Mark for Blood (Mason Dixon Thrillers Book 1)

by Nick Thacker

  Rayburn looked at me like I was somehow conning him. I could literally see him working through the scenarios, the possibilities, trying to figure out my game.

  “I’ve figured it out already, Rayburn,” I said, keeping with the calm, quiet voice of a man who’d lost. “You’re not letting me go. Or Hannah, or Joey. We’re dead. It’s fine, I get it. I gave you what you want, so there’s no more negotiating power for me.”

  His head turned sideways a bit, still trying to figure me out.

  “Maybe you will let me go. I’d prefer that, obviously. But I get it if not. Really. So… maybe we have a quick cigar?”

  He laughed, a genuine laugh, too. A quick snort and a couple chuckles. “No such thing as a ‘quick cigar.’”

  I smiled. “Fair enough. Maybe I’m just trying to postpone the inevitable. And while we’re at it, I could go for a drink, too.”

  At this he seemed to loosen up a bit, still swaying slightly with the boat’s rocking. He looked at me for a minute, then turned and walked out of the room and past the bar cart. I could hear him messing around at the bar just through the hallway, which meant the bridge — where I was now — was on the same level and just forward of the main hall where they were keeping Hannah. I also couldn’t hear her, which meant she was sleeping…

  Or otherwise incapacitated.

  The thought caused a minor panic in me, and I raced through the feeble idea I’d been working on. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. Maybe.

  “What’s your drink?”

  Rayburn’s voice carried through the tiny hallway and into the bridge, and I thought for a moment. “Well, considering,” I said, “how’s that bottle of Booker’s looking?”

  He didn’t respond, but I heard him rummaging around the cabinets, the clinking of the bottles as he retrieved one, and then the distinct sound of amber liquor pouring into a rocks glass. He repeated the sound — pouring one for himself, I assumed — and then more clinking, and then footsteps.

  “You’d better not waste my time and my cigar,” he said.

  “Noted. This bourbon isn’t yours, though. So we wouldn’t be wasting that, at least. Let’s just enjoy that, yeah?”

  He sneered, but set the glass down next to me. I was still stretched between the wheel and the pipe, so the best I could do was stare at the glass from above it. The smell of it wafted upward into my nostrils. Heavy on the oak and caramel, lighter on the vanilla, and that bang of 130-proof liquor. 65 percent pure ethanol, cut with water. I sniffed a bit deeper, trying to force more of the vapor into my nose, but the glass was too far away.

  He reached into his pocket, grabbing the two cigars. I couldn’t tell what they were, but I was far from a connoisseur so that didn’t surprise me. I owned a pipe and used it on occasion, and preferred it to the nasty smell and taste in my mouth of most cigars I’d had, but I wasn’t about to be picky.

  They were already clipped and ready to go, and he took a deep sniff. “Not Cubans,” he said, “but basically the same thing. When the embargo began many of the producers went to nearby nations — Honduras, Nicaragua, Dominican Republic — with their crop. They started growing wherever they ended up, and I’m not sure I can tell the difference. Legal to import, smokes great, and might as well be the best on the planet.”

  I nodded along, pretending to care. “Sounds good to me. I’m not picky.” And in my head, hurry the hell up, Rayburn.

  Mustache was still downstairs working with the computer, and I knew it was only minutes before he’d return and complain that I’d lied to them. Possibly less. Not much time.

  He nodded, offered me one of the robustos, and waited. Then he saw my handcuffs, as if remembering that he still had me in captivity.

  “Sorry,” I said, “you’ll have to do most of the work. Or I guess we can just forget it.”

  “You trying something? What’s your game?”

  I shook my head. “No, honestly. I was trying to figure out a way out of these cuffs, but I’m definitely no Robert Houdin.”

  Rayburn stared at me like I’d just spoken to him in Japanese.

  “I prefer Houdin to Houdini. Houdin was the original — Houdini based his name on ol’ Robert’s. Anyway, where am I going to go?” I made a point of making a bunch of noise with the cuffs around my ankles and the pipe, trying to show him that I was pretty well locked up.

