Troubleshooter

Chapter 22

Muffled feminine whimpers found resonance in the high corners of the deserted warehouse. A leaking pipe had corroded the far wall, leaving the air musty with the bittersweet stench of mold. The soggy drywall had buckled, dragging over the nails of the studs like sloughed clothing. Partitions and cubicle walls divided up the concrete expanse into a labyrinth-narrow runs, sharp turns, cul-de-sacs. Broken-down machinery accompanied the compartmentalized work-spaces-crumpled conveyer belts, rusting metal desks, spills of bolts.

The industrial carpet lining the desk area of the office suite carved out of one corner gave over to a concrete floor slick with oil, worsened by the sweating engines of the four Harleys and the Indian. Den sat at a managerial desk, a hand rasping over his stubble-sharp jaw. Kaner, Chief, and Goat lounged in chairs opposite him; they might have been reviewing first-quarter estimates. Goat's scar cysts had flared up, the flesh on the right half of his face weeping a clear fluid. Kaner spun a finger in the links of his weighty drive-chain necklace.

Tom-Tom stood in the flimsy doorway, staring impatiently across the vast warehouse. "Thafuckizee?"

The closet door behind Den rattled. A stifled sob deteriorated into gagging sounds and moist snuffling.

The bowie knife pinned down a stack of papers to Den's left, glinting red stones lending the flame to the Sinners skull. Den picked the knife up, let it dangle between thumb and forefinger, then slowly lowered the tip to the desk blotter. He tilted the knife, letting its weight draw the point the length of the material. He leaned forward and blew, the blotter neatly halved along the blade's line. Pleased, he settled back in his chair.

A muffled screech, and again the closet door banged in the jamb.

Kaner's low growl of a voice came softly, his lips barely moving: "Let's shut her up already."

An entrance across the warehouse was announced by a bang, a column of thrown light, and the near idle of an engine. Diamond Dog rolled toward them, weaving through machinery. He drove right up into the office and killed the engine. He removed a saddlebag and tossed it onto the desk before Den, equipment rattling within.

Den flipped the reinforced-leather top, looked into it, and smiled. "Good." With a slide of his eyes, he indicated the closed closet door. "Let's get the show on the road."

Chief disappeared back into the warehouse, Tom-Tom hopping after and whooping with excitement. Kaner tugged open the closet door. Marisol Juarez lay pressed against the jamb, arms wrenched painfully behind her considerable back and bound at the wrists. A ribbon of duct tape indented her pudgy cheeks-the bordering flesh rubbed raw. Snot ran over her lips; sweat curled her dyed hair. She tried to retract into the shallow closet but had nowhere to go.

Diamond Dog considered her for a moment, then nodded. "She'll do."

Goat and Kaner lifted her effortlessly despite her weight. They propped her in a chair-she sat compliantly-and cut the tape from her wrists, ankles, and face.

She sucked deep breaths, smeared the sticky hair off her face. "Please don't rape me."

Goat laughed. "We don't do Mexi-cans."

"Why am I here?"

"To shut up," Kaner said.

He, Goat, and Diamond Dog returned to their chairs, and everyone sat quietly, almost sociably, around the desk. Marisol's eyes went to the jeweled bowie sitting on the slit blotter before her. Her chest jerked; she took in hiccups of breaths. Den looked from her to the blade, the set of his face suggesting amusement at the implicit dare.

From deep in the warehouse came a screech. Marisol stiffened as the sound grew steadily louder. Her thin beige top clung to her sweaty torso like a film.

Tom-Tom's humming carried to them-a histrionic rendition of "Here Comes the Bride" followed by a spray of laughter. Marisol watched the doorway, terrified; Den kept his focus on her, enjoying the entertainment.

The sound of metal scraping concrete reached an unbearably high-pitched wail, heralding the object's arrival.

Marisol cried out, "What did I do? Why do you want me?"

Den's mouth pulled to one side, a private grin. "We don't want you, bitch. You're just practice."

Chief backed into view, guiding a large object behind him, and then it, too, slid within the doorway's span. A stainless-steel embalming table. Tom-Tom brought up the rear, overcome with delight. "Ta-da!"

Marisol emitted a whimper from somewhere deep in her chest. "God, don't hurt me."

Den's hand moved in a blur. The blade was back on the table as if it hadn't moved. "You're already dead," he whispered.

Blood streamed from the slit, a window blind descending. Her uncomprehending eyes blinked. Her hand rose to her throat, came away red. She gurgled, and then her knees rattled against the desk and she flopped forward onto the sliced blotter. Kaner kicked out the chair, and her body shifted, then flipped back, landing on the floor.

Tom-Tom giggled, his white-blond curls swaying. Kaner and Goat each grabbed two limbs and hoisted her onto the embalming table. Blood pattered on the floor.

Den peered down at the body, fingering his blade. "Now, let's make this thing work."