by Gary Ponzo
Once Gasper was gone, he looked at Steele and Silk. “I want both of you to head down to the Winchester and find this Angel character. I don’t care what it takes, find him.”
Steele looked at Silk. “No offense, but I don’t need an escort.”
“None taken,” Silk said.
“I want Silk with you,” Nick said. “In case Angel isn’t there and no one wants to cooperate with an FBI agent.”
Steele’s eyes narrowed. “What are you suggesting?”
Nick spoke deliberately, trying to reason out his response with the slower tempo. “I’m simply suggesting that Silk can do certain things that go beyond the scope of your capabilities.”
Steele frowned. “You mean things like intimidation and brute force?”
Silk stood silently, allowing Nick to do all the work for him.
“Yes, I mean intimidation, brute force and animal husbandry if it’s called for. If this guy knows where the KSF headquarters is then he’s our best chance to save the White House, and maybe even our country.”
Steele looked as if she was ready to walk out, but didn’t want to be insubordinate. “Don’t you think this is going over the line?”
“Probably,” Nick said. “The line’s getting blurrier and blurrier all the time. But I don’t have time to debate protocol with you, Agent Steele. If you don’t want to go, tell me, and I’ll send someone else.”
Steele looked over at Silk who appeared to be suppressing a grin. “Are you at least going to give me a chance to do this legally?” she asked him.
Silk looked offended. “Of course. What do I look like, a monster?”
She looked back at Nick and seemed ready to agree, when Nick said, “Whatever Silk needs to do, he does. No questions asked.”
“And he receives a get-out-of-jail-free card?” Steele asked.
Nick walked behind Skrugs’ desk, sat down, and placed his hands flat on the desktop. “Look,” he said, “you saved my partner’s life. I owe you. Please work with me here. We’re dealing with someone who will kill woman and children just for something to do. He tried to kill my wife. I need you to give me some room to maneuver.”
Steele’s look softened. She nodded.
Nick didn’t say any more. He’d taken on more responsibility than he could handle and it didn’t hold up to the scrutiny of a fellow FBI agent. It seemed the faster he acted the more palatable his commands became.
Steele left with Silk trailing her. He was on his toes. A lion on the prowl. Nick wondered exactly what he had just unleashed. He looked up at the cable dangling from the ceiling. “Fuck you, Kharrazi,” Nick spat. “Fuck you and everything I’ve become to get you.”
Chapter 34
Jennifer Steele’s house was less than a mile from the Winchester, so she decided to stop for a quick change of clothes. Walking into a cowboy bar wearing an FBI windbreaker wasn’t the most effective way to extract information. She had decided to use another tactic and by the time she reached the bar, the transformation was complete.
“You’re one talented FBI agent,” Silk said, leering at her spaghetti-strapped top and tight-fitting jeans.
Steele was uncomfortable using her body as a tool, but she despised the alternative that Silk presented.
They were outside of the Winchester. Steele applied lipstick while looking into a compact mirror. “You are going to give me a decent shot at this aren’t you?” she asked.
“Hey, a guy takes one look at you and he’s spilling all of his secrets including some stuff about his mom.”
“Thanks. I think.” Steele put the finishing touches on her face, then snapped her compact shut and slipped it into her tiny purse, next to her gun. “Give me a couple of minutes head start,” she said, leaving Silk to pace on the creaking wooden floorboards that fronted the bar.
The Winchester had been a large barn that was converted into a cowboy bar over twenty years ago. The Berlin wall had crumbled and private citizens were planning space travel, yet time seemed to stand still inside of the Winchester. Other than a few obvious tourists, the standard attire included jeans, cowboy boots, Stetson hat, and the occasional bandanna. There were piles of hay bound up in strategic spots, giving the place more authenticity than it really needed. On the overhead speaker system, Willie Nelson pleaded for mommas not to allow their babies to grow up to be cowboys. It was already too late for most of the clientele.
