CHAPTER 72
This is the place.
From inside, he can hear music and loud male voices with Southern accents. Most of it is unintelligible. Music from a radio obscures a lot of the conversation, but it doesn’t sound like an organized-crime meeting; it sounds like a frat party.
Alex listens to the laughter and the conversation laced with colorful obscenities. Then from just inside the door, somebody says, “Damn it, Brett, I told you before—”
That’s all he needs to hear.
Alex pulls out his gun, then steps back and centers himself in front of the door. He leans back, lifts his stronger leg—the right one—and kicks the door just above the doorknob, hitting hard with his heel as he balances on his other leg. The flimsy door gives way.
“Hands!” Alex shouts as he pushes through, Glock pointed into the room. “I want to see everybody’s hands! Now!”
One guy jumps up from the bed. “What the fuck?”
“Sit!” Alex shouts. “Hands up!”
The man complies, hands in the air.
Alex quickly scans the room. Ratty green carpet. Two single beds. Two men on each. The men all look about thirty to forty years old. A witness would probably describe them all the same way: big white guys with thick dark beards.
He also spots two duffel bags and a case of Corona on the floor. Two guns on the nightstand.
“Who the hell are you?” one of the other guys snarls. Huge belly. NRA T-shirt.
“Shut up!” Alex orders. He nods toward the guns. “You. NRA. Take both guns by the barrels and put them on the floor.”
The guy does it.
“Now kick them over toward me.”
The guy does that too.
Alex picks up both guns and sticks them in his waistband. Keeping his own gun pointed at them, he moves farther into the room. He notices a bunch of clear plastic bags packed with white powder peeking out of the duffels.
One of the guys sees him looking. “You a narc?”
Alex ignores him. “Which one of you is Brett?”
All four men try to keep their expressions blank, but Alex sees two pairs of eyes flicker involuntarily toward the guy with the NRA shirt. Positive ID.
“And who’s Larry?”
This time one of the other guys wiggles the fingers on his hands. “Right here, asshole.”
“Good. Go sit with Brett.”
Larry switches places with one of the other guys. Now he and Brett are side by side on the same bed.
Alex points the gun at the men on the other bed. “My business here is with Larry and Brett. If either of you two speak or move, I’ll shoot you in the knee.”
He turns to Larry and Brett. “A few days ago, you two had an encounter with a young Black man.”
“Not us,” says Larry with a sneer. “We don’t hang with young Black men.”
“Somebody saw you. Described you. Right down to the beards. Heard you call each other by name.”
Alex is bluffing. He can’t reveal what the FBI has on tape, but he’s hoping that his lie will flush out the truth.
“You think we’re the only Larry and Brett with beards in this country?”
“The young man was riding a bike. Does that refresh your memory?”
Larry spits on the floor. “I got nothing to say to you.”
Alex turns to Brett. “So, what happened? You and your buddy see a Black kid on a nice bike. You stop, tune him up a little?”
“If it was a nice bike,” says Brett, “the kid probably stole it. But we’re not supposed to say that stuff anymore, right? That would be profiling.”
Larry stares up at Alex. “Who are you, anyway?” he asks defiantly. “The kid’s parole officer?”
Alex moves closer. The barrel of the Glock is millimeters away from Larry’s forehead. “No, you mouth-breathing bigot. I’m his father.”
Alex hears a sound behind him. Starts to turn.
Too late.
“Freeze right there, boy, or I’ll take your damn head off!”