Page 153 of Beware of Dog

Click.

When he hit the light switch, nothing happened.

He tried it three more times in quick succession.Click-click-click.

He dumped his backpack on the floor and pushed his hood back. He could hear rain dripping off of him onto the tile, a soft pattering. “What the fuck? Seriously, Dad, did you—”

Something gripped him by the back of the neck, an iron-hard pinch that jerked his head back and sent pain spiking downthe length of his spine. Before he could draw breath to shout, something else closed over his nose and mouth: smooth, cool leather, solid beneath and punishing against his face. A huge hand inside a glove.

Then he realized what was happening.

And then he wanted to scream.

Warm breath tickled his ear, and a low, deep voice that was velvety with satisfaction said, “Bonne soirée, Sigmund. Why don’t you take a seat?”

A light came on, a little battery powered lantern that glowed underwater blue. It didn’t illuminate the whole living room, but enough that he could see that the furniture had all been pushed to the edges, the rug rolled up, and two dining room chairs placed in front of the fireplace.

One chair was empty. His dad sat in the other, legs spread, arms tucked behind the back of it. The lantern gleamed on the silver duct tape that bound his ankles to the chair legs. Another bright strip of it covered his mouth; his eyes bugged wide, leaking tears, chest hitching with suppressed sobs.

“Shit. Oh, shit,” Sig breathed.

The man holding him laughed, and it was a sound straight from hell. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

~*~

Shep was feeling a little useless. He and most of the guys had loitered in the alley, slowly getting soaked by the rain, until an upstairs light flashed three times: the all-clear from Fox. Inside, the downstairs had already been set up: furniture cleared, Mr. Blackmon already taped to a chair and weeping openly.

They hadn’t even had to interrogate the man: one grin from Mercy and he’d started spilling his guts. Between gustysobs and snot dribbles, the story emerged: a confirmation of what they’d already guessed.

Because going to the Dogs for help with their problem wasn’t an option, they’d turned to Sig’s new favorite dealers: the Tres Diablos. They were cheaper than hiring an independent hit man, something Blackmon had considered, apparently. He paid them in cash, half up front, and the second half once the job was done. “I didn’t want to kill the girl,” he choked out between crying jags, “but if she went away, then the case would fall apart, and Sig would be in the clear.”

Shep wasn’t aware of moving until Toly’s arm went across his chest. “No, no, not yet,” he said, in a rare soothing tone that Shep recognized, belatedly, as the voice he used on Natalia when she was crying.

Fox had possession of Blackmon’s phone, and waved it in front of the man’s face. “We’re going to call Ruiz. I’ll dial, you’ll do the talking. You’re going to demand that Ruiz comes here, now, with the money. Ruiz himself, with proof the hit’s done, or else you won’t pay.”

Blackmon’s voice shivered, and stuttered, clotted with tears and mucus when he said, “I don’t…what are you…please…”

“Christ.” Tenny’s nose wrinkled with disgust in the glow of the lanterns. “Listen to him. They’ll know straight off something’s wrong.”

Fox turned to his brother, brows lifted. “You want to do it? Correction:canyou do it? Or should I?”

Tenny scoffed, insulted, snatched the phone from Fox, and hit Send. He put it on speaker so they could all hear.

When an accented voice said, “Hello?” Tenny launched into a perfect Upper West Side, prissy American accent. “Where’s Ramirez? Get him.”

A beat. “Who is this?”

“You know damn well it’s Blackmon. Get Ramirez, or I’m going straight to the police.”

When he came on the line, Ramirez was abrupt, and clearly angry, but finally agreed to come.

Then they’d waited for Sig, lights off, Blackmon’s mouth taped so all they could hear from him was the occasional muffled whimper.

“I got him,” Mercy said, and positioned himself by the door.

Shep had the sense the others were afraid he’d do something wrong, handling him like a fragile bomb set to detonate at any moment.

It made him itchy and restless, like his skin didn’t fit right.

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