”
“Did you get the items?”
“Are you
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