Rum Runner - A Thriller (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries Book 9)

by J. A. Konrath

“Actually, Tom, anything can be funny. Ask Mel Brooks. But don’t confuse my humorous reference to the omnipresent Islamophobia inherent in this country with racism. It’s satire, used to make fun of the ignorant boys and girls who actually are racists. And calling me a racist because I made a joke you didn’t fully understand means you’re the one who needs to practice a little tolerance. We’ve all become so politically correct that no one can say anything without some pinhead crying bigotry. Chill out, brother.”

  Harry paid for his Panini, tipped the cashier with the change from a fifty dollar bill, and walked out.

  “And that was the Harry McGlade Show,” Herb said.

  “Why hasn’t someone killed him yet?”

  “Kill him? They keep making TV movies about him.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Latest was Deadly Patrimony. One of the Baldwins played Harry.”

  “Which Baldwin?”

  “Not the popular one.”

  Tom clucked his tongue. “Deadly Patrimony. What does that even mean?”

  “It means we can no longer have any faith in media entertainment.” Herb headed for the exit. “Cheese plate is on you. I spent all my money on Zombie Sugar Jackers. Thanks for that.”

  “My pleasure,” Tom called after him.

  But it didn’t sound like it was his pleasure at all.

  DEL RAY

  His team came back from the Walmart with all the supplies Del Ray had wanted, and some bad news he didn’t want.

  “All dead, General. Killed them like rats.”

  Del had been holding out hope that the soldiers he’d sent after the husband were maybe lost, or getting stoned somewhere.

  Instead, they’d been killed. And Del Ray had been the man who sent them to their deaths.

  Eyes were on him, so he didn’t show any weakness. He played it cool and squelched the scream building inside him.

  “Those were our brothers. When this is over, we’ll get them and take them back home. Make sure their kids and baby mamas are taken care of.”

  His men nodded, but Del saw uncertainty there.

  “I got a plan,” he said. “No more dead homies. We gonna take that house, and that cop and her husband, and they’re gonna pay. Then we’ll get the hell out of here.”

  “Fire is getting’ closer, too,” said LeBron, his lieutenant. “Sky is gettin’ real smoky.”

  “We’re going to end this before it reaches us,” Del assured him.

  He directed seven men to put on the stolen camouflage hunting clothing, and then instructed them on what to do with the cans of aerosol insulation and duct tape. Waders, rain coats, and motorcycle helmets were distributed to four others.

  Then he began to read the instruction manual for the power tools they’d taken.

  Things were about to get real.

  PHIN

  They didn’t find any Demerol, but McGlade did have some bottles of procaine, which was the generic of Novocain. Phin’s finger had swollen to almost twice its regular width, and had turned an angry shade of red. The pain was in the Top Three of the worst Phin had ever experienced, and it throbbed and peaked with every heartbeat.

  They were in the living room, and Phin was reclining in an easy chair in case he passed out again. Jack was kneeling alongside him, her hands in latex gloves.

  “Bad?” Jack asked.

  “Ya’aburnee.” He grimaced, then translated in case she’d forgotten. “I want you to bury me.”

  Jack wrinkled her nose. “I still don’t understand that.”

  “Right now it means I’m in so much pain I want to die. But when it’s about love, it means I want to die before you, because I couldn’t stand to live without you.”

  “That’s stupid. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “It does to me,” Phin said.

  “Okay. Well, I’m not going to bury you right now, much as you want me to. You ready for this?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jack opened up a syringe package—one with the hypodermic needle already attached—then drew two cubic centimeters of procaine out of the bottle. Phin had his elbow on the armrest, his broken finger facing Jack. In his other hand was a wooden spoon.

  Jack’s face was as pale as he’d ever seen it.

  “Where do I…” her voice trailed off.

  “In the finger. At the base. Right where my palm ends.”

  “It’s going to hurt.”

  “It already hurts.”

  “But jamming in a needle is going to make it hurt worse. I could do the wrist, then move down until your whole hand is numb.”

