by Jodi Payne
“Huh?”
“Where am I taking him?”
“Uh. Hang on.” More muffled voices. “So, Boss says he doesn’t have a spot.”
“He doesn’t have a spot?”
“Right.”
“Wait, I need a spot. Plus, the boys need to come finish what they started.”
“Boss says that’s gonna be a few days.”
The fuck? What the hell was happening? “A few days? Where do I go for a few days? I need a spot, Mikey.”
“Boss says your place.”
“Boss says my place,” Quinn deadpanned.
“That’s what he says, yeah.”
“Boss says my place.” An ambulance roared by them on the other side of the road, headed toward the motel, lights blazing and siren blaring. It was followed moments later by two police cars and a black SUV with dark windows. “Pinch me, please.”
“What?”
“You know, pinch me. So I can wake up from this nightmare.”
“Gotta go, Randy.”
“Wait.”
“Boss says we’ll call you soon.”
“But wait, I don’t—”
The line went dead. Quinn sighed. “Jesus. What a clusterfuck.”
“Listen, Randy,” came the raspy voice from the back seat.
“Who the fuck are you talking to?”
“I— Uh.”
“It’s Quinn to you, am I clear? Nobody calls me Randy.”
“Well, but he just—”
“He’s the Boss’ son. He can call me fucking Suzie-Q if he wants to. You? You call me Quinn. Or better yet, don’t call me anything—just do us both a big favor and die, huh? That would be much, much easier on both of us. Trust me on that.”
“Please. Listen to me. I can—”
“Shut it.”
His passenger sighed wearily and Quinn almost laughed. This was funny, right? Driving down through town to the access road, past the quarry and all the way out to his farm in the middle of the woods with a half-dead target bleeding all over his new upholstery? The guy might not even last a few days. Hell, with any luck he wouldn’t make it another hour. He looked pretty pale and Quinn wasn’t at all sure he would be upright if not for the seatbelt.
What the hell was he going to do with the guy? Lock him up in the garage until he expired or the boys showed up and finished him off?
Actually, yeah. That was exactly what he was going to do. What choice did he have?
The rest of the ride was pretty quiet because his passenger appeared to have conveniently passed out. By the time Quinn turned down the long driveway up to his farm it was dark, and it was getting cold. As he pulled up in front of his detached garage, he was happier than ever that he lived well off the beaten path. He left his headlights on, opened up the garage door, and went looking for some way to restrain his hostage. He’d disconnected and removed a six-foot cast-iron radiator from the back room of the house last summer, and it was still sitting against one wall. He figured he could secure the guy to that.
Quinn had just found a length of chain and a couple of old padlocks, when he heard a sharp cry, followed by a long moan. Quinn headed back out to the car to find that the target had somehow gotten the car door open and lay on his side in the dirt and leaves.
“Going somewhere?”
“Please.”
“Please, what? You’re already a dead man. The fact that you’re still breathing is just a temporary inconvenience.”
“Fuck you.”
Quinn grabbed the guy by one arm and dragged him into the garage, ignoring his prisoner’s sharp cries and grunts. He made quick and efficient work of wrapping the chain around the guy’s feet several times, then secured him to the foot of the radiator. “Let’s remember that I did not want to bring you here. I am not a fucking babysitter. Don’t try my patience.”
“Wait—”
“And I promise you that yelling will not do you one damn bit of good—my nearest neighbor is over a mile up the road. You will, however, annoy me, and as I’m sure you can imagine that is probably a bad call.” Quinn took a few minutes to clear the area around the radiator of anything that might have been in reach, then raised his hand and slipped it through the garage door handle. “It’s going to be a long couple of days.” He pulled the door closed, then moved to his car and shut the headlights off. He grabbed his kit off the front seat and headed up to the house.
Out of sight, out of mind. Quinn pulled a beer out of the fridge and fired up the charcoal grill out back. An hour later he was eating steak with some grilled asparagus and watching the end of the football game. The Patriots and the Steelers were important, he told himself. The dying man in his garage was just a distraction.