  “Okay,” he said. “Fine.” He set the cigars down on the table near my pipe, then pulled out a long, shiny pistol from a hidden holster behind his back. He flipped it over a few times and checked the magazine, then loaded it again. “Here’s the thing. I might need you later, so I won’t kill you. But rest assured — you make a move I don’t like, I blow your kneecaps out, one at a time. After that, an elbow, or a shoulder, or maybe I do like your friend in there and take your fingers. But with this thing, there won’t be anything left of them to heal. Got it?”

  I nodded. It was a legitimate nod — I wasn’t about to test him.

  I opened my palms, showing five fingers on each handcuffed hand, the only possible thing I could do to show him I was physically unable to retaliate. He reached into another pocket and pulled out a handcuff key, still holding the pistol. When he had the key ready to go, he turned the pistol and stuck it on the top side of my kneecap, feeling around with it a bit to make sure it was on the plated boney part — no chance for anything other than a massacred leg if he took the shot.

  This was it. The moment, the chance, all I had. I didn’t need my hands for anything, really, but they would help later, after it all went down.

  57

  “STICK IT ON YOUR OTHER hand,” Rayburn said.

  I knew what he meant. I was supposed to put the handcuffs on my left hand, securing my left hand and arm to the steering wheel with my right.

  I did it, even giving him a ceremonial flourish of my left arm, tightly cuffed to the wheel and unable to move more than an inch or so. My right hand was free, and I held it open to show him how vulnerable and victimized I still was.

  He grabbed the cigars from the table and walked over, handing me one of them. I placed it in my mouth, feeling the sharp sting of the spicy tobacco almost immediately as it hit my lips. I gently chewed on the cut end of it for a few seconds, trying to summon all of the knowledge and etiquette I had about cigar smoking for this crucial moment of my life.

  I had to hand it to him, the tobacco was tasty. A high-quality blend, from a well-maintained estate. I wouldn’t have been able to tell him where it had originated, but I could definitely appreciate a good toke on this thing. I nodded my approval.

  He was copying my actions, chewing and salivating on the end of his own cigar. We looked each other down for a minute, chewing and thinking and wetting the tobacco, until it was time.

  He pulled the lighter out of his shirt pocket, the same place the cigars had been hidden. A quick flick and the flame came out, dancing and dodging for a few seconds until the fuel source kicked in fully and he brought it up to examine it.

  Satisfied, he blew out the flame with a quick exhale and offered to light my cigar first.

  I nodded, then leaned forward, all the while trying not to move my right hand too quickly. Mustache was still — thankfully — down in the computer room, trying to get everything booted up and logged in.

  Rayburn lit my cigar, and I did the puffy breathing thing until mine was lit — another minor annoyance that made me prefer pipes to cigars — and I took in a small, testing breath.

  The cigar was good. Very good, in fact. Deep, dark, and mysterious, but in a familiar way. I wasn’t sure how to describe it other than that. It was something I could appreciate more than enjoy, and yet I knew it was a high-dollar piece.

  At the same time, I reached down for my glass of whiskey. He’d set it down on my left side, but my left hand was still cuffed to the wheel. I left the cigar in my mouth — this was going to be a tricky thing to pull off with just one hand — but I reached over my body and held the glass up to my mouth as wel
l. The smoke from the cigar caught and tangled with the open hole of the top of the glass and fell in, and I finagled the grip I had on the glass until I felt confident enough.

  “Be careful,” he said. “That high-proof stuff is highly flammable.”

  I shot my eyes up to his. I could see it in his face, testing. Questioning.

  This was it. My chance.

  I waved away the comment with a quick flip of my hand, then set the glass back down, between my legs. I figured that would add a layer of intrigue to the whole affair. I could feel Rayburn’s eyes watching me. Burning into me.

  I grabbed the lit cigar from my mouth and twirled it around a bit for some flourish. “Nah,” I said. “That’s a hoax. It’s how they get you. Because the water percentage is high enough, it doesn’t matter how strong the alcohol is. Almost as soon as the whiskey leaves the bottle, the alcohol burns off. Watch.”