Steele scanned the room. The bar itself was a square-shaped wooden frame with shelves of whiskey covering up a full-length mirror. A bartender rang a cowbell, then dropped a few dollar bills into the silver bucket tip jar that hung from a nail.
She wasn’t inside more than a minute before someone took the bait.
“Buy you a drink, Ma’am.” Steele turned to see a thin, young man with a large Stetson hat that weighed half his body weight. The hat was supposed to make him look older, but his baby face worked against him. He pushed the brim of his hat up with the tip of his longneck bottle of beer. “Be my pleasure,” he added.
“Yes,” Steele said. “That would be nice. I’ll have a draft.”
The man smiled. He hurried over to the bar as if Steele’s acceptance might have a short shelf life. It gave Steele just enough time to adjust to the darkness and by the time he returned she was certain that Angel wasn’t there.
“Here you go,” the man carefully handed her the overfilled glass of beer. “They don’t cheat ya here.”
“No they don’t,” Steele said, sipping the foam off the glass of beer. They were standing dangerously close to the dance floor and several slow dancing couples moved them back a couple of steps. “I’ve never been here before, how about you?” she asked.
“A few times,” he said, in an overly innocent tone that made Steele think he slept in a room out back. “I didn’t catch your name,” he said.
“Jennifer. What’s yours?”
“Zeke,” he said with a straight face.
“Hi, Zeke.”
Steele waited a brief moment, then acted like she was trying to fill the awkward pause with conversation. “Have you ever heard of a guy named Angel? I understand he hangs out here sometimes.”
Zeke looked up at the high ceiling in deep thought. Probably considering which answer would benefit him the most. “I think I do remember a guy by the name of Angel. Why, is he a friend of yours?”
She rubbed her index finger around the rim of her glass and offered a crooked smile. “He’s not my boyfriend, if that’s what you mean. I don’t have one of those right now.”
Zeke’s eye’s widened. “Um, well, why are you looking for him?”
“My brother lost some money playing pool with him and I was looking to pay him off. It’s a big sister kind of thing.”
Zeke nodded, as if the story rung true. He’d probably lost money to Angel himself. “Yeah, I can see that happening.”
Steele lowered her head and whispered into Zeke’s ear. “I was hoping you might know where I could find him, so I can free myself up for the rest of the evening.” She lingered a little before backing up and for that brief moment she allowed herself to imagine it was Matt McColm’s cheek she was brushing against. It surprised her how quickly his image had popped into her head. They hadn’t had a chance to talk privately since the shootout. Was that the cause for the butterflies now swirling in her stomach? She needed to focus on her assignment, but for some reason she felt compelled to permit the small fantasy to creep into the fray. If even for a brief moment.
She must’ve been glowing when she stood upright because Zeke’s blush deepened. He appeared willing to help her, but his face told her that he didn’t have the information she wanted. He shrugged slightly and looked at his boots. “I really don’t know him all that well,” he admitted.
Steele smiled. “It’s okay.” She rubbed his arm. “Do you know his last name?”
He shook his head. He looked deflated.
“Is there anyone here that might know something about him?”
Zeke bri
ghtened. He nodded toward the stand of pool tables on the opposite side of the bar. “Rocky over there is his playing partner. The one in the white shirt. They play in a lot of pool tournaments together. I’m sure he knows stuff.”
Steele saw a solid looking man with a white tee shirt tucked tightly into faded jeans. He was holding a pool cue in front of him with both hands and was tapping it against the floor in time to the music. The man he was playing with was a tall, thick Native American Indian with a braid running down his back.
Steele leaned toward Zeke and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Thanks, Sweetie. I owe you one.”
Zeke’s face held eternal hope as she turned to go.
It was still early, yet the bar was more than half full. Steele meandered between single men trawling for young girls and couples holding hands on their way to the dance floor. She found the man in the tee shirt hanging over one of the four pool tables, lining up a long shot. She casually leaned over the pocket where he was aiming. She wasn’t wearing a bra, so he got the full treatment. He had one eye shut and was sliding the tapered pool cue through his curled index finger when he noticed her smiling at him. He came up for a moment and ran his eyes up and down her body. Then he returned to his crouch and smacked the cue ball into the 5-ball, which slammed into the back of the corner pocket right below Steele. She jumped back.
