Blake Crouch - Birds of Prey

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

She’d woken up. What the hell? He’d given her a perfect dose of shit that had knocked her ass out, but even when she came back, she should’ve been so beautifully fucking loaded she couldn’t move. Hell, he wished someone would shoot him up with black tar of this quality. Lock him in a trunk. What a way to spend a day.

Ungrateful bitch.

He scanned his surroundings. A few gun show attendees on the sidewalk behind him, presumably making their way to their cars.

He’d gotten lucky no one had noticed.

There were only a half dozen vehicles parked in front of the bank, the closest to him being a Chevy Nova, which was unoccupied. It looked old as shit. What kind of a person would let themselves be seen behind the wheel of such a beater?

Javier clicked a button on the automatic lock and the trunk popped open just an inch.

Glancing over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being watched, he lifted the trunk and reached into his leather jacket.

The woman stared up at him, her eyes slits in the evening light. She groaned something incoherent through her gag.

“I know you want some more,” Jav said. “Daddy’s here.”

He unsheathed the syringe he’d already filled that morning. This was getting pricey. A fine puta like this was worth some major coin, but all businesses were about keeping expenses low and profits high. Keeping her high was eating up profits.

The woman groaned something that sounded like, “No.”

Javier lifted her arm and turned it over, squinting for a vein. “Don’t be an ungrateful bitch. You know you like it, baby. Women where I come from would blow fifty guys in a day to get a high like this.”

“Mmmph.” Then she moaned something that sounded like, “Go home.”

“This is home for you now, angel. No more work. No being tied down to some dickhead esposo. You’re living the life now, bitch. All you gotta do is make some nice babies. But I’m warning you, if you make any more noise—even the slightest little bird-peep—I’m gonna cut your eyes out. You don’t need eyes to get knocked up.”

He slipped the needle into a vein, depressed the plunger. Her cry drifted off into a euphoric moan.

“Yeah, now you’re coming baby, aren’t you? Feels so good, no? You got no care in this world. Now fucking callate la boca.”

Then he slammed the trunk shut and started back toward the gun shop.

Alex Kork

It was after nine P.M., and they were walking back across the street toward Porter’s Guns and Ammo, coming from a Waffle House where she and Charles had run into Luther.

Kite had moved over to their table and insisted everyone order the triple-scattered-all-the-way hashbrowns. Spent half the meal raving about how it was the best thing he’d put in his mouth, maybe ever. Alex, tired of hearing about fried potatoes, had stretched her right leg under the table and dug the steel toe of her cowboy boot into his crotch, given it a little wiggle, and told him he hadn’t tasted her yet.

That shut shy-boy down for a while.

Seemed to get under her brother’s skin, too.

Well, fuck him and what he thinks. Ever since Charles got married, Alex had been seeing less and less of him. They hadn’t killed anyone together in months. She actually considered stretching over the table, giving that odd fucker Luther a sloppy, wet kiss, just to watch how Charles reacted.

But that would be weak, giving in to petty insecurity. There was a part of her that despised feeling so vulnerable. No one but Charles could elicit such weakness. Sometimes, she hated him for it.

Now they were moving through the dark parking lot of the gun shop.

They passed a trio who reeked of gunpowder, obviously fresh off the range—a good-looking forty-something woman walking between two men, one tall and ruggedly handsome, the other short and as wide as a Mack truck.

Up ahead, a man in a leather jacket stood by the entrance.

When he turned, she could see that he was Hispanic.

And drop-dead gorgeous.

“Hey, Javier,” Luther said. “These are my friends, Alex and Charles. Alex and Charles, here’s the guy I was telling you about.”

Alex was the first to extend a hand.

“Nice to meet you, Javier,” she said. “I’m Alex.”

“The pleasure is all mine, senorita.” The handshake lingered.

Charles sidled up beside Alex, threw his arm over her shoulder. “What’s in the box?” he asked.

“New pistol I picked up today at the show. Unfortunately, the shop here’s closed.”

Charles glanced at the door. “It’s not closed,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“I said it’s not closed. At least, not to certain people.”

Javier straightened, Alex studying his hands, to see if they clenched into fists, wondering what Charles was up to, but also kind of thinking it might be funny to see him take an ass-beating.

“What do you mean certain people?” Javier asked. “And you better answer that question very, very clearly. I’ve had all the redneck, bigot bullshit I can take today.”

By the light which illuminated Porter’s Guns and Ammo, Alex saw her brother smile one of his wicked smiles.

“I meant to people who can’t pick locks,” Charles said.

Mr. K

“You obviously like firearms, but can you also recognize the craftsmanship of a well-made knife?” Mr. K asked as he pulled Porter’s pants down below his knees.

The shop owner was inching back into consciousness to find his wrists zip-tied behind his back. His ankles were similarly bound.

Mr. K watched Porter’s eyes flutter open. The hitman had taken off his jacket and was sitting on Porter’s thighs, holding the Morrell ice pick. He knew the penis was fed by numerous blood vessels, so this required a delicate touch. A dead client couldn’t pay, and employers universally frowned upon that.

He tugged down Porter’s white jockey shorts, and then chuckled to himself.

“You’re uncut,” Mr. K said.

“What?” Porter was terrified and confused and trembling with fear.

“You haven’t been circumcised.”

“Please…whatever you’re thinking—”

“I’m going to ask you one more time, Mr. Porter, for the cash that you owe Mr. Dovolanni. If the answer you provide doesn’t satisfy me, I’m going to circumcise you right here on the floor of your gun shop. Do you understand what I’ve just said to you?”

Porter’s eyes were welling up with tears. “Please, please…”

And now the begging, Mr. K mused. Human beings were so predictable when facing situations of terror.

“…I’ll give you anything…”

There must be some basis for it in Darwinian evolution, but Mr. K had never been able to understand how crying, shitting your pants, and breaking down into hysterics had ever served man or any of his ancestors in life or death scenarios.

“…you want if you…”

If an ancient Cro-Magnon were at the mercy of a saber-toothed tiger or a soldier of an opposing tribe, certainly this type of behavior would have proven futile.

“…only let me…”

Predators couldn’t be swayed by emotion or pleas or despair.

“…explain…”

It wasn’t in their programming. It certainly wasn’t in Mr. K’s. In these situations, only brute force—physical resistance—stood a chance. And yet in all his contract killings and torture-killings, only twice had the mark ever fought back.

“…you’ve gotta understand…”

How had this trait of utter cowardice in the face of fear prevailed through the evolutionary cycle ending at Homo sapien sapien?

“Can you pay me right now?” Mr. K asked calmly. “That’s the only question I’m interested in hearing you answer.”

“Tomorrow,” Porter said. “I’ll rob a fucking bank if I—”