Free Fire

28

Clay McCann could not stop pacing. The only time he paused was at the window, and only for a few seconds. There was something different outside. The dawn light through his mottled window was white and muted, and the sounds of cars on the road outside the jail were more hushed than usual. He could tell it was snowing, although he couldn’t see it.

He had not been able to get back to sleep, ever since that man outside had stood beneath his cell at four in the morning and yelled, “I’ve got you now, you son of a bitch!”

Who was he? What was he doing out at that hour? The incidentdisturbed McCann immensely. He knew the voices of his partners, and it wasn’t any of them. Had they brought in someoneelse, or was the owner of the voice an independent threat? Or a local crank?

McCann wanted out. This had been going on too long, he thought. Layborn should have delivered the threat the night before,and action should be taking place. Would they be stupid enough, once again, to try to outflank him? Would they convene another of their meetings? What the hell was going on?

And now it was snowing. Great.

When he heard the sounds downstairs, McCann’s first assumptionwas they had come to meet with him. There was a muffled conversation, a long pause, and the sound of the front door being shut. He stopped pacing and stood still, listening. He could feel his heart beat faster, and he clenched and unclenched his hands.

Footfalls on the stairs, the sound of a key in the lock, the door swinging open.

“Good morning, asshole.”

The tall man on the other side of the bars had long blond hair in a ponytail, sharp, cruel blue eyes, and the biggest gun McCann had ever seen. Snowflakes melted on the man’s shoulders.

“You’re coming with me,” the man said, opening the cell door.

“No,” McCann said, his voice weak. “I’m staying right here.”

This caused the man to pause. His mouth twisted into a grin that made McCann’s blood run cold.

“All right, then,” the man said, and shot his hand out, graspingMcCann’s left ear and twisting so hard the pain made his legs wobble. Then he pulled the lawyer out of the cell, still twisting on his ear, and guided him down the stairs into the lobby of the building.

Although he was cringing with pain, McCann saw the lobby was empty. “Where’s my guard?”

“He decided to take a walk and get some air.”

“And just leave me here?” McCann said, blinking through tears.

“You’re not exactly Mr. Popular in this neck of the woods. Sit,” the blond man said, shoving McCann into a chair by an empty desk. McCann sat, rubbing his ear. When he pulled his hand away there was a smear of blood on the tips of his fingers.

“That’s right,” the man said, “I’ll rip it right off next time if you don’t do everything I tell you. Believe me, I’ve done this before.”

“You can’t do this,” McCann said.

“I just did.”

“What do you want with me?” McCann tried to place the man and couldn’t. His voice was not the same one that had called to him from under his window.

The blond man raised the gun, the muzzle not more than three inches from McCann’s face, and cocked it. McCann watched the cylinder rotate, saw the huge balls of lead turn.

“You’re going to make a call to James Langston. Tell him you’re going to the FBI, and you’re bringing Bob Olig along with you.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Bob Olig?”

“They’ll figure it out.”

As McCann punched the numbers on the phone with a tremblinghand, the blond man said, “Somehow, I thought you’d look more impressive, considering you gunned down six people.But you’re just a fat little weasel with pink hair, aren’t you?”