The Indian smiled at her reaction.
The man picked up a cube of blue chalk, twisted the tip of his stick into the cube, then placed it back onto the ledge of the table. He moved around Steele and as he crouched down for another shot, he bumped her aside with his hip.
Steele crossed her arms. “Am I in your way?” she asked.
“Yup,” he said without looking at her.
The Indian seemed to enjoy the free entertainment.
Steele saw Silk playing at a pool table next to them. He was gliding around the table, on the prowl for a good shot. When their eyes met, he winked at her.
Another ball slammed into a pocket and the man continued lining up his shots as if she weren’t there. She noticed he was wearing a silver belt buckle with the Confederate flag flying in the center of it.
Steele began to lose her patience. “Is your name Rocky?”
The man ignored her.
Steele looked at her watch. She suddenly felt like Cinderella at the stroke of midnight.
“Are you Rocky?” she repeated, a little louder.
He made no attempt to respond. It was obvious she had found the right man.
Steele reached into her purse and flipped open her credentials. She grabbed the man’s pool stick and shoved her creds in his face. “I’m an FBI agent. Tell me your damn name.”
The Indian stopped smiling.
Rocky yanked the stick free. “I don’t give a fuck who you are, lady. This is a free country and I don’t have to talk to nobody I don’t want to.”
Steele stood with her hands on her hips. Randy Travis was now pining about missing an old flame. The music was loud enough to cover up most of the commotion, but the few patrons who were watching made Steele nervous. Or was it the fact that she suddenly felt extremely vulnerable. She wasn’t dressed for an altercation.
Silk was lining up a shot at the table next to them. He drew his stick back with a short jerky motion and jabbed Rocky in the ribcage with the back of his pool cue. Silk turned and brushed off the man’s shirt.
“Sorry about that,” Silk said. “Hey, you’re kinda cute.”
Rocky squared up on him and his shoulders seemed to swell. Silk was a couple of inches shorter, but he looked up at the man with the practiced stare of a professional assassin. Rocky tried to keep up, but the best he could do was look menacing. Nobody spoke as the two men stared each other down.
Finally, Silk glimpsed down at the man’s belt buckle. “The fuck is that?” he said, pointing at the Confederate flag.
Rocky maintained his stare. He was trying out his best scowl, but Silk seemed immune.
“Didn’t anyone tell you?” Silk asked. “The south lost. What happened, you drop your subscription to the Redneck Daily News?”
Rocky’s eyes flared with fury. He gripped his pool stick with both hands and roundhoused a swing at Silk.
Silk ducked.
When Rocky came back with it, Silk deflected the shot with his right arm and grabbed the stick with his left. He pulled down with both hands, snapped the stick over his raised thigh and came up with two splintered pieces. Rocky stood startled at Silk’s agility. Silk wheeled and clocked the Indian who was now reaching for Silk from behind.
The Indian went to his knees. Blood trickled down the side of his face. Silk barked, “Stay down, Chief, I got no gripe with you.”
Rocky had grabbed another pool stick and was about to swing when Steele fumbled her gun out of her purse and pointed it at him. “Stop, or I’ll shoot.”
Silk looked at Steele as if she’d ruined his birthday party. “Aw, leave him be,” Silk said, with open palms. “He ain’t gonna hurt nothing.”
Steele held the gun steady and wondered what else could go wrong that night.
“Put it down, lady,” a man’s voice boomed from behind her. When Steele turned, she saw a large man with a dirty, white apron tied around his bowling ball gut. He was holding a shotgun and leveling it at Steele. “Get out of my bar . . . now.”
Steele held up her credentials. “I’m an FBI agent here on official business.”
“I don’t’ give a shit who you are.”
