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Authors: Dani Amore

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Bullet River (The Garbage Collector 2) (6 page)

BOOK: Bullet River (The Garbage Collector 2)

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The motion detector was on a short, metal pole that had been buried directly in front of an oak tree. In order to get around the motion detector he would have to step behind the tree. The ground behind the tree sloped down toward a gulley that had been dug to drain rainfall toward the river.

When the thug stepped behind the tree, his head dipped down. I came out of the scrub oak without making a sound and executed one of the finest sucker punches of my career.

My fist crashed into his jaw, and I felt bone give way—in his face, not my hand.

He toppled forward, and I caught him before he landed in a stand of small palmettos. I lowered him gently to the ground.

I patted him down then freed the 9mm from his shoulder holster.

From the other side of the driveway, I heard someone whisper.

“Pudge.” He sounded annoyed.

“What the fuck, you takin’ a piss?” he said.

I circled back behind the big car, then into the woods behind the second man.

I took great care not to brush up against the larger palmettos on this side of the drive. When their fronds rubbed together it sounded like a violin lesson gone terribly wrong.

The second guy had come out of the woods and now stood in the middle of the driveway on the other side of the motion detectors. Subtlety and stealth were clearly not lessons taught in the KLA.

“Quit fucking around,” he whispered, this time with a bit more volume.

I stepped up behind him and put the muzzle of Pudge’s gun behind his left ear.

“He’s not taking a piss,” I said. “But he probably did shit his pants.”

•

I pulled the Albanians’ Lincoln, with Pudge safely ensconced in the trunk, into the parking lot of the Estero Bay Preserve. It was a huge tract of land, thousands upon thousands of acres, a lot of it swamp, that had been “saved” from developers. It had several walking trails, including one that went for eighteen miles.

I popped the trunk, pulled the second thug out, checked to make sure the duct tape was still across his mouth, then marched him into the Preserve.

We walked for at least two miles until we got to a stand of dead trees, all standing in about two feet of water.

I stripped the duct tape from his mouth.

“Fuck you!” he said, and he pressed his lips together but before he could spit, I whipped the barrel of the gun into his teeth.

He fell on his ass.

I put the muzzle of the gun against the top of his head.

“So what was the plan?” I said to him.

He hesitated, so I pressed the muzzle of the gun into the vertebrae of his neck.

“The boat,” he said. “He was going to take you out on the boat.” He then described to me in great detail what Fama had planned for me.

None of it was a surprise. Fama had mentioned something similar about his original plan for Kiki.

“So what did she do? Why’d he kill her?”

He shook his head. “She did the one thing he never lets his dancers do.”

I waited.

“She tried to leave,” he said.

That’s what I’d figured. I tried not to think about Kiki’s failed escape. Maybe it was guilt, or maybe disappointment that she hadn’t tried to contact me. I would have helped her.

She had to have known that.

“Call him,” I said.

“Pudge has the phone,” he said.

I pulled it from my pocket. “You mean this one?”

Fama was on the call history, so I held down the call button.

When I heard him answer I put the phone to the thug’s ear, and he said what I told him to say.

After I disconnected the call, I introduced the barrel of the 9mm to my hostage’s temple. It was a fairly vicious blow, but I was pretty confident I hadn’t fractured his skull. I take pride in my violence, to the point where I’m arrogant enough to consider myself a craftsman of sorts.

I took apart the cell phone and threw the pieces out into the brackish water.

I didn’t know if alligators made it out this far and if they would be able to turn Sleeping Albanian Beauty into dinner, but one could always hope.

11.

The white Lincoln Town Car’s headlights caught Fama’s Range Rover as it pulled into the marina.

Fama got out first, followed by yet another one of his thugs.

“Pudge, you asshole, turn off your lights,” Fama said.

I left them on but got out of the car with the 9mm in my hand.

“Oh, hello there,” I said.

They were both caught off guard. Fama’s bodyguard made the first move.

I shot him in the knee.

Fama didn’t move.

Keeping him in my line of sight, I went to the bodyguard, dug the gun out of his shoulder holster, and kicked him in the ribs.

“Help him up,” I said. Fama bent down to help the man, and I cracked him on the back of the head with the pistol.

He went down like the sack of shit he was.

“Roll him over,” I said to the guy who was now sitting up but holding his knee. When he leaned over to grab Fama, I cracked him on the back of the head, too.

