The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10)

The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10) Page 66

“Partners?” Brand slapped the top of the kitchen table with such force I thought it might collapse. He rose quickly to his feet. That was bad. I needed him sitting down for what I had in mind. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

“Why the attitude, John? I’m trying to let you in on a very good thing here and you’re giving me attitude. Hey, man, you came to me, remember? Look, if you want in, you’re in, if you want out, you’re out. The AKs and plastic explosives, hell, I can pick that up almost anywhere.”

“This is my town.”

“There you go again.”

Fenelon cleared his throat. “Maybe we should—”

“Shut up, Brian,” Brand said.

“Yeah, Brian,” I said. “John and I are talking here.”

“Don’t call me John,” Brand said.

I let my shoulders sag as if I were conceding the point. “Mr. Brand, please.” I gestured toward his chair. He sat down and made himself comfortable.

No time like the present, my inner voice told me.

“Roy,” I said.

Roy rose slowly from the sofa.

The big man standing at the door spun toward him, his back to me. “Don’t be stupid,” he said, although he did not raise his gun.

Brand was also watching. “You heard him,” he said. “Sit down.”

I stood quickly, pulling the kitchen table up with me and pushing it forward. The edge of the table hit Brand in the center of his chest. I kept pushing until Brand, his chair, and the table toppled over. He landed backward hard against the floor and I used the table to pin him there. Someone screamed. I reached down and yanked the wheel gun out of his slacks. The big man was pivoting toward me, still holding the gun low. I was quicker. I brought the revolver up and snapped a shot toward him. Someone screamed again. The round drilled a surprisingly large hole in the wooden cabin door. Splinters from it tore into the big man’s cheek and ear, and I thought, damn, that was closer than I intended. I nearly shot him in the face.

Oh, well, my inner voice said.

“Drop it,” I said aloud.

He hesitated. Blood dripped down his temple and cheek and stained his shirt collar.

“Do I look like I’m playing?”

The big man stooped slowly forward and carefully set the gun on the floor. He stood, again moving slowly, and put his hands behind his head without being asked to. Not once did he touch his face to inspect the wounds, which impressed the hell out of me. Most people would have been whimpering in pain by now, myself included.

“Roy,” I said again.

He crossed the living room, took up the handgun, and whipped the big man across the jaw with it. The big man fell to his knees in the same way Roy had and cradled his face in his hands. Jill screamed Roy’s name—I didn’t know if it was she who made all the noise earlier or not. Roy was going to hit the big man again. I asked him not to.

“An eye for an eye,” I said.

“What?” he asked.

“Enough already.”

I turned my attention back to Brand, who had managed to ease the table off of his chest. I gestured at Fenelon, and he helped me put the table upright. Before that he hadn’t moved a muscle. I suspected Brand would both remember and comment on that, later. Still, Fenelon did have the presence of mind to help lift Brand back into his chair. I sat across from him.

“Shoot him,” the old man said from the living room. “Shoot the bastard.”

“Now, now, now,” I said. I began to spin the wheel gun around by the trigger guard in front of me, acting as indifferent as I could manage. “Let’s not get crazy.”

Brand’s eyes went from the handgun to my face. He smiled. “Why don’t you shoot me?” he asked.

I wasn’t impressed by his nonchalance. After all, I had done the same thing myself when the big man threw down on me earlier. I stopped spinning the gun, making sure the muzzle was pointed at Brand.

“We’re businessmen conducting negotiations,” I said. “No one actually intended to shoot anybody. Am I right? The guns are all for show.”

Brand shrugged. He and I believed it, although a quick glance around the room told us that nobody else did.

“Now, Mr. Brand,” I said, emphasizing the “Mr.” “Three AK-47s, eight magazines, four Kevlar vests, eight ounces of Semtex 10—I’ll settle for C-4 if that’s all you have. What else? Two blasting caps.”

“Detonators?” he asked.

“I’ll make my own.”

“How resourceful of you.”

“Can you get all that or not?”

“I can get it.”

“When?”

“I won’t know until I make a call.”

“Fair enough. Are there really Mexicans on the Canadian border?”

“Why not? It’s a free country. Canada, I mean.”

“I expect you to front for us.”

“Oh, you do, do you.”

“You pay for the merchandise. In return, you get a full share of the take.”

“How much is that?”

“That’s hard to say.”

“Guess.”

“A quarter of a million dollars.”

Brand was not impressed by the figure. He glanced at the people sitting in the living room as if he were counting bodies. “How many shares will there be?” he asked.

“Does it matter?”