“You don’t understand—”
The shot reverberated throughout the spacious room, followed by screams and a frantic rush for the exit. People nearby lunged to the floor and began scrambling for the door on their hands and knees.
Steele flinched for a moment, but when she regained her focus, she saw the bar owner on the floor clutching his leg. Silk holstered his revolver, kicked aside the shotgun that lay next to the bar owner, and crouched over the fallen man. “Sorry, pal. You just don’t know how serious all this stuff is.”
Silk unfastened the bar owner’s apron and tied it snug around his upper thigh as a tourniquet. He motioned to the Indian, who was getting to his feet and pressed his hand up against his bloody ear. “Hey, Chief, get him to the hospital. Pronto. It looks like you could use a stitch or two yourself.”
The Indian stood expressionless.
Silk casually steered his revolver in the Indian’s direction. “What? I gotta shoot you too?”
The Indian moved toward the injured man.
The bar owner’s face was screwed up into a knot. He appeared to be fighting off the effects of shock.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Steele said, still breathing heavy from relief.
“You’re welcome,” Silk said, helping the bar owner to his feet and placing the man’s arm around the large Indian’s shoulder. The two of them shuffled off and Rocky began to accompany them.
Silk grabbed the back of Rocky’s shirt and pulled. “Where do you think you’re going, sport?”
Rocky unleashed an elbow into Silk’s ribs and caught him by surprise. Silk took a step back, then regrouped and kicked Rocky in the crotch like he was punting a football. Rocky curled over in pain.
Silk scowled. “What’s the matter with you, you don’t see me shoot that fat fuck with the apron? You think I’m like one of your cowfolk friends that carry around a six-shooter just to impress his girlfriend?”
The room was empty, but for the three of them now. Johnny Cash was singing about shooting a man in Reno just to watch him die; his voice resonated throughout the rafters of the elevated ceiling.
Silk lifted his foot and shoved Rocky to the ground. He landed on his back in between two pool tables and looked up at Silk. “Are you the law?” he asked in a breathy voice.
Silk opened the chamber of his revolver and dropped all five bullets into the palm of his hand. “More like an outlaw,” Silk grinned.
“What are you doing?” Steele asked.
“I’m not su
re,” Silk said. “I think I’m trying to save the free world.”
Rocky squinted incredulously at what he was watching.
Silk slipped all but one of the bullets into his pants pocket. He waved the single bullet in front of the man, gently holding it between the index finger and thumb of his right hand. He eased the bullet into one of the six chambers, then flicked it shut with his wrist. He spun the cylinder. It clicked around like a roulette wheel. Rocky’s mouth opened.
“What are you doing?” Steele asked. Louder this time.
Silk spun the chamber again. He knelt next to Rocky and cocked the hammer. “You know what I’m doing, don’t you? I might have to put you to sleep, if ya know what I mean.”
Rocky sat frozen. He looked at Steele. His eyes pleaded for help, but his mouth only quivered.
“Silk, you’re not doing this,” Steele ordered.
“You see,” Silk said to the man, “I need to know something.” He stopped, then looked back at Steele. “He does know where this Angel guy lives, doesn’t he?”
Steele didn’t want it like this. Not her first big assignment. Not in the town she lived in. When everyone else had packed and gone home, she would still be there representing the Bureau. “This is not how we do things,” Steele said.
“Uh huh,” Silk said. “I’ll take that for a yes.”
He returned his attention to Rocky. He pressed the gun to the man’s temple and said, “I need to know where Angel lives. Can you tell me? Or do we start gambling with your life?”
“I don’t—”
Click.
Rocky screamed.
Steele aimed her pistol at Silk. “Stop it!”
Rocky’s face was drained white. He screamed incoherent words.
Silk cocked the hammer again and cupped his ear. “What did you say, I can’t hear you?”
Click. Silk pulled the trigger for the second time.
Rocky was convulsing. His eyes were saturated with tears.
Steele fired a shot over Silk’s head. The blast startled Rocky. It startled her. Silk didn’t flinch. “Stop it, or I’m going take you down,” she ordered.