Another beer later the game was over, the Steelers had won and the Steelers had a quarterback in the doghouse. Quinn’s mind wandered back to the garage as he put his clean plate in the dish drainer. The guy really was a distraction. Quinn dried his hands and picked up his cell phone.
“Hey, Randy. It’s late.”
“I know, Mikey.”
“Everything okay?”
Quinn leaned on the counter. “You mean other than I have a guy chained up in my garage?”
“It won’t be for long. Just a few days—a week, tops.”
“A week?” What the fuck?
“Well, the boys… It’s hard to find good help.”
“I bet.” Quinn snorted. “So what happened with the cops?”
“Boss says it got handled.”
Wow, that was fast. Quinn wondered exactly how one ‘handled’ two cop cars and one ominous dark-windowed SUV, but decided it was smarter to stay out of it. “Who is this guy, Mikey?”
“I don’t have a clue, Randy. You know he never tells me that stuff.”
“Can you find out?”
“Why does it matter?”
“It doesn’t, I guess, I was just curious.”
“Yeah, well, don’t get too curious. That gets people killed.”
Mikey had an excellent point. “Truth.”
“Is that why you called me?”
“Well? I don’t know, Mikey, I always thought chaining someone up would be more sexy and less stressful.”
“Is he in bad shape?”
“Not really. He’s bruised and his face looks like hamburger, but, seriously, it’s like the boys got bored, went for a smoke and forgot to come back.”
“Hm. So you think he’s gonna make it?”
“Like it matters? I honestly have no idea. It’s fucking cold out.”
Mikey cleared his throat and his tone grew more formal. “Yes, thanks for checking in, Randy.”
“What’s up?”
“Oh, hey. Boss just walked in, he says he appreciates your patience.”
“Ah. Right. Well, tell him to hurry it up, I’m no good to him sitting here.”
“I’ll be sure and let him know. Get some rest, Randy.”
“Will do. Night, Mikey.”
The line went dead. Fuck. So much for company tonight. First his fucking day went to hell, and now his evening plans had just been flushed as well. Quinn figured it was time to cut his losses and go to bed. He headed outside to the woodshed, stopping on the way to give a listen. The garage was quiet as could be, so the guy was either dead or had decided to take Quinn’s advice and not piss him off. Either way was all good. He’d check on the guy in the morning.
After filling up his log carrier with firewood, Quinn hauled it back up to the house. He had a furnace, but oil heat was expensive and there was plenty of fuel on his property. Plus, chopping and hauling wood was a hell of a lot more satisfying than a gym membership. His shed was full to bursting.
He topped off the steamers he kept on the surface of his main stove, then banked the fire just to keep it from going out overnight. Not terribly efficient as far as fuel burn, but damn handy when it came to starting it up again on a cold morning. Then he took a few logs to stoke up the little potbelly stove in his bedroom. It was going
to be a chilly night, and he’d probably wake up to a hard frost in the morning. Maybe tomorrow he’d start putting up the storm windows to cut the draft.
He built his fire, then stripped and took a long hot shower. By the time he was ready to settle into bed, his room was overly warm and he wasn’t going to need his blankets. Every year as the weather got colder he’d forget that he should start the fire in this room early so it could settle before bedtime. It always took him a week or so to get back into the routine. He stuck a log in front of his bedroom door to keep it open and let some of the heat out, and flopped into bed.
Chapter Two
He’d fallen asleep easily, but now he was restless, tossing and turning. A strangely lucid yet helpless part of his sleeping mind was aware that he was having a nightmare but didn’t wake him, nor did it allow him to form a rational impression of what was happening. There was the image of a man, blue and frozen, in chains and crying for help. He begged as Quinn stood over him, the overly long and cartoonish barrel of Quinn’s Beretta pointing right at the guy’s head. There was all this emotion with it, too—fear and despair, frustration and power.
A short, sharp crash woke him and he was instantly upright, breathing hard and disoriented. He couldn’t be sure at first if he’d pulled the trigger in his dream, or if the sound had been physically present. The answer became much clearer, however, when he heard his front door slam.