  I wasn’t sure if he was buying my line of bullshit, but I was committed now. Plus, I didn’t have anything else to try. I was all-in.

  I held the cigar up and let him see the glowing orange cake on the end of it. Then I twirled it back around and shoved it straight down into the top of the glass. It hit the surface of the liquor with an abrupt hissing sound and…

  Nothing happened. The ember died, nothing more than a blackened chunk of ash floating around in the bottom of my glass.

  Perfect.

  “See?” I said. “I’ve even seen a guy put out a lit cigarette by tossing into the full gas tank of a car. Crazy.” I laughed to underline my point.

  He frowned, thinking about it.

  “Science, right? Gets me every time.”

  He straightened up a bit, then nodded. “Yeah, okay. Whatever. Let’s see where Riley is. It’s already been —”

  I heard footsteps.

  Shit. Come on, man. Light that thing up.

  Rayburn smiled, an evil thing like he already knew what Riley was going to say. But then he lifted the lighter up, preparing to light his own cigar.

  I watched it in slow-motion. His hand turned, opening the business end of the lighter to the end of the cigar, and his thumb tensed and started the downward motion of rotating the striking flint.

  A tiny spark screamed out of the lighter and went out immediately.

  More footsteps, I could see Riley’s shadow on the narrow stairwell now.

  Rayburn tried again. Flick, twist, spark.

  This time it caught, and the yellow and blue flame flickered once again to life.

  I took a deep sip of the whiskey, trying as hard as I could to ignore the carbonized tobacco ball still soaking in the bottom of the glass. It burned, but I forced more of the Booker’s into my mouth. I let it fall behind my tongue, almost down my throat, but refused to let it choke me. My cheeks blew outward as I accepted another few ounces into each of them, nearly emptying the glass.

  I had lied to Rayburn.

  It was a great line, invoking the science and mystique of whiskey distilling and all that, but it was bullshit, through-and-through.

  It was true that a lit cigarette or cigar wouldn’t ignite alcohol, but it had nothing to do with the lies of evil corporations trying to get one over on us normal folk.

  I couldn’t stand it any longer. My mouth was twice the size it should have been, and there was whiskey juice trickling down my chin through my tightly pursed lips. I wasn’t going to be able to hold it in.

  I looked at Rayburn. He was still twisting, rotating the cigar in his mouth, trying to get a good solid light going. The pistol dangled at his side in his other hand. His eyes were crossed, intently focusing on the end of his cigar and the flame.

  The flame.

  The open flame.

  That was the difference — my old man had showed me that trick long ago. A lighted cigarette in a gas tank doesn’t cause an explosion. Even though the ethanol in gasoline is nearly pure, there’s not an open flame to ignite the vapors.

  More footsteps. Out of the corner of my eye Mustache — Riley — jumped off the top stair. He was in the room. He must have sped up.

  I aimed, tilting my chin back a bit.

  With all the contained energy I had in my mouth, neck, and cheeks, I let out a small pencil-thin stream of the high-proof spirit, directly at Rayburn’s face. The line hit the flame of the lighter.

  It was enough.

  58

  FROM MY PERSPECTIVE, RAYBURN’S FACE simply exploded. All I could see was the flame, now increased in size a thousand-fold, blasting and cooking his skin. The ignition had been even larger than I’d anticipated, startling me almost enough to choke on the fluid still in my mouth.

  I kept up with the steady stream though, really making sure I was giving him a good braise. He had dropped the handgun and the lighter, but I could see the end of the cigar still poking out of the corner of his crisping mouth.

  A beautiful sight, I had to admit. It was jarring and somewhat of a juxtaposition, his body standing there, in shock, unmoving, all the while the licking flames blasting around his head and face with a rapidity and fury I hadn’t imagined in my wildest dreams.

  Mustache was there too, frozen on the spot. He’d figure it out in a second, and I would need to react to his next attack at some point. But I really wanted to do the job well with Rayburn. The bastard needed to die, and I figured it was better late than never. Hell, if I was lucky, he might even live through this flaming and choke on his own blood or vomit, or — still better — just sit there gasping and weeping and begging for mercy.

