and nodded at the skinheads. “In the bathroom, Palmer,” he snorted, grabbing his cell phone and turning toward the back wall. “Winston, keep an eye out.”
“Sure, boss,” said Winston. “Head on back, dude . You better have something worthwhile to peddle.”
Chapter 15
Trent stepped into the men’s room with the skinheads in tow. Empty toilet stalls and cracked and grimy urinals stared back at him. He scanned for another exit, but there was none.
Utah stood like a gunslinger in an old Western movie. “Toss me your wallet. Then put your hands up.”
Trent did as he was told. Rough and calloused hands patted him down for a weapon or a wire.
“What’s the name of your game, asshole?” Utah yelled.
“Don’t have —”
Right then a steel-toed combat boot smashed into the side of Trent’s knee. A lightning strike of white-hot agony coursed through his leg. He folded to the floor, and the skinheads jumped him like angry pit bulls tearing chunks from a side of beef.
They kicked him repea tedly in the kidneys and balls. Trent saw blinking stars as he cupped his crotch and rolled in a red haze of pain. He drew his knees tight to his stomach, but his attackers weren’t deterred; a hard shot to the stomach brought up his lunch. He was face down on the tile floor when one of the thugs dropped a knee into his low back. He shrieked in pain as the other thug swung the barrel of a heavy revolver across his eyebrow.
The knee was removed, and Trent rolled on to his back. He opened his eyes slowly and saw Utah talking on a cell phone.
Utah snorted with satisfaction. “Hey, Palmer, my boss wants to talk to you.”
Trent pried himself to his feet like a new-born colt. He’d about had it with being beat up. “The fucking phone . . . Hand it to me.”
Utah tossed him the cell phone and Trent snatched it. In the periphery of his vision he spotted the closest skinhead. “Palmer,” he croaked.
“This is Eddie Garcia,” a male voice said.
Trent took a deep breath to control his shaking. “Mr. Garcia, hold on for a second . . .”
He whirled on the closest skinhead and kicked him hard in the balls; the thug dropped like a piano tossed out the window. Trent jumped knees first on his back, ecstatic to hear bones snap.
Trent grabbed a large revolver from the thug’s waistband, thumbed off the safety, and fired in Utah’s direction. The shot cracked like lightning and the slug exploded a toilet tank. “No more games,” Trent said, waving the gun at Utah and the remaining skinhead.
“Jesus, Palmer!” Utah said, turning white as salt. Skinhead raised his hands high enough to touch the ceiling.
Trent notch ed the hammer and jammed the still-warm barrel under Utah’s meaty chin. “Wait in the toilet stall. Now!”
“ Don’t shoot,” Utah said worriedly, backing into the stall with his hands up.
“You too, white trash, in with your buddy.”
The thug gave Trent a pained, twisted look and mumbled a profanity, but he kept his arms over his head and followed Utah into the stall.
When Utah closed the door, Trent put the phone to his ear. “Palmer,” he said, hobbling and favoring his bum knee.
“ It is essential, and in your best interest, that you say nothing to anyone about this conversation, starting right now,”
Garcia said tonelessly.
“ OK.”
“ You’re looking for the child.”
“Can you help me get a line on her?”
“ Perhaps. What do you have to trade?”
“A highly confidential Atlanta Police Department GI D report. It’s current and chronicles their successes and failures against your organization, the Kings, and the Outlaws.”
A sharp intake of breath. “If it ’s authentic, it will be of great service to me. I have a lead for you, but you’ll have to perform a onetime errand for me.”
“Which is?”
Without changing the intonation of his voice Garcia said, “There’s a traitor in my organization; he’s working with someone at the Midtown Police
“Sure, boss,” said Winston. “Head on back, dude . You better have something worthwhile to peddle.”
Chapter 15
Trent stepped into the men’s room with the skinheads in tow. Empty toilet stalls and cracked and grimy urinals stared back at him. He scanned for another exit, but there was none.
Utah stood like a gunslinger in an old Western movie. “Toss me your wallet. Then put your hands up.”
Trent did as he was told. Rough and calloused hands patted him down for a weapon or a wire.
“What’s the name of your game, asshole?” Utah yelled.
“Don’t have —”
Right then a steel-toed combat boot smashed into the side of Trent’s knee. A lightning strike of white-hot agony coursed through his leg. He folded to the floor, and the skinheads jumped him like angry pit bulls tearing chunks from a side of beef.
They kicked him repea tedly in the kidneys and balls. Trent saw blinking stars as he cupped his crotch and rolled in a red haze of pain. He drew his knees tight to his stomach, but his attackers weren’t deterred; a hard shot to the stomach brought up his lunch. He was face down on the tile floor when one of the thugs dropped a knee into his low back. He shrieked in pain as the other thug swung the barrel of a heavy revolver across his eyebrow.
The knee was removed, and Trent rolled on to his back. He opened his eyes slowly and saw Utah talking on a cell phone.
Utah snorted with satisfaction. “Hey, Palmer, my boss wants to talk to you.”
Trent pried himself to his feet like a new-born colt. He’d about had it with being beat up. “The fucking phone . . . Hand it to me.”
Utah tossed him the cell phone and Trent snatched it. In the periphery of his vision he spotted the closest skinhead. “Palmer,” he croaked.
“This is Eddie Garcia,” a male voice said.
Trent took a deep breath to control his shaking. “Mr. Garcia, hold on for a second . . .”
He whirled on the closest skinhead and kicked him hard in the balls; the thug dropped like a piano tossed out the window. Trent jumped knees first on his back, ecstatic to hear bones snap.
Trent grabbed a large revolver from the thug’s waistband, thumbed off the safety, and fired in Utah’s direction. The shot cracked like lightning and the slug exploded a toilet tank. “No more games,” Trent said, waving the gun at Utah and the remaining skinhead.
“Jesus, Palmer!” Utah said, turning white as salt. Skinhead raised his hands high enough to touch the ceiling.
Trent notch ed the hammer and jammed the still-warm barrel under Utah’s meaty chin. “Wait in the toilet stall. Now!”
“ Don’t shoot,” Utah said worriedly, backing into the stall with his hands up.
“You too, white trash, in with your buddy.”
The thug gave Trent a pained, twisted look and mumbled a profanity, but he kept his arms over his head and followed Utah into the stall.
When Utah closed the door, Trent put the phone to his ear. “Palmer,” he said, hobbling and favoring his bum knee.
“ It is essential, and in your best interest, that you say nothing to anyone about this conversation, starting right now,”
Garcia said tonelessly.
“ OK.”
“ You’re looking for the child.”
“Can you help me get a line on her?”
“ Perhaps. What do you have to trade?”
“A highly confidential Atlanta Police Department GI D report. It’s current and chronicles their successes and failures against your organization, the Kings, and the Outlaws.”
A sharp intake of breath. “If it ’s authentic, it will be of great service to me. I have a lead for you, but you’ll have to perform a onetime errand for me.”
“Which is?”
Without changing the intonation of his voice Garcia said, “There’s a traitor in my organization; he’s working with someone at the Midtown Police
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