Page 29 of Gatling
“Blackbeard,” I called. “Where do I start carving to cut out this idiot’s kidneys?”
Fetterman turned from pasty white to green.
“Just beneath the rib cage,” Blackbeard replied. “A few inches above the hip. You don’t have to be exact. If you start digging around, you’ll find it.”
“Oh my God,” Fetterman wheezed. “I don’t know who you people are or what you want—”
I grabbed the front of his suit and twisted until his collar tightened around his throat, restricting his airway.
“You tried to run my girl off the fuckin' road in that bigass truck, you son of a bitch,” I growled.
Fetterman trembled and stuttered, clawing at my hand in an attempt to get a decent breath.
“I didn’t—that wasn’t me! My truck…it was stolen yesterday.”
“And you ain't said a word to the cops about it?"
Fuck. My Appalachian roots were coming through. I hated that. I tried so hard to speak properly, to smother my hometown drawl.
Credence would have flagged a police report in his search. But nothing came up. Fetterman’s record was obnoxiously squeaky clean.
“Well, no,” he hedged. “My friend asked to borrow it, and I agreed to lend it to him, so I assumed he took it. But then I found out that my friend never showed up to get it. By that time, it seemed too late to call the police. In the morning, my truck was there in the driveway. With fucking bullet holes in the side.”
Damn it. Those were my bullet holes.
Blackbeard met my gaze. I shook my head slightly, indicating that we just hit a dead end. Fetterman wasn’t our man after all.
There was a slim chance the truck might have fingerprints on the interior, but Kelsie’s stalker had explicitly returned the truck instead of dumping it. That was intentional, calculated.Most likely, the bastard wiped down any surfaces he might have touched. Or he used gloves.
Which meant Kelsie’s stalker was still running free.
“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath. Releasing Fetterman with disgust, I shoved my hunting knife back into my boot. “We have to get out of here.”
“You broke into my house,” Fetterman protested. “Youthreatenedme—”
I shot him a sharp look. He broke off, scrambling away until his back bumped against the couch.
“I haven’t hurt you yet though,” I said. “Keep whining like a little bitch, and that’s going to change.”
Fetterman snapped his mouth shut.
Blackbeard gestured at our hostage.
“We can’t just walk away now that he’s seen our faces.”
I scrubbed a hand over my mouth. Fetterman wasn’t supposed to get out of this alive, so anonymity wasn’t required. I wouldn’t kill an innocent man for my blunder though.
“What do you recommend? Give him a souvenir to shut him up?”
With Blackbeard’s scalpel, he could leave a small incision anywhere on Fetterman’s body that would develop into a scar. Not enough to cause any kind of damage that would require a visit to the hospital. But it would scare the shit out of him and make him think twice about squealing to the cops as soon as we made a run for it.
“Vlad can handle it,” Blackbeard said. Raising his voice, he called, “Vlad, get in here.”
The heavy tread of Vlad’s footsteps approached the living room. Blackbeard explained the situation and Vlad nodded. Then he crouched down in front of Fetterman, grabbed the back of his neck, and whispered in his ear.
I couldn’t hear what he said. But the look on Fetterman’s face was enough to tell me that Vlad was painting a pretty gruesome picture.
Vlad thumped Fetterman on the chest with his meaty fist.