  “This is my shooting hand. I need to be able to feel my other fingers to return fire.”

  She nodded, bringing the needle to rest on his palm.

  Phin placed the handle of the spoon in his mouth, his molars clenching the wood.

  He closed his eyes.

  “Okay… here it goes…”

  When the needle went in, he screamed and bit the spoon in half. Jack finished the injection. Phin spat out the two pieces of wood and leaned forward in the chair, fighting nausea.

  “Is that going to be enough?” Jack asked, looking terribly unsure.

  “I don’t know. It’s going to take a little while to kick in.”

  “That was awful.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think it hurt me more than it hurt you,” Jack said.

  Phin snorted. “I doubt that. But thanks.”

  She put her hand on his knee. “I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

  “I know.”

  “I’d rather endure the pain myself.”

  He tried on a weak smile. “See? Maybe you understand ya’aburnee better than you thought.”

  “No. That’s still pretty stupid. Is your finger getting numb?”

  The procaine took its time, but it eventually worked its magic and blocked the nerves. As it did, Phin once again became aware of his broken ribs. They ached, but it was a welcome trade-off.

  “I need to splint it,” Jack said.

  “Just make sure I can still hold a gun.”

  Jack touched his elbow, softly, as if he would break. “Can you stand up?”

  “It’s my finger, Jack. Not my knees.”

  “We should do this in the control room. I want to see what they’re doing outside.”

  Phin nodded, and allowed himself to be helped out of the chair. He put his arm around Jack’s shoulders as they walked, letting her take just a little of his weight because her body felt so nice next to his. His whole hand was getting numb. Too numb, in fact. Phin didn’t feel a thing when he accidentally bumped the wall and jammed his bad finger.

  “Phin! Oh… god.”

  His index finger was now bent completely backwards, and his bone had broken through the skin.

  “That’s going to be tough to splint,” he said.

  He stared at the injury, watching the blood spurt out with his pulse, and Jack turned away and threw up again.

  HERB

  So how much have you spent on the game so far?” Tom asked.

  They’d stopped in Lake Loyal, Wisconsin, so Harry could drop his spawn off with Val Ryker, a friend of Jack’s. Val was the town’s former police chief, and she apparently owed McGlade a favor. Or maybe he had some sort of blackmail leverage over her.

  “A few bucks,” Herb said.

  Herb had spent one hundred and twenty-six dollars on Zombie Sugar Jackers. But his Rank 24 Garden was totally pimped out. He had a Fuzzy Cloud of Wondergrowth raining on his crops so they grew 25% faster, and his Venus Taffytrap could stop the lower-level Munch Bunch zombies from attacking when Herb took a break.

  Assuming that, eventually, Herb would take a break.

  A banner came up. Kickaximus Scrote was asking for ten more candy bars in tribute.

  “Hey, what’s up with that UAE kid asking for more candy?” Herb asked.

  “He can do that whenever he wants. He’s clan leader.”

  “I thought the little shit had to go
to bed.”

  “I forgot it was the weekend. No school tomorrow.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “Pay him.”

  “But it’s ten bucks.”

  “You have to. You pledged your chocolate shield to his sugary cause.”

  “And what if I don’t?”

  “He’ll kick you out. But first he’ll send the Root Beer Locusts and wipe out your garden.”

  “But I gave him a refill on Nose Bopper Syrup just ten minutes ago.”

  “Kickaximus Scrote rules the BigguPooPoo Clan with an iron fist.”

  “Screw this kid,” Herb said. “I’m giving him one candy bar, and messaging him to say that’s all he’s getting.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  A few seconds after he sent the text, Herb got a response.

  “He called me a wanker, and told me to suck my own dick,” Herb said, frowning at his phone. “This kid is only eight?”

  “Probably closer to nine.”

  “He’s an asshole.”

  “You’d better give him the other nine candy bars,” Tom said.

  Herb didn’t do that. Instead, he messaged KickAximus Scrote and told him it was past his bedtime and he should let the adults play for a while.

