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

ever seen them, but I could guess what they might look like.

I said, “I’ve never tried your product. Any good?”

The woman said, “Come on over and try some of our new cakes, right off the production line. You’ll like them, Keeler.”

The woman addressed me again, voice clearer. “Alright Keeler. Last chance. Six figures, in a suitcase or on a keychain. We don’t care. Take it or leave it.”

I said nothing. There was a long pause, devoid of any possibility. Then the line was cut as someone pressed the disconnect button on the speaker phone.

The front end of the Toyota was a heavy metal wreck that wouldn’t be going places tonight, that’s for sure. The doors worked fine. I took Guilfoyle’s Remington out of the back seat and slung it over my shoulder. Then I hiked back to take care of the moose. The animal would recover from the tranquilizer, but not from four severed tendons. The moose would be picked to pieces by morning. The only question would be wolves or bears.

On the way back I found the vehicle the prison guards had used. An old GMC Sierra truck. I was happy about that. Another steel body to potentially use as a weapon. The more the merrier. I found some interesting gifts in the cab behind the seat. Six boxes of 12 gauge ammo. Two boxes of Brenneke slugs, two boxes of buckshot, two of bird shot.

The sight of all that good stuff produced a warm fuzzy feeling in my heart.

I retrieved both Breachers. I opened up the tailgate of the truck and laid the shotguns side by side. A winch was installed into the back of the bed, which is how they’d maneuvered the big animal. The guns were beautiful and brutally ugly, all at the same time. Both were tricked out with side saddles for an extra six cartridges each, mounted on the outside of the stock. The guns were from the correctional facility, with inventory stickers on the stocks. They were loaded with light bird-shot, because that’s what they use in prisons. But bird-shot wasn’t going to cut it out here. I pumped out all four lightweight shells from one Breacher, and four from the other. They hit the dirt and I didn’t give them another look.

I loaded both Breachers with a happy new combination. One Brenneke slug, one buckshot cartridge, Brenneke slug, buckshot, repeat. Five rounds in each mag, one in the chamber. Six rounds clipped into the side saddles. Which combined was enough firepower to stop a herd of moose, or elephants, or pretty much anything. I figured I could line up the board members of Mister Lawrence and take them all out with a single Brenneke slug.

The first chambered slug was for the wounded moose, even less happy than before, the tranquilizer was wearing off big time. I walked around the animal and found what I was looking for. He’d been hit by a car up on the main road. The impact had broken one of his hind legs. The prison guards must have brought him down here in a fit of alcohol-inspired sadism. They had gotten their just deserts in the end.

I caressed the moose’s neck again and whispered into his ear. He was calm and ready.

I set up about ten yards out and aimed above his front leg, a third of the way up his body, looking to penetrate the big heart through both lungs. The chunk of heavy metal punched into the beast at around one thousand miles per hour. A perfect shot. Instantaneous and painless. The noble moose shuddered and slumped into eternal rest.

Forty-Nine

The phone retrieved from inside the mess that had once been Willets lay on the passenger seat. When the truck rolled onto smooth asphalt, I picked it up and wiped it on my pant leg. The jeans were no longer clean in any case. I dialed Ellie’s number with my thumbnail.

“Chandler.”

“Keeler.”

“Where are you?”

I said, “Change of plans.”

“What do you mean?”

I looked in the rear-view mirror. Dashboard glow lit up the side of my face, peppered with shot. I knew that if I slowed up now and stopped moving, the stiffness would come on fast. I’d lose the ability to smile, which would be tragic. I needed the adrenaline to keep flowing.

I said, “I’m on a roll. Tell me what I need to know from the plans you found.”

There was a pause on the other end. I heard Hagen’s voice asking what was up. Ellie ignored him. I pictured her moving from the kitchen to the dining room. I pictured the plans laid out on the table, her standing over them.

She said, “I’ll give you the salient features. The lot is 700 acres, most of it woodland. The house has two floors. The other built structures on the property are marked as test production facilities for the Mister Lawrence product. Two 5,000 square foot one story buildings, lined up next to each other, about five hundred yards west of the house. Each of them has an annex. One is marked as an office, the other as a lab.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah, just about.”

“Nothing on the Bell Island facility?”

“Nothing. What do you want me to do?”

I said, “You should call the morgue, tell them to figure out some extra capacity. Tell them it’s urgent.”

There was silence down the line.

I said, “How’s Hank?”

Ellie said, “He’s sleeping, Keeler.”

“Good.”

She said, “Do I need to be worried about you?”

“No."

I heard Hagen’s voice in the background.

I waited a moment. Listening down the phone line while keeping the truck straight on the road ahead. There was a fumbling on the other side, Ellie passing the phone off. Hagen taking it and putting it to his ear.

Then his voice came through. “Keeler. I got a call from Chapman. She’s in the house with them. She wasn’t able to speak but I got the message to her that I had spoken with you, and that you are an ally. You copy that?”

I said, “She wasn’t able to speak.