Breacher (Tom Keeler Book 2) by Jack Lively (reading well TXT) 📕

Dave howled loudly.

I said, “Relax, it’s over. I just saved you a couple of grand. You should be thanking me.” I looked up and over the other side of the street. No more Humvee. They were gone. “Did you see the girl?”

Dave had his hand up to his nose. Feeling it tenderly. He nodded. “Four girls in, then two came out. Blonde girl, like you said in the beginning. Tall and looks like a model.” He looked ashamed of himself. “I didn’t get to see which Hummer she went in.”

I said, “It probably won’t matter. You think you can drive?”

Dave looked around, then back into the car. The keys were still in the ignition. He nodded. “Yeah. Guess I’ll go home now if that’s alright with you.”

I stood up straight and extended a hand. Dave reached his to mine and I jerked him to his feet, pretty much taking all the weight. I put a friendly hand on his shoulder. “You did good, Dave. You got jumped by guys with more training and experience than you. Next time you’ll watch your six a fraction better. That’s what experience does, long as you survive it.”

He smiled gratefully through the cracked and dried blood that had formed rivulets on his face. “Thanks, Keeler.”

“Don’t mention it.” I held onto his shoulder. Dave looked at me weakly, as if he was now uncertain. The weight of my hand weighing on his fragility. I said, “You sure you want to go home now, Dave?”

He was very confused. “Is there something else?”

“Be good if you could go back to the dock and just kind of hang around there. See if anyone else comes or goes out of the Emerald Allure.”

Dave touched his nose. “But what about the face? I mean, I think I might have been knocked out, Keeler.”

I took his head in my large, callused hands, turned it this way and that way, examining him carefully. Then I locked my eyes on his, pinning him like a plucked butterfly. “I think you’ll live, buddy. Get your ass down to the boat and call me if anything interesting happens. There’s plenty of time to lie in bed after this is all over. Once we’re done here, the winter will be very cozy.”

Dave nodded and I took my hand off his shoulder. He was grateful.

“Okay. I’ll do that.”

Dave walked around to the driver’s side. I closed the passenger door. He fired up the car and pulled away. I stood watching until he was out of sight, wondering where Willets had gone with all that Chinese take-out. I was willing to bet the farm it was going to be back to the house. I strolled the few blocks to where I’d parked the Toyota.

Guilfoyle’s rifle case was resting along the back seat. Time to pay another visit to Deckart and Willets.

Thirty-Eight

It didn’t take much more than five minutes to drive up to where the streets were sparse, and the residential housing gave way once more to the Alaskan rainforest. I spotted the gravel driveway leading up to the house where I had first met Deckart and Willets. But this time I wasn’t going to come in the same way. I drove around slowly until I found a parallel street that was higher up the hill. I parked the Land Cruiser in a secluded spot.

I stood outside the truck and leaned into the back seat. The long gun case unzipped and I was able to look at it in the weak yellow ceiling light. The 700 is a famous gun, like some kind of gold standard for a rifle. It comes in all kinds of flavors, but Guilfoyle had chosen a classic model in glossy wood, with an olive canvas strap. He hadn’t skimped on the scope. I pulled a handful of rounds from the cardboard box, let them fall into my left jacket pocket. They didn’t quite balance out the reassuring weight of the Glock in my right pocket.

I slipped into the woods with the Remington over my shoulder. It took maybe ten minutes to get to a good spot above the house, about four hundred yards off. Even so, I had to climb into the lower branches of a big spruce tree. Because of the incline, the perch gave me a good view of the house at a three-quarter angle. Two sides of the building presented themselves to me. Once I was nestled up there and relatively comfortable, I raised the gun and uncapped the scope.

Lights were on in the house. The big window faced out to the smoke shack. The scope was excellent. I could see in there like a kid looking into a doll house. The television was showing a basketball game. I could see all of the details, some more relevant than others. Atlanta Hawks versus the Brooklyn Nets. I had no opinion on that. But I could also see the dark-haired thin guy on the couch, his name had been Jerry. He was lying on the sofa scratching himself idly. No sign of Deckart or Willets.

The three-quarter angle provided me an additional perspective on the other side. I saw movement in the window of another room. A silhouette moving behind the screen of the roller shade. It was easy to see who that was, the bearded giant. A few moments after the silhouette moved through, the lights went out in that room.

I swiveled back to Jerry stretched out on the sofa. I focused to the right of the television, into the kitchen. The lights were off, but residual light entered in through the doorway to reveal the sink counter, a mess of beer bottles and Chinese food containers. I could read the label on the box. Golden Lights Wok.

Looked like they’d torn through that take-out and left no prisoners.

Two guys verified, neither of them Deckart or Willets. Empty kitchen. Maybe others were home, reclining on beds. Maybe watching other screens. Which meant