  Then the Root Beer Locusts wiped out Herb’s garden.

  “Seriously?” Herb said.

  As Herb was trying to figure out what just happened, his phone flashed a message.

  You’ve been kicked out of the clan, sucka!

  “I see you were kicked out of the clan,” Tom said.

  “What the hell? Now I’m being attacked by a Dinosaur Storm.”

  “You don’t have a clan to protect you.”

  Herb tried tapping the screen in random places, but there was nothing he could do. “The Dinosaur Storm just killed my Venus Taffytrap. Is that permanent?”

  “You can buy another one when you join a new clan.”

  “How do I join a new clan?”

  “Go into world chat. Maybe someone will send you an invite. It’s usually about twenty candy bars.”

  “Twenty candy bars!? What the hell kind of game is this!?”

  “I told you. Electronic crack.” Tom’s face got really serious. “Crack isn’t good, man. You should’ve just said no.”

  Harry entered the Crimebago, without Junior.

  “What’s electronic crack?” he asked, starting up the RV. “Is it Combville? I used to be really addicted to Combville.”

  “Zombie Sugar Jackers,” Tom said.

  McGlade nodded. “I rule that game. My clan is ranked number twelve worldwide.”

  Tom called bullshit.

  “Check it,” Harry said.

  Herb checked the global rankings. The number twelve clan was named Harry’s Enormous Balls.

  “You see my enormous balls?” Harry asked.

  Herb rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He really didn’t want to check out McGlade’s stats. Herb had shown a staggering lack of willpower during the last few hours, and was sick with himself. He needed to exercise a little self-control.

  “Holy shit!” Tom said.

  Herb waylaid self-control and checked Harry’s stats. “You have a Rank 61 Garden,” he said, flatly.

  “Yeah. The limit used to be 60, but the developers raised it because: rich guys.”

  That made it official. Life truly wasn’t fair.

  Herb’s envy of McGlade’s garden was interrupted by a Murder Cyclone, which sucked up all of his Wonder Dirt. Now Herb couldn’t grow anymore sweet beets or candy canes. As Herb lamented the loss, the cyclone returned, wiping out his Fuzzy Cloud of Wondergrowth.

  “Let me join your clan, McGlade,” he said.

  “Seriously?”

  “I don’t have a clan, and a Murder Cyclone just hit me.”

  “Murder Cyclone’s suck,” Tom said. “But the worst is the Hate Volcano. It sends you back ten levels.”

  “Ten levels? You’re making that up.”

  A new message flashed on Herb’s screen.

  A Hate Volcano has erupted. You are now back at Level 63.

  “C’mon, Harry.” Herb swallowed the tiny bit of pride he still had and said, “Please.”

  “On one condition, oh jiggly one.”

  “What?”

  “Tell me you love Harry’s Enormous Balls.”

  “Jesus, Harry. That’s so—”

  “I love Harry’s Enormous Balls!” Tom blurted out.

  “Let me have your gamer name, Tom. I’ll send you an invite.”

  Tom told Harry his name. Herb got another message.

  The Death Plague has descended upon you. Your garden is now half size.

  “I love Harry’s Enormous Balls,” Herb muttered.

  “What was that? I couldn’t quite hear it.”

  “I love Harry’s Enormous Balls!” Herb yelled.

  “HOMEBOY!” squawked Homeboy.

  “See? Was that so hard? What’s your name?”

  “HBenedict1966.”

  “Naw, I don’t like that. Change it to TubbyTubbyDoubleChin.”

  “No.” Herb folded his arms over his chest. “I’m drawing the line there.”

  “You should do it before you’re hit by a Havoc Quake,” Tom said.

  “What’s a Havoc Quake?”

  “You lose everything and have to start over at the beginning.”

  “What was that name again?” Herb asked.

  And that’s how TubbyTubbyDoubleChin embraced Harry’s Enormous Balls.

  “Welcome to the clan, guys,” McGlade said, pulling back onto the road. “I wish you much luck with your candy jacking, and I’m sure we’re going to have hours of fun, gaming together. Also, you each owe me twenty candy bars in tribute or I’m kicking you out.”

