Page 114 of Beware of Dog

“Okay. Hold on.”

Shep figured out what they were doing as Reese swept the Rover in close to the van, and then angled it, suddenly and sharply, so that it blocked in the van’s nose. “Shit,” he muttered, pulled his gun, and leaped out.

He had a glimpse of the driver through the window, his hands tight on the wheel, his profile twisted up hilariously with shock as he stared at the front end of the Rover overlapping the van. Shep saw a neck tattoo: tall, bold black letters in an intricate old English script. He couldn’t read it, but he’d seen its like before.

Beyond the driver, the passenger threw open his door, clearly intending to make a break for it on foot. But a narrow black wraith in a hood and mask reared up like a cobra and snatched him. Shep heard a scream, gratifyingly terrified, and then the passenger dropped like a stone.

Tenny.

Shep lifted his gun, and when the driver turned his direction, he came face-to-face with the dark bore of Shep’s M1911 through the thin barrier of glass.

“Get out of the van,” Shep said, loud enough to be heard. “Slowly.”

~*~

Reese had zip ties and duct tape on him, because of course he did. They secured the two men and wound up putting them in the back of the van, for lack of a more immediate place to question them.

At first, both of them pretended not to understand English. But then Tenny let loose a string of Spanish that left both of them shrinking back, brows lifted.

“That’s what I thought,” Tenny said, tone brimming with satisfaction. “Now. This is simple. We’ll ask questions, and you’ll answer them. If you tell the truth, you can drive out of here with all your fingers and toes still attached. Sound good?”

The men traded wild-eyed glances, and then the one on the right nodded. “Okay.”

“You’ve got a lot of ink,” Shep said. They’d tugged at their shirt collars and shoved up their sleeves to examine it. Lots of hard-to-read script in Spanish, some animals and numbers and tally marks that were clearly gang-affiliated. “Who are you with?”

When the guy hesitated, Tenny produced a knife like a magician, its blade winking in the gloom of the van.

“Okay, okay! Tres Diablos.”

“That’s Three Devils,” Tenny explained.

“I know what ‘diablo’ means, dickhead,” Shep said. To their captives, he asked, “Who hired you?”

Tenny twirled the knife in his hand, walking the hilt down his knuckles, showing off.

The one on the left said, “Blackmon. Some rich man named Blackmon.”

~*~

Shep was so furious he was having heart palpitations.

“Did you not expect that?” Tenny asked, brows raised, as they watched the van trundle down the street and turn at the intersection. “Really?”

“Nah.” Shep dragged a hand through his hair, and wound up gripping a fistful right at the crown of his head and tugging, hoping the blunt sting would provide an outlet for his urge to hit something. No such luck. “But just…fuck. Ya know.”

Reese was frowning. “I don’t get it. If Blackmon knows the Dogs are involved, wouldn’t he know that hiring a street gang to intimidate Jamie would get usmoreinvolved?”

“Maybe that’s the idea,” Tenny said. “Lay a gang war at Jamie’s feet and completely dismantle the prosecution’s claim that she’s an innocent college student.”

Shep turned and kicked a piece of gravel. It skidded across the street and pinged off a Buick’s hubcap. “Okay,” he said, “okay, okay.” He was an asshole, sure, and he didn’t like people, but he wasn’t used to feeling this furious. It was a wild, blood-pounding, out of control sensation that made it hard to think. “We gotta…shit.” He shot an accusing glare at Tenny. “You good with letting them go? Just like that?”

Tenny cocked his head to a doglike angle. Or maybe like Shep was speaking in tongues. “Are you mad?”

“Yeah, I’m fucking pissed!”

Tenny rolled his eyes. “Okay, that’s not what I…nevermind. Look: I’ve never heard of Tres Diablos. My guess is they’re new, and still trying to work their way up the ladder here in the States. We could have killed those two, yes. But if Blackmon hired them, they have no personal investment in this.” He pointed toward the Simpson house. “They’re after a payday. We send those two back with a parlay request, and Mav can work something out with their boss. The Simpsons are safe, the Blackmons are foiled, and we don’t start spilling blood unnecessarily.”

Shep scoffed, disbelieving. “The trained government assassin doesn’t want tospill blood? That’s a fucking first.”

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