“Oh, fuck,” he swore as he flew out of bed, grabbing his gun and bolting out of the door. Halfway between the car and the garage, the man Quinn had been hoping was dead stumbled and fell onto the frost-covered grass. Quinn took off across the yard, barefoot and in boxer shorts, experienced eyes on the target as the guy managed to get to his feet and continued to stumble forward. He was moving, but much more slowly now and obviously hurting, one arm wrapped protectively around his middle.
To Quinn’s shock and horror, his car chirped cheerfully to life and the engine started. Panic set in as he realized his prisoner wasn’t going to be so much longer. “Stop!” he bellowed, raising his gun. The man wasn’t moving fast, but he didn’t stop.
“Oh, fucking hell.” Quinn ran, his bare feet screaming at him with every step on the frozen ground. He skidded over some slippery leaves and stumbled painfully in the gravel outside the garage, but finally managed to launch himself at the target and bring him down with his bodyweight.
The guy screamed in anguish and Quinn’s key fob flew out of his fingers. “Oh, God. Nonono! Fuck!” He fought Quinn hard, writhing and scrambling beneath him, but his cries of pain quickly grew more intense and it wasn’t long before he was panting and gasping.
“That’s enough!” Quinn barked.
The guy’s panting turned into sobs but he stopped struggling as ordered.
Quinn got to his feet and retrieved his key fob, shutting the car off and locking the doors. He looked down at the guy and sighed. “Can you get up?”
All he got in response was a miserable groan. Quinn was fucking freezing outside in nothing but his boxers, his feet hurt and he couldn’t feel his goddamn toes. He needed to get indoors quick. He leaned down and lifted the guy up by one arm, which he hooked over his shoulders, realizing as their bare skin touched just how ice cold his captive was, as well. He wrapped his arm around the guy’s back and slowly they made their way up to the house, whimpers and groans cutting through the chilly night air.
Once inside, Quinn moved quickly. He sat the guy in his wide overstuffed armchair and threw several logs into the wood stove, then hurried to the bedroom and pulled on sweats and a T-shirt, and dried his feet. After finding his slippers, he grabbed an insulated flannel shirt and went back out to the main room.
Quinn’s charge was slumped over the arm of the chair and seemed nearly as blue as he’d been in Quinn’s nightmare. Even his bruises looked pale. Quinn hadn’t been able to shake the emotions of that fucking dream. Even knowing what was at stake, Quinn couldn’t just let this guy die under his roof. He’d leave that to the boys when they arrived.
Quinn got the flannel on the guy, covered him with a blanket and put the kettle on. Thinking that might not be enough to warm him quickly, Quinn pulled a wool hat off the hook by the front door and jammed it on his captive’s head, then dug around until he came up with a first aid kit.
Half an hour or so later, his hostage was still out cold, but Quinn had managed to coax some color back into him and had cleaned him up a bit. The guy’s right eye was swollen shut, and most of the right side of his face was purple, but it wasn’t bloody and it didn’t seem like Quinn needed to worry too much about infection. The bruising around the target’s neck didn’t look so bad up close, and Quinn had to wonder what the muscle boys had been thinking. Between his neck and the ugly bruising around his ribcage and left side, it seemed to Quinn more like they’d been playing with him than trying to kill him.
He’d boiled the kettle and put it on the wood stove to stay hot, figuring he could eventually offer the man some tea or one of those instant soup things he kept around. Quinn’s own feet had warmed back up just fine, and it was plenty toasty in the main part of the house now. He leaned back into the couch and watched the guy.
“Who are you?” Quinn asked out loud. “Why does the Boss want you six feet under?” Quinn had never given much thought to the why of things—it wasn’t his affair and knowing too much was unwise in his line of business. He shifted and put his feet up. “What am I going to do with you?”
Quinn’s patient moaned softly and lifted his head before letting it drop against the back of the chair again. Whether coincidence, or the guy had actually heard him speaking, Quinn couldn’t tell. It was quiet and still in the house for a while, but when his captive started to moan again, Quinn figured he was finally coming around.