  I’d be able to have a bit of fun with the rest of his uncooked body then. Again, I wasn’t much for torture, but… the guy really did deserve something shitty.

  I finished the stream, and to my delight and surprise his shirt, still soaked with the rest of the scotch I’d kicked all over him earlier, caught fire as well.

  He started moving then, flailing with his arms but stumbling slowly with his legs. I imagine he couldn’t see anything, at least not well, even if his eyes hadn’t been boiled yet. He hit the doorframe, bouncing back and then down to a knee. He actually tried to stand back up then, but fell backwards onto the bar cart, then into the small hallway separating the bridge from the larger living area behind it.

  I heard a groan from Rayburn, then a roar from Mustache, and we all snapped back to reality. Rayburn started rolling wildly on the floor, trying desperately to put out the flames around his neck. Mustache ran toward me — two complete lunges and he was on me.

  I hadn’t prepared for the attack, but I’d anticipated it. I swung a fist out and caught him just off the groin. Not enough to incapacitate him but apparently enough to piss him off more. He lifted a knee and caught me under the chin.

  I cried out in pain, feeling my senses wane and my mind going dizzy. He hit me again, this time glancing a fist off the side of my head and scraping my ear. It didn’t do much damage, but it did give me enough time to recover from his first attack.

  There was nothing I could do to move around, as I was still levered up against the wheel and strung across to the pipe, and I already knew the pipe wouldn’t budge. With one free hand to swing, I wasn’t going to offer much of a challenge to even the weakest competitor, so I did the only thing I could.

  I hit him again in the groin, this time taking the time as he wound up again to really land it well. I was at eye-level with it sitting on the floor, so it didn’t prove to be much of an issue to really get in there and squash it. I absolutely crushed him, and he doubled over immediately, sinking to the floor next to me.

  His head fell close to my legs, and I took advantage of the momentary victory by stretching out more to give my legs some additional slack, then lifted my right knee and placed it over his head. As he tried to push himself off the floor, still woozy from my blow, I squeezed my leg back down, trapping his neck between my knees.

  The pipe I was handcuffed too still didn’t budge, and for the first time that day I was glad for it. I used it as leverage, pulling as hard as I could in and
together with my legs, toward the rest of my body. It caused a clamp-like hold on his neck, and my own strength combined with the pulling against the pipe started to do the trick.

  It’s a nasty thing to choke someone out, and still trickier to do it long enough to kill them. Usually a writhing, flapping-like-a-fish head is what you want, as it allows you to use the person’s momentum and leverage against themselves to snap their neck, making it take a lot less time.

  But Riley was a solid contender, and he didn’t give me that option. He lay still, wiggling around a bit with his torso and legs, but his hands came up around his own neck to try and squeeze them around it, to put a brace between his neck and my knees.

  I buckled my knees and then shot them straight again, forcing his hands away again and his head down. His forehead smacked against my shin. It hurt like hell, but I knew the only option was to keep my hold on him. I started to sweat, my ankles were begging to be released, and my single wrist on the wheel handcuffs was beginning to bleed. A line of red trickled down my forearm, but still I held on.

  I was gasping for breath, but at least the air was there. Mustache was gasping, but he just looked like a dying fish. There was nothing for him, and as long as I could hold on for the minute or so it would take, I’d have him beat.

  He retrieved one of his hands from next to his face and reached down for something shoved into his belt.

  The pistol.

  Shit. I had forgotten about the weapon. Luckily he hadn’t had it drawn when he’d come up the stairs or I would have gotten a quick one to the temple.

  His palm opened and his fingers clasped around it, and I saw the pistol moving slowly out of his belt. It was an awkward position for him, not something that would have been comfortable at all, but if I let him get it all the way out of his pants he would be able to bring up underneath his torso and then out. Either all the way out and pointed toward my chest or face, or partly out and just resting on the underside of my leg.

  Both would be unfortunate for me.