I was four for four in rendering my victims unconscious. Those were All-Star type numbers.

I slipped the gun into my waistband then dragged Fama by the heels down the dock to his boat, described to me in great detail by my Albanian friend now sleeping in the Estero Preserve.

The boat was a cabin cruiser, several years old, that looked like someone had tried to convert it into a crab-fishing boat but had given up.

I dumped Fama without ceremony on the deck at the back of the boat, then did the same with his companion. I dug through the bodyguard’s pockets, found the key to the boat, fired up the engines, untied it from the dock, and eased out of the mooring into the Estero River.

The little marina where Fama kept his boat was much closer to the Gulf than the dock of my house-sitting job. From which I’d launched my kayak trip that had started this whole mess.

The bends of the river were familiar to me by now, and even in the early morning darkness, I soon found my way out into Estero Bay.

I put the engine at a slow idle and went to the back of the boat, next to a large plastic tray bolted to the gunwale.

Beneath it was a small storage compartment. I opened it, and found the large, razor-sharp meat cleaver Fama’s associate had assured me would be there.

Next, I went to the pile of crab traps, grabbed three, and set them next to the cutting board.

I dragged Fama and propped him against the side of the boat then lifted his right arm and laid his hand across the board.

“This is for Kristen,” I said.

The cleaver cut through his wrist with a whisper and a thud. His Rolex slid right off the stump and landed on the deck.

The pain roused Fama from his sleep, and he let out a garbled scream. He half stood, which was perfect for me. I grabbed his hair, slammed him face-first into the cutting board, and lined the blade’s edge along Fama’s neck.

“This one’s for me,” I said.

I chopped down, and Fama’s head popped from his neck, then rolled off the cutting board onto the boat’s deck.

With a knee, I pinned Fama’s headless torso against the side of the boat, grabbed his other arm and chopped off his left hand. I grabbed it, dropped it into the first crab trap, and tossed it over the side. I went to the console, eased the throttle forward, and went another hundred yards into the bay.

Again, I shifted the engine to neutral, went back, grabbed the next hand and its matching crab trap container, and tossed it over the side.

Back at the console and still navigating from memory, I eased the boat forward, past Coon Key to the mouth of San Carlos Pass, near the Estero Boulevard Bridge.

Fama’s head went into a crab trap and this, too, went over the side.

I was glad Fama’s associate back in the Preserve had told me how Fama had planned to get rid of my body. I hoped Fama wasn’t mad at me for stealing his idea.

I guided the boat under the bridge and followed it to where the pass widened out into the Gulf of Mexico. I pointed the nose of the boat due west, toward Texas, and eased the throttle forward until the boat was moving at a good clip directly out in the Gulf.

And then a major disappointment: I went to the back of the boat and discovered that Fama’s companion wasn’t unconscious. He was dead. I shrugged off the fact that my night’s perfect batting average was spoiled.

I gave him a seat in the captain’s chair and lashed him in securely with rope. With the same rope, I then tied him to the boat’s steering wheel.

Next, I found a towel, wiped down the cleaver and tossed it out into the Gulf, then used the towel to wipe down anything else I had touched.

A spare gas can was at the stern of the boat. It was half-full. I splashed gasoline over everything above and below decks.

Next, I doused the towel with gasoline and poured a trail of gas right up to the bow of the boat.

When I was sure the boat was heading perfectly straight, I used a lighter I’d gotten from the boat’s dashboard and lit the towel on fire.

There was a whump as I dove from the bow. I drove myself straight down and then out, back toward land. I swam underwater for as long as I could. When I finally surfaced, a wall of black smoke covered the water, and I caught sight of what was left of Fama’s boat still motoring out into the Gulf.

Moments later an explosion rocked the air and debris shot up into the sky.

I dove again and swam until my lungs were on fire.

This time when I surfaced there was only the faint smell of something burning.

It took me nearly twenty minutes to make it to land for two reasons. One, I was not a very good swimmer. And two, I had to swim at an angle to make sure the current wouldn’t reunite me with Fama.

I dragged myself onto the beach, took a minute to catch my breath and then got to my feet.

The sun was just coming up.

A day at the beach.

I’d always wanted one of those.

THE END

Also by Dani Amore

The Garbage Collector

Hanging Curve