3. Garrison
THREE
GARRISON
N o sooner have I poured eggs into the pan and slipped some wheat bread into the toaster when my phone rings.
“GC,” I answer.
“Valdez,” comes the confirmation on the other end.
The line is quiet while I push eggs around, peering back at Carsyn’s door. She can’t get out, but I can’t help but glance back. “And?”
There’s some rustling on his end. “GM has your new location. We think he’s gonna move in on you tomorrow, or the next day.” He lowers his voice. “Be ready.”
I turn the burner off and continue pushing the eggs around, punching the phone to my ear with my shoulder so I can sprinkle on pepper. “Alright.” I keep my voice low. “Location on the vulture?”
“Not yet,” Valdez replies, rerouting to the issue at hand. “You’re authorized?—”
“I know,” I cut him off, then add, “we’ll be in touch.”
I end the call with Valdez and plate the eggs and toast, grabbing Carsyn a spoon, along with a huge cup of coffee. Pushing into her room I find her on her feet near the window, one hand splayed along the foggy glass. The crumpled chain leaves a trail behind her, to the wall, but I ignore it, focusing instead on the curve of her bare calves and the reflection of her eyes.
“They don’t open, and they’re shatterproof,” I tell her, sliding the plate and mug onto the small desk in the far corner of the room. “Eat, and drink. To feel better.”
“I won’t feel better as long as I’m shackled to a wall, kept prisoner in this room. The only thing that will make me feel better is freedom, Garrison.” Facing me, she folds her arms over her chest, but I already saw those hard little tips peeking through. Because I am a gentleman, I don’t mention that red thong she’s wearing, and instead say, “well, eggs and coffee ain’t your enemy Carsyn, so fill your belly.”
She licks her chapped lips, nostrils flaring as she hugs herself. “How do I know the food isn’t drugged?”
At that, I can’t help but chuckle. “Every single time I put drugs into your body against your consent, I will tell you. Okay? That food is just food. Something to make you feel less nauseated and shaky.”
I won’t beg her to eat. I also won’t let her starve herself. But right now? I can’t worry about Carsyn. An attack or ambush is on the way, and I need my weapons. I yank open the closet doors, tugging the large, black nylon bag down from the top shelf. It falls heavily into my arms, sending me back a pace before I turn and place it on the bed. I feel Carsyn’s studious gaze on my every move.
Unzipping the bag, I count up what I got. This is all they put in this farm house, with some other things out in the horse barn.
Two pistols, two AR-15s, a shotgun and a rifle. Wouldn’t have been my first choice for weapons, but I can make it work. In the kitchen is another bag, out of reach and separate from these weapons, full of rounds and rounds of ammunition.
“Wh-what’s all that for?” Carsyn questions, toeing near her edge of the bed. “If we’re shootin’, I know how. Give me a gun.”
I adjust my belt buckle and stretch my shoulders back, smirking at the half naked Beckett. “ We ain’t shootin’ anything. And do you think I’d let you loose on a gun?”
“I’m a great shot,” she defends.
“You’d shoot me, and no pair of red panties are gonna trick me into giving you a weapon.”
Her cheeks flame, and her hands fall to her crotch where she fans her fingers to try and shield herself.
Zipping up the bag, eyes still on her, I tip my head back toward the open closet. “I got sweaters in here you know.”
She looks down at her nipples and snatches the comforter from the bed, wrapping herself in it as I chuckle, taking my guns out the door with me.
Chains clink and bash, and a moment later, Carsyn appears in the bedroom doorway—as far as she can go. At the kitchen table, the bag of weapons and ammo spread out, I glance up at her, a magazine in one hand, pistol in the other.
“I can shoot, Garrison,” she says.
I place the gun and ammo in the bag and tip my hat up, scratching my forehead. “More’n coffee cans?” I move toward her, coming to brace my hands on opposite sides of the door frame, pressing my torso into her tits while I glare down at her. “You ever put down an animal that wasn’t gonna make it, or did your ranch hand do that?”
I know the answer. I’ve been tasked with watching Carsyn Beckett for some time now, and I’ll never forget when one of her horses went lame. Broken his leg or something, and the Beckett family just didn’t have any money to get it help. Not that helping a broken legged horse is any guarantee it’ll get better anyway. She called someone in, for a fee, to take care of that animal. Cried in the bar after it happened, too. The horse’s name rolls around on my tongue. “If you couldn’t put your lame horse to pasture, how do you think you can pull the trigger with the barrel aimed at a man?”
Her bottom lip trembles as I push off the doorframe and make my way back to the table, back to loading my guns.
“How’d you know about Charlemagne?” she asks, fighting emotion in her voice. “You were watching me?”
I don’t answer. I don’t answer questions that need no answer, that’s why. She knows I was watching. She just doesn’t know why.
With one gun loaded, I stash it on my person, in the back of my pants, and move to load the next.
“Why’ve you been watching me?” Carsyn asks. Still, I don’t answer. “Charlemagne was good. Whoever you’re shooting—” she stops herself, because she doesn’t know the answer to that. She can’t say for sure that I’m shooting a bad guy, because I am a bad guy , and usually, bad guys kill good guys.
Still focusing on the weapons, I say, “You’re staying in that room.”
I finish loading all the weapons, then pull my knife from the back of the breadbox and slide it in my boot. When I look up again, she’s gone, and the door has been quietly closed.
I make my way out to the barn, still picturing those hard little nipples and that red thong.