  JACK

  I wasn’t cut out to be a doctor.

  I managed to straighten out Phin’s finger bones best that I could, did a sloppy Frankenstein horrorshow job of stitching him up, and then made a splint out of a tongue depressor and some medical tape.

  “Think they left?” Phin asked.

  He was staring at the monitors. We hadn’t seen, or heard, anyone on the property for over half an hour.

  “I’d love to think so, but I wouldn’t put money on it. T-Nail won’t give up.”

  “What’s that guy’s deal?”

  I considered it. “I honestly don’t know. I’ve met my fair share of crazies. People who liked to kill. People who were compelled to kill. People who did it for money. People who did it for a cause. But T-Nail… he’s different. When you look him in the eyes, there’s not a person there. It’s just blank. You can’t reason with him. There’s no empathy. No emotion at all. It’s like looking into a void.”

  “Born that way? Abused? Bad environment?”

  “I have no idea. I’ve never known another killer like T-Nail. He once nailed a man to the floor and peeled off all of his skin. All of it, scalp to toes. One strip at a time. The Medical Examiner estimated it took him two days to die. The victim’s brother—the one who testified against T-Nail at the trial—was forced to watch. He said T-Nail had the television on the whole time, and kept stopping the torture to change channels.”

  “That’s not an image I needed in my head.”

  “This isn’t someone who kills for fun. It’s more like…” I looked for the right words. “It’s more like natural selection. T-Nail is asserting his dominance in the food chain.”

  And at the moment, he was right at the top of that food chain. The wolf waiting for the bunnies to leave the burrow.

  “What about the witness?” Phin asked. “Will T-Nail go after him?”

  “He died of a heroin overdose three months after the trial.”

  The overdose had been intentional. Poor kid left a note that read, I can’t make the screaming stop.

  “What the hell?” Phin pressed a button on the control panel. One of the monitors had gone dark. “Electrical problem? Or did they cut it?”

&
nbsp; Jack squinted at the board. “The panel says the camera is still live. And Harry thought of everything. I don’t think he would have forgotten to bury the cable.”

  “Oh, hell.” Phin pointed at another monitor. A kid in a hunting mask was sticking duct tape over the lens. A moment later five others were doing the same thing on other cameras.

  I hit the sprinklers. We only had one working camera left, and we watched a guy in a green and brown outfit sprint off into the woods.

  “They’re wearing camouflage,” Phin said. “Son of a bitch. We didn’t see them sneaking up.”

  I pushed away from the console. “This is bad.”

  “It’s about to get worse.”

  A man wearing rain gear and a motorcycle helmet walked into frame. Right through the streams of scalding water.

  “What’s he holding?” I asked.

  But I knew what it was when he pulled the cord and the engine fired up, the unmistakable buzzing sound coming through the console speakers.

  It was a chainsaw.

  I stood and hurried into the living room, Phin half a step behind me. After grabbing my rifle, I headed for the nearest balistraria and pressed the hidden panel.

  It didn’t open.

  Phin took his folding knife out, and began prying at the seam in the wood. He managed to get it unstuck, and he put his good hand in the crack and yanked outward, breaking the thin veneer, revealing the opening.

  The balistraria had been sealed up with some sort of yellow gunk. I touched it with my finger, and it was slightly moist and gave in a little bit.

  “Foam insulation,” Phin said. “You spray it on, and it expands to fill the space and gets rock hard.”

  There was a knocking sound, just beyond the balistraria, on the outside of the house. Phin began to carve away at the stiff foam with his knife, and then met resistance. He leaned on his blade, but couldn’t push any farther.

  “They’re nailing boards over the foam.”

  From bad to worse to impossible. “Can we cut through it? A saw? A drill?”

  “We can’t see them on the cameras so we don’t know where they are. If we cut through, they’ll notice. They could be standing right there with shotguns.”

  I cast a frantic glance around the room. “Maybe they missed one.”