“Hey.” Quinn rolled off the couch and gave him a gentle shake, sitting on the arm of the big chair. “Hey, man. Wake up. You in there?” That earned Quinn a groan, and something mumbled that Quinn didn’t understand. “Say again?”
“Where?”
“Oh. Um, well, you’re still with me. Quinn. But you’re—whoa!” Quinn lunged forward and caught the guy as he desperately tried to get up. “Ho there… You’re not… You can’t. Just sit.”
The target’s good eye was wide and terrified. “Fuck.”
“Relax. How the hell did you get out of those chains?”
“What?”
“The chains?”
“Oh. Knocked over the radiator and broke ’em.”
“You knocked over a cast-iron radiator? Are you fucking kidding me? What are you, the Hulk?”
“Name’s Cooper.”
Hm. Cooper. “Yeah? Got a first name, Cooper?”
“Tony. Anthony.”
“Tony Cooper?” Tony Cooper. Anthony Cooper? Quinn played the name over and over in his mind but it didn’t ring a bell at all. “Well, Cooper, don’t—do not—try to steal my car again. Are we clear?”
Cooper nodded. “Tony.”
“What?”
“Call me Tony.”
Quinn snorted. “You’re fucking kidding me, right? You’re practically dying in that chair and you’re worried about what name I call you?”
“Sorry, Randy.” Considering the shape he was in, Tony really pulled off the sarcasm.
Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “Okay, smartass.” The guy had balls, Quinn had to give him that. “You hungry?”
Tony shook his head.
“Yeah well, we’re going to try something, anyway.” Quinn snagged a packet of chicken broth from his pantry, dumped it in a mug and stirred in some water from the kettle on the wood stove. He tested it himself first to make sure it wasn’t too hot. “See how this goes down.”
Tony resisted at first but finally took a small sip. Swallowing seemed hard for him.
“Take it slow.”
A few more sips and Tony pushed it away. “Enough.”
“Sure, okay.” Quinn set the mug on the brick hearth to keep warm.
�
��That stuff is vile.” Tony shifted in his chair and groaned. “I feel like I’m dying.”
Quinn shook his head. “Unfortunately for me, I doubt it. If you were, I’m pretty sure it would have happened by now. But you look like the fucking Purple People Eater.”
Tony snorted. “Side hurts.”
“Yeah, I checked it out. Your ribs don’t seem to be broken, but I know a guy. If it’s still bad I’ll call him in the morning.”
“A guy?”
“A doc.”
“You’re…going to call a doctor?”
Quinn shrugged. He was a little surprised himself, but, yeah, that was the plan.
“I thought you wanted me dead?”
“Well, that would be easier for both of us, yeah.”
“But you’re not going to—”
“No. That’s someone else’s job.”
“What?”
“It’s okay, you don’t have to get it. It’s a gangster thing. Murder isn’t in my contract. Now, if you touch my car again—”
“Won’t.”
“Good boy.” At some point, while Quinn played fucking nursemaid, he came to the unfortunate realization that his predicament was entirely of his own making. In hindsight, he really ought to have agreed to the Boss’ offer and put a bullet in Tony’s head back in that rancid motel room. At this point, he saw three potential scenarios, and two of them didn’t end well. First, Tony might somehow manage to escape, with or without stealing Quinn’s car, for which the Boss would likely reward Quinn by cutting off Quinn’s fucking head. Second, Tony could get a hold of Quinn’s gun, or the fire poker, or some other heavy, deadly object and kill Quinn himself before making his escape. The final scenario, the one far less hazardous to Quinn’s health, was that the boys would show up before either of the first two scenarios came to pass and finish the job they were too fucking stupid to do properly in the first place.
So, that left Quinn with a sixty-six percent chance of ending up dead in the next few days, and the more optimistic thirty-three percent was riding on the backs of a couple of morons. Fucky Mcfuckstick.
“Want a beer?”
“A…beer?”