Sheepdogs: Keeping the Wolves at Bay, Gordon Carroll [howl and other poems .txt] 📗

of burnt hair and flesh erased any thought of fire’s beneficial purging aspects.

The Huge Man Max bit on the bicep came up behind Two Fingers and slapped him on the back of the head. “Leave him be. This one is worth more money than the farmer’s reward for getting rid of him.”

He stepped closer to the cage, eyeing Max with calculating eyes. “Far more.”

15

Gil

The second he stepped from the limo, I knew he was trouble. He had the look of a professional killer; worse, a government trained, professional killer. I’ve seen a few throughout my career, most during my time in the military, but a few since. And they all have the look. He stood about six four, lean, with the lithe muscular build of a tight end. He wore the same black suit and sunglasses as his men, and there was no doubt that they were his men. He was darkly tanned, thin lipped, and sported jet black hair slicked straight back like an old time gangster. But none of this was what set him apart. It was the way he moved. The bladed angle of his body. The set of his feet. The cant of his head. The careful positioning of his hands. It was something that can’t be exactly described but only seen by other predators, who spend a lifetime modeling the same characteristics as a matter of survival.

I felt that chill go down my spine again. I hate that feeling.

Over his shoulder I could see the girls still talking on their phones.

He walked through the small throng of men, toward me. They shrank from him as though he had pointed a pistol at their faces. Taking off his sunglasses, he looked at Mr. Mustache. I had the distinct feeling he might whip out a gun like an old west quick-draw artist and shoot me dead. I switched my hold, snaking my arm around Mustache’s throat in a perfectly snug carotid choke hold that would have made Royce Gracie proud. A little pressure and he would be out in about three seconds. I pointed my gun at the new guy.

He didn’t even glance at me. “You okay?”

Mustache choked out a strangled answer. “Yesh-shir. I’m shorry-shir.”

“We’ll talk about it later.” He raised his eyes to mine and they were as dark as his hair. Piercing. Like Dracula’s scary uncle.

“If you want to have any chance to live through this,” he said to me, “you will let him go now.” His voice was completely calm; a steady monotone, devoid of emotion. I couldn’t help but think of Mr. Spock from Star Trek. Only he didn’t have pointy ears. This was not a man to mess with. I would have shot him through the heart without hesitation, but I needed to know about Shane.

“Where is Shane Franklin?”

Mr. Spock gave the barest hint of a smile. “That’s not the question you should be asking right now, Mr. Mason. The question you should be asking is where are Tom Franklin, and his little two year old daughter Amber?”

That hit me like a rock-in-a-sock upside the head. I just saw Tom Franklin a few hours ago at his house. Lisa Franklin had said her children were with her sister in Denver. Was he bluffing? No. His kind never bluff. “What do you want?”

“What Shane Franklin stole from us.”

“And what is that?”

“You don’t have it?”

“No. I don’t even know what it is.”

He stared into my eyes as if he could dig through my brain for the truth. Dracula plying the tricks of the undead, or Spock trying the Vulcan mind-meld. If he knew me better he wouldn’t waste his time. I’m not that deep.

He pursed his lips. “I believe you.” He looked down at the man almost strangulated in the crook of my arm. “Let him go. I won’t kill you… yet.”

I let him go and he sagged to his knees, then he fell flat on his back, looking up at the sky, his eyes dinging back and forth as though he was watching the world’s fastest game of ping-pong.

The reason I let him go was because my arm was tired, that and the fact I was fairly certain Mr. Spock would have shot through his own man to get to me. I dropped my hands to my sides, the gun riding the seam of my right thigh.

Mr. Spock helped his man to his feet and handed him off to the others. I noticed a white scar cutting through his left eyebrow. Behind him traffic rushed along in the afternoon sunshine, but dark clouds were building in the west and a light breeze heralded cooler temperatures for the evening. Facing me he looked down at the gun in my hand.

“You might as well put that away.”

I did.

“Here is what you are going to do,” he said. “You are going to find what Shane Franklin stole and give it back to me. When you do that, I will return Tom and Amber to you.”

“What about Shane?”

Mr. Spock cocked his head to the side as though listening for something. In a dog it’s a sign of confusion, but with him it was an answer. Shane was dead. I thought of poor Lisa Franklin, twisting her ring, crying over her son. For the second time I considered shooting him through the heart. There were six of them and my chances of taking out even three before they killed me were slim to none. Still, it was a hard thing for me not to try. What stopped me was the realization that Mr. Spock wasn’t the boss here. He was a professional, hired by someone else to do his dirty work. I pegged him for ex-military, Special Forces, maybe even a former governmental agency. Not CIA or FBI They were too soft for someone like him. No, more likely DEA, an out of country operative, the ones that do drug raids in Columbia and Nicaragua. I’d worked with some of them years ago, and they’re the real