Here’s a new episode in the blog series, FIRST CHAPTERS. It’s the first exciting chapters in each book in the Micah Reed series! Expect a new one each week.
To get this book, click here. To see all posts in the First Chapter series, click here.
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AS THE CHEESE fries bubbled up from my stomach and barged into my throat, I barely managed to open the passenger door of the car to lean out in time. A full plate of fries, about a six-pack of beer, and two bourbon chasers ejected from my mouth onto the side of the road in three waves.
“Gross,” Pug said from the driver’s seat. “If you got any of that on the side of my car, I will never forgive you.”
I spit a few times until I’d cleared out the sour wince at the back of my throat. Sat upright in the seat and closed the door. “I know what I’m doing. Didn’t spatter at all.”
Pug giggled. “You crazy bastard.”
I wiped my mouth and yanked the flask from my pocket, then washed out the terrible taste of puke. “You know it.”
“I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t have to drive here today.”
After replacing the flask, I popped open the glove box and removed my new Beretta 92FS. “I don’t drive drunk. You know this.”
“It’s funny that you don’t see the irony there, since you’re a driver, and you seem to always have that flask with you.”
I pivoted in the seat and faced him. “You’ve gotten sassy ever since you came out.”
Pug reached under his seat and fished around until he found his Desert Eagle. He ejected the clip, tapped a finger on the bullet at the top, then popped it back in. “I’ve always been sassy. You just weren’t paying attention.”
Pug smiled, but he didn’t sell it well. Maybe it was because we were in Mannford, Oklahoma, smack in the middle of red dirt meth country. Or maybe because we were about to walk into some tweaker’s house and wave our guns in his face. And we didn’t know if the tweaker would be alone, or if he might have a dozen armed tweaker friends with him.
“I don’t see anyone scoping us out through the windows,” I said.
“Doesn’t mean they’re not there, Mikey.” Now Pug openly frowned. It pulled his face down, making it more angular. Despite the name Pug, he wasn’t what you might picture: portly with a goatee and natty hair. No, Phillip Gillespie was tall, square-jawed, muscular, with styled blond hair and crystalline blue eyes. I had no trouble believing he was gay when he’d come out. Straight guys don’t take such immaculate care of their skin.
Other people in our organization, though, didn’t receive the news so well. Of the ones he’d told, at least. Some of them might not hesitate to put a bullet in him if they learned Pug was a maricón.
“We can do front-back,” I said, “but someone walking in solo might not send the message we’re looking for. Depends on if we want show-of-force or kinder-gentler.”
“I vote force. Both front, guns out.”
I sipped from my flask and slipped it back in my pocket. “Swinging dicks it is, then. Peeing your pants does wonders to make you humble, and I don’t think it’ll take much to get the message across to this guy.”
Pug watched me drink, sighing. “Maybe you could wait until after we do this before having any more?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Cleared out all the space I need. Practically reset me to zero.”
Pug rolled his eyes. “What are you, some frat boy? Puke and rally? You’re a little old for that.”
I studied him, trying to figure out if he was genuinely warning me, or if he was only messing with me. No doubt that he was nervous about what we were here to do.
“Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I’m good to go.”
Pug traced his finger around the steering wheel of the car, and for some reason, the silence bothered me. Grasshoppers clicked and birds chirped, but the void inside Pug’s car was louder than a jet engine.
I’d had a sentence on my lips all day, but I hadn’t been able to spit it out. The recurring mantra that had been at the front of my brain for the last year or so, every time I slipped a gun into an ankle holster or hid a package behind my Jeep’s spare tire.
“I don’t want to be here,” I said.
“Me neither. Too many unknowns.”
“No, I mean at all. I’ve been giving it a lot of thought lately. I don’t want to work for these people anymore.”
Pug considered this. “I hear you. It’s not like it used to be.”
“You have a reason to be here, at least. I don’t know what I’m doing here anymore.”
We sat in silence for a few seconds, and my fingers drifted down to the bump in my right pocket, where the severed head of a Boba Fett action figure sat next to my car keys. Touching that little piece of plastic gave me some comfort and helped settle my racing thoughts.
Boba and I would chat later when we were alone.
“Let’s go,” I said. “The longer we sit here, the more likely we are to be spotted.”
Pug shoved his Desert Eagle in the front of his pants and cracked open the car door. Let out a dramatic sigh that lasted for at least five seconds. Finally, he plucked the cigarette from behind his ear and stuck it between his lips. “I’m ready to get this over with.”
We approached the house at the top of the hill slowly, paying attention to the windows. I didn’t see bloodshot eyes peeking out, but Pug was right, they could still be there. Hiding on top of the roof, maybe, or under some of the trash in the yard. You never knew with these crazy rednecks.
But our contact had to have expected we’d be coming. This tweaker had been fronted two ounces of cocaine and had returned zero dollars for our organization’s investment. He should have known our employers wouldn’t forget about something like that.
The house was ranch-style, one long rectangular structure, like a trailer. Small shed off to the side, and three cars in the yard like abandoned islands. Not up on blocks, but the rusting underneath the cars indicated they’d been marinating there for a while.
I flicked my head at the shed and Pug nodded. He crept up next to one of the cars and sat against the tire, then lifted his pistol at the shed.
With my gun out, I crept toward the little wooden building, then creaked the door open. Nothing but a detached garage filled with tools and car parts. Some remote controls with their guts hanging out, pieces of lawnmowers strewn about the floor. A tweaker’s collection of endless projects that had been started but no one would ever finish. Some of those tools might be worth something. I made a mental note, in case this visit went bad.
Sweat dripped from my eyebrow onto my nose, and I wiped it with the sleeve of my t-shirt. July in Oklahoma was brutal like nothing you’ve ever seen, except for maybe August in Oklahoma. Mosquitos, chiggers, endless breaths of sneeze-inducing ragweed, summer storms with warm rain. I’d had about enough of this place.
For some reason, a canister of bug spray caught my eye, and I lifted it from the shelf and wiped the dust from it. In eighth grade, we used to spray this stuff on hand towels and then inhale the fumes. Crazy, crazy shit we used to do back then.
“You okay?” Pug said.
I spun to find him standing in the doorway of the shed, his pistol at his side.
I lifted the bug spray. “Remember when we used to huff this crap?”
“Do I remember being young and dumb? Most definitely.” He beckoned me out of the shed with a flick of his wrist. “Come on. Let’s drive down memory lane later. We have work to do now.”
I dropped the can of bug spray, and we skulked toward the house. We paused on either side of the front door.
“Want me to do this?” he said.
“I got it,” I said as I raised my leg to kick in the door.
“Wait,” Pug said.
I paused. “What?”
“Today’s not our day.”
I grinned and shook my head. “No, it’s not. We’ll have more after this.”
My leg thrust out and kicked in the door.
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To get this book, click here. To see all posts in the First Chapter series, click here.