44. Cole #2
Yanking my gun from the back of my pants, I slide the rack, loading the chamber, the click resonating throughout the room and bouncing off the tile and concrete.
Staring down at him, I hold the barrel to the center of his forehead, getting so close I can almost taste the metallic tang of his blood on my tongue.
“Why’re you here?” I hiss, pressing the barrel harder into his skin.
He starts to pant—breathless, garbled, agonized puffs of air like he’s choking, grunting—his body thrashing in vain to get his wrists free. My finger itches to squeeze the trigger because he’s giving me nothing. Fuckin’ nothing.
But then he says something. A garbled murmur of words I can’t quite make out.
“What’d you fuckin’ say?” I inch closer, but just when I’m close enough, just when his lips start to move again, a gun goes off somewhere, a bullet skating past me before puncturing the guy’s head, his skull exploding right in front of me, blood spattering all over my face.
Silence ensues, my ears ringing, heart pounding in my ears. I spin around, eyes blazing as I search, landing on Cruz with his motherfuckin’ pistol still smoking.
“The fuck’d you do that for?” I yell, storming toward him and shoving him in his chest.
He staggers before righting himself, his face switching to a murderous glower as he fists the front of my T-shirt, yanking me off balance.
“See this badge, motherfucker?” He taps his badge with the barrel of his pistol. “I’m in fuckin’ charge, y’hear?”
“He was about to say somethin’!” I throw my hand back at the lifeless sack of shit hanging limp from the meat hook.
“He wasn’t about to say shit. Just gonna mess with your head, son.” Cruz guffaws, locking his gun before sliding it into his holster. “We found him. It’s done. Move the fuck on, for chrissake.”
“What if he had help?” I gape at him incredulously, looking at the men in the room before turning to Butch.
“He was alone, Cole,” Butch says on a sigh, hopping up from his chair with a grunt. “Holed up in a room at the Sleepy Nites Motel.”
My blood runs cold at that. “Sleepy Nites? How… how fuckin’ long?”
Butch shakes his head, shrugging a shoulder. “Maybe a couple of weeks. No sign of anyone else. Just him.”
“Club probably don’t even know he’s here.” Another man scoffs.
I drag my hand over my face, feeling the wetness of the asshole’s blood on my skin and wiping my palm on my jeans.
“We’ll clean up the motel,” Butch says. “Y’all can… deal with that.” He waves a hand in the direction of the body.
I look at the body—Cain—taking a moment to collect my thoughts.
He’s dead. It’s done. But I don’t know. Something just don’t feel right about this.
But before I can ask questions I know I probably shouldn’t, people start moving about the space, cleaning up, going about their business like a man wasn’t just shot in the head moments ago.
My bones ache and sweat drips from my chin as I stare down into the hole illuminated by the shine of my truck’s headlights. Leaning on the shovel, I remove my hat, wiping the grit from my forehead and taking a breath.
Something icy cold presses against my arm, and I startle, turning to see Webber holding a beer out for me. I take it from him, twisting off the cap and flicking it into the hole, throwing back my head and chugging almost the entire bottle of Miller Lite with a few hearty gulps.
“Deep enough?” Jagger asks breathlessly from where he’s in the hole, looking up at me, shovel in hand.
I nod, glancing back at Webber perched on the tailgate of Jagger’s truck, casually sipping his beer like he’s not sitting next to a dead fuckin’ body. Honestly, I can’t help but scoff a laugh because we are so fuckin’ messy.
Jagger hefts himself out of the hole, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans and I take a moment to look at him, regarding him carefully.
“Why’d you do it?”
He looks at me, quirking a brow. “Do what?”
“Help.” I snort a laugh. “Back at the slaughterhouse you didn’t fuckin’ hesitate, pulling out your gun, ready to go. And here, diggin’ a hole to bury a goddamn body?” I smirk around the rim of my beer bottle. “You’re the real deal, huh?”
Jagger removes his ball cap, wiping his dirt-covered face with his forearm and spitting into the hole before replacing his cap and flipping it backwards.
Shrugging a shoulder, he looks away, gazing out over the darkness of the boneyard and the ranch beyond, lit only by the sliver of moon hanging in the looming night sky. “You needed help. I was there.”
“Let’s get this shit done,” Austin gruffs, lugging a gas can from his truck.
I offer Jagger a sidelong glance. “Hope you know what you got yourself into.”
Turning back to the truck, he winks at me as he passes. “Ain’t my first rodeo.”
Webber jumps off the tailgate and Jagger climbs up onto the bed grabbing the head. I pull by the feet, heaving the dead weight off the truck.
“You gonna tell Clara?” Webber asks, helping me take the load.
I shake my head. “Nah. It’s over now. She don’t need to know.”
Carrying the body with Jagger, we walk to the edge, tossing it into the hole, Austin splashing gas all over it.
And for a moment I look down at it, covered in blood and wrapped in plastic, rubbing at the pinch in the back of my neck.
Something feels off. Unresolved. I don’t know what.
Maybe it’s that it all happened so quick.
Maybe it was that I didn’t get that final word.
Maybe because I didn’t get to kill him myself.
But it’s over. I need to accept it. It’s done.
Webber flicks a match against the sole of his boot, using the flame to light his cigarette before dropping it into the hole, the pit igniting.
I’m forced to take a few steps back, the heat overwhelming, and as I tip my head back to finish the dregs of my beer, I meet Austin’s gaze through the flames.
He nods once at me, turning and walking back to his truck parked in the shadows, and I toss the empty bottle into the hole, hearing it shatter before turning away. Job done.